Chapter 6
It was to muted mutterings she woke that morning, stumbling up the stairs from the dungeons where she was still kept and to the kitchen. He hadn’t locked her in since that day, but neither had he given her proper lodgings. Hermione knew flight was impossible; doors and windows to the outside didn’t respond to her.
There was bread and fruit waiting for her, no doubt set out by an elf. She peeked around the doorframes toward the sitting room and glimpsed the two men deep in conversation.
A sheen of gleaming white hair slid into view as Lucius Malfoy gesticulated toward a seated Dolohov. The latter man did not seem pleased.
“I have complete authority in this. The Dark Lord himself gave me his blessing to recruit who I thought best, and you will come, Antonin.”
Grey eyes rolled back as Dolohov’s head lolled back, “I have better ways to spend my time than teaching brats how to jinx one another.”
“Such as?” Hermione could hear Malfoy’s brow lift. “The last time I saw you outside of a meeting, it was for your little party. While I enjoyed myself, I doubt you all of your spare time is spent fucking your little mudblood.”
Hermione choked, hand darting to cover her lips as though to muffle the noise. Two sets of shining grey eyes snapped toward her and she shrank in on herself.
A cruel smirk unfurled across Dolohov’s mouth. “Ah, and she appears. Come here, koshka.”
Fingers worried at the hem of her short shift-- it was thin material, draped over her breasts and halfway to her knees, and she’d had to earn it from her captor. Still, it was a barrier between her naked form and their sticky gazes. Her feet stumbled over one another in a clumsy shuffle, folding herself obediently beside Dolohov’s wingback. His hand tangled in her disastrous curls. She was hardly allowed regular showers, let alone a comb.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, roving her face and her form. He noted the stiff, unwilling movements, and the banked fire behind her amber eyes. “I see.” He tapped a goved forefinger against the silver of his cane. “You are further along with her than I would have thought possible.”
“Time alone seemed to motivate my kitten to behave herself. She doesn’t want to be locked away in the dark again. Right, mudblood?”
She nodded, not trusting her curling tongue to speak obeisance.
“As you can see now, Lucius,” he continued, “I have indeed been a busy man. I would hate to leave my dear Hermione all alone while I go off to teach.”
“By all means, bring her. You can keep her in the dungeons proper, or in your quarters.” Lucius shrugged. “Either way, you are joining the staff. That is final. Unless you wish to speak to our Lord?”
Dolohov’s jaw firmed, a thready vein pulsing at his temple. “Perhaps I will do just that. I am of far more use tracking down undesirables than teaching children not to put their wands up their arses.” His hand had become a fist in her hair and she hissed against it, eyes watering. “I am sure he will agree.”
“We shall see.” Ice glazed the words and the pale man about faced, his boots clacking on the floor as he crossed to the Floo. “Malfoy Manor.” He was gone in a flash of green fire.
Hermione kept still as the man’ fingers slowly eased their grip on her curls. It was best when he ignored her presence, at least as long as she wasn’t locked away. She could observe in silence, collect information, steal her strength away for when she needed it.
The fireplace crackled with flame tongues licking softly at the silence. It was hypnotic and familiar, and it seemed this particular hearth was always lit. Then again, Dolohov’s home was cold, and this was where he spent much of his time.
The hand began gracing her with languid strokes until fingers tangled in a snarl. Dolohov sighed. “You need to brush this rat’s nest.”
Her jaw clenched and she schooled herself with deep breaths. “I don’t have a brush or comb.”
He hummed. “Ask the elf for whatever you need to be presentable. I will not suffer a messy mudblood in my home.” Dolohov stood and snapped his fingers, an elf she’d never seen popping into the space in front of him and bowing deeply. “Assist the mudblood with her grooming. And you.” His steel gaze flicked to her. “Behave.” Long strides carried him to the Floo powder and he vanished a moment after, emerald shadows dancing on the wall in his wake.
The house elf turned eyes as round as golf balls toward her and stared expectantly.
“Oh, erm. I need a brush. Well, I suppose I should wash and condition my hair first. And a hair serum.” She rolled the pulp of her lower lip through the grinder of her teeth. “I suppose I should just shower. So, soap, shampoo, conditioner, lotion.” She may as well take advantage of the moment.
