Close Encounters

Close Encounters
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43539780.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Ginny
Weasley, Harry Potter, Molly Weasley, Ron Weasley, Antonin Dolohov,
Dolores Umbridge, Corban Yaxley, Nagini (Harry Potter), Bathilda
Bagshot, Xenophilius Lovegood, Selwyn (Harry Potter), Travers (Harry
Potter), Fenrir Greyback, Scabior (Harry Potter), Bellatrix Black
Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Dean Thomas, Peter Pettigrew, Dobby
(Harry Potter), Voldemort (Harry Potter), Death Eater Characters, Alecto
Carrow, Amycus Carrow, Rabastan Lestrange
Additional Tags: Dark Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Alternate Universe - Canon
Divergence, Rough Sex, Fighting Kink, Sexual Violence, POV Hermione
Granger, BAMF Hermione Granger, Attempted Murder, Breathplay,
Mind Games, Biting, Scratching, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers,
Porn With Plot, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Violent
Sex, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Black Hermione Granger,
Dark Harry Potter, Minor Character Death, Pre-Second Wizarding War
With Voldemort (Harry Potter), Second Wizarding War with Voldemort
(Harry Potter), Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Knifeplay,
Consensual Non-Consent, Dubious Morality, Face Slapping, come for
the smut stay for the plot, Marauders sprinkles/mentions, Fast sexual
burn slow emotional, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Implied/Referenced
Rape/Non-con, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Light Bondage, Occlumency
(Harry Potter), Blood and Violence, Torture, Mutilation, Undercover as a
Couple, Undercover Missions, Undercover, Protective Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-12-10 Updated: 2024-05-28 Words: 142,211 Chapters:
27/?
Close Encounters
by LeighJ
Summary
Narcissa Malfoy betraying Voldermort to save her son brings Draco Malfoy, reluctantly, into
the folds of The Order. This does nothing to dull how much Hermione Granger despises him,
or vice versa. In close contact with each other, it's predictable that the underlying tensions
will come to a boil.
Repeatedly.
Unpredictable, however, is how much these close encounters will follow Hermione through
the war.
Notes
I've fallen back into my Dramione phase and gosh I'm SUFFERING.
I recently let Manacled by Senlinyu slice me open (late to the game, I KNOW) and now I'm
allowing Secrets and Masks by Emerald_Slytherin to do the same.
Secrets and Masks has certain scenes (that I won't mention for spoiler's sake of both that
work and my own), that has inspired me to write the piece I now nervously present to you. I
am also linking Manacled as inspiration, due to the fact that morally grey Draco and
Hermione have also leant a hand to this work.
You don't need to have read Secrets and Masks or Manacled to read my work, I only mention
it to give credit where its due. I'm still in the process of reading S&M -chapter 47- so my
inspiration has been up to that point and not beyond.
As much as I love Dramonie, this is my first attempt at them and I might be slightly bricking
it. I'd love to know what you think, and please enjoy.
Inspired by Secrets and Masks by Emerald_Slytherin

Inspired by Manacled by senlinyu
Part One: November '97
Chapter Notes
Post update note (03/01/24)
For new readers, I want to let you know that this fic is marked as complete but it is not.
My reasoning for this is that I found it naturally fell into part one and part two. Part one
is complete and is the fic you find before you. I'm working away on part two and pulling
it up to a standard I'm happy with before I start posting, but that may be a while yet.
Therefore I see it as a sequel that I'm working on, hence deciding to mark it as complete.
However, I don't want you to feel tricked so know that there is a part two that is to be
added to this fic, at which point it will be switched back to in progress.
The first chapter of Part Two (the sequel) is now posted, and this fic is again listed as a
WIP.
I just put this in my recent update but felt I should put it here for new readers too:
The tag limit is killing me off. I've had to decisively remove some tags that may be
covered elsewhere. I also don't think I have room left to tag future characters. I do
apologise if there's anything you don't feel isn't properly forewarned. If it's drastic
enough, I'll try and make room for it, but otherwise, just take it from here this is a dark
fic. Draco and Hermione are both toxic, co-dependant, weird, and slightly unhinged.
There's murder, gore, trauma, torturing, heinous smut with mixes of sexual violence.
There's attempted non-con and hints toward it. Though it'll never be between Dramione
unless in a CNC way. Basically, this is wartime violence and horror. I think that about
covers it, let me know if not. :)
These notes will stop one day, I swear. Just a quick one to say I've gone through and
edited the whole of Part One again, which has led to minor tweaks. Some added and
removed sentences here and there, mostly to shape it out where it wasn't written to be a
big piece when it was just smut-serving. I know some readers prefer to download so just
a mention to any old readers or re-readers that the version as of today is just slightly
different.
“I swear to Godric, Malfoy! If you step on the back of my boot one more time!” Hermione
scowls, pausing momentarily to wiggle her foot back into the sole properly.
“Fuck off, Granger,” Malfoy barks back immediately, his sharp elbow knocking her upside
the head as he uses the pause in her step to his advantage and breezes on by. “It’s hardly my
fault you walk so slow.”
Hermione growls under her breath and hastens her step to catch up with him, bringing them
level once more. “Well, it’s hardly my fault if your legs eat up the floor when you walk! Nor
is it my fault that you’re so ungodly tall!”
Malfoy inclines his head slightly to the left where she walks alongside him, making a point to
look down his nose. “Notice, did you?”
“Piss off.” Her wand thrums in her right hand, itching to shoot a hex in addition to her
scathing tone.
“And neither is it my fault,” he goes on, raising his nose back up, and then higher into the air
like the aristocrat prat he was born to be. “That you’re so ridiculously small.”
“Notice, did you?” She parries, smirking to herself where she walks a touch ahead of him.
It’s short-lived, as he overtakes her with another step, whipping her with his scent. Something
minty. Bloody gangly bastard. Trying not to huff as she keeps up, they have a silent but
furious competition, which she will never admit, even under the threat of the Cruciatus
Curse, is giving her a stitch.
“Struggling, Granger?” He taunts, not looking to have broken a sweat as they traverse
underground tunnels.
“Absolutely not!” She denies, though her scalp is growing damp as she sweats through her
tight curls.
They’re tied back, thankfully. They’re always tied back on a mission. The fact only
encourages damp heat to lay against her scalp.
Malfoy snorts in an entirely I-don’t-believe-you manner that sets her teeth on edge. “Oh, do
continue to lie to yourself, it’s rather amusing.”
Merlin, why did they lump her with this arsehole? Being around Malfoy is still new for
everybody, but raw to her all the same. Having a former Death Eater join the ranks will do
that. Ron walks into a room Malfoy's in and promptly walks back out. In any Order meetings,
Ron's eyes wander around the room, skipping over Malfoy like he doesn’t even exist, and
refuses to acknowledge his silent, yet palpable presence.
The choice to be here isn’t Malfoy’s, as far as Hermione can determine. He didn’t just
suddenly develop a conscience it appears, but when Voldemort ordered Dumbledore’s death
by Malfoy’s hand, following his father's failure in the Ministry, Narcissa Malfoy snapped,
apparently deciding that they weren't having her only child.
Narcissa deflected right at the last possible moment, a mere week before Malfoy was due to
kill Dumbledore, had already cursed poor Katie Bell, cast the Imperius Curse, and poisoned
Ron unintentionally. As Snape tells it, Narcissa arrived at his home in the dead of night,
drenched with rain, and bruised, from Lucius’ attempt to stop her.
The reasoning she was known to provide to the Order, when questioned why she had let
Malfoy get so far along in his deadly task, far enough to hurt others, was that her son had
begun to unravel under the pressure of it, and nearly died when hit with Septumsempra by
Harry.
That despite it all, he was just a boy.
Hermione still doesn't quite know how she feels about this information, as the thought of
Malfoy unraveling is an odd one to sit with. She's only ever known him as downright spiteful.
She certainly saw him behaving somewhat strangely, perhaps more withdrawn but had been
so wrapped up in her studies and Harry's sessions with Dumbledore, trying to map Tom
Riddle's early life, she hadn't seen it as Harry had.
Upon reflection, Hermione knows she should have listened to her best and oldest friend,
whose instincts have never truly led them astray, but she was softer then. She had been quite
weak, scared, and maliable until she had Obliterated her parents. This hardened her. Hurt so
deeply that she had to push it down, shove it somewhere she could deal with after the war.
Despite Hermione's lack of observation of Malfoy, all that truly saved him, in the end, was
that Snape had made an Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy, instructed by Voldemort, and
encouraged by Dumbledore. When Narcissa went begging, there was nothing for it but to
follow her wishes, the only thing that has supposedly kept the potion master alive, when he
had to report his traitorous actions to his Dark Lord.
Hermione wonders sometimes why Malfoy stayed after he was forced to Grimmauld Place.
To stay with his mother? Yes, she believes so, but perhaps also because his father laid his
hands on Narcissa. She wasn't only bruised after all. Harry told Hermione the night of the
Malfoy's arrival that Narcissa sported a broken rib and shattered collarbone. She got off a lot
lighter than her husband.
Within two days of Narcissa’s decision to turn traitor, Lucius was torn apart by Nagini and
left to bleed out in his ancestral home. Narcissa has been weak with grief since. Despite her
choosing her son, Hermione is sure that Lucius’ death tears the woman apart every waking
second.
“You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Malfoy mutters suspiciously.
“Just wondering what I did in a past life to have to spend my evening with you,” she bites
out.
Malfoy tosses his head back with faux outrage. "Come now, Granger. You’ll hurt my
feelings.”
Gritting her teeth, she throws him a murderous look. It’s quite difficult, considering the
deeper underground they head, the darker it gets. The most she can make of him is his
ridiculous platinum hair, which is longer than his school days, and a hint of his pale,
glimmering eyes.
“Besides. It’s time to test my loyalty,” Malfoy mocks Harry's parting words, with air quotes in
addition.
Her lips press together briefly as she squints into the growing darkness before opening to
reply, “This is rather important, Malfoy. Embedding these potions-” she lays a hand against
the beaded bag on her hip, “-could bring the outpost crumbling down and-”
“Yes, yes.” He cuts her off, a pale flash of his hand waving in her peripheral vision. “We
could stop murderers, save lives. I heard Potter’s speech. Salazar knows he repeats it often
enough.”
Hermione’s eyes narrow further. “You’re so hungry to fight,” she hisses. “Too eager to hurt.”
Being on the opposite side of the war from the one he was raised in hasn’t molded Malfoy
into a saint. If anything, it’s sharpened him into a weapon. Hermione doesn’t think Mrs.
Malfoy realises what she did when she betrayed Voldemort. How she forced a burden on her
sons’ shoulders to keep the remaining members of the Malfoy lineage safe.
Alive.
Every time they go out on the field, Malfoy comes face to face with the very Death Eaters
intent on taking his mother away and handing her over to Voldemort. A sacrificial lamb for
the slaughter to rise higher in their Dark Lord's ranks. No, there is no care or loyalty for the
Order on Malfoy’s part, or a need to protect their safehouses and their people.
The only thing he cares for is that his mother is in them and so they must stay hidden and that
she is guarded by the Order members, so they too must stay alive. He doesn’t care if
Voldemort razes the earth and reduces it to ash and bones. He cares only that Voldemort
wants his only remaining parent dead, so Voldemort must die.
Malfoy must align and wield himself to whatever Voldemort’s downfall will be. That is now
Harry, thanks to Narcissa’s decision. Malfoy cares strictly about himself and his mother. The
end. He’s deadly on the field, but he just as soon would be on the other side of it. Sometimes
she shudders to think what it would have been like in another world to have to face off
against Malfoy in battle.
He’s clever. Strategic.
Honestly, not a soul would hear this from her, but he’s better at it than Harry. Even franker,
Harry knows it and utilises it. He utilises Malfoy. He hears his advice on things often, and
even more often he follows it. Ron’s tantrums in such matters have been legendary. Harry has
allowed Malfoy a small, tight leash but tonight he’s loosened it, sending him off with
Hermione because he trusts her to bring him to heel.
Malfoy is the Order’s dog. She wonders if he knows it.
After a long silence in which he doesn’t answer her, he finally expels a sharp, irritated breath.
“You are too. So are Potter, and Weasley. Defensive maneuvers left the table with Tonks.
Why are you three bloody saints and I’m the devil?”
Hermione refuses to wince at Tonks’ name and shakes her head. “We don’t want to kill.
We're forced to.”
“Goodness, Granger, hypocrisy is fetching on you.”
Whirling on him, she jabs the forefinger of her empty left hand into his chest. Her beaded bag
lifts lightly under the air current and thumps back down against her hip as she does so, a faint
rattle to be heard. That'll be the potions. This annoys her further, spurring her viciousness.
“You are not forced to take pleasure in the pain you inflict on others! You are not forced to be
depraved!”
Malfoy snatches her wrist with the hand not clasping his wand, ceasing her jabbing. Her
breath hitches as he stands to his full height, bending over her with such force she has to bend
herself backward to accommodate.
“You are a self-righteous little bitch,” he snarls in her face.
“And you are a nasty little bully who took what he learned picking on kids in school to war!
Do you know how to be anything other than an utter bastard, Malfoy?!” She demands.
He still hasn’t released her wrist, and he uses it to drag her against his body, pressing them
flush and his words directly into her face. “Some of us just live our truth, Granger. We don’t
pretend that what we’re doing is for the greater good. Some of us bastards know exactly who
we are.”
“Oh, don’t we all,” she growls back at him, jabbing her wand into his hip, the only place it
reaches. “You may have grown a few inches, Malfoy but you certainly haven’t grown any
bollocks!”
For the longest moment, he stares at her, even with her wand poking into him, his eyes
darting between hers. Intent. Hermione flushes under such an attack. Then they hear the
unmistakable crack of Apparating. Two-fold. Before she blinks, Malfoy thrusts her into the
corner of the wall. Her wand drops at her feet, clattering. She winces, hoping it wasn't heard
as she attempts to bend and retrieve it.
Before she can manage it, Malfoy flattens her. Hot anger swamps her chest, and she spitefully
elbows him in the ribs, not daring to speak but trying to communicate that she’s now
defenseless. He doesn’t even grunt, not seeming to notice, or care, being as his hand is busy
slashing his wand through the air. As he mutters under his breath, she recognizes
disillusionment and repelling charms.
A thin mist begins to slither out the end of his wand and shroud them against the corner of
the wall, a stone pillar helping to block them from view. She rolls her boot over her wand,
trying to pull it into the corner with her before it rolls out of the width of the charms and
gives them away. Malfoy backs her deeper into the corner, nearly causing her to step too hard
and break it.
She grits her teeth in frustration as his continuous herding of her person forces her back. Her
spine digs tightly into the rough-hewn walls, pinching her skin through her thin jacket. She
grumbles under her breath, twisting and digging her elbows into his own back that’s pressing
against her chest. She can’t look down, her head too crushed between the wall and his
shoulders.
Having no idea where her wand is and too apprehensive to try and find it with her foot, she
has to pray that neither one of them snap it by accident. Though between it getting broken or
rolling out into the hands of Death Eaters, she’s not sure which scenario is worse. Both ideas
make her feel incredibly ill.
Malfoy pays no mind to her bodily struggling behind him or her internal conundrum for that
matter. His arms are spread out, wand raised, completely blocking her line of sight while he
crushes her. Huffing away a curl that falls out of her hair tie, she digs into him with more
aggression, and he finally has enough, jamming his elbow back into her.
Because of their height difference, he catches her in the sternum, winding her. Oh, that slimy
git. She’s going to kill him. She shoves him as she catches her harshly expelled breath; he
bodily slams her back, and it spirals into a silent fight despite the threat of being seen.
Honestly. He’s so bloody ridiculous.
A deep, male voice breaks the silence and ends their tussling. “Right mate, let’s make this
quick, shall we? I’ve got a blonde with perky tits waiting for me.”
Malfoy immediately goes tense, and she tries to twist her head around his shoulder to catch
sight of his expression. She manages to worm some space between them, taking in air that
isn’t penetrated by the scent of Malfoy. No sooner does she get a lungful before he sweeps
his long arm back, slamming her once more into the wall and knocking the wind from her.
Again. Oh, she is really going to kill him. The only reason she holds onto these plans is that
she realizes there’s been no response to the earlier voice, leaving Hermione unable to identify
if the owner is talking to himself.
“Honestly, you should see the rack on her! Best tits I’ve seen since my first ever pair I
reckon. Do you remember your first pair, Zabini? Wait, have you ever seen a pair, Blaise?
Oh, you poor fucker. You have no idea what you’re missing out on.”
A low growl of warning drifts alarmingly close and Hermione can now hear footsteps coming
nearer to hers and Malfoy’s hiding spot. “Do cease your nattering, Theo. It gets tiring after an
age.”
She can’t see his face, but she’s entirely sure Malfoy recognises the speakers. She thinks she
has a faint recollection of the names, but anyone Malfoy knows would be a Slytherin, and she
doesn’t know very many of them by anything other than their face. Malfoy always did like to
travel in a pack.
This silly reminder of their school days has her jabbing her elbows into him again, despite
their vulnerable position. He seems to tire of this because he snatches both her wrists,
bringing them around his waist so her face is forced to press between his shoulder blades.
Gaping in outrage, she has to resist biting him when he clenches both wrists in one hand.
If it wasn’t for two figures walking into their line of sight at that very moment, she would
pursue her intentions but instead, she goes rock still. Malfoy does too, both of them are like
blocks of ice stuck together. Hermione still can’t see them, Malfoy being too buggering tall,
but she can see their shadows against the wall from the glowing tip of one of their wands.
“You never appreciate me,” Theo mutters petulantly from somewhere and then sighs. “Well,
come on then! Soon as we’ve searched the place, sooner we can bloody well leave.”
They do search the place. Thoroughly. Walking up and down the tunnels, triple-checking.
Someone stops dead in front of them again on the last run. She can tell by the way Malfoy
ceases breathing and very quickly, just once, squeezes her wrists where they’re captured in
his hand. Despite the tense situation, Hermione’s more peeved that he’s squeezing so hard.
The bones in her wrists start to grind together painfully and she grits her teeth, trying to
ignore it. Finally, the person moves on. The pair of Death Eaters do one more loop through
the tunnels and then there’s the sharp crack of Apparition, one following the other.
Hermione immediately bites Malfoy’s spine where her face is squished. He’s wearing a coat,
so she doubts he feels it much, but he still jerks and hisses, releasing her wrists in surprise.
When they’re free, she aims a punch and, in his turn to face her, it lands against his shoulder.
“You may have broken my wrists and bruised my spine you great, lumbering twat!”
Malfoys eyes burn vividly as he stares at her in the semi-darkness. “A few bruises would
have been the least of your worries if they’d found us!” He barks. “Are you truly the brightest
witch of our age? Because you’re acting like a dense cunt!”
Her hand flies out, forming another punch, and connects with his jaw so sharply it
reverberates up her arm, and right into the backs of her teeth. “I’ll show you what a cunt I am
if you ever speak to me like that again.”
Turning his head, a trickle of blood from his lip dribbles unchecked down his chin as Malfoy
looks her in the eyes. “What’s the matter, Granger? Prefer your other special little
nickname?”
Baring her teeth, she whispers with barely repressed rage, “Please do go on. I’m sure it’ll
complete the role of your father you’re quickly stepping into. Even growing your hair out like
dear old Lucius. Daddy’s boy even in death, Draco?”
The diversion from his surname seems to make him flinch more than any other part of her
insult. He rears back as if struck, almost stumbling over his own feet before his face twists
into a sneer and he changes course, slamming the flats of his palms against the wall on either
side of her head.
“What on earth are you doing?!” She fumes, even as a faint splinter of his wand connecting
with the wall underlays her words.
Before he can answer, sparks shoot from the fissure and land against Hermione’s collarbone,
scorching her very briefly. Malfoy seems to care even less about her injury than potentially
breaking his wand. He’s far too busy staring at her, pressing himself closer into her space.
The rocky formation surely cuts into the tender flesh of his hands, but if it does, he doesn’t
show it.
Intimately close, his heaving chest brushes against her own. “For the record, Granger, my
father would have taken this opportunity to blow your ribs wide open.”
“You’re very welcome to try,” she hisses, planting her hands on his chest and shoving, being
as she’s wandless. “But if you don’t have the balls, then back off!”
A smirk decorates his mouth as he glances down at her hands pushing at him as if it's
unbelievably amusing. An indignant flush spreads throughout Hermione’s chest and she
redoubles her efforts, bringing her knee up to try and get him between the legs. Malfoy’s
hand springs to capture it, lifting away from the wall and dropping his wand.
It clatters to the floor and rolls away to parts unknown, perhaps joining hers. It’s a matter he
seems to pay no mind to. Instead, his long fingers, warmer than she expects, wrap quickly
around her calf, just below the knee, and rather tightly at that. It effectively halts her attack so
that her knee wedges into his lower stomach, digging into the space just below his ribs.
His other hand grips her chin in a bruising, tight pinch, forcing a gasp of outrage between her
lips. Jerking, she tries to rip both her face and knee free, her heart fluttering at his sharp eyes
and even sharper cheekbones. An amused smirk paints his mouth as he watches her struggle
like a fly caught in a web.
Malfoy leans in even closer, despite this shoving her knee deeper into his stomach. “Or
what?” He threatens in a soft whisper, an ice-cold breath frosting over her face and stirring
her stray curl.
Rearing her head forward, their lips almost brushing with the movement, Hermione puts all
her force and rage into a headbutt to knock him back. As her head lifts from the wall, his
hand releases her knee and reaches for the nape of her neck, curling around, and gripping it.
On instinct, her leg falls back to the floor, her foot thudding on the concrete.
Her head tilts up and he uses this movement to crash their lips together. The built-up brutality
smashes into the kiss, cutting her teeth across his lower lip. Copper floods into her mouth
alongside the taste of him, frost-bitten air and mint, tearing through her mouth. Biting down
on his lip, she cuts it wider for the mere fact that he dared to kiss her, but also just to be
spiteful.
They may hate each other but she’s a clever girl. She knows there’s a fine line, and while love
may not be on the cards, passion is hateful. Passion is also prevalent in every move between
them. Their hands are eager, their mouths feral. His fingers release her chin and bury them
into her hair so that her hair tie slides right out.
The hand squeezing the nape of her neck rides up and joins his other so that both are lost in
her mass of curls. His fingers dig into her scalp and hers grip his shirt through the parting of
his coat. They’re increasingly aggressive with each other, their nails vicious and their mouths
even more so.
Malfoy’s left hand slips out of her hair and down the back of her neck, squeezing and
kneading as he angles her mouth the way he wants, his thumb digging into her jaw and his
tongue between her lips. Hermione battles with it, refusing to make the claim easy for him.
He chuckles darkly against her mouth and her heart thuds in her chest. She hates how
exciting this is.
How taking her aggression out on him and between their bodies, makes her knees weak. Both
of his hands slide over her shoulders and down her collarbones, his long fingers dipping
under and shoving her jacket back. Gravity forces it to slip down to her elbows, trapping her
arms.
Refusing to be bound under him, she shucks it off. It hits the floor with a dull thud, and the
rocks behind her cut deeper without the layer of protection. In only a t-shirt, Malfoy pulls
away from their kiss, staring down at her with flushed cheeks and swollen lips. She stares
back up at him, panting. She imagines her lips looking just as puffy.
As he watches her, he trails his fingers over her bared chest, courtesy of the low cut, the tips
dipping past the hem. Swallowing, she wars with the decision to let him or not. He seems to
be waiting for her reaction, but she hasn’t decided on one yet. The largest part of her doesn’t
want it to be Malfoy who she lets touch her for the first time in so long.
She doesn’t want to be the one he leaks all of his dark energy into, but the taboo element is
exciting, and she can’t deny it. Not even to herself. Her tongue flicks out over her lips to wet
them, tasting both his signature iciness and his blood. His infuriating smirk returns as he
leans down, pressing his warm, kiss-swollen lips to the tender flesh of her collarbones where
his wand sparks previously singed her.
Both of her hands nestle into his hair, yanking at the roots to mirror her own dull pain, even
as she hisses between her teeth. Perhaps because it's an illusion of fighting, her strength
doesn’t rear his head back as intended. Instead, he digs it into her flesh deeper, his kisses firm
and open-mouthed, bottom lip dragging sinfully over her skin.
Despite herself, Hermione moans as tingles spread down her arms. Goosebumps raise and his
right hand moves to rub over them, flowing from the underside of her upper arm, over her
bent elbow, and all the way up to her fingers buried in his hair. It could almost be considered
tender if she wasn’t aware that everything Malfoy does is with purpose.
He probably guesses correctly that she hasn’t been touched in a while. Truthfully, this is only
the second time in her life she's been with a man, having lost her virginity at the start of the
year. Another reason that she shouldn't be letting Malfoy touch her, least of all so nastily, but
she'll be damned if she allows him to realize how inexperienced she is.
Each touch he bestows on her is incredibly overwhelming. Most likely the conniving bastard
wants to overstimulate her and push her into a space of bewildered frenzy until she admits
defeat and stops this insane idea in its tracks. Especially with the way his left hand grips her
hip tight enough to bruise through her jeans, fingers digging into her curves through the
denim.
Well, that just won’t do and so she must even the playing fields. Her right hand slides out of
his hair, forcing his own to fall to her other hip as he continues his kisses. Left hand staying
in place, she curls it tighter into his scalp, nails biting as her right runs down his chest, fingers
splaying over the buttons. He jerks only when she reaches his stomach and slips beneath the
edges of his shirt, fingers pressing to the warm skin there.
Abs twitching beneath her fingertips, he bites down on her right breast. Hermione hisses, her
thighs clenching and her hand pausing as he uses his teeth to pull down the edge of her t-
shirt. With more access to her skin, his kisses alternate into bites across her bared flesh. Her
nails hook into his stomach, forcing another jerk out of him and he growls into her breast,
pressing his body flush to hers.
This traps her hand tightly between their stomachs and she huffs in frustration, shoving at
him. Refusing to budge, the grip on her hips tightens and Malfoy ensures his thumbs slip into
either side of Hermione’s jeans. Sneaky bastard. Wiggling both of her hands until they're free,
she grips his shirt and tears in retaliation to his resistance.
Before he can react, she slides her hands up his chest and under the fabric covering his
shoulders, shucking his coat and shirt in one.
Malfoy chuckles again, the vibrations pleasant against her flesh and colored with darkness.
“You’re going to regret that.”
She raises her hands to cup either side of his cheeks and force his head up, meeting his eye. “I
sincerely doubt it.”
Smirking, he yanks on the sides of her jeans. They’re not overly tight, but the force of his
tugging without undoing the button first stretches and then tears the waist.
Hermione’s eyes widen in rage. “What in Godric’s name, Malfoy?! I swear if you have
ruined-”
“Do you ever stop talking, Granger? Your voice just harpers on and-”
“-These jeans, I will hex you into oblivion so th-”
“-on, it just never ends-”
“-at your grandchildren will-”
“Oh, bloody hell!” He cries before he slams his mouth to hers again.
Effectively shutting her up, he bites her lip sharp and nasty. She bites his back immediately,
butterflies swimming behind her ribcage as the state of her jeans is forgotten. That is until the
torn waistband gives way and Malfoy successfully yanks them down her legs. Cool air
brushes her skin, forcing her to shudder against him. Their mouths break apart, and her eyes
open in time to see him gracefully folding to his knees. Hermione gasps, her pulse pounding.
She expects agonising teasing. Malfoy is nothing if not reliant on being cruel.
He flicks the beaded bag at her hip. "Get rid of this. Keeps getting in the bloody way."
Trying not to appear too eager, she takes her sweet time lifting it over her head and dropping
it to the floor, despite the way it clatters.
When she looks at him again, he waits for a beat before slipping his fingers into the side of
her knickers and yanking them out of his way, promptly burying his face between her legs.
Choking, she gasps out, “You have absolutely no finesse! You-” She chokes again when his
tongue swipes over her clit.
“Yes?” His cocky reply vibrates through her core and into the space beneath her ribs. “Care
to finish your sentence, brightest witch of our age?”
“You- you’re- you’re a bloody animal!” She cries as he licks intently at her. “You’re
supposed to work… you’re not supposed to just dive in!”
Malfoy licks even harder, ignoring her and lapping away for several toe-curling seconds
before answering. “I can show you an animal, Granger.”
Whimpering, she buries her fingers in his hair and pulls. “Slow down.” She wants to say
please but can’t push it past her lips. “I’m sensitive, Malfoy.”
Despite his usually spiteful nature, he does slow down. His intent, harsh licks move away
from ferocious lashing to light, wet taps. Hermione’s knees quiver and his right hand slides
down the outside of her thigh, fingers stroking and almost comforting. Her eyes squeeze
closed, her fingers softening in his hair as she loses herself to the gentle, heart-clenching
rhythm.
Desperate, pleading sounds pour from her lips unchecked as he brings her closer to the edge
of her orgasm. Both of his hands slide over her bare thighs, fingers dancing over her flesh.
His sharp nose brushes against her pubic hair every so often, encouraging her pleasure to a
point of frenzy.
Just when tremors start up in her ankles and travel through her knees to her hips, Malfoy
promptly stands. Her eyes snap open at the abrupt severing of pleasure and she glares at him,
even with her jeans at her ankles and so exposed. He merely smirks at her, his mouth smeared
with her juices.
He paints an erotic picture, distracting her enough with it that he manages to grip her
shoulders without so much as a protest from her lips. He spins her around quickly, his hands
cradling her shoulder bones. Even with his effort, Hermione nearly trips over her own feet
and hastily catches herself against the rock. Her palms sting and she winces under her breath.
Disregarding this, he takes her hips and yanks them backward, connecting with his groin and
emitting a groan from deep in his throat. The clink of his belt punctures the air, the leather of
it slapping her arse as he hastily undoes it.
“Gods, your hair is positively awful from the back.”
“Well, I have to say my view has vastly improved in the front,” she quips, voice steady
despite her trembling thighs and vulnerable position.
“Well, since you love the view so much.” He grips her by the back of her neck and shoves her
face into the wall harshly, her cheekbone scraping against the rough surface.
“You arse!” She screeches, though garbled, pushing back against the weight of his hand.
He doesn’t respond, the only answer being the rustle of his trousers. Her excitement
heightens with the anticipation, and she scowls. She can’t believe the position she’s in with
Draco bloody Malfoy of all people.
She lets her agitation be known. “You know I don’t need it to be you so if you want to keep
taking your sweet time, Malfoy, you can just stop now an-”
Hermione’s rant cuts off with a sharp gasp as he impales her on himself, spreading her open
in one quick, harsh thrust that makes her stomach flip.
“You were saying?” Malfoy taunts, voice only slightly breathless as he clenches her hips
beneath his hands.
Unhappy with the unbalance in power, and with how unaffected he’s pretending to be,
Hermione clenches her inner muscles around him where he’s buried deliberately.
Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath. “You evil little witch,” he seethes quietly. “Even your cunt is
spiteful.”
Despite her face being ground into the wall, she smirks and pushes her hips back. She’s
allowed it to escalate this far, she may as well get what she wants. Because she does want it.
This. Him. Whatever on earth they’re doing here. Her legs are trembling, her chest is
heaving, and her fingers tingling. She wants him. Gods help her.
“Do you ever stop talking?” She asks sweetly, mocking his earlier words.
Growling, his hand holding her face down moves into the hair at the base of her skull and
yanks her head back, pulling it sharply away from the wall. In the next breath, he withdraws
and slams back into her, bringing Hermione up onto her toes with a sharp cry. She meets him
thrust for thrust, refusing to be the pliant doll he uses.
If he’s going to take from her body, then she’s going to take right back. He promised her an
animal, and his vigorous thrusts, paired with his groans are delivering. Her own moans and
growls fill the air, the smell of sex alongside them. Wet slapping punctures the in-between
space, unbearably erotic.
“It’s about time I bent you over and fucked the attitude out of you, Granger,” he breathes into
her ear, hunching over her.
Slamming her hips back, she twists her head, so her face nuzzles under his jaw. “You talk far
too much.” Then she bites him spitefully.
Jaw flexing against her temple, he hisses, “And you’re not screaming enough.”
The pace picks up and she can no longer meet his thrusts, trapped instead against the wall and
forced to take the brutality of his hips meeting her arse. The moans in her throat strangle her,
her face hot and throbbing as much as her core. Pinned under Malfoy is a lot more exciting
than she ever thought it would be, but not more so than his desperate moans.
The rough texture of the wall grates across her nipples, even through her t-shirt and bra,
sending her spiraling even further. The juxtaposition of sensations at her front and back is
excruciatingly arousing. Her nails scrabble against the wall, grinding them down with the
pressure. The hand on her hip raises to splay over her left one against the wall, entwining
their fingers.
It’s unexpected but she closes her fingers tightly in his, allowing the connection as the skin of
their fingers is scraped raw together. Hurting together. Pleasuring each other. Hermione’s
head is swimming and the band in her lower stomach pulls tight. Her mouth opens where it’s
still buried under Malfoy’s throat, and she releases a scream she can no longer hold back.
Words, whatever they intend to be, threaten to tumble from her mouth unchecked as the band
snaps and her orgasm burns through her veins, but she grits her teeth against them. The
barrier doesn’t halt her cries of satisfaction and it's this that she believes derails Malfoy’s
thrusts, turning them shallow and long, dragging against her front wall.
Shuddering, she keeps her hot face upturned under his chin, hiding there as his throat works,
perhaps trying to slow the moans that stutter out of his mouth. With one last strangled growl
and shallow thrust, he presses deeply into her and holds, heat spilling deep inside.
Hermione’s chest rattles and her cunt is throbbing as it accepts his parting gift.
Malfoy finally stills and the world seems to rush back into context with a whomp-whomp as if
the space around them is opening back up. As the seconds tick on, Hermione’s bliss seeps
away and allows room for vulnerability, and if she’s being honest with herself, the feeling of
being used.
Taking a deep breath, she moves her face away from his neck, allowing cold air in. A shiver
dances down her spine as she peels herself away from him. The warmth of his body recedes
as he pulls away from her too, sensing her intention and he silently slides from her wet
depths. Her cheeks heat when a splash sounds from the movement, but she refuses to look
down to see the evidence.
Successfully untangled, she clears her throat and reaches for her jeans, quickly pulling them
and her knickers back up, despite being soaked. Still facing the wall and not looking at him,
she next gathers her bag and jacket and pulls them back on.
That done, she reaches up and pats down her unruly hair, trying to pull her fingers through it
in order to make it comply while she mentally gathers her wits about her. She continues to
avoid gazing at Malfoy as she casts her eyes over the floor for her wand.
It did end up next to his. Bloody buggering hell. She snatches it off the floor and rights
herself. Finally, having braced herself, she turns to look at him, startling to find him dressed,
shirt repaired, and watching her. When they make eye contact, he doesn’t look away at being
caught. The intimacy of the moment steals the breath she’s only just getting back.
Flushing, she hurries to pierce the silence. “Well, I suppose we best get the job finished
before the others come looking for us.”
“I suppose,” he answers slowly, almost carefully.
They continue to stare at each other and after neither of them speaks for a great many
heartbeats, he blows out a mocking version of an amused breath and shakes his head.
Hermione tries not to frown, not sure what he's expecting her to say. She hates it when she
doesn’t understand something. He walks to where his wand is lying and bends to retrieve it.
“Lead the way.” This is all he says when he’s upright and facing her again.
“Right.” She clears her throat. “Right,” she repeats, still slightly flustered and unhelpfully
throbbing. “This way then.”
Pacing ahead, Malfoy stays at her back and her skin prickles with the keen awareness that
he’s watching her all the way. She wonders what he’s thinking about, and how they act like
this never happened. She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing as her, both of their
thoughts on his semen steadily dripping out of her and threatening to dampen right through to
her jeans.
Merlin, please don’t allow that to happen, she prays silently. If he was to say something about
the sight, she’s not entirely sure if she would hex him or shag him again.
Part One: December '97
Chapter Notes
A second, unexpected chapter. I just kept thinking about how they would go about
themselves after and it ended up writing itself.
This is a reminder that this work is tagged Dark!Hermione and Draco for a reason.
There are scenes of sexual violence that might not be in agreement with all. For that, I
have upgraded the warnings to explicit violence and the accompanying tags.
Hermione gazes around the first-floor drawing room of Grimmauld Place and despite her
tired, bloodshot eyes and sore body, aches throbbing in both her arms and legs, she finds a
reluctant smile tugging defiantly at the corner of her mouth. With the tattered tapestries
removed upon the Order claiming the ancestral Black home, the high ceiling in the room
seems to be more prominent, opening up the space.
Molly Weasley previously saw to the carpet, giving it a good scrub, and bringing up the dirt
and dust that settled down in the fibers over its many years of neglect. Ron had helped too,
albeit reluctantly when he had muttered a particularly foul curse word in an Order meeting
that made his mother flush and take him by the ear.
With the addition of a breathtaking Christmas tree, which Harry and Ginny are sitting around,
heads bent together and muttering quietly, adding decorations the Muggle way, Hermione has
to admit the place is almost charming. She imagines it resembles for the first time in a great
many years, the exquisite opulence that the room only held in its inception.
Its deep green walls and large fireplace, now roaring with fire do nothing but compliment the
creation of Christmas in the room, delightfully offsetting the garland wreath looped over the
top of it. Holly pokes throughout, adding pops of cherry red.
Logs crackle and spark in the background, accompanying soft Christmas instrumental music,
emitting both a literal and metaphorical peaceful warmth that fills up every corner of the
room, shooing out the natural cold that is prevalent throughout the house.
Though the glass-fronted cabinets that flank either side of the fireplace were vigorously
stripped out in the summer before Grimmauld Place became her war-bound home, they’re
now filled with pictures of Harry’s parents, Lily and James, as well as his Godfather Sirius,
and her old DADA professor turned fellow Order member, Lupin.
The photographs were scrabbled together largely by Remus, but he had informed Harry upon
presenting the moving mementos that Sirius had been helping before he passed. Others had
contributed, everyone digging through what they had to try and create a visual collection of
Harry’s family.
The house is now his after all and it seems fitting that it be decorated for him in some
manner, even if it is bursting at the seams with Order members. Watching him now, blushing
at something Ginny whispers to him, Hermione hopes that this will be a Christmas he
somewhat enjoys as much as the previous one with the Weasleys. However, she supposes
anything is a vast improvement on the drab ones he shared with the Dursleys for so many
dreary years.
Someone should enjoy it at least and it certainly isn’t going to be Hermione. Narcissa Malfoy
did more than burden her son when she betrayed Voldemort. She put the gears of war into
motion. In June of this year, when she arrived at Severus Snape’s home under the cover of
darkness, she changed everyone’s lives.
Malfoy couldn’t stay vulnerable at Hogwarts, and neither could Harry after Dumbledore was
informed that Narcissa had changed their initial plans. Severus keeps very tight-lipped about
the former Headmaster, but he had to impart enough to gain a picture. Snape was to maintain
the illusion of helping Malfoy, keeping him safe. Narcissa’s decision didn’t give him a
chance.
Voldemort ordered the immediate death of Dumbledore before he’d even gotten around to
slaughtering Lucius. Snape was to do the crime and do the crime he did. Behind the scenes, it
must have been a very momentous thing. Hermione imagines there had been many arguments
about Dumbledore's wishes, to have Snape kill him if commanded, in order to bury his Death
Eater status deeper and maintain cover.
Wishes that were not shared with even Harry, who had been dragged kicking and screaming
back to Grimmauld, believing Snape had turned traitor. The moment the Avada took
Dumbledore's life, Order members arrived, pre-set in motion, to get her, Harry, Malfoy, and
the Weasley siblings out. Others were instructed to evacuate Hogwarts.
Hermione knew the moment she saw Albus Dumbledore broken at the bottom of the
Astronomy Tower what she had to do. The morning after his death, awakening in Grimmauld
Place, she defied orders and went home. She set into motion the plan she had crafted upon
Voldemort’s return the previous year.
By midday her parents were Obliviated, their life re-located to where they would never be
found. Not even by her. She cleared out her childhood home, taking very minimal and
specifically useful items. No trinkets or mementos. They had no place in war. Hogwarts fell
in the week that commenced, quickly.
Snape continues as Headmaster with fellow Death Eaters, under Voldemort’s rule. He comes
by to give his report to the Order every other week, in which Harry conventionally
disappears. Dumbledore had left a letter to Harry, explaining his choices and even this didn't
seem to quell Harry's rage for Snape.
She's glad, therefore, to see him looking a little less lost, eyes tired and yet glistening. Even if
she doesn't feel the Christmas spirit. This is Hermione's first Christmas away from home,
with the knowledge that she will most likely never be going back. Her first Christmas
knowing that she won't return to Hogwarts at the end of it.
The dual loss pangs in her chest and she rubs at it vigorously, her smile drifting away. Molly
enters with a tray of food and steaming drinks at that moment, ceasing the bitter rise of
loneliness in Hermione’s heart as it begins. Mrs. Weasley pats her affectionately on the cheek
with hot fingers as she busies past, her cheeks flushed as red as her fly-away hair.
“Quickly, quickly! Get something to eat before Ron arrives,” she hurries Hermione, Harry,
and Ginny with an agitated wave of her hand to the silver tray.
“Oh, I’ve eaten,” Hermione lies.
Molly turns away from her and jabs the tray more incessantly at Harry and Ginny, breaking
up their close huddle. Ginny looks chagrined as she reluctantly takes a sandwich, and Harry
blushes when he takes his.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Now that’s alright dears, I’ll have some more in a moment.” She frowns at them hand
threading the tips of baubles. “Why are you doing that the Muggle way?”
“Oh, erm.” Harry coughs, blushing harder. “I’ve never decorated for Christmas before. Ginny
wanted-”
“Oh, you beautiful boy,” Molly interrupts, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re going to have a
wonderful Christmas, Harry!”
“Mum,” Ginny whines with embarrassment. “Stop making a big deal.”
“Do you reckon they’ll keep up this farce next year too?”
Startling, Hermione’s heart thumps hard in her chest as Malfoy materializes on her left side.
She doesn’t look at him, her eyes still on the trio before her. “It’s not a farce. They’re not
pretending. They’re trying.”
He snorts derisively and turns to face her in her peripheral vision. “Cute, Granger. Truly.
You’re absolutely teeth rotting when you want to be.”
She scowls at him. “Besides, who says we’ll be here next year?”
“Who indeed?” He mocks, a taunting smirk on his face.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione offers him no response, choosing instead to turn and leave the
room. It’s been nearly three weeks since their hate shag, and she still doesn’t know how to
talk to him. What on earth does one say to the man they can’t stand but loved being bent over
by? It’s a ridiculous situation and she hasn’t got time for it. There’s far too much for her to
do.
Her, Harry, and Ron want to leave soon to hunt for Horcruxes, and as it gets more dangerous
for them out on the field, they can all sense this is the right time. They’re planning to leave at
the beginning of January. Christmas is goodbye for them. Harry’s family is as much here as
Ron’s, but Hermione has no such luxuries.
Time is stretched out before her, barely filled with missions now as the risk factor rises.
Instead, she packs and re-packs her beaded bag, futilely attempts to research Horcruxes, and
draws timelines of Tom Riddle’s life. Harry has all the details of it from Dumbledore, the key
piece to her project, but he rarely sits still long enough to effectively complete it.
No, she reiterates to herself as she climbs the stairs to her allocated bedroom, shared with
Ginny, I'm far too busy to deal with Draco Malfoy, as well as their growing tension as the
hate shag goes undiscussed. She ducks into her room, retrieving her toiletries and fresh
pajamas, or something that resembles them.
Pajamas haven’t been worn to bed since returning from Obliviating her parents. Now she
sleeps in a long-sleeved t-shirt and leggings, lest she has to leave suddenly. Her boots stay
under her bed, ready to grab, and her beaded bag lies at the end of it, her jacket on top. There
are no such comforts as pajamas now, but there are bubble baths.
Thankfully.
It’s best to lap it up while she can, being as she’ll soon be camping Merlin knows where with
the boys and living off Scourgify charms. With her things gathered, she wanders down to the
bathroom and sets about summoning candles. Perhaps she still does have some luxuries in
life.
Her bubble baths, relaxant potions, and concoctions she sinks into every evening are her one
pleasure. A reward to cradle her beat-up, bruised body from days on the field. Popping back
out of the bathroom in her usual ritual, she dumps her mud-soaked boots outside the door,
which she’ll clean before she crawls into bed. Today has been a fighting one and she’s been
tossed around a lot.
She’s desperate to soak in the copper bathtub at her back, but a squeak of a hinge whips her
head up. The hallway is empty, and unhelpfully pitch black as she scans it intently,
straightening up from where she placed her boots.
“Kreacher?” She calls.
Though the old elf did originally betray the Order, and take himself off to Bellatrix Lestrange,
playing a large hand in Sirius' death, the grouchy little thing, to hear Narcissa tell it, had been
insistent on following her, and her son. Even if that meant returning to Grimmauld Place,
where half the occupants want to wring his scrawny neck.
Kreacher doesn't engage much with the household, sticking close to the Malfoy's and
jumping to their beck and call, doesn't even mutter under his breath anymore really. Despite
this, he still creeps through the house like a ghoul, collecting his treasures to take to his filthy
cupboard.
"Kreacher?" Hermione tries again when she receives no answer.
“No, Granger. I’m afraid it’s only me.” Malfoy seems to slither out of the shadows, emerging
into the light her candles allow, gold streaks slicing into the hallway.
Malfoy steps into said light, his right side lost to darkness, and his left beaming, reflecting his
nearly white hair and gray eyes. They’re flat, creating the illusion of pristine sharpness.
“Malfoy.” She can’t take her eyes off him. He looks ethereal in his dual lighting. Then she
scowls. “Are you bloody following me you creep?”
He chuckles, that darkly amused one he favors, and steps closer to her in the bathroom
archway. He glances over her shoulder, presumably identifying the large, copper tub full of
bubbles and candles littering the room.
Cocking an eyebrow at her, he smiles sarcastically. “Hot date?”
“Something like that,” she answers just as sarcastically.
“Well, I shan’t keep you from your jollies. I only wanted to talk before you left.”
“Left?” She repeats, not thinking to take a step back as she ponders this, even as he steps
forward. “I just got back.”
“I know The Golden Trio is on the move. You’re leaving. Soon, by the frazzle of your hair
when you’re digging around in your bag and muttering.” He answers softly, his voice barely
reaching her ears. “I wish to speak with you before you go.”
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “You wish to blackmail me, you mean?”
“Excuse me?” Despite the polite words, his tone is scathing, his hands visibly clenching in
the pockets of his slacks.
“Why else would you tell me you know we’re leaving? You know no one wants us to, and
that no one can know. What is it you want, Malfoy, for keeping your gob shut?”
Scoffing, he rolls his eyes like she’s entirely predictable. She grinds her teeth at the sight. He
truly knows how to pinch her last nerve. “Contrary to your scathing opinion of me, Granger, I
didn’t come to blackmail you. I came to talk, as mentioned.”
“About what?” She demands, growing more agitated as she thinks of her luxurious bubble
bath waiting for her.
“Don’t act silly now, Granger, it doesn’t suit you.”
Gritting her teeth, she fists her hands at her sides. “Would you just bloody spit it out already?
My bath water is running cold, and that is far more important than whatever ridiculous game
you’re playing.”
She's lying of course. She charmed the water to never cool, and she's pretty certain Malfoy
knows that. Still, it irritates him, and that's something she will never tire of.
Malfoy sneers at her, his lip curling. “You are such a stubborn witch. I am trying to talk to
you like a bloody human being, but you just cannot see past your own prejudiced judgments
that I’m a monster.”
Hermione gapes. “How dare you accuse me of prejudice?! You! Of all the people, you
spiteful little bigot!”
Growling, he swipes an agitated hand down his face. “Fucking forget it. You’re only ever
going to be a stubborn cunt.”
Anger swirls dangerously in her gut but before she can retaliate, Malfoy is storming away.
She immediately chases after him, charging into the hall as he begins to immerse back into
the shadows.
“You get back here right now, Malfoy, you horrible prick! I told you what would happen if
you used that foul word with me again!” She whips out her wand, but he doesn’t even turn to
face her, though he must be keenly aware of having his back on the enemy. “I swear to
Godric, Malfoy get back here so I can fucking drown you!”
“'Mione? Are you okay?” Whipping to face the stairs, she finds Ginny’s amused face at the
bottom of it. “Something Malfoy said?”
Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.” She glances to where he was walking
away, now gone before looking back at Ginny. “Just being a prick as usual.”
“Ah, as usual,” Ginny agrees compliantly, though she looks mischievous, resembling the
twins strongly.
Rolling her eyes at Ginny’s insinuations, Hermione heads back to the bathroom and angrily
closes the door, hurrying to strip her clothes. Why must he get under her skin so buggering
much? He’s utterly infuriating. She can’t hold a conversation with the man for more than five
seconds before they’re tearing at each other’s throats. Even his verbal blows with Harry
aren’t as intense.
There’s just something about Malfoy and her that rubs wrong. Made worse by her allowing
them to actually rub together. Merlin, she’s still not sure if she regrets it or not. On one hand,
it’s Malfoy. On the other, it’s toe-curling sex that she’s never had in her life.
Perhaps it’s the tension, the undercurrent of hate, but whatever it is, it’s explosive and it lit
her on fire to have him thrusting into her. Her thoughts linger on the memory like they have
been doing more times than she can count as she climbs into her bath. She lies back in the
water, letting it hold her.
Eyes staring up at the ceiling, she replays every single moment from their violent little tryst,
and every one of them makes her throb. The bathroom door hinges screech open, puncturing
her recollections and Hermione shoots up out of the bubbly water, twisting to her right, away
from the intruder to scramble her fingers against the soaked floor for her wand.
Wet ringlets cling to her skin as she reaches blindly, sucking at her while she squints in the
candlelight. In the next breath, she has it, the footsteps on her left pounding into the
bathroom, and she twists in the tub, aiming. It shoots out of her hand at the same instant she
realizes it’s Malfoy who is interrupting her privacy and peace.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” She demands.
Malfoy’s wand clatters to the floor where he drops it after wordlessly disarming her, and his
right foot swings back to hook around the door and kick it shut. Earlier she had been so angry
at him while stomping in here that she never charmed or warded the door. She’s murderous as
she stares at Malfoy, despite her breasts being above the bubbles and on display, nipples tight
in the cold.
Continuing to stride towards her, he calmly answers, “You called me back; I came back.
Something about drowning. I’ll try anything once.”
Hermione gapes, rising out of the water further at the growing unease in her stomach. “That
is not… do not make out like I asked you to barge in here! And… and…” Her voice trails off
as he continues eating up the floor with his long legs.
The vulnerability of being naked seems to pale in comparison to the vulnerability of being
naked while he towers over her, so she moves to dash up and out of the bath for her wand.
Malfoy snatches her by the forearms just as she’s half risen and leaning out. She struggles
and kicks him in a frenzy. They grapple, water splashing loudly, Malfoy blocking every
attack she aims at him.
Hermione’s voice climbs sky-high. “Malfoy, I will Avada you!”
“Then Avada me,” he bites out, taking a handful of her curls and yanking her head down.
“I’m going to Crucio you within an inch of your life,” she spits, trying to keep her head
above the water where he’s dragging her down by her hair.
“You know… you have to… mean those curses; Granger… and we both know… your…
bloody…. Gryffindor spirit… couldn’t… fucking…hack it!” He pants as she struggles
against him.
Weight-bearing down, Malfoy nearly has her head submerged, her body bent into the tub and
unable to break his hold, but she still manages to twist her head so she can stare him dead in
his flat eyes. “Believe me, I’m going to mean every second.”
A mean smirk stretches his mouth. “I look forward to it, Hermione.”
Her name freezes her struggle in surprise, and he plunges her head into the water. She fights,
clawing at his wrists. Water fills her mouth and nose, panic grips her muscles. He keeps her
down for mere seconds but enough to set her pulse racing, before he rips her head back up.
“I fucking hate you!” She screams at him; sure, someone is going to hear them soon.
“Oh, I know. It’s the one and the only thing I like about you,” he snarls, leaning over the edge
of the tub.
“You’re such a psychopath!” She growls, jerking her shoulders, her voice shaky as she gets
her breath back.
The bastard just drowned her but his eyes dart over her sodden face with nothing but pure
excitement in them. His hand is still entangled in the roots of her hair, and he uses it to twist
her face up to look at him, thumb digging into her jaw as she continues to be half submerged
in her bathwater.
“You know you’re rather fetching like this, Granger,” he whispers intimately as if he wasn’t
trying to kill her two seconds ago.
Hermione can’t believe his ungodly nerve but most of all she can’t believe her own. She can’t
believe how her heart thumps and butterflies twist her innards. Can’t believe that she’s
throbbing and excited even as she coughs water back up. The anger, the rage, the thrill of the
deadly hatred in Malfoy’s eyes, in his hands, is electrifying.
Throwing her head back, Malfoy allows her to rise to her knees but keeps his fingers tangled
in her strands. “I should expect I’ll say the same when you’re dead at my feet.”
That chuckle dripping with darkness. It shouldn’t excite her so bloody much, but it does.
Gods forgive her, it does.
Malfoy tugs her violently against his chest, half yanking her out of the bath. “Then Avada me
later, but for fuck sake kiss me first.”
Then he claims her mouth, kissing her with hot lips and blistering intensity. His arms wrap
around her waist, his shirt sleeves steadily getting wet as they wind around her dripping skin.
Steam rises off of her and out of the bath, dampening his fringe, the last view she has before
she closes her eyes. Hermione fights the kiss, even as she licks at his lower lip.
He growls against her mouth, squeezing her even tighter and no doubt drenching his shirt
with the front of her wet body. Then he folds into her, and she falls back into the bath with a
splash of water, eyes flying open, and his hand behind her head saving it from cracking
against the edge. He half falls in with her, a knee landing beside her hip.
She tries to pull away from his mouth. “Malfoy, you’re still dressed, you prat!”
A kiss. “I know.”
“Your clothes are getting drenched!” She presses against his lips, even as they accept bruising
kisses from his.
A nip. “I’m aware.”
“Oh, you’re so difficult!” She hisses, successfully detaching their mouths.

The hand not cradling her head cups her right breast, making Hermione gasp. The one that is
cradling her head slides down the nape of her neck and then around to the slender column of
her throat, wrapping tightly. He brings her forward by the grip he has on her, despite her nails
immediately digging into, and clinging to, his wrists.
Deliberating rubbing his bottom lip against hers, he looks up at her beneath his wet lashes.
“Strive to be quiet this once, Granger. You so seldom try.”
Furious, she reaches her right hand forward and squeezes his growing cock through his
trousers under the water. He hisses in her face, looking ever the snake that he is, and nips her
lip spitefully. She does it again. He moves his nips to her jaw. She does it again. Bites down
her throat. She does it again. Eventually, he meets her collarbone, nibbling there.
Her squeezing subsides, and she finds herself rubbing him mindlessly, massaging as he marks
her skin and licks it better. She’s panting by the time he reaches her left breast, carving a path
down to her dusky nipple. He looks up at her when he bites it, and she hisses through her
teeth. She feels like she should put up more of a fight.
Their dynamic seems to ride on the equal push and pull between them, but quite frankly she
can’t find the will to. She’s tired and lonely and she wants more than a bubble bath as her
reward. She wants hot, forbidden excitement and if Draco Malfoy is the reason for that, well
then so be it. Her hands fall to his belt buckle, fumbling beneath the layer of bubbles blindly.
She keeps eye contact with him as he moves to the other nipple and bites that one too.
Trembling, Hermione finally gets his belt undone, fingers urgently moving to his button. He
takes the time to suck and nibble her nipple, intending to bruise no doubt. She yanks the flaps
of his trousers open and reaches in for his cock, pulling him free.
Grunting against her sternum, he pulls away to look down at her. “I can’t fuck you like this,
Granger. Gather your wits, woman.”
Scowling, she spreads her legs wider over his hips. “Godric help me Malfoy, if you don’t
fuck me now, I’ll hex your bollocks off.”
“Feisty,” he taunts, even as he continues to be an arse and backs his way out of the tub,
crooking his finger at her when he’s successful. “Follow me, little kitten.”
Sneering at him, she folds her arms over her chest. “I suggest you continue backing your
skinny arse right out the door, Malfoy, and close it behind you.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “You never make it easy.” Then he rears forward and grabs her by
the hair, dragging her out of the bath.
Knees hitting the edges painfully, she grunts and hisses, fighting against Malfoy’s hold and
his hand. “I swear, you are a fucking arse! I am going to slice each one of your scrawny
fingers off!”
Ignoring her, he continues to bodily drag her out of the bathtub, shoving her back when she
is, and forcing her to rest against the edge. Malfoy strips his sodden clothes when he releases
her, and they hit the floor with a dull thud. Hermione watches intently, legs trembling as she
wars between fury and elation. When he’s shed all his clothes, he snatches her up again and
then picks her up.
She doesn’t mean to squeal but it slips out in surprise. Perhaps Malfoy isn’t a skinny arse
after all. Merlin. Her head swims as he looks at her, wearing a smug expression holding her
aloft. His cock brushes teasingly between her legs with every breath.
“Where’s all that rage gone, sweetheart?” He taunts as he ruthlessly clips her clit with the
head of his cock.
“Don’t call me that,” she grits out, even as her arms loop around his shoulders.
“Seems your patience is running thin to me, Granger. I wonder why that is?” When she
doesn’t reply, he tilts his hips, his cock teasing at her opening. “Is it because you’re craving
what I can give you?”
Hermione laughs derisively in his face, despite their proximity. “Anyone can give me what
you’re offering, Malfoy. I could go find Ron right and he’d screw me stu-”
His cock impales her at the same moment he hisses in her ear, “No wizard will do what I can,
Granger.”
“You have got to stop doing that!” She gasps out, her hips tight, and thighs stretched. “You’re
going to rip me apart.”
“That’s entirely the point.”
The words have just registered when he bows his spine, leaning her arse on the edge of the
tub and tilting her hips up for his next thrust. Hermione’s legs spread wider on instinct; her
hands fall back to grip the edge her arse is precariously clinging to. A moan chokes her as her
arms shake, and her thighs where they're held aloft.
Malfoy growls, gripping her left knee with his free hand, his right one occupied with holding
her lower back. He wraps her leg around his waist and then moves his hand to spread her
right one open even further. The stretch is unbelievable and with the heat of the room, her
eyes grow heavy-lidded.
Her body feels even heavier and unbearably warm; her skin feels too tight over her bones.
With her legs arranged as he wants, Malfoy tightens his hand on her lower back and looks
down at where they’re connected. Hermione can’t help but look there too, the angle he’s
manipulated allowing a clear sightline past her breasts and trembling stomach.
He slows right down, aware she’s watching too, and pulls nearly all the way out, showing
how his cock glistens. She clenches and a strangled groan tears through his throat, flooding
her with goosebumps. He slides in slowly again, luxuriating in her attention, and then drags
against her front wall as he retreats.
A moan crawls out of her mouth and his eyes snap up to hers, catching them as her mouth
hangs open. She can’t seem to look away as he picks up his pace, retreating and slamming
back into her so she wobbles on the edge of the bath. Her nails dig tightly into the ledge,
hooking on the underside as her legs shake and her muscles tense up.
“You look good being split open on my cock, you know,” he whispers crudely, voice strained.
Hermione can’t formulate words currently, so she reaches up to wrap her arms under his
shoulders. He cradles her tighter, his pelvis rubbing against her clit deliciously, the position
almost tender, until she turns her head and bites into the fatty part of his bicep. He outright
laughs. Cock buried inside her, and her teeth embedded in his flesh, Malfoy laughs.
Her lower abdomen clenches and floods with heat. She can’t resist the smile she hides in his
skin, biting even harder. His forehead grinds into her temple, his hot breath billowing down
her neck and over her ear. She shudders, accepting his brutal pounding, a bead of sweat
curving over her jaw and down her neck. Her nails curl into his shoulders as her bite morphs
into a harsh suckling, marking his skin as he marked hers.
“Salazar, Granger, your bites are vicious.” The words scrape against her jaw. “It makes me
hard.”
To illustrate, he pulls all the way out of her squelching depths and then slams back in. Her
toes curl and her moan spirals needily, almost a scream. Malfoy does it again, bashing against
her clit and sending a flash of electricity down her spine. Oh, Gods, she can’t take much
more. The pleasure is excruciatingly intense.
Her eyes screw closed, her face buried in the crook of his elbow, his forehead still against her
temple, and his mouth at her jaw. His cock is unforgiving as he plows her, nearly topping her
over into the water a million times. The thought is tremendously exciting, tightening her
stomach to agonizing points.
Another delirious thrust presses against her clit and the leg held aloft in the air wraps around
Malfoy’s hip desperately so that both legs now squeeze around his waist, fusing the pair of
them tightly together. The feral sound he releases against her cheekbone finishes her off and
she screams bloody murder into the muscles of his arm, squeezing him with her
overwhelming orgasm.
Malfoy’s hips stutter and press so deep Hermione’s own throb, flush with his. They’re
completely wrapped up in each other. Painful grips. Pleasurable fucking. Pleasure and pain
intertwine. She sags as the tension of her orgasm releases her, and he holds her up
effortlessly, spasms in his thighs twitching against the back of hers.
They both stay there until her arse can’t take the edge anymore and she allows herself to slide
back into the water. It’s still blissfully warm, pre-charmed to never cool, and as he did still
fully dressed earlier, Malfoy follows after her. Their bodies are awkward for a moment until
he twists onto his back and drapes her over him. It’s too relaxing to believe she’s here with
Malfoy but it’s apparently true.
She can be relaxed in his presence. At least for the few blissful post hate-fuck minutes.
Beneath her, Malfoy’s body begins to tense, as he seems to take note of those aforementioned
minutes slipping away. He clears his throat and wordlessly, she rises, pressing her back to the
other side of the tub.
Watching her for a moment, his hair damp and tousled, chest flush, he finally mumbles, “I
suppose I’ll leave you then.”
“I suppose,” she agrees, hands trembling as she gathers her knees and tucks them to her
chest.
That feeling of being used returns and drained of both her fight and her orgasms, she feels
vulnerable with him. His face hardens and she wonders if that wasn’t the answer he wanted.
Hermione keeps the frown off her face once more. She has no hope of understanding him and
it infuriates her. Placing a hand on either side of the tub, he rises, standing to his full height.
Despite their interaction moments before, Hermione blushes and keeps her eyes on his,
craning her neck back to look at him. Refusing to note the water dripping down his chest and
stomach, gathering in the hair between his legs.
Absolutely refusing.
“Well go on then!” She finally barks, when her skin feels tight and tense from the imbalance
of power and his intense gaze. “Go.”
A sneer is the last she sees of his face. She keeps her gaze forward as he exits the bath, finds
his wand, mutters a spell for his soaked clothes, and then pulls them on, the rustle of fabric
all to be heard until the bathroom door slams shut. Hermione releases her held breath and lies
back, sinking, beneath the water until the back of her head meets the bottom.
Part One: December '97
Chapter Notes
Okay... so this thing now kinda has a plot? I'm updating tags back to WIP, as I do have
some further chapters in mind. Not sure how many, and not even sure where I'm going
but I guess we'll see. I'm having fun either way, and I hope you enjoy it too.
“Well, isn’t this a very, merry Christmas to me? I could just pitch you off the roof right here
and now.”
Hermione doesn’t turn her head to look at Malfoy, his voice at her back, even as her spine
tenses. “I'm not in the mood, Malfoy.” She sniffs as the cold tickles her nose despite her
warming charms. “And Christmas was days ago,” she adds unnecessarily.
There’s a long, heavy pause, where she looks out at the houses spread around her, their roofs
blanketed with thick, heavy snow.
“And what mood is that exactly?” His voice grows louder as he walks closer, disregarding
her Christmas comment.
Still not turning around to look his way, Hermione grinds out, “Your snarky little comments.
Your sarcastic quips. I'm not in the mood. Fuck off.”
“Very touchy tonight, Granger.” He appears at her elbow, leaning over the hip-height trim of
the roof in imitation of her. “Not very festive of you.”
Snarling, she turns to face him, and has her wand in hand, digging under his chin at the same
moment he points his against her heart. She cranes her head to look at him, taking in how his
hair nearly matches the snow all around them.
“Have the years of inbreeding made you dense, Malfoy? I said fuck off.”
Eyes flicking over her, he jabs his wand a little harder, so there’s a sharp pain in her chest
through her knitted jumper. “You’re leaving. Tonight.” It’s not a question.
Scowling, she yanks away from him and goes back to her cold, icy view, putting her wand
down. She truly hates how perceptive he is, she thinks as she looks out on the white blanket
around them. Snow is no good for sneaking around and keeping hidden. It’ll be a nightmare
erasing hers and the boys’ footsteps.
“When everyone’s asleep, I take it?” Malfoy badgers on, derailing her strategic planning.
She ignores him, returning to her trail of thought. She’ll wake the boys just before daybreak
and ensure she puts a silencing charm on her boots, as well as their bedroom door. It creaks
something awful.
“Any goodbyes planned for your fellow Gryffindors?” He presses irritatingly, interrupting
her thoughts again.
Hermione cuts her eyes at him, standing on her left, with murder in them. “No.”
Not for Slytherins either. Though she doesn’t imagine he cares very much if they say
goodbye or not. There’s silence from his side and she basks in it. Once they’re out of the
house, they’ll take a brisk walk to the perimeter of the anti-Apparition wards as planned. The
only deviation is that she’ll now have to deal with erasing their footprints the whole blasted
way.
“Why so glum then, Granger? You get to get out of this dump.”
Hermione pinches her eyes closed and breathes deeply, trying not to pitch him off the roof
just to make him shut up. Admittedly, he doesn’t know what they're doing. No one does,
despite how hard they've worked to find out. Even still, she knows he possesses a scrap of
intelligence, and so he does understand to some degree. He’s just making light of it as if war
can be funny.
As if she, Ron, and Harry are going on a jolly little winter holiday. Just before she can find a
nasty retort to summarise this, she opens her eyes and there’s a spark from where he’s stood
in her peripheral vision. Hermione glances over to see he’s lighting a cigarette with the tip of
his wand.
“Are you smoking?” She asks in astonishment.
Malfoy blows out nicotine-laden smoke in her direction, ignoring her glare as he raises a fine
brow at her. “Why so surprised? Surely smoking doesn’t make the cut, even for your delicate
sensibilities?”
“It’s just very… Muggle of you.”
Now that she’s looking at him, she can see he’s in a black wool jumper, combat trousers, and
boots. She blinks as she takes it all in. It’s the most Muggle-looking that she’s ever seen him,
and now that she’s thinking about it, Hermione realizes she hasn’t seen Malfoy in robes in a
while. He’s been slowly moving into ensembles consisting of trousers and shirts.
He’s also cut his hair, though his fringe continues to fall somewhat into his eyes. She wonders
if that was her doing, comparing him to his father as she did. She immediately dismisses it as
ridiculous. She doesn’t have that much power over Malfoy.
“Yes well,” he begins to answer, as he takes another drag on his cigarette, “Mother took me
into Muggle London on Christmas Eve. Wants to alter our image.”
The way he inflicts his last words tells Hermione he’s quoting Mrs. Malfoy directly. It’s
incredibly dangerous for them to go wandering about, even in Muggle London, and she
doesn’t miss the fact this isn’t something Malfoy should be telling her but is anyway. As if
she can be trusted with his imparting of secrets.
It seems pointless to mention that now, however, and even more pointless to rat him out to
Kingsley. As for Narcissa, Hermione rarely sees her, being as the older woman keeps to
herself in her assigned room, doing heaven only knows what. Crying, most likely. Whenever
Narcissa does show face, she looks withdrawn and gaunt. It’s only really the Malfoy heir who
is frequent around Grimmauld Place out of the two.
“So, you what…? Decided to pick up Muggle habits too?”
Malfoy rolls a shoulder indifferently, blowing out more smoke. “Why not?”
Of course. They were having far too much of an average conversation, albeit slightly tense, to
go on for too long. Now he’s arming himself with his usually straight face and slowly spoken
words as if she’s incredibly stupid. It always descends into this: scowling at each other, words
biting and angry; mocking.
“Oh, let’s see, shall we?” She asks, tone immensely snarky as she places her hands against
the roof trim, trapping her wand under her palm despite the cold snow dusting it. “Perhaps
because you’re a pureblood bigot who sneers down at Muggles and anything to do with
them?”
It really shouldn’t wind her up so much that he’s standing in Muggle attire and smoking their
cigarettes, but it does. It does because he’s done, and still does nothing but look down on
Muggles and Muggle-borns all of his nasty, self-centered life and now he’s utilising what
Muggles created. Now he uses what Muggles offer to aid him while still thinking of them as
beneath him.
Now he screws Muggle-born witches against walls and on their bathtubs, and almost drowns
them, and tries to kill them, just to amuse himself. Ah. So that’s her problem. Hermione’s
almost happy she’s worked out the thing that’s niggling at her, but the more she dwells on it,
the more she scowls to herself.
Malfoy takes. Malfoy takes and yet he still looks down on them. On her. Malfoy is selfish
and cruel, and the biggest arsehole she’s ever met. She hates him. Hates him more now as he
stands there smoking and wearing combat trousers of all the bloody things than she did the
first time he called her a Mudblood. He doesn’t answer her, continuing to smoke in silence.
This annoys Hermione endlessly, breeching the very little patience for him she began with
and forcing her to bite, “Why are you even here? I told you before to fuck off.”
His voice is gritty from the cigarette as he sarcastically answers, “As you so helpfully pointed
out, Granger, I smoke. This is where I come to smoke.”
Hermione ignores him, unsure if he’s lying as tonight is the first time that she’s come to the
roof herself. She only wanted one last, peaceful look before she rouses the boys to leave in a
few hours, unable to sleep despite hours’ worth of attempts. Of course, Malfoy has to ruin
that too.
He flicks his cigarette away and although she could have left at any point before he finishes
it, this feels like her signal to pick up her wand and leave. She turns away, intending to return
to her room and re-pack her beaded bag for the millionth time. Malfoy grabs her wand arm
before she can take two steps.
His body still faces out over the roof, but he twists his torso to look at her, his hand wrapping
around her right bicep. Her eyes shoot up to his and she grits her teeth, tugging away from
him. He doesn’t release her.
“What did I say?” She hisses through her teeth, angling her head to look at him. “I am not in
the mood for your nonsense!”
“After tonight, Granger, I sincerely doubt you’ll ever have to deal with me, or my nonsense,
again,” he whispers, devoid of emotion.
Her anger recedes slightly. He talks as if one or both of them isn’t going to make it. As if
there’s no hope. This is utter rubbish, because the one thing that does motivate Malfoy and
bring him some form of hope, if it can be named so purely, is keeping his mother alive, and
she’s still residing, healthy, albeit ravaged by grief, beneath their feet.
“What does that mean?” She demands.
Malfoy sighs, breath frosting in the air, and releases her. “I’ve changed my mind,” he
dismisses coldly. “I’m not in the mood for you tonight either.”
There shouldn’t be a sting of rejection in reaction to his cold words. There absolutely
shouldn’t, but there is. She was leaving anyway, what does she care? What does she care if
Malfoy for a split second looks lonely behind his eyes? But she does care. She cares because
she knows that loneliness, that imminent sense of doom. Feels it beneath her breastbone
every waking moment.
Hermione changes tactics, turning to watch him now as he leans against the roof trim once
more, though he puts his back to the view and looks at her, despite his insistence that he no
longer wishes to tolerate her presence.
“What? You haven’t gone soft already have you, Malfoy?” She goads as she steps closer to
him, sliding her wand into the back of her leggings as she does so. “You always were the
sniveling sort. I remember Third Year all too well.”
“If you’re referring to the Hippogriff, I behaved like that because Father demanded it so,” he
snaps, and then surprise sweeps over his features, just for a second, before he wipes it away.
That doesn’t surprise Hermione in the slightest. Lucius Malfoy was never above using
children for his gain. He more than proved that when he wilfully put a Horcrux in Ginny
Weasley’s hands at the mere age of eleven. A powerful, immensely dark, and evil object into
the hands of a child.
Nor when he chased children with Death Eaters through the Ministry, grown people at that.
All of whom had years of experience and training, knew dark curses that Hermione hadn’t
even known existed, at the time. She certainly knows them now, studying them avidly in her
preparations to hunt Horcruxes, even if it is secretly.
She’s also most certainly no longer a child, even if the event happened only last year.
Hermione curls her lip in disgust. She will never be able to say she was, or is, sad at Lucius’
passing, barbaric as it may have been.
“Of course. Always someone else’s fault,” she continues to taunt, stepping even closer.
Malfoy’s eyes sharpen with each one that carries her forward. “Your father made you do it.
All his fault. Harry’s fault that you were rubbish at Quidditch. My fault that your grades were
just not quite good enough. Did your father hit you incredibly hard for that one with his
pathetic little cane, Draco? For letting the Mudblood best you?”
When he doesn’t answer her, instead gritting his jaw and watching her, Hermione continues
on, building up steam and her heart beating quicker. “Your mother’s fault that you’re stuck
here, with Mudbloods and blood traitors you’d sooner see dead than sit around the dinner
table with. Just poor little innocent Malfoy, aren’t you? Not your fault you’re ragged from
pillar to post all your life, never making your own decisions. Never taking the blame. Not
your fault at all.”
It feels good to bully him, even if she’s breathless by the time she’s got it all out. It’s cruel
and spiteful, and her parents would be deeply ashamed if they could see her behavior, but it
does. It feels unbelievably good. She feels vindicated, getting back at him for all those years
of his taunts, of his unnecessary bullying, of his incessant need to be a nasty prick, and
overall stain on her time at Hogwarts, some of the very best years of her life that she will now
never have back. It feels good to just throw sharp barbs because although he doesn’t show if
they land, she’s almost positive that they do. That they are. That they’re burrowing under his
skin.
She’s sure somewhere in there, she’s picking apart at his deepest insecurities, mocking his
buried trauma, reducing him to less than a person like he has done to her so many, many
times. More times than she can count. More times than she will admit. Even closer to him
now, the tips of their boots touch.
His jaw is tight, eyes narrow but his expression is impassive, clear of emotion. “You’re not
nearly as impressive as you think you are, Granger.” His whisper is incredibly icy,
contradicting his words.
“I have no intentions to be impressive, Malfoy. I intend to be truthful. It’s only as I said: I

