"My Lord?" Lucius offered. "Are you finished with the Mudblood? She's drooling on my marble."

Hermione tried to close her mouth, but her body was boneless.

Voldemort didn't respond. Hermione drifted into the darkness again, and when she reappeared, no one had moved.

And then, "Take her out," hissed from the windows. "I don't need anything else from her."

A cold hand on her elbow, yanking her. Sweaty palms on her shoulders, and pale arms around her waist.

As Draco dragged her out, she heard a murmur across the room—"My Lord. I would like to be of assistance."

The drawing room door shut.

More hands, cool and soft. Holding her face, tipping potions into her mouth. Long blonde hair brushing her temple as she sagged into willowy shoulders.

She gagged, turning to spew on the stones. A whispered cleaning spell. Another potion poured into her mouth, drowning her.

Temporary relief from the daggers and butter knives in her mind.

Her mind…

She focused.

Her books… Her shelves of memories and spines of purple and gold and periwinkle. They were ruined. Shredded open and destroyed.

She swayed. A lighter grip on her shoulders, supporting her. A vice around her right wrist.

"Collect yourself," a woman hissed near her ear. But it wasn't directed at her. "You might be needed back inside."

The blonde woman turned her around, and she caught a glimpse of a pale, thin boy just inches away, panting with his forehead against the wall, choking sounds coming from his throat.

She felt a pressure ease on her wrist as the woman steered her toward the stairs, a sweaty hand releasing its grip on her.

The woman helped her up the steps, one at a time, brushing a hand through her curls like her mother used to.

At the top of the staircase came a pop!

"Missus is needed!"

The sound grated against Hermione's fragile mind.

"I will be right there—"

"Master says now! Master is going with Dark Lord!"

A pause. A curse against her shoulder.

"Hermione, dear. It's just a few more steps to your room. I will send the elves in with more potions."

She barely registered the words. Her mind felt raw, flayed open. Something whispered soothingly against her temple, and then she was standing alone at the top of a staircase.

The portraits were silent. The hallway felt thick as she moved towards her door, but her head began clearing.

There was a moment—years ago, it felt like—when she had trudged this hallway, feeling her imminent rape and torture pressing down on her, before she'd seen the suite, before she'd met Narcissa, before she'd had warm lips suck poison from her.

Hermione stood at her bedroom door now. She hadn't been raped in this room.

She'd been violated, but not raped.

Draco had violated her today, because he should have been doing much worse for the past month.

He'd been clever and cunning. He'd found a way to keep her untouched, to keep from taking the one thing she had left to give. He'd played his role well—as had she.