She couldn't answer.
She had no answer.
“Oh well,” he said, straightening his robes slightly. “The Dark Lord was kind enough to send you to me. If ever you do recover your memories, I'll be the first to know.”
He smirked down at her for a moment before his face grew cold and indifferent. Then he stepped over her body and walked out of the room.
Hermione dragged herself to her feet, shaking from the mental anguish and impotent rage she felt.
She hated him.
She had never hated Draco Malfoy before.
He had simply been an indoctrinated bully, a symptom of a disease which others were responsible for. Now — she hated him. For what he had become. For what he had done.
He owned her.
She was trapped under his heel, and he intended to grind her down until he had what he wanted.
She clenched her jaw as she forced herself to think past her sudden rage. Her plan remained the same. She had to find a way to escape or trick him into killing her.
He wasn't what she expected. She had hoped that the High Reeve would be driven by emotions, and although the Malfoy she had known in school had been, now he seemed ice-cold.
Which, of course, she should have realised. Legilimency, occlumency; the key to them was control. The ability to compartmentalise one's self behind walls.
It would take cunning to make him snap enough to make a mistake like killing her. Whatever she did, she wouldn't be able to accomplish it immediately. She couldn't rush it. She couldn't be careless. She would have to stay there, wait, and endure what was to come until she found an opening.
The thought had her shuddering. Her throat felt tight as she swallowed and tried to think.
A click of heels on the wood floor drew her attention. A petite blonde witch swept into the room. She and Hermione stared at each other for several long moments.
“So, you're it,” the witch said, elevating her nose with a sniff. “Take that stupid hat off and come along. We have to review the instructions all together before I can put you away where we're to keep you.”
The blonde turned on her heel and marched back out of the room. Hermione followed slowly. The witch was familiar. A Greengrass, Hermione thought. Not Daphne, but maybe the younger sister.
Hermione couldn't remember her name.
They arrived in a drawing room. Malfoy was already there, reclining in a spindly looking chair and looking bored.
Hermione pulled the bonnet off.
“So,” said the witch Hermione assumed must be Malfoy's wife as she seated herself on one of the other spindly chairs. “Healer Stroud sent over a package of instructions. Who knew Mudbloods came with directions? So convenient, isn't it?”
The sarcasm in the witch's sharp little voice was brittle.
“Just read it, Astoria,” Malfoy said, glancing briefly toward the witch with a sneer.
Astoria. So that was the name of Malfoy's wife.
“Let's see. No cursing or torturing or physically abusing her. She's to be kept fed. We can make her work, but no more than six hours a day. And she's to spend at least an hour outside each day.”
Astoria laughed somewhat manically.
“It's rather like keeping crups, isn't it? Who knew? Ah yes. How delightful. We'll get an owl every month on the five days you're required to — perform, Draco. Healer Stroud has included a little personal note here, mentioning that due to the Dark Lord's specific interest in the Malfoy Family and the Mudblood, she will be coming in person every month to see whether you're successful.”
Astoria looked so nearly hysterical that Hermione was surprised she hadn't started screaming and smashing a chair.
“Listen to this. I'm allowed to watch! You know, to make sure everything is entirely clinical between you and the Mudblood.”
Astoria turned shockingly pale. Her blue eyes looked almost deranged. Her hands were shaking, and she crumpled up the papers in her hands and smacked them down on the tea table.
“I will not,” she said, her voice razor-edged and vibrating. “If you object, you can drag me in front of the Dark Lord himself before you Avada me. I will not watch!”
She did scream the last bit.
“Do what you wish, just shut up!” Malfoy said, his tone vicious as he stood up and strode from the room.
Hermione stood frozen near the wall.
Astoria sat shaking in her chair for several minutes before she spoke to Hermione.
“My mother bred crups. Pretty little things,“ Astoria said. “Such fun to see it done now with wizards.”
Hermione said nothing. She just stood by the wall trying not to move. Willing her fingers not to spasm. I am pretending to be a tree, she thought faintly to herself.
Finally Astoria stood up.
“I'll show you your room. You can do whatever you want, but I don't want to see you. I understand that those bracelets you have keep you from any trouble.”
They went down a long hallway and then through a narrow, partly concealed door that led to a winding servant's stairway. After ascending three floors, they re-entered into a larger, main hallway of the house. They were in a different wing. The windows were all heavily draped. It was cold and shrouded; the furniture all covered with white dust sheets.
“This wing is unoccupied,” Astoria said as though it weren't obvious. “We have more servants than we need. Stay here and out of sight unless you're called for. The portraits will keep an eye on you.”
Astoria pushed open a door. Hermione walked in. It was a large bedroom. A canopied bed sat in the center and a single wing-backed chair near the window. A large wardrobe sat against one wall. There was no rug. A portrait hung on the wall. No books.
Everything was cold and bare.
“If you need anything, call a house-elf,” Astoria said before pulling the door shut. Hermione listened to her retreating footsteps.
Being suddenly left unsupervised without being in a cell felt disorienting. The sudden change simultaneously thrilling and terrifying, as though she'd suddenly jumped off a cliff.
She dropped her bonnet on the floor next to the door and walked over to a window. The cold, wintry countryside stretched out as far as she could see. As she took it in, she considered the situation.
Malfoy and Astoria clearly disliked each other.
It was hardly surprising. As if pure-blood arranged marriages weren't already dysfunctional enough, having them arranged by Voldemort for the sole purpose of reproduction had to have smothered any potential spark. Especially after they failed to reproduce.
Astoria did not seem particularly afraid of Malfoy, so presumably he wasn't so short-tempered as to be violent to her. She seemed largely resentful of and indifferent to him.
He did not appear to be an attentive husband by any stretch of the imagination. His regard for Astoria seemed to be along the lines of finding her to be a pest he was obliged to endure.
Whatever Astoria may feel about her husband or marriage, Hermione's presence as a surrogate clearly stung. She seemed determined to ignore Hermione's existence inasmuch as she possibly could.
Hermione had no objection. The fewer players she had to worry about, the better. If she had to worry about fending off or appeasing Astoria it would be an additional challenge. If Astoria were attentive to her husband, it would make escaping or finding a way to manipulate Malfoy far more challenging. If Astoria was primarily preoccupied by pretending Hermione didn't exist, it was the easiest scenario. Hermione would keep out of sight, in the shadows, as much as she could. Until there was an opportunity to act.
The key would be to study Malfoy. Discover what drove him. What his vices were. What she could exploit in him.
He didn't seem particularly interested in Hermione beyond finding out what she might be concealing in her lost memories. If that were the case, it was a relief. Perhaps he would also primarily choose to leave her alone. She was sure that if he wished to he could come up with any number of ways to torture her without risking her fertility.