can’t deny you’ve grown a couple of inches, but you still haven’t developed a bollocks.”
“Oh really?” He seethes back, tone now infected with heat, leaning towards her. “I seem to
remember them smacking against your arse quite well the other night.”
Of all the insults she expected, that is not one of them. It freezes the breath in her lungs, and
she stills in surprise, a flash of memory across the back of her eyes. Hanging onto the edge of
the bath for dear life, taking his pounding thrusts. Watching him give them to her. He’s right.
His balls did smack against her, loud, wet, and erotic.
Sensing he’s gained the upper hand, Malfoy smirks, straightening so he can tower over her.
“Yes, Granger, I think you remember all too well.” His hand raises and she flinches, but he
merely takes a stray curl between his thumb and forefinger, his gaze intense. “Don’t you?”
Hermione smacks his hand away and he snatches her wrist, pulling her tight to him. He
always snatches at her. She supposes spoilt brats do that often. Snatch what they want. Take
what they want. Well, enough of that. She’s taking tonight. She only has tonight before she
walks into the heart of the war, not knowing who will walk out the other side of it, least of all
herself.
She uses her other hand to choke him. Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise, darting to the wrist he
still has in his grasp, as if just remembering that she possesses two of them. Hermione uses
her grip to push him back. He briefly glances over the edge as his spine digs into it, even as
his face begins to flush from her hold on his throat.
That spark of excitement is back when he looks at her again, hopelessness burning out of
them as her own does. “Do it.”
“Don’t test me,” she threatens, stretching on her toes and putting more weight behind her
hand, forcing him to bend.
Malfoy’s spine arches over the trim, half doing the job for her. “Do it,” he repeats, more
urgently. “Take your fucking chance and do it, Granger.”
More strength squeezes through her fingers, his face redder than she’s ever seen, her other
wrist still trapped in his fingers. He lifts it, adding that hand to the one around his throat to
aid her. She squeezes with both hands and Malfoy’s eyes burn with rabid delight.
“You’re so twisted,” she hisses, even as she pushes him further over the edge, bodies flush.
“That’s it, get fucking angry,” he encourages, his eyes daring her. “Do it.”
She bends him further and his spine falls back more, not even trying to save himself. “You’re
a fucking psychopath!”
“I know, so do us all a favor and do it!”
Her nails dig into his throat, and she can feel blood welling immediately. “You’re a horrible,
spiteful shell of a man and I have never hated anyone more than I despise you!”
Pressing back into her nails, he slices his own skin open further, and blood runs in rivulets
down his throat, meeting the collar of his jumper. “Keep going. Do it!”
Malfoy’s tall, she can’t get him as far over as she wants with her hands alone. She climbs
quickly, placing both knees on the edge and straddling him, hands squeezing all of her rage
into his throat. At this rate, she’ll fall right with him.
“You’re gonna break against the ground like the spineless prick you are.” She growls into his
face, his eyes bulging slightly the harder she throttles him.
There’s not much air left in him, his voice breathy even as he shouts in her face, “DO IT!”
Her hands immediately release him, her nails unlatching, slicing him open that final bit, and
he takes in a rattling gasp, his eyes burning into hers as he bleeds and heaves for breath.
“You're barking mad if you think that I would give you the satisfaction, Malfoy.”
Malfoy laughs. That same, completely inappropriate laugh that he did when she bit him. “I
knew you were too bloody soft.” Hands snapping up, he wraps his around her throat where
she’s straddling him, completely cutting out her air. “But I can do it, Granger. You want to
see?”
Standing, he raises to his full height, not even staggering under her weight as he lifts her. Her
feet slam down onto the floor, a jarring pain shooting up her ankles so that they buckle, and
the toes of her boots scrabble against concrete. Even as she claws at his hands, opening cuts
to match his still bleeding neck, Malfoy pivots them so her back is now to the edge.
Reversing their earlier positions, he forces her spine over it. Her wand digs into her lower
back, still tucked into her leggings. Hermione chokes horrendously, the sound like a dying
animal, fighting, air desperate to fill her lungs. She’s a lot shorter than Malfoy and he doesn’t
face the same problem that she did. He can bend her right back and tip her over in a
heartbeat. He’s halfway there.
Her spine is folded over the hard, concrete trim of the roof and her head is upturned. Her
curls fall out beneath her, swirling in the open air and catching snowflakes. Wind rushes in
her ears. Her face burns. Her stomach trembles. Dizziness descends upon her as she looks at
the view around Grimmauld Place upside down. The moon in the sky feels closer and all
that’s stopping her from going right over the edge is her thighs bracketing Malfoy’s hips and
his hands on her throat.
She fights tooth and nail to get back up, not only because he's about to send her to her death
but because she can feel the pressure on her wand being ground underneath her. The wood
strains and sparks against her spine. She wants to scream in frustration, demand he let her go,
lift herself and save her wand from being snapped into pieces. However, the blood rushing to
her head isn’t helping this ambitious plan.
She can’t see Malfoy at all. Can’t see anything but the ground she’s going to meet if he
decides to uncurl his fingers. Will the snow help her impact? Or will she shatter immediately?
She grows more lightheaded as she compares the two possibilities. Then her heart thumps
heavily before it stops dead in her chest as Malfoy begins to uncurl his long fingers from
around her throat, and she slips further off the edge.
Her arse is nearly all the way over, her wand frighteningly loose and likely to fall before she
does. Hermione desperately wraps her ankles tightly around Malfoy's thighs, clinging for
dear life. With more purchase around him, she tries to yank her hips forward, her wand
grinding against the ledge, even as her head swims alarmingly.
Malfoy extracts one hand, easing pressure on her windpipe, but now only holding all of her
weight up with a mere five fingers. Hermione’s heart starts up again in overdrive. Again, she
tries to yank herself forward, but the pressure in her thighs yanks Malfoy over her instead,
their groins connecting and his body weight shifting closer to the edge. Merlin, they’re both
going to fall.
The hand that moved from her throat suddenly arrives at her waist, yanking her flush to him
from the waist down. The movement forces her wand safely back into her leggings before it
slips completely out. With that stress gone, she notes that he’s hard as stone, insistent against
her covered core. Sick bastard. What does that say then, about how uncomfortably wet she
is?
She doesn’t answer herself, too intent on blinking away black spots. Just when she doesn’t
think she can take anymore, her chest hitching, and her spine aching with effort, Malfoy jerks
her up just enough that her arse can gain purchase on the rim again. He relaxes his tight grip a
fraction, allowing oxygen. A desperate, rattling gasp rips through her as she sucks in frigid
air that tastes like him.
Point made, he raises her a little more, excruciatingly slow, until she can see him again, no
longer hanging right over the edge but certainly not out of the danger zone.
“I can do this,” he whispers to her with menace, picking up their conversation as if there were
no interruption. “But I can also do this.” His hand not throttling her moves to her leggings,
slipping effortlessly under the easy-access elastic band. Despite him easing his attack on her
throat, she stops breathing. “I can kill you just as soon as I can fuck you, Granger.”
Indignation battles with impatience but her head is swimming too much to pick apart the two.
She wants his hand to hurry up as he mercilessly tugs at the band of her knickers. She also
wants to chop his hand around her throat off. They’re both aware she can’t respond to him,
too busy desperately trying to drag in much-needed oxygen.
“I think you like it, Granger. I think you like not knowing what I’ll do to you.” His fingers
slide into her knickers. “I think you like danger.” They part her damp folds, turning her
stomach inside out as much as his eyes boring into hers. “I think you’d be a better Death
Eater than me.” Two fingers slip inside her.
Lips springing apart, her mouth gapes in reaction to both, his fingers' new residence and his
abhorrent comment. How dare he suggest something so vile? Despite everything she wants to
say in reply, despite wanting to kick him, hurt him, and be spiteful, his fingers inside her curl,
and it all flies out of her pounding head.
The world narrows down to her precarious position, barely held upright on the roof edge and
her face throbbing as if her skull is threatening to tear free of her flesh. Malfoy’s smirk, his
blazing eyes, her pounding heart, she drowns in it all, lost in the moment, for once in her life.
No arithmancy equations, no Goblin Rebellions, no potion ingredients.
There are no words she can force her throat to let pass, too raw every time she tries, but even
tender it still allows plenty of noise to pass through and exit out of her mouth. Broken,
mutilated groans that only heighten when Malfoy eases off her throat a little more, thumb
digging into her jaw and his other thumb between her legs rolling over her clit.
Her legs tremble around his thighs and she raises them higher, wrapping them around his
waist so her legs can fall open and there’s more room. His smug expression only grows but
Hermione doesn’t care. He can think he’s won this round all he likes. It’s her being serviced,
her being onslaught with pleasure.
Her taking. Not him. Not this time.
“You seem speechless, Granger. Surprising-” He twists his fingers and even she can hear the
obscene squelch over the pounding in her ears. “Your cunt seems to have a lot to say.”
Hermione’s legs tremble harder, spasming embarrassingly and she bites her lip on her
whimpers lest they give her away. She doesn’t want to orgasm yet. She doesn’t want him to
know that she’s so close already. Doesn’t want him to know that the risk of it all excites her
so much. Doesn’t want him to know he’s identified and exploited an intensely private part of
her.
Doesn’t want him to have the satisfaction. That’s what she chants as he fucks her harder, as
he curls his fingers deeper, and rubs his thumb faster. Don’t give him satisfaction. Don’t let
him know. Don’t let him win. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t come. Gods don’t come.
“What’s this? Pooling into my hand already, Granger? My, my, someone’s excited. As if I
couldn’t feel that already.” He curls and uncurls his fingers rapidly, without mercy, and she
squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of pleasure ripping through her like a nasty
slicing hex. “Don’t be shy Granger, look at me when I unravel you.”
Eyes springing open in indignation, she realizes a beat later she only did what he asked
anyway, whatever her own reasoning and means to shut them again but she can’t. She can’t
when his eyes latch onto hers and he lets that dark chuckle slip. Can’t close them against the
image of him, the blood froze dry on his throat and his amused eyes.
Can’t shut them and block out him stood between her legs, which are splayed open, his
sleeve pulled over his forearm. The forearm that's stained with the Dark Mark, attached to the
hand that is lost in her knickers. Shattering, she turns her head away from him, away from it
all, and bites down on her lip until it splits.
Completely smothers the sound of her orgasm into silence, throbbing and squeezing and
releasing on Malfoy’s fingers. She immediately shoves him off her, forcing his fingers out,
and she doesn't miss the fact that he lets her, after keeping her pinned for so long. He doesn’t
say a word and neither does she, doesn’t try and grab her, doesn’t stop her.
She’s shaking, righting her clothes, and retrieves her wand, briefly inspecting it. There's a
tiny, barely noticeable hair fracture but it makes her scowl nonetheless. Silencing her boots,
she storms across the roof to the door that leads downstairs. She doesn’t turn and look back at
Malfoy when she yanks it open, and when she pulls it closed just as aggressively, all she sees
is the Dark Mark burning on his arm, grotesque and evil, as he brought her to a mind-bending
peak.
Part One: January '98
Chapter Notes
So.
This thing grew from a smutty one-shot to a multi-chapter fic that just keeps writing
itself at this stage. Entirely accidental but we're here now. I am moving through the war
but on my timeline. Some scenes and dialogue from Deathly Hallows are paraphrased,
or completely replicated, but only if it's essential to my story's progress. The timeline
will explain itself, but because we're going through the war, I really can't say how long
this ride might be.
With that, enjoy.
Hermione thought Grimmauld Place was lonely.
Clearly, she only needs to have waited forty-eight hours dragging Harry and Ron through
seven different campsites to find true loneliness. Even with them alongside her, it burrows
under her flesh. They expect her to do this for them, she knows that. It’s unspoken but she
knows it. They think her clever enough to work this all out, all the scattered clues left by
Dumbledore.
They think her clever enough to find and obliterate Horcruxes. They think her clever enough
to change the tide of the war and that… well, that is incredibly lonely. She heard them once
when Harry tried to leave in the dead of night, in the early days at Grimmauld Place.
When Ron went to chase him, she snuck after them and heard Ron plead with Harry that they
couldn’t leave her, that they couldn’t do it without her. She knows he meant it with good
intentions, knows he meant she compliments them, but years of evidence is not hard to
conjure to mind. Who was it who helped them with all their homework? Their essays?
Who told Ron it was Devil Snare keeping him entrapped when they snuck past Fluffy? Who
helped Harry figure out Snape’s riddle in the potion room before the Philosopher Stone? Who
went back for Ron and dragged his limp body off the chessboard and all the way out? Who
then worked out that it was a Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets in Second Year?
Who knew how it was traveling, and left clues, even petrified? Who worked the Time Turner
and guided Harry around when he was being a bumbling idiot to save Sirius and Buckbeak?
Who rallied them into creating Dumbledore’s Order? Who knew what Harry was planning
when he attempted to rescue Sirius all by himself? Who persuaded Umbridge to follow them
into the Forbidden Forest to shake her off?
Her, her, her. All her.
All Hermione. Always Hermione.
They expect too much of her, far, far too much of her brain and her heart, but she loves them.
She’s always loved them and she’s always going to. There’s no choice. There’s no way out.
The thought is horribly suffocating.
“We should have stayed for the wedding,” Ron grumbles for the umpteenth time today.
“Fleur and Bill, we should have stayed for their wedding. It’ll be happening today,” he
reminds her unnecessarily.
“We don’t have time for weddings,” Hermione finally snaps, losing her reading pace. Ron
blanches and she takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry Ron, but we can’t sit and pretend to
celebrate life when deaths are happening all around us. Charity Burbage is the only one we
actually know of, but who really has any idea what’s happening in the Ministry?”
“That Scrimgeour bloke was proper suspicious when he came by.” Ron plays with the
Deluminator, clearly thinking. Hermione scowls when she can no longer see the words in her
book, and he clicks it again quickly. “Sorry, sorry!”
Hermione thinks about how sorry he will be if she stamps on his balls and then shakes her
head. Her thoughts have been increasingly violent lately. Ever since Malfoy and his psychotic
behavior. Behavior she participates in. Behavior she thrives off. Behavior that now she
doesn’t have, now she has no one to channel her frustration and stress into, is missed. Loathe
as she is to admit it, even to herself.
It’s not to be confused with missing Malfoy, Gods no. What she misses is the exhilarating
release of tension. She misses the opportunities to do so. Her behavior, and his, more so, is
completely unhinged and entirely inappropriate, but she misses it all the same.
She trains her focus once more, back on The Tales of Beedle the Bard, frustratingly trying to
understand why Dumbledore left it to her.
“I miss them. Do you miss them?” Ron interrupts her reading all over again, eerily close to
her thoughts, though Hermione thinks he would keel over if he knew the subject matter.
“Stupid question. Course you do.”
Snapping her book closed, she forces a smile and stands. “It’s my turn to take Harry off
watch.”
“What? But I thought he was on for another hour yet? Listen, I really wanted to talk to you
about… about y’know, that night-”
“It’s best if I do.” She talks over him, gathering up her things. “He’s not getting much sleep.”
Ron scoffs. “Well, none of us are really getting much sleep are w-”
“You’re right, it’s so important.” She waves her wand at her pile of items, wordlessly
levitating them to follow as she brushes past him, Ron’s mouth opening and closing.
“Goodnight, Ronald.”
Once outside, she finds Harry asleep with the snitch bequeathed to him by Dumbledore
clutched in a tight fist. She tuts under her breath, her sympathy for his sleepless nights, filled
with Voldemort as they may be, washing away. Between his napping on watch, and Ron’s
complaining, despite them only being gone a mere two days so far, they’ll be dead by next
week.
She sighs, rubbing her temple with her free hand before she shakes Harry awake. They truly
do expect her to carry this, and they can’t see that their expectations are crushing her. Harry
startles, wand slow as he brings it up, and glasses crooked. When he sees it’s her, he blushes
and apologizes, not resisting as she sends him off to bed.
She re-checks the perimeter, channeling more power into the wards and charms keeping them
hidden. It’s bitingly cold and when she’s done, she hurries back to the outside of the tent.
Hermione gets herself situated on the pillow left out for watch purposes, then casts warming
charms and re-heats her mug of tea.
When her drink is once more steaming and she’s warm, the tip of her wand glows with a
Lumos, and she opens her book back up, pulling her blanket over her lap. She’s not sure how
many hours later it is when it appears. A light, steadily growing closer to the barrier of
charms she’s painstakingly built at every campsite.
The barrier that shouldn’t allow them to be seen. Hermione jumps to her feet anyway, unsure
what the light is. She approaches it cautiously but with purpose, wand aimed for the moment
she needs it. She glances back briefly at the tent, but she knows not to get the boys. They
agreed that they would always face things together but Hermione’s smarter than that. If they
all face threats at once, there’s a chance of all of them being harmed.
At least if they approach problems singularly, it gives time for a warning and a chance to get
out to the others. She’s aware the boys wouldn’t agree. She turns her head back to the
approaching light, nearly at the barrier now that, in the dark, doesn’t shimmer in the slightest.
The only way she knows it is there is because it’s her magic and when she concentrates and
imagines reaching out her senses for it, a translucent wall appears in front of her. Now that
she’s right at the perimeter, still safe within it, the light is much closer and taking shape.
Blinding white, but not solid. Corporeal. Misty. A Patronus. Her throat clutches tight. It’s
only been two days.
How on earth have they been found already? Surely her wards and charms have held, have
kept them safe? Because if not, the importance she feels burdened under is for nothing. Is it
the Weasleys’? The Ministry? A trap? Then the Patronus comes sharply into focus, all at
once.
A snout, wings, scales.
It hovers at shoulder height, no bigger than a cat. It’s a dragon, and the moment she realizes
it’s a dragon, she knows its sender. Her heart trips over in her chest. How? How the bloody
hell did he find her in only two days? And if he can find her, then who else can? How in
danger are they? Why is he here? Has something gone wrong already? Has someone… died?
Swallowing, she glances once more at the tent before breaching her wards and following the
Patronus, as it turns and glides away. This is utterly irresponsible of her. The most stupid
decision she has ever made, but she has so many questions that she’ll go mad if she doesn’t
get the answers immediately.
The thought of going back on watch, or into the tent and pondering endlessly about the
Patronus and its sender makes her more ill than what could be waiting at the end of it. It
doesn’t take her very far, but the Patronus is beautiful to watch. It tips its wings from left to
right, gliding and almost playful as it flies away from her, forcing her into a light trot.
It brings her into a clearing, its brilliant light filling it up, showing her a rather small circle of
frosted grass that is lined with trees. Then it extinguishes so abruptly that it makes her heart
jump in her throat. She casts a wordless Lumos, almost afraid to speak, and doesn’t
appreciate at all how sickly and dense it looks compared to the Patronus light.
“Granger.”
Hermione whirls around, wand raised and aimed before she’s taken a breath. “How the fuck
did you find me?”
Malfoy smirks, looking deeply proud that he’s managed to do so as he casually leans against
a tree trunk, wordlessly casting his own Lumos. “Now there’s a tale.”
She arches her eyebrow at him, not impressed. Her wand-tip flickers between white and red,
a hex on the tip of her tongue.
He rolls his eyes, not looking perturbed in the least. Still, it prompts him. “Do you remember
the night you; Scar head and Weasel were whispering to yourselves in the kitchen?”
He really could be talking about any night, being as they did that a lot in Grimmauld Place,
she just didn’t realize he was observing them. Stupid of her. Of course, he was. Slytherin to
his core. She doesn’t imagine he had much else to do in those fragile early days when he and
his mother weren’t allowed to have their wands, lest they slaughter the Order in their sleep.
“Yes,” she answers anyway, as she hates for him to think he has the upper hand or more
knowledge than her. “Get to your point.”
“The Trace, you were discussing, if you recall?” He drawls slowly, enjoying himself as he
twirls his wand between his fingers, the tip still ignited.
“Yes,” she snaps again. “Once more, while I’m young, your point?”
“Take a minute to think, Granger.” He rolls his eyes as if he can’t believe anyone has ever
called her brilliant in her life. “Remember, if you will, how my wand was returned to me, as
well as my mother’s to her person, the very next day. How I was on a mission a week after
that.”
Her voice is sharp, annoyed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She has a horrible feeling she knows.
“Do you think you’re the first to consider the Trace before your little adventure, witch?”
Hermione bites down on her cheek as a mixture of anger and excitement swirls in her chest.
He aggravates her so much, yet she feels such relief to have someone to shout at again
without them wincing like she’s just kicked a puppy. Someone who can handle her biting
tone and scathing replies.
“You may have all the time in the world, Malfoy but some of us have our plates very full, so
if you don’t mind!”
He smirks spitefully. “Touchy.”
She’s going to murder him.
“Only two days and you’re already cracking up. Gods, I wish I was around to see you go
stark-raving mad. I never thought I’d be envious of Potter or the pauper, but here we are.”
“Malfoy!”
He chuckles that dark chuckle that makes her stomach flutter. “I told Kingsley your plans. I
promised him intel on you three. That’s why I got my wand. That’s why I got to go on
missions. That’s why I’m trusted, to a degree, Granger. Besides, I needed my wand, didn’t I?
If I was to place the Trace on you?”
There’s a moment where she’s so unbelievably angry she’s lightheaded, though she’s not sure
if she’s more furious with Malfoy or Kingsley.
Who says we’ll be here next year? Who indeed?
I know The Golden Trio is on the move.
You’re leaving. Tonight.
“See,” Malfoy continues, pushing off the tree and utilising her silent fury, “you three kept
being so hush-hush about your plans. Kingsley was getting rather desperate; I could see that.”
I used that, is unspoken.
“He knew we had history… terse, history, as it were. He thought it laughable that I would get
any information out of you. Said if I did, I’d prove myself.”
Hermione’s throat tightens. “You shagged me for information. You used me.”
“Oh, don’t be so morose, Granger. I think it was a fairly mutual exchange.”

He inclines his head and although he’s healed them since she can imagine the cuts from her
nails, and the bruises her angry fingers left.
She represses a shiver. “And does he know you’re here? Kingsley?” She strangles out, trying
to calm her racing heart, and the crush of devastation.
“Of course. I haven’t told him your location, and I don’t intend to, wherever you move. I do
need a bargaining chip after all.”
“And the Trace?” She demands. “What do you mean you put it on me? All I did was block
Harry's for a short while."
A delighted smirk shapes his mouth and she’s never wanted to punch him more. “I kept my
senses stretched out for days waiting for you to do it. Rather tiring you know but needs must.
I caught it, and altered it, of course. Reshaped it, bound it back to you just for me.”
She remembers how much blocking Harry's Trace had drained her, leaving her weak-kneed.
Had that been him laying his own Trace back onto her? The force she expelled brutalized and
rebounded by him. This only spikes her anger levels, her wand hand trembling.
“That’s extremely advanced magic,” she accuses as if he couldn’t possibly accomplish such a
feat.
“I’m extremely clever,” he quips, not rising to the bait. “Do you think I sat and twiddled my
thumbs when my father informed me the Dark Lord was resurrected? Do you think I sat and
did nothing, staying at my perceived allowance of skill?” He scoffs and she flushes. “Do you
know many our age who can cast a Patronus?”
“A few actually,” she spits, trembling harder with all her pent-up rage. “Better wizards than
yourself, I can assure you.”
“I’m sure,” he sneers, lip curling.
She can’t believe they’ve ever been pressed to hers.
“Are you done then? With your gloating? Or did you actually come here for a reason? You
horrible little snake."
Malfoy grins at her, the first one she’s ever seen from him but it’s a horrid thing, malformed
and wicked. Shark-like. “Kingsley wants you updated, and he expects them back. Think of
me as an owl.”
I’m not an owl! Pops into Hermione’s head, bizarre and unimportant, but nostalgic. She
dashes it away, her rage too great, too big.
“Well, spit it out. I can’t stand to be in your presence much longer.”
“Mad-Eye Moody is dead.” The words are devoid of emotion, Malfoy relaying them as if
he’s merely listing breakfast options.
“What?” Hermione screeches, her anger slammed down with grief. “What do you mean?
What happened?!”
“One of the Weasley twins has lost an ear,” he continues cruelly, tapping his wand against his
fingers in a simple little list whilst dealing blows to her heart.
“What on… Malfoy! Which one? Which twin? Fred or George? How? Would you just tell me
the whole bloody story instead of-”
“Mundungus Fletcher shit himself on a mission for hostages. Left Mad-Eye vulnerable.
Dolohov got him. George, I think, tried to help him, but lost his ear. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all you know?!” She repeats furiously, her anger returning full force. “Is George
alright? Can they repair his ear? How can you just drop all of this on me with such cold
detachment, you vile cretin?!"
“You wouldn’t know any of this if I hadn’t made it so, Granger!” He snarls back at her,
ignoring all her questions and advancing into her space. “You took yourself away! You cut
yourself off from news about the Order! Be thankful!”
“Thankful?!” She repeats again in disbelief, reduced to parroting him in her indignation.
“You’re only doing this for yourself! Being a little messenger for Kingsley to save your arse!
Shagging me to get information like a pig!”
Malfoy sneers at her. “Why else would I shag you?”
Hermione bites down on her tongue to stop the strangled gasp from escaping her mouth. That
shouldn’t hurt so much. He shouldn’t have the power to hurt her so much.
She releases her teeth and forces herself to talk normally. “Is there a schedule to your
incessant stalking or do you think yourself entitled enough to pop up when you feel like it?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
His fingers rise and brush her curls from her face, and she jerks back as if burned. He’s truly
unbelievable. Before she can tell him so, he raises his wand and as she flinches, he
Disapparates with a sharp crack, the only sound left behind with her pounding heart.
While she stands there alone in the dark, with only the pinprick light of her Lumos, and
before she heads back to the tent, she allows the tears. She’s quick about it, rushing the
emotions out. Of course, she can’t tell Harry and Ron about Mad-Eye, or even George,
otherwise, she’ll have to tell them how she knows, and that means telling them everything.
She certainly won’t be doing that.
It’s cruel but Malfoy is right. They did cut themselves away from the Order. They knew they
were doing that when they left. If it wasn’t for Malfoy, she wouldn’t even know to keep it a
secret. Merlin, she can’t believe that slimy snake. It shouldn’t surprise her though, should it?
Malfoy is as Malfoy always has been. Working and alliancing to only his gain.
Hermione takes a deep breath and walks back the way she came, her mind churning over all
of their prior interactions now she knows their underlying intentions. When Hermione steps
through the tent flaps at the first ray of daybreak, her fingers are stiff and her legs stiffer from
the cold walk back. Ice has seeped deep into her bones, though whether it’s the temperature
or Malfoy’s words is still unknown to her, and her eyes feel tight from crying.
She levitates her belongings inside with her, left at the entrance when she followed Malfoy’s
Patronus. Guiding her wand, she lays them out on the picnic table Harry is already slumped
at, trying to act like she’s been just outside the whole time. She’s slightly nervous someone
popped their head out and saw she wasn’t there. She’s anticipating Harry mentioning it as she
moves further into the tent.
There’s not a word from him, however, too absorbed in pulling his spoon through a bowl of
something sloppy that maybe should have been porridge but didn’t quite work out that way.
Honestly, can they not even feed themselves properly without her input now? Hermione’s not
sure if this annoys her more than him not checking in with her on her watch when he woke
up.
“Morning,” he grunts, giving up on the slop and pushing his bowl away.
“Morning,” she greets back, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Cuppa?”
“Please.”
Ron chooses to clamber from the bottom bunk bed at that moment, into the space that
somewhat resembles a mix of a living room, kitchen, dining room, and command center,
shabby as it is.
“Could I grab one of them too?” He yawns. “Please?” He adds quickly to her sharp look.
She nods silently, still absorbed in her thoughts of another pale, lanky twat, and sets about
making tea for the three of them as Ron yawns loudly again and slumps at the table with
Harry.
“I don’t feel like I’ve slept properly since the night before we left Hogwarts,” Ron mumbles
tiredly.
Both Hermione and Harry glance at their red-haired friend with equal disbelief on their faces.
While it’s not an unfair comment to say times have been tough on their sleep schedule,
between the trio, Ron is pretty much the only one who hasn’t been affected. On any missions,
he’s always been a pain in the arse to rouse out of sleep.
Still, Hermione feels like she’s been growing snappier with the both of them lately, her
patience incredibly thin and she’s aware she needs to squash it. She never used to be so short-
fused, but since her violent trysts with Malfoy, it’s as if she has to consciously remind herself
that not everyone feels as dark and angry as he and her do.
The thought alone is a hard one, comparing her and Malfoy as if they’re anything alike as if
they share things in common. She scowls to herself, remembering his gloating. If only her
younger self could see the mess of it all.
“Remember how mad that night was?” Harry asks suddenly, looking around at them both and
pulling Hermione from her thoughts. “Everyone was everywhere. Utter chaos.” She presses
her lips together and hums noncommittally as she finishes the three teas. “You though,
Hermione... we couldn’t seem to find you for a minute.” He finishes, green eyes wide behind
his glasses.
“Yeah, Hermione… where did you go?” Ron asks almost suspiciously as she wordlessly
levitates the mugs of tea over to sit in front of each of their owners.
“Thanks,” they both grumble, but Ron goes on to say, “There was sheer madness happening,
Bill was being mauled by Greyback, and you were gone…”
But Harry has already worked it out. “You went to Dumbledore’s office. You got the book:
Secrets of the Darkest Arts.”
She’s not sure why she blushes as she sits with them both at the table. Dumbledore was dead
at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower, she’s certain he would no longer have cared all that
much about her taking his books. Especially since he intended to place this impossible
mission on their shoulders. Even still, she’s not a particular fan of how the boys look at her
like she robbed his grave.
Her tone turns snappy, Malfoy’s words taunting her in the background. “Well, we needed it,
didn’t we? Everything we’ve needed I’ve ensured we have!” She curls her hands tight around
her tea, her fingers still stiff and unbending. “Every book, every potion, every spell. Not to
mention figuring out how to block the Trace before its designated time back in June!”
Mentioning the Trace and thinking of the one Malfoy has attached to her, makes her blood
boil. He’s barking if he thinks she won’t work tirelessly to get it off her at her first chance.
“I’m researching children’s tales, translating runes, mapping out Tom Riddle’s whole bloody
life based on the scraps Harry can be bothered to feed me, and not to mention washing your
socks! Thanks to me, I actually know how to destroy a Horcrux! Thanks to me, I actually
understand what on earth we’re bloody looking for!”
Harry, sensing her impending breaking point gently murmurs, “We’re really grateful, ‘Mione.
Truly. We’d be nowhere without you. We’d know nothing. Moody said they couldn't have
even kept me cloaked until my birthday without you blocking the Trace! You did something
even a Head Auror couldn't do!"
Hermione knows he means well, but it only reinforces the idea she’s previously had that he’s
placing sole responsibility on her brain. Even so, the mention of Mad-Eye tampers down her
irritation. How can she behave like this, talk to them with such little patience when she's
keeping such painful secrets?
Shagging Malfoy is bad enough. Malfoy, who the boys cannot stand and who has done
damaging, painful things to all of them. Mad-Eye though, keeping his death a secret, and
George... Hermione takes a deep, calming breath, latching onto Harry's words, in the hope
that talking it out will help her not only distract from her guilt but also identify how to get
Malfoy’s Trace off her. She’s never even heard of how to create a Trace. It was hard enough
blocking it.
“Well, when you mentioned Tom killing his parents and altering his uncle's memory without
being caught, Harry, I knew it must be possible to block it in some way.”
She doesn’t mention that to block the Trace she had to perform advanced, complex magic
that felt as if it drained ten years of her life when it finally left the tip of her wand. She
wonders again if that was Malfoy’s interference, and if it drained him the same. She hopes it
nearly sucked him dry the smug prat.
“Anyway, now that we’re on the subject, it’s time I share what I’ve learned. Based on my
readings, what you did to Riddle’s diary, Harry is really the only way to destroy a Horcrux.”
“What, stabbing it with a Basilisk fang?” Harry wonders, cradling his cup closer.
“Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of Basilisk fangs, then, I was wondering what
we were going to do with them,” Ron mutters petulantly and Hermione scowls at him.
“Alright, alright! Keep your knickers on!”
“You don’t need to keep pointing out how difficult this all is, Ronald! We are already
extremely aware! And to answer your ridiculous comment, it doesn’t have to be a Basilisk
fang, but it does have to be a particularly destructive piece of magic that the Horcrux can’t
repair itself from. Being as Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare-”
“-phoenix tears,” Harry interjects, helping her spell it out.
“Exactly. Our problem is that they’re very few substances akin to Basilisk venom, and
they’re all dangerous to carry around with you. A problem we’re going to have to solve
though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to
put it beyond magical repair.”
“But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” Ron begins carefully as if dreading winding her
up any further, “why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?”
“Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.” Seeing that Harry and Ron
look thoroughly confused, Hermione quickly hurries on. It gets frustrating having to slow
down her rapid thought process and spell it out to them all the time, but she’s well-versed in
doing so. “Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I
wouldn’t damage your soul at all.”
He peers down into his tea as he mumbles, “which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure.”
Harry laughs but immediately shuts up when he sees the thin ice the pair of them are skating
on with her. “It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your
soul will survive untouched. It’s the complete opposite with a Horcrux. The fragment of the
soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can’t exist without
it.”
“That diary sort of died when I stabbed it,” Harry confirms, trying to be helpful she imagines.
Hermione briefly remembers their Second Year, when he told them how ink poured like
blood from the punctured pages of Riddle’s diary, and the screams of the piece of
Voldemort’s soul as it vanished.
Hermione continues, wanting to hurry up with it all. “Once the diary was properly destroyed,
the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before
you did, flushing it away, but obviously, it came back good as new.”
“Hang on.” Ron frowns, cradling his tea in his large hands. “The bit of soul in that diary was
possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that work, then?”
Oh, for Merlin's sake, must she spell out absolutely everything? Is there nothing he can
deduce himself? Keeping the snarl off her face, she takes a large gulp of her lukewarm tea
simply to hide behind the rim and collect herself a moment.
“While the magical container is still intact,” she finally begins again, hugging the mug to her
chest while the boys take her cue and sip from their own, “the bit of soul inside it can flit in
and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for long, it’s
nothing to do with touching it,” she adds before Ron can interrupt her again. “I mean close
emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly
vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”
“I don’t imagine you would do so willingly,” Harry says almost defensively as if she’s
attacking Ginny personally.
She refrains from rolling her eyes. “I don’t think it’s something one does willingly, Harry.
Most people don’t even know what a Horcrux is. It’s a vile piece of magic, and it can look
like anything. It could quite literally be a needle in a haystack.”
“Oh lovely, just what we need,” Ron adds scornfully.
Reaching her limit, Hermione stands abruptly and both boys lean back as if she means to hex
them. She’s still unsure if she does.
“Well, I need some sleep. I take it you can handle your watch, Ronald?”
Being as you can’t handle literally anything else.
“Yeah. Get some sleep. Make you less cranky.”
Harry shoots Ron a warning look that he completely misses, but Hermione simply swings her
legs out and storms off to bed. Once the blanket is over her head, she lies on her back and
stares at the blue fabric. The minute that she’s alone in some sense, all of her overwhelming
feelings crush down on her chest.
She thought she was lonely last night, lonelier than Grimmauld Place but last night, she had
the slim but possible chance to take it out on Malfoy again someday. Now the slimy bastard
has even taken that away from her. She grits her teeth against tears. She’ll never allow him to
make her cry again.
Instead of sleeping, she lies there and tries to sense the Trace he bound to her, reaching out
futilely for it. It’s a complete failure, being that she doesn’t know what she’s looking for.
Traces are incredibly personal when placed at birth, but manufactured ones, are personal to
the caster, that’s something she learned when she was researching how to block Harry's.
Malfoy’s Trace will be a signature of him, a slither of his magic and she has no idea what that
feels like. A more disturbing thought is that there’s now an imprint of Draco Malfoy being
carried around on her person.
Part One: January '98
Chapter Notes
Just a quick note to say, I started this thing as a self-serving, smutty one-shot. It grew
into a monster.
As a reader, I despise reading WIPs (except Let The Dark In, my only exception)
because I worry too much about them being abandoned. Don't worry, I have never
abandoned a fic, even if they've taken me a hot minute to finish. Therefore I've been
hammering away in the background, fleshing this thing out. I'm kinda writing out of
order, which is why you're waiting, but I will say the update schedule is roughly every
month at the moment.
A week later, when the snow clears up, but the air is still frosty, both Harry and Hermione are
sat at the picnic bench within the tent, once more drawn back to the topic of the blasted
locket. Harry re-reads the note that he found secreted away within the jewelry, signed R.A.B.
Despite how many times he’s read it aloud, and Hermione is sure, internally to only an
audience consisting entirely of himself, he’s careful and articulate when he speaks. There’s a
sense of reverence coating his tone, and she knows that’s wholly in memory of Dumbledore.
Both he and Harry retrieved the locket on one of the last sessions Harry had with the
Headmaster where he explored Tom Riddle’s young life.
It was a mere week before Narcissa Malfoy changed everyone’s plans and kick-started the
war. The small, square piece held open in Harry’s fingers is as thin and well-read as both, the
letter left to him by Dumbledore, about his choice to die, and the letter Harry discovered to
Sirius from his own mother during their time at Grimmauld Place.
He pulls it out to read near enough every night, particularly when he thinks he’s unobserved.
“R.A.B,” Harry repeats, for what must be the millionth time in this discussion of the locket's
owner alone. “R.A.B. Who is it?”
She sighs and rubs her temples, feeling like they’re hitting a brick wall once more. Ron is on
watch, though it makes no difference to the weight of their conversation, as Ron really never
has any helpful ideas to put forward. His complete lack of engagement on some occasions is
enough to make Hermione want to throttle him.
The thought of strangulation drifts her mind away to Malfoy and the chilly night on the roof.
The way he hung her over the concrete ledge, threatening to send her to impact with the
snow-laden ground. The way he screamed in her face for her to ‘do it.’ She wonders
sometimes how serious he is, how hopeless he truly is, and then she firmly reminds herself
that she doesn’t care.
Regardless of how many times she pictures his hard, grey eyes and high cheekbones as he
whispers, “I think you like it, Granger. I think you like not knowing what I’ll do to you,” the
realization of why he was there has to take precedence. Malfoy was only on that roof, to get
information out of her.
Only pressing her buttons and gauging her reactions to help figure out her and the boy's
plans. She hasn’t seen him since his gloating confession, nor has been successful in removing
his Trace. They’ve moved campsite four times since their impromptu meeting, but she knows
he’ll be able to find them again.
Find her again.
“What shall we have for dinner tonight?” Harry asks.
Hermione looks at him across the table, rapidly blinking away her thoughts. “Well, what do
you want?”
It’s better to just ask this, being that she does the cooking anyway. Harry tries it, having some
idea from living with the Dursleys, but his mind wanders more than even hers, and he burns
things even more often. Ron doesn’t have the first clue and is more of a hindrance than he is
a help.
The second time he made them all throw up, she declared he wasn’t allowed to try anymore.
Anyone else would have thought her cruel but Ron was too relieved. Lazy arsehole.
Sometimes in her most spiteful moments, Hermione thinks all he has to offer to the group is
being Harry’s best friend.
It’s no secret that Harry loves Ron more than her, though he would deny it vehemently.
That’s just the way it is and always has been. Hermione has made her peace with it, painful
as it was. The loneliness in Third Year, when Ron didn’t speak to her, believing Crookshanks
to have eaten Scabbers, or rather, Peter Pettigrew.
Harry tried to be diplomatic, she knows that but she also knows how much time she spent at
Hagrid’s, in tears; wracked with hiccupping sobs. Harry chose to spend a lot more time
listening to Ron undoubtedly complaining about her than with herself, who wouldn’t say a
word about it. At the time it had burnt her something awful, and now and again, it still does.
Even still, it is something she has acclimated to and found a grudging kind of acceptance, and
in the end, it doesn’t change how much she loves her best friend. Besides, how can she really
fault him? With how things were going with Ginny before they left, the Weasleys will soon
be Harry’s family in legality as well as nature.
Harry sighs and takes off his glasses. Hermione can’t help but look at his scar, always so
fascinating, even all these years later. The thin, maroon, almost bruise-like lines of the scar
spider-webbing from his forehead. Most of it is hidden by his hair, growing unrulier than
usual. Still, it holds her attention until he speaks, and then she meets his eyes again.
“Honestly, I’m not even hungry. Just feels like routine.” He slides his glasses back on after
rubbing his eyes. “Stupid as it sounds, it makes me think about the Dursleys. About Dudley
and his two dinners.” He chuckles, though he’s not very amused. “Stupid, but I worry about
them.”
“Course you do,” Hermione answers, trying to be soft. “We know they aren’t… great, but
you’re not evil, Harry. You just have to remember what Kingsley said: that they were
evacuated early on. He said your aunt at least recalled the first war. She understood how
serious it was.”
“Yeah,” Harry sighs, tipping his head back to blink at the tent canvas, then brings his head
back down. “You’re right, they weren’t great. Really, really weren’t, but I don’t want them
hurt. I don’t want them dead.”
“Of course, you don’t,” she repeats soothingly. “You’re good, Harry. You’ve always been
incredibly good. I love you so much for it.”
Because I’m not, not all the time.
“And…” He swallows hard, his green eyes sharpening with standing tears behind his glasses.
“I miss Hedwig. So much.”
Hermione’s chin wobbles as his pain radiates into her chest. Hedwig. Beautiful, snowy
Headwig who flew into the path of an Avada to save Harry’s life the night of Dumbledore’s
death. The moment is etched raw and painful in her brain, aching with the knowledge that she
saw something that eviscerated a piece of her best friend's heart.
She also misses Crookshanks so deeply it throbs behind her breastbone. She left him in the
care of Ginny, though she promised to leave him with her mum upon her return to Hogwarts.
Hermione couldn’t bear the thought of him around cruel Death Eaters, who had no qualms
about hurting children, let alone vulnerable animals.
When finally, she finds her voice, all she can squeak out is, “I know, Harry. Believe me, I
do.”
Harry smiles at her sadly, deepening the ache in her chest, and then leaves the table,
wandering towards the bunk beds, apparently giving up on R.A.B. for the moment. He seems
to lie down quite a lot, and she’s almost sure that he’s having more visions of Voldemort than
he’s telling her or even Ron. She sighs and closes her eyes, lingering on Harry’s words.
It’s so easy for him to be good.
They say that those who have known little, give so much, and if that’s anyone, it’s Harry.
Maybe that’s why Hermione has the ability to be dark, to be mean, and hateful. Maybe she
had too much, was given too much: loving parents, a content home life, best friends, all her
academic wishes coming true, adventures, and good memories.
Maybe that’s why she has this dark energy thrumming in her veins, the kind that expels itself
when it comes into contact with Malfoy’s. The kind that allows her to hurl horrible words at
him and then shag him in the next breath. The kind that allows him to do the same. She
pictures the night on the roof again.
She didn’t think they would have any more secret encounters before she left. Had no idea
when she walked up the stairs to get a view of Grimmauld Place from above.
When she walked up the stairs…
Hermione’s eyes spring open.
When she walked up Grimmauld Place’s stairs! Those old, groaning stairs, nestled in the
heart of the Black ancestral home, and there on a door, that she walked past without note,
there, when she was heading to the roof where Malfoy would finger her, where she would see
his Dark Mark that turned her stomach, were the initials.
R.A.B.
Fuck.
Oh, fucking hell.
Hermione jumps up from the picnic bench, pacing. They were all there that whole time, her,
Harry, and Ron. That whole time, the three of them, between June and December, in that
house for months, and she saw it. They all must have. Obviously, the ‘B’ is for Black, but R
and A, what names are those? A first and middle surely, but for whom?
Sirius’ sibling? She knows there was one. Turning sharply, she starts lapping circles around
the bench, twisting her fingers together and thinking. Planning. She needs to see the door
again. She needs to get into the room. Buggering hell, why didn’t she realize this before they
left? There’s no way they can go back now, Kingsley would never let them leave again.
He’d place wards so strong they’d ride out the rest of the war in Grimmauld Place, Horcruxes
abandoned. It will all be pointless. The three of them know that Voldemort cannot die until
they’re found and they’ve successfully destroyed all of them. Then it hits her. Malfoy. He
could look in the room for her.
He could dig around and search, confirm it truly is R.A.B. initialized on the door. She doesn’t
have to tell him why, or anything at all really. Despite knowing they’ve left, Hermione’s
certain he doesn’t own the knowledge of their reasoning. If he’s going to work for Kingsley
and obtain information for him, and if Kingsley wants updates from her, well then Malfoy
can work for her too.
It’s the very least the snake can do. The only other problem, is how on earth does she
summon him? He told her he would drop in whenever he wanted, whenever he was sent, and
so she has no way to get a message to him. Which forces her to wait, frustrating as that is.
A further day, the Patronus summons her during her nightly watch. She runs after it,
energised by her gathered impatience. Being as they’ve relocated; it doesn’t lead her to the
previous clearing this time. It leads her instead to a small lake, boarded by pebbles. The only
other light, bar the brilliant white of the dragon Patronus, is that of the moon.
It allows her to see Malfoy standing with his back to her, skipping pebbles across the water’s
surface. His shoulders look wider and his arms thicker, and for a brief moment, she wonders
what he’s been doing since she last saw him. Then the Patronus winks out of existence,
leaving her in only the moonlight.
Hermione strides forward, and calls, “I need you to do something for me!”
Malfoy lets loose another pebble before turning to face her as she approaches. He cocks a
blonde eyebrow. “Hello to you too, Granger.”
“I’m not in the mood!” She snaps, stopping behind him at the water’s edge. “I’ve already
waited days! You need to do it as soon as possible, and I need a way to contact you in the
future.”
“And pray tell, why I would allow you to summon and send me off like a common house
elf?” He drawls.
Hermione’s patience breaks and she throws her wand arm out. Malfoy deflects her wordless
hex lazily, throwing it to the side where it skims, and bounces, over the water. He glances
over his shoulder at it fizzling out of existence for a mere second, mildly amused before
focusing his attention back on her.
“You will do this, Malfoy, and anything else I ask of you if you want to deter me from
removing the Trace you’ve bound to me or to hear so much as an update on Ron’s bowel
movements to funnel back to Kingsley!”
He inspects his nails as if it’s his only pressing matter. “I see.”
She throws another wordless hex at him, just for the joy of it, even as he deflects it again, this
time without even looking. “You will also allow me to summon you when needed, so you
don’t keep wasting my precious time trying to turn the tide of this war!”
Malfoy’s eyes snap up to her, bright and curious, and she internally curses herself. That’s not
information he should have had.
“Very special little holiday is it, Granger? Enough to think yourself important? How
touching.”
“Stop talking,” she grits out. “And listen to me. This needs to be done tonight. You will tell
no one. Kingsley, if you must.”
Hermione details what she wants him to do, in both confirming the initials on the bedroom
door and investigating inside, without being seen. She figures it can’t harm them for Kingsley
to know she’s got Malfoy poking around bedrooms in Grimmauld Place. It’s not as if anyone
knows what they’re doing, or looking for, and could make a connection between the two.
It’s not as if even Harry and Ron know what she’s set into motion, and she’s yet to figure out
how she’s going to tell them.
Malfoy’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth in mirrored irritation. “Fine. But I expect you to hold
up your end after I do.”
“Prove yourself, and I’ll consider it.”
This irritates him immensely, parroting Kingsley’s words to him, she can tell because his
nostrils flare. “You only have to think of my Patronus to call upon the Trace. Picture it in
your mind and replicate it. Not as if you’re producing my dragon but copying my magic
because you are carrying my magic. The Patronus is a visual representation of it. I assume
the brightest witch of our age can handle that?”
She’s never heard of such a thing in all her studies, but she nods like she has any idea what
he’s talking about. “Well then, I’ll expect you in a few hours, before daybreak.”
He rolls his eyes, clearly already aggrieved to be reminded of his end of the bargain. “You
don’t dismiss me, Granger, but since you’re intending to rush me, here.” It’s only then she
notices a book in his hand, which he jabs in her direction, knocking into her ribs irritably.
“The old oaf's tell-all book. Potter is expected to have it for some bizarre reason.”
“Anything else?” Hermione snaps as she snatches it from his grasp and brings it to her chest,
suppressing her curiosity.
She has no idea how she’s going to explain its presence to Harry and Ron. Her only comfort
is the feeling that it's practice for the many things she will have to work out how to get
around in the coming future.
“Salazar, you’re riled something ghastly these days.”
She clenches the book in one hand and her wand in the other. “Anytime now, Malfoy.”
Sighing, as if she’s spoiling all of his fun, he steps even closer, looking down at her. “I was
forced to attend that blasted wedding, with the Veela bride.”
Hermione blinks up at him for a moment, then she scoffs, her words seeped in sarcasm. “My
how ugly the war is on your side, Malfoy.”
“It was ugly,” he answers at once, inclining his head as if remembering. “The décor was
atrocious. Surprisingly, Mother found it rather charming.” His face ripples before he quickly
moves on. “I met Loony Lovegood’s barking mad father. He was wearing a symbol around
his neck that’s also in that book. I’d look into it.”
“Well, aren’t you helpful? What an asset to the Order you are, Draco.”
“You know you only call me ‘Draco’ when you’re being particularly spiteful. I wonder if I
riled you up enough…” With another step, their bodies are nearly flush, and he takes one of
her curls between his thumb and finger, as he annoyingly does when he’s being particularly
foul. “Made you spiteful enough, that you’d say it with my cock buried inside you?”
Hermione elbows him away from her and yet he looks elegant as he takes two steps back, his
hand not holding his wand, sliding into his trouser pocket. “You say that as if I would ever
shag you again.”
He licks his lower lip. “I’m sure you didn’t think you were going to shag me the first time,
Granger. You might surprise yourself once more.”
Without waiting for her response, he Apparates away. Hermione sighs and heads back to the
tent. Her watch isn’t up, but she heads inside to find the boys both asleep and not wondering
where she’s gone. She heads back outside with The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore by
Rita Skeeter, the filthy bug, in hand.
There are only a few minutes in which she flicks through it before she closes it. She has too
many things on her pile of research to get done before she adds this to the list. Instead, she
turns back to Tales of Beedle the Bard, noting the same symbol in it she’s seen a few times
already, rather repeatedly.
No…
Hermione snatches up Dumbledore’s book again. Cross-references. A match. Bugger. Malfoy

may have been on to something. Lanky prat. She rushes to pull out her rune books. After
squinting in Lumos' light for an age, her eyes begin to go funny, and she sighs in frustration.
Hermione’s positive there’s a text that can help her, a more complex book but she doesn’t
have it to hand.
All of her texts came from Hogwarts, stolen from the library and Dumbledore’s office, being
as she couldn’t stroll into Diagon Alley. The book she has in mind is most likely to be sold in
Flourish and Blotts, or else in a similar bookstore within a wizarding community. Thinking
on it, she’s struck with the realization that where they’re camped currently, there’s such a
community within two miles.
Not a large one, but she remembers Lavender Brown telling her about a cousin who shopped
there. Very similar to Diagon Alley, its entrance is through a Muggle-repelled pub. Hurrying
back into the tent, she moves around quickly and quietly. She can’t risk waking the boys, and
she can’t be gone for too long.
But it’s a simple in-and-out job. She retrieves Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, and hurries out,
walking past the wards and Apparating on the spot. Appearing at the edge of the town under
the cloak and in the dark streets, Hermione manages to guide herself via signs to the pub. She
can feel the Muggle-repelling charms instantly.
She’s not sure if it’s due to being Muggle-born, or if it feels this way for all who come across
it. Even so, her thoughts loop a bit before it, trying their best to re-direct her. It takes her a
couple of minutes to forge ahead but once she’s broken through the wards, the feeling slithers
off her.
Taking a breath, she tries to conspicuously pull open the door without letting the cloak slide
off, her wand poised beneath it. Light and warmth envelop her, loud conversations and
drunken laughter. It deceives her into taking a confident step inside. Her boots meet a sticky
step on the floorboard. She glances down before letting her eyes rise.
Even invisible, she goes rigid in terror at the sight of Antonin Dolohov. He sits on a round
table in front of her, a young Asian girl in his lap who looks horrified to be there. Men crowd
around him, laughing at something he says. Hermione can barely see him as a flash of purple
rips against the back of her eyes. Her chest twists with remembered pain. It’s swiftly
accompanied by rage. Sickly and heavy.
Someone else opens the door behind her and she hurries to move to the side, trying to keep
calm and quiet. She has no idea what he’s doing here but it’s not as if she knows what Death
Eaters do with their spare time. Knowing that he also killed Moody does nothing to calm her
boiling blood.
If it wasn’t Harry and Ron’s lives at risk if she was caught, and if it wasn’t for getting the
book she needed, to help with Horcrux hunting, if it wasn’t anything other than being purely
personal, then Hermione would throw a Crucio at him with every ounce of meaning behind
it. As it is, she slides around his table and through the back, expecting to find a high wall like
Diagon Alley.
Instead, she finds a garden gate, low and broken, and an exposed skyline of hills. She’s not
deterred. There would be no repelling charms if this wasn’t the entrance. She reaches out a
confident hand and pushes the gate open. Further divergence from Diagon Alley shows in the
maze-like streets, no long, narrow cobble paths.
Squinting at dainty signs, she meanders around the sharply curved corners, the wind
whipping the Invisibility Cloak against her ankles. Hermione keeps alert, checking behind
her and peering around corners before letting her feet follow. After a cold ten-minute search,
her heart jumps as she finds the store she's after.
While eager, she tempers herself as she casts detection charms, dismantling wards and
caterwaul systems. Glancing around quickly, she mutters her final spell and presses on the
handle, tensing for a bell above the door. The Gods must be with her tonight because there
isn’t one and she breathes a soft sigh of relief.
Ahead of her is a dominating sales desk, large and mahogany. It’s scattered with ribbons, a
large pair of scissors, bows, and stands of Albus Dumbledore’s stoic expression. Meet the
author posters surround the book display, Rita Skeeter blowing a kiss and giggling. Rolling
her eyes, Hermione quietly closes the door and hurries.
The bookstore is well organized with a neat catalog and titled rows. Easily, she manages to
find the book she needs, a smile breaking over her face as she strokes the cover. Because of
how quickly her success comes around, she luxuriates in taking some other books, figuring
Harry and Ron have no clue about the context of her bag, and they don’t try to.
When she’s taken what she wants, a small thrill at the uninterrupted perusal, she reaches
inside for her sack of Galleons. With them missing their final year of school, she has a small
nest egg from lack of spending on uniforms, supplies, general year-round needs, and trips.
She places the exact price of her culminated books in two piles on the counter.
There. Officially not stealing. Though thinking about it, there is so much more she needs now
she has the opportune moment. Knickers, for one thing. She severely underestimated how the
cotton would fall apart in freezing cold rivers. Scourgify charms do nothing near enough
hygienic to them.
Figuring she hasn’t been all that long, she slips from the bookstore and continues to lock it
back up, ensuring she layers back the wards and charms she dismantled. It’s not quite the
same as what she found, but she figures the money will tell the owners someone slipped in.
Hermione can only hope they see the intent not to disrespect their establishment in the money
and lack of damage done.
Wondering the maze-like streets once more, she continues a pattern of dismantling wards and
entering premises under the Invisibility Cloak. She tries not to be too liberal about it, being
that a trail will be something that could come back on her. Even still, she manages to restock
knickers and some hygiene products, such as a desperately needed brush.
When she’s satisfied, she heads back towards the pub but finds that she’s wandered a little
too deeply into the maze of streets. It takes her a long while to get back to the bookstore, her
stomach riddled with anxiety. Upon seeing it, she expects the pulse of terror to ebb away,
back on familiar ground and on her way to getting out.
Instead, it spikes sharply at the cracked open door of the bookstore. She locked that. Warded
it. She knows she did. Her head whips around, her hands shake and her fingers tense. Edging
closer, she takes a step towards the door and reaches out for the handle. It closes softly and
she’s too nervous to try and ward it, so she turns, intent on hurrying home and hoping it
doesn’t lead to vandalism.
A scream sticks in her throat at the site of Dolohov’s leering face. He rams her backward, his
wrist behind her pushing on the handle and swinging it open. Before it careens, he catches it,
Hermione staggering and panting, dodging his other hand. His grappling fingers and wild
eyes as he tries to find her turn her stomach.
He knows someone’s here, but he doesn’t know it’s her. She can already imagine the reaction
if he works it out. She steps back, desperate to evade him, trying not to breathe too loudly
despite how her lungs ache. Dolohov’s thick fingers clench and his pinkie catches the fabric
of the cloak.
Eyes gleaming, his hand flashes out as she tries to step back again and the cloak rips off of
her, blinding her until she catches her fall on her elbows, rather painfully. Hermione’s
scrambling backward the moment she’s down and Dolohov stalks her, his eyes sharpening as
he tries to place her. Recognition washes over him as she tries to roll her wand out from the
trap of her palm.
She’s not fast enough.
“Expelliarmus!”
Hermione’s wand skitters from her hand, but she doesn’t stop to watch where it flies to,
instead throwing herself on her hands and knees, kicking off the floor. She rounds the sales
desk, hands slipping against silk ribbons. Dolohov grins fetid yellow teeth at her and levels
his wand, stilling her.
Keeping both his eyes and his wand trained on her, he begins to round the front desk.
Hermione slowly turns with him, pivoting her hips as her hands stay fixed on the mahogany.
“Now why do I remember those curls and honeyed skin?” He rasps softly, thin lips in a
smirk. “I think I played with you before, little girl.”
Hermione says nothing, forcing her chin not to tremble as her fingers curl against the desk.
“The Ministry, was it? With the Potter boy? Yes, I think it was.”
Raising her chin in defiance, she holds his eyes. “So, you do recall how poorly it went for
you before, then?”
Dolohov laughs drily. “Do you reference the way you writhed when I hit you with a curse,
Mudblood?”
Purple burns behind her retinas.
He smirks when he sees her hesitate. “Did your dirty blood boil? Did it fight to claw out of
your useless veins?”
It did.
It was excruciating and never-ending. It’s never left her. Sometimes it wakes her in the night,
and she feels it when she sees fireworks.
“I’m alive,” she evades. “And I’m not afraid of you.”
“Oh, little bird,” he whispers cruelly, stepping even closer. “You should be.”
Curled fully, her knuckles nudge cold sharpness. She doesn’t look down, doesn’t look away
as she swallows past her dry throat.
“I usually Petrify ‘em, but…” he drags his lewd gaze over Hermione’s body, lingering on her
heaving chest and her denim-bound thighs.
Between them.
“I want to feel every moment of you struggling.”
Stretching her fingers out, she whispers, “I’m dying to see you try.”
With a snarl, Dolohov crosses the empty space to her and Hermione swings her arm around
the moment his chest grinds into hers. The shears in her grasp are open, and the blade flays
the flesh of her fingers as she sends the tip into Dolohov’s throat. The expression on his face
freezes and his arm spasms, jabbing his wand between her ribs.
A bright, hot pain sears the space between her second and third rib and her mangled fingers
scream in agony, but she drives the scissors deeper. Dolohov’s knees give out and Hermione’s
breath blows out of her as she glances down at his falling body in a daze. Pain pounds in her
hand and ribs, her vision dancing. The room reeks of copper, invading her nostrils.
I might be going into shock, she thinks.
You don’t have time for this! The voice, shockingly, sounds like Malfoy.
I don’t have time for this.
On autopilot, she walks around Dolohov and forces herself to mute the noise of his dying
squeals and squelching, wet gasps. Searches the floor for her expelled wand, the drip of blood
from her torn fingers following behind her. Picking up her wand with her left, she awkwardly
repairs the mess of ruined skin and muscle, ignoring the bone.
Reaching into her beaded bag, she summons Essence of Dittany and bandages, treating and
wrapping her sore fingers. Next, a pain potion. Then she turns to the mess.
A revolting mess.
An ever-growing, reaching puddle of crimson.
A twisted, dead body.
A pair of bloody shears.
She blows out a breath, her autopilot wavering before she clasps it tight.
Protects herself.
Transfiguration. It has to be. Yes. She tries it. Four times. Each time shaky and the resulting
magic wonky. Dolohov’s body shapes and reshapes with her attempts and blood spreads
further, reaching for her. Hermione keeps breathing, focusing until she’s successfully
transfigured him into a bone.
It’s all she can think to do, remembering how Barty Crouch Jr did it to his father when
Polyjuiced as Mad-Eye. Summoning a blanket, she levitates the bone into it, refusing to
touch it or think too much about what she’s doing, and then his wand too. She then vanishes
the blood and levitates the scissors back to their rightful place.
That done, she tidies spilled pages and scattered bows, retrieves the Invisibility Cloak, and
slips it back on. When happy with her results, she calmly walks out of the bookstore and
takes the time again to attempt to replace the wards. Her brain operates strictly on the next
steps, from point A to point B.
Traversing back to the pub, she pushes back through the low gate, back into the pub, through
the chattering crowd, and out the front door. Nearly there. A sweat blooms on the nape of her
neck, her body heavy and dreamlike, her ribs throbbing as badly as her fingers. Back to her
earlier Apparition point, she takes in one more deep breath before she sets off.
Hermione reappears in the first line of trees beyond the wards of their tent, which she can’t
see, so she can only hope all is well. Her brain pounds with all the thoughts she’s cramming
back but she hurries with her next task. Quick and efficient, her wand moves so fast that the
air thwips with each casting.
When she’s done, she’s whipped the cloak off, buried the transfigured bone of Antonin
Dolohov, and promptly thrown up. Vanishing the mess, she wipes a shaky hand over her
mouth, every muscle in her body twitching as she heads towards her boundary mark,
reaching her senses out for it. The minute she steps out, she finds Ron and Harry standing
with their arms folded over their chest.
Shit.
“Hermione!” Harry shouts, unnecessarily as she’s right in front of him.
“We were worried sick!” Ron shouts even louder, “Blimey, Hermione, we thought you were
dead!”
“Don’t be silly, Ron,” she snaps, walking past them, mind whirling to come up with a cover
story.
“Silly?!” He repeats incredulously.
Both he and Harry barely have to stride to keep up with her, but she doesn’t slow or stop until
she’s in the tent. With the table between them, she feels like she can think past the panic a
little. Not to mention lean against it to take the pressure from her trembling knees.
“I’m sorry,” she starts off because she really is. “I’m sorry but it was really important.”
“What was, Hermione?” Harry questions, his voice less angry than Ron’s and more worried.
“Why didn’t you bring us?”
“It was just easier to slip in and out,” Hermione defends, hiding her bandaged hand. “I had a
general idea of what I needed and where to go. It was vital to the hunt, Harry, I promise. I
wouldn’t have risked it otherwise.”
Harry nods slowly. “Well, it’s done now, we can’t take it back. So, what was it then?”
She cringes, feeling silly when she hesitantly answers, “A book…”
Ron looks utterly gobsmacked. “But you can’t just go wandering about for books, Hermione!
Now’s not really the best time, is it?!”
She sighs, trying to look meek and perturbed when really her ribs feel like they’re being
crushed. “I know. I’m sorry. I was looking for something else for my runes, a book I don’t
have. Apparating to a local wizarding community only two miles from here didn’t seem too
risky, Ron. I left money behind, I swear.”
The lie, with its nuggets of truth, rolls off her tongue smoothly, the only thing she can think to
come up with. Harry is silent, his eyes slightly narrow and it unnerves Hermione. Ron
continues his role as the interrogator, questioning where she went and for how long.
Throughout his shouting, he weaves a narrative of her being such a frenzied book lover that
she dismissed the risks, and she allows it.
Ron is rather stubborn when he’s already decided something, and a bookish swot, though
sometimes beneficial to him, is an image he’s had of Hermione since the day they met on the
Hogwarts Express. When he’s all shouted out, she finally retrieves the book she brought back
and Dumbledores.
When she’s managed to extract herself from the boys, she crawls into bed fully dressed,
presses her face into her pillow, and muffles her choking sobs.
Part One: January '98 - February '98
When the scalding tears will no longer come and her face is left hot and tight, Hermione
kicks off her boots and curls back up beneath her scratchy blanket. Her hand is throbbing
something awful, and her ribs feel shattered. Despite the pain, she stares, unblinking, at the
pale tent canvas for an undeterminable amount of time.
I killed Dolohov.
I killed a man.
I killed.
The shiver of repulsion dances across the network of her skin the more she repeats the
insidious list in her head. Hermione pulls the blanket up higher, over her shoulders and head,
until she’s submerged in the scent of her honey and milk shampoo.
I killed Dolohov.
I killed a man.
I killed.
The memory of Dolohov’s disgusting gaze between her legs rises to the forefront of her
mind, swimming before her eyes. It was self-defense. He was going to rape her and then he
was going to trundle her off to his Dark Lord. He was going to take her from Harry and Ron.
He was going to stop her mission. She had to. There was no other way.
There was no other way, Malfoy soothes, voice a low, crooning whisper in her ear.
Hermione squeezes her eyes closed. There was no other way. It had to be done. It was
necessary for her survival. Kill or be killed. The thought of Malfoy opens her eyes, and she
turns slowly onto her back, shifting the blanket so that it ends up covering the lower half of
her face. She told Malfoy daybreak, which is not far off judging by the color peeking through
the canvas walls.
She’s so tempted to leave him waiting there, to not have to crawl out of bed and face anyone,
least of all him. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she rises to her feet from the stiff mattress
and glances around. Harry is sleeping in his bunk, face pinched. Hermione frowns down at
him, wondering what visions he may be having.
Continuing to watch him, she stuffs her feet back into her boots; her heels and toes aching in
protest. Once she has bent to pull the laces, cutting into her palms, she straightens and creeps
through the tent. She tentatively pokes her head through the entrance. Ron’s head is tipped
back, mouth gaping as he snores.
If she had any room for emotion, she would be infuriated. It’s like she’s the only one of the
three of them that can handle a watch without nodding off. In this case, she can only find
room for gratitude that he’s easier to slip past. On quick feet, she makes her way back to her
spot from some hours ago, where she first met Malfoy.
She’s hoping that he will return here and spot her before sending off his Patronus. Hermione
takes a seat at the edge of the water and watches the sun begin to rise. It’s a beautiful sight,
one she wishes she could appreciate. Instead, she can only bring her knees up and wrap her
arms around them, thinking about the damage she’s done to her soul.
She may not have used a Killing Curse, but she has taken somebody's life. There’s a brief,
horrifying image in her mind of a blackened, shriveled-up piece of her precious soul curling
up and floating away, just out of reach. Forcing her face to remain fixed, lest she start crying
again just as Malfoy appears, Hermione continues to watch the sun. It paints the sky in vivid
oranges and reds, and tiny birds twitter and sing, darting through the colors.
The higher the sun climbs, the more nervous she grows at the lack of Malfoy’s appearance.
She’s not sure how long Ron will nap, and it won’t do for her to be caught out mere hours
after the first time. When another ten more minutes crawl by, Hermione has to admit that he’s
not coming.
Sighing, she tilts her head back on her shoulders and lets the tears slip hot and unchecked
down her face once more, until they bleed into her ears. She sets herself to standing and
hurries back to the tent, relieved to find Ron still sleeping. Slipping back inside, she finds that
Harry is too, so she sets to making herself a cup of much-needed coffee.
Some hours later, Harry joins her, blearily rubbing his eye with one hand, and his glasses
dangling from the fingers of his other. “You don’t look well, Hermione.”
Sat at the picnic bench trying to practice Occlumency, her lips part to vehemently deny it.
She can’t find the energy, however, so she closes her mouth instead and nods. “I’m sorry,
Harry. I am rather tired.”
Harry smiles placatingly, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Course you are.
You’re probably getting run down. You do the most magic between the three of us. Laying
wards and stuff everywhere.”
Hermione nods back like this is perfectly reasonable and to some degree, it is. “Yes, I think
you’re right. Actually, I think I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind.”
When she stands from her seat, her thighs aching, Harry reaches and squeezes her shoulder.
“Get some real rest, Hermione.”
Smiling as best she can manage; she ducks out from his sleep-warmed fingers and slips off to
bed. Despite Harry’s advice, she can’t help but resist sleep in favor of stuffing her knuckles
into her mouth and sobbing silently a little bit more.
“Where were you?” Hermione demands upon laying tired eyes on Malfoy three days later.
“We said daybreak!”
For the past couple of days, since Harry sent her, she’s stayed in bed. The boys don’t seem to
have found the connection between this sudden sickness of hers, and her late-night
rendezvous, and she’s grateful. Harry seems to be under the impression she’s overworking
herself, on both patrol and research, so she allows it.
Malfoy’s head glances up sharply from the path he’s studying, and he pushes off the tree he’s
lounging against to stride toward her, taking her aback and forcing her to halt her march.
“Was it you?” He demands urgently, jaw tense and gunmetal eyes beseeching.
“Was what me?” Hermione asks carefully, but her heart thumps traitorously in her chest, most
especially when he stops before her and crowds into her personal space, towering.
Dolohov’s body flashes before her eyes and her still healing ribs pang, echoes pounding in
her fingertips. She doesn’t think it is a curse that he jabbed between them, but an end-of-life
spark of panic, and so she’s only been able to monitor and tend to the injury, without any real
reassurance that something life-threatening isn’t happening in her chest.
Malfoy can’t know that. Kingsley can’t know that. Harry, can never, ever know that.
He takes her by the forearms, his fingers cold through her jacket and his grip tight. “Did you,
Granger? Did you hurt Dolohov? Kill him?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” She jerks her shoulder beneath his strong fingers,
hating that her voice hits shrill levels. “Let go! I’ve been here.”
Malfoy lets her rip herself free, his short fingernails scratching her denim jacket, but she
notices his curious eyes flicking to her still-bandaged fingers. She resists the urge to wince. It
plagues her again, his voice in her ear: you don’t have time for this! Was that real? Was that
the piece of his magic he’s embedded into her?
Was that his Trace, providing an unknown connection? Does he know? Truly, really know.
Know everything she’s been doing. Merlin, is he in her head?
“Yes, here.” Malfoy interrupts her paranoid thoughts. “Mere miles from where he was last
seen alive,” he finishes in a biting tone, clearly not deterred by her denials.
“And if I did?” She challenges as she subtly tucks her injured hand to the side.
There’s no way she can ask him if he has access to her mind, without revealing that she is
guilty of the crime he’s accusing her of. It will also open up a whole can of worms regarding
the Trace, and how she doesn’t have a clue how to get it off her. Better yet, she doesn’t have a
clue if she still wants to do so.
What if there are more things like R.A.B. she needs someone to check out? What if she needs
someone on the outside of her, Harry and Ron? What if she needs him again?
Staring at her for a long, intense moment, his skin seems to change to an even paler
complexion in the moonlight. “Then you’re not as smart as you make out, Granger. You
should have left the minute you did.”
Hermione’s heart thumps once, hard in her chest, and then stutters. “What are you talking
about?”
Malfoy sucks air through his teeth, running his hand vigorously through his hair and leaving
it disheveled. “Salazar, Granger, they’re here, aren’t they?! Ten of them! Death Eaters, the
lot. Investigating.”
Investigating what? She cleaned up. She took Dolohov’s body. She transfigured it, buried it.
Should she dig it back up? Move it further away? How can they know Dolohov’s dead? But
Malfoy said ‘hurt’ first, not kill. Was Dolohov summoned and then didn’t show? Surely the
suspicious distance is the only way Malfoy connected the disappearance to Hermione.
She turns her face into a neutral expression, wiping away her panic. “Well, how was I to
know that? Being as you bring all my news of the outside world? Perhaps you should have
been here on time!”
Arching a blonde brow, his forehead folds with incredibility. “Yes, of course, Granger. I’m
the negligent one. Besides,” he continues before she can reply, “I was busy.” He squares his
shoulders and slips his hands into his pockets, standing straight. “Kingsley outranks you.”
The question slips out before she can stop herself and she takes an unconscious step forward.
“What were you doing?”
Once more, her curiosity is peaked by the life he lives within the Order. What does he spend
his time doing? Who does he talk to? Who is he trusted on missions with? Whose lives
depend on him? And who in turn, does he trust his own with? No one, she would wager. Not
one soul.
“Ah, ah.” He waves his long forefinger in her face condescendingly and Hermione scowls,
smacking it away.
“Ow.” Malfoy jerks his hand back to the safety of his body. “One exchange at a time! First.
R.A.B.”
Hermione perks up from both her scowl and her slouch. “You saw it then? The initials on the
door? Do you know who it is?”
“I did, and I do. Regulus Arcturus Black,” Malfoy answers, without pre-amble. Arcturus rolls
off his tongue rather elegantly. “Sirius Black’s younger brother.”
“Your cousin,” Hermione supplies, folding her arms over her chest, ensuring to tuck her
bandaged hand deeper from view.
Malfoy rolls his eyes skywards. “You say that as if it matters.”
“Oh, just hurry up.”

He still waits for a beat, the corners of his lips tugging upwards as he precedes to be a defiant
arse. “There were clippings in his room. Devotions to the Dark Lord, the kind of frenzy you
see in all the Black’s.”
“Apart from Sirius,” Hermione defends, tightening her arms over her chest and squaring her
shoulders.
“Yes, yes.” Malfoy’s tone is nothing but derisive and his mouth is loose, as if the sarcasm is
so thick in his throat it needs to pool. “Apart from bloody Gryffindor Sirius. Who cares
where he came from? Or who his family is? So long as he was a lion at heart! Gods, you
people are stomach churning.”
“You monologue an awful lot you know,” Hermione comments drily. “Are you lonely,
Draco?”
Malfoy’s eyes are sharp flints of grey as a muscle jumps in his cheek. “Please, Granger, I just
prefer the sound of my own voice to yours. You do know it’s shrill and vile, don’t you?”
Hermione fake yawns, pleased by his eye twitching in response. “Would you hurry on? I’m
going to be missed.”
“Yes, I’m sure your precious boys couldn’t manage a moment without you. You so do love to
deem yourself important.”
“Malfoy!”
Malfoy chuckles, dark and insulting. Not laughing with her, but at her. At her impatience and
irritable mood for which he is wholly responsible, the arse.
“To anyone other than fellow Death Eaters, Regulus ‘went missing’. No one knows what
happened to him, and no one asked, at the order of the Dark Lord.”
Hermione puts on a sarcastically sweet voice to rival Umbridge and deters the way her mind
races with the information. “Yes, Death Eaters so do love to follow orders, do they not? Why,
you do so well with Kingsley yourself.”
Malfoy ignores her, glancing over her head at the way she came.
“Is there more? I already knew R.A.B. was missing. Surely you’ve done better than that.”
Still watching over her shoulder, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, he
continues, “I got talking to Kreacher. He worshipped Regulus to levels even I find abhorrent.
He told me a rather…” He finally flicks his eyes back to her, pinning her with the weight of
them. “Interesting tale.”
“What tale?” She demands impatiently, jaw tightening and ignoring the way her stomach
flips.
He so does love to go on.

“A little adventure.” He looks around and then takes an intimate step closer, washing her with
his cold scent. Mint. “To a cave. With a locket.”
Hermione swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. That’s more information than she wanted him
to know, but information she needs all the same. “Go on.”
“He called it ‘Master Regulus’ locket’.” Malfoy’s voice drops so low that she is forced to
lean closer. “Said his master ingested a foul potion that first addled his mind and then killed
him.”
Just like Dumbledore. Just like the night of the cave that Harry told her about to obtain the
fake Horcrux.
Hermione tries to minimize her eyes widening in response. “For what purpose?
Watching her closely, he answers, “So they could place a replica locket into the basin of
which the poison was held, and retrieve the locket hidden inside. There were Inferi in the
surrounding waters and Regulus… was taken by them.”
She pulls away, appalled. “That’s barbaric.”
Sirius never knew.
He never knew how brave his little brother turned out to be, how he sacrificed himself. He
had no idea about the mission Regulus set out on. Poor Regulus. Alone in that awful cave,
dying, dragged into the waters by Inferi. Still rotting there to this day. Guilt eats Hermione’s
insides raw. Not even this can she tell Harry. Not even something as tragic, but awe-inspiring
as Regulus Black’s final, heroic act.
Malfoy merely shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence. “I’m less interested in some wanna-be
Death Eater Black and more in why, in the middle of a war, you’re having me interview
house elves who snivel at the mention of their dead masters.”
In taking a deep, solidifying breath, Hermione lets it hiss out. “Can you deter from being
cruel for one moment and spit it all out, Malfoy?”
“Well, you weren’t very helpful with your information, were you?” He sneers, voice rising
slightly. “I had to guess as to your intentions. I assumed by that point it was the locket.
Regulus ordered Kreacher to return with the locket upon his death and destroy it. Kreacher
remarked he had not been able to. Not even with his own magic. I asked him where the locket
was now.”
Hermione’s pulse jumps. “And what did he say?”
Malfoy narrows his eyes. “He said it was stolen.”
“What?!”
Malfoy’s eyes widen out and gleam. “So, you do want the locket.” Not a question. “What is
the locket, Granger? Why couldn’t even Kreacher destroy it?”
“Oh, give it a rest with your Slytherin tendencies to glean information for once, Malfoy!”
Hermione spits, unwinding her folded arms to jab her wand in his face, even held as loose as
it is in her left hand. “Does he have any idea who stole it?”
“He said he came in the night. Took all of his Mistress’ things.”
“You always were so theatrical.”
Malfoy’s lip curls. “He said it was Mundungus Fletcher.”
“Dung?” This takes some of the wind out of her sails and she rocks back on her feet, pulling
her wand back to her side. “So, it’s Mundungus who has it now? Still?” Hermione prods
eagerly.
Eyes tracking her hand briefly, they flick back to her face to answer her. “Not quite.” There’s
a gleam in Malfoy’s eye. “I did you an incredible favor, Granger. I will be cashing in on it.”
“Of course.” She rolls her eyes, unamused. “Out with it.”
He reaches into his blazer, pulling out a folded copy of The Daily Prophet. Hermione’s eager
to take it, snatching, figuratively and literally, for a scrap of news about the world outside of
her bubble with the boys. Or at least, news that isn’t filtered through Malfoy.
“Why are you showing me this foul toad?” She scowls as Umbridge looks up at her, that fake
smile beaming from the moving picture.
Malfoy’s fingers grip her chin as she raises her head and before she can shout out in rage, he
sharply angles her face back down to the paper. “Please, for once, Granger, look further than
your nose.”
She wants to raise her head and scowl at him, but Umbridge’s pudgy face distracts her, or
rather, the locket about her neck. She gasps, unable to contain it, the implications of how
they’re going to get their hands on that locket sinking in.
Hermione raises her head to Malfoy again. “Fuck.”
Amusement curves his lips. “My, you really do want the locket, don’t you?”
Folding the paper in half, she tucks it under her arm. “That’s none of your concern. You’re
dismissed.”
“Oh, I’m dismissed?” He repeats sarcastically.
“Yes.” She turns to leave. “Goodbye, Malfoy, and next time, show up when I tell you to.”
“I’m not done with you yet, Granger.”
Hermione whirls around, furious. “Excuse you?!” Malfoy steps forward and grabs her waist,
pulling her against him. “Get your hands off me!”
“Why?” He reaches up, wrapping his hand around her throat, light, but pointed, his thick
signet ring pressing a familiar weight, despite the way she fights. “I thought you enjoyed it
when I got handsy with you?"
“Get your filthy hands off me, Malfoy or so help me I will curse them off!”
Malfoy releases her throat but not her waist, that ugly grin appearing on his face. “Not this
time then.”
“Not any time, Malfoy! Not ever again!”
He laughs quietly as if the prospect is incredibly amusing. Still, he pushes his luck and
quickly but delicately takes her injured hand. Hermione sucks in a sharp breath and can only
watch as he holds it between their bodies. Almost lazily, while watching his own work, he
unwraps and removes the bindings and cotton, until he’s left with her recovering fingers.
The wrappings slither to the floor as he cups her hand and Hermione’s face has never felt so
hot, her throat so tight. Malfoy is gentle, eerily so, tilting her palm this way and that before he
finally glances up at her face beneath his lashes. She can’t find anything to say, so she stares
at her own fingers, noting that she’s not done a bad job with them.
From the dream-like, tight, and shiny memories she harbors of the initial injury, the flesh was
gaping and hanging open. The muscle was torn and shredded, revealing the bone beneath the
copious blood. Now the skin is back together and isn’t as tight as it was even yesterday. Still,
thick, red lines crisscross them, similar almost to the resulting marks from an Unbreakable
Vow.
They’re also still incredibly swollen. Honestly, the site of them isn’t her problem, it’s more
that they’re still so stiff and unbending, spasming oddly and producing wonky magic. It’s
been rather tiring having to hide them, and their effects on her spellwork. All the while she
studies them, Hermione can feel Malfoy’s gaze on her face, until finally, she looks up,
cracking under the pressure.
His head is slightly ducked as if he was trying to reach her eye level. “Did he hurt you?” He
pauses, his jaw flexing. “I mean really hurt you, Granger.”
Swallowing, she wants to burst out with what do you care? Or perhaps denials as to what he
is insinuating. As it is, she can’t use enough words to admit to what she did, even in this
infinitesimally small way. It feels less damming to shake her head, so that’s what she does.
Malfoy places his palm over hers and closes his eyes, muttering words she can’t hear under
his breath.
Hermione frowns up at him, able to catalog him more than she has before with his eyes shut.
The thick blonde brows, the sharp cheekbones, his pale skin, and his pink, slightly chapped
lips. Just as she’s mapping his jawline, there’s a bright, hot flare in her fingers. A strangled,
wounded sound emerges from her mouth and she tries to tug her hand back. Malfoy holds
firm and she fights harder, her wand awkward and useless in her other hand.
“You’re hurting me!” She finally cries when the burning brings standing tears to her eyes.
“I know,” is all he whispers back, and she gapes, even as goosebumps of pain prickle her
spine.
Finally, he releases her hand at the same moment that the pain stops. Gasping, she stumbles
back, and he reaches for her, trying to clasp her arms and stop her fall.
Despite this, she screams, “Don’t touch me!”
There isn’t a moment to look down at her fingers, but she knows that he’s healed them. It’s
irrelevant, the way he chose to do so, erasing the kind gesture. Why couldn’t he just talk her
through it? Why does he just assume he can do whatever he wants? Eyes blind with tears,
Hermione Apparates mid-step, even if it is a measly two-minute walk back to the tent, just to
get away from him that bit faster.
Four weeks later, Hermione’s still thinking about Malfoy’s hand around her throat, when his
ring dug into her flesh. The way he healed her fingers. Such powerful magic. Wandlessly
channeled directly through his skin to hers. Hermione shudders in remembrance. So gentle
was his touch, but so rough and cruel was his execution. Is that all he knows how to be?
Demanding and assertive, believing only he knows best?
Hermione’s yet to see him again, and after so many close encounters in a compressed amount
of time, it feels like four months of silence, not weeks. She’s not worried about him at all, and
she certainly doesn’t have the capacity to deal with their latest interaction, but she is worried
about what his absence means for the Order.
Malfoy is Kingsley’s dog now. What could he possibly be doing, that’s keeping him so busy?
Or have there just been no updates? Has there been no information to share with her? It’s not
as if Malfoy would attend their meetings simply for his own pleasure, especially not after last
time, when she screamed for him to keep his hands off her.
Her mind circles back on itself, to his hand on her throat. Why in Godric’s name would he try
and keep her there? Was it just to heal her fingers? He was watching them the entire time, she
caught him at it, and what was he insinuating about ‘not this time’? What she thought he
was? Shagging again?
Why would he even want that now that he’s secured a way to supply information to
Kingsley? What does it benefit him anymore? Hermione’s sure that if she had more time, she
would be obsessing over these questions, but the fact of the matter is, she doesn’t have the
luxury of time.
She neither has spare brain capacity, already stretched so thin between her research projects
on this lengthening hunt for Horcruxes. All of it has already been dedicated to getting the
three of them in and out of the Ministry without being captured or killed. Thanks to Ron, who
knew from Mr. Weasley, they started off aware of the location of the Ministry’s entrance.
Between the three of them, they’ve taken it in turns the last couple of weeks to hide under the
Invisibility Cloak, and spy on it. During this time, they’ve followed workers, eavesdropped
on early morning conversations, and singled out which of them can be guaranteed to appear
every day.
They’ve even had the chance to sneak a Daily Prophet from the odd briefcase, which is
fantastic for Hermione since Malfoy has gone silent, the only thing he’s good for. It was
exceedingly difficult dealing with his last update and trying to explain where she had gotten
The Daily Prophet from, especially after Ron’s fury still being so fresh. A vein nearly popped
in his head when he saw it.
The only way she managed to swing that argument to her advantage was that they needed to
have outside information in some way, and she wasn’t spotted. Though she also used it to
encourage them to move onto a new campsite, Malfoy’s warning of Death Eaters
investigating Dolohov’s disappearance still in her ears. She was thankful The Daily Prophet
didn’t feature an article on it.
Even Harry and Ron would have been able to connect the dots between her night-time
wandering, the recent bout of ‘sickness’, and Dolohov’s location of death. Thankfully, upon
her double-checking, there was nothing there. At the time it had made her wonder how
Malfoy had known, if not for The Prophet.
Now she wonders why it wasn’t reported at all. Perhaps it makes Voldemort look weak, and
she knows he won’t have that. It also helped her case that they broach out alone when she
showed them the picture of Umbridge and explained her idea of infiltrating the Ministry. Of
course, she couldn’t tell them about the connection to Mundungus, and therefore Kreacher,
and Regulus Black.
Even if she told Harry about walking past the door in Grimmauld Place, he’d want to
investigate. She wouldn’t be able to explain that she already has. She can’t explain Malfoy,
and so she said nothing. Hopeful that the sight of the locket alone would convince Harry, and
it had. The very next morning they decided on stalking the front.
Ron has just returned from his most recent surveillance, and so the three of them are gathered
at the picnic table. She forces him to tell her every minute detail while she painstakingly
writes it down in her daily logs, adding to the ever-growing piles of parchment. They flood
the picnic table, piled atop each other.
Daily logs, maps, early drafts of plans, and corrections. Questions for herself to find the
answers to, and hastily scrawled notes.
Clenching her quill, she says, “Again, Ron.”
“Come on, Hermione, can we take a break for a second?” Ron whines as he takes a seat with
his bowl of soup.
The soup was a reserve for a good day that she never told the boys she had, so she used it as a
bargaining chip when she came back with The Daily Prophet. Ron has been saving it for a
particularly dreary day, and today seems to be the winner, as he’s finally cracked it open.
For a brief moment, she regrets handing it over to him as it smells delightful. A rich tomato
that calls back to sick days as a child in her childhood bed. Hermione shakes the memory
away, focusing.
“We don’t have time.” Trying her best to stay calm, she clenches her quill until it threatens to
buckle. “We’ve already spent a month going around in circles.”
Ron’s eyes flick to Harry opposite her, and Hermione is annoyed to find him nodding. As if
he’s the brains of the operation.
Ron finally blows out a weary breath. “Dad’s always said most Ministry workers use the Floo
to get to work. That’ll be why we haven’t seen Umbridge. As I said before, she’d never walk,
reckon she thinks she’s too important.”
Hermione scribbles a note, ignoring Ron’s rolling eyes. “The funny old witch and that little
wizard in the navy robes? You confirmed sighting of them again yesterday?”
Dragging his spoon through his soup, Ron nods. “The bloke from Magical Maintenance,
yeah.”
“How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?” Hermione frowns, pausing her quill
as this is the first time he’s mentioned it.
Ron shrugs, irritating her further by pausing to sip some soup before answering. “Dad said
everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes.”
Hermione’s mouth pops open in indignation. “But you never told us that! Four weeks and
you’ve never mentioned it once, Ron!”
Hastily bending to her sheaf of notes, she examines them critically, confirming as she flips
through pages, effectively giving herself a stinging paper cut. “There’s nothing in here about
navy blue robes, nothing!”
“Well-" he slurps more soup, setting Hermione's teeth on edge. "-does it really matter?”
“Ronald, for Godric’s sake!" Hermione explodes, sitting up straight in her anger. "It all
bloody matters!”
She doesn’t even care that she’s nearly screeching. How can he be this naive? This dim-
witted? How is he still so sheltered from the reality of their situation? Here she is, murdering
wizards, infecting her soul, making the hard choices, and he’s just omitting vital facts that
could get them all killed.
“If we’re going to get in and out of the Ministry, alive, every little detail matters! We’ve been
over and over this! I mean, what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren’t
even bothering to tell us-”
“Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing-”

“You do realise, don’t you-” she fumes, gathering steam at his lack of care, “that the Ministry
of Magic may be the most dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now-”
“I think we should do it tomorrow,” Harry interrupts.
Hermione stops dead, her mouth popping open, severing her voice and she’s vilified to hear
Ron choke on his soup.
“What do you mean, tomorrow? We’re not ready, Harry!” She barks impatiently.
“Tomorrow, Hermione,” Harry answers with that tone that leaves no room for argument. “I
don’t think we’re going to be much better prepared than we are now even if we skulk around
the Ministry entrance for another month.”
Her own words are just as unwavering, her jaw tight. “Nearly everything relies on chance,
Harry. It’s early. Far too early.”
“That’ll be true even if we spend another three months preparing.” Harry’s tone rises to meet
hers, the tension escalating. “It’s time to ac-argh!-ct.” He slams his palm down over his scar,
grimacing.
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah… Fine…” Harry trails off, his eyes glazing as he looks about wildly for an escape.
“Just need… erm, bathroom.”
Then he dashes off. Hermione and Ron share a look and he shrugs, going back to his soup.
She rolls her eyes at him and gives it precisely two minutes before she follows Harry. The
tent, though enchanted, only allows for a one-door, cramped toilet, and a sink.
She knocks rapidly, her lips pressing together. “Harry?”
No reply.
Hermione knocks again, more urgently. “Harry, are you having a vision?”
Silence.
She bangs her fist this time. “Harry James Potter, you answer me right now!”
When no response comes to her, Hermione pushes the door open easily. He must have left it
unlocked in his haste. Harry is slumped over on the floor. She rushes over to him, falling to
her knees, heart twisting, and turns him onto his back as he blinks groggily up at her, pulling
his head into her lap.
Hermione hands him his glasses from off the floor where they fell. “Harry, what is it? What
did you see?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he rushes to answer, sitting up quickly and backing away as he takes
his glasses from her.
There’s really not much room in the bathroom, so their knees are immediately squished as
they each brace their backs against opposite walls.
“Don’t lie to me, Harry," she admonishes wearily, sighing. "Not about this. You’re white as a
sheet.”
He blows out a breath and clasps his hands between his knees. “Voldemort was murdering
someone. A woman. Probably her whole family by now. He didn’t need to. It was Cedric all
over again.”
Hermione shudders, reaching her hand out to his knee to both give and receive warmth.
“Harry, you’re not supposed to let this happen anymore,” she murmurs gently. “Dumbledore
wanted you to use Occlumency. You know he thought the connection was too dangerous.”
“I know that Hermione!" Harry barks, jaw hard. "Don’t you think I know that?”
“Well, then I’m sure you know Voldemort can use it to his advantage like he did before!” She
answers hotly, sympathy drying up and snatching her hand back. “What good is it to watch
him kill and torture, how can it help?”
“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” Harry answers tiredly, removing his glasses
despite only just putting them on, to rub at his eyes.
“So, you’re not even going to try to shut him out?” She asks incredulously, her mouth wide.
“Hermione, I can’t." He slides his glasses back on and runs an impatient hand through his
hair until it stands on end. "You know I’m lousy at Occlumency, I never got the hang of it.”
“You never really tried!" She waves her hands around, emphasizing. "I don’t get it, Harry!
Do you like having this special connection or relationship or whatever it is?”
She falters slightly under the look he gives her as he stands up. That was cruel. Not everyone
is so cruel, not everyone revels in darkness. She keeps forgetting that. Harry isn’t dark, he
would never allow it so.
“Like it?” he whispers, cold as ice, looking down at her. “Would you like it?”
Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head and tucks her hands between her tight knees. “No.
I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I hate it,” he answers anyway, uncharacteristically venomous, towering over her so she has
to crane her neck. “I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when
he’s most dangerous. But best believe I’m going to fucking use it, Hermione.”
“Dumbledore-” Hermione begins, still sitting on the floor.
“Fuck Dumbledore,” Harry cuts her off. “This is my choice, nobody else’s. I want to know
why he’s after Gregorovitch.”
Hermione frowns at the unfamiliar name. “Who?”

