Hermione reappeared in a dark foyer. It was an immaculate, empty room. A black, lacquered, circular table sat in the center of the room. There was a large bouquet of white flowers on the table.

She turned slowly. She didn't want to miss any details, but the stupid wings of the bonnet acted like blinders. She could only see straight ahead.

A large stairway lay to the right. Cold hallways led into darkness and further into the house. It was a manor, and an enormous one based on the width of the staircase.

"Hello, Mudblood."

A cold voice made her freeze.

Slowly turning all the way around, she found Draco Malfoy.

He was older.

Her last memory of him was fifth year when he was on the Inquisitorial Squad. He had grown taller. He towered over her, and his face had lost every trace of boyishness. There was a dangerous, refined brutality in the way he held himself.

The way he looked at her...

His eyes were like a wolf's; cold and feral.

The deadliness in him was palpable. As he looked down at her, she felt certain, he could lean forward and cut her throat while staring in her eyes. Then step back, only caring that she not get blood on his shoes.

He was the High Reeve.

Voldemort's right hand. His executioner.

The number of her friends that he had murdered: Ginny, McGonagall, Moody, Neville, Dean, Seamus, Professor Sprout, Madam Pomfrey, Flitwick, Oliver Wood... the list went on and on. Aside from those who had been tortured to death immediately after the final battle—every person that she knew to be dead following the war—the High Reeve had killed them.

The girls had whispered to her during the first few nights. Telling her about the world of horror she had missed while locked under Hogwarts.

She hadn't thought he could be someone she knew.

Someone so young.

Terror welled up inside her. She wasn't sure what to do to handle the shock.

Before she could react—or even process the realisation—his eyes locked into hers, and he abruptly slammed his way into her mind.

The force almost made her black out.

His mental intrusion was like a blade, driving straight into her memories. He sliced through the fragile barrier that she tried to erect with the shreds of internal magic she could summon. He drilled into her blocked memories.

It was like having a nail driven into her head.

The precision and the unrelenting force.

He wouldn't stop trying to break through. It felt almost worse than the cruciatus curse. It lasted longer than the torture curse could without driving the recipient insane.

When he finally stopped, she found herself lying on the ground. Malfoy was standing over her, staring down at her as she shuddered from the trauma of his intrusion.

"So, you really have forgotten everything," he said as he appraised her. "What is it you think you're protecting in that brain of yours? You lost the war."

She couldn't answer.

She had no answer.

"Oh well," he said, straightening his robes slightly. "The Dark Lord was kind enough to send you to me. If ever you do recover your memories, I'll be the first to know."

He smirked down at her for a moment before his face grew cold and indifferent. Then he stepped over her body and walked out of the room.

Hermione dragged herself to her feet, shaking from the mental anguish and impotent rage she felt.

She hated him.

She had never hated Draco Malfoy before.

He had simply been an indoctrinated bully, a symptom of a disease which others were responsible for. Now—she hated him. For what he had become. For what he had done.

He owned her.

She was trapped under his heel, and he intended to grind her down until he had what he wanted.

She clenched her jaw as she forced herself to think past her sudden rage. Her plan remained the same. She had to find a way to escape or trick him into killing her.

He wasn't what she expected. She had hoped that the High Reeve would be driven by emotions, and although the Malfoy she had known in school had been, now he seemed ice-cold.

Which, of course, she should have realised. Legilimency, occlumency; the key to them was control. The ability to compartmentalise one's self behind walls.

It would take cunning to make him snap enough to make a mistake like killing her. Whatever she did, she wouldn't be able to accomplish it immediately. She couldn't rush it. She couldn't be careless. She would have to stay there, wait, and endure what was to come until she found an opening.

The thought had her shuddering. Her throat felt tight as she swallowed and tried to think.

A click of heels on the wood floor drew her attention. A petite blonde witch swept into the room. She and Hermione stared at each other for several long moments.

