The house elf looked uncomfortable.
“I can be getting you a calendar. But Mistress was sayin the Mudblood isn't to sully any Malfoy books and had them hexed so theys would be burning your dirty blood.”
Hermione looked away as her chest tightened. She bit her lip so it wouldn't tremble. Of course Malfoy or Astoria would do something spiteful like specifically restrict her from reading.
“Nevermind then,” she said quietly.
“You could be having the Daily Prophet, if you is wanting it,” the elf offered.
“That — would be nice,” said Hermione unwilling to let herself feel hopeful about it.
“Is the Mudblood wanting anything else?”
Hermione's mouth twitched. She almost asked the elf to call her Hermione. She hadn't had anyone call her Hermione since — since—
It was hard to remember.
But she wasn't sure she wanted to know whether the elf had specific instructions about only calling her Mudblood. It probably did. It was easier not to let herself even ask.
“Nothing else,” she said looking out the window.
The elf popped away.
A calendar had appeared on the wall and a copy of the Daily Prophet was on her bed that afternoon when she returned, shivering, from her walk.
December 25th. Seeing it on the wall left her frozen for several minutes.
The copy of the newspaper corroborated the date. She felt afraid to reach out and touch it, half expecting for it to burn her. An extra twist of spite.
Hesitantly she rested a fingertip on it. Nothing happened.
She sat down and read it front to back. Savouring words.
Reading.
She had missed it. The last time when she had read The Daily Prophet it had been so rushed.
She read it slowly through once. And then again. And again. Every word.
It was mostly trash. Thinly veiled propaganda. The political news was nearly unintelligible amid all the spin. Hermione had never found quidditch interesting but she avidly read through the game recaps since they seemed to be the only thing accurately reported on. The society pages went on and on about Astoria. Her name was dropped in every single society piece.
Hermione read the paper forward and backward. She looked for any patterns. Or codes. Just in case.
The next morning she found a pair of boots in the wardrobe among her shoes. Malfoy's “present.” She had been wearing through the soles of her flimsy slippers every few days and walking in the snow had her toes nearly frostbitten on several occasions.
The boots were dragon-hide. When she put them on they resized themselves to her perfectly. She could tell they had enchantments woven into them to keep her feet at a perfect temperature. She could walk a hundred miles in them and never get a blister.
She stared at them in confusion. They were — excessive.
Much like the cloak he'd provided.
Perhaps Malfoy didn't even know how to buy normal shoes. He just assumed that all boots were supposed to come in dragon-hide with temperature control and cushioning charms.
Finding Malfoy at all considerate was disconcerting. She stared at the boots for several more minutes.
She dismissed the notion. If Astoria owned a lapdog it would assuredly be fitted with a jeweled collar.
She was just a well-shod and cloaked pet surrogate for him to fuck.
He was probably worried that if she got frostbite he'd have to interact with her again.
And, given that she was allegedly intended to bear three children before she departed the estate she was presumably expected to live at Malfoy Manor for at least four years. Possibly five or six.
Considering how spartan Malfoy Manor seemed to be Malfoy apparently adhered to a strict “buy it once, buy it for life,” philosophy. The fact he'd had to buy her twenty pairs of shoes in two months probably was something he found morally offensive.
If the boots had been given to her earlier she might have felt hopeful about using them to escape. But as she looked down at her feet she didn't feel even the faintest flicker of optimism.
Although it would be nice not to have her feet ache for hours each day.
The things she found herself being grateful for were truly horrifying.
The house elf appeared again to take away her dishes and asked if she wanted anything.
“Am I allowed to keep the newspapers after I've read them?” Hermione asked cautiously.
The question was apparently not one the elf had been prepared to answer. It shuffled its feet and seemed to be considering.
“Topsy thinks so. It will just be being banished after,” the elf said after several minutes. “Why is the Mudblood wanting them?”
Hermione shrugged.
“There's nothing to do. Having paper I could use would be nice. I'm guessing that I'll be refused if I ask for a ball of string or yarn.”
The elf nodded that Hermione's guess was accurate.
“Topsy is to keep this room clean. But the Mudblood can be using the paper until the next paper is coming,” the elf said.
“Fair enough,” Hermione said in agreement. Not that she had any choice in the matter.