“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” Harry answers, not providing an explanation as to how he
knows this, or why he’s yet to mention it.
Perhaps it will be another thing to add to her growing topics of research and he’s been
hesitating.
“You said Voldemort’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a
wandmaker, why would he need another?” She inquires.
Harry shrugs. “Maybe he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did
when he was chasing me because Ollivander didn’t know.”
She nibbles her lip as she contemplates this. Death Eaters did not only accompany Snape the
night he killed Dumbledore, but Voldemort himself, having dismantled the ancient wards
embedded into Hogwarts walls. For a split second, to fear monger she imagines. When Harry
caught sight of him, he raised his wand and they connected, for a moment.
The connection sparked and flared. When it broke, a Killing Curse hurled for Harry and
Hedwig took its impact. Harry has shouldered the blame and hasn’t quite been the same
since. Every time Harry loses someone, a small piece of him seems to slide away before her
eyes.
Sometimes she’s paralyzed by the thought that even if they win, she’ll look over and Harry
will be gone in all but physicality. Hermione’s determined not to allow it. Harry is too good,
too pure.
“Harry do you not think you made it happen? Why are you so determined not to take
responsibility for your own power?”
“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what
really happened!”
For a moment they glare at one another, and there are many counterarguments formulating in
her mind.
“Drop it,” he mutters, the fight visibly leaving him. “Please, just drop it. We’re going to the
Ministry tomorrow. Don’t you think we should go over the plan?”
Reluctantly, she nods and accepts his hand to stand and follow him. Gathering Ron, they pour
over their plan once more. They spend hours going over and over it, until they can recite it in
their sleep, which Ron and Harry seem intent on getting. Hermione takes watch, as her mind
is racing far too much to rest.
She likes to pretend she’s not looking out for Malfoy’s Patronus, but when day breaks and it
fails to return again, she has to begrudgingly admit to herself that she is.
Part One: February '98
Once inside the Ministry, after Polyjuicing themselves with stolen hairs, their recipients
knocked out and secreted away, Hermione finds herself stuck with none other than foul,
simpering Dolores Umbridge. The urge to kill the squat, awful woman at her side catches fire
in her chest, brighter than it ever has for anyone.
Even Dolohov.
Hermione’s entirely sure that despite the obvious, Umbridge is the evillest person she’s ever
known. That opinion is only reinforced as the woman dressed head-to-toe in pink sends her
cat Patronus strolling up and down. It paces in front of her along the oak balustrade, even as
Dementors hover against the ceiling, directly above the platform Hermione’s seated at, as
Mafalda.
The room is soaked in the spun sugar smell of the shorter woman. If the stomach-turning
scent wasn’t abhorrent enough, seeing so clearly how Umbridge revels in Muggle-borns' pain
and terror as they’re shepherded in and out of the room, is Hermione’s last straw.
“Right! Let’s see…” Umbridge bends her curly head and mutters to herself before jerking it
back up with an excited grin. “Next, Mary Cattermole!”
The woman who belongs to the name enters the room. She has a small, mousy face and
slumped shoulders, and Hermione struggles to keep a straight face. Rage burns through her at
the slight woman’s visible trembling, her knees knocking together. Hermione can see how
pale with fear she is from her seat, her large eyes dark, and the bags under them darker.
“Sit down,” Umbridge calls in her soft, sickly voice, her usual simpering smile decorating her
pudgy face.
Mrs. Cattermole stumbles to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised
platform. The moment she sits down, chains clink out of the arms, heavy and iron, and bind
Mrs. Cattermole down. Glancing at this movement, the woman whimpers before tilting her
face back to them, openly terrified.
Hermione has to keep herself from grinding her teeth in fury. She wants nothing more than to
reach over and slit Umbridge’s throat.
How dare she do this?
“You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” Umbridge confirms, shifting in her seat and leaning
ever so slightly.
Mrs. Cattermole gives a single, shaky nod that twists Hermione’s heart, her knee bouncing
and robes shifting in retaliation over her thigh.
“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”

Mrs. Cattermole bursts into tears, her face scrunched and cheeks pooling with blood. “I don’t
know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!”
Hermione’s chest squeezes with sympathy. Umbridge ignores Mary’s outcry, boiling
Hermione’s blood with vicious hate; warring against the blooming injustice present there.
“Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?”
Mrs. Cattermole sobs harder. “They’re frightened, they think I might not come home-”
“Spare us,” spits Yaxley from Umbridge’s other side, leaning forward in his seat with a sneer.
“The brats born from Mudblood cunts do not stir our sympathies.”
Hermione feels her heart thud harder as she strains with all her might not to turn her head and
burn Yaxley to death with her sheer animosity. This would be her. If she wasn’t with Harry, if
she wasn’t part of the Order, if she was just another Muggle-born witch, this would be her.
Hermione in that chair. Hermione bound. Hermione sobbing.
She senses a breeze behind her, lifting her Polyjuiced hair, and the arms still foreign to her
flood with goosebumps.
She knows it’s Harry the split second before he speaks. “I’m behind you. Don’t forget to
write.”
Write? Hermione thinks through the hatred, having controlled her urge to jump out of her
skin.
Then she remembers the ink and parchment, and that she’s supposed to be recording this
insidious event. Because Mafalda would be and that’s whose skin she must remember she is
wearing. She quickly notes down what has already been said in the silence, trying to keep up
appearances.
Even if she does want to drive the tip of the quill into Umbridge’s throat. Dolohov and the
scissors zip across her mind and she crams it down. There are consequences, she has to
remember that. Devastating consequences to her soul and to the way her thoughts have
become slightly more unhinged since the killing.
“A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,”
Umbridge’s voice floods back in, forcing through the whomp-whomp boxing Hermione’s hot
face. “Eight-and-three quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that
description?”
Mrs. Cattermole nods slowly, clearly confused as she mops her eyes on her powder blue robe
sleeve.
Umbridge smiles like she is about to deliver a killing blow. “Could you please tell us from
which witch or wizard you took that wand?” “
“T-took?” Mary clearly balks, her head driving back in her chair. “I didn’t t-take it from
anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It-it-it chose me.”
As Mary cries ever harder, Hermione’s hands shake at Umbridge’s responding sinister laugh.
She leans forward over the balustrade's golden barrier, the better to observe her victim no
doubt.
Foul bitch.
Right at the moment Hermione’s fingers crack her quill with their force, something gold
swings forward from Umbridge’s blouse, dangling over the void. The locket. Hermione’s
breath hitches in her throat, choking her.
“No.“ Umbridge giggles, leaning back in her seat. “No, I don’t think so, Mrs. Cattermole.
Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the
questionnaire that was sent to you here- Mafalda, pass them to me.”
Umbridge holds out a small, fat hand. Hermione’s hands continue to shake, and she tries
desperately not to look Umbridge in the eye, lest she see the detest there. Fumbling quickly in
a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, she withdraws a sheaf of parchment
with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it.
“That’s… pretty, Dolores,” Hermione prods as calmly as she can manage, pointing at the
pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge’s blouse.
“What?” Umbridge snaps, glancing down, fingers clasping around the requested parchment.
“Oh yes- an old family heirloom.” She pats the locket lying on her large bosom and settles
back into her seat. “The S stands for Selwyn...I am related to the Selwyns... Indeed, there are
few pure-blood families to whom I am not related... A pity,” she continues in a louder voice,
flicking through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire, “that the same cannot be said for you…
‘Parents professions: greengrocers.’”
Yaxley laughs loudly and spitefully. “Pathetic.”
“STUPEFY!”
Harry, no! Hermione thinks desperately but doesn’t dare shout it.
There’s a flash of red light from empty air without a clear origin. Harry is still covered by the
cloak, disguising his location. The spell slams into the balustrade with fury, shattering wood
that sprays lethal splinters around the room. Umbridge screams, shooting from her seat in a
panic, her mouth gaping open as her eyes dart about the room wildly, trying to find the
intruder.
Hermione imitates her, bewildered as to when Harry left the bench behind her. She stands
from her seat with urgency, toppling parchment and retrieving her wand.
“We must not tell lies, Professor!” Harry roars with Runcorn’s deep voice, still hidden.
“Stupefy!”
This spell impacts Umbridge directly in the chest and her body folds in on itself before it
crumples, toppling forward. Her forehead smashes against the edge of the balustrade, the
bone denting with the impact. Hermione stands there a moment, breathing heavily, watching
as Dolores Umbridge’s squat body slumps back into her chair, sprawling inelegantly.
Hermione delights in the way blood drips vicious crimson down Umbridge’s face and her
fixed eyes stare up at the Dementors circling the ceiling.
Dead.
Then a cold wind cleaves into the room, their safety barrier tearing away and allowing the
terror of the Dementor's presence to penetrate the room. Yaxley, confused, despite
Umbridge’s cat Patronus vanishing, looks around desperately for the source of the trouble. As
he does so, his eyes find Harry’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him.
Hermione raises her wand without thought, fingers tingling with magic ready to harness.
“Stupefy!”
Spinning on his heel, Yaxley deflects her spell with gritted teeth and yells a curse back.
Hermione dodges it, ducking behind the balustrade and falling to her knees. She dares only
raise her head to fling another curse back toward his general direction. Popping her head back
up, she finds Harry joining the fight.
Yaxley shrieks, “Avada Kedavra!”
“No!” She bellows pointlessly, vehemence bubbling in her gut as Harry misses the curse by a
hair.
There’s a knife tucked into the back of her pencil skirt, but she barely thinks about it.
Rocketing to her feet, she calls, “Avada Kedavra!”
The already frigid air turns glacial as Yaxley drops to the floor and his spirit exits his host.
Someone is screaming, reedy with terror. Harry whips the rest of the Invisibility Cloak off
and stares at her with a slack jaw of horror. She feels her stomach curdle, burning the
adrenaline at the look in his eye like someone has gutted him, recognizable as her best friend
even in Runcorn’s face.
“There’s no time!” She cries.
The screaming in the background grows in urgency.
Twisting, she faces her first approaching Dementor. “Expecto Patronum!”
The others begin to head towards Mrs. Cattermore who it turns out, is the one shrilly
screaming. Thankfully Harry snaps out of his gawping and runs to Mary’s defense, just as a
Dementor grips her chin and forces her head violently back on her thin neck.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Harry’s signature stag soars from his wand as Hermione fends off another Dementor.
“Get the Horcrux!” Harry orders as his Patronus gallops around the room, and he runs down
the steps to Mrs. Cattermole.
Hermione spins, flailing, and runs back to Umbridge, taking in her slanted body, barely
hanging onto the chair. Hermione smirks as she pulls the Horcrux from around the other
woman’s thick, fat neck.
“Diffindo!” Harry’s voice bellows in the background. Letting Umbridge’s head drop
unceremoniously, she whips back to Harry as he desperately asks, “Hermione, how do I get
rid of these chains?!”
Aiming her wand at the chair, she cries, while still running, “Relashio!”
The chains clink and withdraw into the arms of the chair.
Mrs. Cattermole still looks terrified, though she has thankfully stopped splitting Hermione’s
eardrums with her screams. “I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“You’re going to leave here with us,” Harry answers quickly, pulling her to her feet. “Go
home, grab your children, and get out of the country if you can. Disguise yourselves and run.
They’re going to kill all of you if you stay here.”
“Harry,” Hermione interrupts, safely tucking the Horcrux away. “There’s more Dementors
outside the door.”
He turns away from comforting Mary to point his wand at his stag. It slows to a walk, still
gleaming brightly, toward the tall double doors.
Swinging his head her way, he jerks his chin at Hermione. “I need yours too.”
“Expecto Patronum!”
She guides the otter that spills out to join Harry’s stag. The three of them burst through the
doors, guarded by the two Patronuses. Cries of shock meet them from the gathered crowd of
middle-aged people. Dementors fall back into the shadows, scurrying away from the light.
“It’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families,” Harry
tells the waiting Muggle-borns, who blink and cower from the brilliant gleam of joint
Patronuses.
“And to do that, you all need to follow the Patronuses, and don’t say a word. Do you
understand?” The waiting crowd nods, looking frightened but determined. “Good. We’ll go
through the Atrium.”
Trying not to be heartless, Hermione does her best to note how much she loves her friend for
his kindness. She tries desperately not to be mad that he’s slowing them down. Not to
mention, keeping her Patronus from flickering out of existence is steadily draining her. She’s
not feeling particularly joyful.
Dark magic from her Killing Curse is burning through her blood, and she feels viciousness
clawing at her insides with paranoia.
Desperation crowds out of her mouth, her skin thrumming. “Harry, we have to send them on
their way!”
Harry cuts her a sharp look from beside her, and she knows it’s the disappointment of killing
Yaxley. “We’re not leaving them, Hermione!”
She closes her mouth, knowing she can’t argue with him when he’s mad at her for an entirely
different reason. Thankfully, they manage up the stone steps without being intercepted, even
with such a large group, but as they approach the lifts it slides open and reveals Ron, in his
Polyjuice form.
“Reg!” Mrs. Cattermole screams, running forward and throwing herself into Ron’s arms.
Oh, for fuck sake.
They do not have time for this. Of course, they stole the identity of the husband of the woman
Harry just had to rescue. Just another problem to solve to avoid all of their deaths.
Why ever not?
“Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley! They’re dead! He’s told us to leave
the country, and I think we’d better do it, Reg, I really do! Let’s hurry home and fetch the
children and- why are you so wet?”
“Water,” Ron mutters, unpeeling himself awkwardly as he steadily leaves a stream of water
that drip, drip, drips across the floor. “Harry, they know there are intruders inside the
Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door. I reckon we’ve got five
minutes-”
“We have to move quickly then,” Harry intrudes, gripping his wand tighter in Runcorn’s fist.
Turning to address the Muggle-borns behind him, he asks, “who’s got wands?”
Only half of them hesitantly raise their hands. Hermione fights the need to grit her teeth,
panting for air. Ron’s wet sleeve brushes the back of her hand, and she shudders, noticing just
then how hot she is running. Sweat is clinging to every available surface, and she can only be
thankful she isn’t dealing with her own curls right now.
“Okay, all of you who haven’t got wands need to attach yourself to someone who has. We’ll
need to be fast. Come on.”
They manage to cram themselves into two lifts, Hermione’s skin itching with dark magic the
whole while. Both of their Patronuses stand sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut,
and the lifts begin to rise. The sharp tang of sweat and fear impregnates the space, forcing her
to hold her breath.
“Level eight. Atrium.”

Hermione knows immediately they’re fucked. The Atrium is bustling with a variety of
colored robes. Witches and wizards move from ornate fireplace to fireplace, sealing them
off.
“STOP!” Harry thunders, slowing his strides.
Jumping in her skin, she glances quickly at him from the corner of her eye as she tries to
follow his train of thought. The Ministry workers sealing the fireplaces freeze in place, their
wands aloft in confusion.
“Follow me,” he whispers under his breath, picking up his staunch pace.
They move forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron to the left and Hermione to the right. She
can barely breathe, her heart rabbiting in her throat and every step feels like walking on a
trampoline; unsteady and shaky.
A bald, nervous wizard steps forward and calls, “What’s up, Albert?”
Hermione’s heart is thundering so hard in her chest her vision is wobbling and she grips her
wand tighter for reassurance. The room smells like a combination of perfumes and
aftershaves, clogging her nose and clouding her head even further.
“This lot needs to leave before you seal the exits,” Harry booms with the authority of
Runcorn’s voice, coming to a halt at an open fireplace.
The group of Ministry employees look at each other with apprehension. Hermione’s fingers
curl so tight around her wand that the engraving bites back. There’s a desperate itching in her
veins to relieve the buzz of dark magic, repeated in the base of her skull.
“We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone-”
“Are you contradicting me?” Harry scolds, standing to his Polyjuiced bodies full height. The
wizard who dare spoke up shrinks. “Would you like me to have your family tree examined,
like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?”
Before Hermione can wonder if Harry is talking out of his arse, the bald wizard backs fully
away, conceding. “Sorry! I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought ... I thought they were
in for questioning and ...”
“Their blood is pure.” Harry’s deep voice echoes impressively through the hall, carrying
weight to his words and heating Hermione’s pounding heart. “Purer than many of yours. I
daresay. Off you go.”
Despite her earlier annoyance, Hermione’s filled with joy as the Muggle-borns scurry
forward into the fireplaces and begin to vanish in pairs. Back to safety. Back to their families.
Back to a chance to escape.
The joy shatters when a voice exclaims, “Mary!”

Mrs. Cattermole looks over her shoulder, her dark hair swinging. The real Reg Cattermole
comes running out of a lift with bare feet and disheveled hair. “R–Reg?”
Looking between her husband and Ron, Mary blinks in confusion. Ron swears loudly. Then
all hell breaks loose.
“Seal the exit! SEAL IT!”
Hexes and curses fly from wand tips, the air is full of screaming spells and burning, vivid
lights. One such light sears her elbow, tearing the flesh and Hermione screams through her
teeth. She doesn’t dare send out an Avada in retaliation, not with Harry’s wrath awaiting her,
but she does fire off some terrible curses.
She and the boys begin to change back into their own faces as their dueling continues, and it
increases the opposing group's drive to catch them. The three of them manage to start up a
run, and she can see they’re all heading for the same fireplace. Their footsteps pound, jarring,
as they flee, Hermione half twisting her body to send hexes over her shoulder.
Harry throws his arms out desperately and dives in first, Ron right after and she’s the last to
skid in. Because the boys are already gone, she sends out an Avada, hoping it hits a Death
Eater. When she lands, Harry is screaming. Her gut drops to her toes, but she finds he’s not
injured.
It’s Ron. Fucking hell. His arm is splinched something awful, muscle and skin tore asunder,
and bone is visible. Screaming instructions at Harry, she heals Ron up as best as she can,
drenching her hands and forearms in blood. When they’ve stabilized him, Hermione retrieves
and pitches up the tent.
Harry levitates Ron in, and she hurriedly wards with everything she can think of, rapidly
moving her wand and blood-soaked hands to speed up her enchantments. Running into the
tent on unsteady knees, Hermione finds Ron leaning back in the lower bunk and blinking
owlishly at her tight, anxious face.
“Ron?” She squeaks hesitantly, sinking shakily to the floor beside Harry. “Are you okay?”
Ron’s voice is dazed, though hopeful as he answers, “Don’t suppose we’ve got any
firewhisky?”
Hermione opens her beaded bag with trembling fingers, points her wand, and calls, “Accio,
firewhisky!”
It shoots into her hand, leaving smears of Ron’s blood on the glass and label. She passes it to
him, and he stares at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I bloody love you.”
Hermione smiles shakily, her first genuine one in a while. “I bloody love you too, you great
big idiot. How’re you feeling?”
Taking a moment to drink straight from the bottle, Ron grimaces as he hoarsely replies, “utter
rubbish, but I’ll live.”
They fall quiet for a moment as they pass the bottle around between them and take large,
quivering gulps to steady their nerves.
“We were brilliant, weren’t we?” Ron murmurs with disbelieving awe.
Harry’s small smile transforms into a hesitant grimace. “Yeah.” His eyes flash over to her,
bright behind his glasses. “We… were.”
Ron doesn’t seem to catch onto the tension between her and Harry’s locked eyes, demanding
instead, “Where is it then?”
Reaching into her beaded bag, Hermione presents the hard-won locket for them all to
observe, noting the ornate S on its face as she does so.
Squinting at it in her bloody hands, Ron asks, “reckon it’s still a Horcrux?”
Lifting it closer to her face for observation, she nods. “There would be some kind of damage
if it had been magically destroyed. I don’t think it would be intact at all.”
Passing it over to Harry, she watches him study it just as closely as she did and try to pry it
open. He frowns. “Looks like we need to work out how to open it before we can destroy it.”
“We need to work out what to destroy it with,” Hermione reminds him.
“Anyone else… feel it?” Ron interrupts in a soft, hesitant voice as he takes it back from
Harry.
Harry accepts it when offered, his frown deepening the lines on his forehead. “What?” He
pauses to turn it over and contemplate before adding, “I… think I do. It’s… alive.”
She refrains from rolling her eyes, far too happy that the three of them made it out alive to be
snarky. “It’s a piece of soul. Regardless of whose, it is alive, Harry.”
Harry shudders, though he tries to hide it by rolling out his shoulders. “We have to keep it
safe until we destroy it.”
Both she and Ron nod in unison, and the firewhisky is passed around once more.
“I have… erm- I have Mad-Eye’s… well, eye,” Harry finally splutters out after the bottle has
passed thrice.
Eyes bulging, Hermione’s heart trips in her chest. “What?”
Ron at the same time exclaims, “fucking hell, Harry!”
“He must be... well, he must be dead because it was in Umbridge’s office door when I was
looking for the locket.”
“That’s sick!” She cries.

Part of her feels like she’s faking the outrage and yet even though she’s not, the truth of how
long she’s known about Mad-Eye’s death sits heavy in her gut.
“Wonder who else is?” Ron’s low question has a devastating effect on the room, and he
promptly swallows another mouthful of firewhisky.
“We can’t think like that,” Harry answers mournfully. “We’ll drive ourselves mad.”
Nodding her agreement, Hermione accepts the bottle from Ron. “Mad-Eye,” she toasts,
raising it before drinking.
Harry takes it from her passing fingers and echoes, “Mad-Eye.”
“What are you going to do with it then? His eye?” Ron inquiries after his own toast, some
color returning to his pale cheeks.
“Bury him.” Harry nods decisively. “Somewhere gnarly looking, like him.”
“I think I saw a tree that would suit him, Harry,” Hermione inputs, feeling nothing but
battering waves of guilt.
“Perfect.”
So, with Ron propped between them, they go outside and bury Mad-Eye. Harry pours a
splash of firewhisky over the soil when they’re done, and then he orders both her and Ron to
rest.
At her protest, he remarks, “I don’t want to see you get sick again, ‘Mione.”
She tries to find any hint of suspicion on his face, but there isn’t any, only concern. Guilt
washes once more through her body, reminding her of all the terrible secrets she’s keeping. It
sends her dutifully off to bed, though not before washing her hands, and looping the Horcrux
about her neck.
She sleeps for a good long while, but she’s trapped in nightmares. Reimaginings of already
terrible memories. Dolohov getting his filthy hands on her; grabbing her hips. Harry being
killed the same night as Dumbledore, not Hedwig. The memory charm on her parents
breaking and them searching for her, stumbling right into their deaths.
When she wakes, it’s with gasping relief and she lies in the pitch black for a moment, awash
in gratitude to finally be conscious. Ron’s snoring is all to be heard. She eases herself out of
bed, her Ministry blouse sticky with cooling sweat. The locket lies glacial against her skin,
forcing a shiver as she heads to use the loo.
Before she exits, she splashes cold water on her face, trying to force the lingering terror from
beneath her skin. She’s lulled out to the front of the tent by mumbling. Frowning, Hermione
braces her wand ahead of her as she steps out the entrance. Harry lies slumped, moaning in
his sleep.
“Harry!”
“Dream!” He shouts before he’s even fully conscious. “Must have dozed off. Just a dream.
Sorry, Hermione.”
“Oh stop,” she cuts him off, folding her arms over her chest, her residue nightmares forcing
violent jitters in her stomach that make her snappy. “I know it was your scar. I can tell by
your face, Harry.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he answers like a sulky child. “It was a dream. Do you control your
dreams?”
It interests her, his sarcasm and wit, she finds it endearing more often than not.
Not today.
Her voice sharpens. “You need to apply yourself to Occlumency. Not just because of the
connection. For any worse-case scenarios. If we’re found…”
“Is that how you think now, Hermione?” Harry asks, raw and hurt, cheeks flush. “Is that why
you killed Yaxley? You didn’t have to do that. You’re not like them. You’re not- You’re not a
bad person, Hermione.”
“Stop it, Harry,” she dismisses, voice as tight as her throat. “I’m too tired for this
conversation.”
Staring for a moment, his green eyes flick between hers. “Fine but he’s found him, Hermione.
He’s found Gregorovitch, and I think he’s dead. Before he killed him, he read Gregorovitch’s
mind, and I saw-”
“Go to bed,” Hermione talks over him. “I best take watch if you’re falling asleep. Again.”
“I can finish it!” He bites back tersely, slapping his hands against his thighs.
“You’re exhausted.”
Hermione sits down stubbornly, making her point and Harry stands in a huff, heading back
inside. He has always been keen to avoid a row. There’s too much going on for Harry to be
studying Voldemort’s head. He created the Horcruxes years ago and believes them so safe
and untouchable that he need not spare them another thought.
Anything in Voldemort’s mind is not necessary for their mission. Just because he’s chasing
wand makers about wand lore, connections, and prophecies, doesn’t mean it’s relevant. They
know the prophecy. They all heard it. One must die, and for as long as Hermione is still
breathing, it’s not going to be Harry.
Not to mention, if Harry doesn’t start applying Occlumency and they are found, it’s all over.
They spoke about this. Extensively. Before they left to hunt Horcruxes, all those nights,
repeating herself until she was blue in the face. All that planning and he still isn’t trying.
Falling back on his old excuse of I can’t.
She’s not even going to hope that Ron has tried. The longer Hermione sits there, stewing over
this waste of time, the boy's lack of focus, the more wound up she becomes, piggybacking
from her paralyzing sleep. There is so much going on right now, so much for her to try and
deal with.
Her own guilt is growing by the day, by the nights when she sits and waits for Malfoy’s
Patronus. As she sits and hopes for information, which she won’t share but will harbor until it
festers. There’s also Dolohov, and now Yaxley. Looking at the locket, she handles it gingerly.
A killing curse that ripped her soul. Dark magic has laced her veins.
A fragment gone, lost but could have easily been used, manipulated into the dark artifact
about her neck. Swallowing, Hermione releases it, and it settles against her sternum, icy cold.
Hours of her watch slide by, mulling over her secrets and her guilts. Paranoia to the point that
she jumps up several times to check the wards, to replenish them, to pace at the border.
Umbridge’s bleeding face, and how fast she killed Yaxley replays before her eyes every other
minute, and with each replaying any guilt she had melts and turns to delight. Hermione’s glad
they’re dead. Both of them. Harry’s terror, which now matured, has become anger and disgust
burns her.
First with pain and embarrassment, as if she’s disappointed him. Then steadily with anger.
How can he not see it was a life-and-death situation? She stands at the border of her wards
and picks blood out of the ends of her hair. Staring off into the dark woods, she watches it
approach with a scowl on her face.
Malfoy’s Patronus.
Part One: February '98
Chapter Notes
Did someone say bring the spice?
If there’s anything in the world she’s not in the mood for right now, it’s Draco Malfoy.
Reality is though, it’s been a month. She needs an update. She needs to know why he’s been
gone for so long. Even still, Hermione scowls as she follows his Patronus, simply for the fact
that she is following it when she’s still wearing blood and dark magic burns her veins.
“Update, Granger?” Are the words Malfoy uses as a greeting, but then he takes her in, and his
focus sharpens along with his spine. “And what fun have you been having?”
Hermione comes to a stop before him, planting her feet. “And why would I tell you?”
Malfoy stares at her for a long moment, as if debating to poke, his jaw clenching. “You don’t
get to have it both ways, Granger. You can’t have me fluttering about like a bloody Doxy and
then not provide information. Kingsley won’t keep allowing me to help you.”
“You’re not helping me,” she denies immediately, wetting her dry lips.
Eyes tracking the movement, Malfoy tuts. “Truly? You’re going to act thick? My, it’s getting
easier for you these days, isn’t it?”
“We went to the Ministry today-“ She shakes her head. “-or yesterday. I’m not entirely sure
what time it is. There were issues.” She eventually bites out reluctantly.
“Ah.” Malfoy raises his chin and a near-invisible smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “So
that was you.”
“Yes,” she barks impatiently.
“The Daily Prophet reported it,” Malfoy tells her, though he provides no proof. “Undesirable
number one, two, and three, they’ve named you all.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “How childish.”
“Now see,” Malfoy continues on, glancing at his black shirt rolled to the elbows. “If you had
told me when you were going,” he pauses dramatically to pick non-existent lint from the
fabric. “I would have been able to tell you about the new Muggle-born register.”
“Yes, well,” Hermione sniffs with irritation, glancing away from his long fingers plucking at
the air. “If you had been arsed to show your face the last month, I would have had a chance.”
Malfoy arches a brow, fluttering his fingers free of the invisible lint. “Don’t tell me you
haven’t worked out how to summon me? Oh, this is brilliant.”
“Not today, Malfoy.” Hermione refrains from rubbing her forehead, shifting between her
aching feet instead. “What else is happening in the Ministry?”
He scoffs and folds his arms, straining his shirt. “You were there, you tell me.”
“I didn’t exactly have time to see it all!” She exclaims, her pulse kicking at the site of his
bare forearms roped with muscle. “Would you hurry up?”
The blood on her skin has been itching since she remembered she went to sleep without
washing it all off properly. Malfoy and his shifting body aren’t helping her irritated state, her
eyes too eager to note how he has filled out in the last month.
Malfoy seems to decide not to rankle her further. “There’s another register. For Magical
Creatures.” He stands tall, dropping his arms and looking ready to leave. “They’re being
offered a foothold in the Dark Lord’s army or execution.”
“That’s barbaric,” Hermione hisses, taking an unconscious step closer as if it’s all his doing.
Malfoy steps closer too, craning his head down to keep eye contact. “That’s the new Ministry.
It’s quite ugly in the real world, Granger. Not all of us spend our days playing dress-up.”
“Don’t undermine what I’m doing!” She hisses, stretching onto the tips of her toes to present
as tall as she feels. “We both have parts to play in this war!”
“Yes, we do,” he agrees coolly, his eyes flicking down her Ministry blouse and lingering on
the locket resting against her sternum. “So, stop hindering mine while only profiting yours.”
Shifting to deter his gaze lit with recognition, she smirks cruelly and asks, “What’s the
matter, Malfoy? Don’t like it when anyone acts like you?”
“My, how very Slytherin of you.” He flashes his teeth in that grotesque grin of his, eyes
lifting from her chest. “There’s something else you should know… You can’t say his name
anymore.”
“Vold-?”
Malfoy takes the last step forward to meet her and slaps his dry, warm palm over her mouth
in almost the same second. “Merlin, Granger!” He hisses in her face, teeth bared. “Yes, his!
It’s Jinxed. You’ll have Death Eaters upon us in seconds, you stupid bint!”
Jerking away from him, she takes an angry step back as adrenaline tightens her stomach
muscles. “Alright! Keep your hands to yourself! What poor soul worked that one out?”
Malfoy grows quiet and her heart squeezes with trepidation. Please, no more. Not today.
She’s had her fill.
“The Muggle: Ted Tonks.”

The air in her lungs shrivels up and she can’t remember in the next second how to breathe at
all. “Oh, Andromeda.”
Her daughter and now her husband. No one left but her. Hermione's hands come to her
mouth, despite their not-quite-clean blood stains, covering her trembling lip. “Harry really
likes her, and I can’t even tell him.”
This quirks Malfoy’s brow. “You don’t tell them? About the information I bring?”
Hermione blinks back tears, steeling herself. This is not something she wants to discuss with
him. Her pain at keeping secrets. The anguish.
“That’s none of your business.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, stepping back on the heel of his shoes. “It matters little to me what you
do with my tibbits. I fulfil my service merely by giving them.”
Blinking back her previous tears, an ugly scowl twists her mouth, and she clenches her fists,
digging her nails into the heels of her palms to ground herself. “Of course. As long as Draco
Malfoy comes out the other side, who cares?”
Malfoy shrugs, looking thoroughly bored. “Yes, essentially.”
Fury burns through her, and her non-verbal curse barely has time to course along the length
of her wand, seeming instead to burst through her skin and out the tip.
Managing just barely to block it, Malfoy looks a little pale when he looks back at her, but still
has the gall to taunt, “You think you can best me?” He laughs cruelly, even as he stands there
with a chest that’s heaving as much as hers.
Hermione’s flesh burns with the ridicule. “I don’t need magic for you.”
Stowing her wand, she advances on him, and Malfoy watches, his eyes full of twisted
excitement as he stows his own wand and meets her head on.
They meet in the middle.
Her right hand swings in a punch and he knocks it away like a persistent fly. Hermione
growls and goes again, and this time, he snatches it, bending her backwards with the aid of
her fist clasped in his. Rearing up with all of her strength, she goes for a head-butt, but
Malfoy throws his head back in time, grinning manically. Immediately stumbling back, her
hand goes for her wand, a sweat breaking across the nape of her neck.
“Ah, ah, Granger.” Malfoy tuts, wagging his finger patronisingly. “No magic.”
By rights, his flesh should melt from his bones with how hard she glares at him. “Fine.”
Promptly, she whips free the knife tucked into the back of her skirt, hidden from Ron and
Harry and yet presented to Malfoy. It momentarily frightens her how much of the darkness he
pulls out. How willing she is to show it to him. It also frightens her that the blade nicks her
and yet she doesn’t feel it through the thrumming of her skin.
Malfoy’s eyebrow shoots up. “Interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” She asks with a coy smile and upon the darkening of his eyes adds, “Interesting.”
Mock bowing, Malfoy sweeps his arms open in a blatant signal to attack. Hermione’s no
expert, and she’s certainly not trained, but rage smeared in the remnants of dark magic floods
through her veins and powers her. She can taste it on her tongue, and smell it in the air
around her. She and Malfoy dance around as she slashes and whirls at him, and he parries and
blocks, perhaps actually trained. The knife raises as she comes in for him again and while he
blocks with his right arm, she diverts and slices a much too shallow cut underneath his Dark
Mark. He looks down at it for a moment, almost amused by the blood she’s drawn.
Not the first time she’s made him bleed.
“Well, look at that,” he muses, looking up at her, hair falling into his eyes. “My turn, I think.”
When he comes at her, it’s very clear he’s been playing with her all along. He drives her
back, panting across the grass, and seizes her wrist in such a tight, hot grip her eyes instantly
sting. With his other hand, he plucks the blade from the hostage of her stiff fingers and brings
it to her throat. Hermione stops breathing. Malfoy pants openly.
The sharp sting is barely there against her neck before he throws it into his other palm, and
his now free hand replaces it. All of it being as quick as the blink of an eye.
"I don’t need weapons to hurt you,” he promises in a low, deadly whisper.
It shouldn’t make her clench between her legs to hear those words, but it does. “I’m not
scared of you, Malfoy.”
Licking his lips, he tilts his head and his hand on her throat tightens. “Come on, Granger, is
that all you got?”
She reaches up with the hand not holding his wrist and slaps him, frustration at being bested
pouring through her. He laughs, dark and sinister, and jerks her head to the side with his cruel
grip on her jaw. Hermione fights with all she’s got, grunting with the effort. His weight bores
down on her, fingers squeezing, and he tilts forward even further, lips brushing the skin of her
shoulder. Electricity drives through the layers of skin down to the bone. Hermione’s gut
trembles and then Malfoy sinks his teeth slowly into her shoulder.
I can do anything to you.
She cries out, fighting harder despite the goosebumps that sweep down her arms. When he’s
suckled at the mark until his satisfaction, he pulls away with a parting, burning lick. His hand
remains around her throat, ring cutting into her skin. The knife reappears, trailing along the
front of her shirt.
“You want to be afraid of me, Granger, don’t you? You want to play.”
Hermione shakes her head vehemently, even as her pulse pounds. Tightening his hand around
her throat, he trails the cold knife down her body. Hermione can’t decide what wrist to
attempt to halt, so she grabs both. It does nothing to deter him. The one around her throat
doesn’t ease, and the one with the knife doesn’t stop. The tip of the blade brushes over her
throbbing core and she swallows. The lump moves tightly under Malfoy’s palm, and he
smirks at her. Hermione flushes, feeling caught at something taboo, and therefore vulnerable.
Cocking his head, he sweeps his eyes over her flushed face. “Is your little cunt wet for me,
Hermione?”
Refusing to make a noise, she stares at him, even as her mouth gapes for air. It struggles
through her nostrils and the restriction on her windpipe. The knife slants, and he puts force
behind the handle. Slotting between the tight space of fabric and button, he elegantly severs
the thin cotton thread affixing them together. The button pops off, landing on the floor and
the blouse spreads open over her bra, no longer restricting her breasts. The locket gleams
gold against her skin. Hermione’s chest stutters and Malfoy’s eyes flick down.
"Well, well," he whispers, the knife running against the chunky gold chain.
Hermione refuses to say anything. Malfoy knows it's the same one he questioned Kreacher
about. The same one Umbridge was wearing in The Daily Prophet article. The one he
brought Hermione. For a moment they stand staring at each other, and he looks tempted to
ask her the truth behind the pendant that hangs cold and large against her breasts. After a
terse minute, the knife edge slithers down her trembling flesh. Hermione refuses to swallow
with fear again and remains stoic, and unyielding.
Malfoy then moves the knife further, still watching her and rests it against the front band of
her bra. Ceasing to breathe, she stares at him with a thudding heart, wondering why she isn’t
fighting harder. Tilting his head further, as if amused by her, a lock of platinum hair slides
across his brow. Her hands still clasp each of his wrists, but there’s no true strength behind
them. Hermione blames it on her overwhelming feelings, remnants of her awful day, but it
has more to do with the low, heavy tugging in her abdomen that feels like potential.
The blade, cold and sharp, skates over the hot flesh of each curve of her breasts. Malfoy
doesn’t look away from her the entire time and when some buried part of her attempts to
shift, he jams his knee between her thighs. She releases her first sound then. A startled but
pleased gasp when he presses against her clit and sends a ball of white-hot heat through her
cunt. Her inner walls clutch achingly and the whimper that follows couldn’t possibly be
helped.
“What a good girl you can be, sweetheart,” Malfoy praises.
Clenching her teeth and sweating, Hermione forces herself to shove forward but Malfoy’s
hand on her throat thrusts into her hair, rearing her head back by the roots of her braids. Her
neck strains, tendons tight and jaw tighter.
“Now, now. We were just getting somewhere.” He pushes his knee harder into her cunt to
accentuate his point. “I just know you’re dripping. Twisted little witch, aren’t you?”
When she refuses to answer him, he lets that dark chuckle get lost in her collarbone, his lips
teasing. Just when she thinks he’s going to press a hot kiss to her skin, her veins buzzing for
it, he pulls back and deftly slices her remaining buttons in quick succession. The blouse falls
apart, baring her trembling stomach and heaving chest.
Malfoy’s gaze is scorching on her bare skin. “Even I have to admit, Granger: you have
fantastic tits.” Though for as much as he looks at them, his curiosity drags his eyes to the
locket.
Hermione finally speaks through heaving breaths, hoping to distract his building questions.
“Screw you.”
“Love to.” He slices her bra open all the way, and she gasps as her breasts spill free, nipples
tightening in the cool air and locket spilling from its nest. “Working on it in fact.”
“I’m never shagging you again, you filthy cretin,” she growls, jerking her head in his grasp to
no avail.
“Your cunt is telling me otherwise, Granger.” He grins his favoured, feral grin and his long
fingers flex through her braids, loosening them. “I can practically smell you.”
For all her effort not to, she flushes blisteringly hot through her cheeks and chest. “You’re
foul.”
Malfoy lets out a pleased, vibrating hum at the site of her hard nipples, ignoring her words.
The knife continues to lie against her sensitive skin, cold and dangerous. When he raises it
for a moment, his next location clear, Hermione dashes forward. Swinging around, he catches
her by the waist and wrestles her, kicking and screaming onto her back. They’re both panting
as they grapple on the grass and yet despite the chaos, he wrangles her onto her stomach and
slits the skirt from her person. Hermione tenses, her wand falling to the side and her hands
scrabbling uselessly on the leaf-strewn ground.
Malfoy pants over her, his body heavy as he cages her legs together tightly. “Come now,
Granger, you put up a good fight. That’s what you wanted wasn’t it?” He leans over her back,
and she shakes, her stomach twisting as he lowers his voice to an intimate whisper. “To feel
like you tried your very best, but the Big Bad Wolf got you anyway?”
Hermione squeezes her eyes closed, her skin tingling and hot, her neck and scalp damp, her
braids unravelling curls. She hates him. Hates him for knowing her darkness. Hates herself
for harbouring it. She can’t speak. She can’t speak because then she admits it. Malfoy’s hand
strokes down her back and she doesn’t pretend to resist when he takes her blouse. Both hands
slide to her hips, and she’s not sure where the knife is anymore.
A blazing path of heat follows his fingers down her thighs. His hands tuck under and curl
around them, fingertips digging into the fatty part of her inner thighs. Her stomach tugs and
flips as he yanks her up to her knees. The locket swings out and hits her chest, a shock of
cold. The tremors in them expand into her legs when he hooks her knickers and rolls them
down.
She doesn’t fight him.
She’s too breathless.
Too dizzy with want.
Too needy.
Too dark.
“Soaked,” he breathes in confirmation.
A guttural moan falls out of her mouth as his fingers slide through her scorching slickness,
stroking her clit luxuriously. The moans don’t stop as he continues to play with her,
alternating between massaging her clit and circling her entrance. Her hips begin to rock every
time he refuses to put his fingers inside her, but she won’t beg. That’s one thing she can’t
allow even as she sweats and pants, trembling under his mercy.
Squeaking, she jumps, rocking forward as Malfoy’s tongue obscenely licks across the nick
she caused herself earlier. The flat warmth of his tongue laps up the small amount of blood
drawn and then drags down her arse cheek. Her cunt clenches desperately and she screws her
eyes shut, her body on fire. Malfoy’s tongue glides all the way down the back of her thigh.
Not once does he cease the gentle but insistent exploration of her cunt, favouring her clit with
increasing speed and pressure.
Hermione bites down on her lip, quelling her cries. He moves over and repeats the process,
tongue dragging over her arse cheek and laving at the crease between her thigh. When he’s
had his fill there, sending jitters throughout her belly, he licks down her other thigh. On a
path back up that makes her eyes cross, he diverts to the side until he’s reached her throbbing
core. For a moment he hovers there, and Hermione almost feels she could cry with the
overwhelming emotions bunching together in her chest.
Lust, desperation, need, embarrassment, and apprehension, to name a few. Blowing cool air
over her hot pussy lips coaxes a strangled moan from her throat. Perhaps satisfied with this,
he eagerly laps at her essence between his own fingers like he can’t bear to pull them away.
He does it with enthusiasm that rivals the fact that he called her filthy nearly all of the time
they’ve known each other. A raw groan tears out of her chest and she shamelessly presses her
hips back into his face, encouraging his tongue deeper.
His fingers slip down to her clit as his tongue fucks her fluttering, sensitive and leaking
opening. Pleasure flays her open, her hips rocking desperately as her stomach winds tighter.
Malfoy groans between her legs, his tongue eager as it licks and flattens.
Unbelievably, this makes her giggle.
Malfoy pauses, much to her mewling disappointment, hot breath against her quivering,
sensitive flesh. “Something funny, Granger?”
“Just wondering how filthy I am now. What a dirty little Mudblood I am, for Pureblood,
Draco Malfoy to lathe me with his tongue like it’s his last meal,” she taunts triumphantly,
though breathlessly, head bent, locket swinging between her spread arms, crossed at the wrist.
It feels good to be in power. To know he needs her, and he does need her. She can feel it in
his hands, in his desperate grip. She can see it in his eye when he looks at her. He says
nothing in the wake of her words but in the next breath Hermione curses darkly, Malfoy’s
teeth burying into her left arse cheek.
Before she can voice her indignation, he pulls her lower cheeks apart and she loses all her air.
“Filthy, you say? I still think you’re filthy, Granger.”
She lifts and whips her head around, curls sliding loose as she looks back at him kneeling
between her spread thighs. He smirks and bends his head closer to where his fingers rest, and
where she’s aching and clenching. Her stomach flips but she doesn’t dare look away.
“For instance,” he whispers softly, right against her skin. “This is particularly filthy, isn’t it?”
Then he leans down and laps at her arsehole, without breaking eye contact. Smug bastard.
Hermione grits her teeth to devoid him of the satisfaction of hearing her moan. Locks her
elbows and knees to prevent him from watching her squirm. Without fear or embarrassment,
she looks back at him, and her defiance makes him desperate. His tongue flattens, more
insistent, licking at her arsehole like it’s the thirst-quenching ice cream on a hot day. Clearly
put out with her continued silence, he rears forward and grips her face, squeezing her cheeks
until her mouth pops open.
“Put your fucking tongue out,” he hisses, nose to nose.
Trembles slither down her thighs, breaking from her resistance as she does as she’s told, too
eager. Malfoy spits into her open mouth and her eyes widen, cunt clenching at the inane glee
reflected in his own.
“Swallow it.”
She does.
“Again.”
Her tongue goes out again.
After he's spat in her mouth again, and she's obediently swallowed, Malfoy licks along her
tongue with his, broad and brutal and messy. It makes everything inside her clench and a
moan finally slips free.
The mean, malevolent grin he favours takes his mouth and still squeezing her face, he grinds
their foreheads together. “Fucking filthy. Like I said.”
“Says the man who cut off my clothes,” Hermione pants, screwing her eyes closed briefly
before opening them again.
“Because I can.” He grins savagely, still squeezing her face.
“Because I let you,” she rebukes, yanking her face free.
With an irritated growl, he shoves her back down, until her arse is in the air and her cheek to
the ground. The locket hits the grass beneath her. Her heart feels as if it’s hammering in her
throat, and she claws her nails into the leaves scattered around her.
“I’ve never hated anyone like I do you, Granger.”
Struggling not to gasp, she answers, “Likewise, Draco.”
Malfoy intakes a sharp breath and slams his hand down on her arse cheek. A choking gasp
wrangles free of her mouth as she jolts forward. His hands on her hips yank her right back,
and when her core meets his groin, she nudges his bare cock. The brush of his hot skin
against her cunt lips makes her shudder. She didn’t notice him pull himself free and the
surprise intermingled with the sensations has her inner walls clutching.
“I expect to hear my name when I’m inside you, Hermione.”
Mindless with want, she can only manage an agreeable hum, arching her arse back for more.
Malfoy spanks her other arse cheek, and she tucks her face down to shout out. Hermione has
to wiggle her hips to alleviate the burn, shifting her knees as it begins to trickle between her
legs. One hand takes her hip, and his knuckles brush her soaked folds as he fists his cock. For
the first time that she really wants him to, Malfoy doesn’t slam into her. Hermione releases a
frustrated breath. Of course. He’s so difficult. She presses back as he begins to slide inside
her, trying to force him to do so quicker.
Tutting under his breath, he brings his palm down on her arse cheek once more, though this
time his ring burns her flesh for the quickest moment. Hermione whimpers, but his fingers
dig so tightly into the creases of her hips that she can’t alter the pace. Forced to endure it, she
takes every single inch in increments of tortuous pleasure. When he’s finally seated inside
her, her arse cheeks flush to his hips, Hermione is panting and delirious, her eyes closed.
“Your cunt is always so welcoming to me, Granger. I’d wager she likes me more than you.”
Hermione pushes her weight into her shoulders so she can tuck her forearms under her chest,
and put more force into her knees. With the adjustments, she rocks her hips slowly, begging
wordlessly. The locket rocks with her. Malfoy chuckles and bends over her, his mouth
brushing over her spine, tongue trailing his path. Sweat between them creates a sticky glide,
the smell of him all around her and his body so hot and heavy.
They rock in an excruciatingly slow fuck that turns her insides to jelly and makes her clit
swell. After listening to her whimpers spiralling needily, Malfoy finally presses his fingers to
her clit. Her moan is part relief and part pleasure, intoxicating and all-consuming. Wetness
seeps out of her, easing the tight clasp of her walls around Malfoy’s cock. She rocks faster
with the additional fluid and Malfoy allows it, pulling back to give her room and meet her
once more.
Their skin sticks together desperately before it parts, and over again. His heavy breath stirs
the hair at her ear, and his hands slide all over her body, exploring her thighs, her arse, her
hips, tucking under to stroke her stomach, strum her clit. Her whole body buzzes with sparks,
tingling from head to toe as his cock massages her deep inside.
“Say my name,” he whispers sinfully, erotically into the shell of her ear.
Shuddering, she shakes her head, still pressing her hips back.
Malfoy tuts and slows down a fraction, chuckling at her needy whimper. “You want it
faster?”
She nods breathlessly, her body crushed under his, absorbed by his.
“Say my name.”
“Mal-”
His hips pull back until only the tip of his cock rests inside her and then he slams home,
catching her scream in the hand he slaps over her mouth. “No.”
Resuming his infuriating pace, mindless of the sweat all over her, he pants again, “Say. My.
Name.”
Trembling around his cock and beneath him, Malfoy releases his hand from her mouth, his
pace picking up just slightly, previewing her reward.
Hermione’s cunt throbs and clutches, desperate, begging. “Draco.”
He releases a pleased, content moan in her ear. “Good girl. Such a good fucking girl.”
Where she began to slide to her stomach from his slow thrusting, he grips her thighs and pulls
her back to her knees, sitting back on his haunches behind her. Barely managing to gather air,
he slams into her. Hermione screeches, shaking all over.
He grunts, “Keep saying my fucking name, Hermione.”
“Draco!” She shouts immediately and again, higher, louder when he grabs hold of what's left
of her braids and yanks her head back. “Draco!”
“Yes,” he hisses, pounding into her like there will never be another chance.
Hermione can feel her arse and hips jiggling, her tits bouncing against her chest with the raw
fucking. The locket swings and smacks her repeatedly, sharp jolts of ice. Draco’s hand on her
braids pulls harder, tipping her head further back. The position strains all her muscles, her
face tipping so he can release her hair and cradle her throat. His hips ricocheting against her
arse, his cock hitting her g-spot over and over.
Her eyes roll in her skull, and he releases her hip to dip between her legs and roll his fingers
over her soaked clit. The tension coalesces in her gut, and she shatters, screaming obscenely.
Bowing her head, she shakes so badly he has to band an arm around her waist to keep her
upright. In a daze, she notes his mouth kissing her shoulder and biting down her spine. Both
her body and brain feel like jelly and Draco slows his thrusting to his initial teasing pace
before stopping completely.
Having come around only a little, her eyes remain glassy as he grabs her hips, hauls her up
and encourages her to turn. Her knees bump his, but he ignores the momentary mess of limbs
to pull her legs over his. Her hips raise naturally, her body loose and thrumming, and the
locket slides into the hollow of her throat. Hermione's face burns as Draco stares down at her
cunt on display. She can only imagine how slick and swollen she is, and how her clit peaks
out from the hood greedily. Despite her raw embarrassment, she can’t look away from his
face, wanting to see his reaction.
His tongue flicks out over his lower lip, and he doesn’t look away from between her legs
when he says, “Such a pretty cunt, Granger.”
Still staring at her core, keeping it hot under his gaze, he strips his shirt, leisurely undoing the
buttons. He pulls it off and pushes his trousers open wider, so they cling precariously to his
hips. Sweat drips down his tight stomach, the impressive V of his muscles mouth-watering.
Gods, she hopes he’s half as attracted to her as she is to him. She hopes she’s not alone in
this. He reaches down for his cock and strokes it without shame, still slick from her come.
Hermione’s stomach flips and her mouth dries out. He’s achingly hard under his own touch.
Pre-cum leaks boldly from the tip and her cunt clenches at such an erotic display. Draco
finally looks up at her beneath his lashes and then begins to stroke his cock faster at the site.
Swallowing, her eyes bounce between his hand and his eyes, torn between lust and
embarrassment.
“This what you want, Granger?”
“Yes,” she breathes it out, though she means to bite it.
When they first participated in this hate fuck tradition, she was demanding, and aggressive.
Each close encounter with him has stripped that bold streak a little more. With each time,
with each new memory, her body remembers his. It throbs, warm and heavy, begging for him
wordlessly, straining. Her breasts jut upwards, her hips canted over his upper thighs and her
legs spread. Her ribcage tilts for the sky and the fact that she’s naked while he’s only
managed to bare his chest and pull his cock out makes it that touch more taboo. That touch
more erotic.
“Tell me,” he demands, pressing closer and hovering the tip of his cock over her clit.
Heart thundering in her chest, she tries to hear past the roaring in her ears. “Don’t push your
luck, Malfoy.”
Smirking, he nudges forward until his cock kisses her clit. She gasps, her knees lifting as her
stomach clenches. “Be nice.”
Hermione ignores him, rocking her hips instead, chasing after him. Malfoy tuts at her, and it
scalds her chest with embarrassment.
“You usually have so many words, Granger,” he admonishes. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, she
tips her chin back down to look at him. “Don’t look away. If you’re not going to say it, I need
to see it.”
Trepidation claws at her throat. What if she pulls ugly faces? What if she looks silly? She’s so
vulnerable, so exposed, lying here naked and open. The head of him notches into her opening
and her breath stutters in her chest, still holding his eyes. His hips push forward, the skin of
her inner thighs rubbing against the hot skin of his stomach. The next breath falters, oxygen
ceasing as he breaches further, slicing into her slick channel all without breaking eye contact.
A lock of platinum hair falls into his face, pink splotches on his cheekbones that twist her
insides with attraction. His palms slot under her knees, holding her open and his ring twists
around the base of his finger, imprinting her flesh.
Inch by torturous inch, Draco doesn’t look away from her and her face burns as hot as the rest
of her body. With her agonised exhale, his hips slot into hers. Fully seated, he raises her legs
higher, and she gasps, the feel of him long and thick, and full inside her. Her hands shoot out
to grip his forearms, her stomach tense.
“You feel that?” He whispers intimately, leaning into her body, his hips rolling slowly and
taking her breath. “That’s all me. It’s me doing this to you, Hermione. Me giving you what
you need.”
Hermione chokes on a moan, even as her eyes roll at his sharp, clipped thrust.
Draco goes on in her silence, his voice breathy and low. “You can’t stand it, can you? You
hate how much I can give you what you need. You hate that it’s me, fucking you. Don’t
you?” When she doesn’t answer again, he releases a leg to grab her face, squeezing her
cheeks and hissing, “Say it.”
“Yes! I hate it!” She cries, relieved to let noise-free, her fingers falling from his arms to
clutch at his hips, his arse, anywhere and everywhere she can reach. “I hate it,” she repeats in
a shrill as he rolls downwards and massages her clit. “Fucking hate that it’s you.”
“And that’s why I love it. Because no one knows you like I do, Granger. Not really.” Draco
sneers, releasing her opposite leg now to wrap a hand around her throat while the other
remains on her face. “But don’t worry, sweetheart.” He chokes a little, she’s vindicated to see
and the hand around her neck trembles. “I hate it too. I hate how I want to fuck you.” He
picks up his pace, pounding into her, stealing her breath. “Hate how much I think about it.
Fucking obsess over it.”
Draco sinks into her ever deeper, their hips meeting and parting, impacting and retreating.
Wet, erotic noise is loud and forbidden in the quiet around them, sending goose bumps racing
down her skin. The hand that was squeezing her face drifts down her body, clasping a breast
as he passes, pinching a nipple, before his thumb finds, and turns over her clit.
“Draco!” Hermione shouts breathlessly, her eyes tearing with the intense wash of pleasure.
“Harder. Fuck sake, harder!”
Growling, he picks up a punishing rhythm between her legs, thumb on her clit firm and fast.
Hermione’s thighs tremble and her chest tightens as she doesn’t dare to breathe, the tensing
of her body bringing her orgasm hurtling closer.
“Yeah? You think fuck, you can take it?”
Draco groans as he hits her with a particularly devastating thrust to prove his point. His
thumb slides in her slickness, rubbing harshly over her clit, and she jolts up in the grass. Her
orgasm tightens in her lower stomach and all she can do is nod vigorously, the darkness
inside her joining and rising to meet his own. Bowing his head, his eyes seem to flick
between the hand at her throat and him disappearing inside her as if he can’t choose between
the two.
Hermione can barely keep hers open, the stars flickering with her eyelashes. Draco squeezes
her neck tighter as he slams into her and punches out a guttural cry. Hermione’s vision pops
with crystal white balls and her air cuts out, her lungs ceasing to work as she shakes through
a mind-numbing orgasm. She grinds down on her own teeth, her tortured relief ripping
between them and releasing something mangled.
Draco’s hips stutter and then pick up with single-minded purpose. Her head clears enough to
remember their predicament. He can’t come inside her. It was an accident the other times,
with them not performing the contraceptive charm. She had the chance at that point to take a
potion after, but she has no such resources right now.
“No!” She wheezes, squeezing his shoulders, and pushing on them. “You can’t! We didn’t
cast-”
“I don’t need to cast,” Draco gasps, dragging himself out of her with an obscene squelch.
Hermione sucks in startled air and he crawls up her body, tangling his hands in her destroyed
braids. She begins to fight immediately, even as her lower half is exposed and left clutching
at emptiness.
“What are you doing?!”
Panting, Draco digs his thumb into the hinge of her jaw and tilts her glaring face up at him.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
“I will bite it off, Draco!” She shouts, twisting her face as his thumb climbs higher to pry her
lips apart.
“You so do love your little force fantasy, Hermione.”
She gasps, her cheeks unbelievably flushing. Draco seizes his opportunity, filthy Slytherin
and grabs his cock, angling it into her mouth. Hermione gags, still staring up at him in
defiance. He stares back at her, his eyes dancing and hooded with excitement as his hand
tightens in her hair. His other joins it, and he uses her mouth to his pleasure, hunched over
her and gasping. Simultaneously, she wants to continue wreaking havoc on him which causes
him to look at her the way he is, all broken and desperate, and bite his dick off.
Deciding on the former, she relaxes her jaw and places her hands on his hips. Moaning in
approval, he cradles her face as his hips thrust, her tongue sliding over the head of him. The
noise from his mouth makes her more eager to finish him and when he finally breaks, she’s
disappointed to find no sound escapes him. Instead, his mouth gapes and he throws his head
back, pouring come into her throat. With the last lashing and the swallow of her throat,
Malfoy clucks his knuckle under her chin.
The movement tilts her face up and he bends to his knees, lowering his forehead until it
touches hers. His lips slide softly over hers, almost with gratitude and it's tinged with the taste
of them intermingling. Pulling away, they share panting air, and he slides both hands into the
curls that escape her braids, grinding their foreheads together. Hermione stares up at him and
her stomach jolts when his eyes flutter open, connecting with hers.
“I thought I could fuck you out my system,” his whisper is drenched in secrets airing, in
long-spoken truths coming to light.
Breathless, she murmurs, “And now?”
“I can’t.”
A low, heavy tug in her stomach forces her lips to press to his, and though the kiss is
desperate it’s a little slower than usual. It’s short, however, and when it comes to an end
Draco pulls away to look at her face again, cradling her head.
The open gaze forces her own truths, her own secrets. “I can’t think about this right now. I
can’t… can’t hold room for it. There’s too much.”
It doesn’t make sense really, any of it and there’s still an underlying anger to the passion, a
toxic twist on whatever these close encounters equate to.
Draco’s jaw flexes but he nods, his eyes shuttering and his hands slipping from her hair.
“Okay, Granger.”
Shakily, she stands, and he follows. Silently, she repairs her clothes and then dresses. Draco
does too, openly watching her, and the locket when she tucks it back into her Ministry blouse.
When she turns to him, Draco Apparates away. Rooted in place, her mind spills back over
everything that just occurred, with a quality of fever-induced shine to the memories.
Something just changed. She can feel it, a tiny, subtle shift.
Hermione has no idea what to do with it.

Part One: February '98 - March '98
“We still haven’t got any food.”
“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione bites out tersely.
Ron kicks a chair leg and then snarls, “What?!” At Hermione’s mouth falling open in
disbelief. “I’m starving! All I’ve had since I bled half to death is a variety of toadstools and
beans!”
“You can’t be serious!” Hermione criticizes, shooting from her seat. “You sound like a
fucking child!”
“We are children!” Ron hollers back, skin pale and sweaty, even a week after being
splinched. “We’re fucking kids!”
“Speak for yourself,” she answers hotly. “Yes, we’re young. But Dumbledore trusted Harry
with this, and I know that means he trusted us. We’re not going to lose our shit because
you’re hungry!”
When Ron opens his mouth back up to argue, Harry pipes in with a scathing, “Will the pair
of you give it a rest!” Though he adds in her defense, “We’re all hungry and tired, Ron!
Hermione is the one working the hardest, so stop taking it out on her!”
“Well, she’s not doing enough!”
Hermione gasps, the words cutting her raw, and Harry shoots up from his chair. “You take
that back!”
“Oh yeah, gang up, like you always do!” Ron seethes, kicking the chair leg again.
“Grow up!” Harry growls back. “We’d be nothing without her!”
Despite this glowing praise from Harry, Hermione’s chin wobbles at Ron’s echoing words.
Not doing enough? How dare he? But just as soon as the pain arrives, it seeps out of her, her
body too weak to hold emotion with her exhaustion. She sighs and sits back down rubbing
her temples. It goes on like this for another week, in which they all take their tempers out on
one another. Guilt swarms her at once after these rowing sessions, as she feels that she’s the
one who began the tradition of screaming at each other.
A logical part of her knows it’s the Horcrux. They’re feeding it but even the awareness of the
fact doesn’t stop it. She’s not strong enough. Their circumstances feel more dire every day as
the success of obtaining the locket ebbs, and their questions grow. How do they open it? How
do they destroy it? What do they destroy it with? Ron never seems to have any ideas to
contribute to Harry and Hermione’s many pondering sessions.
He tends to keep to himself and broods over their food supplies, or lack, thereof. Hermione
doesn’t see Draco in this time either, still no closer to working out how to summon him and
having none of the time to dedicate to trying. She vehemently refuses to think about anything
that happened the last time that she saw him, pushing away flashbacks nearly every other
minute.
Ron routinely repeats, “Where next?” And does so again now, interrupting her newest
attempt to turn away from the memory of Draco’s hands against her skin.
Harry sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know, Ron.”
Ron huffs and hunches over the Wireless, twisting the dials. For fruitless hours, both she and
Harry try to decide where they can find the remaining Horcruxes: the snake, the cup, and
their mystery one, most likely to be something of the school founders. They have Slytherin
and Hufflepuff assigned already, so it’s most likely to be Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.
Hermione’s played with the sword being one, but it would have been defiled years before it
appeared to Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, and she doesn’t feel like it would do that any
longer operating under such dark magic.
The constant circling around the mystery Horcrux, and its location, along with the others, is
much preferred to running into the brick wall that is how to destroy the one they possess.
There are merits to the idea of collating the Horcruxes together before trying to find what
could destroy them, Hermione allows. They don’t know if Voldemort can feel when a
Horcrux is killed, and if they do it all at once it reduces the risk of him finding out and
attempting to counter-act them.
The only problem is, with their limited information, their conversations become increasingly
repetitive and frustrating. The only piece of information they can truly work from is
Dumbledores, where he informs Harry that Voldemort hid Horcruxes in places that were
important to him. Therefore, in a dreary repetition, they hash out locations known to have
been lived in or visited by Voldemort. The orphanage where he was born and raised;
Hogwarts, where he was educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he worked after his Seventh
Year, and Albania, where he spent years in exile.
Ron adds little but derivative comments to these ideas. “Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t
take more than an afternoon to search an entire country.”
Hermione picks at her cuticles as she firmly reminds him, “There can’t be anything there. By
the point of exile, Tom had made five Horcruxes. Dumbledore was certain his snake was the
sixth, which is usually with him.”
Somehow, she’s convinced the boys to start referencing Voldemort as Tom. After Draco
informed her of the Jinx on his name, she made up some vague theory that the name could be
used to locate Harry and Order members, as it has never frightened them to use it liberally.
The boys agreed, surprisingly, and made Hermione’s life a little easier, reducing the panic
that she couldn’t impart the sheer importance of abiding by this sudden rule.
Even still, it does nothing to smooth the guilt of knowing Ted Tonks is dead and keeping it
from Harry. She tells herself over and over again it’s for the sake of the war. If they make it
out to the other side, she promises herself she will confess everything to Harry. Draco,
Kingsley, the close encounters, the secrets, the whole lot but right now, she can’t. There’s too
much history, too raw, to explain Draco, especially when she can’t explain him to even
herself. Not to mention that Draco has been, begrudgingly, a key element in helping them so
far, even if Harry and Ron don’t know it. The context of his help, admittedly, is not pleasant
but it is true.
“I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes,” Harry adds to her response from his
cross-legged seat on the floor, even though he’s made the point before. “Borgin and Burke
were experts. They would’ve recognized a Horcrux straight away. I still reckon he might
have hidden something at Hogwarts.”
“And I still reckon Dumbledore would have found it,” Hermione insists once more, glancing
from her nails to him.
“Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwart's secrets. I’m
telling you, if there was one place that was important to Tom, it was Hogwarts.”
“Oh, come off it!” Ron scoffs, his spine hunched on the lower bunk. “His school?”
“Yeah, his school!” Harry defends, looping his arms over his knees and shifting forward.
“His first real home, the place that meant he was special; it meant everything to him, even
after he left.”
Hermione summons the will to live in the space of three breaths. “Tom asked Dumbledore to
give him a job after he left. Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to try and find
something, probably another Founder’s object, to make into another Horcrux, right?”
“Right.”
“But he didn’t get the job, did he?” She practically pleads. “So, he never got the chance to
find a Founder’s object there and hide it in the school!”
“Okay, then.” Harry sighs in defeat, releasing his knees and throwing his hands up. “Forget
Hogwarts.”
In the forthcoming week, they dedicate time, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, to search
the orphanage. Hermione slips into a library, fresh sweat lashing her forehead as she recalls
Antonin Dolohov’s gaze between her legs. Despite her anxiety, she finds evidence that the
orphanage was demolished. With that location crossed off the list, they spent days moving
through the countryside, pitching the tent in a different place each night.
There are no visits from Draco while on watch, and no desire to attempt to summon him
either. Every morning they erase evidence of their stay, then set off for more lonely spots.
Shadowy crevices of cliffs, purple moors, gorse-covered mountainsides, and a sheltered
pebbly cove. Every twelve hours, they participate in a sick game of pass-the-parcel, sharing
the Horcrux and its malicious energy between the three of them. Harry’s scar seems to take
the brunt of his turn, forcing him to wince, which he fails at hiding from Hermione.
“Just the thief who stole from Gregorovitch again,” he mutters this time when Ron demands
to know what he saw.
Ron’s birthday passes in a miserable affair after this conversation, of which he’s spent the
whole day not hiding his bad mood. The weeks of March come and go, with no progression
in the Horcrux hunt but a sudden summoning from Draco. Hermione startles at the site of the
Patronus, weary to follow it. The latest campsite is on an outcropping of rock, with the sheer
drop behind them and a smattering of trees in front of them.
Draco is a lot closer to the tent than he ever has been before, and that makes her for some
reason, incredibly nervous. Additionally, she hasn’t once allowed herself to dwell on their
last encounter, and so she hasn’t processed how to interact with him again. On shaky knees,
she climbs to her feet and follows the familiar dragon. As suspected, it doesn’t take her very
far, barely into the first few lines of thin, spindly trees.
Hermione’s skin prickles, imagining Draco watching her through the trunks emerging from
thin air. He will have a general idea of where they are hidden. Perhaps it’s best to convince
the boys to move as soon as she gets back. She despises the idea of Kingsley knowing their
exact location, and she has to remember who Draco answers to. When she finds him, the
Patronus extinguishes but both hers and Draco’s wands are lit with a Lumos, and he also has
a cigarette.
It’s a tiny, cherry-red light that flares as he takes an inhale. It takes her little time to notice
that his face seems sharper, gaunter. He’s starting to once more resemble how she saw him
last year, not knowing then what his mission was and yet, his body is thicker with muscle.
Hermione finds herself not for the first time wondering what he does when he’s not having
these secret meetings with her. What does Kingsley have him doing? Is it all spy work? Not
likely. He was on a mission with her before she left. It’s plausible that with the information
he’s taking back to Kingsley, he’s climbing the ranks to more important matters. For a
fleeting moment, she wonders how Narcissa feels about that before she dismisses it.
“Malfoy,” Hermione finally says to break the unnerving silence.
He exhales a cloud of smoke on her name. “Granger.”
Shifting, she tries to rationalize that he will sound breathy because he’s smoking. Still, the
memory of his low, growling tone whispering filthy things to her pricks her skin.
“Where have you-”
“Do you have-”
They attempt to speak at once and both promptly shut up.
“-I was just asking-”
“-I won’t be long-”

Hermione snaps her teeth together in irritation and waits. Draco seems to wait too. Feeling
that he’s going to jump in just because she starts, she waits him out. He continues to smoke
and when he’s finished his cigarette, he dashes it away.
“I won’t be long. Kingsley wants an update.”
“Where have you been?” She asks instead of answering.
Draco tilts his head as if the question is beyond interesting. “Shall I ask the same?”
“Nowhere,” Hermione murmurs honestly. “We-” she clears her throat. “We’ve hit a snag.”
“A snag?” Draco repeats lazily. “Care to explain?”
“I don’t, actually.” Hermione sniffs.
Draco’s jaw flexes. “Well, then. With that waste of my time, update?”
“There’s nothing. Research.”
“On?” He prompts.
“I didn’t agree to tell you what we’re doing,” she answers firmly, crossing her arms. “We’re
alive. Harry’s alive. That’s what Kingsley needs to know. That’s your update.”
“Not good enough.”
Digging her nails into her arms, she breathes deeply. “We gained something we needed. It’s
brought us a step closer to the end goal.”
Draco rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek in clear irritation. “The Ministry?”
“Yes,” she allows.
“The locket?”
Hermione says nothing.
Nodding, he straightens, clearly intending to depart. “I’ll allow it this time. I expect
something substantial next time.”
A pathetic spike of panic in her chest at the thought of him leaving, makes her snap, “That’s
it? No information in return?”
He seems to muse on this, eyes tracking over her face and chaotic curls until it grows
uncomfortably warm. “Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood broke into
the Headmaster's office and attempted to steal The Sword of Gryffindor.”
Hermione’s chest stutters, but on the sharpening of Draco’s eyes, she carefully channels her
expression. “Oh? And how do you know that?”
“Irrelevant,” he dismisses, watching her keenly, and openly. “Why would they attempt to do
this, Granger? What would they want with that sword?”
“I have no idea why you think I know what is happening at Hogwarts. The outside world
exists little to me right now, Malfoy.”
Proud of the smooth delivery, she allows the tremble in her gut. Why did they do that? What
do they know? Do they know Dumbledore left the sword to Harry in his will? Who are they
working for? Who sent them to do it? And does it relate to what she, Harry, and Ron are
doing right now?
Unsatisfied, Draco brings himself closer, his scent washing over her with the lingering smell
of cigarettes. “Did you know there is a portrait in Grimmauld Place that has a sister frame in
the Headmaster's study?”
“I did not.”
“Phineas Nigellus. One of the Black’s ancestors. He likes me see, being a Black descendant.”
“Naturally,” Hermione answers with overt boredom.
“Dear old Phineas says that there was no sword to steal. Missing, actually.” Draco watches
her closely and she refuses to balk, holding his eyes. “In fact, the last Phineas saw of the
sword, was when Dumbledore broke open a ring with it.”
Her heart stops.
“Dumbledore always was peculiar.” She smiles benignly and takes a step back. “Thank you,
for your useless information. I’ll ask that you don’t waste my time in the future.”
“Yes, turning the tide of the war, wasn’t it?” He asks innocently, glancing down at his fingers
and twisting his signet ring.
“Goodbye, Malfoy.”
Glancing up at her retreating form, he smirks. “Your hair is looking even more ghastly these
days, Granger. Do remember to brush it once in a while, won’t you?”
Rolling her eyes, she turns her back on him and walks away as calmly as she can manage.
Her hair is getting unruly lately, growing past her elbows. She left it down today because
scrapping it into a messy bun all the time gives her a raging headache. Despite this, she’s
beginning to like the way it looks for the first time in her life. Trust Draco to make her
insecure about the one feature she enjoys about herself in this God's awful portion of her life.
Unless he was subtly telling her to look after herself? Merlin, he’s infuriating, but she doesn’t
have the time to ponder over his behavior. Instead, her mind races over the information he
gave her, even as she continues to feel Draco’s eyes on her back. Ginny, Neville, and Luna
tried to steal the sword. The sword Dumbledore attempted to leave for Harry in his will,
knowing the mission Harry is trying to complete. The sword he last used before his death, to
cut open a ring. Dumbledore told Harry he destroyed the ring, but not how.
Does this mean that the sword can destroy Horcruxes? But how? Was it a one-time thing?
Did it have to appear to Dumbledore to work? What was the history of the sword? She
hurries to remember, but all she can think of is Harry’s tale of it appearing in the Chamber of
Secrets. Through the boundary, she breathes a little easier, knowing Draco can no longer see
her. Even still, she can’t stand the thought of being on watch while he possibly remains
lingering out there.
Instead, Hermione slips around the back of the tent, so that she’s facing the outcropping
they’re situated on, pacing at the crisp edge. The deep blue of the night sky, littered with
glittering stars is her view. She loses herself to it, churning over her own thoughts. She
spreads it all out in her mind's eye, twisting her fingers. The sword. The sword. Why did they
go for the sword? How did Dumbledore use it to destroy the Horcrux? It’s not a particularly
destructive piece of magic, is it?
It’s just a sword, albeit a legendary one. Did he leave it to Harry because he killed the
Basilisk with it? Was it prompt that the sword has to be willed to the person at a point of
great courage? What could require more courage than facing a Horcrux? Attempting to kill it
for good? What could be as courageous, as when Harry killed the Basilisk at a mere twelve
years old?
The Basilisk.
Nearly skidding on pebbles, Hermione’s heart pounds as she runs around the tent and inside,
shouting, “Harry! Harry! Harry wake up!”
“What? What is it?” Harry gasps as he stumbles out of bed, glasses crooked, and jumper
skewered as he tries to tug it all the way on.
Ron stumbles out after him, rubbing at his eyes and yawning, “What’s going on ‘Mione?”
Hermione ignores him and blasts Harry with her wide-eyed stare and quivering voice. “The
sword! The Sword of Gryffindor Dumbledore tried to leave you! It’s impregnated with
Basilisk venom!”
Harry stares at her dumbly and she rushes to explain, tripping over her words, gaining
traction. “You killed it through its open mouth, Harry! Remember! Remember when we first
found out Dumbledore tried to leave you the sword? I looked into its history! I said! I said,
“It imbues!” It imbues, Harry!”
When he remains looking dumbstruck, Hermione rushes forward and grabs him by the
shoulders, shaking him in excitement. “It sucked up all that venom! That destructive piece of
magic! It’s still in the sword! The sword will destroy them, Harry! The sword will destroy the
Horcruxes!”
Then she laughs manically and jumps up and down when Harry finally comes to and shouts,
“Hermione, you’re brilliant!”
Actually, I am. Draco’s voice whispers in her ear. Because it was me, wasn’t it, Granger? Just
like the locket. You only worked it out because of me.
Just as the thought wipes the smile from her face, the lights go out in the tent and she gasps in
surprise, pulling away from Harry. It only lasts a moment, and then the light comes back and
Hermione glances around to find Ron holding the Deluminator, looking murderous.
“Ron!”
“Oh, remembered me, have you?”
Harry glances at Hermione, whose stomach turns with anxiety, and then back at Ron with a
frown. “What?”
Ron snorts and shakes his head. “You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”
Again, Harry looks at her, almost for help, but she shakes her head, as lost as he is.
“What’s the problem?” Harry tries again.
“Problem? There’s no problem,” Ron growls, clearly with a problem. “Not according to you,
anyway.”
There are several small plunks on the canvas over their heads and Hermione startles, realizing
it’s starting to rain. She wonders very briefly if Draco is still out in it, or if he’s left already.
“Well, you’ve obviously got one,” Harry grits out. “Spit it out, will you?”
Ron scowls once more and folds his arms over his chest. He looks unbelievably mean and
entirely unrecognizable. It twists Hermione’s stomach even tighter.
“All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some
other fucking thing we’ve got to go out and find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t
know.”
“I don’t know?” Harry repeats incredulously.
The rain falls harder and heavier.
“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here.” Ron’s sarcasm drips from his words.
“You know, with my arm still mangled and nothing to eat, and freezing my backside off
every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running round a few weeks, we’d have
achieved something.”
“Ron,” Hermione finally cuts in as he veers dangerously towards breaking something that
can’t be fixed.
The rain threatens to drown her out, but she knows he hears her, he just chooses to pretend
not to, and so does Harry.
“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for.”
“Yeah, I thought I did too.”

