She studied all the grounds of the estate that she could see. Trying to take note of anything that could be useful. Where would she go if she were trying to hide? If she were trying to escape?
The day passed slowly.
Having a sense of time once again was vaguely unsettling. The steady ticking of the clock constantly caught her attention. A continuous grating sound. If she let herself listen to it for long, it made her fingers begin to spasm with each click of the gears.
She found that her mind had a tendency toward wandering and losing itself. She would interrupt herself from some odd thought and realise hours had passed.
As the day drew to a close, she stared at the door.
She should make herself go out again. She hadn't even seen Malfoy since she'd arrived. She had intended to try to watch him. Study him. Arm herself with some kind of understanding of him.
All those plans had faded away during the last two days.
She stood up and moved slowly towards the door. As she was wrapping her fingers around the knob, there was a sudden pop behind her. Starting, she turned sharply and found a house-elf standing behind her.
“You is to get ready for tonight, mistress is sayin,” the elf said, averting its eyes and then popping away.
Hermione felt as though her heart were in her throat. Her hands started trembling.
She considered for a moment not readying herself.
Undoubtedly, if she did, Malfoy would appear and force her to. Who knew what else he might do to her if she provoked him. The compulsions in her mind stirred...
Obedient.
Not to resist.
Her brain automatically began cataloguing the things she had been instructed to do.
She wasn't sure if the compulsion made her rationalise obeying or if obeying actually was the rational choice.
She went into the bathroom and turned on the tap in the bath. The scalding water poured out and she watched the tub slowly fill.
She wondered if she could somehow drown herself before Malfoy could get there. As Lord of the manor, he could probably apparate anywhere. She shuddered at the thought of having him drag her, naked, out of the water by her hair.
She pulled off her robes and sank into the water, hissing but relishing the pain. She hardly felt anything nowadays. Apparently the manacles didn't restrict her from heat.
That was a useful piece of information to file away.
After she had washed, she dried herself with a lavish, oversized bath towel. Then she pulled on a fresh set of robes. The long, scarlet, buttoned dress, and then the open scarlet robe. Then she pulled on the stockings. She hated them so much. If it weren't freezing inside the manor, she would never have worn them. Aside from the dreadful red colour, she could almost pretend the robes were just clothing, but the horrid, crotchless-ness left her feeling constantly exposed.
She would only get knickers if she was bleeding or pregnant. Otherwise, she was to remain — accessible.
When she was dressed, she stood uncertainly in the middle of her room. She wasn't sure where she was supposed to go. What she was supposed to do.
The door abruptly swung open, and Astoria appeared, looking white as a sheet.
“Good, you're ready. I was afraid I'd have to send Draco to drag you,” Astoria said as she glanced up and down Hermione with a critical expression. “I'll show you where to go tonight. After this, I shall be elsewhere. I'll expect you to prepare and go there every designated night without issue. I was realising… you really don't need all the body parts you have just in order to reproduce. So if you're thinking of causing problems — keep that in mind.”
A chill ran down Hermione's spine, and she nodded.
Astoria swept from the room, leading Hermione through the house, out into the foyer, and then up the large staircase and down a second floor hallway. The portraits muttered as they passed.
“Whore.”
Hermione heard it murmured more than once.
Astoria stopped at the seventh door.
“Go in and wait. Draco will come when he chooses, but you're to be in there at eight o'clock sharp.”
Without pausing further, Astoria continued down the hallway and disappeared into the darkness.
Hermione's hands were trembling as she grasped the door knob and tried to open it. It wouldn't turn at first, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself and make her hands stop shaking enough to grasp and turn it.
Stepping into the room, she took in every detail she could.
It felt sterile.
She had assumed her room was bare and cold out of indifference, but perhaps it was simply the way Malfoy was. There was a large bed, towering wardrobe, a desk and a chair.
Hermione would have imagined Malfoy as having a more luxurious room. All green and silver with expensive sheets and throw pillows covered with too many tassels.
The room before her could have belonged to a monk.
It was functional. That was really all that could be said about it. No wonder Malfoy was so cold.
She shied away from the bed and went over to the chair by the desk. Sitting down, she looked over the contents of the desk's surface. Blank parchment and quills. She held her hand out hesitantly toward the quills, wondering if she was able to touch them.
As her fingers got close, she felt a faint burning sensation and pulled her hand back.
Her stomach was twisting itself with dread, and she tried to distract herself by reciting arithmancy formulas while she sat there.
She was used to waiting endlessly. What was an hour after sixteen months of sensory deprivation? She just needed to stop thinking about what was about to happen next. Her stomach felt so twisted she thought she might be sick.
Suddenly, the door clicked. She stood and turned sharply in time to see Malfoy stride in. His hand was up at his throat, pulling his collar loose. He clearly had not expected to find her there. He stopped abruptly and stared at her, actually seeming to pale slightly before pressing his lips together into a hard line.
“Mudblood,” he said, after a moment. “Today is the day, I see.”
Chapter End Notes
Hermione's agoraphobia by thegirlthatreadsfantasybooks.
Chapter 6
Warning: This chapter features rape. I have done my best to depict it in a manner that is not unnecessarily graphic but I have also tried to be realistic about the impact of such a thing. I will not be repeatedly featuring such scenes in this work but it is an overarching element of this story and I did not think it would be honest to gloss over it. Reader discretion is advised.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Hermione didn't say anything. She just looked at him.
She was relieved she wasn't trembling.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, reminding herself she just had to endure for a little while — just until she could formulate a plan.
She could endure it. She would.
She was uncertain of what she was supposed to do. Was he expecting her to go lie down on his bed?
He strode past her to the wardrobe and after laying his hand against the door for a moment, jerked it open.
Perhaps Malfoy was not entirely monk-like. The wardrobe had almost an entire room within it. The door held a full bar, and Malfoy snatched a bottle of firewhiskey off a shelf and pulled the cork out with his teeth. Spitting the cork onto the floor, he raised the bottle to his lips and stared at her.
Hermione just waited.
After a minute, he drew his wand and with a quick movement conjured a table in the middle of the floor. Hermione stared at it, completely at a loss. She looked over to Malfoy.