The elf nodded and gestured to her to follow.
“Can you not talk?” Hermione asked as they traipsed up the stairs. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a mute house elf before.”
The being-- she could not ascertain a gender-- glared and “hmphed” at her and the tumbler clicked into place.
“Ah. You’re not allowed to talk to me.” She hummed. “Because I’m muggleborn, I’m sure. I know an elf who hated me for that, but I didn’t blame him. He’d spew insults as he passed me, bemoaning that a mudblood was in his mistress’s home and how she’d die of horror were she not already dead. Still, he was a good elf when it came down to it.” Speaking of good elves… “I used to have a friend who was an elf. He worked for the Malfoys until he was freed, then he was employed at Hogwarts. He was brave and kind, and he died saving my life, and the lives of my friends.” Her voice trailed at the end, soft as the grass now growing on Dobby’s grave. Why was she telling them this? It was the most she’d spoken in what felt like an age, and all to someone who disdained her to the point of refusing to directly address her.
But it felt good in a way, like picking at a scab.
“They’re dead, too. My friends, that is. They were brave, too, but they were also Gryffindors, so that goes without saying.” Cool tears dripped onto the hands she gripped in front of herself as they entered the lavatory. Hermione hadn’t realized she was crying. “I wonder where the others are, how many are still among the living.”
The bath filled with steaming water, scented and slightly foaming. The elf waved her toward it and she frowned.
“Could you give me some privacy?” The elf shook their head and she sighed, shoulders falling. “Fine.” She stripped down and eased herself into the tub, eyes fluttering shut at the warmth that seeped into frozen muscles. It didn’t last long; spindly fingers wetted her hair and started lathering it with something that smelled vaguely floral. Roses? No, slightly more robust than that, somewhere between those and lilacs. Peonies?
“I can do that myself.”
The elf grumbled inaudibly, undoubtedly about not being able to trust her, or about following the master’s orders to the letter. When she attempted to lean forward, her hair became reins for the elf to hold her head in place.
“I am not a child.”
The elf did not relent, and so she soon found more water dumped over her, again and again until the suds left. Then the elf started rubbing in something creamy and moisturizing. Once that was finished, she was scrubbed (allowed to do some of that herself), a thick serum ran through her hair, and dried with a few elf spells. The creature thrust a new shift at her, one that slipped off her shoulders and hovered above her knees, too thin to protect her from the elements.
Before the creature could leave her, Hermione murmured, “I really do appreciate being all clean like this.” Her amber eyes darted to meet the elf’s own nearly black orbs. They nodded and left her in the sitting room to await Dolohov’s return.
She settled herself on a cozy gold patterned chair, curling her legs under herself and leaning her head against its cushioning. It’s already afternoon? She frowned at the clock between dozing, eyes flicking across the room to see if anything had changed. Hermione had become a light sleeper while on the run, so she didn’t think Dolohov could have returned without her noticing, but it was better to be safe.
She was alone but for the tickling of the grand old clock.
As she had often the last few days, she longed for a book or a puzzle or something to do with her hands. Anything. She spent so much time sitting silently where her captor directed, her mind whirling into strains of strange thoughts. What would it take, she wondered, to be allowed to do something with her time.
She bit her lip. Did she want to know?
A stirring from the hall had her head snapping up. A door closed, boots shuffled. An irate Dolohov strode into view. His eyes had darkened to charcoal and he snarled as they paused on her. “Did I say you could sit on furniture, mudblood?”
Her heart rose, fluttering in her throat. She jerked her head in answer and slid from the seat. “S-sorry.” So pathetic, what she did to survive.
“Do I need to punish you, koshka? Remind you of your place?” He was in a mood, and Hermione was going to pay for it.
She pursed her lips. “No, no, I’ll do better.”
He stalked toward her, hand tangling in her hair, drawing her neck back in a painful arch. “You have become too comfortable, haven’t you? I allow you the privilege of getting yourself in order and you think you’re equal to a wizard. Do not forget what you are, shlyuha. You are nothing.”
He tossed her to the floor and left the room in a whirl of fury.