MTLNOVEL Chapter 33: Chapter 33:
The only things she had learned was the vast reach of the wards he'd set up. He'd given her some slack on her dog leash; there was no section of the grounds off-limits to her. She could wander around the maze of snow-covered flower beds, under every tree and stretch of land, and even as far as the Malfoy Family cemetery - although she'd stayed clear of that area yesterday. An involuntary shiver had run down her spine when she'd noticed the rows of curved, snow-covered headstones, tombs and mausoleums, and she'd turned on her heels and practically sprinted in the opposite direction.
She couldn't help herself, so she'd tested the boundaries a few times. She'd sensed when she was approaching them; her blood had hummed slightly, and if she squinted very hard, she could see the air ripple and quiver with the wards. She'd tried to cross the threshold twice in different areas, just to see what would happen. The moment her fingers made contact with 'The Ripple' - her name for it- her palms had grown cold and pressed against something hard and firm, like a cold glass wall.
Both times she'd tried to pass through it, increasing the pressure in her hand to test for weaknesses, and both times, she'd managed to count to four before her body had been overcome with a chilling sensation. Her temperature had dropped so rapidly it felt like having a dementor wrap itself around her body, and both times, she'd only managed to hold her hand to the ripple for a few more seconds before the freezing pain had spiked, becoming so severe that she'd jumped back with a yelp of pain, and had to hug her body in search of warmth. She'd felt so cold afterwards, she'd been surprised to see her fingers hadn't turned to icicles when she looked down at them. It certainly felt cold enough for them to.
From the way her blood felt like it turned to ice in her veins, Hermione imagined that it had everything to do with the blood ritual Voldemort had used to bind her to Malfoy with. She shuddered thinking of what other side effects she hadn't discovered yet. It took almost twenty minutes for her body to thaw out enough for her to have use of her fingers again.
The only relatively positive thing Hermione had found on the grounds, was a beautiful cherry blossom tree. A gorgeous, tall tree with winding silver branches, pale pink flowers, and a small wooden bench shaded beneath it. She imagined it would have been a nice spot to read in.
By six o'clock that evening, Malfoy still hadn't made an appearance, and Hermione still hadn't left her room. She thought about going to bed early - it was probably a good idea to give her body a much-needed rest to prepare for what was likely to be a torturous day of memory searching and splintering doors tomorrow - but she couldn't relax. No matter how long she closed her eyes and nestled into the thick covers of her bed, she couldn't switch off, because she knew the box wrapped in shiny green paper was still there, watching her, taunting her.
So with an irritated huff, Hermione threw the covers off her body, and spent the remainder of what used to be her favourite day of the year experimenting with creative - albeit futile - ways to destroy the vile little gift without opening it. If nothing else, it gave her something to pass the time on that miserable, snowy evening.
26th December
Hermione sat on her perch with her eyes closed, listening to the birds sing their morning tune while she meditated.
She concentrated on filing her memories away, carefully crafting new walls and reinforcing the doors in her mind, ready for when Malfoy came for his first visit of the day. She worked on filing the most important memories at the back of her mind, visualised them at the very top level of the hotel. She pictured the doors transforming to steel, pictured the wood eroding away to leave shining metal in its place. Strong. Impenetrable.
She expected this morning's session to be particularly biting, expected him to make up for their lost day yesterday by barging into her mind mercilessly. She expected him to make it hurt, and he did. Fuck - did he make it hurt, but he never said a word about the charred, brutally misshaped box on her bedside table, so neither did she. Not even the next day. Or even the day after that.
4th January
Despite the 'merciful' reprieve Malfoy gave her on Christmas Day, their exercises were starting to wear thin on Hermione by the start of January. She felt herself growing weaker by the day.
The blood loss caused by their sessions always left her feeling dizzy and lightheaded afterwards. It was taking her longer to recover each time, longer to drag herself up off the floor after every session so she could make her rounds of the manor. Despite exploring the estate each day, she still hadn't found anything useful to her escape, but the bench under the cherry blossom tree had proven to be a good spot to meditate in - as long as she asked the elves to cast a warming charm on her clothes beforehand.
Fuck - she missed her magic.
Malfoy had found more of her memories since he'd knocked down that first door. In just under two weeks, he'd torn his way through her psyche, leaving doors splintered and torn from their hinges. He only ever saw little things; a few childhood moments that she adored and cherished.
He saw her father put a seven-year-old Hermione onto his shoulders on a trip to the zoo so she could see the animals more clearly, the first time her parents had taken her to the ballet when she was eight, and the time she'd fallen off of her bike when she was nine. They were all silly little moments, but they acted as a line of defence, another barrier that Malfoy had to break through to get to her more important, more precious secrets. All they did was slow him down, but that was better than nothing.
The doors didn't open immediately for him, he still had to fight his way through. Hermione felt it each time he forced himself into a new memory, felt a sharp pain at the back of her head, a deep stabbing sensation that forced her to clench her teeth together each time a door was ripped open.
It was strange to watch herself growing up, to relive those memories of the girl who used to look at the world with such wonder and think anything was possible. It was stranger still to have Malfoy watch it with her.
As soon as he'd forced a new door open, his urgency seemed to vanish from his posture, and he glided into each room leisurely, unhurried. Despite the apparent urgency of his task, he didn't seem to be in a rush when they watched her memories unfold. More like the opposite seemed true. He took his time with each new memory, as if they were somehow just as important as the location of Harry or The Order's battle plans.
She'd expected him to move on once he saw that the room held another insignificant memory that was of no use to Voldemort. She'd expected him to turn around and march furiously to the next door, not saunter into the room, find a perch or wall to lean on, and then watch her grow up.