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She slept for three days.

Mippy kept the room dark for her, mindful of her pounding head. The elf woke her once every morning to pour a potion down her throat, and to ask if "miss wants to walk."

Miss did not want to walk.

Apart from forcing a few bites of food down when the trays would appear and dragging herself to the toilet once or twice, Hermione lay in bed all day, waiting for her next dosage.

Hermione had disjointed dreams while she was under the pain potions. In some dreams, Draco's hand would hover on her lower back as they walked the grounds, and then he'd turn and abruptly slam her against a tree, ripping at her clothing and jerking his hips against her while she struggled and scratched at him. Other dreams started with him over her, pushing her face into the mattress, and then evolved into something softer, slower, a breathtaking rhythm while he kissed her deeply.

Draco didn't appear outside of her subconscious, and she didn't expect him to. She could still hear the choking, gagging sounds he'd made outside the drawing room. On the second night, she stared for what felt like hours at the round bruises on her wrist, not remembering when he'd made them. She was half asleep when she finally remembered the vice-like grip from a sweaty palm as Narcissa had turned her toward the stairs.

Narcissa visited the smaller, darker suite on her third day, but Hermione couldn't find the energy to pull herself up in bed. So she lay on her side and listened to Narcissa move about the room, opening curtains and fluffing pillows.

"Hermione, dear," she finally whispered. "I need for you to come with me back to your suite. There are protective wards and enchantments on that room for you. It's safer there."

Her dry lips parted uselessly. Safer. She jerked a half nod.

Narcissa helped her up, helped her dress, helped her take a few shaky steps across the room. And at every instance, she asked Hermione's permission to touch her. "May I assist?"

She knew, of course. They all did.

Shock pierced the fog in her head once Narcissa opened the door to her original room. The curtains had been replaced. A deeper color, a more vibrant gold shining with the sun. Her bed curtains were red now. Her armchairs a deep mahogany. Everything she'd destroyed had been replaced with something richer, warmer. Much more like Gryffindor's common room.

She felt Narcissa watching her closely, so she managed another nod, and once she was alone in her room again, Hermione turned to her bookshelf. There were five or six books there, two unfamiliar to her. She saw the crisped spine of one, and deduced that these were the only volumes left untouched by the chaos. She felt her heart ache with the loss. The fire had burned away the spine of a thick forest green cover, but she knew without confirming that it was the Brontë. Jane Eyre had survived.