He sneered at her.
“Bend over,” he said in a low, taunting voice, gesturing toward it.
Hermione hadn't thought she could feel any more revulsed by him, but apparently she could. She bit down on the inside of her lip until she felt the skin give away and blood flood over her tongue as she felt her feet begin to obey automatically.
She walked slowly over and after hesitating for a moment, leaned across the table.
The wood bit into her hip bones. She rested her hands against the edges and gripped them until her knuckles cracked from the force. She fought to keep from trembling. Her whole body felt on edge from the intensity of her vulnerability. Her ears were straining to detect any sound.
There was a pause. Then she heard Malfoy approach her slowly.
He stopped directly behind her and there was another silence. She could feel his eyes on her.
The air shifted.
“Are you still a virgin, Mudblood? Is that something you even remember?”
She flinched as she realised she didn't know.
He stepped closer. “I'm sure Weasley or Potter climbed up there at some point.” She could hear the mockery in his tone.
His hand rested briefly on the small of her back as he pulled her skirts up to her waist. She felt the cold air of his room against her skin. She was shaking so hard the table was rattling.
“Well, I suppose we'll know soon enough,” he said and then commanded, “Move your feet wider.”
She forced herself to shift.
She felt his fingers on her and jerked away slightly.
He muttered under his breath and she felt something warm and liquid inside her. A lubrication charm. She started so abruptly the table legs shrieked as they dragged across the wood floor.
“We can't have any damage or infections impairing your — usefulness,” he explained in a derisive tone.
She heard his belt click and then, without warning, he impaled her with himself.
She tried to bite back the sob that forced its way up her throat but the abrupt invasion caught her off guard. At her cry, he froze, just for a moment, before he started moving again. Aside from where they were joined, he didn't touch her. His right hand gripped the table near where her face was turned. She could see a black ring on his hand, glittering faintly.
When he came, his movement grew uneven and rougher, and then he stilled suddenly with a quiet hiss.
He stayed there for only a second before jerking away from her and striding back over to the bar.
“Get out.” His tone was sharp.
Hermione shook.
“I can't.” She tried not to sob as she said it, but her voice trembled. “I'm not allowed to move for ten minutes after.”
He snarled with rage. Suddenly the table beneath her vanished, and she plummeted to the floor, hitting her forehead sharply on the ground.
“GET OUT!”
The room shook.
Pushing herself up, she fled. Stumbling dazedly through the hallway. Trying to remember the way back.
Her chest was stuttering as she tried not to hyperventilate. She couldn't see clearly. She reached up to find that her forehead had split where she'd hit it. Blood was streaming down into her eyes.
She stood at the top of the stairs. Trying to remember the way back. Blood was filling her eyes. She could feel fluid seeping out from between her legs and trickling down her thighs. She was shaking. Trying to remember where her room was.
If she stayed there — Astoria would find her and gouge her eyes out, or chop off her fingers, or pull her teeth out.
She stumbled and almost fell down the stairs.
She was drawing short, rapid breaths as she tried to keep from sobbing aloud.
She couldn't understand — she'd survived the war. She'd watched her friends die in front of her. She'd stayed sane, alone in a dark cell for over a year. But — being forced to be complicit in her own rape. She couldn't bear it. Not while knowing she'd be expected to do it again the next day. And the next. And the day after that.
She stared dizzily down at the foyer.
If she just threw herself over the balcony Malfoy couldn't stop her.
She'd be done.
She leaned over and looked down at the table in the foyer. Just a little further—
A vise-like grip closed itself around her arm and wrenched her away.
She turned and found Malfoy glaring at her, enraged.
“Don't — you — dare.” He snarled the words. His face white with fury.
“Please, Malfoy—“ She was sobbing. “Please—“
He dragged her down the stairs and through the house as she cried. He practically kicked the door of her room in as he dragged her into it and shoved her onto the bed.
“Evanesco!” he snapped, pointing his wand at her face, and suddenly the blood in her eyes vanished. He followed it with a healing charm and just stood there staring at her with unveiled fury.
“Do you really think I won't know when you try to kill yourself, Mudblood?” he finally asked after she stopped sobbing.
“Just let me,” she said. Her voice was wooden, her chest kept stuttering, “I'm sure they'll give you a new Mudblood to breed. You hate me too, Malfoy. Do you really want me to be the mother of your children? To see my face in them? I'm sure you can come up with a compelling excuse for killing me.”
Malfoy gave a barking laugh.
“If it were only so easy, I'd kill you now. For the first time in your life, you appear to have underestimated your value. The Dark Lord is quite anxious to see what kind of offspring we'll produce. Once you've birthed a few heirs for me, he intends to send you on and see what kind you'll make with some of the other old wizarding families. You little broodmares are quite the commodity. The Dark Lord has a whole breeding program planned — spanning several generations.”
Hermione stared in horror.
He moved closer, his expression menacing. “Let's not forget about those memories of yours. The fact that there was something you considered worth hiding even after losing the war is a cause for concern. Until I know why, you will not die. However, how much freedom you have in this house — and how often I have to supervise you in order to assure it — your little suicide contemplations will decide that.”
Hermione sat there frozen. Somehow she'd assumed that Malfoy would be the end for her. That he'd force a child from her, and then she'd be disposed of. It hadn't occurred to her that she was intended to go on from one wizarding family after another until her body gave out.
Malfoy glanced around her room and then back to her. His face was tense, and his eyes steely.
“Well,” he said, sighing, “I hadn't intended to do this immediately after fucking you the first time — but I am already here and with no further plans for the evening. There really is no time like the present. Let's see exactly what is going on in that little Mudblood mind of yours. How many other ideas do you have?”
Before she could cringe away, he used his wand tip to force her chin up, and his cold, grey eyes sank into her consciousness.
He didn't bother with her locked memories. He went to directly after the war, to her imprisonment, and moved forward from there.
Hermione didn't struggle. If she tried to push him out, it would just hurt more, and he would still force his way through. She collapsed onto the bed as the weight of his mind bore into hers.
Her fingers twitched involuntary, but she was otherwise still.
He slipped quickly through all the long, silent, isolated months and then moved slowly once she was dragged out of the cell, tortured, petrified, and then re-tortured by not being stunned when mobilised again. He took note of her conversation with Hannah and the mind healer's description of Hermione's condition. He observed the techniques Voldemort and Snape had used to try to break into her locked memories. He was particularly interested in her scheming to kill herself or escape. She could feel his condescending amusement at who she had theorised the High Reeve could be; how she had wondered if she could take advantage of him and get him killed.