“So, what part of it isn’t living up to expectations?” Harry demands, his voice spiteful and
sarcastic. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other
day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by your birthday?”
“We thought you knew what you were doing!” Ron shouts, face as red as his hair. “We
thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!”
“Speak for yourself!” Hermione interjects, anger burning in her cheeks.
“Well, sorry to let you down,” Harry answers, voice uncomfortably calm. “I’ve been straight
with you from the start. I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven’t
noticed, we’ve found a Horcrux already.”
“You can’t even open it! So yeah, we’re about as near to getting rid of it as we are to finding
the rest of them. So basically, nowhere fucking near!”
Tired of this, Hermione steps between them, hands reaching. “Take off the locket, Ron!
You’ve been wearing it all day and you clearly can’t handle it!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“Take it off!”
“It’s not the Horcrux, Hermione,” Harry inputs spitefully. “It’s all him.”
Exasperated, she spins back to Harry. “You know that’s not true.”
Harry visibly tenses. “So now you’re taking his side?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side!” She fumes. “I’m being logical! We’re shouldering an
incredible burden and our stress is feeding the dark artifact we’re carting around with us! Be
reasonable!”
“Don’t pretend like you’re not on his side,” Ron spits from behind her, drawing her attention
back to him. “I don’t even know why I bother to stick around. It’s always been you and him.”
Exasperation fills her limbs. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“So why are you still here?” Harry demands, talking over her.
Ron sneers cruelly. “Search me.”
“Go home then!”
“Yeah, maybe I will! ‘Cause I’m the only one who cares I suppose! About my family! My
parents, my brothers, my sister, who for some reason loves you! But you haven’t mentioned
her once, have you?!”
Hermione’s guilt spikes. She has answers about Ginny. The latest being the whole reason she
worked out the sword. Her secrets are tearing them apart. The things she keeps from them
could alleviate their worry, could let them know that Ginny is at least alive. Unharmed
enough to attempt stealing. Cold ice slithers through her veins. In all her excitement, she
didn’t ask Draco if they were caught. Draco knew about the attempt because of the portrait,
but did the portrait rat them out? Are Ginny, Luna and Neville being punished right now? Are
they still alive? Refusing to dwell on it, she tunes back into the rising volume of argument.
“-It's all right for you two, isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way-”
Hermione’s mouth gapes as rage burns her veins. “My parents might never remember me
again! They’re as good as dead!”
“My parents are dead!”
Both Hermione and Harry bellow at the same time and Ron steps back under the weight of
their livid screaming.
“No! You don’t know what it’s like! You have no family to worry about, either of you!”
“Ronald!” Hermione screams, watching the hurt bloom in Harry’s eyes. “You take that back
right now you vile cretin! My parents still matter! And we are Harry’s family! US! It has
always been us! Take it off! Take off the Horcrux!”
“No, Hermione. Let him go,” Harry whispers, oh so quiet. Calm. Suspiciously so.
Hermione presses her lips together, shooting daggers at Ron as he violently tugs off the
locket and throws it at her. She catches it, though not before it clips her lip and slices it open.
Her lip begins to bleed immediately, and a shiver rolls down her spine as Harry releases a
shout of rage and raises his wand in her defense.
Ron raises his in return.
Hermione doesn’t think. “Protego!”
The shield covers her and Harry, blocking out Ron. Her decision is final, out in the open. The
spell forces them back some inches, pushing her closer to Harry and Ron further from the
both of them. Shaking his head, as if nothing but disappointed, Ron turns to the bunk and
silently, but aggressively gathers his things before storming past.
Hermione doesn’t turn to watch him leave, to watch him give up. Harry remains standing in
the middle of the room for a moment, calm and steadfast and then he loses it. He releases a
cry of rage and pain that stops her heart in her chest. Her air cuts out, lungs still as he turns
and unleashes his agony in the form of chaos all around him.
Cups and glasses smash, loud and jarring, parchment and quills shower to the floor.
“There’s nothing left! Nothing left in me! What else am I meant to do?!”
The tent poles take a beating as he lays his trainers into them, again and again, until a portion
of the ceiling gives way, the pole snapping and canvas pooling to the floor.
“What else do I give up?!” He screams.
With great effort, he upends the picnic table, sending ink pots to tumble and crash. Ink runs
wild, staining their feet and spraying the white canvas around them.
“WHAT ELSE CAN BE TAKEN FROM ME?!”
Chairs splinter as he lunges them across the room to shatter against the floor, Hermione
ducking from one as tears begin to slide down her cheeks.
“WHAT MORE?! WHAT MORE?!”
The carnage goes on for several minutes, his foot breaking the table benches into mere
splinters as Hermione watches her best friend give into his base darkness, her fingers
clutching the locket. When he’s done, he slides to the floor numbly, and Hermione sniffs,
slapping at her useless tears, and takes a seat next to him. She doesn’t say anything, listening
to his panting breaths. Guilt tears at her chest. There’s more loss waiting for Harry than he
realizes. Loss she can’t tell him because it’s too far into the lie, too far into the deception. Her
chest feels tight.
“Harry,” she begins carefully. “We have to be strong. We... we don’t know what’s happening
out there, at home. We don’t know who- what else is gone.” Hermione lays her hand over his
where it grips his knee. “I know you’re tired. I do, truly. I know.”
Bowing his head, Harry turns his palm up to squeeze her hand and cries, shoulders shaking.
Hopelessness clutches at her. At his pain.
“Tell me what you’re going to do when we win this war,” she begs softly, sniffling. Needs to
hear it as much as he needs to say it. “Tell me about all the good you’re holding on for.”
Harry sniffs, wiping his runny nose with his sleeve. “I dunno, Hermione. I dunno if I’m
gonna make it out of this war whole.”
“No.” She shakes her head and squeezes his hand tighter. “No, Harry. That’s not an option.
Not a choice. I won’t allow it. You tell me right now.”
He sniffs again, his sobs quieting and his hand shaking as he twines their fingers together
tightly. “I- I wanna be peaceful.”
She nods, squeezing his hand back and laying her head on his shoulder. “How then? How
will you find peace?”
“I want to wake to Ginny every morning.” She doesn’t answer, willing him on in her silence
and it seems to work, his voice gaining traction. “I want to have my own home and decorate
for Christmas again. I want us to have children who will never know fear, hunger, or cruelty.
And I-”
“Go on,” she encourages, looking at him again.
“I want to teach. I want to bring joy and excitement like Hogwarts did for me.”
She doesn’t ask why he’s changed his long-standing dream of being an Auror. She only
hums, squeezing his fingers in hers as they sit amongst the destruction of his pain.
“Maybe we should just stay here, huh? Grow old together,” Harry whispers on a wet,
hiccupping breath.
Indulging him with a weak smile, Hermione agrees, “Yes, maybe.”
“We’ll never enjoy food again.”
Surprising herself, she laughs at that, and then she’s crying, and Harry wraps his arms around
her shoulders. The comfort feels bittersweet, the weight of her secrets heavy on her heart but
the selfish parts of her still accepting his love.
No one knows you like I do, Granger. Not really.
“What do you want, Hermione?” Harry whispers into her hair, pressing his cheek to the
crown of her head.
Swallowing, she whispers back, too afraid to allow hope to be loud. “I want to see my parents
again. I want to fall asleep with Crookshanks on my lap. I want-”
But she doesn’t know what to put at the end of this.
I want to be loved. Cared for. Made to feel safe.
Harry doesn’t prod her, and she leaves the space between them devoid of words. She wants
someone to check in on her, to tell her to take a breather, and remind her she’s only human.
She wants to matter to someone.
Do remember to brush it once in a while, won’t you?
Hermione represses a shiver. What will happen to the encounters with Draco, when it’s all
over? There won’t be a need for them. He might not even be alive. He might still go to
Azkaban because of his actions against Madam Rosmerta and Katie Bell. A flash of panic
hits her square in the chest. If they make it out of this, who can attest to Draco helping in the
war? Kingsley, surely? Members of the Order? They see what he does, they must. But will
they? It won’t fall to her, will it? But what if Kingsley is keeping it between him and Draco?
What if he dies before he can attest on Draco’s behalf?
You’re spiraling. For tonight, let it go.
Draco again, but she knows he would never be so kind, so she takes it as a sign of her
exhausted state of mind. Cuddling closer to Harry, she closes her eyes. Both she and her best
friend, fall asleep curled together. In the midst of his destruction and the wake of their third
counterpart leaving, they take solace in each other.
Part One: April '98
Chapter Notes
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The next morning, moving in a terse, painfully strained silence, Hermione and Harry
wordlessly dedicate themselves to different projects. Hermione doesn’t ask Harry what he’s
working on, doesn’t make a sound and the atmosphere grows tense. Instead, she sets course
back to their unanswered questions. Curling up in the armchair, she huddles under her
scratchy blankets with Spellman’s Syllabary open on the arm and a jar of fire between her
thighs.
Comfortable, she allows her mind to wander as she stares at the tent entrance flaps fluttering
in the cool wind. Dismissing the sword for the moment, with no clue where to find it, she
turns to the other Horcruxes. The ring and the diary are both gone and now they have the
locket in their possession. They know that Hufflepuff’s cup is more than likely to be one,
although they have no clue how to find it. There’s the snake, which is likely to be at
Voldemort’s side, so that’s a problem in and of itself that’s too anxiety-inducing to ponder
over.
Then the last one could either be Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s, although she’s been looking
into the history of both founders and sourced absolutely nothing. Another blank wall she’s
running into, so she switches to the symbol she hasn’t yet deciphered. Even with her hard-
earned new book, she has no new answers. Hermione has to admit that the only logical next
step would be talking to Luna Lovegood’s father. Draco mentioned that he was wearing the
same symbol she can’t decipher.
The one inked into the pages of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, left by Dumbledore, and letters
shown in his tell-all book. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but the truth of it is, that the secrets
she’s keeping from Harry are hindering her progress. She needs help. She needs more clues,
and it might be as drastic as her having to succumb to asking Draco again. It could also be a
red herring. She can’t see how it ties into Horcruxes at all.
It has nothing to do with Voldemort, it seems only to center around Dumbledore, and she’s
reluctant to involve Draco if it’s only going to prove useless. While she ponders, Harry
comes to sit at her feet, folding his arms over his knees. Hermione glances at him, but he
seems deep in thought too, so she continues to say nothing.
After another ten minutes, when Harry’s scent fills the space around them, something spicy
and warm, he speaks, revealing what he’s been mulling over. “I think we should go to
Godric’s Hollow.”
The sword is his objective then, by the seems of it. Hermione only thinks about it for a
minute before she nods. She’s still unsure about Lovegood. The sword is more important
right now, a sure thing and they do still have a Horcrux to destroy.
Closing her book, she sits forward, the jar of fire hot between her thighs and her knee
brushing his shoulder. “I do too. It’s most likely the sword will be there.”
“What?” Harry asks, tipping his head back to look at her with his fingers wrapped around his
wrist, looped over his knees.
Arching her eyebrow down at him, she pulls her fingers through her curls, untangling them.
“Godric Gryffindor, Harry? Godric’s Hollow? The sword could be there.”
“Oh! Right, right.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I was thinking about my parents... Hey, wait,
Godric’s Hollow could be seen as a Founders item, right? What if he left a Horcrux in the
foundation or maybe- where… y’know?”
Hermione grimaces as she tries to be gentle, both with Harry and her own hair. “I can see
your logic. It could be considered an item, but I doubt his Horcrux could be hosted in a whole
village. And leaving it somewhere he was defeated, to prove he’s undefeatable has merit…
but I dunno, Harry. Everything you’ve told me about him suggests his ego. I don’t think he
could stand it. The sword though, Dumbledore could have hidden the sword there.”
“No, you’re right, I agree,” Harry answers in a hurry, glancing away, his cheeks pink.
“They’d be buried there though... wouldn’t they?”
She doesn’t ask to whom he’s referring. “I should think so, yes. Would you like to see them?”
It’s cruel really, that no one has thought to take him to his parents' grave before. It’s also
painful that he’s mentioning it now, surely triggered by Ron’s spiteful words last night.
Hermione’s heart pangs at the thought of him out there on his own but she shakes it off. Ron
won’t go it alone. He will be at Grimmauld Place again. With his family.
With Draco.
Hermione swallows, her spiral interrupted by Harry. “Please. I know it’s not as important as
all this…” He trails off, looking into the fire.
Stretching her hand out, she leaves one running through her hair and lays the other on his
shoulder. “It is. It’s important to you.”
Reaching up, Harry places his warm, dry hand atop hers and smiles softly. “Thanks,
Hermione.”
“Aside from the painful parts, I think it will be amazing to explore Godric’s Hollow,” she
chirps, trying to lighten the mood as she finally untangles her knotty curls. “Bathilda Bagshot
lives there you know.” At Harry’s blank stare, she rolls her eyes and releases his shoulder.
“Hogwarts: A History? Honestly, Harry.”
Harry begins to laugh and then he freezes, reaching to squeeze her knee beneath his fingers.
“What if that’s it, Hermione?! What if Bathilda has the sword?!”
Stomach flipping, she sits up straight and retrieves the jar of fire to move aside. “Harry, we
need to start planning right now.”
Their planning rolls into the early hours of the morning, sat out in the crisp April air so they
can simultaneously be on watch. Harry hisses under his breath, puffing cold air in the
bruised, dawn light and Hermione realizes why it makes shivers skate down her spine.
Parseltongue.
She glances up at him sharply but he’s not looking at her, instead slamming shut the front
piece of the locket. Dark, wispy smoke trails over his fingers, leaving a barely distinguishable
stain.
Hermione’s skin crawls, and her voice is as sharp as her spine when she demands, “What did
you do?”
Harry swallows thickly, fingers trembling. “Opened the locket. It was Salazar Slytherin’s. So,
I thought…” He rolls his shoulder. “Parseltongue.”
Nodding dumbly, she glances down at Harry’s thumb firmly pressing the doors closed.
Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Gods, it smells like acid. Are you sure it’s shut?”
Harry, also wrinkling his nose, tentatively moves his thumb. Thankfully the locket stays shut
but with its sudden taste of freedom, the piece of soul inside seems to shudder. Its vile
influence infects the air, threatening to bury in her pores and slide down her throat.
“So, we know how to open it,” she summarises weakly, her stomach still roiling.
When Harry glances up at her, there’s tentative hope in his eyes. “Yeah, and now we need to
destroy it.”
These words are the driving force that keeps them up through the night for the next week.
Finally, with Muggle-obtained hairs for Polyjuice, they Disapparate under the cover of night.
They pop into existence at the edge of Godric’s Hollow. Harry stands as a balding, middle-
aged man, and Hermione, his small, mousy wife. It takes the last remnants of their Polyjuice
supply to provide enough time in disguise, which makes Hermione nervous.
There’s no way to obtain anymore and she shudders to think what it would cost her in
information to ask Draco for further help. Hermione’s beloved beaded bag sits safely in the
inside pocket of her button-up coat, knocking against her ribs. The locket is about Harry’s
neck for the night, which she doesn’t think is a good idea, considering the emotional evening
sure to come.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the locket?” She checks again.
Harry squeezes her hand reassuringly, warm and tight. “We’ve been over this, Hermione. You
can’t go a whole twenty-four hours with it on.”
Selfishly, Hermione agrees. With each shift of the locket, she slides deeper into a spiral of
overthinking, that leads to hopelessness and anxiety. Then she dreads her next turn until she’s
shaking when she lays it against the hollow of her throat, and the cycle continues. Now that
Ron is gone, as little as he provided, they’re a man down on rounds.
Not to mention, it’s just her and Harry now, and in situations such as these, she’s the only one
who has Harry's back. The wind is sharp and cold through her clothes, nipping at her nose
and cheeks, shriveling her lips. Cottages on either side of a narrow road lead the way to the
heart of the village, where golden streetlights twinkle.
“Let’s take off the cloak,” Harry suggests quietly.
She nods, letting it slip off them. It is easier to be in plain sight as Muggles than struggle
under the cloak, what with her Polyjuiced form being little over five feet. With it off, he
stows it in his jacket, and he takes her gloved hand in his, icy air stinging her face. They start
their slow walk forward, aiming to appear as if they’re taking an ordinary evening walk. The
cottages around them look quaint and homely, their porches empty of summer furniture but
their window panes reflecting roaring fires.
Considering it's the early weeks of April, it’s unseasonably cold come the evenings. The little
lane they traverse curves to the left, and the heart of the village opens up to them, nothing
much more than a small square. A war memorial sits in the middle.
Hermione glances around, noting several shops, such as a run-down post office, squat pub,
and little church with a bowing roof, of which the stained glass windows gleam jewel-bright.
Villagers crisscross ahead of them, their moving figures lit by streetlamps. Laughter and
music spill out of the pub door when it opens, and then mutes again when it swings shut.
“Harry,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand. “The church. I can see the graveyard behind it.”
When she takes a step, Harry hesitates, remaining rooted to the spot. She turns back to him,
her breath frosting in the cold air. He nervously licks his lips and then nods, clutching her
fingers tighter as he follows. Smiling reassuringly, she guides him past the memorial, when
she notices a flicker in her peripheral vision.
“Harry, look!”
Pointing to the war memorial, she prods Harry to notice what she has. The obelisk that was
covered in names before now represents a statue of three people. A man with untidy hair and
glasses, achingly familiar, a woman with long hair, framing a kind and pretty face, and a baby
boy. The boy sits in his mother’s arms, even the mere carving of the expression full of child-
like love.
Harry stops dead and lets his head tip right back, gazing up at his parents' faces. “C’mon,” he
finally murmurs after a handful of minutes, his voice thick.
They cross the road, and Hermione pretends she doesn’t notice him glancing back over his
shoulder for one last look. The singing she heard earlier grows louder as they approach the
church. Hermione is sure Harry feels it too, the nostalgia of Hogwarts, Peeves inserting
bellowing swear words throughout their school songs. Forcing back the lump in her throat,
Hermione pushes open the kissing gate that provides the entrance to the graveyard. Silently,
they head around the church to the row upon row of tombstones.
“Look at this one,” Harry notifies her softly in the third row. “It’s an Abbott.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs half-heartedly, too invested in their surroundings.
They walk deeper, peering at old headstones as they go, and Harry sometimes joins her in
squinting through the darkness to ensure they’re not being followed. Momentarily, they
separate to walk through different rows until Hermione comes upon something interesting.
“Harry, this is the mark in the book!”
The mark she’s not sure is anything to do with Horcruxes, only linked to Dumbledore so far,
but it’s here all the same. He meanders over reluctantly and glances at the extremely old,
weathered grave she’s pointing at. He hasn’t bothered to read Dumbledore’s book yet and has
been only somewhat interested in the recurring symbol.
“What’s it say?”
With a non-verbal Lumos, she squints as she bends down to investigate. “Ig-Ignotus Peverell,
I think.”
There’s an edge to Harry’s voice when he replies, “I’m going to keep looking for my
parents.”
Hermione feels guilt curl in her stomach and nods, standing to follow him. She knew he
shouldn’t have worn the Horcrux tonight, his demeanor tetchy. In their search, the church
singers finish and the silence feels crushing. The lights inside the church turn off next, and
the silence is now accompanied by darkness.
Stumbling, she almost falls right past James and Lily Potter.
“Harry! They’re-” The weight of the moment squeezes her heart. “They’re here.”
The white marble reads:
James Potter
Born 27 March 1960
Died 31 October 1981

Lily Potter
Born 30 January 1960
Died 31 October 1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
“'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’ Why the hell is that there?” He growls.
“Isn’t that a Death Eater idea?”
“It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry,” Hermione
answers gently, laying her hand over his. “It means living beyond death. Living after death.
Personally, I think it means continuing to love in death.”
“But they’re not living.” The words are harsh, crisp, and painful. “They’re gone.”
She feels the sob shake his body before she hears it come out of his mouth. Hermione turns
and hugs him to her tightly, her eyes pricking. She’s so afraid for her best friend. So terrified
that his constant loss is going to tear him apart. How will he react when he finds out her
secrets? How betrayed is he going to feel? Hermione shakes these thoughts loose. They’re
too selfish. This isn’t about her.
She squeezes Harry tighter and then he pulls away, taking a deep breath and looking back
down at his parents. The way he stares, a horrible part of her feels like he wishes he was
beneath the soil with them. Taking his hand again, she grips it tightly and she’s relieved to
feel him return the pressure. Wanting to do something to alleviate the sorrow pouring from
him, she raises her wand and moves it in a circle, wordlessly casting.
A wreath of roses blossom and Harry takes it gently when she levitates it into his free hand.
Laying it down on his parents' grave, he doesn’t release her hand but when he stands, he lets
go to weave his arm around her shoulders. Hermione slides hers around his waist, and they
turn to wander back through the graveyard, around the church, and through the kissing gate.
Silently, the pair of them walk through the village center, back to the cottages along a long,
narrow path.
She glances around at them, and asks, “How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?”
Harry doesn’t answer and she looks over to find him staring away from her. Turning her
head, she double-checks his site line before following it and then gasps softly. The Fidelius
Charm that once surrounded the Potter’s cottage must have died with James and Lily. The
hedges are wild, the grass waist high. Surprisingly, or perhaps sadly, most of the cottage still
stands, entirely covered in dark ivy. The right side of the top floor is the only damage; blown
apart.
“I wonder why it was never rebuilt?” She allows it to slip free and then winces, in case it’s
insensitive.
Harry doesn’t seem to think so as he replies, “Maybe you can’t. Like Dark Magic injuries.
Some things can’t be healed.”
Placing his hand on the old wooden gate, he leans closer but doesn’t open it.
“Do you want to go inside?” She asks tentatively. “Oh!”
Harry’s eyes dart down to where hers rest, and he swallows visibly. At his touch on the gate,
a sign rises from the ground, through nettles and weeds.
The sign bears the message:
On this spot, on the night 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard
ever to have survived the Killing Curse.
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left
in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters
and as a reminder of the violence
That tore apart their family.
All around the message, there appear to be scribbles from visitors. Some signed their names
in Everlasting Ink; others carved initials and messages. Recent magical graffiti says similar,
heart-clenching things like, ‘Good luck, Harry, wherever you are,’ and, ‘If you read this,
Harry, we’re all behind you!’ And repetitions of, ‘Long live Harry Potter!’
Harry turns and beams at her. “How brilliant is that?”
“Very,” she agrees with a watery smile. “But, Harry, look…”
Hermione points to a near-intelligible scrawl, not on the sign that commemorates his parents'
death, but on the actual gate, along the rotting front paneling. Harry bends and squints,
pressing his lightened wand tip to the wood. A wounded sound pours from his lips and tears
spill down his cheeks as he whips his glove off to press his bare fingers to the carving.
Not a message to Harry. Not a 'good luck,' or 'we’re rooting for you.' Not a winding speech of
admiration but a simple carving, crude in its finish and most likely done with a pen knife. It’s
scratched deep, embedded into the gate as if its message wanted to lay the weight on the
wood in the same way it lay the weight of love on its members.
Marauders ’80.
It’s simple, nothing fancy about it but all-encompassing, all-consuming. Full of stories of
friendship and heartbreak that Lupin and Sirius found time to share with Harry. The family he
could have had, the life he could have lived, and all the people that loved him. His stolen
family. Ripped from him too early, snatched from him before his time. Snatched from each
other before their time. Hermione used to see it in Sirius’ eyes when he spoke about James
Potter.
The love that transcends space and time, the love that holds no limits to it. The love that
could have been poured into Harry for the rest of his life. It forms a ball in Hermione’s throat,
and she has to look away, blinking hot tears that crest her cheeks. Her heart stops dead at the
view of a heavily bundled figure hobbling up the lane towards them. Though hard to tell, it
looks like a woman moving slowly. She has a stoop and shuffling gait that suggests extreme
age.
The back of Hermione’s neck prickles. “Harry, someone’s coming.”
Harry tenses, not looking away from the carving. “What are they doing?”
“Staring at us.”
Getting to his feet, he remains tense and stood at her side. The both of them hold still but
allow their eyes to linger on the old woman, waiting to see if she turns into any of the
cottages. When she stops a few yards away, Hermione stops breathing altogether. They’re
disguised as Muggles. She won’t recognize them. The rationale doesn’t smother Hermione’s
panic. Neither does it help when the old woman looks at the cottage that ought to be invisible
to her. A witch. Raising a gloved hand, she beckons them and Hermione pinches Harry’s arm
to stop him immediately following.
“How could she possibly know?” She hisses, hackles rising.
Harry only shakes his head, not removing his eyes from the woman who beckons more
insistently. After a beat, he raises his voice and calls, “Are you Bathilda?”
The figure nods.
Hope springs in her chest, and her and Harry share a wary nod. When they take a step, the
woman turns and leads. They move past several cottages, Hermione’s pulse thundering in her
wrists and neck. Finally, they turn into a gate and traverse a path through a garden nearly as
overgrown as the Potters. Ahead of them, the woman fumbles with a key briefly, before
opening the door and letting them inside. The closer they get to crossing the threshold, the
more a terrible smell wafts towards them, either from Bathilda herself or her home.
Passing by her, that earlier prickle slides down Hermione’s neck again but the woman herself
is tiny, unassuming. Knuckles blue and mottled, she shuts the door behind them and stares up
at Harry with an eery, open interest that makes Hermione queasy. Cataracts are thick in her
eyes and sunken, transparent skin, her whole face dotted with liver spots and broken veins.
Gods, she looks to be decaying right before them. Inside the house, there’s a foul odor of
dust, unwashed clothes, and stale food.
Harry tries again, clearly as uneasy as Hermione. “Bathilda?”
Another simple nod.
Bathilda sweeps past Hermione as if she hasn’t taken note of her and that prickle at the nape
of her neck returns once more.
Shuffling to Harry’s side, she whispers, “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
Harry’s voice is even lower in reply, “The locket is reacting, Hermione. It knows something
is near that can destroy it, I’m positive.”
Nodding, Hermione swallows her trepidation away. She has to trust Harry’s instincts. His
execution isn’t always the best, but his gut is usually to be relied upon. Bathilda demands
they follow to the next room with another curl of her wrinkled fingers. Clutching Harry’s
arm, Hermione halts him once more, still that uneasiness twisting in her gut.
“It’s okay,” Harry reassures her, patting her hand as they head to the sitting room.
Bathilda is inside lighting candles, but it still remains oppressively dark, not to mention filthy.
Thick dust crunches under every one of Hermione's steps and there’s a scent of meat going
bad. Merlin, is there no one to look after this lady? The slightly deranged woman seems to
have misplaced the knowledge of being a witch. She lights candles by hand and rather
clumsily at that.
“Let me,” Harry offers, hands reaching.
He takes over the task and reduces the risk of them burning to death. Hermione watches
Bathilda as she watches Harry. He moves around the room lighting candle stubs. The journey
takes him to the low-front chest littered with photographs against the back wall. Hermione’s
eyes continue to bounce between Harry and Bathilda, unnerved by the woman’s keen interest.
Harry, however, steals her full attention when he lifts a frame and studies it. “Hermione,” he
says quietly. “This is him. The thief who stole from Gregorovitch.” Before she can answer
him, he whirls on Bathilda. “Do you know who this is?”
“Let me see,” Hermione murmurs, having caught a flash of a familiar face. When he shows
her the photograph fully, she gasps, eyes darting to Bathilda before answering him. “Harry!
That’s Grindelwald! I told you to read Dumbledore’s book!”
Harry blinks at her rapidly before squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, he nods
firmly. “Right. Okay. Let’s table that for later.”
During their brief discussion amongst each other, Bathilda gawps at Harry.
Hermione tries to get her attention again. “Why did you ask us to come? Is there something
you need to give us?”
Instead of answering, the old lady continues to pierce Harry with her eyes, points at him with
an old, gnarled finger, then at herself, and then finally at the ceiling.
“You want me to go upstairs with you?” Harry confirms, tipping his head to where Bathilda
indicates.
Bathilda nods in the affirmative. Hermione moves to Harry’s side but stops cold at the other
woman’s sharp gaze and shaking head.
“You can’t possibly want him to go alone?!” She stresses, her unease crawling through her
chest and out of her mouth.
Nodding again, Bathilda doesn’t move out of her way.
“Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword only to me?” Harry suggests under his breath.
Hermione chews her lip, thinking that with Dumbledore’s unnecessarily long-winded ways,
it’s a keen possibility.
Finally, she nods. “Be quick.”
Wondering around while Harry heads upstairs with Bathilda, Hermione studies the copious
photo frames, and a signed copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore by Rita Skeeter.
Giving it only a brief glance, she turns her eyes to the other mountains of books surrounding
Bathilda’s living room. She doesn’t dare touch anything, mostly because it promises to fall
apart in her hands. Squatting to assess one title, Hermione wrinkles her nose as the bad smell
she noticed earlier drifts from the kitchen.
She straightens up, taking a step in the direction that her nose is asking her to follow. With
her second step, there’s a sudden, terror-inducing thump from upstairs that has her spinning
on her heel, running, and taking the steps two at a time. Gasping, Hermione hits the top step
and takes the scene in within a split second. An old, densely dark bedroom with a bed in the
middle. Harry tries to Accio his wand back to him, flat out on the floor.
A great, lunging snake emerges from a pile of fabrics that Bathilda Bagshot was only just
wearing. The snake turns narrow slits for eyes on Hermione the moment she clears the
landing and strikes out on the defensive. Shrieking, Hermione dives to the side and the curse
she manages to shake loose of her wand smashes into a window. Cold air rips through the
room, fluttering the curtains and whipping the thin hair of the woman she’s currently
Polyjuiced as against her disguised face. She tries to suck in frigid oxygen between her
panicked breaths.
Harry stumbles, bending in what Hermione hopes is to gather his lost wand. Trying to keep
her eye on him, Hermione dances on her feet around the advancing snake. Another wordless
curse tears through her wand and her palm burns with the sheer, desperate force of it. The
blast sends her flying back, her spine impacting with the ancient, wooden floorboards that
groan as loudly as she does.
The snake flies into the air, hissing obscenely enough that Hermione wants to slam her hands
over her ears just to block out the hair-raising noise. Its whipping, withering coils,
unfortunately, slam into Harry’s Polyjuiced face, and it sends him careening over the bed.
“Harry!” She screams in terror, her head and her fingertips pulsing with the flood of it
through her system.
Using the bed as a barrier, she attempts to crawl across the floor, her knees weak.
Groaning, Harry writhes on the ground as he did in the Ministry during Fifth Year, clapping
his hand on his scar violently. “HE’S COMING!”
The snake falls between them, cutting them off before Hermione can reach Harry. Attempting
to get to her feet, the snake impedes her, looping its coils around her body, and dragging her
over the musty bed covers. Hermione shrieks with hot-white pain, the old injuries in her ribs
flaring to life as the snake's dry, cool scales tighten around her chest.
If it wasn’t for the snake lunging, and Harry taking the opportunity to grab her arm and yank
her free, Hermione wouldn’t have escaped. She falls into Harry’s chest breathlessly, both of
them nearly toppling back down the stairs. Her body is screaming in agony, her wand
trembling in her hand. Barely managing to save herself from slipping down the top step, the
snake comes at them again before they can catch a breath.
Hermione almost tries to grow twice her size, wrapping her body around Harry’s.
“Confringo!”
The spell misses its target due to her shaky casting, flying around the room with a hateful red
light. It explodes against the wardrobe mirror in a spray of glass that ricochets back at them
and slices their flesh open. Hermione’s exposed face and neck sear with the pain of them, and
out of the corner of her eye, she watches Harry’s cheek split open. Taking her with him,
Harry leaps around the bed and out the broken window.
The scream in her throat doesn’t make it out, trapped and burning. All she can think to do is
twist, and hope Harry comes along with her. When they reappear, Hermione is still clutching
Harry tightly, panting and her insides threatening to exit her mouth. For the longest time, they
lie there, processing.
While still lying on the ground, Harry gasps out, “I saw it, Hermione. The night they died.
My parents. My dad… my dad went against him without a wand. Without a wand, Hermione!
For me! For me and Mum! For a moment there, Hermione I was- I was Tom. He was right
behind us!”
Shivering in his arms, she presses her face into his warm chest just to feel his heart
thundering, not understanding a word he’s saying. “We shouldn’t have gone.”
“It’s my fault,” Harry murmurs hollowly. “The Horcrux wasn’t reacting to something that
could destroy it. It was reacting to another piece of soul. I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s not,” she denies immediately, coming to. “I wanted to go too. I thought Dumbledore
left the sword. You couldn’t have known about the snake.”
Harry releases her and flops on his back, staring up at the sky. “Well, guess we were both
wrong.”
The utter despair in his voice makes her throat tight but she continues to sink them into
misery, needing answers. “What happened when you went upstairs? Where did Bathilda go?”
“She was the snake.” Harry blinks at the night sky, still looking dazed. “Or rather the snake
was her, I’m not entirely sure. I think she’s been dead a while.”
“So…” Hermione shudders, forcing herself to sit upright despite the dizziness. “The snake
was inside her. Left by Tom to wait.”
“Lupin told me once there would be magic we never imagined.” Harry squeezes his eyes
closed. “God, Hermione, I feel so out of my depth in this magic. I don’t know enough. I-I’m
scared.”
Nausea sweeps through her, and she claps her hand to her mouth, her throat growing slick.
“I felt Tom, his memories. The night he killed my parents,” Harry goes on, still staring at the
sky. “He- he wanted me kept. He was excited.” He ponders over this and then a new thought
seems to dawn on him, turning him sickly pale. “Gods, Hermione, we missed the chance to
kill the snake too.” Harry sits up and groans, rubbing his head. “What a waste of time.”
Sighing, Hermione rubs her face and then winces, remembering the glass, and the smarting
cuts. “We best get cleaned up. Your cheek really ought to be seen to.”
“Me?” Harry laughs darkly, reminding her uncomfortably of Draco as they both help each
other stand. “No offense, but you look terrible. Can’t you feel it all?”
Taken aback, she trails her fingers over her face and winces at all the grains of glass she feels
there. “Could you pull these out? I can’t do it to myself.”
Harry pulls out his wand and her heart stops as what should be one, single piece of wood is in
fact two pieces that promptly fall apart. “Fuck. That doesn’t look fixable.”
The implications of having one wand between them strain her voice when she whispers,
aghast, “It isn’t.”
Feebly, he tries to cast Lumos and Expelliarmus, to no avail.
“Fuck,” he repeats again, miserable.
A sympathetic twinge in her stomach makes her reach out and pat his arm. The thought of
losing her wand feels like losing a part of herself. The last couple of times she nearly broke it
were both in Draco’s presence, however, and she doesn’t have the capacity to think about
Draco in her fraught, emotional state.
Feeling unbearably sorry for him, Hermione offers her wand without Harry having to ask and
he takes it without having to thank her.
“Come on,” she encourages. “You can take watch after I’ve sorted us both out.”
Chapter End Notes
As you can see, I couldn't resist the Marauders sprinkles in this! Broke my own heart
writing it! More Marauders sprinkles to come...
Part One: April '98
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“You know- Ah!” Harry hisses as she unstoppers Dittany into the cut across his cheek. “- that
really rather stings.”
Hermione smiles plaintively, dipping the stopper back into its bottle and squeezing on the
rubber. “Well, it’s closing up lovely.”
Huffing a laugh, he keeps quiet as she finishes treating his face, and then moves on to his torn
and bleeding neck. Sharing her wand between them, she next allows him to extract the glass
shards that dot the bridge of her nose and her temples. A particularly stinging piece wiggles
out from the flesh of her chin, leaving a dribble of blood.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, dabbing at the blood trail with a cotton pad while she tries not to
think of Draco licking it.
Harry has been habitually apologising every time he pulls a shard free, and twice if she
winces. Resolving to remain still and quiet, Hermione allows him to work but can tell from
the dull throb left behind that he doesn’t do the best of jobs. Harry never took the time to
properly study healing magic, and it's not something she can manage on her own face.
Making do, she murmurs in gratitude before moving off gingerly to cook dinner.
Earlier in the week, they were successful in scoring some cheap packets of chicken-flavored
noodles. They’re hot and greasy, and for her at least, nostalgic as she slurps them down. The
spice in them clears her sinuses enough to give her oxygen, which she’s been sorely lacking
since Nagini dragged her over Bathilda Bagshot’s moth-eaten bed.
It’s certainly not good enough to erase their defeat but the noodles do fill her up, and
Hermione is lulling by the fire sleepily when she finishes them, the heat of the flames bathing
her. Harry, after finishing his own, moves to the Wireless, which has been left silent in Ron’s
absence and fiddles with it. He manages to find a station and a softly whimsical song floats
out quietly.
Hermione smiles, almost able to pretend this is an ordinary night. To ignore the betrayal of
Ron’s leaving, and the worry she feels for him in spite of it. Harry stands from his squat at
the radio, visibly hesitates a moment, and then quietly paces back over to her in the armchair.
A hand, knuckles dusted with dark hair appears under her nose, and her eyes follow the
jumper-clad arm attached all the way up to Harry’s gentle smile. “Dance with me.”
“What?” She tips her head back and laughs, perplexed.
“Dance with me, Hermione,” Harry repeats and then takes her hand when she still doesn’t
accept his. “C’mon.”
Allowing it, she giggles to cover her grunt when he yanks her to her feet. Her ribs are
twinging something awful, and she’s trying to cover her wheezing breaths. Despite her tender
body, she still feels slightly silly and rather sleepy, her cheeks hot as she places one hand on
his shoulder and keeps the other in his.
Harry’s hand not curled with hers falls to her waist, and he gently sways them. It’s nothing
too serious but steady, and a hint of playful. The smile grows on her face and his does in
return, warming her whole chest. In his warm smile, she sees the eleven-year-old boy she
first grew to love. Her first best friend, first defender.
The friend that deemed her brilliant and smart. The boy full of wonder, hope, and goodness.
Harry twirls her outwards, and she spins, indulging him with an all-out laugh, dismissing her
pain. Returning the favor, she spins him out too and he flings his legs out, being ridiculous.
Outright chuckling, they sway and dance, and goof around, being childish and enjoying it.
When the song ends, Harry steps back from her and takes a mock bow. Hermione stiffly
bows in return before shooting up on her toes to hug him. Harry wraps his arms around her
too, squeezing tightly against her ribs but she ignores the pain to hold him at a time when he
most needs her.
Vehemently, she tells him, “I love you, Harry. You’re my best friend. My brother.”
“Love you too, ‘Mione.” Harry buries his face in her hair, curling his arms to the point that a
wince nearly slips free. “You know that. You know you’re the sister I never had.”
Warm tears tug at her eyes, both from his words and the unintentional pain he’s inflicting on
her. Regardless, her heart swells with love. She squeezes him back until they’re just gripping
each other desperately, trying to fill each other up. To flush out all the dark, terrible thoughts
and leave silent promises of success, of survival.
Harry detaches himself from her, and with a final smile, leaves to take his watch. On his way
out, he grabs The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore to take with him. Over the subsequent
days, Harry’s reading of Dumbledore’s book leads him into a descent of anger.
Every now and then he pops out with things such as, “This letter to Grindlewald, Hermione! I
never knew him. Not really.”
Followed by, “Why didn’t he tell me any of this? Why did he keep it all hidden?”
And most devastatingly, “What if our trust in Dumbledore is misplaced?”
The thought of his hope dwindling scares Hermione to death but she’s unsure what to say to
smooth over his betrayal.
This evening, he slams the book closed, startling her, and grinds out, “Look what he asked
from me, Hermione.”
Frowning, she lowers her parchment with Tom Riddle’s life etched out on it, as well as her
own scribbled notes, and looks at him over the picnic table. “I don’t understand, Harry.”
“Dumbledore,” he confirms with a snarl, staring off into space over her shoulder, but his
voice growing steadily more spiteful. “Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And
don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly! Trust that I know what I’m
doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!”
Hermione is speechless in the face of his rant, at his red cheeks, watching helplessly as he
jumps to his feet, and begins to pace the short length of the table. The breeze snaps the
entrance flaps like whips.
“He’s left me in a fucking mess. Left us in a mess. Me and you. Forced Ron away!” He
pivots quickly, his trainer scuffing the ground.
Left me to get entangled in the mess too, Potter, Draco adds.
Harry spins to face her as Draco sounds in her mind, making her jump. He flails his arms, his
hair pointing in all directions from his restless fingers. “He shared a damn sight more of what
he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever has with me.”
“I believe he loved you,” Hermione finally offers pathetically, glancing helplessly at the
space Ron usually occupies.
Truthfully, she agrees with her best friend, but she doesn’t think his fragile state of mind can
handle hearing it.
She stands slowly, leaving her parchment on the tabletop. “How about I take a watch?” When
he nods mutely, holding out her wand to her, Hermione adds, “And the Horcrux.”
She notices the relaxing of his shoulders the moment he takes it off, but then he freezes, his
gaze burning into the locket. Hermione shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he is going to
question her more on how her ‘hunch’ paid off so well. He hasn’t ever really challenged her
story and she begins to sweat the longer they stand in silence.
“The locket,” Harry eventually whispers, still staring at it dangling in the void between the
two of them.
“What about it?” Hermione asks, barely breathing.
“We had the locket.”
Her heart drops to her toes as she tries to conjure up something that eradicates Draco from the
picture. “What do you mean?”
Harry’s green eyes snap up to hers and she tries to calm her racing pulse. “In Grimmauld
Place. In the cabinet in the drawing room, do you remember? The locket that wouldn’t open.”
The summer of cleaning out Grimmauld Place oozes into her brain, breaking free from what
feels like a lifetime ago, and she gapes. “Of course! I remember you chucking it.”
Harry continues to stare at the locket and her insides tighten. “Hermione… we never did
work out R.A.B… what if… what if it’s a Black? It couldn’t have been Sirius and not his
parents. They worshipped Tom too much, but…”
She swallows tightly. Here it is. “But a sibling maybe?” She offers.
His eyes grow wide. “Regulus! I can’t remember his middle name, but Regulus Black was
Sirius’ little brother, Hermione!”
Trying to appear thoughtful, Hermione nods slowly. “Yes… yes, it could be, Harry.”
Harry begins to reiterate the note found in the fake Horcrux from memory, so often did they
say it out loud. “To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want
you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and
intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,
you will be mortal once more.”
Again, Hermione swallows away her dry throat. It’s a relief for Harry to finally know what
Regulus Black devoted the end of his life to, but she is also scared of the questions she can
see forming in his intelligent eyes.
“Regulus died for this locket,” Harry finally whispers sombrely, the joy of figuring something
out leaking away. “He died horribly, in that cave with those creatures, and we had it right
there.” He rubs his forehead, locket still swinging. “We just threw it away and Sirius didn’t
know. Sirius died not knowing what Regulus gave his life to. He would have been so proud.
He would have- Hermione he would have helped him. He would have saved him.”
“We didn’t know either, Harry,” she soothes him, guilt replacing her anxiety. “We’ll do it for
Regulus too. For Sirius. For your parents. We’re doing it for them all. We’re going to do this,
Harry. We’re going to wipe Tom Riddle from the face of the earth.”
“Yeah,” he mutters with a sigh, though he looks taken aback by the passion of her words.
“Wonder where it ended up though, and how on earth Umbridge got her hands on it.”
“Me too.”
This at least is partly true. Draco told her that Mundungus stole the locket, but he never
explained Umbridge’s connection to it. Instead, he provided the Prophet who featured her on
the front page wearing it. A favor, he called it. One he still hasn’t cashed in on. Finally
handing the locket off to her, it sits in the palm of her hand as Harry turns and heads to bed.
Walking outside, Hermione barely has a chance to sit down and stew in her guilt when
Draco’s dragon arrives. It’s almost a relief to see it as she loops the Horcrux over her neck, to
rest icy cold against her skin. Between the echoing silence of Ron’s absence, Harry’s
suffocating hopelessness in the wake of Godric’s Hollow, and her own burdening secrets, she
needs a reprieve.
Throwing a quick, weary glance over her shoulder, Hermione breeches her own wards and
treads the familiar path of following after the gleaming Patronus. She finds Draco leaning
casually against a tree in a thick cluster of them some five minutes from the tent. At the snap
of a twig breaking under her boot, his head snaps up.
His fingers stop twirling his wand and his eyes sharpen, roving over her face and her still-
swollen bottom lip, from where the locket caught it.
With long-legged strides, he charges towards her and barks, “What the hell happened to
you?”
Hermione rocks back on her heels before coming to a dead stop, allowing him to reach her. In
the instance he does so, he clasps her face, gently cradling her cheeks. Lips parting, she can
only stare up at him. He tilts her face from side to side, assessing the multitude of cuts and
her slightly busted lip.
“Granger,” he hisses, pinning her with his gun-metal gaze. “What the fuck are you doing out
here?”
Somehow she knows he doesn’t mean here and now, with him. Even still the question
surprises her, mostly because he’s never outright asked it before.
Perhaps it’s the surprise of it that allows her to answer, “Something I might not survive,
Draco.”
It’s an intensely vulnerable response and her heart pounds in the wake of it.
Draco lets loose a soft, barely disguisable sigh; one she wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t
blow it over her lips. “I’ll warn you this time: this is going to burn.”
“No!” She reaches up and grips his wrists to cease the magic brewing in his fingertips. “You
can’t. Harry knows about these ones.”
His eyebrow ticks up. “These ones? So, he didn’t know about your hand? Are you even
working with those two lumps, or simply by yourself?”
Ignoring this, she presses her lips together and pulls her face free from his palms. “Ron left.”
“Arsehole,” Draco snarls, allowing her to pull away. “Always knew he didn’t have it in him
to be without his mummy.”
“You don’t understand,” Hermione answers without heat, folding her arms over her chest to
cradle either side of her ribs. “They’re things at play you couldn’t possibly imagine.”
Lip curling, his gentle expression shifts, and his body hardens before her eyes. “Don’t
patronize me.”
Rubbing her forehead, she sighs. “I’m not. It’s the truth.”
“So, is that my update then?” He glances up at the moon as if it’s a giant clock.
This snaps her head sharply from where it drifted to the star-filled sky with him. “Ron’s not
at Grimmauld?”
“No,” Draco answers instantly, eyes narrowing back to her face. “Should he be?”
“Well, where else would he go?!” She demands, her voice climbing with panic and her arms
unwinding to swing about as she talks.
Draco scoffs, his gaze roving over the cuts on her face again. “Like I’m meant to know the
inner workings of Weasley.”
The panic threatens to overtake her, but she stows it and her talkative hands. “Fine, yes, take
it as your update. We’re still researching.”
Maybe once he would have remarked how sitting around reading books all day doesn’t seem
all that troublesome of a life. Since the Ministry, however, since the way he fucked her; since
she had his name pounded out of her, there’s been a shift in their relationship. A shift she
hasn’t wanted to look into or deal with.
There’s a tentative, twisted sort of care to their interactions.
Draco stares at her for a moment, contemplating. His face is still hard when he asks,
“Anything else need patching up?”
Swallowing down her pride, she nods. “Actually... yes.”
Taking a deep breath, she rolls up her loose t-shirt and reveals the bruises decorating her ribs.
They’re thick and purple against her brown skin. Draco inhales sharply but makes no move,
only studies them instead. Only after that does he step closer, slowly, circling her. When he’s
once more stood before her, he takes another deep breath and lays his hands on her ribs.
Hermione hisses even at his light touch.
Draco’s eyes narrow further. “They’re fucking fractured, Granger.”
She scoffs, unnerved by his hot hands and angry tone. “You can’t possibly know that.”
His jaw flexes and the familiar channelling of his magic weaves into the bones of her ribcage.
Hermione's mouth pops open but not from the white-hot sear. It’s his magic. She’s beginning
to recognize it, and once she can imitate it, she can either summon him or remove the Trace.
What does it say that she pictures summoning him first? Within seconds, her thoughts short
circuit at the driving agony in her ribs. Hermione whimpers and pulls away.
“I’m not done, Hermione,” Draco barks, curling his fingers around her ribs tighter.
She shakes her head, letting the t-shirt drop as she slips from his grasp. “I just needed to be
able to breathe again. Harry knows the bruises are there, they can’t disappear.”
“You couldn’t breathe?” Draco grits through his teeth.
Shaking her head again, she tries to loosen the sense of care. “Thank you for healing me.
How- how is home?”
Draco flicks a brow. “Fishing are we?”

Hermione scowls. Why must he always ruin it? “So sorry, forgot you couldn’t go off
Kingsley’s script.”
Draco scowls back at her, letting his hands drop to his sides. “Is it only dick that keeps your
attitude in check?”
Flushing, she glances away. “Don’t reduce me to that.”
Stepping forward, he takes her chin in a pinch between his thumb and forefinger. “It doesn’t
reduce you to want sex.” She doesn’t know what to say in response to this statement, but he
continues on. “Home is- not good.” Before she can panic, he inputs, “But I’ll tell you... if we
start losing people.”
He clucks his knuckle under her chin and her lips part for him, accepting him. The kiss is
slow, more tender than it’s ever been, and Draco’s hands are gentle as they cup her cheeks.
Hermione sinks into it like a long-missed hot bath and finds herself gripping Draco,
whimpering into his mouth.
He shushes her, coaxing her mouth open further for his tongue. Wet heat flows from her cunt,
a slow throbbing beginning.
Draco pulls away and rests his forehead on hers. “Come with me,” he whispers against her
lips.
Hermione frowns, her eyes opening and locking with his. “Where?”
A devastatingly handsome smile curls his mouth. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
“You couldn’t kill me,” she whispers confidently, her heart hammering.
Draco stares at her until her stomach twists and then he reaches and takes a curl, tugging on it
until it bounces back. “No, Hermione. I couldn’t kill you.”
A smile presses against her lips, despite how hard she resists it, and she sucks his bottom lip
into her mouth. It’s hot and wet, thick enough to suckle and nibble on, and Draco groans
throatily.
When she releases his lip, he pants again, “Come with me.”
Feeling regretful, she pulls further away. His scent is invading her mind, mint and frost-bitten
air, as usual, almost comforting now. Not just the familiarity of the smell, but something new
on his skin, yet nostalgic to her senses. Something like libraries… parchment? Maybe he’s
been studying something just like her, pouring over books and ancient texts.
She shakes her head, loosening these thoughts. “I can’t leave Harry.”
Draco takes her waist and leans in, his hot mouth pressing to her neck. Shivers wrack her
body. “Be selfish, Hermione.”
Her knees weaken and she truly wants to be. She wants to keep Draco’s mouth on her throat
and her hands in his hair. She wants to be selfish.
“Okay.”
No sooner has she spoken the word, Draco Apparates them away. Hermione staggers upon
arrival, her insides squirming. Draco attempts to steady her, but she whips around to take in
her surroundings immediately. His hands slide from her hips as she does so, and he takes a
small step back.
There is a roaring fire that crackles merrily on the far wall in front of her, reminding her of
the Gryffindor common room. A cream sofa with squishy white pillows dominates the small
space behind her and a white fur rug stretches out beneath her feet. To her left, a row of oak
counters, an ancient off-white cooker, and a copper basin provide a small kitchen space.
“What is this place?” Hermione asks.
When she looks at Draco, his brows are pinched together as he observes her skittish behavior.
She blushes, feeling like a wild animal attempting to be tamed, and resists the urge to run her
fingers through her chaotic hair.
“Will you let me look after you?”
Despite her extreme cleverness, and ability to map out most scenarios in her mind, Hermione
would never imagine Draco Malfoy saying such a thing. To her, of all people. She’s so struck
dumb by the question that she can only mutely nod. Draco nods back at her, and she realizes
she has the glow of soft lamplights to see him by now.
In the orange hue, his hair looks honey blonde, and it makes him seem much older. His length
is growing out again, falling over one eye. He takes her hand, his so much bigger and paler
than her own. She trails after him obediently, almost dissociating from her own body to view
this moment like a scene from a movie.
They’re in a cabin as far as she can tell, the walls rough-hewn that is rugged, and yet homely.
Draco leads her into an attached bedroom on their right, no bigger if at all than the living
room. It holds room for a large bed that looks so soft her bones throb at the mere sight. An
obscene amount of fluffy pillows and soft, round throw pillows decorate the head.
Matching bedside tables sit on either side and a simple, white bookcase is in a corner that has
a lamp on top. This lamp light is cooler, and Draco’s hair once more shifts from its brassy
hues to near white. She watches his back, the movement of his shoulder bones in his thin,
cotton jumper.
They pass through the bedroom, and she has to take a step up into the adjoining bathroom.
It’s even smaller than the bedroom, with just enough space for a toilet, bathtub, and sink.
Candles litter every available surface, populating little yellow glows that dot around. The
bathtub is already full and Hermione’s heart skips when she finds swirls of caramel gold
floating on the surface.
She can smell the honey. It drips from the white tiles, smothering the windowless room. She
feels it may be time to say something but when she looks at Draco, she can’t find words. He
looks eager to put her in there and this time, it’s not to drown her. She’s never seen him like
this. So quiet, so focused on a goal, and that entire goal was her well-being.
She doesn’t look away, nor say a word as she takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub. Draco
kneels at her feet and unlaces her boots. She grimaces, wondering how badly she smells
everywhere but Draco doesn’t take the opportunity to ridicule her. He removes each boot,
takes the time to undo the laces, and peels off each sweat-damp sock.
Hermione wiggles her toes when each foot is lowered back to the floor. An instinctive part of
her knows that she’s not allowed to partake in any act of undressing. Draco wants to do this
for her, and she wants to let him. She wants to be looked after. He next reaches for her jeans,
unbuttoning them and she tilts her hips so they can be dragged down.
In the low light, she can see the dark hairs on both her legs and around the crotch of her
knickers. She begins to shift uncomfortably, blushing. The jeans hit the floor, and her wand
pokes out of the back pocket. Harry. Further anxiety of leaving him wandless for so long
spikes at her gut, overriding her shame.
Then the tips of Draco’s fingers skim her underwear to pull them off, and it flits out of her
head. The shame, the guilt, the anxiety. It melts away and leaves her as she is, sitting on the
edge of the tub. Sitting enveloped in the muggy bathroom, the air heavy on her skin and her
curls. She’s not even in the water yet and she feels saturated in honey.
“What’s in there?” She whispers when he reaches up to take off her jacket.
When it hits the floor, he confirms, “Milk and honey.”
This simple statement, this act of kindness brings tears to her eyes, and she blinks rapidly to
rid them in the flickering candlelight. Draco takes her beaded bag, and then her top next and
he stands to his full height, towering over her to undo her bra. Her hands reach up, sliding
under the hem of his jumper to lay against his hips, eager to have skin-to-skin contact.
He hums into her hair, burying his nose into her scalp. “You were all I could smell for days.”
He doesn’t elaborate on which encounter this scent lingered on him, but Hermione smiles.
They may be toxic, they may have a weird hate-fuck ritual, but she likes the thought all the
same. When she’s naked, he takes her hand and brings her to her feet. She stands, in her full,
bedraggled glory and Draco looks at her like she’s a deity to worship.
Hermione’s stomach flips under such a gaze. Then his eyes fall to the locket around her neck,
and she shuts down the line of questioning before it can begin. Turning, she lifts her foot to
step into the bath. She stumbles when it becomes apparent it’s deeper than it looks, and when
she peeks back at Draco he only smirks.
She smiles in return and releases his hand to sink down into the hot water, bubbles embracing
her weary body. The milk in the bath feels like silk against her flesh and she hums in
appreciation, letting the ends of her hair float along the surface. She breaches the surrounding
liquid with her palms and glances up at Draco.
When she catches sight of him, the look on his face makes her freeze. It’s startlingly furious
on the heels of the devotion previously painting his features.
“Are you coming in?” She asks shakily.
Within seconds, he wipes it away and a tiny, tentative smile breaks over his face in
replacement, calming her. “No. This is for you.”
Hermione tries to temper her nervous smile but finds she can't. Instead, she distracts by
washing up, paying no mind to Draco at all as she uses a bar of soap on the side of the tub.
When she's finished, she looks at him beneath her lashes. He's still stood by the bath,
watching her every move. Hermione channels her earlier disquiet into coyness. “What are
you going to do while I longue?” She twists onto her side so her arms cross over the edge of
the tub and her legs dangle in the deep water.
Draco squats in front of the bath, leaning his own arms on either side of her elbows. “Watch
you,” he whispers against her mouth.
A shiver rolls down her spine. He watches her with the intensity of a man finally caging the
beast he has been hunting all of his life. He watches her like he adores her, but with a
possessive edge that no sane wizard would ever let settle on his face. It scares her. The longer
she looks, the more possession she finds, but she likes it despite the terror.
She likes the idea of him adoring her. Likes the idea that he’s angry that he does. The room
feels heavy under the fissure of inhumanity. Another encounter. Another pocket of space
where they are their most basic, animalistic selves and the other enjoys it. She simply looks
back at him, watching him observe her as her stomach twists with butterflies.
The water feels wonderful around her, scalding but not too much to bear. For the first time
since leaving Grimmauld, she feels truly clean. Refreshed. Their faces are close together as
they observe each other in this strange, glowing room of silence. His air ghosts over her face,
so cool compared to the water.
Hermione’s bottom lip juts out and he takes the offering, suckling while their eyes remain
open and fixed. She grows hotter, the damp air oppressive and her eyelashes flicker as she
fights the temptation of closing them. Draco’s hand draws up her wet arm and across her
collarbone, his palm fitting to the back of her neck and squeezing.
She moans, soft and needy and he groans back, dragging her closer to slide his tongue into
her mouth. Her cunt throbs, hard and wanting. Her nipples harden and she grips his forearms,
pushing his sleeves back to curl her fingers around his skin. When they pull away, they’re
both breathing heavily, and Hermione feels slightly dazed.
Their foreheads press together, sweaty and his eyes pin her in place. His voice is nothing but
a whisper. “I want to do gross, unspeakable things to you, Granger.”
Her lips part, her eyes widening as her gut drops. “What?”
That grin. That devilish grin on his face again. “I want your pretty little cunt to clench just
looking me in the fucking eye. Do you hear me?”
Her throat is completely dry, and the room is spinning with heady honey when her cunt does
just that. He’s caught her completely off guard. “Y-yes.”
“I want to own you.” His hand squeezes her neck and she yelps, sloshing water as she jolts.
“I want to take you. You’re mine.”
She quits breathing. “I’m not y-"
“End of discussion,” he bites over her.
Brows drawing together, she gathers up a storm of response, lifting from the water but he
kisses her speechless, dazing her again and she floats back down.
“End of discussion,” he repeats when they pull away.
For the second time tonight, all she can manage is a breathless, “okay.”
His arms hook underneath her armpits and lift her bodily from the water. She’s pliant, relaxed
and her legs wrap around his hips naturally. He walks them to the bed, kissing her all the
while. Her lips, the bridge of her nose, the slope of her shoulder. Her skin buzzes, her arousal
growing.
When they reach the bed, he lays her out like a prized gift across the throw and it welcomes
her sodden skin, soft and luxurious. He pulls back and she lies, eyes half-lidded and naked,
watching him undress. Each item of clothing is a relief to see hit the floor. He runs his hands
over her spread legs, spreading her wider.
Her face burns as his eyes lock onto her pussy. “I haven’t shaved in a long time,” she blurts.
“Shut up,” he answers and then bends his head to fuck her with his tongue.
Hermione’s back arches, her hands sliding up into her hair as he devours her with his mouth.
His fingers join his tongue, and he takes audible pleasure in stretching her open around them,
his groans overlapping her own mewling cries. Her legs shake as he presses them further and
further back, his face smothered in her dripping cunt.
Her hands greedily grab at his hair, dragging him closer, panting desperately. She grinds her
hips against his mouth, taking her pleasure until he growls and yanks back. He spanks her
pussy harshly and she keens between her teeth, her body an inferno. Sweat drips down her
forehead and curves over her cheekbone.
Before it can reach her jaw, Draco leans forward and licks it up, dragging his tongue all the
way to her forehead. When he passes over her cheekbone, she can smell herself on his breath
and it makes her choke softly, her stomach gripping with arousal. His lips drag back down
her face, and he releases one thigh to squeeze her jaw.
Her lips are forced to pout from his vicious grip, and he kisses her, sloppy and filthy,
smearing drool all over their chins.
“Don’t you taste good?” He asks roughly, grinding their foreheads together.
“Yes,” Hermione gasps, licking his lower lip, into his mouth, along his tongue, and the backs
of his teeth. “Please go back.”
Draco pulls away, grinning manically. “Are you begging me, Princess?”
Her stomach squirms at the nickname and her hips twitch. “No,” she answers defiantly
anyway.
“That’s a shame…” he trails off, keeping her tense with anticipation, his fingers drifting
down her thigh and his eyes following their path.
The silence lingers and it presses down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her. Fuck. She’s
going to go crazy if she doesn’t get her orgasm in the next minute. Her skin is itching, her clit
swollen and needy, her pussy pulsing. Another awful minute drags on in which Draco merely
strokes her thigh, never getting close to where she needs him, teasing her.
“Please!” She finally gasps, nearly wailing it. Her hips desperately churn, and she grunts
when Draco smacks her inner thigh. “Please, please, Draco!”
He smiles, small and quiet as if she’s merely entertaining. His fingers ghost over her pussy
while she continues to beg mindlessly, her chest burning with embarrassment. He leans
down, cradling her body to his, running his hands all over her. It’s such a drastic switch that
she pauses in confusion.
Then his hips roll his cock against her aching cunt. She moans softly and Draco swears under
his breath. He does it again and she starts to rock with him, trying to encourage him to slide
inside her. In mere moments they’re both panting and sweating, damp and sticky between
them.
Draco finally ends the torture when she’s nearly sobbing, nails digging into him, and allows
his cock to part her folds. Hermione’s lower stomach tugs, ribs twinging, and she gasps into
the skin of his shoulder, smothered in him. He slides into her slowly and without rushing,
spreading her around him.
Hermione throws her head back to breathe, broiling hot underneath his large, heated body.
His one hand grips the back of her neck, and his other her left arse cheek. Her thighs wrap
around his waist, and they roll together, slow. Desperation claws at her insides but she takes
it, tears leaking into his shoulder as she shudders.
Within minutes of his soft, wet kisses and lips brushing her breasts; tongue lathing at her
nipples, she feels delirious. The heat, the pleasure, the smell of him. The evening of him
taking care of her. His panic at her being hurt. She feels cared for. She feels… loved. She
keeps her hands on the sides of his torso, desperation melting away.
She begins to slide them over his chest and his hips in a mindless pattern. She can’t stop
feeling him, can’t stop touching him and luxuriating in this extremely selfish moment. Her
first orgasm rolls through her like a storm, ripping her apart from deep within and then
wrenching free of her mouth in a scream.
She sobs into his shoulder, welcoming each shallow thrust back into her wetness. Her inner
walls clutch at him, releasing for mere minutes before she’s strangling him with her second
climax. Draco hushes her under his breath and between grunts, pressing warm kisses to her
hairline and rolling her clit under his wicked fingers.
He cradles her head to his shoulder, her body to his, and takes everything she has to give him.
She’s limp when he pulls forth one more tremulous orgasm that floods the space under her
arse with warm fluid. Sweaty, hot, and breathless, Draco’s pace picks up. She grunts against
the change.
Hermione barely has half the mind to wandlessly whisper the contraceptive charm before he
buries his face in her shoulder and spills into her. His mouth nuzzles against hers as he
comes, whimpers leaking from his swollen lips when he kisses her, as lazy as his finishing
thrusts.
Her hands grip his biceps, at the muscle that has developed there, and hold on, sliding her
tongue against his as his soft cock slips out of her. More warm fluid gushes from between her
legs, and she lets free a parting animal grunt, wanting him back inside her already. They
break their kiss panting together and Draco’s head bows back to the hollow of her throat.
Hermione’s hands find themselves burying into the damp roots of his hair, combing through
the strands and trying to bring herself back to earth. The air is thick and humid with their sex,
and they make no move to get into the bed. The wet patch under her arse begins to cool and
she wriggles, trying to escape it.
Draco mumbles tiredly into her skin, tickling her hair with his breath. “Stop it.”
She sighs and kisses his forehead. “I have to go.”
There’s a long moment of silence and then a tired, “I know.”
To her own surprise, she finds tears stinging in her eyes again. Gods, she’s an emotional
wreck tonight. Perhaps her period is due. It’s been so inconsistent since they’ve been on the
run.
“I’ll stay just a little longer,” she promises with a frog in her throat.
Draco doesn’t move his head but an inch to signal a nod, and his arms tighten around her
waist without a word. After a couple of minutes, he rolls them out of the wet patch and
readjusts so that his head is resting on her stomach.
“Tell me what it’s like being in Slytherin,” she demands from the ceiling while the sweat
cools on her skin.
Draco’s slick shoulders tighten under her hands. “Why?”
“Why not?” She challenges with a frown pinching her brows.
He shifts his head so that he’s looking up at her and his chin digs into her lower stomach.
Hermione angles her head down to see him, raising an eyebrow.
Draco’s mouth is tight when he replies, “Did you ever boo scared kids when they got called
for Gryffindor?”
Her frown deepens and a welcome breeze rolls in through the open window. “What?”
“Did you?” He asks, his eyes intensely grey in the lamplight.
Their eye contact continues to hold when she answers, “No, of course not.”
A version of the mean grin she dislikes forms on his lips, more of a disgusted smile. “That’s
what it’s like being in Slytherin. The moment you enter Hogwarts, the moment you’re sorted
into the house of snakes, you’re cast off.”
“That’s not true,” Hermione defends. However, as she thinks back on her school days, she
draws back her indignation. “It’s not that bad surely?”
Draco rolls up to his knees, her fingers slipping from his damp hair and her hips tilting to
allow his arms free. “You want to know what it’s like being in Slytherin? You have to accept
the truth.” He’s defensive, she can feel it like a cloak he gathers around his shoulders.
She catches his hand quickly before he pulls completely away and sits up. She crosses her
legs, despite being nude. “Tell me then.”
Observing her for a moment, she holds up under the weight of his roving stare. He finally
nods and sits opposite her, planting his legs on either side of her hips, so that her feet are
trapped underneath his thighs. Her toes press into his muscles, and they jump, providing tiny
pulses of sensation.
“Teachers mistrust you instantly,” he provides next, reaching to take her hand. He plays with
her fingers as he adds, “They don’t listen.”
Watching their hands, his light and hers dark, she lets him twist their fingers while she thinks.
“Did someone not listen to you?”
He rubs his lips together, and she waits, watching his decision play out in his expression.
“Pomfrey didn’t believe that Mad-Eye broke my ribs.”
“Oh,” is the pathetic response she provides. Her heart squeezes thinking about not being
listened to in pain. “I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t realize he-”
Draco shrugs her off, shutting down her sympathies. “You get used to it. People’s opinions
don’t tend to shift when you’re a Pureblood Slytherin, Granger.”
“My opinion shifted,” she whispers hesitantly, tamping down the need to mock his
predicament in opposition to being a Muggle-born.
Draco’s eyes snap up from their fingers, his hand stilling, and she holds her breath, speared
through. “Tell me, Hermione, why am I in the Order?”
Hermione frowns, wondering how this is relevant but follows his line of questioning. “Your
mother ma-”
“Wrong,” he cuts her off, still pinning her with his stare. “I made Mother approach the Order.
I told her to. I condemned my father.”
Sitting in the silence of his confession, Hermione puzzles it out as she watches him, a curl
falling into her eye. “What? Why?”
He moves her curl away and then sits rubbing it, his other hand still twined with her fingers.
“I need her to live.”
Her world feels slightly shifted on its axis, so she says nothing for the moment. Her
perception of Draco’s actions has never been wrong regarding his loyalties to Narcissa.
Despite this, she always felt that he was making the best of a bad situation. She never once
assumed it was he who did the right thing, who made the choice.
“Narcissa said it was because you were just a boy. That-" she pauses here, her eyes flicking to
the thin, white scars on his chest. “She said that you were cracking.”
“I was,” he answers firmly, his eyes dropping back to their fingers. “But not because of my
task. Because I can’t lose her.” His eyes shoot back up and they look frightened. “Hermione,
I can’t lose her.”
She sighs softly, wishing she could tell him he won’t, but this is war, and he can. “I know.”
He visibly swallows down his emotions and drops her curl. He releases her right hand to take
her left and rubs his thumb against her ring finger. When he looks at her again, that same
anger alights his face, once more so startling from the raw vulnerability previously decorating
it.
“I can’t lose you either.”
The breath freezes in her lungs and the force of his burning gaze makes her buzz from head
to toe. “You might.”
“I won’t,” he answers fiercely.
“You don’t know that Draco,” she whispers with a sigh.
“We’re going to win. Hey.” He grabs her cheeks, lifting her face up to force eye contact when
she attempts to look away. “We have things in motion. Something we’re working on. It could
help.”
Hermione only mumbles, “Sure.”
That’s what she’s doing every single day. Putting things in motion that could help.
Draco sighs, releasing her face. “I have to go too.”
She nods, tamping down her emotions, looking anywhere but at his face. “Yes,” she finally
agrees. “We both need to go.”
Chapter End Notes
Another reminder to come and join me on TikTok for previews and actually if anyone
has some better TikTok knowledge/ability, get in touch because I'm shoccccking at it.
I'm LeighJ97
Post update note: a comment made me realise there looks to be unplanned pregnancy
foreshadowing. That's not going to happen in this fic - sorry for the spoiler. I'm not a big
fan of the trope myself and just wanted to clear it up for anyone who possibly thought
about not finishing the fic due to the potential!
Part One: April '98
Chapter Notes
Hey beauties, I'm now on Twitter and Reddit as LeighJ, as well as TikTok! Come say hi!
Sticking to her selfish streak, Hermione allows herself to crack open A History of Magic
when she opens her eyes the next day. It’s a mental break she both needs and wants, hoping
to enjoy something instead of her brain aching with questions she can’t answer. It also helps
to distract from the thoughts of Draco and last night.
The memory of his skin on hers, of his vulnerability talking about their school days, and his
true reasoning for being in the Order. They’ve had a lot of encounters now and more secrets
between them than make her comfortable, but last night felt real. It felt like really being with
Draco and not the spy Kingsley set after her.
She saw him for who he was last night. Saw the care and the attention, saw the possessive
edge of him that both terrified and excited her. The look in his eye when he told her he
couldn’t lose her. Hermione scolds herself and forces her eyes back onto the page. She’s
meant to be redirecting her thoughts, not indulging them.
Harry approaches her halfway through her book some hours later. “I think we should pack up
and move on. It’s so cold here.”
Having been dithering for a little while herself, Hermione nods her agreement and snaps her
book closed. “We’ll go somewhere more sheltered.”
She takes him to her favourite camping spot, just because she’s feeling nostalgic. “We’re in
The Forest of Dean,” she informs once they’re on steady feet. “Used to come here with Mum
and Dad.”
When the tent is back up and her favoured blue flames conjured, they huddle around them.
They agree to share a watch as neither of them can sleep with it being so bitterly cold. No one
would believe that it’s mid-April. The two of them sit out at the entrance together in
companionable silence, until the sun sets, and darkness blankets the sky.
Hermione glances up from her page when she hears a light snore. Harry’s chin slowly lowers
to his chest, his lips parted. Quidditch Through the Ages slips from his lap, closing on
impact.
She reaches out a hand to gently touch his arm, her book steady on her bent knees and
whispers softly, “Harry, get into bed. I’ve got it.”
Jerking, Harry blinks sleepily at her, snatching up his book instinctively. He looks almost like
a boy again as he stubbornly shakes his head, his cheeks ruddy. “I’m okay, Hermione.”
She rubs her hand down his arm soothingly. “Please, you need to rest.”
“So do you,” Harry argues, a little more awake now as he shuffles back. She hears his spine
pop at the adjustment. “You’re doing so much all the time. I haven’t a clue how you manage
it all.”
The praise is lovely to hear, though somewhat spoilt by the big yawn that splits it apart.
Hermione represses a laugh. “Please take yourself to bed. I’ll wake you in an hour when it’s
your turn for the Horcrux, I promise.”
Finally conceding, Harry nods and places his palms down to push himself to stand,
staggering to his feet unsteadily. “Only an hour.”
“Just an hour,” she agrees, tipping her head back to look up at him.
He nods again, his eyes heavy-lidded before he stumbles into the tent. Hermione watches him
go and then turns back to A History of Magic's final chapters. She resituates herself, shuffling
on her numb arse and stretching out her knees. Once she’s as comfortable as she can manage,
she picks up where she left off.
She is only ten short pages away from finishing when the gleam of Draco’s Patronus
infiltrates the surrounding darkness, pausing at its usual spot in front of the border. A smile
graces her lips at the sight of it, and her heart thrills at the thought of seeing Draco again. The
cabin washes through her mind, forcing its way to the forefront after being suppressed all
day.
The soft bed and his hard body, his tender words in the hollow of her throat and his calloused
fingers through her hair. She places her book down and wipes her backside of dirt. Pulling
her jacket around her to ward off the chill, she sets after it, only allowing a Lumos to light her
wand tip when she is far enough away from the tent.
As is usual for her nightly wanderings after Draco’s Patronus, she watches the dragon glide
through the tight, thick tree trunks that are as black as the night. The more she watches it, the
more she feels that something is different about it. There seems to be an urgency to its flight,
a need for her to hurry.
She finds herself lightly jogging, the smile she had upon seeing it beginning to fade as sweat
breaks out against her forehead. The faster she moves, the faster the Patronus does, until she’s
flat-out running. Leaves crunch under her feet, loud and terrifying as she increases her Lumos
with a non-verbal Maxima.
Deeper into the forest the Patronus takes Hermione and nerves start to churn in the pit of her
stomach. Why would Draco bring her so far in? He’s usually fairly close to the tent, never too
far for her to feel lost. The Patronus comes to a dead halt and Hermione finds herself jolting
on her toes in surprise, coming to an unceremonious stop.
Draco is nowhere to be seen. She glances around in the shadows with a tight throat, feeling as
if they’re closing in on her from all sides. This far into the forest, even the moon is a smudge
of hazy light; too far away to be useful. The Patronus winks out of existence and Hermione is
left with nothing but her own Lumos and galloping heart.
Her voice is unsteady as it stretches out into the unknown. “Draco?”
Nothing answers her back but for a lone owl, hooting away into her surroundings black as
pitch. Despite the dimness washing away Draco’s Patronus, the image of it brands against
Hermione’s retinas. Every time she sweeps her lashes in a blink, it’s there. It’s somewhat
comforting, but it doesn’t override her unease.
Where is Draco? Why would he summon her and not arrive? He’s never done this to her
before. Is he in trouble? Her stomach bottoms out at the thought and she curls her fingers
tighter around her wand until the engraving imprints her flesh in return. The forest in her
silence creates its own frightening concert of cracking twigs and whispers on the wind.
Hermione whirls towards each source of noise, her paranoia ratcheting higher. It’s coming to
the end of her shift with the locket, and she knows it’s doing nothing to help her current state
of fear.
“Draco?” She tries again, her voice decidedly strangled with terror.
Moving her wand tip around for light coverage, Hermione startles at the site of a small pool.
Its black surface glitters in her wand light, previously disguised by the inky darkness.
Cautiously edging forward, she looks down at the water, reflecting her distressed face in a
warped shadow.
Peering closer and squinting her eyes, her heart flips over in her chest. Deep below there is a
glint. A great silver cross. Dropping to her knees, Hermione angles her wand to see even
further. Crimson glittering rubies.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
Lying at the bottom of the forest pool.
Whipping her head up, Hermione again calls, though bolder this time, “Draco?!”
How on earth did he get it? How did he know she needed it? Is this what he meant when he
said they were working on something? If that were the case, why wouldn’t he just hand it
over, instead of dropping it into a pool of water? Everything still feels creepy and unsure, and
there’s nothing worse than the thought of retrieving it.
Draco doesn’t answer, nothing does, and she glances at the water again, confirming what
she’s seeing is real.
Deciding to try her luck first, Hermione murmurs, “Accio Sword!”
It doesn’t move. Not so much as a stir. She didn’t expect it to, but its immobility still fills her
with disappointment. How to get it without having to get in? Oh, why did Draco do it like
this? What’s the meaning of it all? Rubbing her lips together, she tries to think hard about
what she knows of the sword. It appears in times of great need.
“Help?” She tries pathetically, sounding a question more than a request.
Indifferent, motionless, it stays.
Letting free a long-suffering sigh, she tips her head to the tree tops above her and promises,
“Draco, I’m having your balls for this, you lanky prat.”
Giving the surrounding trees one last forlorn glance, hoping to find Draco lounging against
one, Hermione slaps her hands against her knees. Time to get serious. Sitting back on her
arse, she takes the time to slowly and methodically strip. First her boots and her socks, then
her jeans. Next her t-shirt, beaded bag and jacket.
There’s still a chill in the air despite it being April, and she shivers in her underwear.
Goosebumps race up and down her spine. Now or never. Laying her wand out on her pile of
clothes, she forces herself to her feet and takes a fortifying breath.
“Hermione Jean Granger, you can do this,” she encourages herself, clenching and
unclenching her fingers.
The grass beneath her toes is squishy and damp, and nearly disgusting enough to send her
running back to her dry clothes. She ignores it, battling tremors as she paces towards the edge
of the water. No use hoping it’s warm. She dips her toe in as she quickly does her hair up
because she’s a sadist. She swears loudly, jumping back as the minor foray has her dithering.
“Gods, Draco!” She crows, bouncing on her feet, breathing short and sharp. “I’m really going
to have your balls!”
She dives.
The cold is a shock to her system. Her heart clenches in her chest and her lungs shrivel up in
horror. Every single pore of her body screams in protest for her to get out. Within seconds the
icy cold is burning hot lava. Her brain short circuits in distress as she pushes through the dark
water and stretches out her fingers, groping for the sword.
A gleeful grin breaks across her face when they wrap around the hilt, and she kicks upwards.
Then something closes tight around her neck. Water weeds surround her, and she grasps at
her throat, trying to rid them but finds no plants. It’s the Horcrux. Her eyes widen as the
locket slips around to slide down her spine, the chain throttling her.
Hermione kicks out wildly, desperately trying to propel herself back to the surface but
succeeding instead to careen into the rocky side of the pool. The sharpness cuts at her flesh
and crimson bleeds into the water around her, blurring her vision. Thrashing, suffocating, she
scrabbles at the chain as lights pop inside her head.
I’m going to drown!
Stay calm, Granger. You can do this!

