When her chest finally ceased heaving, she became gradually aware of how cold she was becoming. There was a sharp wind that cut through the flimsy clothing she wore. Her hands were growing starkly white. She could feel her cheeks and the tip of her nose slowly begin to hurt. There was an icy sensation in her toes beginning to radiate up her legs as water soaked into her shoes and up her stockings.
She turned to look back in the direction she had come. The hedges were tiny in the distance.
She pressed her icy hands against her eyes for several minutes. Trying to think.
There was nothing.
Nothing new. Nothing more she could do.
Her plan remained the same. Nothing had changed.
Her situation was exactly the same as it had been the night before. The only difference was that her knowledge of it had broadened slightly. The options were still just as limited; the stakes had simply been raised further.
She slowly turned back.
She doubted Malfoy would really send hounds after her. Getting mauled by a pack of hunting dogs would potentially interfere with her reproductive abilities.
She wondered idly if the manacles would permit her to fight back against an attacking animal. If she were truly desperate to die, perhaps she could fling herself into the path of a deadly creature. Someone as vile as Malfoy might have something like a manticore stashed away on his estate. Or perhaps, if there were traps for would-be rescuers, she could fling herself into one of them.
Her teeth started chattering as she continued down the lane toward the hedges. She was too tired to run again and try to warm herself.
She hugged herself and continued on.
It hadn't occurred to her that Voldemort would publicise the repopulation efforts. In retrospect, it was obvious. It wasn't a secret that could be easily kept when surrogates were being distributed to seventy-two of the most preeminent wizarding families in Britain. Better to put it out entirely in the open.
She wondered idly how Malfoy felt about being publicly associated with her. The Mudblood he had hated so much back in school, now intended to be the mother of his children. All the world would know.
He was so slavishly obedient to whatever his Master wanted, he probably rationalised it somehow. She sneered to herself in derision.
The number of ways in which Hermione could hate him were almost mind-boggling. Every time she saw him, it was as though she found a whole new aspect of him that only added to the number of reasons why he deserved a slow, cruel death.
The sharp rocks of the gravel lane eventually cut entirely through her shoes. Her feet started to bleed as she was reaching the hedges. She pulled the useless shoes off and flung them up into the yew where they caught. The muddy red stood out starkly.
She continued on. Shivering.
When she finally made it back to the manor and walked around the corner, she found Malfoy was still there, reading a book. His newspaper tossed aside.
She stopped. Hesitating. She didn't want to interact with him, but she was agonisingly cold. She didn't know how else to get inside.
Her movement or colour caught Malfoy's attention. He glanced up sharply and stared, looking faintly aghast as he took in her bedraggled appearance. Then he quirked an eyebrow and smirked.
“Taking your status seriously, I see. Blood red and mud.” He chuckled faintly for a moment before his expression grew hard. “You shouldn't have lost your cloak. You've still got,” he glanced at his watch, “ten minutes before you're allowed inside.”
Hermione shrank back in misery and went back around the side of the manor. She found a spot that was somewhat out of the wind and curled up against the building in a tight ball. Trying to conserve her body heat.
She was so cold.
Her shivering had stopped, and she was growing just terribly sleepy.
Which — she vaguely realised — indicated hypothermia.
Hermione had never treated real hypothermia during the war. Only the variety brought on by dementors.
Hypothermia was not something wizarding folk tended to suffer from. Warming charms were so easy, most first years could perform them. Wizarding outerwear usually had the charms woven in.
She should go tell Malfoy that her body temperature was becoming dangerously low.
But — if she waited… maybe she'd die from it.
That would solve all her problems.
She scrunched up more closely to the side of the manor and closed her eyes. Breathing shallowly.
Things slowly became comfortingly vague.
“Creative.” Malfoy's harsh voice invaded the fog in her mind.
Something uncomfortably hot struck her entire body. Startled, Hermione yelped. She realised after a moment he'd cast a warming charm on her. The dramatic contrast in temperature had been physically painful when the magic of the charm collided with her skin.
Malfoy was already stalking away when she looked up.
Horrid bastard. He'd warmed her just enough to counteract the hypothermia but not enough to relieve how bitterly cold she felt.