Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

Malfoy didn't care. Didn't so much as batter an eyelid when she was on the floor, rasping, choking for breath. His eyes were always unfeeling, like he wasn't actually seeing her.

Hermione spent most of her day alone. Romy or another house-elf, Quinzel, brought her meals on a silver tray. At first, Hermione was uncooperative and refused to speak to the elves at all, never mind letting them know what her food preferences were. They would dawdle for a while, asking question after question while Hermione stared out the window and onto the lavish gardens, refusing to respond.

Her rudeness did nothing to deter the elves' spirits. It was sweet, really, how determined they were to get to her to eat, particularly at breakfast. If she wasn't so scared or so utterly consumed with the need to escape, she would've gladly eaten anything they put in front of her.

It wasn't that the food they brought wasn't appealing. Quite the opposite; it was all absolutely mouth-watering, but Hermione had no appetite. They brought every breakfast food imaginable to entice her; scrambled eggs on toast, waffles, yogurt and berries. The trays were always lovingly prepared. The silver was always perfectly polished, and a freshly cut white tulip was always laid next to the blunt cutlery. Every time, the elves were absolutely downtrodden to find the food untouched.

Hermione's hunger strike lasted six days. Until her stomach practically turned in on itself when Romy entered her room, and brought with him the aroma of sugar and warm batter. Pancakes covered with syrup and butter - her favourite.

She nearly wept with happiness as she swallowed the first bite. She inhaled the entire tray in five greedy mouthfuls. She ate more after that. Only ever picking at her food and tearing off small pieces, but her tiny mouthfuls seemed to please the elves, and certainly spurred their creativity in the kitchen.

"Miss is free to wander the manor," Quinzel announced on the tenth day, setting down a silver tray and smiling at Hermione. Today's dinner was a chicken pasta bake, another white Tulip laying elegantly by its side.

"I've told you a hundred times, it's Hermione, not Miss," she answered, irritated and refusing to move from her perch on the window ledge. "And how do I know that your master hasn't warded the house to set me on fire as soon as I leave this room?"

Quinzel gasped and her tiny hands covered her mouth. "Master would never do that! The elves would be very cross if he burnt the house down, there would be a lot of mess."

Hermione snorted at the image that popped into her mind. "Of course. We can't have any mess, can we?" she asked bitterly.

"Quinzel can promise Miss that Master has not set any wards within the house that would harm Miss," the elf said sternly. "Master has ensured that Miss is safe and cannot harm herself or others, but no wards have been set up within these walls that would hurt her."

Nothing within these walls, Hermione's mind sharpened at Quinzel's choice of words. She finally tore her gaze from the gardens and studied the elf. "Has he set up wards outside of the manor that would hurt me?"

Quinzel looked awfully uncomfortable. Her bright pink eyes were on the floor as she shifted her weight between her small, bare feet. She fidgeted with the edges of her bright fuchsia pillowcase as she said, "Master just needed to be sure that Miss wouldn't be able to escape."

Well, that was an interesting piece of information. Hermione hadn't left her room since she'd been captured. She'd assumed that Malfoy wanted to keep her confined to her room, that she'd be zapped with an electric current or burnt alive by wards if she tried to leave her cell.

Strangely, she felt safer confined to her own space. She'd memorised this room by now, felt she knew it better than she did her own bedroom within the Order's base. The familiarity of it comforted her. She knew every curve of the wood on the desk, and every crack in the cream paint. She felt like it would be harder for Malfoy to get the jump on her from in here. He couldn't surprise her here, there were no hidden traps or nasty hexes that could catch her off guard. She was safer in here - sort of.

Hermione flinched when the door to her room suddenly burst open but she didn't turn around. She leaned her head against the glass window, refusing to acknowledge that he even existed.

"Evening Quinzel," Malfoy's said; his tone rough and biting. "Mudblood."

"Malfoy," she replied, keeping her eyes on the beautiful garden below, watching rain pelt down and darkened the grass. "Three times in one day? Oh, I am a lucky girl."

"I aim to please, Granger."

"Doesn't your master have a more important mission for you?" She snarled each word, making her disdain for him crystal clear. "You are his prized show dog, aren't you? Surely there's a better use of your time than this?"

She heard Quinzel gasp from behind her. Felt the air shift and crackle under Malfoy's rage.

Fantastic. If she could sour his good mood even in the slightest, it would be the highlight of her day.

"On your feet Mudblood, let's get this over with."

She leaned further into the glass instead. "Fuck you."

"Don't make me drag you off that window ledge by your hair," Malfoy sneered. "Because you know I will."

That she did know. He'd done it twice since her arrival when she'd refused to cooperate. She wasn't in the mood for a repeat performance today, her head hurt too much already.

Hermione stood with a huff. She dragged a hand through her hair as she turned to face him. "I don't know why you bother; you're not going to find anything-" Her breath caught in her throat when she finally looked at him.

He was covered in blood. It was on his knuckles and hands, striking against his pale skin. It ran all the way up to his wrists. Jagged flecks of crimson were slashed up and down the front of his robes, evidence of cutting curses. He reeked of death; the stench of it was enough to make her stomach flip.

"Whose blood is that?" Hermione asked.