Why have you done this to me?! She thinks furiously. Why have you sent me to my death,
Draco?!
Her numb, frozen fingers continue to grip and tug at the chain, but it won’t relent. If
anything, it grows tighter, dragging her body down and forcing her to give up. Her eyes close
and her body slams into the rocky edges, roaring fire zipping down her spine. Darkness
closes in and for a moment she’s gone, embraced finally by the sweet kiss of Death.
Until cold air whips her skin, and she is choking and retching, face down in the mud. A
sodden, heavy hand slaps her back, igniting the agony already present in her spine.
“Breathe, Granger! Breathe! Spit it out! Spit it all out!”
“D-Draco?” She gasps into the grass, blinking her wet lashes.
Water pours out of her mouth as she retches until her lungs burn and she has to roll away
from the bile joining it. Her chest heaves and her lungs squeeze urgently for air. Draco’s face
swims above her, pale and terrified, his hair wet and falling in his eyes.
“Granger, look at me! Look at me! I’m here!” He grabs her face, tilting it up to him as her
eyes roll in her head.
“I’m- I’m o-oh ‘kay,” she wheezes finally, slapping his hands away. “I’m okay!” She forces
herself to sit upright, the world smoggy.
When it begins to still and there is only one Draco instead of two, she rears her arm back and
slaps him. “What t-the h-huh hell w-wuh y-you t-thinkin’?!”
Guilt claws at his eyes and mouth, and his hands shake as he grabs her shoulders. “Granger,
I- He wouldn’t let me come until the last minute. Snape said-”
“Snape?”
It’s not her who asks the question.
Both Hermione’s and Draco’s head whips towards the new voice. Harry stands staring at the
pair of them, Hermione’s discarded wand in his hand and alighting the confusion on his face.
“Am I going mad here?” He laughs manically and proceeds to aggressively drag his hand
through his hair. “What on earth is Draco Malfoy doing here, and saving your life no less?”
Hermione swallows, shuddering. “H-huh Harry! I-”
Draco gathers her closer to him, shielding her body as it vibrates violently. “Granger’s been
working for me and Kingsley.”
She throws Draco a sharp look even as her teeth chatter obscenely. “I d-do n-nuh not w-wuh
work for yu-you!”
Sighing, he clambers to his feet and pulls her to her own, cradling her dithering body to his
wet side. “Trading secrets then.”
Hermione struggles in his grasp, even as he mutters warming charms that make her skin
tingle, the reality of the situation settling in as the fog clears more. Anxiety eats at her lungs
where the water just vacated. “D-duh-on’t muh-make it su-sound- !”
“What?” Draco demands, looking down at her shivering and then releasing her to grab her
pile of clothes. “Nefarious?”
“What secrets?” Harry demands, stepping towards them. Despite the worry on his face, his
tone is icy when he asks, “Hermione?”
Whipping her head away from Draco handing over her jeans, she flounders with them in her
stiff hands. “Harry p-puh-lease let’s gu-go back. I’ll-I’ll tuh-tell y-yuh-ou everything.”
“No.” Harry shakes his head, watching her hopping to get her feet through her jean legs. “Tell
me now.”
“It’s freezing!” She protests, blushing and really wishing he wouldn’t as Draco bends to his
knees and helps her pull her jeans up her soaked legs. “We’re all f-fuh-reezing! And…
and…”
“And she’s never let me see your location, Potter,” Draco supplies as he reaches for her socks
next and lifts her foot to rest on his knee, uncaring of Harry’s intrigued stare. “She doesn’t
trust me.”
That stings, but Harry merely glances between them, observing as Draco puts her other sock
on and then moves onto her boots. In another life perhaps he would have told Draco he
wasn’t to be trusted. In this life, however, Harry utilised Draco on the field before they left to
find Horcruxes.
He’s spent time with him, and strategized with him and Draco’s work has led to successes
and victories. Perhaps that’s why there’s a delay in her best friend’s explosive reaction, and
why he pauses to assess them both with keen eyes. Hermione pulls her top and jacket on in
his silence, not yet warm but relieved to be clothed again nonetheless.
“I haven’t done anything to hurt us, Harry.” She finally manages to get full sentences out,
though she bites her own lip on a near stutter. “I haven’t told him anything important but…”
Hermione looks back at Draco, still trembling. He immediately pulls her closer when he’s
back on his feet, not showing one shiver even though he’s soaked through.
“He has helped us. More than you know.”
At that moment, Draco bends to retrieve The Sword of Gryffindor, dripping and gleaming in
the wand light.
“And… this,” she supplies hesitantly, still unsure of what is quite going on herself. “The
sword.”
Finally, Harry nods, his eyes still ping-ponging between the two of them. “Okay. The tent
then.”
Draco doesn’t offer to hand over the sword, carrying it with an effortlessness that betrays
how heavy Hermione imagines it is. It feels like a delusion, walking behind Harry with
Draco’s presence at her back, the weight of his eyes searing. Perhaps she died in the water,
and this is all a very strange version of the afterlife.
When they make it back to the invisible wards, Hermione guides Draco through with a touch
to his arm. It’s unnecessary but she feels that she needs to touch him, and Harry’s eyes linger
on her fingers. Once inside the tent, Draco surprises her by handing over his wand when he
notices Harry holding hers.
What surprises her more is Harry helps with some warming charms for Draco’s sodden
clothes. No one talks as they methodically set themselves back to rights. Draco lays the
sword out on their picnic table. Hermione leaves him there while she and Harry exit to
change.
In the bathroom, she deals with her new bout of cuts and scrapes down her spine, which now
match her face. She does the best she can, but looking over her shoulder in the mirror is
slightly tricky. Draco’s wand doesn’t particularly fight her, but it doesn’t warm to her as
much as her own would. She makes do. Every day she’s looking and feeling more battered,
what with her cut-up face and still aching ribs, what’s one more injury?
When she’s managed as much as she can and changed into two layers of clothing to warm up,
she takes a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. She’s scared. More scared than she was
getting into that water, more scared than the Horcrux trying to murder her. She glances at it
around her neck, harmless and still now.
Shuddering, she rips it off and puts it in her pocket, no longer able to bear it against her skin.
She smiles as it comes off, a little of her fear easing.
We’re going to destroy you; she promises it silently and feels a panicked flutter against her
thigh through her trousers.
Even with the Horcrux no longer on her flesh, anxiety is ripping her innards to shreds. It’s
finally here. The moment she has to be honest with Harry. The moment she has to admit all
her wrongdoings and all her secrets. The moment she has to explain Draco. Taking another
deep breath, she nods decisively to herself and exits the small toilet.
Despite the ample time she took, she is the first to return and find Draco glancing around
with vivid interest. They don’t speak to each other as she hands his wand back over. He takes
it, allowing their fingers to twine. Hermione rubs her lips together, unable to stop herself
from being drawn to him despite the current circumstances.
Harry walks back in on them staring at each other and she quickly glances away, blushing.
Draco subtly releases her fingers, and she flounders on the spot for a moment while he
remains looking calm and collected. The intense eye contact he held with her only moments
ago slides away and he almost looks bored within the second of Harry’s arrival.
“I’ll make some tea, shall I?” Hermione asks into the strained silence and then sets about
doing it before anyone can answer.
The atmosphere is unbearably tense yet somehow cosy. Harry lights the fire until it crackles
and roars comfortingly. He next retrieves blankets, one he keeps for himself and another he
hands to Draco, who merely tucks it over his legs. Hermione pads back over to them on thick
sock-laden feet and Harry takes that opportunity to wrap a blanket around her shoulders.
Smiling at him gratefully, she hands him his mug of tea, which he takes with a straight face.
Right. Still a tense situation. Once he’s seated, she turns to Draco and places his mug of tea
directly and rather unnecessarily into his hands. Draco’s fingers brush hers in their exchange
and she gives him a small smile with her back to Harry.
He cocks his brow up at her, but she knows he’s acknowledging them for the briefest
moment. She sits with her own tea by the fireplace, with Harry in the armchair and Draco in
the spare chair. The only other seats are the bunk beds or the picnic table, but she doesn’t
want to be so far from the conversation or the fire.
Draco frowns at her down on the floor, but she minutely shakes her head at him. They have to
be careful with this. As much as she wants to, she can’t very well curl up in his lap and inhale
the scent of him. She instead pulls the blanket around her shoulders tighter and cups her tea
closer to her chest, so the heat bleeds through her jumper.
Harry finally breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
“Us too,” Draco answers flippantly.
“Excuse me?” Harry responds tightly. “What do I need to explain?”
“How you found us in the middle of all this forest.”
Hermione raises her eyebrow, realising it’s not something she even questioned. She suddenly
wants to know herself.
“I woke to Hermione gone, and it’s not the first time.”
For the wildest moment, she thinks he’s admitting that he woke last night while she was away
with Draco in the cabin. Then she realises he must be referring to the night she killed
Dolohov.
“I panicked. There’s only us now and I went looking. I was calling you, Hermione. I’m
guessing you took a dive and couldn’t hear me below the water.”
She nods, and he continues. “I didn’t have a wand so I was just stumbling in the dark, but
then I heard the crack of Apparition. I’m assuming that’s when you turned up, Malfoy. From
there I followed the sounds of you two talking.”
Draco says nothing in the wake of this answer. When it becomes clear he’s not going to,
Hermione jumps in with her own explanation. Her nerves tighten her throat but she knows it
has to be her. She tells Harry everything, trying to tamper down the passionate encounters
with Draco as much as she can, and only provide the raw information necessary.
“You blackmailed her with a Trace?” Harry demands of Draco, his eyes alight with
resentment.
“Harry…” Hermione whispers. “It’s truly not the point anymore.”
“Fine,” Harry snaps back, clearly not impressed with her defence of their long-time enemy.
“And what about Snape?”
Glancing at Draco in interest, who has been silently looking between them this whole time,
she eagerly awaits his response too.
Draco rolls his tongue against his cheek and then begins quiet and steady. “I figured with the
sword going missing from the Headmaster's study, Snape could have been the only one
involved. So, I approached him, knowing his true loyalty to the Order.”
Harry frowns at this observation. “Why would Snape trust you with that? What kind of
relationship do you two have?”
Taking the time to sip his tea, Draco swallows it down, eyes on Harry. “Not much of one,
truthfully. Snape is bound by the Vow he made to my mother. The Vow’s wording is
ambiguous. He swore to watch over me and to protect me from harm.”
“A very Slytherin move,” Harry comments after his own sip of tea. “But what’s that got to do
with the sword?”
Draco only hums, downing another large gulp. Some colour begins to return to his cheeks.
“I’ve been trying to work out what Hermione’s doing out here.” Harry raises his brow at her
given name but doesn’t interrupt. “That’s my duty to Kingsley. To Snape, I just had to present
the idea that harm would come to me if I didn’t fulfil that duty and provide him information.”
Hurt flares in her chest and she glances down into her tea. Is she still just a mission then?
Last night in the cabin and the encounters that came before it, were they more attempts to get
her to open up about what they’ve been doing out here? Has she continued to be stupid?
Draco continues, a weary, almost respectful smile painting his lips. “Snape is clever and also
a Slytherin. He knew I could see the connection between the sword and your mission. So, he
set me the task of getting the sword to you in return, a mission of his own that he was
struggling to find the opening for. He’s being watched by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters
much harder since he became Headmaster.”
“Why at the bottom of the pool?” Hermione butts in, still spitting mad by the whole ordeal.
A regretful look blooms across Draco’s face for the briefest moment before it wipes away.
“Gryffindor courage, he said. It couldn’t just be handed over. You had to earn it and I wasn’t
allowed to come straight away.”
“Snape doesn’t know,” Harry redirects the conversation, his statement confident. “What our
mission is. No one does.”
Draco shakes his head, peaking both hers and Harry’s interest. “He doesn’t know much but
Dumbledore told him some things. He had to. When they made plans for Snape to kill him
instead of me.”
“And he told you?” Harry asks quickly, leaning forward in his seat.
“Yes. He knows that Dumbledore set you a mission to find and collect items to bring about
the Dark Lord’s death.” Draco hesitates, pursing his lips and Hermione has a horrible feeling
he’s about to omit key details in whatever comes next. “He told me that the snake is a
confirmed Horcrux.”
Hearing Draco say the word Horcrux, forces her to truly appreciate how deep in he is with
them on this now. It makes her shiver, and she downs her tea. Nagini being a Horcrux isn’t
news to them, but it was always a hopeful guess. There is, however, relief in having it
confirmed from Snape, who is so close to Voldemort’s side.
“So, Snape is helping us?” Harry responds, frowning as if he can’t grasp the concept. “You’re
helping us?”
“We’re all helping, Potter. We don’t sit around knitting, you know.” Despite Harry’s wince,
Draco deals the killing blow. “But we’re doing badly.”
Harry trembles and clenches his cup between his hands. “Whose gone?”
Cutting in before Draco, Hermione hesitantly answers, “Ted Tonks, Harry. I’m so sorry.
Draco told me about the Jinx on Tom’s name, but he only found out because Ted used it.”
“Tom?” Draco repeats, glancing between them with a frown.
“His mortal name,” Hermione supplies quickly, gazing back at Harry.
Harry’s eyes are full of hurt as he searches her face. “You knew about Mad-Eye too, didn’t
you? Before I found his eye at the Ministry.”
Swallowing, Hermione can only nod. “Yes.”
Sighing, he takes off his glasses, rubs at his eyes and puts them back on. “You’ve killed
Yaxley. You’ve been meeting with Malfoy, for Kingsley. What else are you hiding from me,
Hermione?”
Avoiding Draco’s gaze on her face from the mention of Yaxley, Hermione keeps eye contact
with Harry despite her nausea. “I’ve kept secrets from you and Ron. A lot of them, but
you’ve heard nearly all of them tonight.”
Taking a deep breath, Harry nods. “So, what else? There’s something else, right?”
I think I’m falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

Is that such a terrible concept, Granger?
For the first time, Draco is in her head whilst sitting right next to her and she has to resist
every impulse to turn and look at him. Instead, she gives Harry all of her attention, feeling
that he deserves it the most at this moment.
“The night I snuck out. I-" She takes a deep breath as the panic of the memory threatens to
overwhelm her. “I killed Antonin Dolohov.”
“I knew it,” Draco breathes.
Hermione refuses to look at him, beseeching Harry. “He was going to hurt me. He was going
to rape me.”
Both boys bristle and Harry shoots from the armchair at the same moment Draco rockets
upwards from his own chair. They both pause awkwardly once they’re standing, and she
blushes, ducking her head to hide an inappropriate smile.
Harry glances between them and his eyes narrow as he retakes his seat. “And you two?
What’s going on between you two?”
“That’s hardly any of your business, Potter.” Draco sniffs, sitting back down with a stiff spine
and awkwardly gathering the blanket that slid to the floor.
Narrowing his eyes, Harry bites back, “It is my business if it includes Hermione. I’m all she
has.”
The statement makes her eyes prick with tears. She didn’t realise it but he’s right. No parents,
no Crookshanks, no Ron and no Draco, not really. Only her part to play in the war and the
best friend she has to stick with to get him to the end of it.
Very quietly, so intimate Hermione almost wishes he hadn’t said it, Draco replies, “She has
me.”
“I-" Harry shakes his head and looks down into his teacup. “Hermione, where’s that
firewhisky?”
Pointing, Hermione directs Harry to the bottle and watches silently as he hurries over to open
it and chug some of the harsh liquid.
“Harry I know this is a lot,” Hermione pleads, defiantly not looking at Draco. “I know you
must be really fucking mad at me. I understand, truly but please believe I've done it to help
us. Draco himself has significantly helped us."
"How?" He gasps, pulling the bottle away from his slick mouth. He wipes it with his sleeve
but then goes in for another gulp. “Tell me every single way Draco Malfoy has helped us.”
So, she does. Viewing it as an argument in one of her school essays, she details everything
Draco has done to help. She starts with R.A.B., Kreacher, the locket and Umbridge.
“Wait,” Harry interrupts. “We threw the locket out last summer, so how did it get stolen from
Grimmauld Place by Dung?”
“I- actually, I don’t know,” Hermione admits. “Draco?”
“Kreacher stole it back,” Draco fills in for them, finally providing that missing puzzle piece.
“Into that filthy cupboard of his. Dung ransacked the place. Kreacher says it was before he
came to me and my mother.”
“When he got Sirius killed, you mean,” Harry spits nastily.
Hermione bites her lip, expecting a biting retort from Draco but he surprises her by merely
nodding. A fixed look covers his eyes like a sheet of ice and Hermione tilts her head slightly
as she watches him. Is he… performing Occlumency? Why on earth would be doing that
right now? Pushing down guilt? It was Kreacher that betrayed Sirius, not him.
“Go on,” Harry mutters now, breaking her thoughts. “What else has St. Malfoy done?”
She tuts but continues with her essay of positive points about Draco. She tells Harry about
the symbol in both Dumbledore’s book and The Tales of Beedle the Bard; about how Draco
linked it to Xenophillus Lovegood. The symbol he wore about his neck when he attended Bill
and Fleur’s wedding, which they themselves couldn't attend.
She adds on about Phineas Nigellus’ portrait and Draco sharing the news of Ginny attempting
to steal the sword, which led to her realisation of the sword being impregnated with Basilisk
venom. Not to mention, of course, informing her about the Jinx on Voldemort’s name, which
surely would have gotten them killed long ago.
Harry blinks fuzzily at her, having taken another three shots during her speech. Draco says
nothing, looking bored once more, with that fixed glass in his eyes. Hermione is sure through
watching him as she talks, that he’s Occluding, but why?
Surprising them all, Harry walks over to hand the half-downed firewhisky to Draco. “So,
what does all this mean for you?”
Draco glances at the bottle for a moment, looking ready to decline before he finally puts his
cup down and reaches to take it.
He confirms, “For me?” Before he takes a shot.
“Yes.” Harry returns back to the armchair, taking a heavy seat. “Do you work for Kingsley or
Snape?”
Draco takes another shot and then stares at the bottle when he answers, “My mother, Potter.
I’ll do whatever needs to be done to make sure she gets to see the end of this war and live
beyond it.”
Harry’s eyes narrow and despite only just sitting down, he rises again to approach Draco.
Hermione tenses, but Harry merely puts his hand out between them and demands, “Shake on
it.”
Their hands clasp and they shake firmly. Hermione’s stomach flips, a sense that she just
witnessed something incredibly important.
“Besides, Death Eaters cornered Kingsley. He’s in hiding currently or so we think. No one’s
heard from him.” Draco grimaces. “Truthfully, he could be dead.”
Hermione’s stomach flips over once again. Her mind goes back to the thoughts she had
before about who would support Draco’s claims if the war were won. With Kinglsey gone,
will it truly fall to her? At least she has Harry now. Who wouldn’t trust Harry’s word, if they
win? This calms her anxiety a little and as terrible as it is, she’s relieved that there’s no more
reporting to Kingsley.
Pulling a deep breath in through his nose, Draco pins his eyes to hers. “Now I need to know
everything. All of it, Granger. What you’re doing out here, what the plan is, and how you’re
turning the tide of the war.”
Hermione blushes as he, unknown to Harry, uses her words against her. Even still, between
the pair of them, they tell Draco everything. They take turns to fill in the gaps as Harry has
more to say from his meetings with Dumbledore and her from research.
Draco leans forward with his elbows on his knees, a slight frown between his brows. “What
ones are left exactly?”
Harry slouches into his seat with a sigh, and Hermione can’t blame him. The pair of them
have gone through this same conversation so many times it’s headache-inducing.
“His snake, as mentioned.”
Draco nods but says nothing, clearly having no further ideas than Harry and Hermione about
how to get to Nagini.
“One we don’t know,” Harry answers. “Most likely a Hogwarts founders item.”
“You’re sure it’s a Founders item?” Draco’s eyes linger on Harry, and Hermione’s stomach
clenches with an unease she can’t place.
“Most likely,” Harry confirms, once more in his seat. His constant up and down doesn’t quell
Hermione’s nerves any. “It’s hard to explain him.”
Again, Draco nods but there’s that fixed point in his eye that Hermione really doesn’t like.
“And the last? There’s only three left, correct?”
Sighing, Harry wearily finishes, “Helga Hufflepuff’s cup.”
“Hufflepuff’s cup?” Draco repeats sharply. “A dainty thing with a badger?”
“Yes.” Harry sits forward from his slouch, his cloudy eyes focusing. “Why?”
“My aunt Bellatrix…” Draco hesitates, glancing between the two of them. “She showed me a
cup matching that description when she escaped Azkaban. Said out of everything in her
Gringotts vault, it was the most important thing she owned and one day if I was lucky-” He
pauses to scoff here. “I might hold its responsibility.”
“We need that cup, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice carries such an urgency that Hermione’s pulse
picks up. “Now we have the sword, we can destroy them all. We’re so close.”
“And what do you suggest?” Draco drawls, rubbing at his jaw. Hermione for the first time
notices the stubble decorating it, and the shadows beneath his eyes. “We rob Gringotts?”
Harry doesn’t break eye contact with Draco, his jaw flexing. “Maybe.”
Draco blinks, his hand stilling against his jaw and then he huffs a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m desperate,” Harry counters without shame. He glances over at Hermione, his eyes
roving her face. “We both are.”
Draco blows a short breath from his nose and drops his hand, his gaze moving to Hermione
too. Their eyes lock and her heart pounds hard in her chest. The cabin is there again in the
space between them, his body above her, over her; inside her.
Holding his gaze, Hermione blindly puts her cup down. “You understand this is all
dangerous, don’t you? Being involved like this. No matter who you answer to, or who you’re
working for. Knowing this could get you killed.”
Draco rolls his eyes, breaking the intense moment between them. “I can see the danger, now
that you mention it, Granger. Blindsided me before, really.”
Hermione rolls her own eyes and leans forward on her knees to snatch the firewhisky out of
his hand. “Oh, pack it in.”
“Gods, I’m never going to get used to seeing you pair acting like a married couple,” Harry
mutters, startling her into dribbling firewhisky down her chin.
“What are you talking about? We’ve argued for years,” Draco defends, his eyes burning as
they watch her fingers wiping the liquor from her lips.
“Yeah with hatred. Not with this…” Harry trails off and she glances to see him avidly
watching them, prompting a blush that scolds her chest. “This fond annoyance.”
Draco abruptly stands, the chair scraping back as he does so. “I have to go.”
“No!” Hermione shouts and blushes harder when both boys look at her in surprise. “You
brought us the sword… you- you should at least stay to destroy the Horcrux.”
Part One: April '98
Chapter Notes
I've been reading WIPS and I remember how excruciating it is to wait for updates, so
you're getting an early one.
I also finished a scene I've been working on for a while that every time I open it, I hear,
"the hoes gone loveeee this."
The air is thick with unease between Hermione, Harry, and Draco as they trail outside. They
don’t breach Hermione’s wards, moving only a few short paces from the entrance. The air is
still, sitting in the space between late night and early sunrise. Nothing makes a sound out in
the forest past the boundary line, forcing the atmosphere into an eerie place between
dimensions.
Stale water lingers on her hair, the smell infecting the curls escaping from her sloppy bun.
Harry holds the sword in hand while Hermione retrieves the Horcrux from her pocket. She
moves forward and bends to place it neatly on a flat, cool rock where it won’t prematurely
slip. Once satisfied, she straightens up and walks backward to join the boys.
Between the two of them, their scents mix strangely and war with each other. Draco frost and
parchment, Harry warmth and spice, with firewhisky layering on top of both. The locket
visibly trembles where she’s left it exposed, pushing a smirk onto her face.
I promised we were going to destroy you. Time’s up.
The locket seems to jolt in place like a quickening heart in reaction to her thoughts.
Hermione revels in its fear, a blossoming heat gathering in her chest. Harry stirs beside her,
and she quickly wipes the smirk from her face. In her peripheral vision, however, she catches
Draco’s gaze lingering on her.
Eyes snapping up to him, she finds his spiteful grin waiting. He saw it. He saw her indulging
in her darkness. She swallows, not releasing his eye contact until Harry strides forward,
stepping away from their trio. The tip of the sword drags in the dirt, digging up a line and
freeing the aroma of hard-packed mud.
Hermione’s pulse pounds in her throat, and she reaches blindly for Draco’s hand without
caring that Harry may witness them. There’s a tension that travels from his fingers, through
his wrist, and into his shoulder. She doesn’t look for Draco’s reaction, gazing instead at
Harry. He stands off-center of the locket so she can see both him and it.
The only thing she does in return to the man next to her is squeeze his fingers. After a
moment, he squeezes back and his arm relaxes, his wrist growing lax. They press tighter
together and all she can smell now is him mixed with firewhisky. Harry’s sharp hiss of
Parseltongue slices through the silence and Hermione shudders.
Here we go.
The pulsing locket flies open immediately, the door unhinging with a speed that speaks of
urgent terror. The acidic smell from its previous opening leaks out, only this time pregnant
with the sharp tang of fear. Draco’s whole hand wraps around hers and anchors her in place.
Dark ink spirals out into the air surrounding them and a vicious wind whips her hair into her
eyes.
The tent and the trees threaten to uproot from the ground, vibrating madly as the gale yanks
at them. She blinks repeatedly at the hair lashing her face, trembling as a rancorous, cruel
voice booms around them. It seems to originate from everywhere: the locket itself but also
her head, her heart, and her very soul. It surrounds her, promising to fill her with its shadows.
“Stab it, Harry!” Hermione screams over the howls of the wind, dread threatening to choke
her.
“I’ve seen your hearts, and they are mine!” A hiss emerges from the void, deep in the heart of
the unforgiving storm.
Harry continues to hesitate, his hand slack on the sword handle.
“Potter! Now!”
“Ah… Draco Malfoy… The boy who wanted his father to love him, and yet... was Lucius’
very downfall,” the voice croons spitefully.
“STAB IT!” Hermione wails over the tornado of wind battering them.
The darkness grows deeper until she’s squinting and can barely see Harry at all. She squeezes
Draco’s hand harder, and he grips hers right back, his fingers crushing.
“Hermione Granger,” the voice turns on her, the inky darkness spreading further outwards,
halting at the barrier of her wards. “The girl in hiding. Yes, always hiding. Hiding her truth
from Harry Potter. Hiding her wickedness from him, from the world! Yes… even… from
herself.”
To Hermione’s utter horror, the darkness parts and shifts, forming a scene of moving, lighter
shadows. It portrays a swirling imagery of herself and Draco fucking in the cabin with her
hands hanging onto his arms and her legs clenched around his waist.
“Harry, don’t look!” Hermione shrieks, throat choked with embarrassment. “Stab it!”
“He’s corrupting her, Harry,” the voice taunts. “He’s going to take your best friend away!”
The shadows shift, and it now shows Draco strangling her while he slams his hips against her,
looking dangerous, looking feral.
“He’s going to kill her! Kill him! Kill Draco Malfoy!”
“No!”
Hermione steps forward but grunts when Draco yanks her back by her hand, her shoulder
popping.
She swivels her head to yell at him, “What are you doing?!”
Shaking his head, Draco clenches his jaw, and Hermione rapidly seeks out Harry again. Harry
whirls around to face them, his gaze a mixture of panic and loathing. The wind picks up, the
trees violently swaying. Her hair dances around her head like snakes, released of its bobble. It
intermittently continues to whip her eyes; leaving them stinging and watering.
The voice continues on in the background. “She betrayed you, Harry! She left you
vulnerable. Yes… You should kill her too. Kill them both! Do it now!”
Releasing a rage cry, Harry raises the sword. Hermione’s heart stops and for a split second,
she’s unsure of the direction he intends to go. Then he turns and swings before she can debate
it any further and brings the sword down in a wild arc. It violently slams into the locket,
sending it flying upwards in an explosion of twisted metal.
Ear piercing screams render from inside and Hermione releases Draco’s hand to slap both of
hers over her ears. All at once, the heavy darkness fades to normal nighttime, and the hectic
wind recedes. The drastic change in noise levels leaves her ears ringing, and she dazedly
sinks to her knees.
Draco crouches before her, cupping her jaw and lifting her head up to him. “Hermione?”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles with disbelief, squeezing his wrists.
Harry’s chest heaves as he rotates back to her, rushing over to kneel before her too. Draco
abruptly stands up and steps back, forcing her hands to fall from his wrists and to her own
knees.
Harry’s smaller hands cup her shoulders, and he grins brilliantly. “We did it, Hermione! We
fucking did it!”
All of the emotions she wants to express won’t come free and for a brief moment, her eyes
flick to Draco who stands silent and stoic.
She manages a tired smile back at Harry, forcing her eyes from grey to green. “You did it,
Harry. You killed a piece of him. You brought us one step closer.”
Draco pointedly clears his throat and Harry rolls his eyes before he peers over his shoulder at
the other man. “We get it. You helped.”
Eyebrow rising, Draco curls his lip at her best friend. “I did more than merely help, Potter.”
He catches Hermione’s eye and tips his chin. “I’ll see you soon. To talk about Hufflepuff’s
cup.”
Hermione nods, wishing he weren’t leaving but not daring to indicate so. He Disapparates
and she takes in a shaky breath through her nose.
“Come on,” Harry encourages, cupping her elbows. “No watch tonight. We both need sleep.
We deserve it.”
Sighing tiredly, she nods, pushing to her feet. “Okay, but Harry, our next plan needs to be
going to see Xenophillus Lovegood.”
Harry nods. “Sure, we’ll talk about it.”
He heads over to collect the smoking, twisted metal that was a piece of Voldemort’s soul. As
he stands with it, a barrier of his jumper protecting his flesh, a branch breaks. Both Hermione
and Harry’s heads snaps towards the noise, looking out into the trees beyond the wards.
Footsteps crunch closer and Harry slowly makes his way to her side, holding her wand out.
Hermione swallows with trepidation, feeling naked without it. It’s not Draco, he would just
Apparate back. Harry clenches her forearm with his free hand when he reaches her side, and
she holds her breath. Adrenaline floods her veins and yet the sun begins to break out over the
trees, lifting some of her fear.
Then a soft whisper comes, “Hermione? Harry?” From around a tree trunk, none other than
Ron steps out, looking around covertly. “Are you here?”
Blinking stupidly at her new reality, and wandless, forces Harry to be the one to dismantle
their surrounding wards.
As they disappear around them, Ron gapes. “There you are! Blimey, what’re all them cuts on
your faces?” When they both stare at him in unbelieving silence, Ron’s cheeks turn ruddy.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he says in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a- ow! Get off!”
Hermione doesn’t pause her hits, landing them all over, powered by her stride over to him.
“You-" Punch. “Complete-" Slap. “Arsehole-" Another punch. “Ronald-" Two punches one
after the other. “Weasley!”
Ron backs away, shielding his head.
“You crawl back here after nearly two fucking weeks-!” She growls, aiming a kick at him.
“Hermione!” Harry finally intervenes, hooking her under the arms and dragging her back,
kicking and spitting. “Calm down!”
“I will not calm down! Give me my wand, Harry! Give it back right now!”
Harry’s hair sticks up as he wrestles with her. “Hermione, please-”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Harry Potter!” She plants her feet, wiggling out from his hold
and spitting mad. “Don’t you dare! Give it back!”
Peeking between his clasped elbows, Ron begs, “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really-"
“Oh, you’re fucking sorry?!” Hermione laughs spitefully, something out of control and high-
pitched.
Ron slowly lowers his arms now she’s stopped hitting him, and glances to Harry for help.
“You come back after nearly two weeks leaving us hanging, and you think it’s all going to be
alright if you just say sorry?” She can barely catch her breath through her ranting.
“Well, what else can I say?!” Ron cries with exasperation, eyes bouncing between her gritted
teeth and Harry’s grimace.
“Oh, I don’t know! Rack your brain, Ron, that should only take a couple of seconds!”
“Hermione-” Harry attempts to interject.
“No, Harry!” She swivels her neck to look at him again, her body shaking and stomach
roiling with rage. “No! I don’t want to hear any kind of defense of him! Especially not after
your reaction to him leaving!”
Harry flushes, and they both ignore Ron’s, “What reaction?”
Her own face burns from the residue firewhisky she drank, her anger, and the adrenaline of
retrieving the sword. Not to mention the anxiety of facing Harry over Draco and destroying
the Horcrux, all of it. She lets it rip out now. The stress, the terror, the slow and infuriating
progress of their hunt; the complete lack of helpful input even when Ron was here.
The bone-deep loneliness.
Aiming her spiteful words at Ron, she picks her rant back up. “We could have been dead for
all you knew-”
“I knew you weren’t dead!” Ron bellows, drowning out her voice for the first time and
forcing her to fall silent. “Harry’s all over the Prophet, all over the radio. They’re looking for
you both everywhere! Me too now! That Spattergroit story is in the bin after the Ministry. All
these rumors and mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead. You don’t
know what it’s been like, ‘Mione-”
Hermione’s lip curls in disgust, voice shrill. “What it’s been like for you?”
Ron doesn’t rise to her bait, continuing to defend himself as he shuffles on his feet. “I wanted
to come back the minute I Disapparated, but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers. I
couldn’t go anywhere!”
“A gang of what?” Harry asks from beside her.

Hermione storms inside the tent as a cool breeze sends goosebumps racing down her arms.
“Get those wards back up!”
She hears Ron sigh, and Harry’s muttering as he does just that. The boys are not far behind
her when she throws herself onto the picnic bench seat. Harry lays the sword out over the top
of it, and Ron’s eyes grow round, seeming to only notice it right at that moment.
“What the bloody-” He begins, fingers capped with filthy nails reaching to touch it.
Slapping his hand away and taking pleasure in doing so, she snarls, “Answer Harry.”
“Ow! Erm, yeah…” His eyes tear from the sword to Harry who remains standing beside Ron.
“Snatchers. They’re everywhere. Gangs trying to earn Galleons, profiting from the war, see.
You were right about the Jinx on Tom’s name, ‘Mione. They turn up when people use it, but
mostly they round up Muggle-borns and blood traitors and get a reward for ‘em from the
Ministry. Well, not always the Ministry.”
Ron grimaces and Hermione finds herself imitating him. “Course, I was on my own and I
look school age, but they didn’t recognize me. They thought I was a Muggle-born in hiding,
got all excited. I had to talk fast to get out of it.”
“What did you say to them?” Harry queries, arms folded in defense but expression keen.
“Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I thought of,” Ron murmurs sheepishly, sliding
his backpack off his shoulder.
Hermione glances at it with pursed lips; annoyed that he seems to have determined he’s
allowed to stay now that he’s come back.
“And they believed that?”
She scoffs to add to her derisive comment but it’s mostly to cover her heart pounding at the
thought of him in danger, even as he stands before her unharmed, and the object of her ire.
“They weren’t the brightest,” Ron replies in a tone that says bless them. “One of them was
definitely part troll, the smell of him.”
Glancing at her hopefully, Hermione gives him nothing in return for his attempt at humor,
sitting stone-faced.
“Anyway,” he goes on quickly, targeting Harry instead. “They had a row about whether I was
Stan or not. Bit pathetic really, but there were five of them and only one of me.”
Hermione’s heart jumps again at the reminder and though she won’t give him the satisfaction
of knowing it, relief shoots through her veins at seeing him unharmed.
“They took my wand an’ all. Two of them got into a fight, so while the others were distracted
I managed to hit the one holding me, got his wand, disarmed the bloke holding mine, and
Disapparated. Didn’t do it all that good. Bloody splinched meself again, didn’t I?” At this, he
holds up his hand, presenting two missing fingernails.
Practically spitting the words, she retorts, “Me and Harry were almost eaten by a snake and
captured by V-Tom!” The irritation of her near mishap turns her words into a shriek, not
helped by the boys' simultaneous intake of whistling air.
Don’t let your anger get you killed now, Granger.
Fuck off, Draco.
Ron shakes his head, holding off the questions written all over his face to finish off his story.
“I came out miles from where you were. When I got back to the place I left you, you were
both gone.”
“Gosh, what a gripping story.” She gets up and hunts for the remaining firewhisky. “You
must have been terrified! Meanwhile, we went to Godric’s Hollow, and let’s think, what
happened there?” She pauses to take a gulp when she finds the liquor, ignoring Harry’s
disapproving face. “Oh yes, Tom’s snake turned up, it nearly killed both of us and then Tom
himself arrived and missed us by a fucking second!”
Taking another big gulp, so all that swirls back to the bottom is a couple of inches of whisky,
Hermione laughs breathlessly. “Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! Really puts our suffering
into perspective doesn’t it?”
“Hermione.” Harry’s voice is hard, but his face is exhausted. “Remember what we just heard
about your darkness?”
If Harry thinks this will tamp down the ugly threatening to spill out of her, he’s sorely
mistaken.
“You think this dark?” She releases a repulsive giggle as she makes her way to the picnic
table and slams the bottle down next to the sword.
Harry squares his jaw and narrows his eyes at her. Hermione stares right back. How dare he?
He heard it all tonight. He knows everything now. All that she’s done for this mission, for this
war and what? It’s not good enough? He cares more about her ‘darkness’? What about his
darkness? What about the way he raged when Ron walked out on them?
What about the fact that he was the cause of Umbridge’s death? Accidental or not. All of this
teeters at the barrier of her teeth, but if she lets it free it will be her leaving tonight. Hermione
will be damned if Ron’s return means her exit.
Breaking her staring contest with Harry, she turns her hateful glare back to Ron. “One thing I
do want to know is how you found us tonight.”
Glaring back at her now, Ron yanks the Deluminator from his pocket. “This.”
“What about it?” She bites, narrowing her eyes at the object.
“Doesn’t just turn lights on and off, does it?” Ron has the cheek to be a touch mocking. “I
don’t really know how it works or why. I was listening to the radio one day, and I heard you
both. Thought I was cracking up ‘cause it didn’t happen again.”
She frowns, her exhaustion threatening to wash over the wrath. “You heard us?”
“Yeah, and tonight I heard Harry say, ‘I’m desperate.’” Ron’s eyes flick to Harry, whose
eyebrows rise as high as Hermione’s. “So, I clicked it, the light left my room and appeared
outside my window. Just a little ball of light.” Ron’s eyes glaze as he recalls the memory. “It
was kind of bluish like a Portkey. I got my stuff, went into the garden and the light went
inside me.”
“Sorry?”
“What?”
Harry and Hermione’s voices overlap each other, each of them colored with confusion.
Ron nods at them both, despite their disbelief. “Floated toward me.” He illustrates the motion
with his finger. “Right into my chest, my heart. It was hot, I could feel it. Inside me, I knew
where to go.”
“That’s it?” Hermione retorts at the silence, some of her ire returning at the half-answer.
Ron nods. “That’s it. So… the sword?”
Harry explains when it becomes evident Hermione has lost the will to talk, omitting Draco.
Her anger has drained away, and her body is aching from her combined injuries, and the
odour of rancid water all around her. All she wants now is to crawl into bed and shut her eyes
on this excruciatingly long day.
She half listens to their conversation as she wanders over to bed and slips into it. She lets her
eyes close but keeps her ears open.
Ron’s clothes rustle as he moves around the tent. “So, what’s the plan? What’s been
happening? What’s next?”
Harry sighs out, “Hermione wants to see Xenophilius Lovegood.” His own clothes rustle,
suggesting he’s relaxing from his tense, arms-folded stance.
“Why’re we going to see Loony Lovegood’s dad?” Ron questions with a contemptuous
laugh, a spoon clinking against a cup.
“It’s a lot to explain. I’ll tell you outside, while we take watch. Hermione needs some sleep.
She’s been through a lot tonight.”
There’s a moment of silence and she can feel their keen eyes on her, but she defiantly keeps
her own shut, even though they all very well know she’s not yet asleep. The boys remain in
silence until she hears the gathering of cups and the flaps at the tent entrance shifting.
“Did you say you managed to pick up a wand from those Snatchers, Ron?” Harry’s voice
carries inside, accompanied by more rustling as they take their seats for their watch.
“Yeah, why, what happened to yours?”

“Broke it.” Harry’s voice is miserable at the omission.
“No!” Ron cries, and it’s so innocent, so aghast, that Hermione can imagine Harry smiling in
response.
She sighs and turns over in bed. It was nice having Harry closer to her and being the support
that he usually takes from Ron, but she can already feel that gap closing again. She suddenly
feels dreadfully alone and curls into a tighter ball, pulling the blanket around her for extra
comfort. Her eyes water but she refuses to cry and instead forces herself to sleep.
By mid-afternoon the next day, Hermione is in a foul mood on the premise that Harry is in a
jubilant one. There has been nothing but sheer optimism lighting his face and smothering his
words. She knows she should be happy at this, considering her constant fear of him losing
hope but it stings somewhat, that it’s centered around Ron’s return and ultimately, his
presence.
Perhaps some of it is the destruction of a Horcrux too as well as their obtaining the sword,
she will allow. Even still, it’s been non-stop chatter with Ron, swapping stories about their
time apart as if Harry didn’t destroy everything in sight when he left. As if Ron has even
apologized for the foul things he said to both of them.
They both keep skipping off to ‘scout’ for blackberries on hedges they all know are not ripe
enough for harvest, just to get away from her and her displeased expression. Hermione sticks
to her research, resorting back to possible Horcrux locations. Though she’s done this many
times before, she has to admit that she has her own new-found buoyancy after destroying the
locket.
Additionally, she has her wand back which feels wonderful. Ron provided Harry with a
black-thorn wand that from what Hermione has witnessed, doesn’t obey him very well. Even
still, it’s not her problem. He was all too eager to give her wand back and she was just as
eager to have it.
Returning empty-handed from their so-called hunt for fruit, the boys dare not talk to
Hermione, leaving her to the task of corn-rowing her hair, which she’s spent the better part of
the day on. The lingering damp smell was getting to her, so she put it through a wash and
detangle session first thing this morning.
With only coconut oil to hand, the dirty water aroma is long gone, now saturated into her
curls and the flesh of her hands. She hid in the bathroom earlier to part her hair and start her
braids but gave her arms a rest for some time to research. Now she entwines the two,
hunched over in the bunk reading while her fingers work at tugging her hair into place.
“There’s a program,” Ron announces sometime later, while she takes another hair break.
Harry practices with his new wand via stones he attempts to levitate, and Hermione scrawls
notes while he talks. “It tells the news like it really is. All the others are taken over by Tom.”
Hermione briefly glances up at this information, finding Ron pulling another wireless from
his backpack that must have replaced the one he left here. He sets it on the picnic bench and
begins tapping it with his wand while Harry and Hermione watch him.
“Wait till you hear it, it’s great! Only, they can’t do it every night. They have to keep
changing locations in case they’re raided, and you need a password to tune in… trouble is, I
missed the last one.”
Ron continues to drum his wand on the top of the wireless, though he now incorporates
nonsense words after every tap. He throws what he thinks are covert glances Hermione’s
way, but she turns back to her notes, not interested until he produces said program and stops
muttering under his breath.
This goes on for ten minutes, in which there is the sound of Ron’s tapping wand, Hermione’s
quill scratching parchment, Harry murmuring spells for his practice, and their breathing.
“Harry,” Hermione calls, with the air of being the first to breach a stubborn silence.
Ron ceases his tapping the minute she speaks, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes.
“Yeah?”
She raises her head and pauses her writing. “We should see Lovegood tomorrow.”
Harry looks uneasy, now pausing his practice too. “So soon? We planned a long time for the
Ministry and Godric’s Hollow, and they both fucked up.”
“It won’t be like that, Harry,” Ron jumps in. “Lovegood’s on your side. The Quibbler’s been
for you all along. Actually, it keeps telling everyone they’ve got to help you.”
Harry tosses Ron a drab look and Hermione caves to the desire to roll her eyes this time at his
blatant kiss arse.
“Thank you, Ronald. Harry, remember why this is important and... and the time that’s already
passed.”
She spears him with her gaze, not wanting to bring Draco up in front of Ron. Despite Harry’s
recounting of the time that they’ve spent separated, she’s noticed he hasn’t mentioned their
new working partner either. Hermione’s yet been able to ask him why. Regardless, she’s glad
of it. Harry knowing about Draco is raw enough, she’s not sure if she can handle Ron too.
Sighing, Harry rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Fine, but once we’ve seen Lovegood, let’s try
and look for more Horcruxes. I have a feeling it’s not linked to them.”
Hermione is half annoyed and half gratified to hear it. She herself has felt the same way, but
any disagreement with her right now feels personal, so it sours her face all the same.
“Does anyone actually know where we’re going to find the Lovegoods?” Harry adds and
Hermione’s cheeks warm as she realizes that she doesn’t.
“Yeah, they’re not far from the Burrow,” Ron inputs, surprising her with his usefulness. “I
dunno exactly where, but Mum and Dad always point toward the hills whenever they
mention them. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Harry is the one to roll his eyes at Ron now who laughs sheepishly at him. “Oi! Cheer up, it’s
the Easter holidays, isn’t it? So Luna’ll be home!”
Hermione bends her head back to her parchment, unsure how to feel. The last she heard of
Luna, she was attempting to steal The Sword of Gryffindor with Neville and Ginny. With
everything that’s been going on every time she’s seen Draco, she keeps forgetting to check in
about them.
Even still, she’s positive Draco would tell her if anything bad had happened following their
attempt. Therefore, she can only assume that they’re all okay, and if that’s the case, it would
be nice to see Luna again, some semblance of familiarity and Hogwarts. She spends the rest
of the evening alternating between finishing her hair and writing notes.
Her eyes grow fuzzy, but she keeps fighting until she wraps her finished hair up. Then she
pushes herself even further, striving to finish her chapter on Rowena Ravenclaw. She’s been
attempting to discover more about the Hogwarts founder and any items of hers that
Voldemort could have defiled into Horcruxes.
So far, she’s come across squat though she has the most infuriating feeling that she’s heard of
something in relation to Rowena before.
Rowena had a considerable level of skill and proficiency in charms. Along with the
other Founders-
Gasping, Hermione jerks upright in darkness what feels like a long while later. A piece of
parchment comes with her, stuck to her cheek and she tuts at herself. Pulling it away, she
takes her pile of items and clambers out of the bunk with them into the dark tent. Her back
twinges from the impromptu sitting-up nap, and yesterday’s battering in the water.
Ron snores from the armchair, the dying fire the only source of light and turning his orange
hair a brilliant red. After she dumps her things on the picnic table, she massages her lower
back while meandering outside.
Her heart nearly gives out at the sight of Draco and Harry standing together. Her head spins,
checking on Ron through the entrance, even though she just saw him sleeping.
“What are you doing here?” She hisses at Draco as she bustles over.
He’s already looking at her, his attention stolen from Harry and eyes drifting over her covered
head. “Scarhead only just told me about Weasel. I didn’t realize it would be a problem to
Apparate in. The wards accepted me.”
“How long have you… been here?” She trails off at his thumb rising and firmly wiping her
cheek.
“Ink,” he explains with a half-amused smile.

“Right.” She blushes when his thumb remains at the corner of her mouth. She clears her
throat. “What’re you doing here?”
Hermione’s aware that she’s barraging him with questions she’s not giving him the time to
answer, too conscious of Harry watching them and Ron potentially waking at any moment.
It’s not her fault Draco is so distracting though, brazenly trailing his thumb from her lips to
the edge of her head wrap with interest.
“He’s done some more digging into the cup,” Harry answers for Draco when he still doesn’t
speak, which draws a displeased expression from the platinum-haired man.
“Didn’t realize she was talking to you, Potter,” Draco near snarls, taking to smoothing his
whole palm over the silk protecting her hair; fingers trailing the stitch braids beneath.
Hermione’s lips part, a pleasant sensation slipping down her spine. All her life her mum told
her not to let people touch her hair, especially when it was in a style they didn’t understand or
deviated from a traditional Westernised look. Right now, she wants to curl into Draco’s lap
and feel his fingertips stroking each braid.
Harry scoffs, snapping her out of her delusional thoughts of becoming a cat. “Maybe if you
stopped molesting her head. It’s like you’ve never seen a durag before.”
Eyes flicking down to hers, Draco doesn’t look at Harry when he says, “Not on Hermione, I
haven’t.”
He takes a step closer to her and she sucks in a breath, recognizing the passion in his
expression. Her body floods with sensation, butterflies kicking up in her stomach but before
they can get carried away, Draco then seems to regain composure. That fixed look from the
night before returns to his eye and he drops his hand away from her head, stepping back.
He shares his gaze between both her and Harry then, so she doesn’t feel she’s floundering in
it. “It’s definitely still in my aunt’s vault. The only plausible idea would be to impersonate her
to get in and steal it.”
“Impersonate Bellatrix Lestrange? And steal from Gringotts’?” Hermione confirms

skeptically, glancing between Harry and Draco. “Are you insane? How would we even do
that? I have no more Polyjuice, no way to obtain her hair, and no explanation for Ron!”
“I don’t know, Granger,” Draco bites out and she notices the dark circles under his eyes. “But
it’s the best I’ve got for you.”
“Oh, real brainiac you are!” She whips back.
Draco’s jaw clenches and he grabs her by the hinge of her jaw far more violently than he
wiped her cheek. “Do you need to be put in line again?”
“Hey!” Harry’s voice barks in shock.
Hermione startles, forgetting her friends' presence; embarrassment inundates her as he

witnesses the murkier parts of her and Draco’s fucked up relationship.
Timid, she doesn’t glance at him when she jerks her face free of Draco’s grip and mutters,
“It’s fine, Harry.”
“It’s not fine, Hermione! He shouldn’t be putting his fucking hands on you at all, let alone
like that!” Harry steps closer to them, trying to force his way between their tight embrace.
Draco spins on his heel, his eyes glinting with a pledge of violence. “Try and stop me, Potter.
Try and ever stop me from touching her.”
“That’s enough!” Hermione shouts, warring between annoyance, shame, and desire. “Both of
you.”
The pair of them throw incredulous looks her way but she tightens her jaw and shakes her
head. “We have bigger problems than your egos right now. How are we getting hair from
Lestrange, huh?”
Draco heaves a breath, stepping back from her and Harry. “Kreacher can.”
“You can’t ask Kreacher to do that!” Harry spits in outrage, clenching his fists. “She could
kill him! She will kill him.”
“Kreacher is the only one who is going to get within five feet of my aunt, Potter!” Draco’s
tongue rolls against the inside of his cheek. “She’s disowned me and my mother. She’d kill us
on the spot.”
Green eyes shining with hatred, Harry simply counters, “Shame that.”
Hermione glares. “Harry!”
Harry shrugs without remorse. “What?”
“This isn’t up for debate,” Draco cuts over them. “I’m sending Kreacher in. I’ll be back
tomorrow with news.”
“We’re going to Lovegood’s tomorrow,” Hermione tells him, ignoring Harry’s presence and
squeezing Draco’s hand. “Come at dawn before we leave, or into the evening.”
“You’ve forgotten that you don’t order me around, Granger.” Despite the words, he leans
over and kisses her forehead.
Hermione tenses with surprise. This is perhaps the gentlest action he’s ever bestowed on her.
For the briefest moment, he inhales and hesitates, as if he wants to stay there and sniff her all
day. Hermione blushes, wishing Harry weren’t witnessing them and they could have a
moment alone.
Then he mouths against her skin, “Tomorrow.”
He Disapparates and she’s left staring at Harry’s face, struck dumb. “Gods, you two have
gone and fallen in love with each other.”
Part One: April '98
Gods, you two have gone and fallen in love with each other.
Harry’s words from last night continue to sit heavily on Hermione’s consciousness. Even as
she, Ron, and Harry stand on the breezy hillside, overlooking a stunning view of Ottery St.
Catchpole. Is that what’s happened: she’s fallen in love with Draco Malfoy? It’s possible. She
knows it is by the smile that lit her face at his Patronus.
But Draco, in love with her? That feels far less likely. Yes, he has some kind of possessive
feeling for her, found in his ‘you're mine’ and ‘I can’t lose you’ to be sure. Possession is not,
however, love. Children become obsessed with toys that they eventually grow bored with or
break and discard.
Hermione shudders, forcing the swirling thoughts away and instead taking in the village
below them. From this vantage point, the houses look like tiny toy sets waiting to be played
with. Gorgeous slanting shafts of golden sunlight stretch across the earth between breaks of
clouds. Hermione breathes in the crisp, sunshine-tinted air and almost smiles.
When she opens them, she notices Harry and Ron gazing over at the Burrow. All that can be
seen from here are high hedges and the tops of the orchard trees. They all know, however,
that past the shrubbery, the crooked house is dark and abandoned.
With everyone relocated to the safety of Grimmauld Place, there’s no more life left in the
once loud and bustling Weasley home.
“Haven’t been this close in a long while,” Ron announces sorrowfully.
The comment prompts Hermione. “Why didn’t you go back to your family when you left?”
Both of the boys give her strange looks.
Harry’s face registers understanding after a minute but it’s only as Ron asks, “How did you
know I didn’t go back to Grimmauld?” That she realizes her error.
Hermione shrugs, attempting to appear thoughtful. “I didn’t imagine you’d be able to tell
them you’d walked out on us.”
Ron flushes, his expression warring between ire and shame. “I went to Bill and Fleur’s new
place: Shell Cottage. Bill’s always been decent to me. He- he wasn’t impressed when he
heard what I’d done, but he didn’t go on about it. He knew I was really sorry.”
She turns away from Ron, looking back over at the view and letting him talk at Harry instead.
She’s rather bored of his eager attempts to gain her forgiveness. She knows it’s only because
of the one time they slept together when she gave up her virginity. He thinks that there’s
some kind of chance for them, maybe a future after the war.
While at one point in her life she believed that too, things have since changed drastically. She
can’t imagine being with Ron ever again. Truthfully, she can’t imagine ever being with
anyone but Draco ever again. To have the hateful, angry sex that she has with Draco with
anyone else is unthinkable.
She swallows, finding tears stinging in her eyes. Is there a future past the mess of hers and
Draco’s close encounters? Their history? While Draco hasn’t called her a Mudblood in a very
long time, she hasn’t once stopped to confirm if his beliefs are different now. The childhood
bullying pales in comparison to a war, but his prejudice, can’t be swept away.
Has she been allowing it to be swept away? Should she take the time to ask him these things
now? Even that seems less important than everything else, but does that suggest that she’s
less important? That how she’s treated is less important?
Forcing herself to tune back into Ron, she hears, “ – else knew I was there. Anyway, let’s try
up here.” He begins leading the way over the top of a hill.
In silence, they walk for hours. Hermione encourages Harry under the Invisibility Cloak to
save him from being spotted and her blood pressure levels rising. Apart from one small,
deserted cottage, their search provides nothing but uninhabited low hills.
She peers through the window at a neat kitchen with geraniums decorating the windowsill.
“Think it’s theirs and they’ve gone away for Easter?”
Ron snorts. “Reckon we’ll know when we’re looking at Lovegood’s house. Let’s try the next
lot of hills.”
They Disapparate a few miles farther north.
“Aha!” Ron shouts upon arrival, the wind whipping their clothes and hair as he points
upwards.
At the top of their new hill, a strange-looking house rises vertically against the clouds. A
great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hangs in juxtaposition with the afternoon sky.
“That’s gotta be Luna’s house. Who else is gonna live in a place like that? It looks like a giant
rook!”
Hermione frowns at the tower, tilting her head back. “It looks nothing like a bird, Ron.”
“Meant a chess rook.” Ron’s long legs take him ahead the quickest. “A castle to you.”
She hurries to keep up with him, panting all the while and grateful that her hair is out of her
face. Harry, after some minutes, whips the cloak off, his cheeks red and his chest heaving.
She’s gratified to see she’s not the only one clutching a stitch in their side when they finally
reach Ron.
“It’s theirs,” Ron declares, grinning and pointing. “Look.”

Tacked to a broken-down gate, two hand-painted signs read:
THE QUIBBLER, EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD
KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS
The gate creaks when Ron pushes it open. A zigzagging path leads to the front door which is
overgrown with a variety of odd plants. One such plant includes a bush covered in the orange
radish-like fruit Hermione has seen Luna wearing as earrings. Two aged crab apple trees
beaten by the wind, sit stripped of leaves but pregnant with tiny red fruit.
They frame either side of the black front door. A little owl with a slightly flattened, hawk-like
head peers down at the three of them from one of the branches. Ron falls back as they head
up the path, and Hermione ends up being at the front, so she takes it upon herself to knock.
Closer to the surface, she can now see the iron nails studding it and the knocker shaped like
an eagle. Barely ten seconds go by, but they feel like an age before the door flings open.
Hermione takes an instinctive step back, wanting to retrieve the comfort of her wand but not
wanting to appear hostile.
Xenophilius Lovegood stands before them in nothing but a nightshirt. It looks to have once
been white but is now grey from too many washes, and liberally stained. His feet are bare, his
toes sprouting the same white hair coming from his head, which is greasy and matted.
“What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?” He cries in a high-pitched, querulous
voice.
His gaze bounces from Hermione first, to Ron next, and then Harry last, wherein his mouth
promptly falls open in a comical O.
“Hello, Mr. Lovegood.” Harry smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter. I’m a
friend of Luna’s. We all are, actually.”
Xenophilius doesn’t take Harry’s hand, so he’s forced to drop it, but his eyes do ever so
neatly slide to the spider web of scarring on Harry’s forehead.
“Would it be okay if we came in?” Harry prompts softly. “There’s something we’d like to ask
you if you’ve got the time.”
“I… I’m not sure that’s advisable.” Xenophilius swallows, casting a look around the garden.
“Rather a shock… my word… I… I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to-”
“It won’t take long,” Harry cuts in, his voice edging towards sharpness now.
“I- oh, all right then. Come in, quickly. Quickly!”
The urgency of his tone gives Hermione that same prickling feeling at the back of her neck
that she felt from Bathilda Bagshot. She takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for
this to go wrong. They’re barely over the threshold before Lovegood slams the door shut
behind them.
Hermione glances around at the most peculiar kitchen she’s ever seen. Everything curves to
fit the walls, including the stove, sink, and cupboards. All of it is painted with flowers,
insects, and birds in primary colors. It appears slightly overwhelming but she’s sure she
recognises Luna’s style.
Straight through the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral staircase leads to the upper
levels. She cranes her neck some to try and get a glance upwards, where there is a great deal
of clattering and banging. She wonders if it’s Luna pottering about, and if so what she could
be doing.
Excitement at the thought of seeing her fills Hermione’s stomach with butterflies. Odd as
Luna is, she really is lovely, and it would be nice to talk to someone lovely again.
“You’d better come up,” Lovegood declares begrudgingly, looking extremely uncomfortable
in addition as he leads the way.
The room above seems to be a combination of living room and workplace, and therefore
more cluttered than the kitchen. There are piles upon piles of books and parchment on every
surface. Delicate models of creatures, all of which flap wings or snap jaws, hang from the
ceiling. It turns out that Luna isn’t in the room like she thought.
The thing that’s making such a racket is a wooden object covered in magically turning cogs
and wheels. It looks like a bizarre offspring of workbench and old shelves until she looks at it
long enough, and it morphs into an old-fashioned printing press.
Currently, it churns out Quibblers.
Lovegood strides over to it. “Excuse me.”
Seizing a grubby tablecloth from an immense number of books and parchment, which
promptly tumble to the floor, he throws it over the press, somewhat muffling it.
“Mr Lovegood, what is that?”
Pointing to an enormous, grey spiral horn mounted on the wall, Hermione awaits his answer.
It’s not unlike that of a unicorn and yet Xenophilius answers, “It’s a Crumple-Horned
Snorkack.”
“No, it’s not.” She ignores Harry’s exasperated Hermione and crosses her arms over her
chest. “It’s an Erumpent horn, a Class B Tradeable Material, and an extraordinarily dangerous
thing to have in a house.”
“How’d you know?” Ron questions, piping up for the first time as he edges away from it.
“There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Xenophilius, you need
rid of it immediately. It can explode at the slightest touch.”
She doesn’t revel in the idea of Luna being killed by what her father believes to be some
nonsense item.
“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack is a shy and highly magical creature, and its horn-”
“No,” Hermione interrupts, irritated now. She didn’t make it through Godric’s Hollow to get
Harry killed by this idiot. “I recognize the grooved markings around the base. That’s an
Erumpent horn and incredibly dangerous. I have no idea where you got it-”
“I brought it,” Lovegood talks over her. “As an Easter surprise for my Luna. Now,” he turns
to Harry again, dismissing Hermione despite her scowl. “Why exactly have you come here,
Mr Potter?”
“We need some help,” Harry rushes to answer, with the air of not wanting to be disturbed
again.
“Ah. Help. Hm.”
His eyes move to Harry’s scar, shoving that warning tingle down Hermione’s neck again. He
seems simultaneously terrified and mesmerized at the sight.
“Yes, see…” His gaze darts around the room, trying to look anywhere but directly at the three
of them. “The thing is… helping Harry Potter… rather dangerous.”
“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to help Harry?” Ron
interjects. Hermione’s rather proud of him for saying so. “In that magazine of yours?”
Lovegood glances behind Ron at the concealed printing press, still banging and clattering in
the background. It continues to force the smell of ink to penetrate the room, which otherwise
hums like radishes.
“Er-” Xenophilius shifts on his bare feet. “Yes, I have expressed that view. However-”
“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?”
Hermione’s eyes fly to Ron in surprise, and she gives him her first approving smile since his
return. He smiles back toothily, flushing. Lovegood doesn’t answer him but swallows rather
loudly, eyes darting between the three of them once more. A painful internal struggle seems
to be upon him.
“Where’s Luna? Let’s hear what she thinks.”
Lovegood gulps and then visibly steels himself. “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for
Freshwater Plimpies. She… She would like to see you all. I’ll go and call her and then- very
well. I shall try to help you.”
Promptly, he disappears down the spiral staircase, leaving the three of them alone. The front
door opens and closes, and it’s only then that they all look at each other.
“Cowardly old prick,” Ron mutters. “Luna’s got ten times his guts. Must get ‘em from her
mum.”
“He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them if the Death Eaters find out I was here.”
Harry attempts fairness but his face is just as bitter as Ron’s.
“Well, I agree with Ron,” Hermione inputs, ignoring Ron’s delighted face. “Vile old
hypocrite, telling everyone else to help and trying to worm out of it himself. And frankly
Harry, I’m getting the same bad feeling that I got at Bathilda’s. Do not let him break us up.”
Her eyes flick over to the Erumpent horn. “Stay away from that horn too. I’m not seeing
anyone blown to pieces before this war is done.”
Harry crosses to the window on the far side of the room, throwing the horn a wary look
before investigating a stone bust. It sits on a cluttered, curved sideboard. It’s a beautiful but
austere-looking witch wearing a headdress unlike Hermione has ever seen. Frankly, she
thinks Harry’s brave to be moving around in here at all.
She herself remains rock still, not wanting to unexpectedly brush against anything, and
wishes the boys would too. Ron links with Harry and the pair of them study the bust. Two
objects that resemble golden ear trumpets curve from the sides and a leather strap runs across
the top of the head.
Stuck to this strap are a tiny pair of blue wings while one of the orange radishes has been
stuck to a second strap around the forehead.
“Fetching,” Ron comments.
“Hermione, come look at this,” Harry teases. “Reckon it’ll look great on you.”
Pulling a face, she mock-sweetly replies, “No, thanks.”
The front door closes before Harry can protest and some minutes of silence later Xenophilius
is up the stairs, and back in the room with them. His thin legs are now covered by Wellington
boots, and he bears a tray covered by ill-assorted teacups accompanied by a steaming pot.
Hermione narrows her eyes at the drinks and discreetly shakes her head at the boys. No one is
to drink anything from this house.
“Ah! You’ve spotted my pet invention,” Lovegood announces gleefully, shoving the tray into
Hermione’s arms and joining the boys.
She scowls at Lovegood’s retreating back, wanting to chuck the whole tray at him; steaming
liquid included. Of course, he hands the drinks to the only woman in the room, sexist pig.
“Modelled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw,”
Xenophilius informs. “‘Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure!” He waves his hand
at the object like ear trumpet. “These are the Wrackspurt siphons – to remove all sources of
distraction from the thinker’s immediate area.”
Hermione finds her patience running incredibly thin as the tray continues to weigh down her
arms. They’ve been here too long already and learned nothing. They haven’t even seen Luna
yet. The unease at the back of her neck has spread rapidly down into her chest and she’s not
going to allow them to be waylaid any longer.
“Here.” He points at the tiny wings. “A billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of
mind. Finally…” He points to the orange radish. “The Dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the
ability to accept the extraordinary.”
“Would you like to take your tea tray, Mr L-”
“-an improvement on her famous Diadem, I’d say.”
“What was that?”
All three men raise their heads to her, as if only just remembering her presence which ignites
her irritation further.
“What? Oh! Yes, yes!” He bustles over and takes the tray.
“What did you say about a Diadem?”
“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots? We make it ourselves.”
“No thank you, we shouldn’t stay long. What did you say about Rowena Ravenclaw’s
Diadem?”
“Rowena Ravenclaw’s famous lost Diadem,” Lovegood finally answers. “Lost for many
years. My pet invention is an improvement, wouldn’t you say?”
“How long has it been lost?” Harry jumps on her line of inquiry.
“Oh, a long time.”
“How long?”
Lovegood hums to himself as he pours drinks a deep purple that resembles red cabbage and
smells like it too.
“Where’s Luna?” She tries instead.
Hermione makes a mental note to look into Rowena’s lost Diadem. Perhaps it was around at
the same time as Voldemort. It could be a fresh lead, one that’s most keenly needed. She
ignores the cup Xenophilius hands to her until he’s forced to put it back on his tray. The boys
are not so rude and take theirs in hand, though she’s glad to see they make no indication to
drink it.
“Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge.” Lovegood tips her cup into his own, so it threatens
the rim with spillage. “She’s most excited that you’re here. She ought not to be too long;
she’s caught nearly enough Plimpies to make soup for all of us.”
“That’s not necessary, we won’t be staying for dinner.”

Hermione shrugs at Harry’s unimpressed look.
“Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar,” Lovegood counters, once more ignoring her as
he removes a tottering pile of parchment from an armchair and sits. Now seated, he crosses
his Wellington boot-covered legs. “How may I help you, Mr Potter?”
Having refused to shift previously, Hermione now sits on the armchair of the sofa the boys
occupy. Ron shoots her a look that she knows is trying to covey her impoliteness, but she
doesn’t care. He should be lucky she hasn’t visibly retrieved her wand yet.
“Well.” Harry glances apprehensively at Ron. “It’s about a symbol you were wearing around
your neck at Bill and Fleur Weasley’s wedding. A… friend told us about it, and we were
wondering what it meant.”
Ron, thankfully, has the sense not to butt in with the questions painting his face. As far as
he’s aware, they know nothing of Bill and Fleur’s wedding.
Xenophilius raises his eyebrows. “Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”
Hermione sits forward on the armchair eagerly. Finally, they’re getting somewhere with
information. As soon as they have it, they can leave.
“The Deathly Hallows?”
“That’s right. You haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised. Very, very few wizards believe.
In fact, I was attacked at Bill’s wedding by a knuckled-headed young man who believed me
sporting the symbol of a well-known dark wizard! Such ignorance.”
Lovegood stops to take a sip of his Gurdyroot before carrying on. “There’s nothing dark
about the Hallows – at least, not in that crude sense. One simply uses the symbol to reveal
oneself to other believers, in the hope that they might help one with the Quest.”
Hermione wracks her brain as Lovegood talks to try and line this up with Horcruxes. It
doesn’t feel right. She’s starting to get the dreadful feeling that this is the red herring she
suspected it to be.
“I’m sorry, I still don’t really understand,” Harry states, expressing her own thoughts.
Ron raises his cup to his lips while not speaking and it takes a subtle elbow from Hermione to
his shoulder to stop him and force the cup back down.
“Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows.”
Lovegood smacks his lips together in apparent appreciation of his own drink, annoying
Hermione endlessly.
“But what are the Deathly Hallows?” She grits through her teeth.
Xenophilius takes another big gulp and then puts aside his empty teacup. “I assume you’re all
familiar with The Tale of the Three Brothers?”
“Yes,” Hermione and Ron reply.
“No,” Harry says at the same time as them.
“Well, Mr. Potter, it all starts with The Three Brothers…” He glances vaguely around the
cluttered room at the piles of parchment and books. “I have a copy somewhere..”
“I’ve got a copy right here.”
She reaches into her beaded bag for The Tales of Beedle the Bard, now well-worn from her
many reads.
“The original?” Xenophilius enquires sharply. At Hermione’s nod, he adds, “Well then, why
don’t you read it aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all understand.”
Hermione narrows her eyes, still clasping the book. “Is that really necessary? I can
summarise for Harry.”
She peeks at her friend whose head is tilted back to look at the upper floors, through the gap
provided by the spiral staircase. “Harry I don’t think it’s what we’re looking for at all.”
“What’s this?” Lovegood butts in. “You came to my home, endangering me, see! You asked a
question, and I’ve answered it! I only ask that you read it aloud, so I may explain fully!”
She takes a deep breath, prepping her barking response but Harry beats her to it. “It’s okay
Hermione, we did turn up on his doorstep. Just-” He continues to stare upstairs for another
moment before regarding her again. “Just read the story.”
Irritated beyond measure, her tone is nothing short of acidic as she begins to read. “There
were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at Twilight-”
“Midnight, Mum always told us,” Ron interposes.
“Ronald, I swear to Godric,” Hermione hisses without looking at him, lest she burn him alive
with her glare alone.
“Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!”
“Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our lives,” Harry deadpans. “Go on,
Hermione.”
Despite his insistence on the story, Xenophilius doesn’t appear to be listening at all, staring
instead out the window at the sky. Dissociating from the pages, Hermione reads on autopilot,
telling The Tale of the Three Brothers who cheated Death. She knows it by heart herself after
reading the book so many times in her research.
The brothers anger Death because they swindle him of three victims. Using magic, they
create a bridge across a chasm that otherwise would have led to their demise. Death pretends
to congratulate the brothers and offers each a prize. Between the three, the eldest chooses a
wand more powerful than any in existence.
From an Elder tree, Death crafts a wand with a Thestral hair core. The second brother asks to
recall others from Death, further humiliating Death himself. A stone from the riverbank is
provided to him, with the power to bring back the dead. The third and youngest asks for
something that will enable him to go forth without being followed by Death.
So, Death, unwillingly, gives over a piece of his own Cloak of Invisibility. Death allows the
brothers to continue on their journeys, and the brothers separate in due course. The eldest
murders a fellow wizard; boasts of the kill, and finds himself killed in turn for the powerful
wand he speaks of.
The middle brother carries on home, retrieves the stone gifted by Death, and turns it thrice.
He resurrects a girl he once hoped to marry, who grows sad and cold separated from the veil.
He becomes mad with his longing and kills himself to join her. The youngest brother, Death
searches for, for many years.
“It was only when he attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak
of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went
with him gladly, and equals, they departed this life.”
Hermione closes the book, now refocusing back into the room after zoning out of it. It’s
another few moments before Lovegood seems to realise she’s stopped reading.
He withdraws his gaze from the window to look at the three of them. “Well, there you are.”
“Sorry?” She attempts to sound confused, but she’s vastly irritated.
“Those are the Deathly Hallows.”
Lovegood picks up a quill from a packed table at his elbow and pulls a torn piece of
parchment from between a book. Hermione winces.
“The Elder Wand,” he proclaims, drawing a straight vertical line. “The Resurrection Stone.”
He adds a circle on top of the line. “The Cloak of Invisibility.” He encloses the line and circle
in a triangle, creating the symbol that they came here for. “Together, the Deathly Hallows.”
“There’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly Hallows’ in the story,” Harry prods in
Xenophilius’ direction, gaze constantly pinging upstairs.
“Well, of course not,” he answers, maddeningly smug. “That is a children’s tale, told to
amuse rather than to instruct. Those of us who understand these matters, however, recognize
that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the
possessor Master of Death.”
Hermione rubs her forehead in exasperation. “I told you, Harry. It’s a red herring.”
“When you say ‘Master of Death…” Ron hedges, clearly trying to gather some use out of the
waste of their day.
Lovegood looks back from his far-off gaze out the window where the sun is low in the sky.
“Master.” He waves an airy hand. “Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer.”
“So, you think they actually exist?” She confirms.
Xenophilius stares at Hermione as if this is an absurd question. “Well, of course.”
“How could you possibly believe-?”
“Luna has told me all about you, young lady.” Lovegood shuts her down with the
proclamation. “You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-
minded.”
Pursing her lips, she resists every urge to punch him outright. “I’m logical. For instance, we
all know Invisibility Cloaks exist. They’re rare, but they do. Resurrection Stone’s and Elder
Wands, however-”
“Ah,” Lovegood cuts in, once more looking smug. “But the Third Hallow is the true Cloak of
Invisibility, Miss Granger!” I mean to say, it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a
Disillusionment Charm or carrying a Bedazzling Hex or woven from Demiguise hair. We’re
talking of a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible and endures
over time. Now, how many cloaks have you ever seen like that, Miss Granger?”
Hermione refrains from looking at Harry and the cloak exactly like that tucked in his pocket.
“Exactly,” Lovegood announces triumphantly as if he’s just defeated them all in a reasonable
argument.
Glancing out the window at the sky now tinged pink, Hermione stands from the arm of the
sofa. “Well, thank you but we really had better leave.”
“And prove to me the Resurrection Stone doesn’t exist!” Lovegood enthuses, jumping to his
feet.
Her stomach wrings at the blatant ignorance.
“The Elder Wand too! Such evidence we’ve seen! The Hallow is most easily traced because
of the way it passes hand to hand. The possessor of the wand must capture it from its
previous owner, you know. To be a true Master of It. The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is
splattered across the pages of wizarding history.”
“Harry-” Hermione attempts, reaching around Ron and grabbing his arm; disturbing his
scrutiny of the upper levels.
“Who knows where the Elder wand lies hidden?” Lovegood answers a question no one
asked, spiraling into a tangent. “The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius. Who can say
which of them really defeated Loxias, and who took the wand? Who can say who may have
defeated them?”
“The Peverells have everything to do with the Hallows, of course. The three brothers in the
story were actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus! The original
owners of the Hallows!”
“That grave we saw in Godric’s Hollow, Hermione,” Harry murmurs, his gaze fixing on hers
for the first time.
“Yes, Harry but I really don’t think this has anything to do with what we’re looking for. We
need to go now.” Her eyes skip to the darkening sky through the window. “It’s very late.
We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Lovegood’s time.”
“You will stay for dinner, won’t you,” Xenophilius speaks in a tone that’s not quite a
question. “Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimpy Soup.”
He picks up the tray and heads down the spiral staircase without a response from them.
Releasing a frustrated breath through her nose, Hermione refrains from stamping her foot.
“This is ridiculous, Harry. He’s clearly trying to keep us here. Something is going on. We
need to leave.”
Harry nods slowly. “I know Hermione but you’re missing the point.”
“What point?” Hermione demands, itching to Apparate them all to safety.
Harry raises his eyes upwards in the same manner he has been for a while. Her eyes follow
his to a bedroom painted with the face of Harry himself. She jerks in surprise, studying the
beginnings of other faces but she can’t see past the spiral staircase. What she can see is a
mass of spider webs across the ceiling and dust accumulating on the railing.
Sighing sadly, Harry mournfully poses the dreadful question, “Where’s Luna?”
Part One: April '98
Hermione’s stomach bottoms out at Harry's question and the unease she’s been fighting back
rips into her innards.
“What are you doing?” She requests between her teeth as Harry heads to the stairs.
He ignores her, and Ron shrugs at her destitute look, following after Harry so that Hermione
brings up the rear. She comes to a standstill when Xenophilius ascends the stairs, forcing
them all backward.
“Mr. Lovegood, where’s Luna?”
Xenophilius visibly balks. “Excuse me?”
“Where’s Luna?” Harry repeats, voice gentle as if dealing with a fragile creature.
Lovegood halts on the top step when the three of them have cleared the way and backed right
up into the living room.
“I- I’ve already told you.”
Hermione’s pulse starts to pound along with the twisting of her stomach.
“She’s down at the bridge, of course.” Xenophilius nods decisively, looking down. “Fishing
for Plimpies.”
Harry nods too, as if this is completely sensible. “So why have you only laid that tray for
four?”
Eyes flying to said tray, Hermione’s heart stops pumping outright, and she reaches into her
pocket, finally pulling free her wand. Xenophilius tries to speak, but no sound comes out save
for something wheezing and pathetic. The only other noise is the continuous chug of the
printing press and a slight rattling from the tray clasped in Lovegood’s shaking hands.
Harry’s soft voice grows harder. “I don’t think Luna’s been here for a long time, Mr.
Lovegood. Where is she? And why do you keep looking out of the window?”
Lovegood drops the tray so the bowls bounce and smash. Both boys rip their wands free and
aim. Xenophilius frowns at the sight, his hand reaching for his pocket but pausing when the
printing press gives a disconcerting bang. Numerous Quibblers skid across the floor from
beneath the tablecloth and then it falls silent at last.
Glancing down at one of the papers, her wand still trained on Lovegood, Hermione fumes.
“Harry, you better look at these.”
Harry treads over and glances down while Ron remains in place, wand unwavering at
Xenophilius’ chest. Harry’s face looks back at the pair of them from the floor with
Undesirable Number One captioned, and reward money listed.
“Quibbler’s going for a new angle, I take it?” Harry’s voice is bitingly cold.
Hermione’s almost glad of it. Harry’s goodness, his purity, and his hope are so important to
her but sometimes, she feels she can work with a hard version of Harry better than any other.
“Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl
to the Ministry?”
Lovegood licks his cracked lips. “They took my Luna,” he whispers, voice breaking.
“Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my Luna, and I don’t know where she is, or
what they’ve done to her. But they might give her back to me if I – If I-”
“Hand over Harry?” Hermione finishes with malice.
A part of her feels for Lovegood, it truly does, and Luna is perhaps one of the most innocent
souls she’s ever come across. Despite this, Harry comes first. Harry and Ron are her family,
all she has left. No one comes above them. Nothing. Since this war started, it’s been an us vs.
them, and Hermione is not blind to that.
“No deal,” Ron utters flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re leaving.”
Looking ghastly, Xenophilius’ lips draw back into a dreadful leer. “They’ll be here any
moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna.” He throws his arms out in front of the
staircase. “You mustn’t leave.”
“Don’t make us hurt you,” Harry undertones with regret. “Get out of the way, Mr.
Lovegood.”
Something in her peripheral vision turns her head and Hermione’s breath catches in her
throat. “Boys! They’re here!”
In a split second, she watches the passing shapes on brooms out the window, catches
Lovegood drawing his wand, and witnesses Harry launching himself sidewards. He first
shoves into Ron who topples his gangly body into Hermione, clearing them of Xenophilius’
Stunner. It soars over their heads and hits the Erumpent horn.
The sound of a colossal explosion blows the room apart. Fragments of wood, parchment, and
rubble fly in all directions, chased by an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flies
through the air, crashes to the floor and debris rains down on him. Hermione screams out as
she’s flung and then promptly impacts into a wall.
Her head rebounds off of something sharp and she loses her vision for an intensely long
minute. All she has is sound: Ron’s yell, and a series of sickening metallic thuds, from what
she suspects is Lovegood toppling down the stairs. Further proof comes in the form of his
long-suffering groan from below.
Slowly, Hermione’s vision bleeds back but for all the good it is, because she can barely see
for dust. Her throat is slick with it too, her chest works hard to pump oxygen into her body
and her head throbs along with her ribs. She moans softly as she sits up, her vision as fuzzy
as an old television.
The previous injuries in her ribs and spine seem to triple on the pain scale with each
movement. Half the ceiling has fallen in she discovers when she’s upright, and the end of a
bed is hanging through the hole. The printing press lies on its side, blocking the top of the
staircase.
Ron is stuck beneath a chest of drawers that cover his legs, but he remains conscious and not
bleeding, from what she can see. They nod reassuringly at each other. Hermione crawls
through the chaos, wriggling on her belly and ultimately dragging herself over to the top of
the staircase.
She can hear murmurs beyond the blockage of the printing press, and she blinks blearily to
focus. Harry spots her and his lips part, but she raises her finger to her own lips to halt him.
The door downstairs crashes open, ricocheting against a wall.
“Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?” A rough voice calls. “Didn’t I tell
you this nutter was just raving as usual?”
The impact of flesh and a scream of pain prefaces Xenophilius’ moaning, “No… no…
upstairs… Potter!”
“Told you last week, Lovegood! We weren’t coming back for anything less than some solid
information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for that stupid
bleeding headdress? And the week before-” Another impact and squeal. “-when you thought
we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Crumple-” Impact. Squeal. “Headed-”
Impact. Squeal. “Snorkacks?!”
“No- no- I beg you!” Lovegood blubbers wetly.
Hermione presses her forehead to the floor and closes her eyes to listen, beating back vertigo.
She begins to feel sorry for him the longer she hears the unmistakable sounds of feet laying
into his ribs. Even as the blood pouring from her cut tries to glue her skull to the hardwood.
“It really is Potter! Really!”
Just like that, her sympathy dries up. Her chest squeezes in almost instant karma, a cough
worming its way up her throat. She anxiously bites it back, grappling for the ability to breathe
around the blockage.
“Now it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!” Roars a second Death Eater.
There’s a harsh round of punches and kicks, intercepted with howls of agony from
Xenophilius. Empathy floods through Hermione again at his weak, rasping sobs that can only
come from a mouth full of blood. She lifts her head gingerly, meeting Harry’s green eyes.
They’re full of murderous hate.
“This place looks about ready to fall in, Selwyn,” Traver’s voice echoes up the mangled
staircase, naming his fellow torturer. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing
it? Might bring the place down though.”
“Nah, ‘cause you’re a lying piece of shit, aren’t you, Lovegood?!” The wizard named Selwyn
shouts and then comes a wounded grunt from Xenophilius. “You’ve never seen Potter in your
life, have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? And you think you’ll get your
girl back like this?!”
“I swear! I swear… Potter’s upstairs!”
“Homenum revelio.”
Hermione can’t capture the gasp before it exits her mouth, using the small bit of attention she
has through her head injury to eavesdrop on the interrogation downstairs. There’s a stunned
silence from below as the sensation of something swooping low over her body drapes her
from head to toe, cold and unpleasant.
“It’s Potter, I tell you, it’s Potter! Please… please… give me my Luna, just let me have my
baby girl back!”
Selwyn retorts, “You can have your little girl, Lovegood. If you get up those stairs and bring
me down, Harry Potter. But if this is some plot or fucking trick; if you’ve got some
accomplice waiting up there to ambush us… well, you won’t want to see what I do to your
pretty little daughter or her pretty little cunt.”
Bile coats Hermione’s throat at the same time Xenophilius gives a wail of despair. They can’t
just disappear on him. They’ll have Luna violated and worse. Her father too. Hermione
knows Harry and Ron come first but she’s not fucking heartless. There comes scurries and
scrapes up the stairs, as Lovegood clearly attempts to get through the rubble.
“Come on,” Harry whispers, his voice rough. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Digging himself free of the clutter under the cover of Lovegood’s noise, Hermione aids him
before they head over to Ron. She non-verbally casts a Hover Charm on the dresser trapping
him, and sweats as she gently tries to lie it down without making noise. They may know
they’re up here, but better to let them think the three of them are immobile.
“Alright,” Hermione breathes once it’s done.
The broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs begins to tremble; Xenophilius is feet
away from them.
“Do you trust me, Harry?” She utters without looking away from the top of the stairs.
From the corner of her eye, Harry nods.
“Okay then. Give Ron the Invisibility Cloak to put on.”
“Me? But Harry-”

