Chapter 16
“You have power over your mind - not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.”
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Hermione had thought that she'd be left alone in her room. Crookshanks had been waiting for her there, looking rather disgruntled, until she scooped him up. The cat didn't go far; more accurately, she didn't let him get far. Simply hugging her cat had been almost enough to make her cry. Creature comfort that it was.
She spent far too long in the shower the following day, soaking up the hot water and letting herself relax. The warm water frizzed her hair more, but she didn't care. Just like she didn't care to get dressed in anything more than a pair of dark trousers and a blouse that had been mended a few times. And was now covered in a decent amount of Crookshank fur.
What she hadn't expected was a summons to a dining room to take her meal. It had her bristle, and she slipped another knife in a boot before she kissed her cat on the top of his head, earning a disgruntled 'mreow' before she left the room.
No one lurked the halls, giving her a direct path to a dining room. Where if this was a job, she might have poked around. She refrained. Didn't need the delusional lieutenant thinking she was interested in his asinine idea.
Taking a seat, she could smell the food, and her mouth watered. But she didn't trust it. It could be poisoned. Or dosed with love potion...
Draco sat at the helm of the table, the latest copy of the prophet before him. He held back a sound at the sight of her. Honestly, she had a full wardrobe, and this was what she had opted for? Perhaps he would allow the elves to be a little more aggressive.
Folding down his paper, he looked at her momentarily, considering her as she eyed the food yet didn't touch it. She'd refused any meal so far, and thus he'd had to take matters into his own hands. His chair groaned against the floor as he stood. Within three steps, he stood behind her.
"My elves are on the verge of rioting," he took her fork and stabbed a cube of meat before eating it, taking an extra moment to enjoy it before dropping the length of silver on her plate. "They think you hate their food," he accused.
Hermione hated just how close he was to her and how this display seemed to be some sort of show that she was a guest. No dungeon. No torture. Just an insane offer that she'd have to be absolutely mental to consider. Though as he picked up her fork and took a bite of food, she watched him carefully for several moments before she picked up the fork and took a bite.
"It's not unreasonable to assume poison—or love potion. Or anything else could be in my food," she drawled. The food was delicious, but she hid her enjoyment. When was the last time she'd had something warm and higher quality than the few rations they were able to get?
Ignoring her statement, he returned to his seat and his paper. "If I wanted you dead, you would be dead," he reminded sharply. "Of course, if you accepted my offer, the elves would report to you," he pushed food around his plate. Some days, he missed his mother's meddling in the affairs of the manor, but she'd opted for one of their other properties some time ago. At least the staff had easily maintained her standards.
She rolled her eyes, narrowing them at him. "You say that as if I'd want them reporting to me, Malfoy." She took another slow bite of her food despite how ravenous she was. No weakness. Even if she knew he was smart enough to realize how dehydrated and malnourished she was, she wasn't going to show it. Though she did glance over what she could see of the Prophet from here.
Draco didn't rise to her aggravation. In her position, he doubted he'd be much better beyond perhaps considering malicious compliance. For now, she was eating. It was a start. Considering all that she'd lost.
"I don't think you fully understand your situation, but I have the utmost faith you will. I can't expect you to bind yourself to me without offering you the fine print," he snapped his fingers and a leather-bound book settled on her right.
Binding herself to him. The thought alone had her skin crawl. But she lifted a brow at the book that settled on her right. She took another bite of food and took a few long gulps of water before she flipped it open to glance over it.
"Even more reason to be apprehensive." She grumbled more to herself than to him as she ate without looking at it. The meat was cooked to perfection. As were the sides. At least the elves weren't likely to punish themselves for failure now. She could only imagine that they were like poor Dobby.
"I did tell you you could insert your clauses," he added. "I'm negotiable."
Their time was slowly running out, but he couldn't give her that excuse. So many small tidbits of information he couldn't share. "Power isn't a position you're used to having." It wasn't mean, not even half as scathing as he could have been. "You've advocated for change. Is this not change?" he demanded. After years of war, blood supremacy had taken a back burner. This was proof of it.
