A rose can sometimes be a hideous thing. The cloying, sweet scent. The layered petals that unfurl in spring. The almost insidious grace. All hiding the sharp thorns just lying beneath the flower, waiting patiently to prick the first unaware finger.

Hermione sometimes thinks that the Malfoys are like roses. There is beauty in that family - bred or natural, she doesn't know - but beneath the surface, there is always the hint of darkness.

She still remembers seeing Draco in their first year. An unnaturally pale, slim boy who had gazed at her with undisguised contempt when he realised her bloodlines.

She still remembers seeing Lucius in their second year. An elegant man standing upright, fingers curled around his snake cane, looking over her coolly as if she were a piece of merchandise.

She still remembers seeing Narcissa in their fourth year. A beautiful, cold woman who looked down at her with a hint of a sneer.

And Hermione tries to keep these first impressions as she strains against her chains. They're like roses, she tells herself. Beautiful, but with thorns.

"Crucio!"

She feels her body arch against the chains, straining, straining to get free, but as the spell is lifted, she slumps back against the wall with a clatter of the metal chains.

Roses. She keeps hold of the thought stubbornly.

Beautiful.

Insidious.

But ultimately, like a rose, easily crushable.

Hermione crumples a rose petal in her hand and waits.