Malfoy didn't speak to her again for the remainder of the hour. He drew a book from his cloak and set to reading it, apparently impervious to the biting cold.

Hermione closed her eyes for several minutes and tried to force her heart not to pound by merely staring up into the sky.

She was going to overcome it.

She didn't care what it took.

The days blurred together.

Malfoy appeared daily, immediately after lunch, and led her out to the veranda. Once there, he usually ignored her, reading the Prophet or some book. Hermione would skitter about on the veranda, trying to find the nerve to take a walk. She could make it down the marble steps, but she froze before reaching the gravel.

Unlike the hallway, she couldn't seem to overcome it. It was a line she was incapable of crossing. The rational parts of her brain just stuttered to a halt.

So she sat on the steps, gathered gravel into her hands, and tossed the rocks, one at a time, as far as she could. Or arranged them into pictures or runes.

There was nothing else to do.

Malfoy never spoke to her, and because of that she couldn't speak to him. Not that she wanted to, but the indignity that she required permission grated nonetheless.

The fact that the Malfoys needed no servants apparently meant that she was not expected to do anything except exist. They provided her with absolutely no means of occupying herself. No books, no paper, not even a bit of string. She was almost as bored in the manor as she had been in her cell in Hogwarts. Except she was also monitored obsessively by a judgemental portrait and knew there was a mansion outside her bedroom waiting to be explored if she could only summon up the nerve to do so.

Hermione had explored all the bedrooms along her hall repeatedly. She had studied the hedge maze through all the windows until she was almost certain she could find her way through it.

She was trying to find the nerve to descend the stairs and explore the other floors. She'd passed through the first floor almost nine times with Malfoy. Yet she couldn't seem to quite bring herself to do it alone.

After eight days, Malfoy did not appear after lunch. Instead, Healer Stroud walked through the door into Hermione's room.

Hermione stood silently and watched the woman conjure an exam table in the middle of the floor.

Everyone Hermione hated seemed to force her onto tables. Voldemort. Malfoy. Stroud. Hermione walked forward before she was compelled to and seated herself on the edge.

"Open your mouth," Healer Stroud commanded.

Hermione's mouth opened automatically, and Healer Stroud lifted a potion and poured one drop into Hermione's mouth. As the vial was re-stoppered, Hermione caught a glance of the contents and stiffened. Veritaserum.

She supposed it was one way to make medical appointments efficient—prevent subjects from lying. Hermione couldn't understand the point. The manacles already made her obedient; Healer Stroud could just command her to tell the truth.

Healer Stroud seemed to notice the expression on Hermione's face.

"It simplifies things," Stroud said, waving her wand. "If the High Reeve had ordered you to lie about something you would be conflicted. This way, your honesty isn't your fault."

Hermione nodded. She supposed that made sense.

"Hmm. Not pregnant yet. I suppose it was rather too much to hope for so soon."

Hermione nearly collapsed with relief. Then she recalled that it meant Malfoy would come take her over a table for another five days, and her relief faded sharply.

"Look at me, Miss Granger," Healer Stroud commanded, "has anyone hurt you since you've been here?"

Hermione stared at the woman steadily while her mouth answered of its own volition.

"I have been physically raped five times and mentally raped twice."

Healer Stroud looked unfazed but somewhat thoughtful.

"The legilimency is painful?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. I'll make a note of that. No other harm to you?"

"No."

"Very good. That is a relief. There have been—problems, with some of the others."

Hermione felt horror creep over her like the caress of a ghost.

"Are—are they alright?" she croaked.

"Oh, yes. We got everything taken care of. Some men simply need to be reminded that the Dark Lord's gifts can be taken back if not cared for properly," Healer Stroud said. There was no trace of sympathy or guilt in her expression as she continued waving her wand over Hermione.

Hermione wanted to reach over and snap the woman's neck. Her hands shook as she struggled to contain it.

Healer Stroud was indifferent to Hermione's poorly-concealed rage. She cast a diagnostic charm targeted at Hermione's lower abdomen.

"No tearing. That's a relief. It would have been problematic. I should have come sooner to check, but I was quite busy. Overseeing all the placements was more tedious than I imagined."

Healer Stroud appeared to expect Hermione to be sympathetic. Hermione stared pointedly at the clock and didn't answer.

"Your physical condition has declined somewhat. Are you going outside to exercise daily?" Healer Stroud asked with an irritated expression.

Hermione stiffened; her chest tightened as she tried to breathe and answer the question indifferently.

"I—wasn't. But the High Reeve has begun ensuring it."

"Are you walking? Long walks are important for the constitution."

"I—can't."

Healer Stroud stared at Hermione. "You can't?"

Hermione bit her lip and hesitated. "I have panic attacks—Just leaving this room is hard. The High Reeve takes me to the veranda for an hour, but I—I can't—I can't... I don't—It's so—so—"

Hermione started gasping as she tried to describe it. Even with the aid of veritaserum, she struggled to put the fear into words. She struggled to handle the wave of anger and despair she felt for having such an irrational obstacle that she couldn't overcome on her own.