“Do not argue with me right now, Ronald Weasley,” she wheezes through her tight chest.
“Let them think you’re dead! Now grab my shoulder. Harry, you take my hand.”
Ron disappears beneath the cloak, his large hand clasping her tender shoulders. Hermione
winces and grips Harry tightly when he takes her sweaty hand in his. The printing press
blocking the stairs vibrates harder, clearly being shifted with its own Hover Charm.
“Hold tight. Any second now…”
Lovegood’s bleeding and battered face appears over the top of the sideboard and Hermione
points her wand at it. “Obliviate!”
Before she can fully take in the blank look on Lovegood’s face, she turns her wand to the
floor beneath them. “Deprimo!”
A hole blasts through the sitting room floor and they fall like boulders. Hermione’s stomach
flips violently and then exits her body, staying back in the living room while she plummets.
Harry’s hand crushes hers and Ron’s fingers grip her shoulder tighter as they all drop. A
scream sounds from below them and two men dive out of the way of the collapsing ceiling.
Vast quantities of rubble and broken furniture rain down with, and all around them from the
shattered ceiling. Hermione drives her focus, swatting away the sensation of falling and
twisting in mid-air. The thundering of the collapsing house clangs in her ears as she drags
herself and the boys into darkness.
They land, panting, on grass not a minute later but she shoots straight back upright. Running
in circles around the field she’s brought them to, waving her wand, she casts feverishly. All
the while, she blinks bright spots and blood from her vision.
“That treacherous fucker!” Ron curses, emerging from beneath the cloak and throwing it
Harry’s way. “Hermione, you’re a genius! A total genius. I can’t believe we got out of that!”
“Cave Inimicum…” She takes a shaky breath and wipes her eye again as blood clogs in her
lashes. “Didn’t I tell him it was a fucking Erumpent horn?!”
Ron examines his torn jeans and cut legs briefly. “What’d you reckon they’ll do to him?”
She finishes her incantations and squats, putting her head through her knees to starve off the
fainting episode trying to take her.
Please don’t let them hurt Luna.
“I don’t know,” she sighs, lifting her head. “I needed to Obliviate him after he told us the
story. We don’t know what could make it back to Tom, and what pieces he could put
together.” She pushes to her feet, surveying their surroundings. “But I made sure they saw
Harry, so they knew he wasn’t lying.” Finally, she looks at Ron. “I’m hoping that spares his
life and Luna’s… dignity.”
Ron turns a shade of grey as he lifts his gaze from his legs, and then his eyes spring wide.
“Your head!” He buzzes over to her like an overlarge insect and dabs worriedly at her
forehead with the edge of his long sleeve. “You got anything in that bag of yours?”
Not risking inciting more wooziness, she doesn’t nod but she does open her bag and pull out
what she needs to get patched up. He guides her to sit on the grass and he kneels before her,
his long fingers somewhat clumsy with the supplies.
“There,” he proclaims, rubbing his thumb over the butterfly stitches he, with her aid, places
on her skin. “All done.”
Hermione smiles her thanks and promptly stands, dipping out from Ron’s eager expression.
She joins Harry, who rouses out of staring off into space and they start pitching the tent. Ron
comes along to help, and when it’s up, they all wearily retreat inside. Admitting it to only
herself: after their near escape, the dingy, musty old place feels like home.
Safe, familiar, and friendly. Ron makes tea and they sit around the picnic bench in silence for
a while, appreciating their survival.
“Godric’s Hollow all over again,” Harry bitterly announces after a bout of silence.
She grimaces into her cup but nods resentfully in agreement. “The Hallows, the Quest… it all
seems to lead to Dumbledore, his letters from his youth. I think maybe it was something
personal to him, maybe the Quest Lovegood was talking about. We confused it with the
Horcruxes, yes, but it doesn’t explain why he left Beedle the Bard to me. Rowena
Ravenclaw’s lost Diadem though, that could really be something.”
“Yeah…” Harry mentally checks out in a way he’s prone to do when connecting dots before
his eyes begin to spark. “There might be something to it though, Hermione. The Tale, I mean.
Marvolo Gaunt, Tom’s grandfather… I saw something in the Ministry once… he’s a
descendant of the Peverell’s. Lovegood said they were the brothers from the story, and that
grave in Godric’s Hollow had the Hallows symbol. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
Hermione isn’t sure what to say, her brain still feels foggy from the hit, so she takes another
sip of tea and lets Harry keep theorising.
“The ring of Marvolo Gaunt’s, which later became a Horcrux, had a coat of arms on it. I saw
it in a memory with Dumbledore. But what if I just thought it was a coat of arms? What if it
was actually the sign of the Deathly Hallows? Marvolo was an ignorant old git who lived like
a pig. All he cared about was his ancestry. If the ring had passed through the centuries, he
might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that house, and he wasn’t
the type to read fairy tales to his kids, trust me.”
Running her fingers over her tender stitches, Hermione sighs tiredly. “That’s very interesting
but I think we both know what you’re hinting at, Harry. You think it was the Stone, don’t
you? The Resurrection Stone.”
Harry, clearly sensing her lack of enthusiasm, glimpses to Ron for support. “Do you think so,
mate?”
“Blimey, Harry! Maybe!” Ron encourages, despite Hermione’s sour look his way. “But
would it still work if Dumbledore broke it open?”
“Work?” Hermione huffs. “Ron, it never worked! There’s no such thing. Just look at the
ghosts at Hogwarts for instance. They weren’t brought back, were they? They just refused to
go. That’s a fact. There’s never been a ghost around that can claim they were resurrected, not
one.”
She clambers to her feet, still feeling the dust on her chest and craving air; exasperated at the
pair of them. “Harry, you’re trying to fit everything into the Hallows story. And for what?
You’re forgetting the real mission! The war we’re in the middle of!”
“I’m not forgetting, Hermione!” Harry’s cheeks begin to color, and he clasps his mug tighter.
“But maybe this is what Dumbledore wanted me to work out! The Hallows, united make the
possessor Master of Death. What if that’s how I face Tom?”
“We know how to face Tom!” She hollers in disbelief. “Horcruxes, Harry! Horcruxes, not
Hallows!”
Harry ignores her, desperately trying to build his case with a shaking voice. “Dumbledore had
my cloak the night my parents died. My mum told Sirius in her letter that Dumbledore
borrowed the cloak and I bet this is why!”
Standing eagerly from the bench too, he begins to pace. “He wanted to examine it. I bet he
needed to work out if it was the third Hallow. Ignotus is buried in Godric’s Hollow. He’s my
ancestor, I bet you my entire Gringotts’ vault, Hermione! It all makes sense!”
“It makes no fucking sense!” Hermione crows, tipping her head back for some patience and
air alike.
She doesn’t expect any aid from Ron but is disappointed all the same to find him raptly
watching Harry as he weaves his fantasy.
Eagerly undoing the pouch about his neck, Harry retrieves what she recognizes to be his
mother’s well-worn, and well-read letter.
His hands shake in his attempts to push it into Hermione’s hands. “Read it!”
Sighing, her energy begins to drain out of her body. “I don’t need to read it, Harry.”
“Read it, please!” He forces it into her hands, where the parchment scrunches between her
unwilling fingers. “Why else would Dumbledore want the cloak? He didn’t need one. He
could perform a Disillusionment Charm more powerful than any other wizard!”
Something falls out of the pouch as Harry faffs with it, rolling and glittering under a chair.
Hermione frowns down at it, finding the Snitch. Harry stoops to pick it up and then he shoots
upright, his cheeks redder than she’s ever seen them.
“It’s in here! He left me the Resurrection Stone! It’s in the Snitch! I just need to work out
how to open it!”
“You – you reckon?” Ron enquires quietly, looking torn between wanting to believe and not
being able to.
His eyes dart between Harry and Hermione as if he’s watching his parents squabble and
doesn’t want to pick a side.
All of a sudden, the excitement and hope drain from Harry’s face like the snuffing of a flame.
His red cheeks fade and turn white. “That’s what he’s after. Tom’s after the Elder Wand.”
Turning his back on them, he stares at the entrance of the tent, muttering under his breath.
“It’s not a new wand he’s been seeking all this time. It’s an old wand. A very old wand. But
how did he know about the Hallows? He was raised in a Muggle orphanage. No one could
have told him The Tales of Beedle the Bard as a child. And if he knew about them, surely he
would have sought them over Horcruxes?”
He turns back to face them but he’s not really talking to them, just talking aloud in their
direction. “He took a Hallow and made it into a Horcrux which shows he has no idea what
they are. He wants the Elder Wand but doesn’t even realize its full power… Don’t you two
see? This is it. It explains everything. The Hallows are real and I’ve got one… maybe two.”
He holds up the Snitch in evidence.
“Harry,” Hermione snaps, long past the point of her sanity. “You’ve got this wrong.” She
hands him back Lily Potter's letter which she didn’t read.
Continuing to defend himself, he carries on, “Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for
myself. He let me try my strength, and take risks. This feels like the kind of thing he’d do.”
“You had nothing but disparaging things to say about Dumbledore’s character not long ago,
Harry,” she reminds him tightly, fighting the memory of the cabin with Draco that followed.
“This isn’t a game, this isn’t practice. This is the real fucking thing, and this war is very real.
Luna Lovegood might be getting raped right now because her father didn’t bring us back, do
you hear me?”
Flinching, Harry’s face turns from white to a ghastly shade of green.
“Dumbledore left you clear instructions. Find and destroy the Horcruxes. Forget the Hallows,
we aren’t getting sidetracked this far in.”
He continues to roll the Snitch in his fingers, clearly not listening to her anymore.
She outright growls. “I’m done with this.”
Storming past him, she ignores both him and Ron calling her name. She could sit and take
watch but she’s not in the mood to be within five feet of Harry and his ridiculous theories
right now. The sky above her is cloudy with curves of smoke-grey and silver sliding over the
face of the white moon.
It makes her think of Draco, and as she breeches her wards and goes out into the night, she
can’t help hoping his Patronus will summon her. He’s supposed to be here. He promised her
tomorrow, but he still hasn’t arrived. Worry gnaws at her insides, creeping over the utter rage
she feels for Harry currently.
Kingsley is on the run. What does that mean for Draco? Who is he answering to? If it’s
Snape, is he in Hogwarts? What is he doing if not? Is he at Grimmauld? Is he in danger right
now? In the middle of the darkness, she stops to close her eyes and tries to think of his
dragon. She can see it so well now, so familiar with it.
There are whispers of him there too, of his magic, tickling the edges of her mind but it’s not
enough. Just as she begins to grasp it, the surety leaks away and the whisps slip through her
fingers. Milliseconds before she opens her eyes, a hand, cool and large slaps over her mouth,
and an arm bands around her waist.
Hermione screeches, eyes flying open and elbow driving back. The hand over her mouth
attaches to a pale arm, run through with bulging veins, capped with a sleeve pulled to the
elbow and stained with a Dark Mark.
There’s a grunt, prefacing a laugh. “I do love it when you’re feisty, Granger.”
All of her muscles release when she realizes it’s Draco behind her. The scent of him begins to
wash into her space in the next moment, though there’s an additional layer of odor today.
Something that reminds her of Snape’s classroom in Hogwarts. Potions and their
compounding ingredients.
With her heart still racing, she reaches her hands up to grip the one still covering her mouth
by both the fingers and the wrist, but Draco doesn’t budge.
“Get off!” She attempts to grumble, but it’s garbled and lost in his flesh.
Draco chuckles in her ear and the dark notes of it seem even darker tonight somehow, sliding
down her tender spine with a mixture of excitement and unease.
“What’s the matter, Hermione? Can’t get free? Got yourself trapped?”
Fury wells up inside her, joining with the leftover tendrils from her argument with Harry. She
struggles harder, elbows digging and feet stamping. Draco grunts a few times when her hits
land, but most of all he laughs and that winds her up more. Slowly but surely, it becomes
clear that she can’t get free of him, and the excitement starts to spiral into terror.
Has he always been this strong? This overpowering? She’s noticed him filling out since their
close encounters started, but tonight he feels big and broad against her back. The excitement
crests again, the notion of being so small in comparison to him. The warring emotions twist
her belly and keep her heart at a gallop.
Hermione’s last resort is to bite the skin of his palm but though he hisses under his breath, he
tilts his hand so the fatty side of it turns into her mouth, away from the center of his palm. He
keeps allowing her to bite through his flesh until blood coats her tongue. She gasps as it does
so, gurgling softly.
Her next gasp of air she chokes on; Draco pressing his hand harder against her gums, forcing
her teeth to sink ever deeper. Where she’s holding onto his long fingers and thick wrist, she
squeezes and rips with her fingernails, still thrashing against his body.
He leans down while she does so, his mouth running against the shell of her ear. “I’ve had a
very long day, Granger, and now I want to play.”
She’s panting against his palm, now slick with blood and slippery against her lips. Draco
turns his hand again, so the fat she’s bitten raw comes free and it is now covering her lower
face once more. Only this time, he squeezes his fingers into her cheek and the underside of
her jaw, his thumb digging into her opposing cheekbone.
Whimpering, she fights and tries to twist free of his grasp. It only grows tighter on the prior,
aching cuts already present on her face. With her full body strength, she rears back, and it
appears to take Draco by surprise because they stumble. There’s a sharp jolt, and she can’t
twist her head but she’s sure he’s just fallen back against a tree.
Due to the tumble, Hermione slides down his body, her legs, and feet skidding in the dirt. His
arm around her waist is forced to pull up to her ribs, squeezing her to him. Gasping through
the pain, she barely manages to plant her boots. It leaves her angling outwards, but her head
digging into Draco’s chest.
She can raise her eyes like this, and she does so, her stomach flipping when she gets her first
look at his face. There are unmistakable smudges of blood in his pristine white-blonde hair,
and a dry wedge of it splices his eyebrow. Smudges of powder stain his black jumper, things
that she thinks link to the potions she smelt earlier.
He grins down at her, that feral, shark-like one that she despises and yet revels in. What
stands out the most though, what makes her pulse skip, is his right iris, which is no longer
grey, but an eerie, startling white.
“Like it?” He whispers, noting her wide gaze. “I personally think it suits me.”
It does suit him, strangely. She wants to ask a million questions about it. How did it happen?
Will he be able to fix it? But even if her mouth wasn’t covered, she’s not sure if she could.
Butterflies swarm her belly and crowd her ribs. Her toes curl in her shoes, and she grips his
wrist and hand tighter.
The longer she looks at him, at his new gaze, the more her stomach flips over. Crooking his
neck down even further, he pins her with those strange eyes: one gun-metal and the other
shocking white.
“Run.”
He flings her at the same time as she propels herself outwards and the resulting momentum is
like flying from a moving swing. The impact to her ankles is jarring and she nearly buckles
but manages to rectify the wobble to keep up her sprint. She doesn’t once look back, knowing
that always results in being caught.
Hermione’s always thought herself fairly fit but after going up and down hills all day, her
new head injury, and the dust still coating her chest, she’s dizzy and gasping within minutes.
This isn’t fair! Why has he chosen today of all of them to challenge her? She despises the
thought of letting him win, of being caught.
As she runs, whipping her face with branches and catching the toe of her boots on rocks, she
can’t hear Draco at all. She’s so tempted to look back and check, but she doesn’t dare. The
only noises are the thudding of her heart in her ears, the breaking of branches as she tears
through them, and the crunch of leaves as she pounds deeper into the night.
Her lungs are seizing in the next couple of minutes, and her head beginning to pulsate with
the beginnings of a terrible headache. She doesn’t want to stop but if she doesn’t catch her
breath in the next couple of seconds she fears she may pass out. Overriding her own pride,
she brings herself to rest against a tree, taking a quick, fearful look around.
A shaking hand frees her wand from her back pocket. “Lumos.”
There’s nothing around her and all she can hear is her own jagged breathing, see-sawing
through her chest in desperation. Blood bites at the back of her throat, the taste of running too
much. The world feels wobbly and her legs jelly. She leans heavily against a tree trunk, the
adrenaline burning her up; sweat beading at her brow and the nape of her neck.
She doesn’t want to discard any of her clothes out in the middle of nowhere, being far too
precious. Even still, she won’t be able to carry on if she can’t strip some layers. She quickly
whips off her jacket, feeling instant relief being left in her vest top. She wildly looks around
for Draco as she does so. She hates how quiet it is. Is he even chasing her?
Or is he still back at the tree, laughing at the thought of her scaring herself silly? She decides
she’ll double back once she’s cooled some, rather than getting herself lost for the sake of
Draco’s amusement. When her jacket is in her bag, she transfigures her jeans into shorts and
enjoys the bracing air against her sweaty skin.
Thankful her hair is held back; she slings her bag back over her shoulder and grips her wand
tightly. Facing back the way she came; she starts up her run again. With Draco not showing
face, she expects her anxiety to wind down, but it continues to ratchet higher. She detests the
anticipation, which makes her sick deep in her belly.
He’s playing with her. Hunting her, letting her frighten herself so he doesn’t have to do any of
the work. Screw that. She tries to remain calm just to spite him, taking even, meditative
inhales and exhales whilst running.
Up ahead, with the aid of Lumos light, she’s certain is the tree she left him at but there’s no
sign of Draco. She decides to loop around it to make her way closer to the tent and takes a
sharp right.
“Gotcha.”
Hermione screams bloody murder when Draco snatches her up. Her wand drops to the floor,
the light shining out into the darkness. His smirk is nothing short of smug and she bites her
tongue on her scream. He slams her against a tree trunk, the air expelling from her in an oof.
His head cocks to the side, his eyes gleeful and still so frightening in their disfigurement.
“Look how flush you are, little witch. You love playing just as much as me.”
“No, I don’t you sadistic piece of shit,” she spits, squirming against him.
Draco slaps her.
She stills in shock.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Fuck you! Don’t you ever-”
He slaps her again.
Her head rocks on her shoulders and falls back against the rough tree bark. She stares up at
the stars and tries to blink herself back to reality.
Ears ringing, she can just about hear Draco talking. “Your safe word is Circe.”
“What?” She tips her head down to look at him. It feels like it’s vibrating on her neck.
The blood on Draco’s head cracks and flakes when he grins, sprinkling her. “Your safe word
is Circe. You’re going to need it.”
Part One: April '98
The prospect of a safe word is new, terrifying, and tremendously exhilarating all at once.
Hermione’s head is still rocking from the slaps and her ears are just about regulating from the
ringing. Draco unceremoniously pulls away from her body, so she begins plummeting to the
ground. Squealing, she hooks her nails into his shoulders to slow her fall.
He laughs at her when she staggers back against the tree trunk, bark catching and tugging at
her braids. She scowls and brings her knee up, the angle only enough to lightly catch him
between the legs. Draco groans and tilts forward, slamming a hand against the tree beside her
head.
At the same time, he snatches her thigh before she can do true damage. It reminds her of all
those months ago, when they first started this hate fuck tradition and brings a smirk to her
face.
“Now that’s not very nice,” he gasps out, his eyes, both the grey and the white, full of twisted
delight.
“Yes well, neither are you.”
With that, she headbutts him.
“Fuck!”
Draco rears back and her head explodes with a pounding headache, the both of them visibly
dazed from the impact. Hermione’s stitches split and blood streams down her eye, splicing
through her brow. Ironically, it now matches Draco’s except his is dry. Hers, fresh and wet,
curves down the path of her cheek and jaw.
She leans back against the tree again, vision swimming, and wipes at it while panting. “Gods,
I’ve wanted to do that for years.”
Cradling his head, he bears his crimson-stained teeth at her. “You’re a fucking cunt when you
want to be, Granger.”
“Maybe I’m not the one who needs a bloody safe word, Malfoy.”
For a long time now, she hasn’t called him Malfoy. Her perception of, and her interactions
with him have altered too much to think of him as ‘Malfoy’ anymore. Tonight though, in this
game, this scene, whatever this is, whatever it is when they participate in these grossly
violent interactions, he’s Malfoy again.
He looks at her like Malfoy; like the boy who taunted and bullied for so many years. He
doesn’t look at her like Draco, the man who held her hand and told her he couldn’t lose her
either.
The man who sat in front of her best friend and said, “She has me.”
There are two sides to Draco Malfoy and one isn’t strictly light while the other is strictly
dark. There’s dark and darker with Draco but Hermione’s starting to feel that there are two
sides to her too. At one stage in her life, she thought she was only light, and then darkness
and light intermingled.
Now she thinks she’s finally facing her truth, and that just like Malfoy, Hermione Granger is
dark and darker. For many years she suppressed that blossoming idea, that realisation trying
to emerge. Draco has continuously yanked it free and now it’s out, and it wants to be fed.
Who is she to deny it anymore when he presents opportunities such as these?
When he puts games such as this one on the table for her to join? Striding forward, Draco’s
hand wraps around her throat viciously, his heavy signet ring biting into her skin.
“Do you think you’re scary, Granger? Think because you bark at those two bumbling idiots
and they quiver, that everyone else will?”
Smirking, she tilts her face back, trying to suck in oxygen to speak. “We both know I bite too,
arsehole.”
His opposing eyes flick to his hand around her throat, which is barely bleeding anymore but
certainly feels tacky against her skin.
Looking back up at her, he cocks his head. “Is Gryffindor’s princess insinuating that she can
take what she wants?”
Refusing to swallow, she inclines her chin and laughs breathlessly. “Oh Malfoy, you don’t
actually think you give me anything, do you?”
Draco’s eyes flash, the white one the most, and his fingers tighten. “Infuriating little swot.”
He releases her throat and steps back, mockingly opening his arms wide. He looks terrifying
in the moonlight with those eyes alone. Then there’s his long, pale limbs and broad body.
Ghostly white hair with rust-colored blood staining both it and his face. His dark mark is a
deep black, matching his stained jumper and his hand is raw-looking where she bit it open.
“I’m right here, Granger. Try and take it.”
Something like power courses through her veins and confidence floods her system.
This may not be love, might be too dark and twisted; too depraved, but Draco Malfoy is
obsessed with her, possessive over her. People who are obsessed and possessive cherish time
with their toys, and chances to play with them. They will do anything to hold onto more time
with their obsession.
Hermione thinks she might be okay with being Draco’s obsession. She strides over to him
with clear purpose and maybe it’s this purpose that funnels her magic, that propels it directly
through her skin. She flings her hand at Draco, and he crumples to his knees. His eyes blow
wide when his kneecaps crack against the dirt.
Smirking down at him, she presses one hand to his shoulder and uses the other to thread into
his hair and yank his head back. “I suggest you stay down.”
Draco grins, showing off his bloody teeth. “Make me.”
Flippantly, she shrugs. “Since you asked so nicely. Incarcerous.”
His shoulders jerk back sharply as his arms are bound from shoulder blade to wrist behind his
back.
He curses, nearly toppling over, wobbling on his knees. “Have I told you I fucking hate
you?”
Hermione cocks her head. “Oh, a couple of times, but I could stand to hear it again.”
“I can’t fucking stand you, infuriating witch.”
She flicks her eyes down to his trousers, tilting her head to observe how they visibly strain.
“Might have to remind your cock of that. Though, I have to admit, I quite like you bound and
on your knees too.”
Eyes full of menace, he smirks. “Have your fun, Granger, and know that it’s going to come
back on you ten-fold.”
Her hand on his shoulder relocates to his chin, squeezing viciously. Her nails cut into the skin
without sympathy.
She leans down so her lips ghost against his. “I best make it worth it then.”
“You best,” he agrees, his eyes following her every movement from beneath his blonde
lashes, rapt with attention.
His breathing picks up, his excitement is apparent no matter how much he tries to hide it.
Who knew either of them would get such a kick out of this? She certainly didn’t, but there
really is something about having him on his knees at her mercy. Of course, with how tall he
is, on his knees still brings his head to just above her waistline.
“So then, Granger,” he tries to inflict boredom into his tone but fails miserably. “What are
you going to do with me?”
Releasing her grip on him, she hooks her fingers into her shorts and knickers, yanking them
down her legs and stepping out of them. Next, she takes off and throws down the beaded bag
so it’s out of her way.
“You know, I think I really just want you to shut up.”

Draco’s pupils yawn with desire and his breathing grows even deeper, his chest heaving.
“You filthy girl.”
“Me?” She grabs a fistful of his hair again and yanks his face to look up at her. “Malfoy,
you’re practically drooling.”
Pulling against the hand in his hair, he leans forward and nips her stomach where her vest top
has ridden up. Hissing, she jerks his head back and slaps him as hard as he slapped her
earlier. He laughs and blood sprays from his mouth, arching in the Lumos light provided by
her discarded wand.
Hermione does it again and then she wrenches him between her legs. Groaning when she’s
buried his face by force, his tongue laves at her sodden clit. She throws a leg over Draco’s
shoulder, matching his groans, her boot-covered foot clipping him sharply in the spine.
He gasps into her cunt, and she takes the opportunity to press his mouth harder against her,
grinding her hips.
She just about makes out, “Fuck, Granger.”
Her head falls back, and she rocks against him, forcing her pussy to slide up and down his
eager mouth. His tongue laves and rolls, laps, and licks everywhere she lets him. From her
clit to her leaking opening to her arsehole, which crushes his nose into her wetness.
He pulls away from her, despite her hand in his hair, his face drenched and shiny. “Enough of
this, Granger. You’ve had your fun. Now I need my fingers in you.”
Trembling, she laughs spitefully, glancing down at his frustrated expression. “You’ve
forgotten that you don’t order me around, Malfoy.”
Draco growls at her and nips at the fatty part of her inner thigh. She jolts and squeals, nearly
falling over but managing to save herself with one hand in his hair, and the other on his
shoulder.
“Now, Granger.”
“No.”
Dragging his face back, she crushes him once more into her nest of pubic hair and stares
down at him to watch. He groans deeply, lapping at the juices pouring out of her. The blood
on his face must be mixing in with her pussy juices for him to taste. She wonders if he’s
enjoying the combination.
Butterflies beat erratically in her stomach, the exhilaration of it all heightening the delicious
heat of his mouth. The fear of toppling over spikes at her too, driving her pleasure higher.
With a grunt, Draco manages to wrench free again. “Hermione.”
The tremors in her legs threaten to knock her over, working from thigh to ankle bone and
infecting her voice. “Say please.”
“Absolutely fucking not, your pussy is mine. Salazar, Granger, untie me.”
She laughs again because she is genuinely enjoying herself, enjoying this. When she brings
him back this time, she presses against the back of his neck until she’s certain he can’t
breathe. Despite this, he sucks her clit so hard she sees the birth of stars, and her eyelids slam
shut; her orgasm hurtling through her stomach in promise of shattering her.
On the very precipice, Draco gets out of her grasp again. She screams through her teeth with
the frustration of it. He’s gasping, absolutely covered in juices that shine in the moonlight.
His eyes look feral. The dark grey one is nearly black, and the pupil swallows up into the iris.
The white one is so bright, so vivid, she’s never seen anything like it before. His usually pale
complexion is flushed, red splotches high in his cheekbones separate from the dry blood.
“Please.”
The devastation of being edged makes her particularly cruel. “Fucking beg, you prick.”
“Please, Hermione.” The desperation in his voice shocks her and she stares dumbly,
frustration forgotten as he pleads with slick, swollen lips. “Please.”
Non-verbally, she reverses the Incarcerous. With freedom, Draco grips her thigh slung over
his shoulder, his fingers vicious and eager on her skin. This doesn’t seem to satisfy him
because he readjusts to her arse cheek. Happy, he wrenches her closer and she yelps, the
noise spiraling even higher when he slides two fingers into her soaked cunt.
While Hermione trembles from head to toe, he stares up at her with his mouth on her clit, and
his fingers sliding in and out of her at an inhumane speed. Hermione can’t catch her breath,
can’t make a sound, all of her noise trapped inside her chest. With mouth and fingers
combined, he pulls her orgasm out of her with an intensity that makes her see galaxies.
Some kind of noise ends up worming free of her mouth, something breathless and shrieking,
and with it, liquid pours obscenely from her cunt.
“Fuck.” Draco presses the word into her pussy, his fingers continuing their rapid fucking, but
his tongue easing to a lap against her clit. “That’s it, Hermione. Fucking soak me. That’s it.”
She’s crying at this point, overwhelmed with the intensity of her orgasm and the way it’s
being ripped out of her. She refuses to tap out though, refuses to safe word. Not after the way
she made him beg. She replays it over and over as she squirts all over him, her desire
eclipsing rational levels.
Draco finally stops, resting his head against her lower stomach and panting damp, hot air into
the curls decorating her pubic bone. Hermione is shaking something stupid and not sure how
much longer she can remain standing on one leg. Slowly pulling free of her pulsating pussy,
Draco’s fingers leave her empty and he leans back to look up at her.
There’s something vulnerable mixed in with the lust now, something awed like he’s
worshipping. It gives her the strength to slide her leg down from his shoulder. His hand on
her arse helps her, and then he reaches for the hem of his jumper and whips it over his head.
The reveal of his chest is mouth-watering.
Some kind of strenuous activity is happening when he’s away from her because he’s carrying
more muscle than she’s ever seen on him. Thick arms, broad shoulders, veiny forearms, and
hands. A tight stomach, delicious abs, and an outrageous trail of hair leading into his trousers
that she wants to lick.
He grabs a hold of her hips and falls back into the grass, bringing her down with him.
Hermione squeals as she descends, hands gripping his shoulders and still decidedly off
balance. He rests her against his thick thighs when he’s on his back, and her hands slide down
to his chest to stay upright.
Panting, he tilts his hips, shifting her, and whips his belt free. “I’ve never wanted to shag you
so badly, Granger. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
The comment makes her giddy and she hums, leaning down to kiss him. He kisses her back
eagerly, and deeply, the taste of her flooding her mouth. When she needs air, she moves her
mouth down along his throat and shoulders, nipping at his skin. He grabs her hips again when
he’s undone his belt, rucking up her vest top to her ribs, exposing her belly.
Body feeling like liquid, she spreads her knees to help adjust her position. His cock, hard and
hot nudges her drenched pussy lips, slick with pre-cum. Moaning into his throat, she pushes
down as he does via hands on her hips. Draco groans throatily, the sound moving under her
mouth and above her head.
“Gods,” she whimpers, his cock filling her to the brim, while still throbbing and tight from
her earth-shattering orgasm.
“Just Draco,” he quips, his hands on her waist lifting and dropping her on his cock.
She can’t find the words nor the sanity to be witty in reply. It feels too good, and her pussy is
so tender that it aches in the best way. She begins to move her hips against him, shifting out
of the power of his large hands. They clench onto her instead, simply holding on. She lifts her
head to look at him and he looks back at her, his mouth hanging open.
Finding energy in the agony present in his expression, she sits completely up on his cock,
moaning as the angle changes. Rather than rocking, she places her hands flat on his chest and
begins to bounce. Draco’s eyes roll in his skull and the wash of power through her is
something she’s never known before.
The ends of her braids leap against her shoulders and chest, and when Draco’s eyes open they
fixate on them. His long arms reach out, and his fingers pull at her vest top, so her blood-
stained tits spill free of both the top and bra. He grunts, his throat working on a tight swallow.
From head to toe, his eyes rove over her, stopping and locking on where his cock disappears
inside her. Hermione is flush and sweaty, their skin slapping and sticking, loud in the night
around them. Their combined pants and moans drive her need higher. She doesn’t want
Draco’s hands to move from her skin, so she reaches down and rubs her own clit.
Jaw flexing, he doesn’t even seem to blink once. He watches with rapt attention, those eyes
still turning her stomach in the most pleasant way. The flush in his face grows darker and
spreads down his jaw and into his bare chest. As it does so, the fine white lines of his
Septumsempra scar stand out in stark relief.
“Merlin, Granger, don’t fucking stop,” he grits through his teeth.
Under the weight of his attention, Hermione bounces as if her life depends on it, ignoring her
burning thighs. Draco growls under his breath, snapping forward so quickly he startles her.
She gasps, breathless as he takes hold of the back of her neck. He brings her upper body
down along his, braces his legs, and begins to fuck her from below.
Moaning loudly, she takes every pounding thrust, her finger still turning on her clit. Her hand
is wedged between both of their bellies, and her fingernail scratches at the skin around her
swollen clit from this angle, but she’s so close she doesn’t care. She quests for Draco’s
mouth, and he accepts her desperate kiss, his lips parting to welcome her eager tongue.
At a point, she simply pants and groans into his open mouth, her eye screwed shut to focus on
her rapidly approaching orgasm.
“Gods, Granger, your pussy is addicting,” he grunts against her lips, his hand on the back of
her neck squeezing.
Gasping, she fucks him back, their hips moving in sweaty tandem.
“Mine. You’re all fucking mine, Hermione. You know that don’t you? Gods. Tell me you
know it, Hermione. Fucking-” He slams up into her, hitting her cervix and she screams out
into the darkness, her nails tearing at his chest. “Tell me.”
Eyes flying open, she reaches for his throat with a grin and watches with satisfaction his
pupils shrinking from arousal. “You first.”
He grins back at her, one that’s not feral, despite the blood coating his face, but playful. It
flips her stomach with a giddiness she’s never felt with him before. A sense of familiarity that
despite so many close encounters is only just settling into her body. Before she can lose
herself in it, he’s rolling her onto her back, handling her by her ribs.
She goes with a squeal and once she’s there, Draco slots neatly between her thighs. He hooks
her knees over his elbows, keeping her spread open. Then he leans forward, so her legs press
all the way back, and his hand can return to squeezing the back of her neck.
Breathless with the vulnerability and open position, his cock easily slides back into her wet
depths.
“I’m yours, Granger, you filthy little bitch.”
Hermione reaches to grab his neck, yanking him down so their lips press together but she’s
looking up at him beneath her lashes.
“Then I guess I’m yours too, Malfoy.”

That grin returns to his face. Not spiteful, not malicious but excited, playful. It forms a grin
on her own lips she can’t resist, even as he pounds her breathless. There’s an encompassing
aura of familiarity, of safety in the midst of their violent, dangerous game. She loses herself
to it, pretending for just a moment that maybe Harry’s words carry weight to them after all.
Draco’s forehead presses to hers and then his lips are taking her own again, and he snogs her
in a way he never has before. His thrusts don’t lessen in speed or intensity, his grip doesn’t
loosen on her neck, but his kisses are different. They’re deep and explorative, luxurious and
unhurried.
This is what tips her over the edge and she groans into his mouth throughout her orgasm.
Pulling free, his mouth nuzzles under her chin, and he pulls out right before he finishes across
her stomach. They pant together, still wrapped entirely within each other for the longest time.
Despite being in the dirt, in the cold, her eyelids are heavy and she’s sleepy and warm.
Then her skull is gripped and ripped open.
“You had nothing but disparaging things to say on Dumbledore’s character not long ago,
Harry. This isn’t a game, this isn’t practice. This is the real fucking thing, and this war is very
real. Luna Lovegood might be getting raped right now because her father didn’t bring us
back, do you hear me?”
Flinching, Harry’s face turns from white to a ghastly shade of green.
“Dumbledore left you clear instructions. Find and destroy the Horcruxes. Forget the
Hallows, we aren’t getting sidetracked this far in.”
“What the fuck, Draco?”
Hermione punches his shoulder so that he pulls back from her, sitting back on his haunches.
He doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty when his cock leaves her.
“You really should practice your Occlumency, Granger. We won’t get anywhere near
Bellatrix’s vault if you can’t shield your mind.”
Anger pulses through her system and her mouth floods with the sour taste of disappointment.
She gets up without a word, sourcing her clothes and yanking them on.
“I had to test you at your most vulnerable, Hermione.” This time, he almost does sound sorry
as he fixes his trousers.
Turning to face him after retrieving her wand and cleaning his mess on her stomach, she
glares. “Not right then you didn’t! Not when I-”
Felt so safe with you.
She throws all of her mental shields up as he cocks his head at her, waiting for her to finish.
“Has any of it been real, Draco? The times you’ve spoken in my head?” She hates that her
voice cracks at the end.
Gracefully getting to his feet, he pauses, his different-colored eyes covered in that sheen.
“No.”
She tries not to, but she openly winces.
Draco’s jaw ticks. “I mean, yes and no.”
“Well, which is it?” She snaps, feeling raw and crossing her arms over her chest.
“It’s like a portrait.” He finds his jumper and pulls it on. “It’s not me in real-time. Not my live
consciousness but it is an essence of me. It’s the essence of me that’s bound to you through
the Trace.”
That hurts more than she expects it to. It’s not him. Not really. She nods anyway, swallowing
away the pain.
“As for your unwelcome dive into my head, I’ve been practicing for over a year now. I’m
fairly strong when I’m prepared.”
“And what, you think you’re always going to have a chance to prepare?”
“Of course not.”
Draco reaches into his back pocket and frees a pack of cigarettes. “So, we need to practice
with you unprepared. Raw.” He sticks one in his mouth, lights it, and exhales the word,
“vulnerable.” On a cloud of smoke.
“So, you had to do it right then?” Her cunt throbs and a dribble of wetness floods her
knickers, burning her cheeks. “Truly?”
Inhale. “Yes.”
Her chin wobbles. “I hate you.”
Exhale. “I know.”
Tears blur her eyes. “Good.”
This time she feels him trying to get inside, even if it is a whisper compared to the wrenching
earlier. She beats him back, layering brick walls everywhere he turns. When he pulls free,
she’s trembling.
“That’s good, but it’s too obvious.” He dashes accumulating ash from the end of his fag.
“Sometimes you want to let people in Granger, so you can provide false memories. You can’t
just throw up walls all the time.”
She has the distinct feeling they’re not just talking about memories right now.
“It’s been a really long day for me too, you know. Not that you bothered to fucking ask. I
don’t want to do this.”
“Tough.”
She growls and braces herself for his intrusion, but it doesn’t come. “Well, what are you
wai-”
This is when he dives and she scrambles to pull together memories to throw at him, rather
than brick walls. It’s a sloppy attempt, but she gives him her first day at Hogwarts. She’s not
sure why, it’s just the first thing she thinks of.
“Pitiful, really. The brightest witch of our age? What a crock of shit.”
“Oh, fuck off, I’m leaving!”
She turns to do just that, blood simmering.
“You leave when I tell you to.”
Hermione’s head spins back on her neck. “I don’t bloody well think so, you ar-”
When he dives in this time, she doesn’t catch him and he slips past, finding her in Second
Year, brewing Polyjuice potion.
“My, my.” He takes another drag of his dwindling fag. “I might take it back. In your Second
Year? That’s impressive.”
“Stay out!” Her body throbs dully, her skull the most. “I’m not doing this tonight!”
“If you want my help getting into that vault, yes you are.”
When he puts it like that, she can’t find it in her to leave, no matter how much she wants to.
This is for the Horcrux hunt. This is for Harry. She has to. He comes at her again, in the midst
of these thoughts, and she shoves back. The sensation is like he threw a rope to hook into her
mind but instead, she grabs it and lets it recoil with her attached to the end.
Flung into his mind, she lands somewhere she doesn’t recognize.
“Fuck!”
Draco claps his hand over his eye, blood pouring from beneath his palm and down his cheek
like tears. He stumbles back from a cauldron, knocking things over as he does so in a dark
room.
Hermione rushes to glance around, to absorb her surroundings but because Draco isn’t
looking at any of it, she can’t make out more than blurs in textbooks and the corners of the
small space.
Just as violently as she fell in, she’s shoved back out. Draco stands panting before her, his fag
burning on the ground where he seems to have dropped it.
“Is that what happened to your eye?” She gasps, bracing a hand against a tree.
A muscle feathers in his jaw. “Try and get back in. Find out.”
Growling, they go again. All night she tries to find the story of his strange white eye, but she
never makes it back inside his head. Unfortunately, he makes it into hers rather frequently but
while she doesn’t have an aptitude for keeping him out, she does for providing false
memories.
The assault continues until her head feels like it’s going to roll right off her shoulders and
when the sun comes up, she stumbles back against a tree, utterly exhausted.
Before she can slide down it, Draco is there, cradling her elbows. “Time for bed.”
He takes her back in silence, and if it wasn’t for his hands on her body, she doubts she would
make it.
Harry is on watch when she sources the edges of her wards, and he scowls at the site of them.
“That’s where you’ve been all night? With him?”
“Leave it out, Potter.”
“Don’t talk for Hermione. Why are you both in such a state? And what the fuck happened to
your eye?”
“I was practicing Occlumency to get Hufflepuff’s cup.” Hermione mutters bitterly, her aches
and pains worse as she remembers her parting words with Harry. “What were you doing,
huh? Fantasizing about Hallows?”
Face flushing, he looks back into the tent before advancing closer to them. “You can’t just
run off with him whenever it gets hard here, Hermione! We were worried sick; you’ve been
gone all night!”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been gone all night, Harry!” She responds nastily, her brain
threatening to leak out of her ears with the pressure. “It just seems to be the first time you’ve
ever noticed!”
Harry looks hurt, and Draco looks mildly intrigued glancing between them.
“As much as I’d love to stay and watch you bicker, I need to get back.”
Turning his attention to Draco, Harry demands, “What’s going on with the cup? Are you even
being useful?”
Rolling his eyes, Draco releases Hermione with a parting drift of his fingers down her
shoulder. “Kreacher won’t go to Bellatrix on my say so, because he answers to my mother,
and no, Potter, I’m not involving her.”
“I never said you could anyway.”
“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Scar head.”
“Both of you shut up,” she bites out, cradling her forehead. “My head is going to explode.”
“Yeah, Malfoy, thought you needed to get back?”
Draco sneers at Harry and then her in turn, as if she’s let him down. It infuriates her, being as
he’s just put her through a night of hell. Without another word, he Disapparates away. Harry’s
lips part to talk to her, pushing forth the first syllables of her name, but she shoulders past
him and into the tent, officially at her limit with all of the men in her life.
Part One: April '98
Chapter Notes
Happy one year anniversary of this fic!
I can't believe I'm still writing it a year later. What a beautiful monster it became. Of
course my first foray into Dramione, I had to crash hard.
Thank you for all your kudos, wonderful comments and bookmarks. They make it all
worth it.
“Well, I thought about what you said, ‘Mione and you were right. Y’know, about keeping our
mind strong in case we’re caught. I mean, course you’re right, it’s you.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, stirring the stew she’s currently cooking so the scent of beef stock
washes under her nose. It’s nothing like the stew her mum used to make, choked with fatty
meat and left to simmer for days. This has a few stolen and foraged vegetables and has been
cooking for a couple of hours. It’s really more of a broth.
Even so, it smells delightful, and beggars can’t be choosers and they’re starting to hit the
beggars' part of this hunt. She finds herself smiling at Ron’s words, despite her initial eye
roll. When she was younger, she craved him saying lovely things to her all the time. Sweet
nothings and thoughtful compliments.
Now she craves spiteful barbs; nasty sneers she kisses away. That white eye of Draco’s
lingers in her mind, the reason for it never explained to or figured out by her. His hand
covering her mouth. His body underneath hers.
Mine. You’re all fucking mine, Hermione. You know that don’t you? Gods. Tell me you know
it, Hermione.
“So, you were practicing then?” Her voice lifts slightly, nearly betraying her wayward
thoughts.
Ron grins toothily when she glances over at him, trying to wash away Draco’s face. “Yep,
every day that I was gone.”
“Good, that’s good, Ron.” She sprinkles the little bit of salt she’s got to hand into the pot.
“Let’s go again then.”
Blowing out a breath, in her peripheral vision, his eyelashes flutter closed before opening
again. “Okay, go.”
Glancing over her shoulder, so they make direct eye contact, she takes her wand off the side
and slices into his mind. It parts like a flimsy piece of tissue paper after so many hours at it,
his defenses weak. Up until now, he’s fared well, proving his proclaimed practice. The last
couple of nights spring forth, and they all involve her.
Curling up in the armchair reading, Ron stroking his thumb over the stitches on her head. She
pulls back from these, feeling Ron squirming and trying to push her away. She knows she’s
going easy on him. The discomfort might make him fight harder, but he’s never done well
under pressure.
She diverts to after he left them instead, to when the Snatchers took him, and then nights
alone.
Lying on his back in bed, one hand moves in the shadows on the wall, and his wrist twists.
His head tilts back, his lips parting and the flame of a candle dances over the space between
his legs where his hand works. “Hermione.”
She yanks out of his head so fast she nearly falls over. “Fuck, sorry!”
Face nearly matching his hair, Ron glances anywhere but her, panting shallowly. “N-no, I’m-
fuck. No, I’m sorry. I should be trying harder.”
Swallowing, she focuses on the stew, and shakily puts her wand back down, so that she
doesn’t have to look at him. “You’ll get it. You’re doing your best.”
They fall into an awkward silence. The stew should really be left to simmer, but she doesn’t
want to move past him or look away from it, so she picks the wooden spoon back up and
keeps stirring.
“Hermione…”
Oh, no.
“Can we talk about it? Please?”
Sighing, she turns down the heat, places the spoon back down, and then joins him at the
picnic table. She meets his eyes, even though it makes her stomach squirm. Ron’s face is still
blazing red, but he has enough confidence it seems to hold her eye contact too.
He plays with his freckled hands, twisting his fingers. “That night… erm, did it… y’know,
mean anything to you?”
Hermione fights the squirming in her belly when all she can think about is the nights with
Draco, barely recalling her first and only time with Ron.
“It did… once,” she murmurs gently. She’s not always delicate with Ron, but this feels too
personal to be mean. “I spent a long time thinking that maybe, you and me…”
“But not anymore?” He whispers back, his eyes now dropping to his hands. “Because I left,
right?”
“No, not because of that,” she disagrees, clearing her throat. “Before that. I just- did it not
feel strange to you? That night? Like crossing a line that shouldn’t have been crossed?”
Ron scrunches his brow and slowly shakes his head. “No. I- blimey, Hermione, I still think
about it all the time. You kinda saw that.”
“Oh.” She flushes, feeling guilt strangling her throat.
She never thinks about it.
“I’m sorry, Ron. I should have let you talk when you tried before. I know I’ve been shutting
you out.”
He chews lightly on his bottom lip before posing, “Why have you been?”
Hermione’s lips part, struggling over an answer. A throat clears, and she startles, pulling
away where she is leaning towards Ron to whisper.
Harry paces into the tent, letting in the cool breeze as he shifts the tent flaps. “Sorry, didn’t
mean to interrupt.”
Jumping up, she heads back to the stew and at once retakes the spoon to stir. “You weren’t. I
was about to dish up actually.”
After dinner, Harry corners her while Ron takes watch. “What are you playing at? Are you
giving him false hope now?”
“What?”
She glances up from the bowls she’s washing up, doing it the Muggle way in a habit that
reminds her of home. The hot bubbles are soothing on the skin of her hands, warming her
down to her toes.
“Ron.” Harry lowers his voice, folding his arms. “Are you leading him on?”
Frowning, she pulls a soapy dish free to drain. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, we
were just talking about something.”
“I know you two slept together, ‘Mione.” Harry’s neck flushes red, but he goes on. “You
don’t think Ron was going to tell me that? He lost his virginity, and to you no less, he was
over the moon.”
Hermione blushes, refusing to look at Harry as she scrubs another bowl and basks for a
moment in the lemon scent of washing-up liquid.
Finally, she mutters, “He didn’t have the right to tell anybody.”
“Yeah well, we don’t all have secret outlets. Me and him, we’ve only got each other.”
Her wrists pull free of the water, and she bangs them against the side, pinning him with her
furious gaze.
“Don’t I bloody know it!” She spits, her fingers gripping the sink. “You’ve been positively
fucking skipping since Ron came back. Your mood was foul the whole time we were alone.”
Harry’s green eyes sharpen, and he steps closer, his warm and spicy scent invading her space.
“You think maybe that was the fact that I was still wearing the bloody Horcrux? You weren’t
all sunshine and rainbows with it on either.”
“You’re right,” she agrees, lowering her voice and shoving her hands back into the hot water
to grip a spoon. “But will you give it a rest with the jabs? It’s not like Ginny didn’t rush to
tell me how you two fucked in the Room of Hidden Things.”
Harry’s teeth clack together, he shuts his mouth so quickly and there’s no Horcrux to blame
her vicious satisfaction on anymore, but she feels it anyway.
She takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly and placing the clean spoon on the side. “Look, I
know you hate Draco, okay? But it just happened. It just is.”
“I don’t care what it is, Hermione. I don’t even care that it’s Malfoy.” Harry sighs and takes
his glasses off to rub at his eyes. “What I care about is that you’re doing darker things in the
name of this war, but only since Malfoy has been around. Do you think that’s a coincidence?
She scoffs, her hands digging for something else to wash up and sourcing a plate. “Harry, I
trapped a woman I hate in a jar as a bug. I scarred a classmate forever. I set Snape on fire. I
wouldn’t say I’ve suddenly developed a malevolent streak.”
Harry purses his lips a moment and then changes tact, finding no room to argue. “My best
friend is hopelessly in love with you, yet I’m keeping the truth of why you’ll never love him
back from him.”
She purses her lips with displeasure, her hands now resting idly in the warm water. “I haven’t
explicitly asked you to do that.”
“Yeah, well,” his voice softens, and he sounds tired; his hip slouching against the counter.
“You’re my best friend too, aren’t you?”
Her heart warms and her throat clogs. “Harry…”
Sighing, he straightens and moves to take a seat at the picnic table. “Will you try? Just- will
you just try and tell me what it is about Malfoy? I genuinely want to know.”
Hermione pulls her wet hands free again to turn and give him her full attention. “I don’t
really know myself, Harry.”
She thinks about her realization the other night, about dark and darker.
“All I know is that sometimes I think…” Hesitating at his curious eyes, she swallows and
surges on. “I think that I’m a lot more like Draco than I wanted to see before, and definitely
more than anyone else would want to see.”
Harry’s head rears back like she’s hit him. “Hermione, how can you say that? You’re my best
friend. I’ve known you since we were children! You’re nothing like him! You’re not- not
hateful or spiteful or-”
“Aren’t I?” She challenges her throat tight as shame clutches at her. “Do you think I haven’t
had hate for a world that hated me first? Do you think Muggle-borns can just walk into this
life, and go through as much hate as we do, not developing some kind of resentment?”
“I-” He falters, looking genuinely flummoxed at the question like he’s never considered it. “Is
that what you feel? Resentment for the wizarding world?”
“Sometimes, yes,” she admits, coming to take a seat opposite him on the table. Harry pivots
to face her, his eyes concerned. “I’ve hidden the worst of it from you and Ron for a long time,
Harry.”
“Surely some of the worst of it came from Malfoy himself.”
“Yes, at times.” She nods. “But I’ve been cornered in toilets. Pushed downstairs. Cursed,
hexed, and hurt way more than I’ve ever expressed. And it’s not just the bullying, the bigotry.
It’s the lack of knowledge, it’s the things I missed out on. Magic from a toddler, toy brooms,
floating lanterns at Halloween. Stories those with magic have that I never will. I know you at
least understand that part.”
The corners of Harry’s mouth turn down. “Why didn’t you tell us any of this? Why did you
suffer in silence, and alone? As if you didn’t matter? As if we wouldn’t care?”
She laughs without joy, something that has lain dormant and bitter in her chest. “I know you
understand missing out too, but you’re still Harry Potter. You’ll never truly know what it’s
like to be me, to be Muggle-born.”
“That’s not fair,” he bites out, his jaw clenching. “I know abuse, Hermione. I know hate.”
“You’re right, of course, but do you know being a woman? Do you know being black? Do
you know what it’s like to face multiple prejudices at once? Racism? Sexism?” When he says
nothing, she spitefully prompts, “Well? Do you?”
“No,” he whispers, much softer and his hand reaches out to clasp hers. “No, Hermione I
don’t.”
Tears bite at her throat and the backs of her eyes. “Why do you think I worked so bloody
hard? Studied so hard? I can’t just walk into places with my blood status, or my Sacred
Twenty-Eight name, or my gender, or my wealth. I have none of those things, Harry. Not one.
I didn’t have the same opportunities waiting for me that you and Ron did. I mean, after the
war who knows? It might change everything; it might change nothing.”
“It will,” Harry declares fiercely, squeezing her hand. “I promise it will.”
“To answer your question, yes. Yes, I am resentful. I am angry, and it has built inside me.”
It’s like she’s realizing it as she’s saying it, the words so right. “So, me and Draco are similar,
whether anyone likes it or not. We’re both bitter, for our own reasons. And I’m sorry if that
makes you uncomfortable, I’m sorry if I’ve let you down but all I’ve ever done is be your
friend and love you.”
She squeezes his hand back, letting the tears come, her throat achy. “I’ve stuck by your side,
and I’m still doing that now. Please remember I’m your best friend, and that you love me
too.”
Harry squeezes her fingers back, and her blurry vision finds his anguished face. “I’ve never
forgotten. You’re the sister I never had. I care about you deeply, so deeply I don’t want to see
you get hurt. I don’t want to see you be treated the way Malfoy treated you when we were
kids. I don’t want to see the way he grabbed you.”
Swallowing away the rise of embarrassment and brushing at her useless tears, Hermione
sniffs. “I’m sorry Harry, but that part is just none of your business. I know you mean well,
but trust that I’m big enough to look after myself. Please?”
Harry nods slowly, still looking dubious. “Alright, I won’t say any more about it. You’re
right, it’s your business and I’ll keep my nose out.”
“Thank you,” she whispers with a wobbly smile.
Smiling back, he clears his throat and leans back. “Right then, I want to practice some
Occlumency. I’ve heard you and Ron at it for days and you can’t keep avoiding me.”
Laughing, she releases his hand and stands from the table. “Okay, let me just finish the
washing up.”
“No, I’ll do it,” he insists, jumping up himself. “You cooked. Me and Ron need to pull our
heads out of our arses. It’s not right to expect the only woman to do all the cooking and
cleaning.”
“Well said,” she teases if only to cover the blossoming warmth of love for her best friend
hitching her breath.
Harry laughs but then his mouth thins as his hands disappear into the bubbly water, suds
clinging to his forearms. “I won’t pry, really... But... well, I think you should know if he still
has the same beliefs. Malfoy, that is. I think you should know. Right?”
Hermione’s stomach swoops. She’s been thinking about this herself and hearing it aloud from
her best friend only cements it. Even so, she only hums noncommittally.
“Salazar, Granger. Are you even eating?” Draco eyes her ribs with worry tightening his
mouth, the sides turning down.
Hermione blushes and yanks her top back down to cover herself. “Don’t.”
He tuts, attempting to grab the edges and pull it back up. She squirms beneath him, fighting
him. A warmth blooms from her face down into her chest when he won’t acquiesce, and she
hits his shoulder sharply where she’s lying beneath him on the cottage bed.
“Circe!” She gasps.
Draco freezes and pulls back so quickly that it’s like he’s been yanked by an invisible force.
He pants slightly, poised on his knees. Hermione scoots back onto her bum so her spine is
pressed to the headboard.
“What’s going on?”
She swallows. “I-”
Thinking back on Harry’s words earlier today, she tries to open her mouth but once again
nothing comes.
After watching this for a moment, Draco prompts, “Hermione?”
Her throat tightens and she squeezes her words through it. “Do you still think it? When you
look at me, I mean.”
Draco’s head cocks to the side, his still mismatched eyes sliding over her face. “Think what?”
“That I’m- beneath you. Lesser than you. That I’m a Mudblood.”
He sucks in a sharp breath and holds, his chest unmoving. “What?”
“Do you?”
“What kind of question is that? After all-”
“Do you?” She repeats through her teeth.
His face smooths over and his eyes become glassy. “No.”
“No?”
“No, of course not.”
“'Of course, not’?” She folds her arms over her chest and brings her knees up. “You say it like
you’re offended. Like you have a right to be.”
He pushes back from the bed, standing at the end of it to retrieve his pack of cigarettes.
“Where is this coming from?”
“We should talk about it, shouldn’t we?” She deflects, looping her arms over her knees and
hugging herself tightly.
He lights a fag, inhales, and exhales before he answers. “I suppose.”

“Suppose? Have some fucking spine, Malfoy.”
His gaze sharpens along with his spine, and he slips his free hand into his trouser pocket.
“Yes, we should fucking talk about me being a bigoted prat most my life.”
“Good! So, talk.”
“What? You want apologies?” He pauses to take a drag, squinting against the smoke rising in
his eye. “If you’re still asking if I think the word, then you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“I just need to know.” She glances at her knees, picking at her fraying jeans. “You said – you
said I was yours, and you were mine. I need to know what that means. Your plaything? Your
little Mudblood toy?”
“Don’t say that,” he hisses, expelling grey-tinged smoke like a dragon. “You’re not that.”
“Good.” She tilts her chin up, forcing her face to remain unchanging. “I would never allow
that.”
This tugs his lip up into soft amusement around his cigarette. “I know.”
“Good,” she repeats, flushing.
“So... what?” He takes another hearty drag. “Is this the ‘what are we’ conversation?”
“No.” She shakes her head, letting her gaze drift to the wall beside Draco’s platinum head.
“No, not in the middle of a war, there’s no such luxuries as those conversations. But your
prejudices, your beliefs... those are very prevalent in the war. I know you chose our side, but-
well, that was for Narcissa. Not yourself.”
“Not because I changed,” he summarizes, smoking his fag down to the filter.
She nods, confirming it but saying nothing more.
“Do you want me to say I've changed? Do you want me to say I’m an innocent angel with
only pure thoughts?”
“No, I don’t want to be lied to.”
He snorts and finishes his fag, moving to the windowsill and pulling the billowing net aside
to dash it through the open-top window.
“I’m not innocent.” He turns and props himself against the sill, his hands reaching behind
himself to hold the ledge. “I still think like a bigot sometimes. But- I do correct myself.”
“Your second thought is the most important,” she informs him, releasing her legs to stretch
them out. “First thoughts are what you’ve always known, and seconds are yours.”
He only hums. “Why are you asking me this now? After all we’ve done?”
“Sex is sex,” she dismisses. “But you don’t get to call me yours and then still label me
Mudblood in your head.”
“I don’t,” he shoots back fiercely.
“Good. Now come back to bed.”
“That’s it?" He laughs, using his hands to talk further. "You don’t want grand, sweeping
declarations of how good I can be? How I’ll be better when the war is won? Free House
Elves and the like?”
“No.”
She thinks to leave it at that, and perhaps Draco believes so too because he nods, climbing
back on the bed. He lays on his back and places his hand on her waist, pulling her closer. She
allows him to, shifting her knee so it lies across his stomach. Her fingers rest against his
chest, and she strokes them down his jumper.
“This war is changing me, Draco,” she confesses in a whisper.
A brush of his hair on the pillow indicates he’s looking down at her, but she doesn’t take her
eyes off her fingers.
“Unlike you, I don’t think it’s for the better.”
Draco doesn’t say anything, and she plunges on. “I- I don’t know who I’ll be after- if there’s
an after. I know who I am now, and what matters. Harry, Ron... you... you’re all I can see, all
I can focus on. I need to know that when I lie here like this, in your arms, I have the same
confidence of your respect for me that I have for the other two.”
“I hear you, Granger.”
“Good.”
Despite forming a tentative truce that afternoon washing up, the lessons that she and Harry
partake in for the next couple of days steal all sense of comradeship once more.
Hermione growls, throwing her hands up. “You’re not even trying!”
“You sound just like Snape did!” Harry's jaw clenches and he paces in front of the fire, where
they are sitting and practicing. The sweat pouring down his head, however, is from the
exertion of the spellwork. “I can’t help it! I can’t do it!”
“Yes, you can!” She storms over to the opposite side of the tent, lest she wring his neck.
“Everyone can! It just takes practice! I’ve been at it since we left Hogwarts!”
“Yeah, well,” his green eyes flash. “We don’t all have secrets to keep, Hermione!”
Ron enters the tent from a watch, looking worried. “What secrets? And why are you
screaming at each other?”
“Fuck you!” She shouts at Harry, ignoring Ron; eyes brimming with tears. “You know what
I’ve done to be here! What I’ve given up!”
She paces to the bunk, yanking on her boots. “My parents, my home. I don’t need to be here;
do you realize that?! I could have swanned off with my parents.” She throws her arms out,
storming past him in a whirlwind. “I could have packed us all off and kept them protected. I
could have charmed and warded their home for the rest of our lives and fed them. But I’m
here doing it for you! I’m doing it for the war! So, fuck you!”
“Hermione-”
“Let her go, mate,” Ron mutters as she rushes out of the tent.
Her eyes are blind with tears, there’s only one place she wants to be, and that’s with Draco.
She hasn’t mastered summoning him and she doesn’t know where the cabin is, having side-
alonged. Despite this, she keeps her eyes closed and calls out to him with her very core and
sheer force of will.
Within the next breath, she’s Apparating and finds herself landing on what she thinks is the
sofa in Draco’s cabin, having toppled off her feet. Her head swims, her vision woozy and she
has to take a moment before she can sit up and see straight. Once she can, she clambers to her
feet, clutching at furniture to get around in the dark.
Pulling her wand free, she mutters, “Lumos.”
The light at the end of her wand brings her to the lamp, which she flicks on. The golden glow
bathes the room, showing her it’s empty.
“Nox... Draco?”
It’s dangerous to be here. She has no idea if Draco is the only one who uses this place. She
has no idea if she’s tripped some kind of ward. She hasn’t heard from him in days, and he
was trying to find a way to the cup. If Draco got caught up in danger, he could be having this
location tortured out of him right now. The thought of him hurt makes her chin wobble.
“Draco?” She tries again, and her voice is tight and strained.
She continues gingerly exploring the cabin, but soon finds due to its small size that it’s empty
of anyone, let alone Draco. Sinking onto the bed, she pulls her hand over the cover and
discovers herself sobbing. For the first time since Dolohov, she allows tears to wrench out of
her and noises she wouldn’t dare let the boys hear.
She misses her parents, Crookshanks, and her childhood home. She misses feeling safe and
truly clean. She misses Hogwarts and her lessons, her teachers. She misses her only stressors
being her schoolwork or her exams. She misses the comfort of the library, the quiet nights of
peace in there. She misses tea at Hagrid’s, and Hagrid himself.
Unsure of how long she stays in such a state of grief and loneliness, she curls up on the bed
urgently trying to summon Draco to no avail. By the time she’s given up, her tears have run
dry, her face is puffy and her throat sore. She thinks about letting herself bathe and stay the
night in hopes that Draco will track her here.
You can’t just run off with him whenever it gets hard here, Hermione!
Harry was right to say that to her. She can’t just keep disappearing on them and being selfish.
Sighing, she permits herself further delay in the bathroom to scrub her face. It’s
excruciatingly clear that she’s been crying but if she stays away any longer, she may give
Harry and Ron heart attacks.
Apparating back to the tent entrance, she nearly topples right over again at Draco standing
there.
“Gods, Draco! Where were you? I went to the cabin, I was-” Before she can say ‘worried
sick’, she takes in the look on his face. She swallows, her heart crashing hard against her
ribcage. “Who is it? Who did we lose?”
Draco doesn’t answer. He continues to stare at her instead with two grey eyes. He must have
corrected whatever gave him the frightening white one. His gaze is glassy, despite being
normal again and he’s clearly Occluding. Frustrated with his silence and wound tight,
Hermione whacks his shoulder.
“Who. Is. It?” She whisper-hisses through punches.
Face staying numb and cold, he calmly takes her wrist and very tightly squeezes it into
stillness. “My mother, Granger. It’s my mother.”
“What?” She gasps, freezing up. “No… what? How? What happened? Is it Grimmauld? Is it
infiltrated?”
“Your precious fucking Order is safe,” Draco spits, squeezing her wrist so hard the bones
grind and she openly winces.
He squints down at it in his hand and then methodically releases it finger by finger as if only
just seeing it.
“I’m- Draco, I’m so sorry. Who- what- was it?”
A twisted, ugly, and unamused smile wrings his lips. “Heartbreak.”
Barely giving her time to digest this, he goes on. “She’s been wasting away for a while. She
died of a broken fucking heart because I told her to switch sides and sacrifice the love of her
life. I made her choose me, and I ultimately killed her trying to save her.”
“No, you didn’t,” Hermione defends fiercely, reaching for his face and keeping in the gasp at
his sharp jerk away from her.
“I’m going overseas.”

Hermione blinks as the words sluggishly penetrate her brain. “What on ea-”
The fixed look in Draco’s eye only grows as he stares over her head. “It’s for the best, really.”
“Draco? Why are you saying this?” It seems a ridiculous question, but her brain can’t wrap
around what he’s telling her, and her heart can’t take the cracks running through it.
His jaw clenches, so quickly she almost misses it. “You were just an assignment, Granger. I
completed it. Kingsley’s gone, my mother’s gone, there’s no reason to stay.”
“You’re lying. You said you couldn’t lose me either. You said I was yours.” When he says
nothing, her voice rises into hysterics, uncaring of waking the boys now. “You’re lying, I
know you are! Don’t do this! We need you! We need Bellatrix’s hair! It all falls apart without
you!”
He sniffs, still refusing to look at her. “You’ll manage.”
“I need you!” She tries desperately, grabbing at him; sure, that if their skin touches, he’ll
understand, that he’ll come around. “Draco, I’ll fall apart without you! Please! You said you
were mine! I-” Tears bleed down her hot cheeks and her throat grows itchy and tight.
“Draco, I love you!”
He stirs, something in his eyes shifting and he glances down at her.
Hope rises in her chest.
Draco swiftly dashes it away.
“What did you love, Granger? Having someone to prod for news? Sending me on my merry
little tasks? Or was it being screwed on your hands and knees in the dirt like a filthy fucking
Mudblood deserves?”
She stumbles back, releasing his skin as it physically burns her. A sharp spike drives into her
chest, down through the layers of her skin, through her muscles, and into her heart. It lodges
there, a giant splinter, stealing her speech. All she can do is let tears pour down her face while
Draco Malfoy once more rips her to shreds.
Worse still, this time, she gave him all the ammunition. No words come, but wounded sounds
escape her lips, pathetic and broken. For the longest moment, he looks at her and then shakes
his head, as if he can’t believe the state she is in.
Voice coated in dismissal, he orders, “That favor I’ve yet to cash in on? Don’t try to summon
me. I’ll have the Trace off you within the day. Goodbye, Granger.”
Draco Malfoy, the man she didn’t mean to fall in love with but did anyway, takes her heart
and Disapparates with it before her eyes. Hermione falls to her knees, her chest heaving as air
struggles into her lungs. She gasps brokenly, sure she’s having a panic attack, cheeks soaked
with streaming tears as she claws for oxygen.
Rustling from the tent entrance lurches her head up and Harry looks down at her with round
eyes, falling to his knees. “Hermione? What-? Malfoy asked me to make sure Ron stayed
asleep for ten minutes. I told him you’d left. I was on watch when he- never mind. What the
hell is going on?”
Harry wraps his arms around her, rubbing at her back, and tries to encourage her to breathe.
Hermione does her level best to take in steady streams of cold, night air and even manages to
stop crying until she has to say out loud what just happened to her.
What she just endured.
“We’ve lost him, Harry…” She hiccups a wet breath, snot streaming from her nose
unchecked.
“I’ve lost him.” A wail breaks free at the admittance.
Harry only sighs, cradling her to his chest and rocking them on the ground.
Hermione reaches out internally. Draco, please! I love you, please!
No answer comes and Hermione is left with only the pain in her heart and her best friend’s
arms trying to hold her broken pieces together.
Part One: April '98 - May '98
Chapter Notes
Hey all.
This an early update for you because of all your wonderful and inspiring comments, and
a little note of the story's progress so far. As mentioned, this was just meant to be a
smutty one shot and then it grew into this monster of a thing, as you can see from the
word count.
I found that like Deathly Hallows itself, my fic has naturally fallen into Part One and
Part Two. I can tell you with certainty that Part One goes up to Chapter 22 and then
Chapter 23 will be the start of Part Two. I've got a lot planned for the second half of this
fic, so you can almost see it as a sequel but it will continue to be updated to Close
Encounters, rather than a separate fic but there will be a larger wait between the delivery
of Part Two after the end of Part One. (Chapter 22)
With that, enjoy!
The following morning, Hermione peels apart her gritty and uncooperative eyelids. For the
briefest, most beautiful moment, nothing is wrong. She is only Hermione Granger, waking
from a night of sleep. Then her stomach tightens sharply, and the reminder of her new life
trickles into her consciousness.
On the run in the tent, hunting for Horcruxes, and last night, left heartbroken by Draco
Malfoy.
Despite sleeping, her nose feels stuffy, and her chest is tight. When she finally finds the will
to remove herself from the bunk, Harry attempts compassion, despite their blazing row the
previous evening. Things have been strained with Harry since he saw her kill Yaxley, only
growing more tense as her secrets have appeared. The problem is, she hasn’t the strength to
try and save their fraying friendship. Maybe that should scare her more, losing him, her best
friend but she feels like a wounded dog that wants no one near it.
She hears him telling Ron she’s on her period, which shuts down Ron’s well-meaning, but
irritating inquiry into her silence. Funny, she actually is, which helps her mood none as her
stomach cramps. They pack up the tent by mid-morning and move on through a dreary
shower of rain.
The downpour, apt for Hermione’s turbulent emotions, follows them to the coast, where they
pitch the tent that evening. The torrent persists through the whole week that they stay there,
bleak and depressing. Anyone would think it a struggle to find motivation in the gloom, but
her focus is even tighter on the Horcruxes than ever before.
What else is there to focus on now? There are no more close encounters with Draco, no more
secrets or guilt to harbor.
No more distractions.
That’s all he was, she reminds herself over and over, fixating over parchment and books, a
distraction.
Throughout the week, Hermione talks to the boys only when she needs to, which is to say
next to not at all. It brings to light how much research and planning she does all on her own.
With her discontinuing the Occlumency lessons, only partaking in the practice alone, Harry’s
mind appears to have completely left them.
Although he tries his best to pretend otherwise, he’s back to being neurotic over the Deathly
Hallows. Ron, across the next few days, shares persistent doubts, not quite so taken as he was
originally by Harry’s theories. Despite this, it’s as if she can see the physical yearning for the
Hallows on Harry’s face as each day comes and goes.
If Hermione had even a quarter of her heart spare, if she had anything at all that wasn’t
charred and torn, she’d care more. Instead, she knuckles down and lets Harry live in his own
world. She always knew it was her who was going to do this. The prophecy tells them:
neither can live while the other survives.
While she’s not all that keen on prophecies, or Divination, she does believe it. Harry can’t
live with Voldemort alive, always hunting him, and Voldemort can’t live full stop. All
Hermione has to do is make sure that she weakens Voldemort as much as she possibly can. If
that means that she has to single-handedly finish this Horcrux hunt, then so be it.
One night, Harry dares to tell her, “You’re obsessed, Hermione! Take a break! I mean, at least
just have a shower!”
“Obsessed?” Hermione clenches her quill in her aching fingers and peers up beneath her
itching eyelids. “I’m not the one with a fucking obsession, Harry. I’m trying to finish what
Dumbledore started. What you started. If you want to let the Hallows consume you, then do,
but don’t you dare tell me I’m obsessed with trying to finish this.”
Her words do nothing to him, harmlessly bouncing off his thick skull. Another week creeps
on in this awful atmosphere, and Hermione notes that Ron seems to be taking charge. He sits
steadfast at her side most of the time, and the pair of them pour over research.
Sometimes, working so closely together, Hermione studies Ron; remembering that peak into
his head, his private moments.
I think about it all the time.

It usually comes after he forces a smile out of her or says something useful that she didn’t
expect. In these observations, she takes the time to wonder if she can settle. Can she just be
happy with him? Someone who annoys her slightly, yes but ultimately brings her familiarity
and comfort.
Not the sizzling Firewhisky that Draco is, but a warm Butterbeer in the evening instead.
Besides, it’s not as if Draco doesn’t annoy her endlessly, but it feels different to when Ron
irritates her. Draco’s is passionate, while Ron’s is exasperating. When Draco gets on her
nerves, she wants to rip his clothes off.
When Ron gets on her nerves, she wants to run away from him for hours at a time. Thinking
of Draco hurts, and is something she presciently strives not to do. Despite it all, she worries
about him: about how he is and what he’s doing. With Narcissa gone, what’s his purpose?
What is he living and fighting for if anything?
She thinks of the dead look in his eye on Grimmauld Place’s roof and shudders. He’s torn her
in two, there’s no denying that but she can’t go on lying to herself. She loves him. She’s
worrying about him, and she misses him most pathetically. While she agonizes over these
thoughts beside Ron, Harry engages eagerly with the Snitch.
He’s of the firm belief that it holds the Resurrection Stone and that the touch memory
equation to opening the Snitch comes from his mouth. Being as it’s the first Snitch he ever
caught in Quidditch, it’s the one he near enough choked on. By all rights, the Snitch, if it
even can open, should do so with the touch of his lips.
Therefore, he consistently murmurs to it and near enough snogs it daily. Hermione has given
up with the I told you so looks every time it fails to do so and leaves him to his
disappointment. She’s hoping that at some point, the mounting frustration of it all will kick
in, and he’ll give up this ridiculous idea.
“Three Horcruxes left,” Ron says now. “I know Harry said Hufflepuff’s cup is in Lestrange’s
vault, but I can’t think how to get that.”
Hermione hides her grimace. They made some bullshit theory up about discovering this when
he was gone. She realizes that while she no longer keeps secrets from Harry, her lies to Ron
are mounting.
“The snake,” Ron cuts into her thoughts, running his hand through his hair. “That has to be
last, surely? So, it leaves the mystery one, the one you think is Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost
Diadem, yeah?”
Hermione nods. “I’ve been looking into it, and the timeline matches.”
Ron nods back. “Great, then we just need to go bigger. We keep thinking of places important
to him, but it might be time to just throw the net out, yeah? Every place he’s ever lived,
worked, visited, or murdered I think, ‘Mione. Maybe even places that meant something to
Rowena?”
Nodding, Hermione turns over her parchment and scratches out columns, heading them lived,
worked, visited, murdered, and then RR.
“I erm-” She glances up to find him watching her avidly. “I really like your hair like this,
don’t think I’ve said.”
The flash of pain hits, quick as lightning, remembering Draco stroking her head. They stare at
each other for a long moment, her and Ron, before she pulls herself from this memory. Her
heart trips when his eyes drop to her mouth, misreading her stare.
Running her hand over her stitch braids, she smiles politely and darts her eyes away. They’re
getting out of hand and frizzy now with regrow but it’s a nice comment all the same.
“Thanks, Ron.”
Within the week that follows Ron’s suggestion to branch out, he insists on journeying to ever
more unlikely places. “You never know,” is his constant refrain. “Upper Flagley is a
Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to live there. Let’s just go and have a poke around.”
Hermione must give it to him; he’s truly stepping up to the plate and doing a hell of a lot
more than Harry right now. Not to mention keeping her busy and the hunt going when
they’ve essentially hit a dead end in their search.
The only downside to the frequent forays into Wizarding territory is that it brings them into
close encounters with Snatchers.
“Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters,” Ron tells her as they escape
another run-in and get back to the tent in one piece. “The lot that got me were a bit pathetic,
but Bill reckons some of them are dangerous. They said on Potterwatch-”
“On what?” Harry speaks up, his voice rough with disuse after barely interacting with them
this week.
“Potterwatch,” Ron repeats, taking off, and shaking the rain from, his coat. “Didn’t I tell you
that’s what it’s called? The program I keep trying to get on the wireless, the only one that
tells the truth. Nearly all the programs are following Tom’s line, except Potterwatch. I really
want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in.”
Demonstrating this, Ron spends the evening and the rest of the week using his wand to beat
out various rhythms on top of the wireless. Occasional snatches of advice on treating
dragonpox, and a few bars of ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love’ get through, but not the
program he’s after. Whilst tapping, he mutters strings of random words under his breath.
Every evening he tells them, “They’re normally something to do with the Order. Bill had a
real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end.”
Not until a whole month of Draco leaving Hermione passes, does luck favor Ron at last.
“I’ve got it!” He crows, making Hermione jump out of her skin in the armchair. “Password
was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry.”
Harry comes in from the outside while Hermione sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes.
She’s spent the day taking her braids out, and washing her hair, and only just dozed off. Harry
almost looks interested as he kneels on the floor beside the radio with Ron.
Hermione stays put in the armchair, fighting the urge to fall back to sleep.
Until a familiar voice filters through the tiny speakers, forcing her eyes open and her body
upright. “… apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a
number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”
“Gods, that’s Lee Jordan,” Hermione announces unnecessarily, warmed to her core to hear
someone else’s voice after so long.
Ron beams at her from the floor. “I know! Cool, eh?”
“… now found ourselves another secure location,” she catches Lee saying. “And I’m pleased
to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening,
boys!”
“Hi.”
“Evening, River.”
“'River’, that’s Lee,” Ron explains needlessly. “They’ve all got code names, but you can
usually tell-”
“Shh.” Hermione stands from the armchair now to join the boys on the floor.
It occurs to her that Potterwatch may supply news of Draco as well as home, and she can’t
miss a word.
“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee goes on, “let’s take a moment to report
those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think
important enough to mention.”
Throat growing dry, Hermione holds her breath in preparation.
“It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the deaths of Dirk Cresswell and
Narcissa Malfoy-”
“Blimey!” Ron hunches forward and then later grunts as Hermione elbows him.
She eagerly leans closer to the radio too, near swamping it and strains for what she missed. “-
Husband’s death last June. Their only child Draco Malfoy’s whereabouts are unknown
following his one sighting last Saturday the 9th, in London where it’s said that he narrowly
escaped an Avada sent by his beloved aunt Bellatrix Lestrange. We hope here at Potterwatch
that Draco is... okay.”
She sinks back on her heels and takes a shaky breath, ignoring Ron’s suspicious glance her
way as he rubs sulkily at his ribs. The hesitation for Draco's well-being comes from the
unease of his allegiance, Hermione knows. She never really thought of it before, so absorbed
with what he did for the Order. Very few would know he was working so directly with them,
she's sure. Only a handful of people had even known he'd turned to the Order by default with
Narcissa. Most probably thought they'd run off somewhere abroad, or even stuck to the Death
Eaters quietly. Hermione shoves all these thoughts away, her pulse still thrumming from
unspent adrenaline.
Draco’s still here.
He’s in the UK, not overseas like he told her and apparently having run-ins with his aunt.
What is he doing? Is he still working on Hufflepuff’s cup? If he is, why is he avoiding her?
Why has he maimed her so brutally? Harry at her right reaches out a subtle hand and
squeezes her forearm, trying to supply her silent comfort. Despite their current stalemate, she
doesn’t shrug it off. The best she can do right now is not cry, so she looks at no one and
listens intently.
“- By the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and
a second Goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Cresswell and Gornuk, may have
escaped. Dean, if you’re listening, or anyone has knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents
and sisters are desperate for news.”
Both she and the boys exchange a look of horror between them, as the very reality of the
ongoing war is forced into their faces.
Lee isn’t done delivering bad news, however. “Meanwhile in Gaddley, a Muggle family of
five has been found dead in their home. Two of the children were little more than babies.”
Lee’s voice struggles over this and Hermione's throat grows slick.
“Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the
Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse. More evidence, as if it were needed, of the
fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than recreational sport under the new
regime.”
Through the misery of the decision, for the first time, Hermione is glad that she Obliviated
her parents. She’s glad that they’re out of the UK, where the war has not yet reached its
insidious tendrils. Even still, she misses them fiercely, her home, Hogwarts, and Crookshanks
too. She bites her lip, starving off the pain.
“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been
discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order
of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by
Dark Magic.”
As Lee goes on to invite listeners to partake in a minute of silence for the dead, Harry sighs
mournfully. “Only just finding Bathilda...”
“I know,” she agrees, not needing him to finish the thought.

“Thank you,” Lee comes back in after a minute of silence. “And now we can return to regular
contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle
world.”
“Thanks, River,” an unmistakable voice, deep and measured answers.
“Kingsley?” Hermione gasps, her gaze shooting over to Harry.
Harry looks just as gobsmacked as she feels. What does this mean? Is Kingsley still on the
run? ‘Regular contributor’ Lee called him. Does this mean he’s still giving orders to Draco?
Does this explain Draco still being in the UK? Even if he is, Draco’s mission is clearly no
longer getting updates on Harry’s whereabouts. Did he tell Kingsley about Horcruxes?
“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy
casualties,” Kingsley informs over the wireless. “However, we continue to hear truly
inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their safety to protect Muggle friends and
neighbors, often without the Muggle’s knowledge. I’d like to appeal to our listeners to
emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in
your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”
“And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times,
it should be ‘Wizards first’?” Lee prompts.
“I’d say it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first’ and then to ‘Death
Eaters’. We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same and worth saving.”
“Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if we ever get out of
this mess!”
Hermione pulls a face at this. She never really had any dislike towards Kingsley when she
was younger, but since his deal with Draco, she has next to no respect or time left for him.
She certainly won’t be voting him Minister if such a time ever comes.
“And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter’.”
“Thanks, River,” yet another familiar voice comes through.
Ron begins to open his mouth, but she quickly intercepts him. “We know it’s Lupin, Ron!” At
his crestfallen expression, she adds hurriedly, “Thank you.”
It’s slightly harder to be mean to Ron after how close they’ve grown again lately.
“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that
Harry Potter is still alive?”
“I do.” Lupin is confident and firm, and she sees from her peripheral, Harry grinning.
“There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible
by the Death Eaters if it had happened. It would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those
resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which
we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”
Pursing her lips, Hermione refrains from staring at Harry and seeing what impact these words
have on him. Do they dig deeper than what she’s been trying to say to him? Do they remind
him of how important he is to this war, and its people? Do they shame him into fixing up,
pulling his head away from Hallows and back to Horcruxes?
“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” Lupin answers quickly before hesitating. “And I’d
tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”
Unexpected tears spring to Hermione’s eyes and now she can’t resist looking at her best
friend, beseeching him as she repeats, “nearly always right.”
Shame colours Harry’s expression but his chin tips ever so slightly.
Hermione hastily wipes her tears, hoping that some sort of shift has occurred with Lupin’s
words.
“… and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their
allegiance?” Lee continues.
“Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry
Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of The Quibbler.”
“At least he’s alive!” Ron mutters.
She frowns. “No mention of Luna though.”
“We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid-” The three of them gasp
and simultaneously lean closer, nearly touching heads. “- Well-known gamekeeper of
Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is
rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ party in his house. However, Hagrid was not
taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”
A wet laugh escapes her, and she finds herself in a mixture of laughing and sobbing. Only
Hagrid would be so brazen in the middle of all this terror.
“I suppose it helps,” Lee tosses out brightly, “when escaping from Death Eaters if you’ve got
a sixteen-foot-high half-brother?”
“It would tend to give you an edge." Lupin sounds as if he's suppressing fury from his tone.
"May I just add that while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge
even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against following his lead. ‘Support Harry
Potter’ parties are unwise in the present climate.”
“Indeed, they are, Romulus,” Lee agrees, less jubilant now. “So, we suggest that you continue
to show your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch! And
now let’s move on to news concerning the wizard who is proving to be just as elusive as
Harry Potter. We refer to him as the Chief Death Eater and here to give views on some of the
more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent...
Rodent?”
“Rodent?” A separate voice repeats with mock outrage.
“Fred!” The three of them cry out together.
Harry shakes his head. “Wait, no, is it George?”
“It’s Fred,” Ron confirms with the ease of knowing a brother, smiling broadly.
Hermione can’t resist smiling at him. Fred’s alive. Lee Jordan, Kinglsey, and Lupin are all
alive. It feels amazing. It’s wonderful to hear their voices, to hear any voices at all outside of
the tent and the three of them working away in it.
“-Wanted to be ‘Rapier’!” Fred cries.
“Oh, all right then, ‘Rapier’, could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve
been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”
“Yes, River, I can.” Fred’s voice is lit with a smile. “Listeners will know, ‘less they’ve taken
refuge at the bottom of a garden pond! That You-Know-Who’s strategy of staying in the
shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic.”
“Must be why I’ve not had any visions,” Harry murmurs between them.
“Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen
You-Know-Who’s running around the place.”
“Which suits him of course,” Kingsley chimes in. “The air of mystery is creating more terror
than actually showing himself.”
“Agreed,” Fred says a little more seriously. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things
are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-
Who can kill people with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners.”
Chortling, Hermione lets her small smile blossom into a full-out grin. Her face is hot and
tight from the crying, and the stretch feels alien but thoroughly needed. Harry and Ron both
join in on her laughter, and it feels like it’s the first time in weeks that they’ve all made such
joyful noises in the tent.
“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” Lee queries, his grin prevalent in his
words.
“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?”
Fred jokes. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out
of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than
Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to-”
Harry hollers so loudly at this jab that Hermione barely manages to catch the rest and
eventually has to good-naturedly shove him to calm him down.
“- Never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety fist!”
“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier. Listeners, that brings us to the end of
another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can
be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: the next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’
Keep each other safe: keep faith. Goodnight.”
The radio dials twirl and the lights behind the tuning panel go out at the sign-off. Between the
three of them, they’re still grinning. It’s like remembering that they’re not the only ones
resisting and fighting Voldemort.
“Good, eh?” Ron beams at the pair of them.
“Brilliant,” Harry confirms.
Hermione wipes at her aching face, not sure if it’s the tears or the laughter that’s left such a
feeling. “It’s brave of them. If they’re found…”
“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” Ron guesses, trying to be reassuring. “Like us.”
“Did you hear what Fred said?” Harry asks, pitch rising in excitement. “He’s abroad! He’s
still looking for the Wand!”
Cold dread sweeps through her body, replacing the warmth the broadcast brought.
“Are you fucking serious?” She climbs to her feet, her legs aching and face burning. “After
hearing Lupin? After hearing everyone resisting so hard, you’re still clinging to a fairy tale?!”
“Come on, Hermione! Why are you so determined not to admit it?”
Harry bounces on the balls of his feet, looking like an eager puppy. Never in Hermione’s life
has she wanted to kick a puppy so badly.
“Harry, so help me!”
She’s not sure what she’s threatening, but the severe mood change Harry has incited in her is
unpredictable. At this rate, she might just walk out on him, and if she does that, she has no
purpose, so she may just keep walking straight off a cliff.
“It’s the Elder Wand, don’t you see? Vol-”
The beginning of the name throws ice-cold water down her spine, and both she and Ron
scream, “HARRY, NO!”
“-demort’s after it!” As soon as he realizes what he’s done, Harry notably shakes from head
to toe, and all he manages is a hollow, “fuck.”
A loud crack sounds outside the tent.
Voices, rough and excited, come nearer having breached Hermione’s wards. Whatever Jinx is
on Voldemort’s name, it seems to have the power to override any protective charms already
in place. As she dashes to the armchair for her wand and beaded bag, Ron pulls the
Deluminator from his pocket and clicks it, so that the lamps go out at once.
“Come out of there with your hands up!” A rasping voice demands through the darkness.
“We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care
who we curse!”
With her pulse pounding in her throat and adrenaline flooding her system, the only thing
Hermione can think is, now what?
Harry’s head swings her way, a mere outline in the darkness as if he can hear her disjointed
thoughts. Squaring her shoulders, she throws her bag over one and points her wand into his
face. Panic washes over his features, lit by the burst of white light from her spell. A
foreboding bang echoes into the silence and Harry buckles in agony to his knees.
In any other circumstances, she wouldn’t take such pleasure in the cries he muffles between
his hands. Considering his behavior, the last month, and the mess he’s got them into tonight
though, she can’t find much compassion for her best friend's discomfort.
“What the hell have you done?” Ron demands in a horrified whisper.
“Get up, Vermin!” A voice enters the tent before its owner follows, ceasing any explanations
from Hermione.
Several people flood in behind him and Hermione loses sight of the boys, and her senses in
the swarm. Non-verbal curses render from the tip of her wand, but she’s soon overwhelmed
and wandless, her precious bag ripped from her person. Thankfully, she had the foresight to
set a multitude of locks and wards on it for anyone other than her and the boys.
From what she can make out, Harry and Ron are also wandless. As they’re being dragged
outside, grunting and fighting, she catches sight of Harry’s face. The intentions of her casting
seem to have come to fruition. From what she can spy between his fingers, the skin is tight,
swollen, and puffy.
His hair is longer, curling at his collar bones and greasy; his eyes are nothing more than slits
and he’s lost his glasses in the chaos. Unrecognisable, just like she wants. She digs her heels
into the ground as she’s dragged and receives a smart whack upside the head.
“Get off her!” Ron yells, catching sight of the abuse and receiving a punch to the mouth for
it.
“Don’t you fucking hurt him!” Hermione screams, panic threatening to drown her.
All her worst fears are happening right now. They’re caught. They’re wandless. They’re
separated and they’re being hurt. The man holding her smells like all the most insidious
things to layer onto this: dirt, blood, and sweat, twisting her nerves tighter. It’s a balmy night,
the weather having finally warmed up into May and she’s sweating profusely herself.
“Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list,” the Snatcher
holding her whispers in her ear.
Her head jerks back as he licks her throat with enthusiasm, catching a drop of sweat. He has
to nuzzle through her still-damp curls to do it, and stray hairs catch on his face, churning her
stomach.
“Delicious girl… what a treat… I do enjoy the softness of the skin.”
Stomach turning over itself, her brain finally slides into place, and she angles her chin to fully
take in the man holding her. His hairy face and whiskers are what her hair is catching. Sores
in the corner of his mouth are what presses to her flesh, and long, filthy hair is what brushes
her shoulder.
This is no ordinary Snatcher, no.
Werewolf Fenrir Greyback.
Well known for his delights in the flesh. He holds her eye contact, grinning savagely the
longer she refuses to look away.
“Search the tent!” A voice calls from behind her but she dares not break his gaze.
“Scabior,” Greyback calls, still looking at her and grinning. “Keep this one safe for me.”
Only when she is handed off to Scabior do their eyes disengage. As he strides away from her,
he looks even broader and taller. A terrifying stature of a man. An animal. Harry and Ron are
face down on the ground, and this is where Greyback paces.
“Now, let’s see who we’ve got.” Greyback gloats, rolling Harry over with his foot and
pointing a lit wand at him. He laughs spitefully. “I’ll be needing something strong to wash
this one down. What happened to you, ugly?”
Scabior pulls her body close to his, tightening her throat with revulsion but she detaches from
her flesh to keep eyes on Harry and Ron.
“I said,” Greyback repeats, kicking Harry spitefully in the ribs. “What happened to you?”
Struggling in Scabior’s hold proves fruitless and only gives him the excuse to wrap his arms
around her waist and squeeze tightly. Hermione strains away from his hot mouth and foul
breath questing for her throat.
“Stung,” Harry gasps out; cradling his ribs and curling into a ball. “Been stung.”
“Yeah, looks like it. What’s your name?”
“Dudley.”
“First name?”
“I- Vernon. Vernon Dudley.”
“Check the list,” Greyback calls to no one in particular before looking sideways at Ron and
kicking him onto his back too. “And what about you, Ginger?”
It seems that Ron’s cover is not as blown as he initially thought from their foray into the
Ministry.
“Stan Shunkpike.”
“Like ‘ell you are,” Scabior calls from behind her, his mouth brushing her temple. His breath
reeks of something awful, and every time he talks, bile threatens to crawl up her throat. “We
know Stan Shunpike, ‘e’s put a bit of work our way.”
Ron receives a kick in the mouth that makes Hermione cry, though she determinedly doesn’t
allow the tears to flow, blinking rapidly instead.
“I’b Bardy,” Ron tries through his mouthful of blood. He spits it and tries again. “Barny
Weasley.”
“A Weasley?” Greyback cocks his head. “So, you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re
not a Mudblood.”
He pivots to look back at Hermione with relish on his face and in his voice. “And now your
pretty little friend…”
“Easy, Greyback,” Scabior retorts over the jeering of other Snatchers hidden by the shadows.
“Oh, put your dick away Scabior, she was never going to be yours. Besides, I’m not going to
bite. Yet. I do love to play first."
Greyback runs his tongue over his pointed, brown teeth before snapping them together
threateningly. Hermione goes hot from her scalp downwards. She can already see all the
awful things he’s going to do to her if they don’t get out of this.
“Let’s see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny.” Greyback doesn’t
move any closer to her, but his presence carries clear across the space between them. “Who
are you, girl?”
“Penelope Clearwater,” Hermione lifts her chin with defiance. She knows she sounds
terrified, but also, she hopes, convincing.
“Blood status?”
“Half-blood.”
“Easy enough to check,” Scabior offers from behind her, his hand ceasing its rubbing on her
hip when Greyback’s eyes narrow on the movement. “But the ‘ole lot of ‘em look like they
could be ‘ogwarts age-”
“We’b lebt,” Ron attempts speech through another full mouth of blood and swollen lips.
“Left, ‘ave you, Ginger? And decided to go camping, I take it? Just thought, just for a laugh,
you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”
“Nod a laugh,” Ron endeavors to remedy the rising tension but only seems to be stirring it.
“Aggiden.”
“Accident?” Greyback guesses with a jeering laugh, taking over the conversation from
Scabior. “You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley? The Order of the
Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been tabooed. A few
Order members have been tracked and eliminated that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the
other two prisoners!”
From the shadows, the hovering Snatchers step forward to complete Greyback’s demands.
Hermione watches, trying to detach from the scene as Harry is yanked by his hair and
dragged a short way to other prisoners she hasn’t noticed before. There’s a power play
between Scabior and Greyback here, she just needs to work out how to exploit it.
Ron is picked up next and taken over to the growing group of captured. Scabior takes
pleasure in putting his hands all over Hermione to march her over to them. With the heat
these past few nights, she wears little more than a vest top and leggings. Scabior ensures his
fingers brush against every bit of her exposed skin.
When he’s had his grubby fill, leering in her face, he roughly shoves her down to join the
others. She knocks shoulders with someone, being back-to-back in the circle, and grunts
softly, glaring up at Scabior when he strokes her hair in parting.
“Anyone got a wand?” Harry checks in a whisper when they’re left alone. “Gods, this is all
my fault. I said the name. I’m so sorry-”
“Harry?” A new, yet familiar voice murmurs from her left.
Harry stirs, and she realizes it’s him against her back. “Dean?”
So, this is where Muggleborn Dean Thomas ended up, while his mum and sisters are at
home, anxious for news.
“It is you! If they find out who they’ve got-! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for
truants to sell for gold-”
“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback’s voice grows over Dean’s, coming back
towards them. “A Mudblood, a runaway Goblin, and these truants. You checked their names
on the list yet, Scabior?”
“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley un ‘ere, Greyback.”
“Interesting.” Despite talking about Harry, it’s Hermione who the Werewolf pauses in front of
and licks his lips at. “Very interesting.”
Skin crawling, she clenches her jaw and tries not to be afraid despite her body flooding with a
cocktail of adrenaline and panic. Greyback heads over Harry’s way, releasing her from the
fear his gaze induces. From where she’s sat, she can’t see Harry’s face, but she can only hope
that it’s still inscrutable.
“So, you aren’t wanted then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different name? What
house were you in at Hogwarts?”
“Slytherin.”
Scabior leers, “Funny ‘ow they all think we want to ‘ear that. But none of ‘em can tell us
where the common room is.”
“It’s in the dungeons. You enter through the wall. It’s under the lake, so the light’s all green.”
The panic is swallowing so much of her common sense that she’s not certain how Harry
could know that, until she remembers he entered Slytherin in their Second Year, with Ron.
There’s a short pause and then, “Well, well, looks like we really ‘ave caught a little Slytherin.
Good for you, Vernon, ‘cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherin's. Who’s your father?”
A drop of sweat curls over Hermione’s chin and runs down her neck as she listens to Harry
and tries to keep a straight face. She keeps waiting for the moment he trips up and their luck
runs out.
“He works at the Ministry. Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”
“You know what, Greyback? I think there is a Dudley in there,” Scabior comments uneasily.
Hermione can barely breathe. Is Harry about to bullshit their way out of this?
“Well, well,” Greyback hums, callous voice full of trepidation.
It very much sounds as if Greyback is debating whether he has just indeed attacked and
bound the son of a Ministry official.
“If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry.” Any
hope Hermione began to gather crashes, leaving her ears ringing. “I expect your father’ll
reward us just for picking you up.”
“But-”
“Hey!” An excitable voice calls from the tent. “Look at this! Greyback, look at this!”
A dark figure comes running towards them eagerly. A glint of silver under the moonlight is
the final nail in Hermione’s coffin, and her heart gives out, stopping dead.
They’ve found The Sword of Gryffindor.

