Sometimes, she wished Elara hadn't been emancipated, that she'd come to stay at the Malfoys as well so Hermione wouldn't be stuck alone for weeks on end. Elara—pure-blooded and proxy to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—could've stood up to Mr. Malfoy, unlike Hermione. Draco's father never struck her or mistreated her of course, but...the revulsion became unbearable after a time.
                          
Mr. Malfoy strutted—for it could not be called walking—out of the room again after verbally tearing Jaime's work to shreds, leaving the trio to study in peace. Draco shoved off the task once more with a broad grin.
                          
"What has you so pleased?" Hermione demanded. "You've done nothing all summer but smirk and gloat, Malfoy. It's insufferable."
                          
The blond boy lifted a brow and gave a smug, faux laugh Hermione had heard him practicing in his room before. "Oh, father's promised me a gift is all, Granger. You see, next year I'm going to be on the Quidditch team, and father's promised to buy the whole team new brooms." Malfoy studied his nails. "He's quite generous."
                          
"You're not on the team," she replied, frowning. "Try-outs don't take place until the new school year." Really, Hermione had very little interest in Quidditch or any sport; she knew try-outs hadn't occurred yet because Harriet was looking forward to them. Attending Quidditch practice would cut into Harriet's study time, but Hermione thought the rambunctious witch would actually benefit from the exercise. She usually spent an hour of their free period pacing around the table in the library and would only sit when Hermione—or Madam Pince—snapped at her.
                          
Malfoy scoffed and retrieved the toy broom from his pocket where he'd hid it from his father. "Don't be stupid, Mudblood."
                          
"Don't call me that."
                          
He mouthed the word again, and it took everything in Hermione not to hurl a tome at his fat head. The book didn't deserve that.
                          
Mr. Malfoy returned soon enough with Mrs. Malfoy and the trio of students stowed their books and assignments in their bags to prepare for lunch. Draco relinquished the head of the table to his father and sneered as he sank into a seat by Hermione.
                          
"Draco, don't make rude faces," his mother reprimanded.
                          
"Yes, mother."
                          
Mr. Malfoy leaned his walking stick against the table's edge as he took his seat and cleared his throat. "Dobby!"
                          
A crack preceded the appearance of the stooped, green-skinned house-elf in his tattered pillowcase. "You called for Dobby, Master Malfoy sir?"
                          
"Serve lunch."
                          
Dobby disappeared again, and a few moments later he came tottering out of the adjoining kitchen bearing several plates of fresh salad, scones, cream, and jam. Hermione resisted the urge to reach out and assist the short creature as he passed her chair, bowls balanced on his head, his motions quick as he slid dishes before Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, their son, then Jaime and Hermione. She'd tried to help before and had been promptly chastised.
                          
"How was the Minister today, father?" Draco asked as Dobby poured tea. Again Hermione had to stop herself from offering thanks or gratitude.
                          
"Minister Gaunt is well," Mr. Malfoy answered. "And busy, of course. He has little time for idle pleasantries, though he sends his greetings to you and Narcissa." He speared a water chestnut and placed it in his mouth, chewing thoroughly before continuing. "He assures me you will have a...most interesting term at Hogwarts this year."
                          
What does he mean by that?
                          
Hermione looked up and caught Jaime's eye, and though the older boy quickly looked away, they did share a single moment of disquiet at the pleased tenor in Mr. Malfoy's voice. Draco didn't notice and happily went about eating his food and taking a deep swig of pumpkin juice. "Really? How so, father?"
                          
"Now, now, Draco. You don't want to ruin the surprise, do you?"
                          
Just then, a saucer slipped through Dobby's spindly fingers and cracked in two upon the floor. Mr. Malfoy reacted without a word; the cane found itself in the wizard's hand once more and lashed out, striking Dobby's head, earning a squeal out of the poor creature and a sharp gasp from Hermione. Dobby cowered, cupping the the bleeding cut above his drooping ear, and Mr. Malfoy glared as he dropped the walking stick back into place.
                          
"Clean it up," he spat.
                          
Dobby snapped his trembling fingers and the saucer floated upward to the table after repairing itself. Hermione could feel her hands shaking, so she dropped them into her lap, balling them into fists as she stifled the need to shout and rail. She hated this. In any other circumstance, Hermione would have told Mr. Malfoy precisely what she thought of him and his heavy-handed ways—but Hermione couldn't insult him, couldn't give him a piece of her mind, because if Mr. Malfoy chose to do so, he could rescind his wardship and she would be forced back to the Muggle world. The Ministry would snap her wand. She would never see Hogwarts again.
                          
It wasn't right—but what could Hermione do? She was a not quite thirteen-year-old witch with no autonomy in this society, no voice. She had to be practical and cunning, not bold and brash like a Gryffindor. Intervening with no plan of action would only reap consequences for Dobby and herself, and the last thing Hermione wanted to do was make life harder for the house-elves living at the manor. Quite frankly, she feared the end of Mr. Malfoy's cane as much as the servants—slaves—did.
                          
Mrs. Malfoy noticed how pale the children had gone, including Draco, who hunched his shoulders and stared at his plate, not meeting his mother's eye. "Lucius," she reprimanded. "What have we said about punishing the servants at the table?"
                          
Her husband's pale eyes narrowed at the rebuff, but Mr. Malfoy simpered and nodded. "Of course, my dear. Quite unseemly of me."
                          
Lunch continued without conversation. Dobby shuffled back into the kitchen, muttering about being a "bad elf," and Hermione ate little of the provided food, her stomach too twisted into knots for her to force anything more than a few mouthfuls down. Mr. Malfoy excused himself first, and after Dipthy—another Malfoy elf—scuttled through and cleared the meal's remnants, Mrs. Malfoy set about lecturing them in manners and Wizarding history. Hermione kept her head down for the lesson's duration.
                          
She could do nothing. She wasn't powerful or connected, didn't have the right name like Elara, or six feet of venomous serpent stuffed beneath her shirt like Harriet—but inaction had never sat well with Hermione. She wanted to change how things were, both for house-elves and Muggle-borns, because she knew some Muggle-borns in different families were treated just as poorly as Dobby. Hermione may have been powerless, and yet she refused to give in; one day she'd be able to tell wizards like Mr. Malfoy off. One day she'd be able to stand up and say, "That's enough!"
                          
Later, the house-elves would find a little packet of Muggle ointments and first-aid items outside their pantry door, and Hermione would say nothing at all when she saw Dobby running about with pink and blue plasters stuck to his bruised head. She'd say nothing, but the sight would only further solidify her resolve.