She swallowed it, fairly certain he wasn't going to poison her.
“Did that ever happen to you?” she found herself asking, when the pain began easing so she could speak again and his face slowly swam into focus.
Malfoy eyed her for a moment. “More than once,” he said. “My training was rigorous.”
She nodded.
“Was that after fifth year?” she asked looking up at him. The pain seemed to fade somewhat when she focused on the question.
“Yes,” he said it in a clipped tone.
“Your aunt?”
“Hmm,” he hummed in confirmation, his eyes narrowed.
They were both staring at each other intently. He felt like the only thing she could see.
“Not the only thing you learned that summer,” she noted. His eyes widened incrementally.
“Are you needing a confession for something? Should I tell you everything I've done?” he asked in a careful drawl. He drew closer so that he towered above her.
She forced herself not to shrink or cower down further than she was already slumped. She stared up into his eyes. A question rose to her lips and she felt somehow that it was vital that she ask it.
“Do you want to?” she said.
He stared at her as though he were considering something. Then his eyes grew flinty and he stepped back.
“Why would I want to talk to you about anything, Mudblood?” he said coldly, grasping her by the arm and dragging her down the hallway to the apparition point.
Hermione's brain still felt crushed and damaged. When Malfoy apparated back into her room the squeezing sensation on her head made her cry out and collapse, vomiting as soon as she reappeared.
He stood stiffly, staring down at her and banished the mess from the floor while she tried to fight off the endless waves of nausea.
“Go to bed. You have two days to recover before I'll expect you to be walking again,” he said before turning to leave. She would have glared at him if she could have interrupted her body's compulsive dry heaving.
When her body finally became convinced that there was absolutely nothing in her stomach left to expel Hermione crawled into bed and cradled her head in her arms.
She wasn't sure when two days passed. She slept like a dead thing and couldn't have said whether it had been hours or days when she finally woke without a migraine.
While she was poking at breakfast Malfoy strode in.
She glared at him sullenly from the bed.
“Season's greetings, Mudblood,” he drawled.
She stared at him in mild surprise.
“As a Christmas gift to myself, I have decided to end the weekly ritual of replacing all your shoes. It should arrive tomorrow. Please do not interpret it as a sign of my affection,” he said and chuckled for a moment. Then his face grew cold as he walked closer. “It's been three days and you haven't left your room. I hope you're not going to inconvenience me.”
Hermione felt too ill to feel afraid of Malfoy.
“I have no way of knowing what the date is,” she said in a flat voice. “Perhaps giving me a calendar could be an additional present for yourself.”
He stared at her.
“It didn't occur to you to just ask an elf?” he asked after a moment.
Hermione stared at him and felt unwanted tears of humiliation prick at the corner of her eyes. Her mouth twisted as she fought not to snarl or cry.
“I can't speak unless spoken to,” she said stiffly.
Malfoy froze and was silent for a surprisingly long time. An indecipherable expression rippled across his face before he blinked and laughed faintly.
“And here I thought it was an elf rights thing,” he said with a smirk. His eyes still looked slightly frozen. “I'll send an elf later and see if you can speak if it initiates.”
He spun on his heel and walked out without another word.
When Hermione finished picking at her food an elf appeared to take the dishes away.
“Master is wanting to know if you is needing anything,” it said, avoiding her gaze.
“A calendar that indicates the date, if that is possible. And — a book, about anything.”
The house elf looked uncomfortable.
“I can be getting you a calendar. But Mistress was sayin the Mudblood isn't to sully any Malfoy books and had them hexed so theys would be burning your dirty blood.”
Hermione looked away as her chest tightened. She bit her lip so it wouldn't tremble. Of course Malfoy or Astoria would do something spiteful like specifically restrict her from reading.
“Nevermind then,” she said quietly.
“You could be having the Daily Prophet, if you is wanting it,” the elf offered.
“That — would be nice,” said Hermione unwilling to let herself feel hopeful about it.
“Is the Mudblood wanting anything else?”
Hermione's mouth twitched. She almost asked the elf to call her Hermione. She hadn't had anyone call her Hermione since — since—
It was hard to remember.
But she wasn't sure she wanted to know whether the elf had specific instructions about only calling her Mudblood. It probably did. It was easier not to let herself even ask.
“Nothing else,” she said looking out the window.
The elf popped away.
A calendar had appeared on the wall and a copy of the Daily Prophet was on her bed that afternoon when she returned, shivering, from her walk.
December 25th. Seeing it on the wall left her frozen for several minutes.
The copy of the newspaper corroborated the date. She felt afraid to reach out and touch it, half expecting for it to burn her. An extra twist of spite.
Hesitantly she rested a fingertip on it. Nothing happened.
She sat down and read it front to back. Savouring words.
Reading.
She had missed it. The last time when she had read The Daily Prophet it had been so rushed.
She read it slowly through once. And then again. And again. Every word.
It was mostly trash. Thinly veiled propaganda. The political news was nearly unintelligible amid all the spin. Hermione had never found quidditch interesting but she avidly read through the game recaps since they seemed to be the only thing accurately reported on. The society pages went on and on about Astoria. Her name was dropped in every single society piece.
Hermione read the paper forward and backward. She looked for any patterns. Or codes. Just in case.
The next morning she found a pair of boots in the wardrobe among her shoes. Malfoy's “present.” She had been wearing through the soles of her flimsy slippers every few days and walking in the snow had her toes nearly frostbitten on several occasions.
The boots were dragon-hide. When she put them on they resized themselves to her perfectly. She could tell they had enchantments woven into them to keep her feet at a perfect temperature. She could walk a hundred miles in them and never get a blister.
She stared at them in confusion. They were — excessive.
Much like the cloak he'd provided.
Perhaps Malfoy didn't even know how to buy normal shoes. He just assumed that all boots were supposed to come in dragon-hide with temperature control and cushioning charms.
Finding Malfoy at all considerate was disconcerting. She stared at the boots for several more minutes.
She dismissed the notion. If Astoria owned a lapdog it would assuredly be fitted with a jeweled collar.
She was just a well-shod and cloaked pet surrogate for him to fuck.
He was probably worried that if she got frostbite he'd have to interact with her again.
And, given that she was allegedly intended to bear three children before she departed the estate she was presumably expected to live at Malfoy Manor for at least four years. Possibly five or six.
Considering how spartan Malfoy Manor seemed to be Malfoy apparently adhered to a strict “buy it once, buy it for life,” philosophy. The fact he'd had to buy her twenty pairs of shoes in two months probably was something he found morally offensive.