She pressed her lips together, but they twisted sharply. She could feel the pressure in her cheeks and eyes as she struggled not to cry over it.

"Interesting," Healer Stroud said, scribbling several notes. "Presumably due to your imprisonment. It hadn't occurred to me that going outdoors would be an issue. Hmm. Calming Draught would be insufficient, but I can't put you on a permanent anxiety relief; they interfere with pregnancy. Perhaps something temporary, to help acclimatise you. I'll have to research it."

Hermione said nothing.

"Materials will be provided daily for your cycle," Stroud added as she continued writing notes. A thought seemed to occur to her, and she looked up quizzically at Hermione. "What—what was it that happened when you were in prison?"

"I just bled," Hermione said. "The cell was kept clean, but there was nothing provided."

Stroud shook her head faintly in disapproval. As though she had some moral superiority over Umbridge in her treatment of Hermione.

"Anything else you think I should know?" Healer Stroud asked Hermione.

"I think that you are evil and inhuman," Hermione answered immediately.

She hadn't even had time to realise the words coming out of her mouth; the veritaserum had just dragged them forth.

Healer Stroud's expression flickered for a moment.

"Well, I suppose I left myself open for that. Anything about your health that you think I should know?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "No."

"Alright then." Healer Stroud glanced over her notes one last time. "Oh. I nearly forgot. Remove your stockings."

Hermione obediently pulled them off. Healer Stroud glanced over Hermione's legs for a moment and then waved her wand. A sharp, burning sensation came over them for several seconds.

Hermione hissed faintly. Startled. When the burn faded she looked down and saw that her legs were bright red and irritated looking.

"A permanent hair removal charm. Several of the men have complained. One of them tried to provide a bath potion, but the spiteful little witch dunked her head under and emerged entirely bald."

Healer Stroud handed Hermione a small jar of murtlap essence.

"The irritation should fade in a day or two. I'll speak to the High Reeve about your condition."

Healer Stroud put Hermione's file back into a briefcase, and Hermione slipped off the table and stood awkwardly, holding her stockings in one hand and the jar of murtlap essence in the other. With a flick of her wand, Healer Stroud vanished the table and left the room without another word.

Malfoy arrived half an hour later, looking more angry than usual.

Hermione pulled on her cloak and followed him. When they reached the veranda, he glanced over at her with a grimace.

"You are required to walk at least half a mile."

Hermione blinked up at him.

"I would send you with a house-elf, but Stroud is concerned that your self-inflicted brain injury may cause you to have a seizure if you become overwrought." He looked enraged enough to break something. "I am now required to walk you."

He stared across the estate for a moment before adding, "You are worse than a dog."

He stormed down the steps and then turned, standing on the gravel path.

"Come," he said in a cold voice. His eyes were flashing, and his lips were pressed into a hard line as he looked at her.

Hermione stared at him, incredulous. Hell would freeze over long before Draco Malfoy's presence kept her from having a panic attack.

The compulsion dragged her forward.

Hermione took a deep breath as she stepped gingerly down the steps and then, after a moment's hesitation, onto the gravel. She took four steps across it toward him and wanted to cry with rage when she didn't freeze along the way.

Apparently it was a cold day in hell.

Malfoy turned on his heel and walked down the path while she followed.

It was probably because of the manacles, she realised along the way. He had ordered her to come and so she came. The manacles forced her to be compliant while being raped. However the compulsions worked, they were apparently capable of suppressing her panic attacks in the same way they were capable of suppressing her desire to fight off Malfoy and then murder him in a painful and prolonged manner.

He strolled along the outside of the hedge maze until they passed it entirely and then led her through the paths among the wintering rose beds.

Hermione wondered if there was anything about the Malfoy estate that didn't feel cold, dead, and sterile. The gravel paths had not so much as a stone out of place. The rose bushes had been clipped meticulously for winter. The hedges cut into the sky in precise, straight walls.

Hermione had never particularly cared for formal English gardens but Malfoy Manor's might be the most horrid she'd ever seen. Hedges, and white gravel, and leafless trees and shrubs pruned within an inch of their lives.

She imagined it was less awful-looking in the spring and summer, but in its current form she had seen car parks with greater aesthetic appeal.

Malfoy did not seem inclined to appreciate the scenery either.

After storming along the paths for an hour, Malfoy led the way back to the manor. As they drew close, Hermione thought she saw an upstairs curtain twitch.

Malfoy walked to Hermione's room but rather than leave once she was there, he stayed, staring at her.

Hermione shrank away and fidgeted with the clasp on her cloak. Perhaps if she ignored him he would go away.

"Bed," he commanded after a moment.

She looked up at him, startled, and he smirked maliciously as he stepped toward her.

"Unless you'd rather do it on the floor," he said.

Hermione didn't move. She just stared at him, feeling stupefied with horror. He drew his wand and after giving a sharp, nonverbal flick, Hermione felt his magic seize hold of her and drag her backward until she collided with her bed and toppled backwards onto it.