"Clauses that wouldn't negate the whole me not killing you thing. Or the fact I was helping Him," she almost glowered at him. How could he possibly think that tying herself to him was convenient in any way?
Finishing her food, she still felt as if she could eat more. But she'd be damned if she asked. She bristled at his statement—a position of power. There was once when she had thought that's what she had, a position to influence change. But she'd never had that. He did. At his side, she could if it didn't mean helping the wizard who wanted her last remaining best mate dead.
"Why do you want this?" It was a blunt question as she skimmed the book. A damn guide to expectations for purebloods that nearly read like something out of a Jane Austen novel.
Draco had wondered when she'd actually ask the question. He certainly had his motivations. "It definitely isn't to play footsy under the sheets," he retorted. He hadn't chosen her for her looks or her dashing personality. If anything, he did so in spite of it.
"Go through with it, and I might be at liberty to share."
Hermione snorted at that, glaring all the while. This was a new way to put her through hell. She knew it. She just had to figure out how he planned to do so. Taking another drink of water, she eyed the plate in front of her as it was refilled with more food. Clearly, the elves thought she needed it. Or he did.
Looking at him and then back down at her plate, she took in a slow breath and took another bite of food. "So a union full of hatred and loathing, where the only thing I'm offered is power and baubles." And freedom. But at what cost? She felt like she had so little of her humanity left as it was. There was no way to trust or believe that You Know Who wouldn't get him to use her as a weapon against her friends.
"Don't get too excited," his tone was half mockery, half warning. "Though certainly, you realize the freedom that comes with what I offer. When was the last time you went to Diagon Alley as yourself?" he asked. "Had dinner at a restaurant?" he continued. "You can fund an entire department at your chosen university," he feigned caring.
Since she was sixteen. She hadn't been in Diagon Alley as herself, where she wasn't hunted, since she was sixteen years old. That made her pause for a moment. Dinner at a restaurant was even more rare and had been even longer. The last time she was with her parents was the last time she ate somewhere as herself. It had her face empty of expression for a moment, not wanting to show any of the pain behind it. She couldn't see her parents as long as Voldemort was in power. She clung to that fiercely.
"Creature comforts I've been without for seven years that I could go without. Throwing money at something hasn't really been appealing to me either," she countered before taking another bite of food. He didn't care. He just wanted to get his way. Like he always did.
He took a first and final bite of his meal. "So wallowing in..." he eyed her more sternly. "Whatever rags those are is the final verdict. How very heroic of you. I'd stay for dessert, but some of us are beholden to schedules..."
Let her find her own path. He wasn't going to spell it out for her. As much as he wanted results, he had also known going in that it would be a struggle. She couldn't be too eager, yet he doubted she would completely resist. Not when she could make changes, actually do something where she'd spent years failing.
"I'm not wallowing in anything," she seethed, and rolled her eyes. These were her clothes. She hadn't gone poking around her room to discover anything in the closets. "They're my clothes, Malfoy. I do believe you've pointed out all of the things I haven't been able to do in over seven years."
Shopping. Book stores. The library. All of those thoughts tugged at her heart. The part of her that had wished she could pretend that none of this was happening. It was a small part. A quiet part. She hadn't been put in Gryffindor for nothing after all. But she pushed that aside as she finished half of her second plate and felt she'd be sick if she tried to eat more.
Scooping up the book, she turned to leave. At least she could enter his private study and pour herself over this book and any other that caught her fancy. Try to figure out what she would do and how she'd do it. Those damn wards rendered her unable to do much of anything. As did the lack of her wand.
Rather than respond, he made a note to speak to the elves. He wouldn't pity her. She could have everything. She just needed to yield. A task he figured would be incredibly hard for a Gryffindor. And yet, had she not shown a break in her own morals? He had to trust the way forward.
