“You're talking about Muggle history though. Magic is different. The magical world is different,” Harry said, reaching toward her wand hand just as she moved it to heal the next rib. He closed his fingers into a fist and let it drop.
Hermione shook her head minutely and Harry's expression grew bitter. He looked up at the sky. Hermione cast a barrier charm over her hand and then began spreading a bruise paste over Harry's stomach and ribs in small circular motions.
“You used to be different,” Harry said, “You used to be more righteous about things than me. What happened to S.P.E.W.? That girl would never have said Dark magic was worth the cost. What happened?”
“That girl died in a hospital ward trying to save Colin Creevey.”
“I was there when Colin died too, Hermione. And I didn't change.”
“I was always willing to do whatever it took, Harry. All those adventures of ours in school. Once I was in, I was in. Maybe you just never noticed how far I was willing to go for you.”
When Hermione woke, she remembered the dream.
She replayed it again and again. It was a memory. Which frightened her somewhat, but there didn't seem to be anything in it that appeared particularly consequential. She tried to place the year it had happened.
Harry was smoking. A habit he started three years into the war. Hermione didn't recognise the rooftop, but that didn't mean anything. There had been dozens of safe houses that Hermione rarely visited.
Having a new memory of Harry, even one that wasn't particularly happy, felt like an unexpected gift. She missed him so bitterly it was hard to breathe sometimes.
She lay in bed and turned it over and over in her mind. Taking note of every detail. The light in his eyes. The nervous, intense way he'd take a drag from his cigarettes and exhale sharply. The exhaustion in his face. The way his hair stood on end.
She wished she'd hugged him. Or taken his hand. Or met his eyes and told him how important he was to her.
Told him how much she needed him. That he was her best friend. That she would follow him to the ends of the earth. That she would never, ever recover if she lost him.
She wished she could go back in time and find a way to fix what had gone wrong. Whatever it was. That she could go back and tell Harry not to go to Hogwarts the day of the final battle.
Go back and warn the Order of what would happen if they lost.
Their argument in the memory was a familiar one. Hermione had wanted the Order to use, well, not necessarily the Dark Arts, but magic that was ambiguously grey. As the war kept dragging on, she'd gotten pushier about it and it had strained her relationships with more people than just Harry.
She tried not to dwell on the question of whether they could have won the war if the Resistance had been willing to use Dark Magic.
The war was over and lost.
She pressed her hands against her eyes and tried to force the question away. Whatever the answer was, it would be as painful to reach as it would be futile.
Oh Harry…
Had she told him she loved him the day he died? Had she even spoken to him?
She couldn't remember.
Hermione curled up in her bed and wrapped her arms around herself in a mimicry of a hug. When she'd been in the cell, she'd wondered if it was possible to die from the devastating loneliness she felt.
She'd felt like her heart had broken.
It still felt like that.
After a few minutes, she forced herself to get up. Lying in bed moping wasn't going to accomplish anything.
She paused at the window. It had snowed. The whole world outside was blanketed. The visual relief from all the dreary grey was almost heartening.
Along with the breakfast that morning, there arrived a vial of — something. Hermione did not recognise the potion. She stared at it and sniffed it but wasn't sure what it was. She set it aside. She hadn't been commanded to take it, and until she was commanded, she had no intention of imbibing any unfamiliar potions.
She made her way to the stairs and stood, staring down them. It was time. She was going to descend the stairs by herself. The fact that she hadn't already done so was pathetic. It was just a staircase. Just a staircase leading to a hall she'd already walked through dozens of times with Malfoy.
Her shoulders shook with an almost imperceptible tremor, and she squared them.
She felt like a frightened child.
She hated it.
She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. Then she pressed her hand against the wall and slowly took a step.
She was going to escape, she told herself.
Before she got pregnant, she was going to escape from Malfoy Manor. Someday she was going to come back and murder Malfoy.
She was going to be free. Free. Somewhere with sunshine and magic and people who wouldn't hurt her.
She focused on the thought until there were no more steps left to descend.
She glanced around. Her hand was still pressed against the wall. She could feel the faint texture of the wallpaper. Touching the walls seemed to help her keep her heart-rate somewhat reasonable.
She went into a tea room, coatroom, and a drawing room. Exploring them all thoroughly. The portrait stalked Hermione the entire time.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Even the cords for the drapes were spelled to be irremovable. She opened sideboards, and cupboards, and linen closets and there wasn't a single thing inside of them that was useful. Not as a weapon she could use. Not for escape.
She shoved a drawer shut with a frustrated snap.
If she was going to find anything with potential, she was going to have to explore the occupied wings of the manor. It was easy for Malfoy to ensure that an empty wing had nothing Hermione could utilise. It would be harder to maintain such care in other parts of the house.
Astoria had struck Hermione as a bit flighty. Given how devoted she was to ignoring Hermione's existence, she probably would not trouble herself with employing the same overabundance of caution that Malfoy did.
Hermione returned slowly to her room and stared across the pristine landscape below her. She felt drained from her “excursion” downstairs. As though she'd run a marathon.
Everything took so much effort.
She rested her cheek against the glass and felt freshly awash in despair.
Even if she managed to conquer her agoraphobia, that was barely even a start. No matter what lies she whispered to herself. The truth was that she remained entirely at a loss about how to accomplish anything more.
She glanced down at the manacles around her wrists.
She'd been considering and experimenting with their abilities for the last several days. Ever since Malfoy had been able to override her agoraphobia. She had started to analyse more carefully how the compulsions worked.
She had been baffled over how they could be so powerful. She'd studied various dark artifacts during the war. The manacles were unlike anything she'd encountered.
She started her experiments by trying to disobey the compulsion of quietness by attempting to scream. The concept was less restrictive than obedience. She was allowed to make noise and speak when spoken to. It seemed like the easiest one to try to overcome. She'd thought that if she fought hard enough she could force her way through by sheer willpower, in the same manner that strong-minded individuals could eventually throw off the Imperio.
She was fairly sure she qualified as at least a somewhat strong-minded individual.
When she tried to open her mouth to scream, she just — stopped. It didn't matter how hard she fought to force sound out. She struggled until the manacles began growing hot.