And suddenly she remembered how important Lucius's approval was to Draco. How much he idolized his father.

Perhaps she was a gift.

She heaved, vomit splashing down on the stone. The sound loud in the hallway. The first sound she'd made in days.

Mippy had a towel at her mouth, a damp cloth at her forehead. And vanished the sick from the Manor floor. The elf conjured a water glass and begged Hermione to sip. She did, and then left it on the credenza.

She heard the portraits hissing, bickering amongst each other about the proper place for her, about her blood. She concentrated on their voices as Mippy trotted down the hall, beckoning her to follow.

A Mudblood, sullying our sheets.

Such a foul ending—

—said it before, and I'll say it again: that Black girl was the downfall of our entire line.

Lucius was always weak. His son would be, too.

—should be on the ground floor with the elves. Or outside with the garden gnomes.

She completed the journey, and stood in front of a carved wooden door. Mippy was saying something about quickly getting her into bed.

Hermione laughed. Yes, please. As quick as possible. Let's get this over with.

Mippy pushed open the door. And Hermione was met with a lush suite. Cream walls lined with gold. Deep carpets. A sitting area across from the door with a lit fireplace. Two deep wingback chairs in front of the fire. To the right, an arched opening in the wall led to the largest bed she'd ever seen. Cream canopy curtains with flecks of gold hung down from the posts, and more pillows than she could count littered the headboard.

She stepped into the suite, and found bookshelves lining the wall to her right. She didn't let her eyes linger on the texts. They weren't for her.

None of it was for her.

She wondered whose room this was? Perhaps it was just a spare bedroom so she wouldn't defile the sheets in the master suite.

Mippy was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear. The sound of wind rushing between her ears. The elf closed the door. And then Hermione was alone.

The bed looked decadent. And she was so tired. But she refused to sleep in it, to get comfortable in the bed she'd be attacked in.

She moved into the bedroom, running her fingers over the curtains and bedposts. Turning to the bookshelves, she found fiction and non-fiction. Muggle and Wizard. Classics and Modern. Testing a theory, she reached out, placing one finger on the spine of Huckleberry Finn.

Nothing. So she was allowed to touch the books. She ran her fingers over every spine, waiting for something to happen. Nothing.

Her shoulder ached. She held her arm in front of her chest, supporting the weight, and continued through the bedroom suite. On the far side of the bed there was a door. To the bathroom probably. She inched her way toward it, keeping her eyes on the bedroom door.