He stormed down the steps and then turned, standing on the gravel path.
“Come,” he said in a cold voice. His eyes were flashing, and his lips were pressed into a hard line as he looked at her.
Hermione stared at him, incredulous. Hell would freeze over long before Draco Malfoy's presence kept her from having a panic attack.
The compulsion dragged her forward.
Hermione took a deep breath as she stepped gingerly down the steps and then, after a moment's hesitation, onto the gravel. She took four steps across it toward him and wanted to cry with rage when she didn't freeze along the way.
Apparently it was a cold day in hell.
Malfoy turned on his heel and walked down the path while she followed.
It was probably because of the manacles, she realised along the way. He had ordered her to come and so she came. The manacles forced her to be compliant while being raped. However the compulsions worked, they were apparently capable of suppressing her panic attacks in the same way they were capable of suppressing her desire to fight off Malfoy and then murder him in a painful and prolonged manner.
He strolled along the outside of the hedge maze until they passed it entirely and then led her through the paths among the wintering rose beds.
Hermione wondered if there was anything about the Malfoy estate that didn't feel cold, dead, and sterile. The gravel paths had not so much as a stone out of place. The rose bushes had been clipped meticulously for winter. The hedges cut into the sky in precise, straight walls.
Hermione had never particularly cared for formal English gardens but Malfoy Manor's might be the most horrid she'd ever seen. Hedges, and white gravel, and leafless trees and shrubs pruned within an inch of their lives.
She imagined it was less awful-looking in the spring and summer, but in its current form she had seen car parks with greater aesthetic appeal.
Malfoy did not seem inclined to appreciate the scenery either.
After storming along the paths for an hour, Malfoy led the way back to the manor. As they drew close, Hermione thought she saw an upstairs curtain twitch.
Malfoy walked to Hermione's room but rather than leave once she was there, he stayed, staring at her.
Hermione shrank away and fidgeted with the clasp on her cloak. Perhaps if she ignored him he would go away.
“Bed,” he commanded after a moment.
She looked up at him, startled, and he smirked maliciously as he stepped toward her.
“Unless you'd rather do it on the floor,” he said.
Hermione didn't move. She just stared at him, feeling stupefied with horror. He drew his wand and after giving a sharp, nonverbal flick, Hermione felt his magic seize hold of her and drag her backward until she collided with her bed and toppled backwards onto it.
Malfoy sauntered over, looking bored. There was a faint glint in his eyes.
Hermione bit her lip to keep from whimpering and crossed her arms across herself.
He stared down at her and then, pressing his legs between hers, leaned over her.
Hermione wished she could sink into the bed and suffocate there. Wished she could scream. Wished she could have just a shred of her magic to fight him off with.
She tucked her chin down against her shoulder and tried to cringe away from him as much as she could.
His right hand pressed into the mattress by her head, and then she felt the tip of his wand under her chin.
“Look at me, Mudblood,” he commanded.
Her chin untucked itself as she turned to look up into his eyes. They were only inches away from hers. His pupils were contracted, and the grey of his irises looked like a storm.
He drove into her mind.
She gasped with shock.
Even his legilimency was cold. Like being plunged into a freezing lake. It hurt with a sharp, clear pain.
Unlike previous occasions, her mind was unclouded with trauma or shock. The experience was far more vivid because of it. He shot through her memories, attending to all the clusters of locked ones. He tried breaking his way into one until a wail wrenched itself from her lips.
He moved quickly. As though he were simply verifying that none of them were accessible yet. After checking through them, he moved into the present.
He seemed amused by her growing hatred. By how desperately she wanted to kill him. He watched her explore the other rooms and run across the estate and sit bored on the steps of the veranda. How she had read The Daily Prophet. Her panic attack.
He examined her repeated efforts to remember the details of Dumbledore's death, and how she couldn't remember something about the warlock's arm. That detail sparked his interest. He tried to find the information, but wherever Hermione had concealed the details in her mind, he couldn't tell.
She could feel his irritation as he finally moved on to her appointment with Stroud and their walk across the estate and how deeply she disliked the gardens. When he reached her horror after he ordered her onto the bed, he finally withdrew from her mind.
He sneered down at her.