As she sat in the water, slowly warming up, she considered the revelation of the day.
Her “surrogacy” under the careful watch of Malfoy was being used as bait.
The taunting, luring language of the front page article was enraging. A precisely balanced tone, seeking to simultaneously dehumanise Hermione in order to prevent pity from the general public while endeavoring to stoke outrage among any sympathisers.
Hermione wondered what sorts of safety measures had been put in place to catch would-be rescuers. Were there other Death Eaters stationed in Malfoy Manor? Or was the High Reeve presumed to be capable enough to personally handle all comers?
If it were the former, Hermione would have to keep watch and try to discover them. They would be an added complexity for her escape — unless she could somehow evoke their sympathy. Or perhaps try tricking one of them into killing her if it came down to it. A highly ambitious and dubious scheme, given that Malfoy would probably find the idea in her mind long before she had any chance of enacting it.
If it were just Malfoy, well, that would be a worrying indication of Voldemort's confidence in Malfoy's abilities.
Just how dangerous was Malfoy?
Hermione rested her head on her knees and tried to remember more clearly the circumstances of Dumbledore's death over eight years before. The details felt — foggy.
She scrunched her eyes shut and struggled to recall it.
It had happened less than a month into sixth year. The wards had gone off in the halls when a Killing Curse was used. The castle had been filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and screaming, stampeding students. When the darkness finally faded, there were dozens of injured, panicked students and Dumbledore's dead body. It had been trampled in the chaos.
First year Hufflepuff and Slytherin students had just re-entered the castle from a Herbology class. They were the only ones who had seen anything. The statements were contradictory.
Dumbledore had passed by. There was an older student in the hallway. Maybe two. Male. A Ravenclaw. A Slytherin. A Gryffindor. A Hufflepuff. Cormac McLaggen. Adrian Pucey. Colin Creevey. Ernie Macmillan. Draco Malfoy. Zacharias Smith. Anthony Goldstein.
The first years didn't recognize many upperclassmen after only three weeks into the term. The general consensus was that it had been someone blond.
They heard a curse. Then darkness. A few said it happened in reverse: the darkness then the curse. Everyone was screaming and running. No one could see anything. All the wards had been shrieking.
When the darkness faded, the professors assembled everyone in the Great Hall. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement arrived to interview the students and examine the body.
The autopsy concluded the cause of death was a Killing Curse to the back. No other recent magic detected.
There had been something else — something about Dumbledore's hand—
Hermione tried desperately to remember. It felt like it had been an important detail. The memory danced out of reach.
All the older students named by the first years were interviewed and cleared of suspicion. All but Draco Malfoy. He was absent. The castle and grounds were searched. He was gone.
Aurors were dispatched to Malfoy Manor and found it impenetrable. He was presumed guilty. Whether he'd personally cast the curse, had help, and why he'd done it had been unanswered questions.
The Order had assumed it had been an attempt to redeem the Malfoy Family after Lucius' failure and imprisonment following the battle in the Department of Mysteries.
Hermione couldn't remember it ever being confirmed that Malfoy had killed Dumbledore. After Death Eaters seized control of the Ministry of Magic six months later, it had been difficult to get good information. The Daily Prophet immediately became a full-fledged propaganda machine.
Had it been confirmed? She didn't remember.
Hermione's inability to recall it was meaningless. She couldn't even tell where the gaps in her memory were. Until a question was put to her, she didn't even realise what was missing.
When she tried sorting through her memories magically, it was like crawling through tar. Exhausting. Almost futile. If she poured more than the barest strand of magic into attempting it, the manacles activated and sucked everything away.
The clearest sense she had of where the lost memories were located was from Voldemort, Snape, and Malfoy's various efforts to break into them.
The pain, shock, and trauma had blurred the details. It seemed as though there were few lost memories scattered throughout the war but the majority were concentrated in the last year, right up to her imprisonment.
The gaps in her knowledge tore at something inside Hermione. She was desperate to know what was missing but terrified of recovering the information. It made her feel as though she were walking through a minefield. She had no idea what the missteps might be.
Trying to accept the loss of information — of understanding — was like a sensation of bitter poison inside her.
Why had they lost the war?
Couldn't she at least remember that?
It was as though she and Malfoy were playing a game of chess, but only he could see the board.
She was desperate for any scrap of knowledge.
As soon as she knew so would her enemies. Her ignorance was simultaneously a shield and a weapon. It was buying her time to escape, but it might come down upon her at any moment.
For some reason, she was almost certain it would bring her end with it.
It felt like the sword of Damocles above her head.
Her fingertips were shriveled from the water when she finally climbed out of the bath. She felt drained. She climbed into the bed and hugged a pillow to herself.
Her mind ran on and on, full of questions she had no answers to.
The next day, Malfoy appeared again immediately after lunch.
Hermione's heart sank, but she pulled on her cloak and followed him docilely. Just walking behind him made her heart pound. She wondered if he could feel it through whatever it was he had that monitored her.
When they arrived at the veranda, Malfoy immediately conjured a chair and seated himself, flicking open a newspaper. The front page story was about a new monument in honor of Voldemort. It had been unveiled in Diagon Alley. Hermione stood awkwardly beside the doorway, wondering where to go.
She glanced over at Malfoy and started to open her mouth to ask a question, but it was like her body swallowed it before she could force the words out.
Quiet .
She couldn't initiate conversation.
She stared out bitterly at the hedge maze. She supposed she would just go and wander about aimlessly.
She started walking away but as she did so, a faint sense of discomfort crept over her. She looked up, and took in the open, grey sky...
Her heart seemed to abruptly stall.
It was as though all the oxygen and sound that existed were abruptly sucked away, and there was simply a void of vast endlessness before her.
There was no air.
She felt like she were suffocating. Her heart started pounding. Beating faster and faster. She could hear it.
She could see the steps. The gravel. The hedges.
It felt like…
Nothing.
As though the universe ended at her toes.
If she stepped forward another inch, she'd fall into it.
She froze. She tried to move but just trembled and couldn't. She bit her lip. Trying to breathe. Trying to force herself to walk forward.
It was so — open.
She shut her eyes.
It was just in her head. It was just in her head.
She fought to breathe. Dragging in a series of sharp, gasping breaths as she struggled to think.