Part One: May '98
Chapter Notes
Decided to say fuck it and upload early. Part One is complete and now that I'm hashing
out Part Two, I might as well.
Merry Christmas ya filthy animals!
“Well, well,” Greyback croons with a greedy glint in his eye. “Ve-e-ery nice.” He takes the
sword from his companion and examines it keenly in the moonlight. “Oh, very nice indeed.
Looks Goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?”
“It’s my father’s,” Harry fabricates from behind her.
Hermione dares not breathe, wishing he would just shut up. If the Snatchers get one look at
the name etched just below the hilt, the best-case scenario is that he’s going to get them
beaten silly.
“We borrowed it to cut firewood-” Harry goes on, sounding completely unbelievable.
“'Ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!” A Snatcher from somewhere in
the darkness interrupts.
Harry jerks against her back, his shoulder rising against hers sharply. The simple movement
is one she knows well. One she’s seen time and again when he loses control of his limbs.
His scar is burning.
Oh, great, she thinks spitefully, hanging onto annoyance through the fear. Now is really not
the time.
The annoyance soon ebbs away, and it incites further panic in her at what he may now say
aloud. Harry doesn’t always have the best control over his body when he sees visions of
Voldemort. The Snatcher who spoke of The Prophet rushes over to Scabior and nudges him
towards the paper.
Scabior squints down at it in the moonlight, proving his denseness by lack of thought to
conjure Lumos light.
“'Ermione Granger,” he eventually mangles her name, sending a shard of ice straight through
her stomach when he jolts his head up. “The Mudblood who is known to be travelling with
‘arry Potter.”
No.
No, no, no, no!
This can’t be happening.
Nausea sweeps through her body, and she struggles to keep a straight face as curious eyes
from all around questioningly look at her. Greyback strolls around toward Scabior stood
before her and glances at The Prophet. He takes a good, long look before he crouches in front
of her. His leather boot squeaks and his foul breath blows over her face.
It smells like rotten meat.
She tries not to think about it.
“You know what, little girly?” He whispers intimately, leaning so close she has to grind her
head into the back of Harry’s to get away. “That picture looks a hell of a lot like you.”
Don’t panic, she begs herself.
Greyback’s eyes move to and linger on her throbbing pulse, erratic and somewhat exposed by
her still-drying curls.
Too late.
“'Er air’s different!” Scabior cries, looking over Greyback’s shoulder at Hermione's damp,
thinner curls and then back to the paper. “Can’t be ‘er!”
Greyback drives his elbow back into Scabior’s knees, smirking at his howl of pain. “Course
her hair’s different! That picture is old you dumb fuck!”
“Ow! Aw’right, sorry! So, you think it is then?”
“Known to be travelling with Harry Potter,” Greyback repeats while looking at her, ignoring
Scabior.
Shame burns her.
She disguised Harry, but it's her who got them caught. The famous Mudblood. A stillness
blankets the scene and Hermione drives every ounce of energy she has into breathing evenly.
Greyback doesn’t look away from her, wordlessly challenging her and she can do nothing but
refuse to break contact with him.
Ultimately, it does no good. She can see the confirmation in his eyes.
“Well, this changes things, doesn’t it?” He leans even closer, so he can whisper the words
against her trembling jaw.
Nobody dares speak. Even the Snatchers loosely holding the circle of hostages together seem
frozen. Hermione shakes, jolting Harry just slightly where they’re pressed together. She can’t
be blamed for the tremors at this point. There doesn’t seem to be any miraculous way out of
this, only pain, disfigurement and death.
Greyback, after watching them sliding down her shoulders, gets to his feet. Rounding back to
Harry, he stands in silence for a moment. Hermione shoves down the urge to look over her
shoulder to catch the expression on his face. Can he see the famous Harry Potter under the
contorted features she’s bestowed on her best friend?
“What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” He asks softly.
Oh, fuck.
“Don’t touch it!” Harry yells tightly.
Oh, fuck.
Harry’s desperation is as good as a confession. This is it. They’re dead. This is their last night
living. She squeezes her eyes shut, uncaring of Scabior stood before her, or who else may be
observing her anymore. Will the Obliviation on her parents break when she dies? Will Draco
care when he hears? Will Ginny keep Crookshanks safe?
“I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” Enquires Greyback, gaining traction now.
“I found glasses!” Yelps one of the Snatchers skulking in the background.
Hermione doesn’t even open her eyes. Will her parents hate her when they realise what she
did to protect them? Will Draco regret their last moments together? Will anyone remember
how hard she fought to win this war? What she give up to do it?
“There were glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait-”
Footsteps pound from the tent back to Greyback and Harry jars against her back. Hermione
can only assume the worst: he’s putting Harry’s glasses on him.
“It is!” Greyback crows, confirming it seconds later. “We’ve fucking caught Harry Potter!”
It’s like something spills out.
As if Greyback has knocked over a glass full of dark consequences that come with him
speaking Harry’s name. This is it. This is where the war truly begins. No more hiding in the
tent, snatching moments of peace together.
This is where it all happens.
Expecting raucous applause, hoots and hollers, Hermione’s eyes finally flutter open in
confusion at the silence. It seems that the Snatchers are too stunned by the accidental
accomplishment to celebrate just yet. Then there’s a clamour of voices, all at once, discussing
the prisoners' fates, what to do with them, and where to take them.
“… To the Ministry?”
“To hell with the Ministry!” Greyback growls, pacing around the circle of them. “They’ll
take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who!”
Stomaching staggering, Hermione scrunches her eyes shut again. She can’t take this. She
feels like she’s cracking apart.
It’s over.
It’s all over.
“Will you summon ‘im? ‘ere?” Scabior sounds torn between awe and terror in front and
above her.
“No,” Greyback snarls with clear irritation. “I haven’t got – they say he’s using the Malfoy’s
place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.”
Her eyes spring open once more, an electric shock zinging through her veins and down her
spine, as hot as the balmy night air around them.
What?
Since when has Voldemort been using Malfoy Manor? It makes sense though, doesn’t it? No
Malfoy’s left to inherit their ancient seat, only Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort’s most devoted
follower. Maybe this could work for them after all.
Maybe… maybe she can get Bellatrix’s hair like this.
Maybe this is exactly what she needs to progress to the next part of the Horcrux hunt. Maybe
it’s not over yet. With these thoughts comes confidence and resolution. Hermione keeps her
eyes open, staring at Scabior’s torn trousers, and straightens her spine. Harry must feel the
difference behind him because he stirs sluggishly, as if confused.
“… Completely sure it’s him?” Someone is saying when she pays attention again. “‘Cause if
it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.”
“Who exactly is in charge here? I was in this war before you were blown outta your Daddy’s
cock, boy!” Greyback snarls, his pace having brought him before Hermione again.
“I say that’s Potter!” He points a finger behind Hermione before addressing the other
Snatchers. “And him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if
you’re too gutless to come along... any of you! Well then, It’s all for me, and with any luck,
I’ll get the girl thrown in too!”
Not happening, she promises herself, even when he throws a vile grin her way. You’re not
getting your hands or your teeth on me you filthy mutt.
“Alright!” Scabior mutters with chagrin. “Alright, we’re in! And what about the rest of ‘em,
Greyback, what’ll we do with ‘em?”
Greyback’s eyes skip over the bunch of prisoners as if only just remembering them. “Might
as well take the lot. We’ve got a Mudblood, that’s another ten Galleons-”
Hermione struggles not to let her anger get the best of her. Ten whole Galleons for the life of
a Muggle-born.
It’s fucking demented.
“- the sword as well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune right there.”
There’s a flurry of activity as the Snatchers grow excited with this talk, and the lot of them
are dragged to their feet. Hermione grunts as Scabior handles her rougher than before,
apparently aware that however this goes, he’s not going to get a piece of her.
“Grab hold and make it tight,” Greyback orders, pacing once more behind Hermione and
back to Harry. “I’ll do Potter! On three! One- two- three-”
The moment they Disapparate, Hermione struggles, trying to throw off Scabior’s hand. It’s
perhaps not the smartest plan since she doesn’t want to be split from the boys, but one of
them being free seems better than none of them at all. It proves fruitless since Ron and Harry
are tightly squeezed against her, as well as the other prisoners.
All of them lurch into one another when they land in an empty country lane. Before her, there
are wrought-iron gates at the foot of a long, gravel drive. The backdrop to the expensive,
imposing Malfoy Manor is a smooth, black sky dotted with glittering stars. It would be pretty
if not for the dread ripping her apart down to the molecule.
“Tom’s not here,” Harry grunts at Hermione, so low as to not be overheard that she barely
catches it herself. “I’m seeing him. He’s – away.”
Away? Abroad? Was there stock in those rumours after all?
“What’re you muttering about?” Greyback demands.
At Harry’s resolute silence, Greyback whacks him so hard that Harry’s whole head turns.
Hermione’s stomach somersaults.
“Don’t touch him!” She screeches before she can halt her tongue.
Greyback sneers. “Fucking both of them are you, girly? Two little boyfriends all alone in that
little tent? Bet your holes are nice and loose, eh?”
One of the Snatchers strides to the gates and shakes them impatiently, distracting the obscene
accusations. “How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t – blimey!”
He whips his hands away as the iron contorts and twists itself into abstract furls, revealing a
frightening face.
It speaks in a jarring, echoing voice. “State your purpose!”

“We’ve got Potter!” Greyback roars triumphantly as if it’s not the dead of night. “We’ve
captured Harry Potter!”
The gates swing open.
Hermione fights off the anxiety, holding onto her resolution instead. She’s going to make this
work. She’s going to get Bellatrix’s hair, no matter what it takes and then she’s going to get
them out of here.
“Come on!” Greyback commands his men.
Through the gates, the group of them are shunted up the drive, between high hedges. Gravel
crunches under their feet and most bizarrely, an albino peacock strolls in front of them. It
does mercifully halt them for a moment. It’s a complete cluster fuck staggering sideways, tied
back-to-back to other people.
Starting up again, the Snatchers push the lot of them up the drive until they reach the steps
that lead to the front door. Light spills over them in the next instance, blinding Hermione in
the darkness. The imposing front doors swing open, and Bellatrix Lestrange stands centre.
She narrows her already heavy-lidded eyes at the group of them. “What is the meaning of
this?”
“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” Greyback grates, halting from taking a

step when Bellatrix walks out to the top step herself.
Bellatrix cocks her head, frowning. “And you are?”
“You know me!” Resentment and embarrassment coats Greyback’s voice, and he takes a
pointed step up the stairs this time. “Werewolf Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”
Grabbing Harry forces the rest of them to stumble and shuffle around too. Greyback grips
Harry by his hair and tilts his face up to Bellatrix, to be bathed in the moonlight. All the
jostling has loosened the ropes some, and Hermione can watch Bellatrix examine Harry’s
swollen features if she cocks her head just right.
For the longest moment, the other woman does nothing but stare, looking non too convinced
at all. Hermione’s not sure if it would benefit them not to be believed at this point. Would
they just be killed on the spot for daring to make such a claim?
Scabior seems to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione, as he pipes up into the quiet,
“I know ‘es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ‘im!”
Bellatrix continues to say nothing but does arch a thin, black brow in interest.
“If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ‘is scar. And this ‘ere, see the girl?” Scabior grabs
Hermione and yanks her free of the bindings of the others, holding her close to him. “The
Mudblood who’s been travelling around with ‘im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘im, and
we’ve got ‘is wand as well! ‘Ere, ma’am-”
“Enough!” Bellatrix barks, her eyes shrewd but gleaming. “Inside. Touch nothing!”
She turns on her heel promptly and disappears into the depths of the house. Hermione takes a
deep breath and shoots a glance at Harry and Ron. They both seem pale and unsure, but she
can’t risk communicating any of her ideas to them. Scabior roughly shoves her up the stairs
so she’s ahead of the others and the first to cross the threshold.
They follow Bellatrix, wandering down a hall lined with portraits that contain sneering,
platinum-haired subjects. They arrive in a drawing room and it dazzles in comparison to the
darkness outside. The wide proportions of the room are overwhelming in conjunction with
being tied up and wandless.
A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, glittering in a way that reminds her of Gringotts.
A dash of warmth in all the bone-chilling terror. Bellatrix stands prominently before the
ornate, marble fireplace. Being alight, the dancing flames throw her shadow against the wall
and hardwood floor, so she seems ever more daunting.
Wormtail cowers in a corner, eyes darting around the room as if he can’t bear to take in the
scene. A mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing with an intricately scrolled frame
shows the rag-tag bunch of them. Harry’s face is starting to clear up, Hermione can tell from
here. She swallows away a dry throat. She needs time to get Bellatrix’s hair.
Popping logs and crackling fire are the only noises but for their breathing in the intensely
long minute that Bellatrix stands and observes them.
“Well?” Greyback eventually grunts.
“I’m looking, aren’t I?” Bellatrix hisses, twirling a thick, black curl around her finger without
hurry. “What did you do to him anyway? How’d he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us,” Scabior chips in. “Found ‘im like it.”
“Looks like a Stinging Jinx to me,” Bellatrix comments, not moving from her spot before the
fireplace. “There’s something there, it could be a scar, stretched tight…”
Greyback nods enthusiastically and grabs Harry, shoving him to his knees before Bellatrix.
“Come have a good look. Here’s his wand too.”
As if she’s out for a picnic, Bellatrix nearly skips over the floorboards to Greyback and
snatches Harry’s wand from his grasp.
“Don’t resemble Ollivander’s description.” She narrows her eyes at Greyback. “Not telling
porkies are we, Doggy?”
“No! And what about the Mudblood then?” Greyback growls, jerking his head at Hermione
where Scabior still holds her separate from the group.
For the first time, Bellatrix seems to notice Hermione among the captives. Her eyes gleam
with excitement. “Oh, I recognise this one from the Ministry.”
Taking more of an interest in the prisoners, Bellatrix’s flat, black eyes skip over to Ron. “I’m
sure I recognise you too, boy.” She gasps dramatically and then smirks. “Do we have Potter’s
wittle friends right here before me?”
“Yes!” Greyback enthuses, his smirk stretching his mouth. “Now about claiming the gold-”
“Gold?” Bellatrix laughs, skipping around the assembly of them with sheer glee. “You can
have your gold, filthy scavenger! What do I want with gold?” Her skirts whip past Hermione
as she dances, cackling manically between her words. “I seek only the honour of-”
All at once, she comes to a halt, the heel of her shoe screeching on the hardwood. Her dark
eyes home in on something over Hermione’s shoulder and she pushes down the temptation to
look, not wanting to receive another hit for being nosy.
“What is that?” Bellatrix asks in a deadly whisper.
“Sword,” a Snatcher behind Hermione grunts.
Glancing up at the mirror above the fireplace to see better, Hermione observes the Snatcher
glance down at it and smile happily.
“Give it to me,” Bellatrix hisses, taking a step forward so all Hermione can see is the back of
her wild mane of hair.
She can see the Snatcher’s face at least, which grows tight. “It’s not yours, missus! It’s mine,
I reckon I found it.”
For the tensest moment, Bellatrix stays unnervingly still in the mirror and Hermione can only
wonder what expression she’s pulling. Then her hand is in and out of her pocket quicker than
a human should have the right to move, and her wand is free.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The Snatcher hits the floor hard and in the vast space, his body echoes. The room goes
deathly cold and a roar of anger from his fellow Snatchers reverberates across the walls.
Scabior releases Hermione to draw his wand and falls into a duelling stance. “What d’you
think you’re fucking playing at, woman?!”
“Stupefy!” Bellatrix cries. “Crucio! Diffindo! Avada Kedavra!”
Even one on her own, the Snatchers are no match for Bellatrix Lestrange. Mad and without
conscience, she takes them down with prodigious skill. Wormtail covers his eyes and
whimpers loudly in the corner, looking ever the rat he is.
Hermione and the other prisoners don't move an inch.
She wonders if they're fearful of being killed as much as she is. Her pulse is racing and her
forehead pouring with sweat. The Snatchers fall where they stand until there’s only Greyback
left breathing amongst the dead. The room clogs with the sulphuric scent of dark magic. He
kneels with his arms outstretched and Bellatrix bears down on him with The Sword of
Gryffindor in her hand.
Her face is waxen and terrifying, her eyes bulging and teeth showing. “Where did you find
this sword?” She breathes, snatching his wand away from him.
“How dare you?!” Greyback snarls back, though he darts weary eyes to his dead companions
and their blood coating the floor. “Release me, woman!”
“Where did you find this sword?” Bellatrix repeats in a scream, slicing the edge across
Greyback’s cheek. He howls but she’s louder. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”
“It was in their tent,” Greyback huffs, wincing from another cut of the sword. “Release me!”
Falling back from him, Greyback snatches his freedom and turns tail out of the drawing room
doors, and presumably Malfoy Manor itself.
Leaving Bellatrix in charge of them all.
Hermione’s no longer so sure of her plans but she needs to keep her head on straight.
Ignore the racing of her pulse and the bubbling in her gut.
Bellatrix turns back to the fireplace, so she has the viewpoint to stare at the huddle once
more. “Rodolphus!”
Nothing but silence answers Bellatrix’s outcry and Hermione wonders if the other woman
truly has lost it. Surely, she can only reference her husband Rodolphus Lestrange, but is she
trying to summon him by sheer force of will? It’s not until the sound of an approaching
person and shutting doors, that Hermione realises Rodolphus has been in the Manor the entire
time.
The drawing room doors remain open from Greyback’s fleeing, and Hermione glances via the
mirror at the entry of a filthy-looking man. It seems perplexing to think he’s been here all the
while and heard the commotion of murder. Even still, this is Bellatrix Lestranges’ husband,
and Hermione is sure he is more than used to her madness.
“You called?” He drawls with overt boredom, his dark eyes merely skipping over the dead
bodies and blood, the prisoners.
“We have a grave situation, Rodolphus!” Bellatrix shrieks at ear-splitting level, though her
husband merely blinks at her.
Panting slightly, she looks at the sword, its hilt and then the silent prisoners. “We have Potter,
I’m sure of it! But I have something else to attend to before we summon the Dark Lord… I
must know…”
Rodolphus continues to wait out Bellatrix’s mutters and Hermione feels her pulse throbbing
in her elbows.
“You and Wormtail must place the prisoners in the cellar, while I think what to do!” She
looks frighteningly mad, a thin stream of fire issuing from her wand and burning a hole in the
floor. “Take them, now!”
Rodolphus takes a step forward to carry out her commands and Wormtail follows, though
much slower and more hesitant. Hermione feels all the prisoners tense. There’s only the two
of them, maybe they can get away? But she still needs Bellatrix’s hair.
As if hearing the thought, Bellatrix calls, “Wait!”
Rodolphus hesitates, still looking bored.
“All except… except the Mudblood.”
“No!” Ron shouts for the first time in what seems like hours as Wormtail takes hold of him.
“You can have me, keep me!”
Bellatrix strides forward and hits him square across the face. The blow echoes around the
room. His previous mouth injury re-opens and blood sprays upwards before showering
around them. Ron groans and spits out a bloody tooth.
“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next! Blood Traitor is next to Mudblood in my
book. Take them, Rodolphus! And make sure they are secure. Do nothing more to them –
yet.”
Hermione shakes her head at Ron as discreetly as she can when he struggles to be taken. Her
heart is pounding in her chest, but this is what she needs. It’s what she asked for, isn’t it? A
chance to get Bellatrix’s hair. ‘Questioning’ will grant that for her. She can do this. She’s
already done so much for the hunt; she can take torture too.
Before Hermione can allow this resolution to sink into her brain and square her shoulders,
Bellatrix grabs her viciously by the hair. Her skeletal fingers clasp a brutal fist of curls,
yanking them at the root painfully and she drags her into the middle of the room. Hermione
grunts, fighting the hold until she’s shoved down to her knees.
“Hermione!” Ron screams from wherever the group are being dragged away.
Bellatrix ricochets Hermione’s head clear off the floor as she kicks her down to it. “Where
did you get it, girl?!”
Stars pop into her vision immediately and she’s no longer sure if she can hold up under
torture as well as she initially thought.
To think, this is only the beginning.
“Crucio!”
Pain.
Too simple a word for this astounding agony. This unravelling of muscle and bone. Hermione
didn’t think she could scream so much, had never had the opportunity to try. She screams
past the rawness of her throat until it splits in the middle, making keening noises of the dying.
Her bones feel like they’re breaking.
Her muscles feel like they’re shredding.
The veins in her body strain against the barrier of her skin, desperate to rip free, along with
her whole nervous system.
She feels like she should have died forever ago.
Her body shouldn’t be able to sustain this much destruction and not turn to dust in the
attempt.
“HERMIONE!”
The wail slices light through the red blanket of annihilation that is her world and drags her
back to the forefront of her mind. She’s stricken to realise how far down she let herself fall,
trying to scurry away from the obliteration of her sanity.
Is that Ron?
“Where did you get the sword?! You filthy Mudblood, you’ve been inside my vault at
Gringotts haven’t you?! Tell the truth!”
Hermione withers, resolute in not letting a single thing slip out of her gasping, gaping mouth.
Not yet I haven’t, you bitch.
She needs a hair. Just one hair and this is all worth it.
“Crucio! What else did you take? What else have you got?! Tell me the truth or, I swear, I
shall run you through with my knife!”
Through the unbelievable pain, Hermione feels smug satisfaction.
There is a Horcrux inside your vault, isn’t there, Lestrange?
Bellatrix bends over her contorting body. “How did you get in? Was it that dirty Goblin in the
cellar?”
Hermione’s mind starts to crack at another round, sure her flesh is melting off. She needs
something to get her through this. Getting Bellatrix’s hair is not enough. She can’t even reach
Bellatrix right now, standing over her as she is, wielding her agony.
Then it springs forward in her mind.
Draco’s dragon.
In her brain made of fire, where thoughts barely connect, she tries to conjure it, replicate it,
call on it. Call on him. He’s the only one she can reach out to.
He’s all she’s got.
It’s probably useless.
He promised to remove the Trace.
She hasn’t heard his voice in her head in weeks.
Hermione’s head swims, vision struggling to focus as she stares across the drawing room
floor, soaked with Snatcher's blood.
Scabior stares back at her with gaping eyes.
There’s no one else though. No one else can save them.
Hermione just prays that Draco wants to save them. Wants to save her.
Maybe Greyback will circle back for her. Hermione muses over this sluggishly, blocking out
the flare of another lashing of the curse that riddles her body, jerking and twitching her
muscles. She’s nearly bitten clean through her tongue by the end of it.
“Keeping quiet, are we, Mudblood? Think you’re brave, do you? Stupid girl! You are
nothing!”
Bellatrix straddles her chest, and it awakens some of Hermione’s brain.
She fights, daring to kick and punch, and tussle. “Get off me! Get the fuck off me!”
Bellatrix cackles madly as if it’s all a rather fun game. “I do love it when you Mudblood’s
fight! Tell me how you got into the vault!”
There’s not enough strength in Hermione to go on for long, and she screams through her teeth
when Bellatrix pins Hermione’s arms down with her knees. The ache in her muscles is
immediate and scorching.
“Let’s hear those screams, girly!”
“HERMIONE!”
Ron’s voice is urgent in the background, but Bellatrix is too prominent in the foreground.
Wearing a crazed, dangerous smile, Bellatrix reaches down to her right leg bracketing
Hermione’s chest and whips free a knife. Blood sprays Hermione’s face, and she gasps,
realising the other witch dragged the wicked sharp blade against her flesh in her haste.
Bellatrix doesn’t even seem to notice the injury to her person, too lost to the insanity, the
anticipation of depravity. Her wild, mad eyes light across where Hermione can feel a streak
of blood on her cheekbone. The older woman leans closer as if they’re intimate lovers, and
something about her breath is sweet, in contrast to the putrid smell Hermione is expecting.
Her head swims.
“You should be honoured to wear my pure blood on your filthy skin,” Bellatrix hisses, low
and icy.
Her bony, cool fingers smear the blood across Hermione’s cheek and rub it into her skin,
while Hermione gasps and gurgles with the horror of it. Struggling harder, her heart thumps
loudly in her ears, louder than even Bellatrix’s grating laugh as she sits up again, squeezing
and releasing her knife eagerly.
“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to carving away at you.” Bellatrix lowers her eyes even more
so than her natural state. “Some of you Mudbloods are far too pretty. Seductive little bodies
on you all.”
Bellatrix eagerly leans over Hermione, wriggling atop her like she can’t keep still; can’t
decide if she should lean back to observe or crowd close instead. Or as if she wants to rub her
gaunt, bony body against Hermione’s seductive little one to prove a point.
“Trying to fuck your way into our world and pop out filthy spawn that will carry on your
work after you’re long gone.”
Hermione’s struggling body feels so naked, so exposed in her little vest top. All her flesh
ready to be torn, marked, altered. Defiled. Her heart thunders in her chest, her throat, her
elbows.
Bellatrix grasps Hermione’s wrists incredibly tight, so that her bitten, ragged nails razorblade
viciously into the skin.
“We should make sure you’re not pretty anymore, shouldn’t we?” Bellatrix whispers icily.
“Maybe I’ll even cut your tits off.”
She cackles and Hermione kicks her legs desperately against the punishing, pinching hold.
Banging her feet against the floor, a scream crawls out of her mouth despite herself. Bellatrix
wrangles Hermione’s arms until she manages to slam them upwards, palm face up. The blade
tip presses to her collarbone and then it begins to slice.
Throwing her head back, Hermione’s skull connects with the floor violently and her jaw
unhinges to release her wail. The pain is excruciating, more so than it should have right to be.
So much so, Hermione is sure it’s a cursed blade. Bellatrix drags the blade to the right,
leisurely, without rush as Hermione screams and thrashes.
It scorches her flesh, promising to erode like acid right down to the bone. From the
collarbone, into the flesh of her shoulder, burrowing deep.
“Ready to talk, Mudblood?”

Talking is the last thing Hermione can achieve. All she can do is rip her vocal cords with
howls of agony. Distantly, she hears her name again, spiralling higher with desperation. The
knife tip resituates itself, moving from bone and sinking into new fatty muscle. Hot blood
gushes out.
Bellatrix runs the knife up, parting flesh, shearing veins, and imparting chaotic agony. Just
above Hermione’s elbow, Bellatrix stops. Hermione’s chest heaves in disbelief, the ceiling
shimmering above her. Sweat pours freely down her forehead and her throat.
Blood soaks the floor beneath her pulsating arm, where it's held palm-up next to her head. It
soaks her hair, the hot liquid of her life force and wets her earlobe, threatening to enter her
ear canal.
“Any words yet, filth?”
Hermione takes a deep, rattling breath and squeezes her eyes tightly shut. She opens them
after only a second of respite and then she spits directly in Bellatrix Lestrange’s face.
Bellatrix screams in outrage and forgoes the knife to seize Hermione’s throat with her blood-
slick hands. Hermione’s stomach churns imagining the bloody handprints left behind.
Bellatrix’s thumbs dig into her trachea, and her fingers squeeze into the sides of Hermione’s
neck, her forearm resting cruelly heavy against her sliced-up collarbone. Hermione cries
softly, sobs hiccupping her breath.
Using her grip, Bellatrix lifts Hermione’s skull and then lets it drop sharply so it rings it off
the floor. Hermione gurgles and chokes on her squeal, both seeing and hearing white noise.
“Fucking animal!”
Bellatrix grips the dangling skin of her arm, fingers questing into the gaping wound to find
purchase. The noise that escapes Hermione is not human, broken and destroyed. Bellatrix’s
mane of dark hair falls into Hermione’s face, not sweet and light as her breath, but
suffocating with the reek of dark magic, something dank and sulphuric.
This is it.
Now, she urges herself. Get the hair now!
But she can’t do it. Through the pain and the heaviness of being held down, through the terror
and the loneliness, she can’t do it.
Draco! Hermione begs instead as hot tears slide down her temples. Where are you? Please,
please, where are you?!
His voice doesn’t answer, and her skin splits, gushing more scorching blood when she
releases a resulting scream of anguish.
Part One: May '98
Chapter Notes
Happy Christmas Eve!
This chapter has one of the first ever scenes I wrote for this fic when I realised it was
evolving from smut to monster.
It contains the scene that I constantly think, "The hoes gone loveeee this." (It's me, I'm
hoes because I was EATING this up while writing it. Never loved my writing more.)
I'm so, so excited to finally share it with you! I hope you love it and Merry Christmas!
Bellatrix lets slip a deranged giggle and it resounds louder even than Hermione’s raw,
desperate shrieks. The tears have long dried where they’ve run down her temples and into her
hair. Her eyes are agonizingly waterless, rid of any more sobs to give. Desperately dry and
irritated.
There is only the guttural screaming now, the pain that exists in a hot, never-ending cycle.
The knife is back to hacking at her flesh, in the space above her elbow joint. There seems to
be no rhyme or reason to it, just mindless cuts and divots. Hermione’s fingers spasm
erratically, all the intention but none of the accompanying brain or muscle power.
Her arms are too spread for her to pull at Bellatrix’s hair, her only reason to remain
conscious. She’s not sure how long this has been going on for. All she knows is that her arm
throbs, scorches, and is numb all at once. Over and over Bellatrix has sculpted her torn skin,
digging up layers of it, down to the muscle and further, to the bone.
Hermione’s not sure if she can hold onto consciousness for much longer. The pain is
wringing her stomach, threatening bile. It cramps inside her, begs her mind to shut down but
she can’t let go, she can’t go into the darkness that calls her. If she does, she won’t get the
hair and if she doesn’t get the hair, none of this is worth it.
None of the sheer agony, the literal torture, the endurance. She needs Bellatrix’s hair and it’s
all here for her to take, smothering her face, tickling her chest. If Hermione bites it, she can’t
guarantee she won’t swallow it. She needs to be able to grab and store it. The dagger moves
further up now, her arm still palm up and lifted next to her head.
The un-abused, smooth flesh of Hermione’s forearm is its next destination. Not sure if she
should be relieved to be leaving the battlefield of her upper arm or terrified to be moving into
unknown terrain, Hermione can only stiffen. Going in again before she can think about it too
much, Bellatrix slashes diagonally.
Red runs over Hermione’s eyeballs, staining them of true vision. It streams behind her
eyelids, the eroding of her brain until it oozes down, down, into heat that spreads through her
neck and chest. Tears are suddenly a possibility once more, her eyeballs flooding with them,
and they slip down her temples then, and the horror of her situation threatens to snap her
mind clean in two.
Perhaps this is what happened to Frank and Alice Longbottom. Perhaps Bellatrix didn’t just
drive them mad with the Cruciatus but with physical torture too. Hermione thinks of when
she saw them in St Mungo’s visiting Arthur Weasley.
The next slice is another diagonal in the opposite direction, and Hermione can’t finish her
thoughts. Bellatrix gleefully whittles away and blood spurts free of Hermione’s blazing hot
arm.
That’s an M.
I’m going to die.
That’s a U.
I’m going to be sick.
That’s a D.
I’m dying.
That’s a B.
Is it over yet?
That’s an L.
It’s going to say Mudblood but what do I care? I’m passing out.
That’s an O.
There’s a crack somewhere below like the sound of Apparition, jolting Hermione awake. Her
eyelashes flutter desperately, trying to stay alert. Did she slip off? Is she still within the same
minute? Is Mudblood already carved into her skin?
Godric, she’s so hot.
Sweating and burning and achy, desperate to slip off into the cool darkness. Bellatrix lifts her
head, the tip of the knife still pressing into Hermione’s forearm, hovering.
“Wormtail… that was…”
Hermione’s eyes roll in her skull, clawing to stay present and Bellatrix’s voice fades in and
out like a bad radio connection, intermingled with static.
“Yes, now!”
She bends back to her masterpiece of cutting Hermione up, tearing ribbons of flesh from the
bone of her arm. Each cut rips free more rattling wails from Hermione’s sore chest, almost on
autopilot now. She’s not entirely sure if she can feel it anymore or if the memory, the trauma,
is on a constant loop.
“How he ever… Dark Lord…”
Vision spinning, Hermione tries to clench her teeth against the sounds escaping her and focus
her gaze. Through Bellatrix’s hair, she can just make out Wormtail scurrying away. When did
he come back from taking the prisoners? Fresh panic washes through her gut. Has she been
slipping out of consciousness without noticing? Rodolphus must have returned at some stage
too, and now stands before a tall window, watching the dark skies, which are storming. When
did it start raining so hard? She hears it now when she focuses on it.
It’s a pounding, relentless thing like a scream of earth's own to reflect the yells filling this
very room.
What am I even screaming for anymore? The thunder is only going to drown me out.
“It’s only raining on the grounds,” Rodolphus comments lightly, though there’s an edge of
unease.
Branding.
The word floats on a lazy thought, heavy with the desire to release, to let go.
“What of it?” Bellatrix demands sharply.
The action of marking, usually with the aid of a branding iron.
The definition of the word projects in front of Hermione’s vision, a sentence she can’t place
in time but can see in bold writing. Ferocity rises in her chest with the pain, and cognition
whirls her brain a little faster. The next sound she releases is more akin to a battle cry than
suffering. Rodolphus looks over his shoulder at her, quirking a brow and smirking.
“Oh, is she getting angry?” Bellatrix pulls away from her carving to level their faces,
bringing them frighteningly close. “Ready to talk are we, Mudblood?”
Blood splatter decorates Bellatrix’s cheeks: sprays from Hermione’s injuries. Does she care
that she wears filthy blood on her skin?
“I can’t wait to watch you die.” Hermione’s voice shakes and spit flies from her lips, but she
looks the older witch directly in her mad eyes. “I can’t wait to see the light drain out of you.
I’ll rip your heart out myself!”
Bellatrix releases a laugh, and Rodolphus laughs too, somewhere by the window. She hates
that she recognizes that spiteful laugh in their nephew. A family trait then. Bellatrix’s tongue
pokes out through her decayed, rotten teeth. She grabs Hermione’s face, cutting into the
sensitive flesh of her cheeks with her own teeth, and ignores her outcry of fury.
“Such a feisty little Mudblood. I think I’ll enjoy breaking you. Best believe you filthy, silly
whore, that you will tell me how you got into my vault.”
For a split second, Hermione is so blindingly enraged she thinks that accidental magic pulses
out of her. There’s an almighty, splintering crack, something so blisteringly infuriated about
the sound she can only believe it’s come from her. The crack reverberates around the room,
running across the floor, and splitting it open.
It scurries up the walls, tearing into the foundation like an invisible current, a gigantic surge
of power. It fragments the floor beneath Rodolphus’ feet, and he pinwheels his arms before
toppling over, smacking his head against the windowsill on the way down. The chandelier
creaks alarmingly above them and then snaps, free-falling from over Bellatrix’s shoulder.
Granger, move!
Draco’s voice ripping into her mind brings her a rush of comfort so startling she twitches on
the ground. Within an instant, Bellatrix is moving, as if she heard the missive herself, diving
away from the falling projectile. Hermione screeches at its sudden approach. She tries rolling
out of its width, but her head is too hot and heavy, and her arm is up in flames.
She’s not quick enough, she knows it. She knows it the second she turns; knows she’s not
going to make it.
“PROTEGO!”
In the instant she rolls onto her back, gasping, her eyes fly open and the chandelier hovers
above her. It stays there, weightless, threatening to crush her in an instant. Then it careens
through the air, heading for Bellatrix and promising to squash her instead. Hermione can’t
take her eyes off it, watching it sail into Bellatrix and fling her clear across the drawing room.
Her body twists over itself thrice mid-air, arms embracing the empty space in which she sails
before she crunches against the fireplace. The mirror above the fireplace melts in Hermione’s
vision, the walls sway at a strange angle and her eyes roll as all the agony catches up to her. It
takes her what feels like years to whip her head around.
Draco.
Stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, wand outstretched, and his body riddled with
fury. He vibrates with it; a shimmer of dark energy surrounds him as he stalks across the
cracked and trembling floor to his aunt. Bellatrix groans and struggles to get to her knees, her
unruly hair falling in her face.
Draco slashes his wand downwards. Bellatrix just about deflects the sickly red hex he sent
barrelling towards her, staggering to her feet.
“How dare you?! I warned you last time, boy!” Bellatrix squeals, high and shrill.
Outrage paints her expression beneath the blood running in her eye, streaming from a torn
gash on her forehead. Her hands and forearms are also bloody, from where she slid in
previously spilled Snatcher blood and most likely Hermione’s.
“How dare you hurt her?!” Draco barks back, violently striking his wand out once more.
“Septumsempra!”
Bellatrix isn’t as fast with this one, surprise contorting her features. She takes the brunt of the
hex in her shoulder when she barely manages to move. She jerks against it, hissing beneath
her breath, and then straightens up again. Understanding settles on the sharp bones of her face
in the next instant.
“Mudblood lover!” She’s faster with her responding curse. “Avada Kedavra!”
Hermione chokes on a gasp, heart stalling in her chest but Draco reroutes the killing curse
sent to him into a window. Emerald light blazes as it immediately combusts into a million
pieces, the sound earth-shattering and terrifying. Hermione curls in on herself in the fetal
position, cradling her head between her clasped elbows.
Her torn-up arm shakes in her peripheral vision with the clench of her muscles, but she
refuses to look directly at it. There’s a shower of tinkling, broken glass, and released rain
falling over her. Her insides are like liquid, her limbs jelly. Hermione uncurls herself slowly,
peeking out at the ongoing duel.
The thunder and lightning are dramatic backdrop noises to the fight, and her mind is not yet
running at optimal speed. She tries to pull herself back together, mentally most of all. The
room is saturated with the scent of dark magic and frigid, whistling air. Different colors
splash against the walls, a kaleidoscope of curses.
She attempts to bring herself to her knees, to join in, to help. Before she can do anything,
something has got her by the ankles and she’s back down on her belly, winded, slamming her
chin against the hardwood. Despite the blood that fills her mouth, she’s screaming, being
dragged by her boots.
Glass rips into her flesh where it’s littered on the floor, and under her nails when she tries to
grip the floorboards. She’s thrown onto her back, her curls momentarily blinding her.
Hurriedly sweeping them aside, she finds Rodolphus Lestrange grinning at her. Blood drips
down his head from a jagged cut, splattering her lips until she’s wearing both Lestranges on
her skin.
He’s wet from his brief unconscious stint beneath the broken window. His hands are freezing
on the exposed skin of her waist, and his drenched robes soak into the hem of her vest top.
Hermione doesn’t want to take her eyes off him, but Draco and Bellatrix’s duel has
progressed across the floor, and they’re within her sightline.
She can’t help but look, greedy to see Draco in the flesh again after so long and painful a
separation. Scared that this is the last time she will ever see him. Scared if she takes her eyes
off him, he’ll drop down dead. Draco’s terrified gaze flies to her, and his face pales like
something she’s never seen.
“Draco!” Rodolphus calls unnecessarily, as he already has his full attention.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Draco shouts to be heard over the sheets of rain and the
thunder, deflecting another hex from his aunt.
Hermione fights Rodolphus, even when every movement of her body jerks her ruined arm
and sends shards of glass down her spine. It’s white-hot agony, but she tries, spitting the
blood in her mouth in his face and kicking wildly. Within seconds it becomes sluggish, most
especially when she tries to crawl away, thrashing in his hands.
He only laughs, his grip on her hips like steel and sliding her vest top up to her ribs, exposing
her belly. She whimpers when he leans down to lick the skin there. She can’t bear to keep her
eyes open while he does it, squeezing them tightly shut yet still fighting, albeit weakly.
Draco’s next curse towards Bellatrix is particularly foul in his frustration.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” He repeats in a growl to Rodolphus.
Hermione’s eyes peel open, attempting bravery, spying Rodolphus’ tongue at her ribs. Every
time Draco tries to direct his wand Rodolphus’ way, Bellatrix is there, promising to end his
life. He can’t get from under her, keeping her at bay. They both realize at the same moment
that he’s not going to be able to get to her, and the panic on his face only grows.
Hermione struggles harder, the only one available to save her. She tries to bring her knees up
into Rodolphus’ throat where he’s bent to lick her hipbones, his fingers tugging her leggings
down. Hermione can’t look at him even while she writhes beneath him, her pulse thudding in
terror.
She looks at Draco instead, rather detach herself from her own torment to ensure he escapes
his. He’s crossing the floor with Bellatrix, and Hermione can tell, driving them back towards
Rodolphus. The problem is, so can Bellatrix and she throws stinging hexes at Draco’s feet
every time he gets closer, forcing him back.
One step closer, two steps back.
Just like Hermione and Draco; their relationship.
How bitterly ironic.
Like the space between sleep and waking, her thoughts begin to make little sense. The fear is
barely keeping her conscious. Rodolphus’ tongue abruptly ceases. Her eyes fly towards him,
yawning open and his hand falls to his belt, sending her pulse spiking, forcing her fully
awake.
“She must have a real good cunt to turn you into a Mudblood lover, eh, boy? Let’s see, shall
we?”
“Rodolphus!” Bellatrix screeches, dragging Hermione’s eyes to her where she has paused in
her disgust, her manic gaze furious. “Do not dare sully yourself!”
Trying to fuck your way into our world and pop out filthy spawn that will carry on your work
after you’re long gone.
Hermione’s tongue curls back into her mouth, trying to choke her.
This can’t happen.
Please don’t let this happen to me.
“It’s to teach the boy a lesson, Bella!”
He pins Hermione down where she’s still kicking and thrashing, tugging further at her
leggings so the line of her knickers fold back. Bellatrix’s pause is enough. Draco sends her
careening across the floor with a smoking wound in her thigh that has her screeching.
Then he is striding to Rodolphus.
For a split second in time, Rodolphus is awash with excitement because Hermione has
become still, watching Draco’s fury. In her stillness, Lestranges’ fingers expose the top of her
pubic hair, and he stares down at her greedily, not seeing Draco coming.
Until Draco has him by the throat.
His hand snaps out, snatching Rodolphus without pausing his stride, walking him backward
so the other man trips over his own feet. Draco seems to have the power of ten men in his
fury. Lifting him in the air, he brings Lestrange down and slams him back to the floor again.
Then his fists release their wrath upon Rodolphus’ face.
Crunching bone, abusing flesh, freeing blood, wreaking havoc. He doesn’t relent. Hermione
sits up in a panic, sick of being vulnerable on the floor, tugging up the band of her knickers
and leggings. Desperately, she rubs at her stomach with her vest top, wiping up the saliva
coating her skin and spitting the remaining blood from her mouth.
Groaning groggily, Rodolphus' mouth splits into a crimson leer while Draco seethes above
him. Frankly, Draco is terrifying. Lanky, broad, and enraged. Hermione is positive from this
alone that Rodolphus is cracked.
Who can look at Draco Malfoy like this with such a grin?
“You love your dick so much, Lestrange?” Draco coos softly through gritted teeth, spittle
spraying from his lips.
Rodolphus’ smile begins to falter, and he struggles in the same manner Hermione did. Draco
starts pulling at the other man's robes and true panic floods into Lestrange’s features.
“What are you doing?” His voice rises high, stringing out. “What are you doing, whelp?! Are
you some fucking poof? Get off me!”
Before Hermione can watch anymore, she’s seized by the hair from behind. Grunting in
surprise, Hermione pulls her head forward, sacrificing a chunk of curls. She turns quickly and
struggles to her feet. Trying to blink her vision free, she forces Bellatrix into focus. All the
pain, terror, and anguish flood through her system, keeping her upright.
“Stop! What are you doing?!” Rodolphus screams over her shoulder, where she can no longer
see.
Hermione can’t take her eyes off Bellatrix, who grins with a visual madness unlike any other.
“Just us girlies again, Mudblood.”
“I promised I was going to rip your heart out myself.”
Hermione's wandless, but she’s full of rage.
She only points one finger.
“Crucio.”
Bellatrix cackles, dancing away from the curse somewhat stodgily with her injured thigh, but
her eyes are wide at such a display. The curse crackles, vivid electric as it blows up the floor,
and a spray of hardwood uproots.
“Malfoy, NO! M-Malfoy, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Malfoy, no, no! No, please! Plea-! FUCK!”
Hermione can’t help it, she looks.
Draco is holding a shard of glass and it’s lowering between Rodolphus Lestrange’s legs. She
swallows and looks back at his wife. Bellatrix has looked too, and what she sees causes her to
wail in fury. It’s a ghastly sound that almost holds notes of grief.
If she’s capable of such a thing.
Seizing her opportunity, Hermione dives for the knife left on the floor, abandoned in
Bellatrix’s haze to save herself. She lunges once she’s up, staggering with her foggy vision.
The older witch seizes her wrists. Pain flares up Hermione’s injured arm. Rodolphus is
sobbing. Horrendous, squelching, distracting noises are happening over her shoulder.
Bellatrix’s eyes dart there again, her face drawing into a livid pinch. Her wand raises, aiming
at Draco’s back. Hermione brings her knee up, right into Bellatrix’s cunt. The other woman
screams and rakes her fingernails down Hermione’s gaping wound.
She in turn shrieks, acid scorching every nerve ending, but she doesn’t release the knife. Not
even as they topple to the floor, Hermione on top of Bellatrix in a reversal of their earlier
power play.
“M-Malfoy! P-please. Please! It h-hu-hurts! Gods, IT HURTS, PLEASE!”
“This is nothing,” Draco hisses, lighting her gut on fire.

Bellatrix continues to squirm beneath her and Hermione snarls in irritation, plunging the
knife down into the other woman’s bicep. She howls, scrabbling at the blade buried in her
flesh. Hermione takes the opportunity to check on the carnage behind her. Draco’s hands are
soaked in blood.
Lestrange’s robes are ripped open. Lumps of flesh... no. His balls are on the floor, in a
maroon puddle. Draco now holds Rodolphus’ cock in his hand, and the glass slowly peels
downwards as if he’s peeling a carrot.
“Fucking nothing compared to what I would have done if you had gotten any further you
little cunt.” He leans right into Rodolphus' face, spit continuing to fly from his lips in his
rage. “This is for daring to try.”
The ugly scene, Rodolphus’ screams, and the piece of foreskin that thuds wetly on the floor
should disgust her. Instead, it emboldens her. She twists back to Bellatrix, still writhing from
the knife wound.
Grinning broadly, Hermione grips Bellatrix’s face with her weak hand, forcing the muscles to
cooperate. The other witch lets a flash of fear show on her face. She stills, and Hermione uses
her free thumb to press it down into her eye socket.
All at once, Bellatrix realizes what’s happening to her. “You disgusting Mud-argh-BLOOD!”
Thumb pushing, she shoves Bellatrix’s eyeball further into the socket without mercy, smiling
viciously.
“Keep talking, and I’ll fucking feed it to you.”
“Draco! Stop! S-stop, you’re killing me! You’re KILLING ME!”
“Then fucking die.”
Hermione doesn’t look but Bellatrix does. Her skull turns slowly, densely and the brutal open
wound pours fluid and blood. She looks at her husband with one dark, heavy-lidded eye and
keeps her gaze there. Her body goes slack beneath Hermione until she’s still. They die
together, the Lestranges; Rodolphus going silent at the same time.
It’s almost beautiful.
Falling back, Hermione sits numbly on her arse, scooting away from the grisly mess of
Bellatrix Lestrange’s corpse. She raises her palms and stares at her crimson hands, watching
them turn to acid and back to blood. She curiously rotates her wrists, witnessing the skin melt
and regrow, her vision dancing.
Draco stands, dropping the glass shard, puncturing her imagining. Reality slaps her in the
face and she watches the blood dripping to the floor from his hands instead of hers. She can’t
hear it over the rain. She wonders if his palm is cut. It must be. He swims in her vision as it
starts to flicker, shape wobbling when he turns to find her.
Crouching before her warily, his grey eyes burn with guilt even as they catalog her, lingering
where she can feel Bellatrix’s tacky, bloody handprints. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The wards-
they changed the wards. It fucking took me too long to break them.”
His grisly hands fuss over her, buzzing in her eyesight, unsure where to settle and examine. “I
couldn’t get in, Hermione.” His voice cracks, his eyes shining, all that powerful rage for
Rodolphus gone. “I knew you were here; I could hear you screaming, but I couldn’t get in-”
“You came,” is the only thing she can say, interrupting his panicked ramblings.
Finally meeting her eyes, he stills his frantic fussing and softly cups her face, soaking her in
all that rage. “You called. Now you have to get up, Hermione.”
“You said…”
She tries to take hold of his wrists, remembering that awful night when she last clung to him
like this, but her battered arm can’t handle it.
“Not now. Come on.” His knees start to lift, trying to pull her from the floor. “Get up.”
“Draco I- I can’t use my arm, I can’t feel it anymore.”
The adrenaline has finally worn off and her muscles will no longer obey. He looks at her
ripped-up collarbone and follows the damage down her arm. His nostrils flare, a tic in his jaw
jumping. It’s atrocious then. Hermione hasn’t the nerve to look at it herself yet.
Draco reaches into his pocket, retrieving an embroidered handkerchief of all things, which he
quickly transfigures. It turns into a full-size sheet, and she swallows, knowing that from her
collarbone to her wrist, her arm is as fucked as it feels. Draco's livid gaze goes to Bellatrix’s
dead body and his lip curls, his muscles jerking.
“I’m going to fucking violate her corpse.” He can barely speak the words, mutilating them
through gritted teeth instead while he wraps Hermione’s arm, his hands shaking.
Hermione can’t speak, swallowing past hot lumps that jam her throat. She still feels a little
out of it, but despite being mid-danger, there are floods of relief throughout her body that it’s
over. Draco’s here and Bellatrix is not hurting her anymore. Now she needs her hair, and this
is done.
Taking her gently by the waist, Draco helps her to her feet. Hermione’s not sure if she’s
hallucinating Harry pounding up the cellar stairs over his shoulder. He glances at her
immediately and then hesitates, finding the Lestrange’s bodies, and Draco. When she decides
he’s real, she expects an onslaught of questions.
Instead, she frowns at him raising his wand, and gets, “Protego!”
For a split second, she’s full of fury, believing him to have separated her from Draco. That’s
not the case. She’s still in Draco’s arms, wrapped in Harry’s shield and his wand is pointing
over her shoulder. Hermione whips her head around and discovers Bellatrix, who has risen
from the dead.
There’s a part of her that isn’t surprised. Reality is not quite right, and anything is possible.
Was it a trick? A momentary passing out? A real resurrection? Is any of this real? Maybe
she’s still under Bellatrix’s knife, not saved at all. Ron scrambles up the stairs from the cellar
next. He stops short on the top step.
Ron's eyes take in her and Draco crowded together, Harry dueling Bellatrix and Rodolphus’
severed cock and balls next to his dead body. His head swivels between all of it like he can’t
grasp which is more disturbing. Then he promptly turns, bends over, and throws up.
Hermione quickly turns to Harry and Bellatrix.
The walking corpse of the only living member of the Lestrange couple is terrifying. The right
side of her curls is matted to her face with blood. The pit in her skull is a bloody, horrendous
thing, leaking all manner of fluids. The cut across her forehead shows bone, ragged skin, and
frayed muscle.
The flesh of her leg is eroding where Draco cursed it and the knife is still sticking out of her
right arm. Her expression is one of fury and beneath that, of devotion, and determination to
the cause set by her Dark Lord. In the small space, she has to think, Hermione wonders if
Bellatrix cares that she’s lost an eye or a husband. If she thinks it’s all worth it.
“I’m going to bring Him,” Bellatrix taunts them, fingers dancing close to her Dark Mark,
leering at them all with her one eye. “I’m going to call Him and He’s going to end you. End
you all! His world will be so beautiful!”
“Shut up!” Harry shouts, throwing a Septumsempra so Bellatrix has to defend herself and
move her threatening fingers away.
Feeling a flush of pride that Harry is holding his own, Hermione dares to take her eyes off
him. She has to help him, but she hasn’t her wand and she’s still stuck in his Protego, held
back by the iron band of Draco’s embrace. Gaze questing back to the cellar stairs, she takes in
Dobby trundling up them, and her brows knit together.
What on earth?
It’s more and more likely that none of this is real. Her knees wobble, and her insides flip. Is
this all in her head? Is Bellatrix still carving her up?
“Avada Kedavra!”
Hermione’s gaze for one instant locks with Ron’s, reality sharp, hot, and bright with her
terror.
She whirls around, crying at the same time as him, “HARRY!”
Then she repeats it, quieter. “Harry….?”
Harry stands with a heaving chest and trembling hand as Bellatrix Lestrange’s face freezes
into shock and finally, slides slack into death. Her body topples to the floor, heavy and dull
when she meets the floorboards. Her wand goes rolling across the dark wood, bumping
against Harry’s foot.
“Harry, are you….”
The Protego falls and Draco reluctantly releases her, holding on as long as he can. She takes a
tentative step forward, her shaking hand outstretched.
“Are you alright?” Her voice is shaky too, but she can’t force it away.
Harry looks at her sharply. She jerks her hand back. His eyes sparkle with a hatred that
frightens her, if only because it’s so unfamiliar.
“She touched it, Hermione. Her mark, I tried to stop her, but she touched it. And I- I’ve had
enough.” He takes a deep breath, his words trembling. “I’ve had enough. I’ve given enough.
She took Sirius. She doesn’t get you too. Not you too.”
His eyes flick to her wrapped arm, which is wet, no doubt already crimson with leaking
blood. “No more.”
Hermione nods, her chin wobbling as she remembers his palpable grief in the tent when Ron
left.
What more?!
Harry gives her a trembling smile, even as his green eyes glitter with some unfamiliar wrath.
“We have to go.” Draco steals all their attention. He blinks with heavy confusion when he
sees Dobby cowering at Ron’s leg. “Hello… Dobby?”
“Mas- Mister Malfoy, Sir,” Dobby squeaks. “Dobby has come to help!”
“That’s good,” Draco breathes, glancing around at them all. “We don’t have long. My mark is
burning. You’re right, Potter, he knows. He knows you’re here.”
“I’ve been seeing him,” Harry hurries to inform them. “He’s traveling. It’ll take a moment.
He was with Gregorovitch, Hermione. He knows the wand is gone.”
Hermione ignores this, not having the time or mental ability to delve back into their ongoing
fight around the Deathly Hallows. Her arm is throbbing, and she doesn’t have the stomach to
look down at the mess of it, even hidden beneath the cloth.
Draco turns to face her, beseeching. “You’ve got to get out of here now. Right now,
Hermione.”
“Hold on a fucking minute! Am I missing something?” Ron demands, striding across the
room. “Why is Draco Malfoy here? And since when do you call her bloody Hermione?!”
“Not the time, Weasel!” Draco snaps, still staring into her eyes.
Then he turns to address Harry. “I want her out of here.”
“What will you do?” Hermione asks, grabbing onto his sleeve, and turning his attention back
to her. “Draco! What will you do?!”
“Draco?!” They both ignore Ron, but he persists, face like curdled milk. “Why are you
touching him like that?”
“We don’t have time for this!” Harry shouts impatiently next to them.
Dobby wrings his hands together, dancing on his feet nervously.
“Agreed!” Draco looks as if he can’t quite believe they would ever manage it.
His gaze turns down to the nervous little elf at their knees. “Dobby, ca-”
“He doesn’t answer to you, Malfoy!” Ron snarls, his wand aimed.
“Ron! Put it down!” Hermione cries, standing in front of Draco, nearly hysterical.
“Why are you defending him?!”
“WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!” Harry repeats in a tone that rises several decibels.
“I’ll stay. I’ll stay and get rid of her, Granger,” Draco answers, ignoring Harry’s outburst and
cupping her face, soaking it in Rodolphus’ blood again. “Get rid of them both. We can’t get
into her vault if they know she’s dead!”
“He’s going to be coming!” Her voice is achy with desperation and with her only working
hand, she squeezes his wrist. “You can’t be here, you won’t survive!”
Smirking, he whispers, “so little faith in me.”
“This is serious, Draco!” Her eyes search his, trying to run through all the convincing
arguments before she stumbles upon something else entirely. “Hold on- Is there Polyjuice in
the Manor?”
Draco’s eyes narrow, his hands growing slack on her face. “Dare I say yes?”
Hermione pulls her face free, stepping back with resolution and tilting her chin. “Get it. Right
now.”
“Granger, I haven’t been in this Manor in months. They could have used it all. It could be a
waste of time-”
“You’re wasting time! Get it!”
Draco rolls his head on his neck and throws his hands in the air with a growl. “And why the
fuck would I do that?!”
She takes a deep, shaking breath. “Because I’m staying.”

Part One: May '98
Chapter Notes
Happy New Year guys!
There is one more chapter of Part One after this, and then there will be a mini break as I
pull Part Two up to scratch. Think of it like the end of the first book and the wait for the
sequel.
Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for the comments, kudos and bookmarks, they
truly are so inspiring.
“What?!” Harry, Ron, and Draco squawk.
Draco adds, “Granger, the wards will only rebel for a short while! Bellatrix would never have
permitted access to anyone, not even fellow Death Eaters but they’ll force their way through.
Especially if they think she’s under attack.”
Hermione ignores him, already planning. The heady scent of dark magic and blood is
threatening to keel her over, but she steels herself internally against it. She’s creating a web of
memories for Voldemort should he perform Legilimency on her. The problem she keeps
snagging on is Bellatrix’s wounds.
What will Voldemort see? Not her eye because Hermione will craft around her death. The
gash on her forehead, and the curse to her shoulder, yes. The hole in her leg? Possibly? She
can’t overload herself with too many details.
She'll need to be literal.
Draco reaches for her, cutting through her thoughts, possibly to shake sense into her in a way
his words can’t.
Ron steps between them defensively, shoving his way in. “I’ve got her!”
“Ron! Get off!” She jerks out of his hold, her head pulsating, and addresses both him and
Harry. “You two are leaving with Dobby, right now. Does someone have my wand?”
Harry hands it over with a shaking hand, and she has a moment of gratitude that it isn’t her
wand arm that’s mauled.
“Are you mad?!” Ron demands, crowding into her space. “We’re not leaving you!”
Draco shoulder-checks Ron so that he stumbles back. “Get out of her fucking face, Weasley.”
Ron scowls, regaining his footing and raising his wand. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”
“I just peeled a man’s foreskin for her, Weasel.” Draco grins his mean, savage grin. “And so,
when I tell you to get out of her fucking face.” Draco steps closer, teeth bared. “I suggest you
take the advice.”
“Malfoy, enough!” Harry barks. “Leave him out of this. We know you saved her. I can never
thank you enough.”
Draco looks Harry up and down with a sneer. “Believe me, I didn’t do it for you, Potter.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Harry responds tersely. “The fact is you care about Hermione as much as we
do. So, you’ll help us I’m sure, in getting her out of this fucking manor.”
Hermione scoffs and turns her back on them, and the chaos in the room that she and Draco
created. As always, she must attend to the important tasks while the men in the room measure
their dicks.
“Hermione!” Ron, Harry, and Draco roar, once more in unison when they notice her.
“Polyjuice, Draco! Now!” She throws it over her shoulder, her jaw set with determination.
Now facing Bellatrix’s corpse, Draco grabs her good arm and squeezes tightly to still her.
When she looks at him, his jaw is even tighter than her own.
“No.”
She tries to yank free but she’s still so weak and it’s barely a fight. “We don’t have time for
this.”
“No, we don’t.” His eyes ping between hers, an emotion she’s never seen in them before.
Desperation.
“But I’d rather stand here and be struck down dead the moment He arrives than fucking leave
you here alone.”
She swallows, staring up at him. Her voice is weak, exhausted. “Draco, we don’t have time
for this. I’m staying, you can’t stop me. I need to do this.”
“What about what I need to do?” He hisses in her face, his eyes wild; frightened.
He yanks her closer, so their foreheads are touching. “What about the fact that my skin is
crawling at the thought of not getting you to safety when you just bled out on the floor of my
fucking childhood home?” He grabs her face with both hands now, forcing their eyes to gaze
deeper than they ever have before. “What about how I feel, Hermione?”
“We. Don’t. Have. Time,” she snaps, if only to beat back the question brewing in her head.
How do you feel?

She yanks her face free spitefully. “For the last time, get the bloody Polyjuice. Now. I’m
doing this with or without you and trust me, I have gotten very fucking used to without you.”
Draco’s expression for a split second is devastation. It grows on his face, pouring from his
eyes and twisting her heart. Then his gaze glosses over, turns to that fixed glass, and he
growls before he Disapparates. Returning to her original task, she ignores Ron and Harry’s
probing stare.
Hermione only has a moment to revel in the satisfaction of the flatness in Bellatrix’s
remaining eye. Slashing her wand, she severs Bellatrix’s hair from the chin. With so much
movement, her injured arm starts to gush violently, needing proper care but having none of
the time.
Her hands shake cutting off two pieces of Bellatrix’s skirts. One, she folds the mane of hair
into. Transfiguring Bellatrix into a bone, in the same manner as Dolohov, she levitates her
into the other. Rushing, she gets back to her two best friends who stare at her in horrified
bewilderment.
“I need my bag.” She looks at Harry and when he’s not forthcoming, to Ron instead. “My
beaded bag. Did you get our things? The sword?”
“Yes, Dobby did!” Dobby squeaks, drawing her eyes down to him. “Dobby has them for
Miss! Here, here."
He points behind him to where their things come levitating up the cellar stairs and towards
them.
“Boys, help!” She demands as they remain in a stupor.
“Hermione, please think about this!” Harry pleads through his teeth.
“Help!” She bites back.
While Harry and Ron scrabble, Draco returns with a sharp crack and hands over a flask of
strong-smelling Polyjuice.
“Get Rodolphus’ hair and body, Draco. Quickly.”
Ron passes her beaded bag after taking it from mid-air, and Hermione smiles wobbly in
thanks, hastily opening it with trembling fingers. She swallows and retrieves her knife, not
letting herself think about it before she slices it above her eyebrow.
Three different versions of 'What the fuck are you doing?' Come at her from all directions.
“Bellatrix is injured,” is all she manages to mutter as she aims her wand at her thigh next. “I
have to make sure my body is like hers.”
“Hermione this is fucking nuts!” Ron cries, aghast as she whimpers.

The new pains she’s inflicting upon herself push all of her mental capacity to the brink. Her
body feels like one big throbbing bruise. For the briefest moment, all she wants to do is run
away. Run far, far away, and sleep forever.
Just then, Draco returns with a transfigured Rodolphus and a chunk of hair, as she did with
Bellatrix. She doesn’t ask what he did with the evidence of his carved-up cock and hopes he's
cleaned the resulting mess. Her brain pushes past the agony and whirls back into planning
mode as she smears the blood now running into her eye.
Draco takes in the state of her with a displeased, flat mouth but his eyes are bloodshot and
worried. “This isn’t going to work, Granger. He’s going to read us like a book. I’m a fairly
strong Occlumens, but you-”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Hermione bites.
Her hands are now rid of the knife and holding the Polyjuice he’s transferred over to her. She
has a vial clasped in her other, and she tips the potion in before adding Bellatrix’s hair into it.
Just as it turns, she slams it back and coughs immediately after.
“Take this.”
She hands over a separate vial from the bag while still pulling a face at the rotten taste of
Bellatrix. While Draco sorts his own Polyjuice, she allows a moment to feel her body turning
into Bellatrix’s. She gasps sharply as the other woman’s Dark Mark raises over the flesh of
her new scar, igniting it to a searing agony.
She doesn’t like the sad expressions of the men around her though, so she ignores them.
Instead, she removes the wrap on her arm without daring to look. Despite the Polyjuice, the
horrors the cursed blade has inflicted haven’t altered. She next transfigures her clothes,
moving from one item on her to-do list to the next.
Holding the beaded bag open, she slides the sword inside. That done, Hermione levitates in
Bellatrix’s bundled transfigured form; uses her wand for the last time to Scourgify anything
that doesn’t fit into her false memory set, and then drops it into the bag too.
When she looks up, Ron’s eyes bug from his head watching her. She can feel her face
bubbling into the other woman and imagines it's not pretty. She takes hold of Bellatrix’s bent
wand from Harry’s offered fist and shudders at its dense, dark power. When she looks, Draco
is finishing his transfiguration into Rodolphus.
“Take this,” she orders Harry, shoving the bag into his hands. “Only you and Ron can open it.
Where can Dobby take you? I’ll get a message to you when it’s safe.”
Harry’s face is fraught with nerves, his eyes wide and skin pale. “Hermione, I don’t like this
one bit. He’s so close. He’s nearly here.”
“Then we’re out of time!” She hurries, feeling the urgency of every millisecond; her nerves
jangling in the pit of her stomach. “Where is Dobby taking you?”
“Shell Cottage,” Ron answers at once. “We’ve just sent the others from the cellar there. Trust
me. We’ll meet on the beach at dawn.”
While Ron hurries to explain the general location of Shell Cottage, blood begins to drip to the
floor from her arm. Hermione rips at her underskirts, still nodding at Ron while she tightly
binds her torn flesh together. She’ll be surprised if she has a functioning limb after this.
She’s rough with the sleeve when it’s done, struggling to get it back down again as she
shakes. Draco’s fingers appear, gently doing it for her. There’s a moment where their gaze is
connected, him as Rodolphus and her as Bellatrix.
She imagines it’s quite a sight.
“Dobby?” Harry prompts, breaking the connection.
The room shudders and snaps of Apparition flood in seconds before Hermione can hug them
goodbye. The blood goes cold in her veins, and the terror is echoed by the boys around her.
She and Draco fall back before they’re seen.
“Dobby!” Harry repeats desperately.
“Take Dobby’s hands, Sirs!”
As figures land into the room, a swirl of Apparition yanks Dobby, Ron, and Harry through
mid-air, taking them to safety. She has one last look at her best friends, whom she may never
see again, and has to sneer at them.
“Don’t let them get away!” Hermione shrieks in Bellatrix’s voice.
“They are gone, Bellatrix.”
Hermione tenses.
Voldemort’s voice is even more frightening after not hearing it for so long. Not since that
night almost a year ago now, when he got into Hogwarts and sent a killing curse meant for
Harry and was instead borne by Hedwig.
She hears Harry’s mournful scream in her memory and squashes it down deep, where it can’t
be found. Voldemort’s presence is at her back and then he circles to her front, slow and
methodical.
She at once drops her head, cowering. “My Lord- I am s-so sorry. I have failed you.”
Voldemort stops before her, his voice low. “You have, Bellatrix. You have indeed. Most
unlike you, my loyal servant.”
“I am ashamed, My Lord!” Hermione cries, falling to her knees and prostrating herself before
Voldemort’s feet. “Do with me what you will! What I deserve!”
“Now, now, Bella,” Voldemort murmurs, patting her unruly curls; his grotesque nails cutting
into her scalp. “Always so eager to be hurt.”
His nails clutch her skull, and he viciously yanks her head back, tipping her face up to him.
Their eyes connect, his white face and seething red eyes filling her vision, and Hermione has
mere seconds before the driving pain of Voldemort’s Legilimency is searing through her
brain.
As planned, she projects nothing but Bellatrix’s version of events. The Snatchers turn up at
the door, sending them to the cellar, and torturing Hermione.
Why do they have that? Voldemort hisses, spying the sword; probing deeper.
This is where Hermione starts layering false memories. The goblin who was in their captured
group is tortured after herself by Bellatrix who confirms it’s a fake. Sprinkling real ones:
Draco arrives and fights Bellatrix, providing all of her injuries.
My, the Malfoy runt has a Mudblood lover.
Then: Harry and Ron break free of the cellar. Another fake: them and Draco disarming
Bellatrix and Rodolphus to save Hermione. Wormtail not coming back from downstairs.
Then one final, slightly altered memory of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Dobby
escaping in the middle of the room.
Gasping violently, Voldemort releases her and drops her to her hands and knees. She dares
not celebrate for even a moment, her brain boiling from the intrusion and susceptible. Her
arm throbs from catching herself and she grips the edge of her sleeve, feeling the wound
seeping.
Blood and all manner of infectious bodily fluids trickle alarmingly down her forearm. She
desperately and discreetly tries to keep it contained with the sleeve of her dress. One drip and
it’s over. Her Polyjuice cover is done.
She whimpers at Draco’s intrusion next, figuring out the story she has just laid out. He skims
over her mind quicker and gentler than Voldemort, in and out before Voldemort has done a
full lap around her. She’s sure that as he pulls back, there’s a soothing sweep over her brain
like a pleased smile.
“A pity for it to be you to let me down, Bellatrix. You had Potter. Right here and you did not
give him to me.”
Hermione cries softly, cowering at Voldemort’s dirty feet where he paces before her. “My
Lord, I am ashamed. So ashamed. I will do better! I will be better for you!”
Voldemort pauses mid-step and Hermione’s chest hitches. Is she laying it on too thick? She’s
making this up on the fly. There was no time to prepare. No time to confer with Draco on
how to act. All she knows of Bellatrix is madness, loyalty, and cruelty.
After all the breath has nearly left her lungs, Voldemort presses down on the back of her
head. “I understand your caution, my loyalist. But Harry Potter is above all, the most
important. Do not make this grave mistake again. You are very good, Bella, but you are not
indispensable.”
Hermione blows a breath out slowly, not daring to lift her head. “Of course, My Lord. Of
course.”
“Rodolphus, however... has done nothing but disappoint.”
Hermione’s heart jerks in her chest and she raises her head slowly, despite the panic
prompting her to move quickly. There’s a fair few Death Eaters in the room, quiet in their
observation. Voldemort stands before Draco, who looks at his feet with Rodolphus’ eyes.
Nothing but disappoint...
Rodolphus must have made errors already. Hermione tries to keep a straight face. Bellatrix
wouldn’t care about her husband enough to show it. The contrary image of her one-eyed skull
turning to look at him in her final moment tries to break free, but Hermione beats it back.
Bellatrix believes in Voldemort above all else, she believes in his decisions and thought
process. Whatever Voldemort is about to do, Hermione can’t react. Despite this, her heart
pounds in her chest. Bellatrix’s body feels alien to her, and beneath it, the lingering effects of
her torture pulse in her muscles.
She’s unsteady, throbbing with pain she can’t show. Her head pounds and bleeds, and her leg
shakes. She stays on the floor; sure, this is something Bellatrix would do until Voldemort’s
performance is over. Her mind feels razor sharp with terror after all the insanity of melting
mirrors and swaying walls.
Voldemort leaves her personal space and glides towards Draco. “It seems, I must reinforce
lessons again, Rodolphus.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Draco answers, his face stoic and body unmoving.
“Crucio.”
The word is lazy, bored, and stripped of its true cruelty. Draco folds to his knees under the
weight of it, his face tense and mouth agape. Hermione’s heart leaps, her body twinging in
sympathy. It helps that she’s looking at Rodolphus’ face and not Draco’s. If she was, she’s not
sure she could bear it.
As it is, she manages to keep her face entirely straight while Draco writhes under another
minute of Cruciatus and her stomach writhes with him. Her knees throb where she stays on
the floor and the room is silent but for Draco’s grunts of pain. Finally, Voldemort releases
him, leaving Draco panting and sweating on the ruined hardwood.
For a strained beat of silence, Voldemort stares down at Draco, his eyes narrowing further.
“There will not be a next time, Lestrange. You shall make no more mistakes under my rule.”
“O-of course, My Lord,” Draco gasps, gathering himself and standing unsteadily.
“Now tell me, how is the Mudblood gathering coming along?”
Panic spikes in her chest. This is the dangerous game they now play. Walking into the middle
of Voldemort’s inner circle as two people who have many tasks in his war, and yet no
knowledge of them, and no way to access that information.
“It is coming along, My Lord,” Draco answers, looking sure of himself. “My brother
continues to clear out the scum up North.”
Hermione forces her face straight. How on earth does he know that? Is it information he’s
been privy to in the Order?
“Good,” Voldemort murmurs. “Very good.”
Turning back to his following, Voldemort observes the gathering of Death Eaters in the room.
“Well? I’m sure you all have things to do.”
There is a scattered wave of responses in the affirmative, and then snaps of Apparition. The
wards over Malfoy Manor must have been seriously shattered. Voldemort’s eyes flit from
Hermione to Draco.
“Do not disappoint me again, Lestrange. I would hate to wipe out pure blood.”
Hermione dips her head and then the weight in the room seems to lift, informing her that
Voldemort has left. Her head whips up and Draco hurries over, helping her to her feet. Her
lips part but he shakes his head quickly, taking her good arm. He hurries her down silent
hallways, his eyes darting into every corner while he supports her.
As she hobbles along beside him, she wonders how he feels to be back in his home. She can’t
imagine that it’s anywhere near joyful. His father was murdered here, after all. They hurry
down dark hallways, although their faces remain impassive and their movements as relaxed
as they can fake. The lights are out but Draco traverses the thick, expensive carpets with ease.
Hermione stumbles several times, her vision growing blurry again and her leg barely
supporting her weight. With no intense focus left, she’s once more starting to succumb to the
squealing pleas of her brain to shut down. They arrive in what looks to be some kind of
Potions lab. The walls are exposed brick, and scones line them, supplying warm, orange light
that soothes.
Tall shelves lined with bottles of potions, mason jars, books, and plants decorate two of the
walls. Another wall has a tall chest, the same height as Draco with dozens of tiny drawers.
The one bare wall has a workstation, completely clean and empty. There are no windows and
there’s a heady scent of cloying potion ingredients.
The workstation is a dark oak and so is its matching chair. It’s so small it’s almost
claustrophobic but the lighting and smells make it cosy. For now, it feels safe, and her knees
threaten to buckle, as her body begs her to rest.
Draco releases her waist to close the door and hurries to ward it, explaining, “This was my
father’s. You can imagine he was very private. We won’t be heard or found.”
Nodding, she wobblily sits down. When Draco is satisfied with the door, he starts rummaging
in drawers. Hermione assumes to help her, so undoes her high-collared robes with her right,
shaking hand. She pulls her arm out gingerly, nearly weeping from the movement. Then, she
tucks the fabric back over her chest, so she remains decent.
Hermione still can’t look at the injury, but she can most certainly feel it. From her collarbone
and down to her wrist feels like barbed wire is embedded in her flesh. The cut on her
forehead is no longer bleeding so freely but her leg is gushing, due to all the movement. She
needs Blood Replenishing Potions more than she needs oxygen.
Lifting his head from his supplies, Draco goes still when he takes in her mangled flesh. “She
must have used a cursed blade.”
Hermione dares not speak, lest she screams. The pain is growing and sweat saturates her skin.
Her eyes roll as a wave of agony flares in her muscles and they spasm then contract
forcefully. The crush on them is devastating, bringing tears to her eyes and forcing a
desperate gasp from her dry lips.
“Granger!”
Lashes fluttering, she takes in Draco, still Polyjuiced as Rodolphus, which is stomach
churning. He’s bent over her arm so she can’t see the damage, working away.
“Granger, stay with me.”
Her throat is dry, her skull throbbing and her insides squirming. She just wants to let go now.
She got the hair, she survived the torture, and she made it through a round of Voldemort in
her head.
She just wants to let go.
Her eyes roll in her skull, dipping down into silent darkness.
Liquid gushes down her throat. She forces herself to swallow and then peel her uncooperative
eyelids apart. They won’t budge, locking her in darkness. She can feel Draco gripping her
face, his fingers knotted in her curls to keep her head tilted and allow him to funnel potions
into her.
“Hermione, don’t you fucking leave me in this mess!”
Something stings sharply in her collarbone, reviving her consciousness and she whimpers.
“You left me first.”
Draco jerks, his wand slashing out of its rhythm. A tug in her arm makes her whimper and
she can just about see he was manoeuvring his wand to charm a needle and thread. She must
have been out for a moment and startled him.
“Now isn’t the time,” he whispers her cruel words back softly.
He resumes his wand movement wordlessly, doing something to her wounds that she can’t
see past his head now but can most assuredly feel.
“It’s exactly the time,” she rasps, her throat dry and thick from potion residue. Bellatrix’s
voice sounds strange and so broken when she adds, “You left me.”
“I know,” he murmurs back and another thread yanks making her coo out a noise of
displeasure. “And now I’m here.”
“I was calling for you. When she was torturing me. I was screaming out for you.”
Draco pauses his work and takes a shaking breath, turning his head over his shoulder to look
at her. She wishes he wouldn’t. He seems to have forgotten he’s not wearing his face. Past his
gaze, she can just make out mangled flesh and a stomach-turning amount of blood.
“I heard you,” he mutters, his eyes sad and his mouth tight.
Her eyes hold his, filling with tears. “So, you haven’t removed the Trace.”
“Of course, I fucking haven’t.” He scoffs, reverting to his vicious, sharp self in the face of
vulnerability.
He turns back to her arm, and next guides his wand to start wrapping her arm up.
His voice is quiet but full of something heated when he speaks again. “I can’t breathe when
I'm not near you. When I don’t know where you are. And I can’t believe you’re trying to
make me say this wearing Bellatrix’s fucking face.”
Hermione’s heart flutters, both at his words and the soothing wrap he begins looping around
her flesh. “What?”
“Oh, don’t act stupid, Hermione.” He breathes heavily through his nose, still facing away
from her.
Tongue heavy in her mouth, she can only revel for a moment in the pain washing away and
the coolness of whatever Draco’s done to fix her up. Her head and leg feel better too, perhaps
healed when she was unconscious.
He steps back when he’s finished, leaving her to look at the green something tying her flesh
together. He leans back against a standing shelf full of neatly labeled jars.
Taking a deep breath, she takes him in while she sighs it out. “What do you mean, Draco?
How can you say that when you left? When you destroyed me the way you did?”
His bottom lip twitches but his hard expression won’t fold. “You know. You must know by
now.”
It finally catches up to her. All of it. The agony, the adrenaline crash, the lack of sleep, seeing
him again, being in his presence. His scent. It coalesces into fury, funneling all the heartbreak
she’s been bent under since he left her gasping on the floor.
She shoots up out of her chair, her robes slipping down her chest where they’re undone. She
hastily does them up, lest she flashes him his aunt’s tits and truly scars him for life.
“Know what?!” She demands, in Bellatrix’s high shriek. “That you left me? That you broke
my fucking heart?! That you degraded me and belittled me, and sneered at me?”
She paces closer to where he’s still lounging against the shelves, shoving him with her
remaining hand. It’s worryingly easy to do this with him wearing the face of the man who
tried to rape her.
“What do I know, Draco? Huh? That you’ve hated me every second you’ve ever known me?
Because what? What? Because I don’t make sense to you? Because you can’t bear to want to
fuck someone who's meant to be so filthy?!”
Some of you Mudbloods are far too pretty. Seductive little bodies on you all.
Hermione jabs his chest nastily, shoving him further back so the shelves rattle. His jaw may
be unfamiliar, but the clench under her assault isn’t. He takes it without moving, without
speaking.
“What do I know, huh?! That you’re a bully. That you’re selfish and self-serving and
disgusting! And-”
He snatches her wrist and pushes her back, so she stumbles, tripping her way against the
workstation behind her. She gasps when her lower back slams into it. His violence is
unsettling, so easily released while she wears Bellatrix’s face. It shows her that he restrains
himself with her more than she ever realized.
Draco growls, the sound foreign from Rodolphus’ lips, and turns his face away from hers.
Even still he shouts as he refuses to look upon Bellatrix’s features. “You know you eat at me
from the inside out!”
His cheeks and throat flush pink. “My thoughts, my heart, my guts! You know you poison
me, and twist me up, and ruin me! You know you burn me to nothing but useless fucking
embers. You know! You know I love you!”
When he tentatively turns his face back to hers, she reaches out and slaps him harshly. “You
don’t get to say that to me!”
“It’s the truth,” he growls, angling his hard jaw back her way. Pinning her with eyes that are
not his makes her stomach squirm, especially being so raw with emotion. “It’s the fucking
truth and I hate it as much as you do! I hate that you’re standing here, broken-”
She flinches at the spiteful word.
“-And I want to rip the world apart for it!”

