Voldemort smiled. Pleased.

He turned his gaze back on her prone body. And he cackled. She flinched as the sound of it bounced around the Great Hall.

She fancied her captor and soon-to-be-rapist. A familiar boiling in her gut rose up and choked her—the same feeling she used to have in fourth year whenever she'd have to tear her eyes off of him. It was disgusting really. To want him.

And a thought drifted through her: if she had any doubts about how Draco saw her, how he felt about her, at least Voldemort had given her reason to squash those doubts. He didn't feel anything for her. If he had, Voldemort surely would have found it.

She tore her eyes from the red ones, and he laughed again.

"Take your time with this one, Malfoy," Voldemort said. "You can torture her for years without lifting a wand to her."

A shaking voice to her left whispered, "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort chuckled. Not even with Harry dead at his feet did she hear him this gleeful.

Draco yanked her up by her elbow, bowing to the Dark Lord, and dragging her along behind him.

They passed the guards at the doors, still sucking their teeth at her. They moved through the lawn of Dementors, and Hermione felt no change inside her chest. They cleared the gates, and a sharp tug Disapparated them back to the hills of Malfoy Manor.

She kept her eyes on the ground as if Voldemort was still there, bearing down on her. And maybe he was — inside her mind. Crawling and feeding on her. Perhaps he'd never leave.

The gates opened for them, and before Hermione could sludge through them, Draco's hand on her elbow pulled her back.

His grey eyes searched hers, frantic movements across her face. "What did he find?"

She looked away from him and shook her head, her eyes stinging. "It doesn't matter. He was pleased. That's all that matters." She turned to move away before he pulled her back — his grip firm, but nonviolent.

"Whatever it is, he thinks I'm complicit," Draco said, voice barely loud enough over the wind. "Tell me."

The wind wove through them, casting his cloak in twisting patterns and dancing along her bare skin.

Maybe she could tell him. It was nothing really. I had a crush on you at Hogwarts. It would be simple, and there would be no weight to it any longer. She could shrug and laugh.

Anticipation is the sweetest torture.

But this wasn't Hogwarts. This was a hellfire of distrust and danger, laced with her impending rape and sprinkled with moments of hollow kindness. She couldn't tell him the truth.

She couldn't tell him anything.

"Don't worry, Malfoy. Voldemort didn't find anything in your head to incriminate you. Feel free to proceed with your plans to break me." She looked at the hedges to her right, blinking as the fury in her chest gave way to despair.

A warm hand on her cheek. She snapped her head back to him to find him staring down at her lips. Hermione's eyes widened, lips parting.