"Ms. Granger?" A voice chirped, sounding more and more distressed the more that Hermione attempted to ignore the elf.
She could feel her jaw clenching and unclenching. They were raised and trained this way. She couldn't blame them. She couldn't blame them. But dear Merlin, did she want to. Using the ribbon in the book, she marked it in place, dreading reading about whatever blood bonds were put on married couples in pureblood wizarding society anyway, and glanced down at the elf.
Hermione had curled up on a couch in the small private library that Malfoy had in his wing of the house. His wing that she couldn't elave unless she wanted to risk getting grabbed by another group of Death Eaters. She was still in her well-worn clothes that she had been repairing and changing for years. And apparently that was part of the problem.
"Yes?" She asked tensely, trying not to sound mad at the elf.
"Master Malfoy had clothing made for you. Better befitting your station, ma'am. I'm sure they'd be much more comfortable than those...." The elf was trying to be polite.
This was the third elf that had spoken to her within the hour, and she wished that she would just be left alone.
Combing a hand through her messy hair, she gave a slight shake of her head. "I'm comfortable now."
"I see miss," the elf squeaked apologetically. It was well dressed compared to its counterpart that had been sent to Potter. Fresh linen attires reminiscent of the Romans. "That is unfortunate, miss." The elf snapped its fingers, but nothing in the current room changed, so much as the tattered items from her bags back in her quarters had found themselves into the abyss of oblivion like most failed magics vanished away.
Looking up at that snap, she knew the elf had done something, but she wasn't sure as to what. She narrowed her eyes slightly at the elf, trying not to let herself get angry. Trying not to grind her teeth. "....And what did you just do?"
It was asked as carefully as possible, trying to keep emotion out of her voice. But she had a sinking feeling of dread. Some of the items in her bag were sentimental. A jumper her mother had gotten her, a sweater that Mrs. Weasley had knitted with an H on it. Items that had brought her comfort during the war as much as her cat had.
"Neeley is not at liberty to discuss, miss," the elf supplied, a great deal of sadness in her large yellow gaze. "Neeley only does what is best for, Miss," she concluded with a nod. "We is all do what is best for, miss."
Hermione just looked at the elf before she stood up from the couch, looking around the room at everything that was unchanged. Perhaps it was paranoia, or perhaps it was a good conscious level of what all could happen, but she didn't trust that the things in her room were safe. She couldn't even ward them without her wand.
Quick steps took her past the elf, out of the study, and back to her room in this wing of the manor. Her gaze swept through her room before she went to her larger bag and reached down into it, starting to dig through for things.
Much as she had when traveling with both of her best mates, she started to pull a few things out. Books. Medical supplies. More books. An item or two of sentimentality that she no longer wore in case they broke. Hair ties. But she wasn't feeling anything made out of fabric. It had her cursing.
With a pop, Neeley returned to her part of the Manor. There was no point in remaining. Master Malfoy had warned the elf that taking such measures might anger the witch. He'd, of course, advised to remain near enough to assist, but only engage if she were a threat to herself. Everything else was...replaceable.
"No, no, no, no," she muttered before she cursed again and swept everything off of the bed. Crookshanks hissed and stalked over to hide under the nearby dresser. She ran a hand roughly through her hair.
"Fucking busy body, controlling, narcissistic, entitled, domineering, blood purist, arsehole," each word got louder than the rest with a near scream of frustration. Everything from the past month bubbling over.
Leaning back against the wall, she rubbed at her head, fingers tangled into the frizzy lengths of brown hair as she tilted her head back and tried to breathe. Deep breaths. She had other things from her parents. Other things from the Weasleys in her two bags. But she had owned so few things the last seven years. And he had taken literally every scrap of clothing other than what was on her back.
She wanted to punch him. Wanted to run him through with the Gryffindor sword. Especially as she felt tears pricking in her closed eyes, this was not going to be what set off a breakdown. It couldn't be. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.