Draco Malfoy was the High Reeve.
It was still shocking.
What had happened to him during the war to make him so ruthless?
The hatred required to successfully cast a Killing Curse was tremendous. To inflict instant death tore something out of you. Most dark wizards and witches could only manage it occasionally. That was part of why there were so many other curses used to kill. Sadism factored into it, but the truth was that no other curse was irreversible and unstoppable the way the Killing Curse was. The power necessary to utilise something so final was — well, there was really nothing to compare it to.
Voldemort's ability to cast it repeatedly and unfailingly was part of the reason he inspired such terror.
The High Reeve's reputation for using the curse was already equally legendary. It had vaulted him into the highest rank of the Death Eaters.
And it was Malfoy.
She would have to move carefully. The casualness with which the Malfoys had treated her arrival indicated utter assurance. Leaving her in the foyer. Showing her through the house. Putting her into an unoccupied wing. Hermione was certain there were no easy ways to escape. Until she could get the manacles off, Malfoy would always be able to find her, and she'd be incapable of fighting off him or anyone else.
She sighed, and her breath made a small circle of condensation on the cold glass of the windowpane.
Lifting a fingertip to the glass, she drew the rune thurisaz: for defense, introspection, and focus. Beside it she drew its reversal, its merkstave: for danger, defenselessness, malice, hatred, and spite.
What she needed. What she had.
She had to reverse her fortune.
She watched the runes fade away from the glass as the condensation evaporated back into the room.
None of the girls had heard any whispers about the Resistance still existing. Aside from Hermione, all of the Order members who survived the final battle were known to be dead. Their deaths publicly witnessed. Their corpses hung up to ensure there was no room for secret hopes. The Resistance had crumbled upon Harry's death.
Voldemort appeared to have been careful about ensuring that the Order of the Phoenix had no spark with which to resurrect itself. As the war had dragged on over the years, he had grown more cautious and less certain about his infallibility than he had been during Hermione's years in Hogwarts.
Voldemort was thorough.
That was troubling. If he had elevated Malfoy to High Reeve, it probably meant that Malfoy was also thorough. Not someone inclined to make mistakes or errors in judgment.
Maybe there was still a Resistance somewhere. The women at Hogwarts had only known what the guards told them. There might still be some factions working against Voldemort. If Hermione escaped, maybe she could find them and eventually give them whatever secret she was hiding.
Since she was in the High Reeve's house, perhaps if she were clever she'd be able to glean useful information.
If she kept acting pliant and cooperative.
Broken.
If they thought she was truly broken, they might eventually become careless around her.
She would be waiting for it.
She was very good at waiting.
Chapter End Notes
Additional Illustrations:
Hello, Mudblood" by _knar.m_
Hermione by nicoagain.
She was very good at waiting by Flyora.
Drawing Runes by Keerthi_draws.
A portrait of a young witch by meriyart.
He was the High Reeve by driareel
Chapter 5
Hermione explored the room she had been placed in. There was little to it that hadn't immediately met the eye.
The wardrobe was filled with more of the same scarlet dresses and robes that she was currently wearing. They were in various weights, presumably for summer and winter weather. The drawers held more bonnets and woolen stockings. More flimsy red shoes.
Hermione pulled a pair out of the drawer and stared at them. The soles were thin, and they were fabric; they would wear through rapidly. If she wanted to run, she'd have to steal new clothes and shoes.
The portrait on the wall was of a young witch. Pretty and blonde. Undoubtedly one of Malfoy's ancestors. She had the same sharp features and disdainful expression. The witch couldn't have been more than just graduated from Hogwarts when she was painted. She stared indifferently at Hermione, seated casually in a high backed chair, a book beside her.
Eventually Hermione turned away and surveyed the rest of the room. There was a door designed to blend into the wall across the room. She went over and opened it.
A bathroom, primarily occupied by a large claw-foot tub. No shower. Nothing but the most essential objects were provided: soap, towels, a toothbrush, a small cup for water.
Hermione walked over and washed her hands. As she withdrew them, she pretended to accidentally knock the cup off the counter. It hit the ground with a loud, sharp sound but failed to break or even crack.
There was a protection charm on it.
Malfoy was thorough.
She picked it up and rinsed it before replacing it. As she turned, she found that there was a portrait in the bathroom as well. The same young witch stood studying Hermione with a knowing look.
Hermione feigned innocence and walked back into the bedroom.
Within an hour, there was nothing left to possibly inspect in her room. Not that Hermione expected she could find anything or get into much trouble with the piercing supervision of the portrait on the wall. The witch had been apparently ordered to watch Hermione like a hawk.
Hermione went to the door of the bedroom, and, after a moment's hesitation, she turned the knob and walked into the hallway.
Her heart immediately began pounding.
The sense of terror and freedom that she experienced by merely walking into another room by herself was staggering. As she pulled the door shut behind herself, she leaned against the door and tried to take a slow breath.
Her fingers twitched around the doorknob as she glanced around and tried to compose herself.
The long hallway that vanished into darkness felt so — open.
She swallowed nervously. She had assumed some effects of her long imprisonment would continue to haunt her. Actually experiencing it was more than unsettling. It was horrifying.
Her attempts to breathe and calm down were failing. Her chest stuttered in tiny, rapid inhalations.
The only sound in the cold, dark wing of the manor.
She bit her lip. Her mind — she had always been able to trust her mind. Even her locked memories felt like a defense mechanism. Finding herself panicking and hyperventilating because she had walked into a hallway of her own volition—
This was a betrayal.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe evenly. Tried to pull her hand free from the doorknob she was clutching desperately, as though she would drown if she let go of it.
Her ability to reason and tell herself she was alright was insufficient persuasion to her mind and body.
She tried to make herself take a step away from the door, but her legs refused to cooperate.