Rita Fucking Skeeter was alive and well and writing for the Prophet.

~*~

She explored the grounds for the rest of the day. Pacing and meditation failed to banish the horrified dread in her stomach, so she found the boundary again, reaching her arm out to test the tattoo. It shocked her—unpleasant but not truly painful. Walking the perimeter, she kept trying her arm on different spots until her fingers went numb, and all her racing thoughts were forgotten. The same barrier she'd fallen through weeks ago had permitted her legs, head, and other arm, but not her tattooed arm.

It was safe to say that she could cut off her arm and probably make it out alive. Not that the Malfoys had any instrument that could help her with that.

It was evening when she finally retired to the east wing, tiptoeing around corners, always keeping an eye out for intruders or residents.

They had told her that Bellatrix was barred from the estate, but what did that mean exactly? Was she verbally barred? Or magically? Without a Malfoy on the grounds, would she have access?

The thought of Bellatrix returning for her froze her in her tracks. Draco wouldn't come running for her this time.

In his trunks and socks, she smiled, and the knot in her stomach loosened.

She paused, looking to the door at the top of the stairs in her hallway. She'd never considered where Draco's bedroom was, simply happy to not be dragged into it and pinned to the bed for her first weeks. But if he'd been ready for bed when he heard her scream, certainly his room was nearby.

She'd already searched the rooms on this floor and hadn't found one that looked like it belonged to Draco Malfoy. Maybe she had to be looking for it.

Her hand reached for the first door handle, but she paused.

Narcissa had told her that the Manor was open to her; she just needed to be respectful of the personal quarters.

But Narcissa wasn't here. And Hermione needed to remember that she was a prisoner of war in a house guest's clothing.

She tried the door, the knob turning under her fingers. A clean and uninhabited guest room, smaller than her own. She'd found this one already, and had already inspected for weapons and exits.

She checked every room on the floor, finding nothing. Frowning at her own door several paces away, she considered if Draco had just been passing through that night. If perhaps he'd thought to come to check on her.

Sighing and resigning herself to searching the other wings of the Manor in the morning, she turned to go to bed, passing a carved wooden door next to hers. Something flashed, catching the light, and she stumbled to a halt, turning to see a dragon with an emerald eye winking at her.

She blinked back at it. That door hadn't been there yesterday when she'd looked. And she had been positive she'd checked the rooms next to hers just minutes ago.