"So, you're it," the witch said, elevating her nose with a sniff. "Take that stupid hat off and come along. We have to review the instructions all together before I can put you away where we're to keep you."

The blonde turned on her heel and marched back out of the room. Hermione followed slowly. The witch was familiar. A Greengrass, Hermione thought. Not Daphne, but maybe the younger sister.

Hermione couldn't remember her name.

They arrived in a drawing room. Malfoy was already there, reclining in a spindly looking chair and looking bored.

Hermione pulled the bonnet off.

"So," said the witch Hermione assumed must be Malfoy's wife as she seated herself on one of the other spindly chairs. "Healer Stroud sent over a package of instructions. Who knew Mudbloods came with directions? So convenient, isn't it?"

The sarcasm in the witch's sharp little voice was brittle.

"Just read it, Astoria," Malfoy said, glancing briefly toward the witch with a sneer.

Astoria. So that was the name of Malfoy's wife.

"Let's see. No cursing or torturing or physically abusing her. She's to be kept fed. We can make her work, but no more than six hours a day. And she's to spend at least an hour outside each day."

Astoria laughed somewhat manically.

"It's rather like keeping crups, isn't it? Who knew? Ah yes. How delightful. We'll get an owl every month on the five days you're required to—perform, Draco. Healer Stroud has included a little personal note here, mentioning that due to the Dark Lord's specific interest in the Malfoy Family and the Mudblood, she will be coming in person every month to see whether you're successful."

Astoria looked so nearly hysterical that Hermione was surprised she hadn't started screaming and smashing a chair.

"Listen to this. I'm allowed to watch! You know, to make sure everything is entirely clinical between you and the Mudblood."

Astoria turned shockingly pale. Her blue eyes looked almost deranged. Her hands were shaking, and she crumpled up the papers in her hands and smacked them down on the tea table.

"I will not," she said, her voice razor-edged and vibrating. "If you object, you can drag me in front of the Dark Lord himself before you Avada me. I will not watch!"

She did scream the last bit.

"Do what you wish, just shut up!" Malfoy said, his tone vicious as he stood up and strode from the room.

Hermione stood frozen near the wall.

Astoria sat shaking in her chair for several minutes before she spoke to Hermione.

"My mother bred crups. Pretty little things," Astoria said. "Such fun to see it done now with wizards."

Hermione said nothing. She just stood by the wall trying not to move. Willing her fingers not to spasm. I am pretending to be a tree, she thought faintly to herself.

Finally Astoria stood up.

"I'll show you your room. You can do whatever you want, but I don't want to see you. I understand that those bracelets you have keep you from any trouble."

They went down a long hallway and then through a narrow, partly concealed door that led to a winding servant's stairway. After ascending three floors, they re-entered into a larger, main hallway of the house. They were in a different wing. The windows were all heavily draped. It was cold and shrouded; the furniture all covered with white dust sheets.

"This wing is unoccupied," Astoria said as though it weren't obvious. "We have more servants than we need. Stay here and out of sight unless you're called for. The portraits will keep an eye on you."

Astoria pushed open a door. Hermione walked in. It was a large bedroom. A canopied bed sat in the center and a single wing-backed chair near the window. A large wardrobe sat against one wall. There was no rug. A portrait hung on the wall. No books.

Everything was cold and bare.

"If you need anything, call a house-elf," Astoria said before pulling the door shut. Hermione listened to her retreating footsteps.

Being suddenly left unsupervised without being in a cell felt disorienting. The sudden change simultaneously thrilling and terrifying, as though she'd suddenly jumped off a cliff.

She dropped her bonnet on the floor next to the door and walked over to a window. The cold, wintry countryside stretched out as far as she could see. As she took it in, she considered the situation.

Malfoy and Astoria clearly disliked each other.

It was hardly surprising. As if pure-blood arranged marriages weren't already dysfunctional enough, having them arranged by Voldemort for the sole purpose of reproduction had to have smothered any potential spark. Especially after they failed to reproduce.

