She began seeing Narcissa again. Reading and taking long walks through the Manor, in places she could easily be seen. If Draco realized that she was letting things return to "normal," then perhaps so could he. Narcissa tried to make up for the absence of the others by meeting Hermione in the mornings for tea (and coffee) and chatting about novels and holidays and other things normal people discussed. When the guilt gnawed at her insides, Hermione reminded herself that their conversations might make it back to Draco. She tried not to let herself think about whether he was sleeping, or whether he'd put on any weight.

It had been ten days since the incident in the hallway, and Hermione was halfway through the first volume of Medieval Magical Europe. She sighed and snapped it closed, having finished another useless chapter.

Considering Blaise again and his rescue of Pansy, she realized that Draco surely knew of his plans. Had he not bought her? Was he not shocked to hear that only one slave arrived that night? Hermione hummed into her coffee cup, and thought of what information she could pry from Draco if only they could talk again, like they used to. Thinking back to the gazebo, she knew he was open to giving her information. What did Draco know about the tattoos and their removal?

She sipped her coffee, breathing in the moist air between the vines. The conservatory windows stretched to the ceiling in a wide dome, allowing all the sunlight in. She sometimes saw Hix, the grounds elf, trimming and watering the trees and plants, but there was no movement except the gentle rustle of branches stretching toward the light.

So when the pop of apparition cracked across the leaves and flowers, Hermione dropped her coffee cup, shattering it when Mippy arrived in front of her.

"Miss!"

Her hand flew to her chest, calming her own heartbeat. Her blood ran cold at the elf's terrified eyes.

"Miss has to go to her room!" Mippy extended a hand. "Mippy takes you now!"

She gathered her books with fumbling fingers, remembering the daggers of red eyes and the burning books—

With a squeeze, Mippy popped them away and into her bedroom.

"Is it the Dark Lord?" Hermione asked, voice trembling.

"No, Miss. Missus and Master Draco has visitors! It's not being safe for Miss downstairs." Mippy wrung her hands and disappeared with another pop!

Hermione stared at the spot where the little girl elf had been, feeling her fear shift to curiosity.

Visitors. She'd never known the Malfoys to have friends to drop by for a friendly chat.

A small war raged inside her chest. Mippy had made it seem urgent that she was not found downstairs. But this safety — this complacency, waiting for other people to control what happened to her — it would get her nowhere.

And if someone was downstairs discussing Death Eater business… Perhaps Lucius was back?

The need for answers, the need to be useful, the need to not just sit here and wait for something else awful to happen to her — those needs won out.