Although even then, the mind was cruelly adaptive. The subconscious will to survive was written into humans more deeply than almost anything else. Survival did not require Hermione to be intact. To be decent. To be herself. Survival would carve away any part of her that made enduring harder.
It would smooth away the mental anguish. Latch onto every glimmer of kindness. It would make life cease to ache.
If she weren't careful, it would steal away every bit of her until she was so broken inside that she would accept her cage.
Hermione shivered beneath the scalding water still beating down on her.
She needed to stay away from Malfoy.
She wouldn't talk to him. She wouldn't let herself ask him questions. If he asked her something, she would answer as briefly as possible. She would stop engaging with him, stop trying to understand him.
She might not be able to control what her body did, but she could control her mind. Anything he wanted from her, he would have to force from her.
She dropped her head down on her knees as a sense of desolation came over her.
She was so tired of being all alone. She pressed her lips together as she struggled against crying.
Even her memory was a lonely abyss. Almost all the years of war had been alone.
Studying alone in Hogwarts. Then studying in Europe, there had been no time for anything but professional relationships. When she'd returned she'd practically lived in the hospital ward.
There was never time for friendships. When she had any spare time, Harry and Ron were gone on missions. When they were back, it was generally in the aftermath of a battle, when Hermione's skills have been most urgently needed. She had so few memories of being with either of them in non-professional circumstances.
Then, after the Final battle, Hermione's imprisonment under Hogwarts had been like an endless fall. Alone. Alone. Alone. Until Hermione's memory had cannibalised itself.
When Hermione had finally been dragged out and forced into the breeding program she had become reduced to her function. To Healer Stroud she was a womb. To Voldemort she was a potential source of war intelligence.
She was not a person.
Not to anyone except Malfoy.
He treated her like a person. He answered most of her questions, and he looked at her as though he saw her. He talked to her. He treated her as though she personally were of significance to him. When he hurt her it always seemed forced and unwilling.
Everyone else just hurt her because they could.
Even the House-elves would barely look at her.
There was no work to bury herself into in Malfoy Manor. No endless void to become lost in. It was just Hermione, sitting and wondering and folding paper; trapped in a cold house.
Malfoy was only bit of warmth or life or human contact she had. Whether he had intended it or not, Hermione was latching onto him in her desperate isolation.
She couldn't.
He had killed everyone. He had murdered or executed them all. Willing or not, he was raping her. She was just a pawn to him.
She wasn't going to betray her friends' memories in such a horrific manner. She wasn't going to betray herself.
If she died in Malfoy Manor she would do so clinging to the bits of herself that remained. Like Death itself, Malfoy had stolen everything away from her, and he was waiting to take more.
She could stay away from Malfoy. She could refuse to engage unless he forced and coerced her.
She could. She would.
She was used to being alone.
She spent the rest of the day resolving herself. Bracing herself. Malfoy was due for another legilimency session. He always came after her fertile window.
When he did, he would find all the thoughts in her head. He would probably taunt her.
She wouldn't respond.
She spent the afternoon building a card tower.
The day passed. Dinner came. Malfoy did not.
Hermione tried not to be anxious. She tried not to keep glancing at the clock. She ignored the tightening sensation in her chest as she kept expecting him to appear.
He was probably doing it on purpose, she reminded herself. Perhaps he'd been reading her mind when she had been thinking earlier. He was probably torturing her intentionally.
She kept expecting him to eventually appear until it was past eleven, when Hermione usually was asleep. Finally she went to bed.
She couldn't sleep.
She just lay there, wondering why he hadn't come. Maybe he was traveling again. The newspaper hadn't said anything but perhaps he still was. Maybe he was out with Astoria at some event, Hermione didn't think she remembered anything being mentioned in the society pages. Maybe they'd just gone to dinner. Did he and Astoria go to dinner together?
Hermione lay in bed wondering until the clock on the wall indicated it was nearly two in the morning.
She got out of bed. There was a nearly full moon.
She went to the door and left her room, wandering through the moonlit hallways of the North Wing. The portrait followed her like a pale wraith.
Hermione's fingers trailed along walls as she walked. She never had panic attacks inside the manor, but the sensation of the wall beneath her fingers was steadying.
The moonlight cast long, sharp shadows across the floors and walls.
A thought abruptly struck Hermione. What if Malfoy died? Would she even know? Probably not. Not for days. Healer Stroud would come and take Hermione to be transferred to some other legilimens. Maybe Voldemort would bring Snape back from Romania and order him to impregnate her instead.
What if she were already pregnant? The thought made her cold. What if she were pregnant and Malfoy died? Would Voldemort wait for her to give birth and then drag her memories out himself? Or would he make Stroud abort the baby so Hermione could be transferred? If she carried it to term then, what would happen to it? Would Voldemort give the baby to Astoria?
Astoria would kill it. She'd torture it to death. If it looked like Malfoy and Hermione, Astoria would probably tear its eyes out and burn it, starve it to death...
Hermione gasped and started hyperventilating in the hallway.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She couldn't do anything.
She had spent months wishing Malfoy would die but now the thought filled her with terror.
What if he was dead?
She kept breathing faster and faster. Her hands and arms started pricking as though there were needles grazing her skin. Her chest felt compressed as though she were being crushed. She couldn't make herself calm down.
Suddenly there was a shifting in the darkness. Hermione froze, choked down a gasp, and glanced around.
Malfoy stepped out of the darkness. She was certain he hadn't been there a moment before.
The moonlight caught his pale hair and skin, and he looked terrifying and angelic at the same time.
She stared at him, feeling her initial panic fade away. He wasn't dead or dying. The sense of relief she felt at seeing him—
She tried not to dwell on it as she studied him carefully.
There was something about his face...
The tension in it seemed slightly eased from the hard cold expression she was so used to. He looked less on the verge of a breakdown.
He came closer to her. His eyes traveling down her slowly as he sized her up.
"Granger."
Her name rolled from his lips like a purr. She felt a shiver of uncertainty pass through her. He never called her by her surname, not once since she had arrived. She was always Mudblood.
Her eyes widened.
He was drunk.
His steps remained steady and his voice was unslurred, but — she was sure of it.
She didn't move.
He drew nearer, until she shuffled backwards, but he kept coming closer. Until she was trapped against the wall, and he was mere inches from her.