Astoria did not seem particularly afraid of Malfoy, so presumably he wasn't so short-tempered as to be violent to her. She seemed largely resentful of and indifferent to him.

He did not appear to be an attentive husband by any stretch of the imagination. His regard for Astoria seemed to be along the lines of finding her to be a pest he was obliged to endure.

Whatever Astoria may feel about her husband or marriage, Hermione's presence as a surrogate clearly stung. She seemed determined to ignore Hermione's existence inasmuch as she possibly could.

Hermione had no objection. The fewer players she had to worry about, the better. If she had to worry about fending off or appeasing Astoria it would be an additional challenge. If Astoria were attentive to her husband, it would make escaping or finding a way to manipulate Malfoy far more challenging. If Astoria was primarily preoccupied by pretending Hermione didn't exist, it was the easiest scenario. Hermione would keep out of sight, in the shadows, as much as she could. Until there was an opportunity to act.

The key would be to study Malfoy. Discover what drove him. What his vices were. What she could exploit in him.

He didn't seem particularly interested in Hermione beyond finding out what she might be concealing in her lost memories. If that were the case, it was a relief. Perhaps he would also primarily choose to leave her alone. She was sure that if he wished to he could come up with any number of ways to torture her without risking her fertility.

Draco Malfoy was the High Reeve.

It was still shocking.

What had happened to him during the war to make him so ruthless?

The hatred required to successfully cast a Killing Curse was tremendous. To inflict instant death tore something out of you. Most dark wizards and witches could only manage it occasionally. That was part of why there were so many other curses used to kill. Sadism factored into it, but the truth was that no other curse was irreversible and unstoppable the way the Killing Curse was. The power necessary to utilise something so final was—well, there was really nothing to compare it to.

Voldemort's ability to cast it repeatedly and unfailingly was part of the reason he inspired such terror.

The High Reeve's reputation for using the curse was already equally legendary. It had vaulted him into the highest rank of the Death Eaters.

And it was Malfoy.

She would have to move carefully. The casualness with which the Malfoys had treated her arrival indicated utter assurance. Leaving her in the foyer. Showing her through the house. Putting her into an unoccupied wing. Hermione was certain there were no easy ways to escape. Until she could get the manacles off, Malfoy would always be able to find her, and she'd be incapable of fighting off him or anyone else.

She sighed, and her breath made a small circle of condensation on the cold glass of the windowpane.

Lifting a fingertip to the glass, she drew the rune thurisaz: for defense, introspection, and focus. Beside it she drew its reversal, its merkstave: for danger, defenselessness, malice, hatred, and spite.

What she needed. What she had.

She had to reverse her fortune.

She watched the runes fade away from the glass as the condensation evaporated back into the room.

None of the girls had heard any whispers about the Resistance still existing. Aside from Hermione, all of the Order members who survived the final battle were known to be dead. Their deaths publicly witnessed. Their corpses hung up to ensure there was no room for secret hopes. The Resistance had crumbled upon Harry's death.

Voldemort appeared to have been careful about ensuring that the Order of the Phoenix had no spark with which to resurrect itself. As the war had dragged on over the years, he had grown more cautious and less certain about his infallibility than he had been during Hermione's years in Hogwarts.

Voldemort was thorough.

That was troubling. If he had elevated Malfoy to High Reeve, it probably meant that Malfoy was also thorough. Not someone inclined to make mistakes or errors in judgment.

Maybe there was still a Resistance somewhere. The women at Hogwarts had only known what the guards told them. There might still be some factions working against Voldemort. If Hermione escaped, maybe she could find them and eventually give them whatever secret she was hiding.

Since she was in the High Reeve's house, perhaps if she were clever she'd be able to glean useful information.

If she kept acting pliant and cooperative.

Broken.

If they thought she was truly broken, they might eventually become careless around her.

She would be waiting for it.

She was very good at waiting.