Malfoy sauntered over, looking bored. There was a faint glint in his eyes.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from whimpering and crossed her arms across herself.

He stared down at her and then, pressing his legs between hers, leaned over her.

Hermione wished she could sink into the bed and suffocate there. Wished she could scream. Wished she could have just a shred of her magic to fight him off with.

Obedient. Quiet. Not to resist.

She tucked her chin down against her shoulder and tried to cringe away from him as much as she could.

His right hand pressed into the mattress by her head, and then she felt the tip of his wand under her chin.

"Look at me, Mudblood," he commanded.

Her chin untucked itself as she turned to look up into his eyes. They were only inches away from hers. His pupils were contracted, and the grey of his irises looked like a storm.

He drove into her mind.

She gasped with shock.

Even his legilimency was cold. Like being plunged into a freezing lake. It hurt with a sharp, clear pain.

Unlike previous occasions, her mind was unclouded with trauma or shock. The experience was far more vivid because of it. He shot through her memories, attending to all the clusters of locked ones. He tried breaking his way into one until a wail wrenched itself from her lips.

He moved quickly. As though he were simply verifying that none of them were accessible yet. After checking through them, he moved into the present.

He seemed amused by her growing hatred. By how desperately she wanted to kill him. He watched her explore the other rooms and run across the estate and sit bored on the steps of the veranda. How she had read The Daily Prophet. Her panic attack.

He examined her repeated efforts to remember the details of Dumbledore's death, and how she couldn't remember something about the warlock's arm. That detail sparked his interest. He tried to find the information, but wherever Hermione had concealed the details in her mind, he couldn't tell.

She could feel his irritation as he finally moved on to her appointment with Stroud and their walk across the estate and how deeply she disliked the gardens. When he reached her horror after he ordered her onto the bed, he finally withdrew from her mind.

He sneered down at her.

"Rest assured, Mudblood, I have no particular desire to touch you. I find your mere existence within my manor offensive."

"The feeling is decidedly mutual," Hermione said in a dry voice. It wasn't a particularly good retort; her head was throbbing. It felt as though Malfoy had inserted his entire mind into hers, and it had bruised her internally.

Malfoy straightened and looked down at her as though he expected her to say something else. She stared up at him.

"Did you really kill Dumbledore?"

He smirked and leaned against a bedpost, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side.

"You somehow forgot that too? Is there anything useful you remember? Or do you just habitually forget everything that you haven't gotten from a textbook?" He glanced down at his nails for a moment and then buffed them against his robes in a bored manner. "I suppose that was all you ever were good for. You didn't even fight during the war, did you? I certainly never saw you. You weren't ever out there with Potter and Weasley. You just hid. Spending all your time in hospital wards. Waving your wand about futilely, saving people who ended up being better off dead."

At his words, Hermione felt the blood drain from her head so abruptly that the room swam before her eyes. She gasped as though she'd been struck by a bludger.

All the times she's healed Ron, Bill, Charlie, George and Fred, Tonks, Remus, Ginny, Hannah, Angelina, Katie...

Saved them for the end of the war. Saved them to be tortured to death. Saved them to be enslaved and raped.

She clasped her hands over her mouth and pressed her fingers tight against her lips until she felt the outline of her teeth. Her whole body shook on the bed, and she tried not to sob. A muffled whimper tore itself through her fingers. There was a pricking sensation in her eyes the moment before Malfoy's face blurred from the tears. She rolled to her side and curled into a ball.

"Since you're so curious to know. The Dark Lord personally requested that I kill Albus Dumbledore at some point during sixth year. So one Friday morning, when the bumbling idiot walked past me in the halls, I cursed him squarely in the back with a Killing Curse. He'd stopped to chat with a few first years about sherbet lemons or some other equally asinine subject. Quite careless to leave himself open like that. But that's Gryffindors for you. They never expect that someone might choose to simply assassinate them in broad daylight. I am fairly certain he even knew I was going to try to kill him, but he still put his back to me. Perhaps he presumed I lacked the nerve." He snorted faintly in disdain before sighing. "That is the one drawback of using the Killing Curse on someone's back; they miss out on that split second of realisation before they die."

Hermione bit her lip as she listened to Malfoy's drawling recitation. She had expected, if she ever asked the question, that he would be horrible and conceited about it. Somehow it still shocked her to hear it.

"I suppose your master was quite pleased with you," she said without looking at him.

"He was, especially after I presented him with the old fool's wand. He had dinner with me and my mother that night, here in this very manor. I was declared a protege."

He tone seemed vaguely hollow. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him. He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked on the window, and he looked almost wistful and pensive. As though his mind had gone somewhere else.

He abruptly roused himself and smiled thinly down at her.

"Any further details you need me to provide?" He arched an eyebrow as he asked the question. His expression was mechanical.

"No," she said dropping her eyes from his face. "that was all I wanted to know."

"Well." He straightened his robes and turned to leave, "The outside world beckons me. Try not to have a seizure in my absence, Mudblood."