Two hours later, they returned Penelope. She kept her eyes down, not speaking, and laid in the corner facing the wall.

Several girls tried to feed her, make her drink water, get her to talk about it. She didn't move. They left a pile of grapes for her in hopes she would eat when she was ready.

As Hermione added a grape to Penelope's pile, she looked toward the door, wondering why Pansy hadn't been returned.

~*~

When she woke on Friday morning, Pansy Parkinson was sitting next to her, staring down at her face with an open expression, like she'd fallen asleep with her eyelids open, watching her. Her deep eyes blinked at seeing Hermione awake, and the familiar sneer and pout returned to her lips. Hermione sat up slowly, heart beating fast like it did while they were on the run, always looking for enemies.

No one else was awake except a few girls in the far corner who were known to stay awake in misery.

Hermione looked back to Pansy, and the girl flicked her limp hair over her shoulder in a way that reminded Hermione of Charms class. She'd never been this close to her. If she concentrated, she could still smell her perfume. Something floral that used to stick to Draco's robes.

Pansy lifted a still-perfect brow and looked out over the room of sleeping girls.

"I used to envy you."

Hermione waited. Waited for the proof that someone else had spoken. Waited for her mind to conjure the meaning behind the words.

"On the day I left for Hogwarts, my father told me to concentrate on my studies because I wasn't pretty enough to catch a husband. I thought it was a strange thing to say to an eleven-year-old, but..." Pansy swallowed. Hermione held her breath, watching Pansy's perfect bow lips and dark lashes. "When he saw my marks at the end of third year, he told me he expected me to be the top girl in my class by the end of fourth, and I said, 'That's impossible. There's a Mudblood girl who can't be beat. But don't worry, Daddy. I can catch a husband just fine. I have the Malfoy boy wrapped around my little finger.'"

She broke into a laugh. Something low and self-deprecating. She tilted her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, shaking her head as if a toddler had just said something incredibly sweet and incredibly foolish.

Hermione stared, unable to speak, unable to move.

"And here we are," Pansy continued, "at the end of days, waiting in a line to be sold and raped and used. And still, I can't sleep with envy of you. Of what your life will be."

Pansy's head rolled against the wall to look at her again. Hermione stared with wide eyes, wishing more than anything that she could speak, could ask her what she meant.

Hermione watched as Pansy's eyes dripped over her face, slanting across Hermione's lips and cheeks, rounding at her temples and taking in her wild hair. Pansy's lips parted, took a breath in to speak again—