Secrets and Masks

07. Time is a cruel mistress

22nd December

Throughout her incarceration at Malfoy Manor, Hermione came to realise that time was a cruel, selfish little mistress.

Time was uncaring. Unsympathetic. She didn't care that with each tick of her clock, Hermione felt her tenacious Gryffindor spirit slipping away, felt the fire in her belly and that burning courage extinguishing with each rising sun. That each day, when Malfoy sharply assaulted Hermione with his particularly cruel brand of Legilimens magic, that a small part of herself chipped away. Or that he was tearing away at her, shredding her psyche apart as he tore through her mind. Time didn't care that she felt herself starting to weaken, splintering, piece by painful piece.

No, of course not. Time didn't care about trivial things like that. She didn't care about the war or the millions of lives that had been lost during her rotations. She didn't care if Voldemort won or if he stamped out what was left of The Order and the world was eclipsed by his darkness. The only thing time was concerned with was ensuring the moon set each evening, and that Helios pulled the sun to rise each morning with his golden chariot.

Time's goals were simple, unambitious; to bring the promise of a new day. The hope of a fresh start, a clean slate.

Even if some people didn't want another day. Even if hope was a luxury that some people simply couldn't afford anymore.

The days dragged on and on. Hermione repeated the same boring, mundane routine with each rise of the sun.

Her mornings started with Malfoy bursting her bedroom door open - the sound of the wood hitting the wall violently always jolted her out of what dreamlike state she'd been plotting in.

He would offer her the anti-magic potion.

She would refuse it with a sharp; "fuck you, or "Go to hell.

Malfoy would command her to drink it, more forcefully the second time.

Hermione would either smack his outstretched hand away or spit in his face; whichever seemed the more appealing at the time; whichever she felt would turn Malfoy's stomach the most. More often than not, she chose to spit.

He would react in one of two ways; either paralyze her with a hex and pour the liquid into her throat, or pin her against a surface, pry her mouth open and force it down like he had done on that first day. Like Hermione, he often chose the more volatile of the two options. The sick bastard probably got off overpowering her like that.

Afterwards, he would instruct a house-elf to wait with her while the potion took effect, and he would disappear. The elves would talk to Hermione while they waited for him to return, trying to defuse the awful strain in the atmosphere. The elf would chat quite casually to her while she threw a fit, ignoring her as she overturned all the furniture in her room and punched the walls in a fit of rage.

And when Malfoy eventually reappeared, he would barge into her mind. His magic would bludgeon into her skull like a sledgehammer, and then the image of him would appear in her mind right alongside her.

Their routine within her mind was just as repetitive. They'd stand side by side and stare at the fortress she'd made to keep him from her memories, he would make a snide comment - usually about her appearance or lack of creativity in her design - then he would charge forward and try to break down the doors.

It took him four days to get them open.

He'd smiled smugly at her from over his shoulder when he'd done it; his eyes burning triumphantly as he entered the hotel and Hermione had followed closely behind. His smile had vanished when they'd entered a long, stretched out hallway, lined with dozens upon dozens of different coloured wooden doors, all as reinforced as the one into the hotel.