Her fingers scratching at his face blindly—

Draco above her, eyes vacant as he stroked himself.

The sound of her clothes ripping.

The grunt from his throat as his hand twisted in her hair, the sound of his come hitting her chest—

She was alone. On the floor of the drawing room. Staring at Draco's shoes. Listening to Voldemort cackle.

There were still knives in her mind, slowly sliding their serrated edges through her. The spines of her books were sawed in half. She felt the slow seeping of her energy leaving her.

Her eyes refocused. She'd missed something along the lines of "Was it good for you, Mudblood Granger?" And a hissing laugh. Then silence; long enough for her ears to stop ringing.

"Your aunt intimated that your treatment of the Mudblood was somewhat… 'unique,' Draco. I would have come sooner to see for myself, had I not been preoccupied. But I can see now that she was mistaken."

Footsteps, pausing in front of her bowed head. "Yes," he purred, voice low and soft. "You're no more than a common, filthy whore, are you, Mudblood? You should consider yourself lucky to be covered in a Pureblood's seed."

Her fingers pressed into the marble. Her nails breaking, pulling backwards. She held the pain close to her.

"... some information from you, Mudblood. Thank you for obliging."

And then the hook pulled at her ribs again, drawing her limp body upwards. He was about to look into her again. There were cool waters somewhere, hidden behind a mountain range. If only she could see them.

There were books. Somewhere there were books she had to close—

Her head tilted back. Eyes opening, focusing. Lucius stood ten paces behind Voldemort, his gaze intense on her. Voldemort's long fingers pressed under her chin until she met his eyes.

Red fire dissolved to emerald green. She blinked, and Harry was before her listening to her babble excitedly.

"It must have been Fiendfyre!" she said, chest heaving with exertion, staring down at the broken pieces of Ravenclaw's Diadem.

"Sorry?" Harry's face was stained with dirt, his glasses foggy with heat.

"Fiendfyre – cursed fire – it's one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have dared use it, it's so dangerous—"

And then they were younger. Ron stood next to her in Grimmauld Place, whispering to her behind a Christmas wreath.

"He said he was the snake. He said he attacked my dad."

"But Ron, that's impossible—"

"I know, I know." Running his fingers through his messy hair, Ron looked for eavesdroppers over her head—right where Voldemort's consciousness hung, like a cape on her shoulders. "Dumbledore seemed like he knew it. Like he guessed it. That Harry saw it from the snake. And then he started lying. Said he saw it from above. Why would he lie, Hermione—"

A squeezing twist, and she was in Charms class turning vinegar into wine, straining to hear Flitwick's instructions from across the room. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm and whispered to her and Ron about his meeting with Dumbledore the night before.