"Miss Hermione?"

She looked back down at the elf — Mippy, and stepped inside.

Several large fireplaces to her left. She remembered wondering how quickly she could find the Floo powder two months ago as Harry yelped under Greyback's grip. And just across the entrance hall, there was a closed door that she knew led to a drawing room.

"Miss?"

Hermione turned to see Mippy on the first stair of a massive marble staircase. Grand paintings of the Renaissance stretched to the ceiling, dappling the grey walls with golds and reds and blues.

She'd woken up in her first cell, been dragged by the hair to her second, and strong-armed into her third. And now she was being asked to climb the stairs and walk to her final one.

Mippy's bright eyes blinked at her. Hermione followed the elf up the stairs. They climbed to the third floor, and Hermione's head started to pound again, breathing more difficult after the week in captivity.

Her skin twitched as they passed statues and suits of armor, feeling like eyes were on her. The paintings glared and raised their brows. She swallowed and kept her eyes on the elf until she passed through a stream of moonlight.

Hermione stopped, finding a large window to her right. A pond near the hedges. And white peacocks sleeping on the bank. She'd read about Malfoy Manor before in a book on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The white peacocks were a favorite of Draco's grandfather, their care passed down the line. The view would be lovely in the daylight. Spring flowers on the bank of the pond, a gazebo to the right.

"Miss?"

She shook her head clear and continued behind Mippy.

The hall was darker now. And she realized if they were on the third floor, she wasn't being taken to her cell yet.

She was being delivered straight to the bedroom.

Her pace slowed, and the elf stopped and came back to her. "Miss is okay?"

Hermione looked down at the sweet little thing. She wondered if Lucius hurt this one too. She probably knew Dobby at one point. And she wondered if Mippy had any idea what was about to happen to "Miss."

Hermione grabbed the side of a credenza, steadying herself. She swallowed the bile as it crawled its way up her throat.

Would it be Draco or Lucius? And which was better? Draco wouldn't be as cruel as his father for certain. He didn't have it in him. But to be treated as his property, as his slave, when she had a history of feelings for him...

She dug her fingernails into her palm, banishing the thought. Why had he bought her in the first place if not to own her as his slave. His whore.

The concussion wasn't healing. She felt small waxy hands on her wrist, and startled at the soft contact.

"Is Miss well?"

She laughed silently, pressing her eyes closed. No, Mippy. Miss is not well.

Her eyes drifted open, landing on a portrait of a Malfoy ancestor, possibly two hundred years ago. Lucius Malfoy's eyes stared down at her, the corner of his lips lifting in a snarl.