“Then go! You’ve done it before! You can do it again!”
“No, Granger.”
His voice falls several decibels, and he stares at her intently, looking for all the world like he
wishes she were looking back at him with her own face.
“No what?” She spits, tilting her chin defiantly.
She too, finds herself wishing she was looking upon Draco’s face and hearing these words in
his voice, and not a hateful stranger.
“No, I won’t do it again.” He grinds the words out, clenching his fists at his side. “No, I can’t
do it again. It nearly fucking killed me.”
Her eyes dart between each of his and her chest heaves. She desperately wants to believe him
and in the same manner, is terrified to.
“I fucking hate you,” she hisses at him, her tears finally spilling and slipping down her
cheeks.
Hermione watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows tightly.
“You can hate me, sweetheart.” His lips twist as his eyes look away again so he can speak to
her. “You can hate me as much as you want, as long as it’s only me. I’m the only one that you
hate this much, Granger.”
She swallows herself, flexing and curling the fingers of her operating hand.
“That you feel for this much. You understand?”
Hermione whimpers and closes her eyes, no less affected by the words due to the lack of eye
contact and touch. She imagines Draco standing before her and replays the words in his
voice, blocking out Rodolphus. Finally, she lets her eyes open and nods.
Gods, she’s missed him so much.
Her eyes dart down, tired of looking upon a face she doesn’t want to see. She realizes then
that Draco’s hand is bleeding. The hand he used to grasp the shard of glass and peel off
Rodolphus’ foreskin.
This is for daring to try.
Hermione shudders and takes him gently by the wrist. “Come on, let me stitch this.”
Draco glances down at his hand in surprise, as if he forgot it even hurt. A muscle in his cheek
twinges the longer he looks and then he nods. He takes a seat in the chair she’s just vacated,
and Hermione sweeps her eyes over the supplies he used to keep her conscious. By the time
she’s found a needle and thread, he’s lit a cigarette.
She takes a deep breath and sits back on the workstation. Draco turns in his seat to lay his
hand in her lap, his other being used to ferry the cigarette to and from his mouth.
“Why are you threading it?” He inquires through a puff of grey smoke. “Don’t you know the
charm?”
“Why would I know it?” She asks with exasperation as she fails to thread it again.
He shudders slightly, she thinks at her words in Bellatrix’s clipped tone. “Well, I assumed
some book or other would have taught you.”
“Well, I never learned the charm, but my mum did teach me sewing.”
“I can teach it to you. I just used it on your arm.”
Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t think I can do any more magic right now. I’m too
depleted.”
He nods and takes another drag. “Messy then. How I like it.”
She rolls her eyes and finally threads the needle. Shifting forward on the table, she keeps it
between her thumb and forefinger and proffers her remaining ones.
“Give me some of that.”
Draco raises his eyebrow but does so, slotting it between her two first fingers. He takes the
needle from her so she can grasp it properly and raise it to her lips. She takes her first drag
and pulls a face at the bitter taste coating her tongue, but swiftly goes in for the next. She
takes four in all before they do the swap again.
“This is so strange,” he comments, his eyes sweeping her face. “I never saw Bellatrix smoke
in my life.”
Hermione grimaces. “Right.” She clears her throat. “I don’t know a numbing charm.”
Draco snorts, raising the fag to his lips again. “Let's just get this over with, Granger. It’s
nearly dawn.”
Part One: May '98
Chapter Notes
I thought you might as well have the final chapter of the first part, so I can essentially
say that the first book is 'complete.' I'm going to temporarily mark the whole work as
complete until part two is ready to go, which may be some time now as I am viewing it
as a sequel and there's so much I want to get into it, and I don't want to rush. I'm so
happy with how the first half came out, I don't want to let myself down in the second.
That said, I can't thank you enough for all your continued support and comments, they
have been truly amazing. Also, to anyone who saved this fic to their bookmarks and left
kudos, I see all of you, I swear. Thank you, thank you.
See you soon!
“Thank God!”
The scent and sound of salt-tinged ocean air assaults her upon landing. The churn of the sea
and the soft ripples of wind. The hiss of sand being tussled to and fro. Her boots sink into it,
and she stumbles on an ankle. Then once again when Harry clasps her the moment right after
she and Draco Apparate into existence.
Her knees knock together but she allows him to hold her. She has no arms to hold him back,
as her left is heavily bandaged and dangles uselessly, and her right is stretched back to keep a
hold of Draco. Their disguises are starting to melt away, so their touches have become eager.
They both have mangled faces, however. Her curls are now her usual soft spirals, none of
Bellatrix’s bird nest left. But her lips still feel as thin and raw as Lestrange’s looked. In
opposition, Draco’s features are coming back, but his hair remains dark and his nose all
wrong. Harry lets out a shaky breath as he releases her to Ron’s warm hold.
Ron squeezes her quickly and says, “You were bloody brilliant back there! The way you held
on! Fucking amazing, ‘Mione! I can’t believe you stayed as her! You’re brilliant! Mad, mind
you but fucking brilliant!”
Hermione laughs softly, allowing him to wash away the horrors of the past twenty-four,
exhausting hours, with such pure enthusiasm. “Thanks, Ron.”
Draco takes hold of her possessively the moment she's back at his side, his hand welding to
her hip. The last of her features seem to slide into place and she relaxes, settling into the
familiarity of her own body.
“We all made it in one piece,” Harry informs her, looking more relaxed himself now that he’s
no longer gazing at an amalgamation of her and Bellatrix. “Luna-”
“Luna!” Hermione interrupts, her heart skipping a beat. “Is she-? I mean- was she hurt,
Harry? Did they hurt her?”
“No,” Harry answers with a grimace, not lending much faith to the word. “They hurt her dad.
Luna says Traver's really... really hurt him before he died.”
“Oh.”
A balloon in her stomach pops and guilt floods out of it, slithering through her veins.
“But she’s here, Hermione. We got her, Dean, Griphook – that's the Goblin- and Ollivander
out. They’re in the cottage now, with Dobby, Bill, and Fleur. I’ve spoken to Griphook and
Ollivander.”
Hermione furrows her brows and seeks Draco’s hand blindly, eyes still on Harry. Ron’s face
darkens when he notices their fingers interlinking.
She wonders if Harry has filled him in yet.
“Why those two?”
Scrubbing his unshaven face, Hermione hears the bristles scratch against Harry’s fingertips
over the crashing waves. “I had to decide. Hallows or Horcruxes.”
She swallows, her pulse picking up. “And?”
“First, I want to say I'm sorry.” He looks between both her and Ron. “I was obsessed. I was
craving the Hallows. But- well, now, it’s like I’ve been slapped awake again.”
Hermione only nods, the sea breeze picking up and delivering its own slap of salty air. Draco
shifts so he’s behind her, hand entwined with her own and the wind whipping her head calms
slightly.
“But I wasn’t wrong. They’re real, Hermione. I just chose Horcruxes. Don’t you see?
Dumbledore gave Ron the Deluminator because he knew he would need to come back. He
knew Wormtail still had regret, he killed himself rather than me in that cellar, you know.”
Sinking deeper into Draco’s embrace so that her back aligns with his front, she shakes her
head. “I don’t understand, Harry.”
“Dumbledore knew how others would respond. He knew that I was meant to know about
Hallows, but not seek them.”
A relief sweeps over her, and she smiles softly. “But… why did you speak to Ollivander and
Griphook?”
“Ollivander for Hallows, Griphook for Horcruxes.” Harry looks slightly weary as he thinks
back over these discussions. “Griphook's going to get us into Gringotts.”
“That’s amazing Harry! With a Goblin, and Bellatrix’s hair, we-”
Ron snorts. “Don’t miss out the important bit.”
Hermione drags her gaze between them both, puzzling the tension before it clicks. “Goblins
are notoriously prideful and vengeful about famous artifacts they created. That sword was
Ragnuk the First’s before it was taken by Godric Gryffindor, according to Goblins.”
Draco spells it out from behind her, the large, warm weight of his hand releasing hers and
shifting back to a possessive grip on her hip. “He wants the sword. After he gets us in. Which
means we won’t have it for the other Horcruxes.”
“Yeah…” Harry sighs deeply, the edge of it coming out frustrated at the same time Ron
scoffs, “We,” derisively under his breath.
None of them respond to him, but Hermione cuts him a scathing look.
“So?” Draco prompts, before Hermione can, sounding suspicious. “What lie did you feed
him?”
“We didn’t lie!” Ron butts in, though his ears turn a tell-tale pink.
Hermione narrows her eyes. “For Godric’s sake boys, please tell me you didn’t lie to him.”
Her head spikes painfully with her annoyance. Honestly, she’s not with them for one bloody
night.
“We didn’t!” Harry hurries to add, also looking sheepish. “We just-”
“Were very careful about clarifying when exactly he could have it?” Draco fills in.
Hermione tilts her head back to look at him and finds his face. Relief washes through her and
she greedily takes him in.
Approval is what she finds in his expression, but he sounds admonishing. “This is why
Goblins hate Wizards you know.”
Hermione discovers she agrees with him.
“Oh, pipe down, Malfoy,” Ron grunts, his lips creasing with displeasure. “Why are you even
fucking here?”
Draco says nothing and Ron grows redder in the silence. His eyes fall to where Draco’s hand
clenches tighter on her hip, and both she and Ron end up scowling at the not-so-subtle
marking. Part of her might rather like it on any other day, but currently, her head is throbbing,
and her vision is getting slightly blurry around the edges.
“Alright, so we were slightly deceitful, I’m not happy about it,” Harry chimes in, his jaw
tense. “Griphook wants to start planning later, when he’s had some rest but me and Ron were
going to start now. Bill keeps asking me what’s going on. What we’re doing. We can’t
linger.”
Hermione nods. Everyone had been doing this at Grimmauld too. She glances at Draco. Their
secret mission is what ensured him standing next to her now, on this beach.
“Fleur's not very happy either,” Ron adds quietly.
Harry hisses and Hermione wonders what atrocity Fleur could have committed to invoke
such as reaction, but she notes then him clapping his hand to his head.
“What is it?” She steps forward quickly, reaching out to him but makes a small noise of
surprise when she stumbles slightly.
“Hogwarts,” he answers, squeezing his eyes shut and then dropping his hand away from his
scar. “I'm getting to that.”
She allows Draco to pull her back to his side and ignores the tight corners of his mouth as he
surveys her person clinically. She tries to stand a little straighter under his scrutiny, even as
her knees begin trembling.
“Ollivander, he confirmed the Hallows. The Elder Wand. Tom has it now. He’s taken it from
Dumbledore’s grave.”
The four of them stand, mouths agape with horror. Hermione still can’t possibly understand
the Hallows being real, but it doesn’t matter. Their credibility isn’t the problem so much as
Harry becoming distracted by them. Horcruxes is their mission. Griphook is their ticket into
Gringotts.
“You knew,” Ron finally speaks up, his voice a reproachful moan. “The Unbeatable Wand,
Harry! You let him have it!”
“Hermione’s been right this whole time, Ron,” Harry answers softly, looking her in the eye.
“I’m not supposed to seek them. I’m meant to get the Horcruxes.”
A dizziness sprinkles over and she slouches into Draco’s side, grateful when he bands his arm
around her waist and holds her tightly to him.
“She needs to rest.” His voice is hard and unforgiving. “Now.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, slouching even further as her vision spots. “Really I’m f-”
When she wakes, the room is nothing but shadows. The window is absolute darkness except
for the tiniest sliver of the moon which forces its way through. Streaks of moonlight cut into
the floorboards at intersections. Hermione can still hear the sea, and the wind shakes the thin
walls of the cottage.
A chill is in the air despite it being the tail end of May. She can feel it on her skin but she’s
overly warm. Despite this, she stays completely still, not moving her head but simply her
gaze. From the white-framed window, she follows a stream of moonlight to the figure at her
bedside.
Draco is asleep in the chair to the right of her, blissfully himself from head to toe. He doesn’t
look relaxed even in slumber, where his head is propped on the closed fist of his bandaged
hand. Usually pale anyway, the scant moonlight turns him alabaster. Almost ethereal with his
platinum hair and fine blonde lashes, and brows.
His face is drawn, and a frown stains his brow, disturbing the smooth beauty of him. His lips
are slightly parted, and his elbow rests on the arm of his chair. Draco’s back is slouched, and
his hips pop forward from the edge of his seat. His close-fitted jumper is tight to his body,
though some parts of it look denser in the moonlight, almost wet.
Stains.
His left leg is drawn back toward the chair and his knee is bent so it folds open. His other is
stretched out long, toe pointed upward in his boot. Hermione stares at him for a long while.
This is the first time she’s ever seen him asleep. They’ve never woken up to each other
before. Their close encounters were always too brief and left her wanting; unfulfilled.
Never quite satisfied.
Hermione takes a deep breath and releases it quietly as she pulls herself up slowly,
readjusting the pillows with her functioning arm behind her. There’s a complicated flow of
emotions when she looks at him. The manic frenzy of the last twenty-four hours has only
allowed room for relief at seeing him, and gratitude for him saving them.
His declaration of love yesterday in that enclosed room, did shamefully, smooth the edge of
her hurt. But it’s still not enough. The heartache and betrayal are slowly worming their way
back into her body through the adrenaline. All her lonely nights rush up to fester in her gut
and all the tears she shed in stolen moments of privacy.
He hurt her so dreadfully. It wasn’t the use of Mudblood, even, that had wrenched her open
so completely. Hermione was competent enough to see through the flimsy word in the face of
the vehement you’re mine he had imprinted into her brain. No, it was because he shut her out.
Because he had filled up all the dark, lonely spots of her life and then not let her do the same.
It was because he had yanked himself from her and ripped open all those wounds he had been
blocking. He left her in it. After giving her care, after giving her attention; after showing her
what it was like to be thought of.
Draco gave her a taste of happiness and then took it right back because he could. Because
what he was feeling was greater than what she was.
As if she were beneath him.

Hermione glances down. First, to her collarbone. She can’t see much from this angle, but her
transfigured robes have returned to the vest top and leggings she was tortured in. She
grimaces and can see just enough of a large pad of gauze and medical tape covering the
throbbing area.
Next, she surveys her arm to distract her stinging eyes and acknowledges it for the first time.
Thankfully it’s heavily wrapped, rising to meet the gauze at her collarbone. It’s no longer in
the green stuff of Draco’s but fresh white. The fingers of her other hand reach to touch it and
start unwrapping, to see the true extent of the damage.
It doesn’t burn as viciously as it did but there’s still a deep, fatigued ache that she just wants
to go away.
“Fleur insisted on treating you.”
Hermione jumps out of her skin at Draco’s rough, sleep-hewn voice and lets her fingers fall
away, and her eyes fly to him. He sits up in the chair properly, straightening his back with a
wince, and then rubs his face. When his hands fall from his expression, his hair now mussed,
he looks at her again.
“She realized she didn’t know how to treat a cursed blade wound, so she allowed me to step
in.” His lips twist at this. “I didn’t get all the poison out last night, so I had to siphon it again.
But Fleur insisted she wrap you up when it was done.”
“How long was I out?” Hermione sits up fully now too, her mind activating. “We need to be
cautious of time. We must get back as Bellatrix and Rodolphus’.”
Draco sighs wearily and sits back in his chair. “Only the day, and we can’t go back, Granger.”
“What are you talking about?” She demands.
Something spiteful shutters over Draco’s face. “Didn’t quite think it all through, did you?”
She scowls at him pointedly and stays silent.
“You realize you don’t have The Mark, surely? That you can never know when He’s
summoning you.”
Lips parting, her eyes unfocus. Of course. “But-” She starts, wetting her now dry lips. “The
Polyjuice-”
“Doesn’t work on Dark Marks,” he inputs fiercely. “It’s why no one tried this particular
suicide mission in the first war. The Dark Lord created them himself. They’re clever.”
Hermione rubs her lips together, fine tremors running under the surface of her skin and
jangling her bones. “I had one though. When I turned into Bellatrix. It raised over-” She
falters and merely glances at her bound arm.
He blows a soft, patient breath through his nose. “Yes, but the connection isn’t there. The real
magic. It's like a disconnected Floo. You can see it, but it can’t be used.”
“You have a real Dark Mark,” she points out stubbornly. “You can tell me. When he’s
summoning everyone. You can feel it can’t you?”
“Yes,” Draco answers, his face taunt. “But he doesn’t summon me, Draco, does he, Granger?
I’m not going to know when he summons Rodolphus again, and what do you think will
happen when we don’t show up on time? Rodolphus has already made so many mistakes,
after all.”
The horror finally drops into the pit of her stomach. “So, we can’t go back.”
“No, we can’t.” He confirms and then smirks. “But we have to.”
She looks at him sharply from where her gaze had drifted to the window, tracing its spilled
moonlight.
“What?”
“We have to get the cup still, don’t we? Bellatrix fails to turn up and the hunt for her will
commence. They’ll work it out, Granger. The world will know. We will never walk into
Gringotts's and get that cup.”
Hermione tries to think, chewing on her lip. “What would happen to the vault? Wouldn’t you
get it? You’re her remaining family.”
Draco shakes his head. “I’m disowned by her. Goblins don’t get involved with Wizarding
wars, but they recognize family matters. It’s imperative to be in the know so that the vaults
move amongst the correct descendants. I may as well declare I’m stealing.”
“So- so we have to go back,” she summaries, voice thin with strain. “And stay exceptionally
close.”
“Yes,” Draco says simply, breathing out a tired sigh.
“But-” Hermione shuffles where she sits, agitated with this lack of plan. “We can’t just sit
around Malfoy Manor as those two!” Her heart picks up speed, trying to picture it. “Harry
and- the hunt, the mission I can’t just-”
“If you have a better solution, I’m all ears.” His tone is dry, but his voice is as strained as
hers.
Hermione’s anxiety prickles tighter in her stomach.
“Rodolphus has already made so many mistakes,” she repeats, recalling Draco’s last round of
Cruciatus. “I’ve doomed you.”
“You’ve doomed us both,” Draco corrects harshly.
Hermione sucks in a breath and tries not to hyperventilate.

“There is no more lounging around in the tent with fellow lions, Granger. Now we’re to get
in bed with the most venomous snakes of all.”
Ice floods her body. Not just because the words are horrifically true but because they’re so
close to the thoughts she had when Greyback emptied out those words into the world. Tipped
up a jar of dark possibility.
We’ve fucking caught Harry Potter!
But they didn’t.
They caught Hermione.
She’s still on that drawing room floor being carved into. The torture hasn’t stopped. Now the
real war begins, and she’s found herself on both sides of it. She looks at Draco again,
straightens her shoulders, and sits up properly against the pillows.
He smirks as he watches her and his eyes twinkle with something like pride. The smirk
widens out into his mean grin, showing off his neat, white teeth.
“It’s time to show you how good of a Death Eater you can be.”
Part Two: June '98
Chapter Notes
She's BAAAACK.
Guys, the love I've had for this fic has been astounding! Every comment, kudos, and
favorite has just fed the fire of inspiration. I've had people coming over to my Tiktok,
commenting there too, and honestly, bless you fucking all because you are the highlights
of my day.
I'll admit, I staggered a minute there over this fic-binding shit that's been going down
and the purging that's been happening since, but regardless, I have this story in me that
needs to be told and I won't rest until it's done.
So with that said, my fellow toxic little fuckers, welcome to Part Two!
“When have you ever been such a fucking prude, Bella?!” Amycus laughs outrageously,
spittle spraying from his lips further up the table. “I’ve seen you suck off old Rod in the
middle of torture, you sick bitch!”
The room howls with cackles of the people seated and Hermione keeps Bellatrix’s face stony.
After a week around the Death Eaters, they have proven to be every foul stereotype she
associates them with. They’re all sick. They’re all crazy. They’re all cruel. They’re all
inhumane.
But most of all, they’re all fucking perverts.
Hands relaxed on the arms of her chair, she answers lazily, barely moving her thin lips. “You
may well learn from some prudishness, Amycus. It may keep you out of your sister's cunt.”
In another tidal wave of laughter, the room erupts. Some bang their fists on the table before
them, armchairs knocking together to create raucous noise in the candle-lit, dim room. It
reeks of different scents in here, entwining to the Dark Magic and sweat that clings to them
all.
Amycus growls and stands sharply, shoving back his chair, fist clenched at his left and his
right visibly itching for his wand.
Draco subtly shifts forward in his high-backed, leather-studded chair next to her. “I assume
you’re taking a moment to compose yourself, Carrow?”
Lip curling for but a moment, Amycus tamps it down and retakes his seat. “She must be
sucking you well, lately, Rodolphus. I’ve never seen you have a lack of faith in your wife’s
skills so much as recently.”
Draco inclines his head a slight inch, the long dark locks of the man he’s Polyjuiced as
skirting his jawbone. “I’ve never underestimated my dear wife, Amycus. Why do you think I
inspire her to suck my cock so slavishly?”
Alecto, the other Carrow in the room barks a laugh. “I think that was merely all my dear
brother was suggesting. We so rarely see and hear you as we used to. We’re lacking
entertainment.”
“War can be… preoccupying,” Draco drawls, settling back into his seat.
“Oh, so you can’t get it up, then,” Rabastan jeers.
Sniggers grace the room, but all fall silent as the atmosphere shifts drastically. Voldemort
appears in his seat at the head of the table noiselessly. His form of Apparition is nothing like
Hermione has ever seen. It isn’t loud and announcing. It’s quiet and within roils of smoke
that solidify into a dense body.
As he tends to do, Voldemort’s crimson gaze sweeps across the room leisurely, taking all the
time he likes. Spines straighten and smiles drip from mouths, burnt away by tangible fear.
Hermione immediately locks her mind down. This is the third time she’s seen Voldemort
since they’ve infiltrated as the Lestrange’s, and she feels no more prepared.
“My Loyalists,” he finally addresses them, pressing his spindly fingers together at the tips.
He taps the long edges of his filthy, ragged nails against his lipless mouth for a moment and
then flashes his strangely filed teeth. “We are losing.”
No one dares say a word.
No one does talk very much at these meetings. Voldemort tends to talk at them, and she’s
found that he usually scrounges up a reason to torture someone before the end.
“Rabastan,” he addresses the only real Lestrange in the room. “You have something to tell
me, I believe?”
The room collectively looks at Rabastan who begins to sweat under the attention but keeps
his body tight, gathered in an attempted show of confidence that instead presents more
accurately as frozen terror.
“Yes, My Lord. We lost a fellow Eater- a newer recruit, that is!” He hurries to explain as the
room hisses its displeasure.
Hermione does so the loudest and the longest, poking her small tongue through Bellatrix’s
rotten teeth.
“And how did you lose him?” Voldemort asks with the tone of someone who is merely
waiting to be lied to.
“He got… overzealous, my Lord. He allowed himself… swayed by a Mudblood. She used
her whore Muggle skills to convince the boy to allow her hands free to… service him.”
“Oh, please Rabastan, say what you mean,” Hermione cuts in boldly, bringing her palm down
hard on the table, smarting it. “The girl said she’d put her hands on his cock and the boy
folded!”
She holds her breath immediately after talking and tilts her jaw Voldemort’s way,
acknowledging him without daring to look him in the eye. This has been one of Draco’s
pieces of advice in her study of Bellatrix. That she will toe the lie, believing herself her
master's favourite lap dog but never too far.
Hermione always feels that she’s going too far.
Voldemort assesses her a moment longer while her pulse throbs, and then he laughs
spitefully. When he does, the room does too, with a breathy edge of tension lingering on the
ends.
“Yes, listen to your sister-in-law, Lestrange! Speak without riddles!” Voldemort pins his eyes
to Rabastan. “The boy was seduced, was he not?”
Some of you Mudbloods are far too pretty. Seductive little bodies on you all.
Hermione tries not to shake as Bellatrix whispers over her mind. She breaks out in
goosebumps.
“Yes, My Lord.” Rabastan’s mouth is tight and Hermione watches humiliation battle on his
expression. “He was seduced, and the Muggle used her filthy teeth to rip his throat out.”
Trying to fuck your way into our world and pop out filthy spawn that will carry on your work
after you’re long gone.
Draco’s eye cuts to her face slyly and away again in a blink. She softens her spine so she’s
lounging in her seat.
“Always told you not to underestimate their kind,” Hermione sniffs. “Filthy Mudbloods will
use anything, won’t they?!”
“Enough, Bellatrix.”
Her lips quickly press together at Voldemort’s warning, quiet and cold. Her heart crashes in
her ears and adrenaline causes her fingers to shake. She quickly places them under the table.
Toe the line indeed.
“This is not the first one, is it, Rabastan?”
Rabastan’s face pales and his hand trembles when he lays it on the arm of his chair. “No, My
Lord.”
Voldemort nods, evidently pleased that he didn’t dare deny it. “Then you shall only receive
three minutes of Cruciatus, and not five.”
Ah, so it’s Rabastan for torture this time.
Hermione’s not sure whether she should be unnerved that she can think that so callously after
only one week in the viper's den.
Mouth opening and closing quietly, Rabastan only nods. When Voldemort continues to stay
still in his seat, his face floods with blood and he hurriedly adds, “Th-thank you! My Lord!”
Rabastan is tortured for three minutes, and as they always do, the room of Death Eaters
remains silent.
Better to hear the wet squeals of terror and pain.
When it’s over, and Rabastan sits dazedly back in his seat, panting and sweating, Voldemort
puts his wand on the table. The Elder Wand. Hermione doesn’t look at it but feels the
compulsion to keenly.
“We are losing,” Voldemort repeats now. “We are losing resources. We are losing hold of the
power we have. The Order is winning. They know things they should not.” His eyes narrow
suspiciously, sweeping the room.
No one meets his eyes, Hermione most of all.
Not one voice speaks up either and the thickness of the Dark Magic recently expelled into the
room begins to push against her sides. Hermione gasps softly and then at once bites her lip,
but she finds when more soft sounds of discomfort come, that she is not the only one.
The oxygen in the room steadily disappears until she feels she is only sucking in thick goop.
Bitter, foul, noxious goop of Dark Magic. Shovelling itself down her throat, boxing her sides
and her lungs. Filling her mouth and her nose; worming its way into her ears. She clutches
her ribs and tries to breathe but can’t help slouching forward in her seat.
Her hot cheek presses to the cold table, crippled under the pressure that rams into her spine.
Her eyes meet Draco’s, also bent and gasping shallowly. Others in the room are too, and the
groans become louder, more gasping, more desperate.
Then it’s over.
Several of them take in big, rattling breaths when they timidly straighten up and someone
coughs throatily.
“Bellatrix,” Voldemort says calmly, his voice but a ghost. “It is time we unleash you. You
have been playing house in this Manor too long.”
“Y-yes, my Lord,” Hermione struggles out, trying to squash the dread that rises from her skin
lest he smell it on her. “Whatever you-” She takes a quick gasp, regaining the last of her
stolen breath. “Require of me.”
“The Mudbloods will revolt with hope. The Mudblood whore must be punished. Publicly.
You will see to it tomorrow. You will all attend. They will be brought to heel.”
Voldemort doesn’t bang his fist on the table but with the hiss of his last word, he may as well
have. Hermione can’t help from flinching and squeezes the grip she has on her mind,
avoiding his eyes. When he stays silent, she raises them skittishly and looks upon his
serpentine face.
His gaze doesn’t meet hers, sweeping instead across the Death Eaters around him. “Stop
disappointing me,” Voldemort seethes and then in coils of smoke, he’s gone.
“I hate this place,” Hermione mutters viciously from the bathtub, bringing her bubble-slick
knees up and breaching the water line. “I hate these people. I hate wearing her fucking skin.”
Snick. Snick. Snick.
Draco remains standing at the sink topless. The stark lighting shows her every inch of his
bare upper body. His bunching shoulders, when he gathers a strand of hair between two
fingers and his flexing arm when he uses his wand in his other hand to cut. The pale blonde
drifts down like feathers and lazily trickles into the porcelain beneath.
It’s been growing longer until strands stroke his cheekbones on occasion. Hermione thinks he
looks devilishly handsome with it, especially when his hair is wet, but she suspects it reminds
him of Rodolphus too much. She’s played with the idea of cutting off all her curls a few
times.
Even the sight of his body can’t distract her. Especially when his muscles move beneath his
skin so fluidly like he has all the time in the world.
“I hate that I’m stuck in this room,” she tacks on, turning her face away and gazing at the
ornate, onyx taps, just because his calm is infuriating her.
He only hums.
Scowling to herself, she splashes her hands down into the water petulantly. Bubbles spray
upwards and the water threatens to crest the high, white sides of the bath but slope back down
with a plop.
Draco doesn’t even look over his shoulder.
Hermione’s eye is snagged by her arm, and she grimaces. Despite her worse fears, she's
retained halting mobility of it. Draco’s healing has done wonders for the damaged nerves and
sped up the knitting of her flesh. Most days, she views it as nothing short of a testament to
her survival, and the body's wonderful ability to regenerate.
Others, she thinks it’s hideously ugly. Now that it’s healed, it no longer shows up when she’s
Polyjuiced as Bellatrix, so she does achieve a brief reprieve from the site. At this moment,
she’s blissfully wearing her own skin and unfortunately, she’s under the impression that her
arm is nothing but a loathsome visual.
The monstrous scar trails a ragged path from her collarbone, over her shoulder and down the
length of her arm, ending at the elbow joint. At her collarbone, it thickens, revealing the
initial impact of Bellatrix’s knife. Every time Hermione looks at it, she can remember the
sensation of her skin splitting unwillingly; trying to fight back and hold fast.
The surrounding skin, though vastly sped up in its healing and now a dense white rather than
angry scarlet, is a slightly different texture. It puckers in tight pockets of flesh and as it
continues downwards, it narrows, the physical evidence of Lestrange’s intent right there for
Hermione to view. It fades at the elbow, but then just below that, the word sits.
Mudblood.
Her entire being, reduced to one word.
That, however, is not the worst aspect of her scar. Perhaps Hermione is only imagining it, but
whenever she looks at the thicker impact at her collarbone and traces her eyes down the
narrowing scar, all she can see is a serpent. Its thick, wide head and streamlined body. Where
Bellatrix stopped, it would have had a stumped tail.
The word Mudblood beneath it becomes its tail instead, the ood part thinning into a slant that
becomes the snake's pointed end.
Bellatrix may have been killed but she still got the last laugh.
Sighing, Hermione sinks her hand beneath the bubbles to hide as much of her disfigurement
as possible. Other than herself, only Draco has seen it and that’s painful enough. She suspects
Fleur must have too, when she wrapped Hermione up at Shell Cottage but the thought of
anyone else makes her shudder.
Attempting to distract herself, she glances around the bathroom. Stuck in Draco’s parents' old
quarters they may be, Hermione must admit this is truly a grand bath. It’s larger than
anything she’s ever been in, a distinguished white claw foot tub with onyx taps and feet.
There’s a lot of onyx in here. Paired with the white, it’s like a cartoon brought to life.
A gilded, onyx rectangular mirror that takes up most of the wall above the sink. Onyx taps
decorate the sink Draco is currently standing over. Onyx flecks in the gleaming marble tiles
lining the floor and walls. Under different circumstances, it would be a lovely treat, being so
luxurious.
But knowing that the Malfoy’s used this as their chambers sucks all the beauty from it. Draco
and she soon learnt upon their return that Bellatrix and Rodolphus had chosen the Master
Wing, which of course, was previously Narcissa and Lucuis’. How Bellatrix slept in her
sister’s bed after disowning her, Hermione can’t fathom.
Draco has been noticeably uncomfortable about being in his parents' old quarters and looks
wistfully upon items on his mother's dresser when he thinks she's not looking. Much as he
disliked it, he stuck by Hermione’s side for the first night until it was commented on by
Mulciber that he never usually stays with his wife.
The glint in his eye at the time suggested he was very familiar with Rodolphus joining his
bed, however. So, Draco has been forced to leave her, coming to and from the room with
various excuses.
Now she mostly doesn’t sleep which seems to aid in playing her role as Bellatrix, who the
other Death Eaters expect this behaviour from.
It is time we unleash you. You have been playing house in this Manor too long.
Hermione shudders in the warm water and her inner musings brew into trepidation. “Draco
how am I going to be able to hurt… to make an example of… to-” She sobs and presses her
fingers to her lips quickly. “Kill this poor girl?”
Draco’s wand clatters against the porcelain and suddenly he's kneeling beside the tub and
yanking her face up. His hands cup either side of her jaw, swaddling her in their size and
heat. His face is stony and his eyes serious. Everything about him feels grounded and hard
like he couldn’t possibly be budged.
The unyieldingness’ of him forces her to calm down, to latch onto his rationality. She releases
her clenched jaw and lets the sobs slide back down into her chest. Compartmentalises. She
lays her hands over his and stares back into his eyes.
“All that hate,” he finally breaks the silence with a deadly whisper. “You channel it into
killing that girl, Granger.”
The calm unspools and her lips part, a soft sound on the edge of sobbing slipping free and he
grips her tighter, stretching her skin at the temples so her eyes widen. His fingers slip into her
hair as his thumbs hold her jaw and he rattles her skull on her neck, shaking sense into her.
“I fucking mean it, Hermione. You. Don’t. Hesitate. You unleash it all on that girl and you do
it with a fucking grin. You are playing the role of your life.”
His eyes ping between both of hers, speaking urgently. “You’re Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark
Lord's attack hound. The woman who tortured the Longbottom’s into insanity. You revel in it.
You dance in that girl's blood. You laugh like a fucking mad woman. You get it done,
Hermione and you do. Not. Get. Caught.”
Hermione’s panting by the time he’s done, and the shock of his words has both silenced the
sobs and stemmed the tears. She squares her jaw, tilts her chin and nods.
She’ll get it done.
Chapter End Notes

With this update, I shall be reverting this fic back to WIP. I've mapped out around 32
chapters so far, but we'll see what happens. Ah, so excited to show you everything!
Part Two: June '98
Chapter Notes
This was equally so fun yet so hard to write.
I'm so excited to unravel Part Two and sincerely hope you're enjoying it.
Side note: The tag limit is killing me off. I've had to decisively remove some tags that
may be covered elsewhere. I also don't think I have room left to tag future characters. I
do apologise if there's anything you don't feel isn't properly forewarned. If it's drastic
enough, I'll try and make room for it, but otherwise, just take it from here and what
you've read so far this is a dark fic. Draco and Hermione are both toxic, co-dependant,
weird, and slightly unhinged. There's murder, gore, trauma, torturing, heinous smut with
mixes of sexual violence. There's attempted non-con and hints toward it. Though it'll
never be between Dramione unless in a CNC way. Basically, this is war time violence
and horror. I think that about covers it, let me know if not. :)
“Oh, hey, I saw Lupin. I forgot to tell you.”
Hermione snaps her neck up from reviewing Griphook’s hand-drawn maps of the
underground passageways in Gringotts.
“Harry!” She admonishes, laying eyes on her messy-haired friend. “What did he say? How is
he? Everyone?”
Draco shakes his head on her left – why is he always to my left? - his mouth curled into a
barely noticeable smile. She remembers his taunting words about her precious fucking Order
and cuts him a dark look to the side. He promptly lets the humor fade from his face.
“He’s okay but…” Harry frowns, glancing down at his large fingers spreading the map flat,
stretched out on Bill and Fleur’s dining table.
He strokes a chewed-up fingernail down a sketched tunnel absently. “He’s sad, Hermione. I
know that sounds ridiculous in the middle of all this. But since Sirius, he’s been-” Harry
shakes his head. “So sad.”
“Harry,” Bill calls from the kitchen before Hermione can respond.
Quickly gathering the maps, Harry tucks them back into scrolls and straightens up just as Bill
enters the room with a tray. A teapot and several mugs decorate it, in addition to a small jug
of milk and a bowl of sugar, with a teaspoon dug into it.
Hermione grimaces. The first and only tea she’s had from Shell Cottage was full of sand, and
she suspects it was done via the sugar. Beside her, Draco’s eyes survey the tray with a blank
face, but she sees the trepidation in the set of his mouth. Hermione suppresses her building
smile.
She’s beginning to find she can catalog his face quite well. He so often has to be Polyjuiced
that every chance she gets to look at him, she does so with intensity.
Harry beams, hands reaching for the sugar bowl. “Cheers, mate.”
“Yeah, cheers, Bill,” Ron adds to Harry’s right, taking blue mugs from the tray as soon as Bill
puts them down.
Straightening up, Bill looks somewhat sheepish and rubs the back of his neck. “Harry… you
know about Sirius and Remus, don’t you?”
Harry pauses while putting sugar in his tea, glancing up with the spoon halfway to tipping.
“What?”
Hermione and Draco very noticeably don’t help themselves to tea, which Bill acknowledges
with a sweep of his eyes over them. Hermione suddenly finds the shell-lined wall interesting
and ignores Draco’s quiet snort of bemusement.
Bill is looking back at Harry when she chances a glance, and then he turns to Ron. “You
remember don’t you, Ron? Dad telling us about them?”
Ron frowns, picking up the milk jug and balancing it on the rim of his cup to tip. “Yeah, I
think- didn’t Dad say they’d been together since school?”
“What?” Harry repeats, aghast. The spoon plunks into his cup. “Why didn’t you say...
anything?”
Shrugging, Ron stirs his tea. “Thought you knew, or they’d told you.”
Bill nods, his earring jangling in the lobe. “Yeah, that’s right since Hogwarts it was. Had a
flat together an’ everything. Mate, Lupin lost the love of his life… again. He’s a wreck.”
“I-” Harry’s mouth flounders, fingers spasming on his spoon. “What about Tonks?”
Bill wrinkles his nose as if tasting something foul and folds his arms tightly over his broad
chest. “I don’t think she really respected- I mean, two men together- I don’t think-”
“Right,” Harry cuts him off, now looking as if he’s the one sucking a lemon.
Hermione stands taller with her surprise. She had suspected based on some of the interactions
between the two Marauders, but she always saw mutual pining, as if neither man had acted
on his desires. She thought it had been a love unsaid, which was tragic in its own right but
this somehow feels more so.
Lupin lost the love of his life… again.

“But that’s right, isn’t it?” Hermione muses aloud. “Remus lost Sirius when he went to
Azkaban, believing him a traitor of their best friends no less, and then again through the ve-”
She stops abruptly at Ron loudly clearing his throat and jerking his head at Harry. Hermione
glances over to find him appearing ashen. His grey long-sleeve shirt doesn’t help with his
coloring, washing him out. She curses her insensitivity. Talking about Sirius like that, and
Harry’s parents.
Even a mere week around the scum of humanity is already tainting her.
“I do recall,” Draco inputs to her aid, stirring at her shoulder. “My mother mentioning it
when she spoke of Black’s disowning. I believe she said he was shacking up with his best
friend in their little group. ‘The Muders’, or something. Mother always thought it was Potter
senior.”
A flush graces Harry’s face and he puts his mug down sharply on the table. “It was the
Marauders, and my dad loved my mum!”
“Ignore him, mate, you know he’s a prat,” Ron soothes, slapping Harry on the shoulder with
a meaty hand.
Draco leans down to whisper to Hermione, “Not according to Regulus Black and his secret
little fling with Senior.”
Hermione’s eyes widen and she looks at him sharply. He smirks, looking for all the world a
gossiping schoolgirl. His eyes twinkle with the juicy details and she finds herself curious
despite the disrespect to her best friend. She throws her left arm to elbow him in the ribs,
which he dodges, the prat, and forces her resulting smile away.
Though she makes a mental note to enquire later.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to spring that on you,” Bill cuts through the tension. He slips his hands
into his pockets. “Just- I know you love him: Lupin. Thought you’d want to understand a bit
more.”
“No, yeah,” Harry answers quickly, so flustered he knocks the precarious spoon from his cup
so that it clatters to the floor.
No one points it out.
“Course.”
“There’s one more thing,” Bill says hurriedly, now looking at them all. “I know you’re
planning something with Griphook.”
It’s a statement, not a question and it instantly sobers the room of its mirth. The four of them
don’t bother denying it. They all merely look at Bill and wait.
“I know Goblins,” Bill goes on, squaring his shoulders. “I’ve worked for Gringotts ever since
I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be friendship between Wizards and Goblins, I have
Goblin friends- or at least, Goblins I know well, and like.” He hesitates before plunging on.
“Harry, what do you want from Griphook, and what have you promised him in return?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Harry answers quickly, pulling the scrolls on the surface of the table
closer to his side. “Sorry, Bill.”
The wooden kitchen door opens behind them, startling Hermione. Fleur looks up with wide
blue eyes and blushes a pretty pink at the quiet room.
“Wait,” Bill pleads softly. “Just a moment, please.”
She backs out, her long, golden hair swinging loosely, and closes the door again until it clicks
definitively.
“Then I have to say this,” Bill goes on, once alone again. “If you have struck any kind of
bargain with Griphook, and most particularly if that bargain involves treasure, you must be
exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of ownership, payment, and repayment are not the same
as human ones.”
Harry remains silent, as do the rest of them. Bill surveys all their stoic faces, lingering on his
younger brothers the most. His eyes fondly trace Ron’s freckles, worry tightening the corners.
He sighs wearily. “All I’m saying is... be careful.”
With one final worried glance at Ron, Bill leaves the room.
Hermione slowly releases a breath. “On that note I- I have to do something tonigh-”
“Granger,” Draco interrupts.
“Don’t talk over her,” Ron jumps in.
“Don’t start,” she stops them both, as Draco’s lip's part.
“I’m not telling you details.” She glances pointedly at Draco then Harry and Ron. “But I have
to do something awful tonight and I have to do it well.”
While Ron stares at her with a tight mouth and wide eyes, Harry looks at Draco. Hermione
looks too and finds the same face Draco gave her in the bath last night.
The unyielding expression.
She realizes she saw it when she demanded he get Rodolphus’ body. At that moment, she
never did ask him to stay with her at the Manor, she just assumed he would and yet he did it.
He’s here by her side without even being asked. A lump catches in her throat and she quickly
looks away from him before she does something silly like break down and cry.
Harry nods and glances at Hermione, forcing her to straighten her face. “Don’t you get
caught. You do what you have to do.”
Laughing humourlessly, she shakes her head. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it
was.”
“I don’t want to know,” Harry responds quickly. “But you do it.”
“Yeah, ‘Mione,” Ron speaks now, only to her. “Whatever horrid thing it is, it’s not you. We
know that.”
She smiles woodenly and takes Draco’s hand in preparation to leave. Even when they’ve
traversed onto the beach, past the Anti-Apparition wards, and they’re spinning through the
voids of time and space, she can’t help thinking of Draco’s words.
All that hate, you channel it into killing that girl, Granger.
No, she doesn’t want to hurt that girl. She doesn’t want to kill her but all that hate she’s going
to have to use to do it… that.
Well, that is her.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Hermione’s eyes sweep over the large windows set into the walls of Lucius and Narcissa’s
prior rooms. Sunlight filters in gold as pure honey and dust motes dance in the beams,
spilling over the floorboards.
Turn.
The bed. Covers crisp and tight, blue and gold. Regal. She never sleeps in it. Instead, she sits
stiffly in the upholstered armchair by the window before the round table that bears a chip.
Draco says he once fell and broke a tooth there.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The side tables, neat and bare and void of her presence as either Hermione or Bellatrix. A
drawer is slightly ajar. The incompleteness of it makes her eye twitch.
Turn.
Draco, staring at her with the blank expression she hates of Rodolphus Lestrange. The same
boredom that was on his face when he walked into the drawing room and saw the carcasses
of his wife’s making.
One.
“I’m going to be sick.”
Two.
He scoffs. “From one look at me?”

Three.
“I’m going to be sick,” she stresses, thin and reedy.
Four.
He sighs and folds his arms. “Breathe.”
Turn.
“Don’t be patronizing,” Hermione snaps, throwing her head over her shoulder.
“I’m not!”
“How about you fucking breathe you wanker!”
A tug of amusement nearly drags his lip up but he fights it. She pivots to face him, glaring at
him in outrage that he can find something so horrifying, so funny. Sometimes, outside of their
games, he truly scares her. Draco has such capability for malevolence.
Her voice strains, almost pleading. “Don’t make a joke of this.”
This time when he sighs, it’s not so frustrated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to deal with it
otherwise.”
Pulling her up short, Hermione stops pacing. She stares at him as if a new door has opened
into the locked files of his soul. It seems obvious that he uses humor to cover the pain. That
he masks and pretends. He’s told her he loves her, that he cares about her, and yet the concept
of him right here and now worrying about her tilts her world on its axis.
She would love nothing more than to walk close and bury her face in his chest right now, but
he’s wearing Rodolphus’ skin and she Bellatrix’s, and they don’t get those indulgences
anymore.
They’re in the snake pit.
“Distract me,” she asks instead, sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed.
His jaw works and his eyes unfocus, grappling for something to offer her. A thought enters
his mind, she watches the twinkle of its birth and he seems to turn it over for a long time.
“I never-” He clears his throat when he falters and recrosses his leg at the ankles where he’s
slouching against an ornate dresser. “I never told you what I was doing. When we weren’t
talking.”
Weren’t talking.
As if they had a mere falling out.
As if he didn’t flatten her heart to useless strings of muscle.

Weren’t talking.
She nearly snaps at him again but he hasn’t yet had the time to tell her this with everything
else going on and she can’t pass up the chance to know.
When Draco sees she’s not going to interrupt, his eyes flit out the window towards the
grounds. “I was researching something. Something that caused my eye injury. That reporting
about Bellatrix trying to kill me… it wasn’t for the cup.”
Hermione frowns, considering this. “Is this what you were doing in the Order?”
“Among other things,” he confirms, laying his eyes on her again.
She narrows her eyes back at him. “I assume by your tone you won’t tell me.” She can’t help
how offended she sounds.
“I can’t,” he answers plainly, rolling a shoulder as if it’s not a big deal.
“Did you take an Unbreakable Vow?”
“No.”
Throwing her hands in the air, she bursts to her feet, her skin once more itching with
irritation. “We won’t even get into that lack of trust right now. I told you to distract me but
you’re just pissing me off.”
“Good. It’ll help."
As she did earlier, she stops and looks at him, thrown off-kilter. Of course. She needs to be
angry to do what she has to do. She needs to be viciously pissed off. Pure evil. He cares about
her in the strangest ways, sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s so vastly
unhealthy but she can’t imagine being taken care of in a different way than Draco’s version.
It’s still hard though: to thank him. As if she’s encouraging a dog to keep pissing in the
wrong place. Congratulating it for even trying. He shouldn’t love her in such an insidious
way but when she thinks of him loving her correctly, the idea feels wrong.
She’s as broken as him.
Hermione swallows and squeezes the pads of her cold fingers against the hot, meaty heel of
her hands.
A knock sounds at the door before she can think what to say in response.
It’s time to perform.
Out of all the things that Hermione thought would throw her tonight, seeing Severus Snape
amongst the Death Eaters, isn’t it. She hasn’t seen him at any of Voldemort’s meetings, she
presumes because he’s Headmaster of Hogwarts. She knows he’s an embedded spy. As far as
she’s aware, he still reports to the Order.
Of course, he doesn’t know it’s her. Draco and Hermione have never been in site of the
habitants of Shell Cottage Polyjuiced. Only them, Ron and Harry know of their double role.
There’s no way then, that the Order and therefore, Snape could know. Even still, the way he
holds her eyes when he sees her, she has the most distressed notion that he knows.
Hermione clamps down on all her mental resources, but she doesn’t feel any attempt to get
in. Even still, Severus’ skill has always been highly mentioned, and she doesn’t
underestimate him. It’s disturbing though, to know he will be part of the crowd.
Draco watching and knowing it's her is bad enough but at least he understands the stakes of
getting it right. Snape watching her is like someone witnessing a vulnerability. He’s known
her since she was a child. How will he feel when he sees the pain she’s about to inflict? The
spectacle she’s about to put on.
She doesn’t swallow her dry throat away, lest it show her nerves. She narrows her eyes back
at him, challenging him as Bellatrix would do. Snape inclines his head and lets his gaze slide
away with a smirk.
He knows.
Hermione’s going to be sick.
Her body is jangling with nerves. These are not helped by her surroundings. She’s on a
farmland in the middle of nowhere. A large house sits further in the background and down a
gravel path to the left is a barn. Even further down the slope is where she stands with a crowd
of Death Eaters and captured Muggles.
An indiscriminate mix of men and women of varying ages and ethnicities. Their only crime is
being born Muggles. There’s a raised platform before Hermione, past a surging crowd of
Death Eaters. Mixed in with these Death Eaters are the captured.
Though it only seems to be a handful compared to the many Hermione has seen kept in the
stables that are to the left and right of the crowd. Right at the front of the mass of bodies, the
only Muggles she can spot are young girls, as young as fifteen but no older than mid-
twenties.
The victims' friends.
Hermione tries not to visibly react. They’re torturing them. Making them watch their friend's
death. Turning her face away, her gaze moves across the dirt-smeared faces of the hostages in
the stables. They all stare out at the pulsating crowd with wet cheeks and red eyes from the
gloomy darkness.
Hermione can’t look there either.

She looks at the ground instead, roving over the freshly turned earth that has become slick
with rain and churned-out slippery mud. It coats her heeled shoes and soaks the hems of her
robes.
“Bellatrix.”
Her gaze snaps up to Severus Snape. She nearly loses all of her nerves right there and then
under his onyx gaze. His eyes sweep over her much quicker than he usually would, as if
determining a rapid assessment.
Hermione twists Bellatrix’s thin lips into a sneer. “You’ve been released from your pretty
castle then, have you, Severus?”
“Pretty? My Bella, you almost sound…” He pauses to drag out his last word, stressing every
syllable. “Envious.”
She laughs cruelly. “To oversee snivelling brats born from Mudblood cunts? I don’t envy
peasant work, Snape.”
“Naturally.” He inclines his head towards the stage and sweeps a hand out, a swathe of his
robes following. “It’s time.”
Inside her chest, her heart threatens to escape. She’s not sure if she passed his test but she has
no more time to worry about it. Her throat closes tight, growing slick with the promise of
throwing up. She can’t risk parting her lips so she smirks at Snape, turns, and aims her wand
to shoot at the torches.
The dying fires blaze high into the air and smoke is immediately heavy in her nose, curling
black into the night sky. They roar distinctly, guttering against the gentle wind but holding
fast. The chatter dies down and a tidal wave of heads turn on their necks, the group parting
for Bellatrix.
Hermione doesn’t bother to gather her skirts, skipping instead down the aisle made for her
and twirling through the mud, spraying the front lines of people on either side of her. She un-
focuses her eyes and lets colors bleed together into smudges, pulling a cocoon of cotton
around her body.
Nothing can touch her like this.
“Who wants to watch a Mudblood bleed?!” She crows.
The crowd jeers and she shrieks with laughter, still twirling. When she makes it to the front,
Draco subtly passes his hand over her hip at her left. She doesn’t falter but the warmth bleeds
through some of the haze trying to protect her.
She can’t allow it to.
Can’t afford to feel anymore but the dullness she’s slid herself inside. Trying to Occlude and
act is hard enough. Knowing what she’s dancing toward is even harder. At the platform, she
dramatically Apparates from the bottom onto the top in a swirl of dense shadows. She’s
dancing as she lands, kicking her feet and swirling.
The crowd oohs at her arrival.
“Bring me the Mudblood whore!” She shouts to no one in particular, leaning forward with a
manic grin.
“Bring the Mudblood whore!” The crowd repeats in a chant, their faces lit by the licks of
orange flame. “Bring the Mudblood whore!”
It’s like something out of Salem.
“Yes!” Hermione cackles, thrusting her wand into the air and shooting a column of flame.
She dances under the sparks shooting from it, sticking her tongue out for the heat. They sizzle
her lips, dosing her with pain. “Bring It to me! Bring It now! Faster!”
The hostage girls on the ground stare up at her with gaping mouths, their tears frozen on their
faces at the site of her insanity. She can’t look at them too long. Like Draco’s touch, they
threaten to burn the cobwebs protecting her brain. From the top of the makeshift aisle, a
Death Eater Hermione recognizes. Theodore Nott.
Such a beautiful face, a jaw that can only be carved by talented hands, but angry, mean eyes
as he drags a tall, lithe woman by the upper arm. The woman stumbles down to her hands and
knees in a patch of mud but Theo keeps walking, wrenching her through it. The crowd laughs
and the girls' friends sob, the cacophony of sounds slamming against Hermione’s chest.
The smell of bonfire layers across the farmland and freshly turned earth. A humid heat
accompanies it, signaling the true arrival of June. Becoming irritated with the girl, Theo
releases her arm to grab her ginger hair instead, yanking her to her knees. The woman cries
out and staggers into one side of the human walls on either side of her.
The mob shoves her back and she cries heavily as she lands in the mud again, face first this
time. Theo pauses a moment to allow the quick jumps of the people in the crowd. They dart
out and inflict some form of pain before dashing back like vicious little pixies into their wall
of companions.
The girl barely moves three paces and in that time she receives a kick to the ribs, has her face
ground into the dirt, and a backhand that wrenches forth and sprays a scarlet streak from her
mouth. Jumping back, the crowd clambers in alarm as the blood arcs and threatens to
decorate them with its ‘filth’.
Hermione stops her dancing and scowls. “Stop playing with my toy! Bring It to me!”
Finally, Theo yanks the girl up by the shoulder, so hard that Hermione hears the pop of
dislocation. The young woman doesn’t even cry out this time, her eyes glassy as she tumbles
along until she’s at the platform. Alecto Carrow pounces out and lands a sharp kick to the
back of the young woman’s knees.
Stomach turning to jelly, Hermione promises to herself right there and then, that she’ll take
the first chance she gets to kill Alecto Carrow.
The young girl folds like a house of cards, her chin slamming into the edge of the platform.
Her arms splay out, hugging the edge as her legs stop supporting her body weight.
Hermione’s senses try to sharpen into action but internally she runs around with cotton reels
and weaves her consciousness back to sleep.
Externally, she rears forward and takes the girl by her thin wrist, dragging her onto the stage.
The girl groans heavily, slithering on her belly like a dying animal until Hermione releases
her wrist. Her arm falls fast and limp, as if she’s already a corpse. In a daze, the victim rolls
sluggishly across the wooden planks beneath her; cradling her shoulder.
She sways as if drugged trying to regain her knees, but only succeeds in collapsing at
Hermione’s feet. For a moment, she has no idea what to say or do and her eyes fly to Draco.
He clenches his jaw and stares back at her.
This isn’t enough.
Heart pounding in her chest, she wrinkles her nose and kicks the girl harshly in the stomach.
The poor woman beneath her sprawls onto her back with a broken cry that resonates with the
sobs of her friends in the crowd.
The unclean and foul smell of the woman rises to Hermione’s face. All manner of fluids and
sweat and despair. It churns her stomach and makes her want to break down in tears. The
scent yanks her between pity and revulsion.
“My! The smell off you!”
The crowd laughs heartily but there’s an edge of restlessness to it. They want the show to
begin already. Rolling onto her knees slowly, the woman lets her head fall back listlessly on
her neck.
Her stringy, mud-streaked hair falls over her face, nearly obscuring the emerald of her eyes.
In the dense firelight and between Hermione’s tilting sanity, with her coloring, Hermione can
almost see a daughter of Harry and Ginny’s. A sister of his even, with Lily Potter’s hair and
eyes just like her and Harry both.
Her sanity strains as if tendons stretch from her temples and someone is behind her, tugging
them further and further back. The skin there yanks, the last threads of connection digging
into the sallow skin beneath her eyes threatening to tear. Blood should streak down her face
like tears as those tendons refuse to give and start to snap, flooding like jugular veins.
There are blood stains on the girls' lips and chin. Thick, dense mud coats various parts of her
cheeks and forehead.
Please don’t, the crystalline tears in her gaze beg Hermione.
Forgive me, Hermione begs back.

She cracks a manic grin. “Crucio!”
The girl withers and Hermione cackles, feeling as if the sound of it is dangerously close to
sobs. The crowd cheers, not hearing her anguish, enjoying Bellatrix’s madness. She catches
Draco’s eye again. He subtly shakes his head at her. It’s still not enough. Hermione refuses to
swallow her terror and raises her chin.
This is too nice for Bellatrix, too tame. The crowd begins to rustle, a low buzz of displeasure
flowing over the Death Eaters and sobbing, captured Muggles. This is it. This is where she
truly destroys her soul. She whispers a dark curse and something in her gut strains and twists.
Snaps off. Leaves her completely; the creation of a new, dark, living thing.
It wriggles through her stomach like a burrowing cockroach, rising along her side. Hermione
gasps, her lips gaping as it funnels through her shoulder and down her casting arm. It races,
as if excited to meet the point where her fingers are wrapped around Bellatrix’s wand. When
it feels the connection, it jolts, leaving a sensation in her palm like a thousand spiders running
beneath her skin.
She resists the urge to shudder, her panic keeping the Cruciatus aimed at the young girl
going. The girl thrashes on the raised platform, her shrieks as eerie as the newborn thing
leaving Hermione’s palm.
The final race down Bellatrix’s wand amplifies the foul magic she’s summoned, and the
wand takes over, revealing and funneling the darkest essence of her magic. It floods back into
her as if it shot itself back the way it came as well as out the tip of the wand. When it expels
and blasts the girl on the floor, acid sprays against the girl’s flesh.
Her screams crank up in sanity-breaking terror and volume. Her skin begins to slough off her
bones like well-cooked meat. Clumps of muscle and sizzling skin, red mounds of horror.
Hermione laughs and jumps up and down, and part of her is not acting.
Part of her is taken over by the wand, by the core of Bellatrix that lingers and delights in the
curse that’s just been uttered. The crowd jeers and Hermione runs up and down the platform,
jutting her tongue out and swinging her arms to force them to engage and revel in the atrocity
before them.
Because she’s a coward.
Because with her back to the girl she doesn’t have to watch her melt. With the crowd getting
louder, she doesn’t have to hear her scream herself to death. While she’s not facing her, she
doesn’t have to smell the roasting of human flesh.
“Finish her off!” Someone cries.
Someone else picks it up and it spreads like Fiendfyre, the whole crowd screaming, “Finish
her off!”
Spinning on her heel, Hermione’s heart stops at the sight of the damage she’s caused. The girl
has no more stringy ginger hair and no more skin. She’s a weak, groaning body wrapped in
charred meat. Her skin spreads in a bubbling sludge of peach around her and the smell is
something Hermione has never known.
A gag races up her throat and her stomach wriggles with that live thing. The crowd continues
to scream behind her, demanding more of a vulgar show.
“Finish her off!”
“FINISH HER OFF!”
Hermione screams out a noise that yanks the living, withering creation from her belly and
slashes her wand out. She intends to slice the girl's throat, to finally put the whimpering,
groaning thing out of its misery. But the girl's head topples from her neck. Her headless body
sways on its knees as the head rolls right off the stage.
In the same second, the body slams violently against the platform, audible breaking bones
ricocheting into the quiet like horrific echoes. Then the head stops rolling, landing in front of
a tiny, trembling girl who doesn’t even scream. Her mouth gapes soundlessly and then her
eyes roll up into her skull.
The woman next to her catches her, with a face soaked with tears. Even after catching the
fainting girl, the blonde girl holding her doesn’t take her red-rimmed eyes off Hermione. The
crowd, previously deathly silent in this heartbeat of horror, releases a jarring, manic cheer
that rises and swells like a disastrous wave.
She faces the crowd again with a leer and a cackle, taking a dramatic bow. She doesn’t want
to meet the eyes of the captured girls, of the friends of the one she’s just murdered. Even still,
she does because this cruel show is not over. She jumps from the platform, nearly wobbling
but landing right in front of one of these girls.
Hermione expects the Muggle to rear back in fright like her other bound friends, but she
doesn’t. The woman stands tall, her shoulders and spine straight, her mouth a thin line. She
has a defiant chin and an even more defiant hazel gaze.
“You see that, girly?!” Hermione demands in Bellatrix’s voice. “That’s what happens when
you disobey your masters! You are nothing but Mudblood scum and you will know your
place, or you will be on that platform next!”
The girl continues to stare at her, even while tears crest her dark, almond-shaped eyes and
spill down her olive-skinned cheeks. Hermione nearly falls to her knees at such a display. The
girl fishes through her soul for all the shame Hermione has to give, luring it to the surface but
she can’t let it be hooked, not as Bellatrix.
She crowds closer, grasping the long, dark braid hanging over the girl’s shoulder by the top.
“You’ve only got yourself to blame you know,” she whispers spitefully. “Some of you
Mudbloods are far too pretty. Seductive little bodies on you all.”
The girl’s nerves bloom on her face and she swallows, nodding just slightly before letting her
eyes fall to her feet. Hermione releases her with a cackle and then turns to dramatically bow
once more to the ongoing round of applause.
Draco nods subtly, still as a statue.
You did it. Show’s over.
Chapter End Notes
Sigh.
I can't resist the Marauder's sprinkles.
Part Two: June '98
Chapter Notes
First of all, a huge, huge thank you for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks. I get so
giggly seeing the little notes you put on your bookmarks. I can't remember if it was this
fic, but someone bookmarked something that said, 'Oh so you listen to Mitski too' and
honestly - I was SEEN. Also, two people go above and beyond to rec this fic on Reddit
and I can't express how much I adore you. You know who you are.
I was listening to 'Skin and Bones' by David Kushner on repeat for this chapter.
Immediately went into the Close Encounters playlist. Wanted to ask you guys if anyone
would be interested in having access to that; let me know.
I know I yap in these fucking A/N's but last little comments: I've done some editing over
the fic recently and it's had slight adjustments. So just to let you know, because I know
some readers like to download. And finally, I've got a rough outline of everything and
we're looking at around 35 chapters, give or take. There are so many things I'm dying to
show you!
Hermione’s soul is in obliterated tatters.
The evening fades to background noises and scents; a mirage of faces. Shapes and colours
that merge, that she has no hope in attempting to pick apart or distinguish.
I’m falling apart.
Draco sticks devotedly to her side through the congratulations, the jeering and catcalling.
Through the revelry. She averts her eyes from the Death Eaters entering the stables,
deafening her ears to the screaming Muggles inside.
I’m a coward.
I’m scum.
I’m the worst of humanity.
This is for the war; she begs herself to remember. This is for Harry to win.
No more sitting around in the tent. No more safety. Now she’s on the front lines. Now she’s
casting the curses. Now she has blood on her hands that isn’t so easy to put under this is for
the war. Killing Dolohov cracked her mind, threatening to spill its contents, but she was able
to rationalise it as being a part of the hunt.
This feels different. Monumentally different. Why did that girl have to suffer? To die?
Because she tried to escape Hell? It isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Hermione doesn’t want to have
to do it anymore. She doesn’t want to be in Bellatrix’s skin anymore. She doesn’t want to do
this.
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
“Bellatrix,” Snape’s oily voice oozes into her consciousness.
Hermione’s head snaps up and works to pull him into focus. He’s found her hidden away in
the balmy night, tucked halfway up the path to the house that takes up a majority of this land.
Away from the crowd. Away from Draco, who was stolen away by Rabastan.
Hiding.
Not playing Bellatrix very well at all but sneaking off seemed a better alternative than
breaking down into sobs.
“Not enjoying your party?”
Sneering in response, she actively straightens her posture. “It was my duty to the Dark Lord.
I have more important things to do, Severus.”
He raises a dark brow, his sallow nose casting a shadow under the bright moon. “Oh? Such
as?”
Resisting the urge to physically look around and cast about for an excuse, she squares her
shoulders. “I have an order to review the house. The Dark Lord would like the young boys
masquerading as faithful servants to be kept in check. Zabini, Nott, Crabbe and Goyle. Jr, of
course.”
There’s almost a smile on Snape’s face, something disbelieving that makes her skin crawl. “I
see. Always working, are you not?”
“Naturally,” Hermione sniffs, sweeping a hand down her robes as if his mere proximity
makes her dirty. “Run along back to your pretty castle, Severus. I wouldn’t want you to work
yourself too hard.”
He sweeps an arm out as if humbly agreeing. “Quite. If I may, before I depart, I wanted to
offer some advice.”
She stares at him blankly, not able to conjure an appropriate Bellatrix-esque response.
Snape glances around once, confirming their seclusion and then steps closer, eyes glued to
hers. “Stop looking to Draco. Bellatrix doesn’t rely on Rodolphus half so much. She is an
entity unto herself.”
White noise pierces her eardrums, mimicking the flat line of a heart monitor as the organ fails
her.
“W-?”
Snape’s lip curls, the site robbing her of fumbling excuses. “It takes a spy to know a spy,
Miss Granger and I would recognise Draco in any such body he deigns to wear. I swore a
Vow to assist him and I will. It seems, that you now fall under that remit. I had heard rumours
of course and yet; his sanity depends on you much more than I realised. Than in fact, you
realise.”
With that bomb dropped Snape gathers his robes tight to his body and Disapparates.
Hermione shakes from head to toe left there in the darkness and bites down harshly on her lip
so she doesn’t cry.
I’m falling apart.
The sobs press against her chest, desperate and clawing, begging to be released. She resists
the urge to jam her fist in her mouth and locks all of her limbs. Her very essence feels as if
it’s unravelling. Everything about tonight has been so horrific and she’s not sure if she can
take anymore.
Her heart thunders in her ears and she looks down into the pit of Death Eaters, trying to
source Draco. It takes her panicking brain a full minute to realise she won’t find his platinum
head bobbing around because he’s wearing Rodolophus’ dark locks. She takes deep,
desperate breaths that shudder and hitch, trying to calm herself.
Hermione knows she should get back down there. Knows that she should play her part but
she can barely keep a grasp of her own mind right now. She starts internally screaming,
staring down at the swarm of bodies, at the barn door that keeps opening and closing.
Spiralling insanity savages her stomach and mutates into festering hate.
The residue of dark magic thrums in her veins, and throbs in the palm of her hand where she
still holds Bellatrix’s wand. It’s eager for more hurt. Ready to shred and render flesh. She
could just go down there right now and kill them all. Her eyes bore into the barn door,
convinced even from this distance she could see every grain of wood in it.
Over and over, it opens and closes. Two excited, leering Death Eaters in. One doe-eyed, smug
Death Eater out. Men, all of them. Filthy, disgusting, vile cretins. She’s just standing here.
Standing here knowing what they’re doing inside. Knowing there are girls in there that are
cowering and begging, fighting and thrashing.
Like she did on Malfoy Manor’s drawing room floor beneath Rodolophus. She remembers
the glass in her spine and under her nails, her desperation choking her. The slime of his
tongue licking at her flesh. His cold fingers and wet sleeves.
Viciousness burns bright and hot until it feels like a fire is obliterating her brain. She bakes
where she’s stood, burning alive, screaming inside; dying.
“Hey.”
Throwing her wand arm out, Hermione shoots off a spell that she doesn’t even process.
Draco hisses, dashing to the side and out of the way of a brilliant, emerald light. He staggers
on his feet and slumps against the fence on his left, clutching it beneath his hands. His eyes
yawn as they stare at her, his chest heaving.
“Was that a fucking Avada?”
When she merely stares at him, her gaze fuzzy, panting, he straightens and stretches his hands
out placatingly.
“Granger,” he murmurs gently. “It’s me.”
“I can fucking see who it is,” she snarls back.
Rodolophus Lestrange glares at her, his eyes mean and his smirk lecherous. Like those men
going in and out of the barn. The ones she’s allowing to. She’s standing witness to rape and
possible murder.
She’s standing witness.
“Hermione,” Draco calls again, snapping her eyes from the barn.
Tremors wrack her frame as she stands before him, her wand scorching the palm of her hand.
No, not her wand. Bellatrix’s wand. It’s Bellatrix’s wand. She looks down at it. In Bellatrix’s
hand. She’s in Bellatrix’s skin. She’s in Bellatrix’s head. She is Bellatrix. She shudders and
her mind cleaves, screeching as it breaks apart.
A sob rips through her mouth and she folds over herself, cupping her burning and throbbing
head and moaning in despair.
“Oh Gods!” She screams into her hands. “Oh Gods! Oh, my fucking GOD.”
Her vocal chords shred with the decree and she rocks on her feet, hiding her face and
shrieking into her hands.
“Shh! Shh,” Draco hushes, his arms embracing her.
Hermione jerks back at the touch. “Don’t touch me!”
“Shh,” he begs, his pupils yawning. His head snaps over his shoulder and then back to her.
“Granger, please, pull it together. Please!”
His hands reach for her again and she struggles back, howling as he grabs her arm. She’s
mid-scream when he Dissapparates them. She wrenches herself back the moment they arrive
back at Malfoy Manor, her wand clattering to the floor. Her face tingles and bubbles, the
timer running out on Bellatrix. When she lands down, it's on her own arse and her tailbone
smarts, sending a flare of vicious agony up the ladder of her spine.
There’s no room in her to care. She buries her face back in her hands and rocks desperately,
trying to gather all the broken pieces of her together again.
“What have I done?!” Hermione whimpers through heaving sobs that choke her. “What have
I done?! Oh, Gods! I’m coming apart! Draco, I’m coming apart!”
Like the curse she gave her victim, her skin is unwinding from her bones and her muscles are
melting. Her flesh is being eaten like a bacterium and her brain is its goal. The folds of her
sanity and humanity and very core start to unbind, and she’s too weak to try and prevent it.
Draco snatches her shoulders, forcing her to jolt her head out of her hands. “Granger, look at
me.”
Her eyes dart around the room, watching the walls crumble and sway. The bed bubbles, the
pillows turning soapy and translucent under the moonlight. The slightly ajar bedside drawer
makes her want to rip it all apart and smash it into splinters.
“Look at me!”
Hermione’s eyes snap back to Draco’s, which are now his own grey iris. She tries to keep a
grasp on them, frightened that she didn't notice him altering. She inhales shakily, drawing in
his mint and frost-bitten air scent. Except it’s layered with fire and ash, with smoke and
scorched flesh.
“It’s the dark magic,” he presses urgently, his fingers pinching the skin of her arms through
her robes. “It’s not real. You have to hold on. It’s not real.”
He yanks her to his chest; his body shaking and holds her tightly. He lays a trembling hand on
the back of her head and burrows his eyes into hers, and she feels him slide inside her brain.
Wrap me up, she pleads silently, her eyes wide as she stares up at Draco. Wrap me up, I’m
falling apart.
Inside her head, Draco races around gathering collapsing walls and broken door frames,
repairing cracks in the foundation and patching up holes in her soul.
You’re okay, he soothes her. You’re okay.
Physically, his body closes around her, as mentally he kneels in a dark room, his shoulders
bearing the brunt of a collapsing ceiling. His teeth grit together, his arms shaking but he does
it. He holds her together. He stops her from falling completely apart.
The force of real-life Draco’s hug anchors her body to something tangible. He cradles her to
him, knelt there on the floor while she cries. In her mind, he stumbles from the patched
ceiling, and staggers down fragile, shuddering corridors. She trails behind him, helpless and
weak as he hurries to repair all her broken parts.
A tall, oak door lining the wall next to countless others creaks alarmingly, and he spins to
grip the frame as it trembles. The door cracks open, the lock coming undone and shrieks to
stand ajar.
A voice floods out, soothing and calm.
Mum.
Her mum's humming slices through the haze and Hermione meanders to stand shoulder-to-
shoulder with Draco. In the now stable doorway of memory, she watches her smiling mum
singing softly to a much younger, softer version of her. They kneel in Hermione’s childhood
bedroom on the playmat, where a colouring book and countless pencils litter the fluffy rug.
She tilts her head to the side as she watches, disconnected from that child but held sway by
her mum’s voice all the same.
“Thula thul, thula baba thula sana;”
Keep quiet my child
Her mum strokes a hand down young Hermione’s cheek, her nails pushing chaotic curls
gently out of her face.
“Thul’ u bab’uzo fika eku seni;”
Keep quiet my baby
Young Hermione stares up at her mum in awe and a thread of connection bursts to life
between them. She can feel the tingle of her cheek where Mum strokes it and smells the coca
butter she religiously used on her skin for years. Tears track down her cheeks while she
observes the memory.
She begins to hum along to her mum’s song and Draco actively stirs at her shoulder, his face
turning down and away from the scene to observe her next to him. She sees this from the
corner of her raw eyes but doesn’t look away from her mum and her goddess braids; the soft
curve of her full lips as she sings.
“Thula seni;”
Be quiet, Daddy will be home by dawn
“Kukh’in kanyezi ziholel’ u baba,”
There’s a star that will lead him home
He tips his head down to her and whispers through the melancholy of her mum’s words,
“Your voice is so beautiful. It reminds me of my mother.”
This brings her heavy gaze up to him and he reaches out, sweeping his fingers down her wet
cheek. Where he connects, there’s the same feeling of being pulled back with him that she
experienced the night she accidentally saw his eye injury, and just as suddenly she’s in
Draco’s memories.
A much smaller, pointier version of him sits on the end of his mother’s decadent white bed
watching a younger, stunning Narcissa get ready at her ornate dressing table. She hums as she
brushes her long hair which is currently completely platinum like Draco’s. Young Draco
rushes over to join her and crawls awkwardly onto her lap, his small hands digging into
Narcissa’s thighs.
“What is that, Mum?” He asks in awe, his grey eyes young and innocent.
Narcissa smiles patiently, much softer than Hermione ever saw her in life and strokes Draco's
small, fat cheek. “It’s something my mother taught me and her mother before her. You can
share it with your children too, Darling. Perhaps you’ll find a wife who will be able to carry
such a sweet tune. Your own Hummingbird.”
The present begins to take shape around them, exiting the liminal space of their minds.
Draco pulls back slightly, unwinding his arms from around her to take her hands. “I don’t
much believe in fate but that- felt like a sign. I may have found my Hummingbird.”
Hermione smiles softly, her face raw and her heart aching. “My mum always told me that
love can only bloom between children who carry music in their soul.”
A thought occurs to her then and her eyebrows draw together. “When I hear you in my mind
now… it’s in the present.”
She doesn’t think she explains it well but Draco seems to understand. He nods slowly, his
hands dragging down her cold arms and warming her up.
“Something’s changed,” he acknowledges. “The longer I keep the Trace on you, the more
embedded it becomes with your magical core, and the stronger it seems to become.”
Having such a puzzle is a wonderful distraction and she shifts to sit across Draco’s knees to
ponder it. He doesn’t complain, sitting in the middle of the floor and wrapping his arms
around her waist and knees to hold her body to his. She in turn wraps her arms around his
neck but resists the urge to burrow into his shoulder so she can address him.
“Do you hear me in your head?” She wonders aloud.
She remembers the way she screamed for him when Bellatrix tortured her and the way she
begged for him to come back when he left. She’s not entirely sure if her pride can handle him
having heard those awful, desperate moments of her life.
But just before he answers she remembers I heard you as he stitched up her mutilated arm.
“Not often,” he responds and Hermione’s surprised to see he looks regretful. “But I’m not
taking it off you. I need to know where you are.”
His arms around her tighten, dragging her body close and she merely nods, unsure if it’s
because she understands his forms of love or if she’s too weary to argue the point.
They sit in silence for a while, Hermione glancing off to the side in thought while she can
feel the heavy weight of Draco’s gaze. Slowly, she turns to meet his eye contact. He’s so
devastatingly handsome. His face is his own and his blonde hair is damp with sweat. Smoke
and fire clings to his clothes, but beneath it his usual scent.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, you know.” She blushes when she says it
because it feels like the most intimate thing she’s ever said to him. “I’ve never thanked you.
For staying here with me. For coming back. For Rodolophus’.”
Draco’s lip curls at the name but his face just as soon smooths into something softer than
she’s ever seen on his features before.
“I know….” He falters, displeasure pinching his mouth. “I know I’m not normal.”
Hermione can’t help but snort at this. Somehow, Draco always makes her laugh in the darkest
times.
He provides a genuine smile that steals her breath and she rapidly flips through her memories
trying to determine if he’s ever given her one before. She doesn’t think he has. He shakes her
playfully on his lap in reprimand until she giggles, but then turns serious again.
“I know I’m not normal,” he repeats now, his eyes fixed on hers. “I know I don’t love the
way people are supposed to love. I don’t know why that is and I’ve truly gotten to a point in
my life where I don’t care.”
She presses her lips together and finds herself holding her breath. As intimate as her own
words felt, these feel just as much so. Another locked file in the cabinet of Draco Malfoy’s
soul.
“But I also know that I love you.”
His eyes dart across her face as if taking her all in, truly appreciating the person he loves.
Hermione blushes, her chest and cheeks tingling with it.
“I love you and I will do anything for you.” The depths of his eyes elongate, shifting into
something primal. “Do you hear me? Anything.”
Lips parting, Hermione begins with, “I-”
But then she stops because she’s not sure if she can say it back. Would she do anything for
Draco? Yes. Of course. But if it got in the way of the hunt? If it made her choose between
him or Harry? She’s not sure. It scares her that she’s not sure. She prays she’ll never have to
find out.
“I know,” she finally settles on, swallowing past a thick lump in her throat. “You’ve shown
me that already. I know.”
Draco nods and some tension releases from his shoulders as if he deeply needs her to
understand and believe him.
This leads Hermione’s thoughts to a question she’s not yet had an answer to. “How’re you so
good at it? Being him? How do you know things all the time?”
He smirks, something more familiar than the lingering softness of his eyes. “Legilimency.
When he was dying.”
“Of course,” she breathes, eyes un-focusing as she processes the realisation. “Said to be a
person’s weakest moment.”
“They’re still looking into Dolohov,” Draco tells her now. “But there’s no leads. They assume
he’s been murdered, but they know the Order would have flaunted the victory. The Dark Lord
is suspicious of what this means.”
“I anticipated something like that.”
“Of course you did,” he answers with a fondness that flutters her stomach.
She kisses him then because it feels like the only right thing to do. His mouth opens beneath
hers, accepting her tongue and her fingers seek his hair. He groans softly when she kisses him
harder and presses tighter, desperate to be grounded. His hands around her waist and knees
tighten, and he shifts as they grow more frenzied.
Hermione’s body falls back and she squeaks softly but Draco gently splays her out on the
floor, slotting between her thighs. His whole body cages hers, swamping her in his shadow.
She doesn’t mind.
She wants to be lost in him.
Draco’s mouth works down her throat, slow and hot. She moans quietly, her fingers still lost
in his hair, absorbed in sensation alone. He readjusts from her then, pulling all the way back
so he can slowly and methodically divest her of her clothes. Hermione watches him the
whole while, absorbing the tenderness clutching at the corners of his eyes.
Apart from the night after her bath, she can’t recall Draco ever touching her so tenderly. His
fingers are reverent on her skin, stroking until he raises goosebumps when rancid, smoke-
heavy fabric peels away from her flesh. She stares up at him from the floor, her eyes feeling
heavy-lidded and her body docile; fragile.
As if he senses that, he touches her slowly and gently, sweeping broad strokes down her
collarbones and across her breasts. She twitches softly and groans throatily once more when
his head bends to take a nipple into his mouth. Her fingers card back into his hair, her pulse
gathering speed in the crooks of her elbows.
Draco’s hands cradle her ribs, little fingers spanning down to her hips. It feels like he’s
holding her together completely. When he’s happy with his treatment of one nipple, he glides
his tongue over to the other, leaving a wet track on her flesh. She burns hotter, struggling to
keep her eyes on him through the soft pleasure he threads throughout her chest.
Again, his tongue drags against her skin and moves down her breasts, leaving tender, quick
bites on the underside. She jolts and her mind snaps into harsher awareness.
The barn door.
Opening.
Closing.
Smug, satisfied faces.
Eager, leering expressions.
Her heart speeds up and her limbs become heavy.
Rodolophus’ wet sleeve on her waist.
Her mouth parts when her stomach tightens with discomfort.
Glass shredding her spine.
Embedding under her nails.
Draco’s tongue drags down her quivering stomach.
The barn door.
Opening.
Closing.
Hermione freezes and gasps.
Draco tenses and he lifts his body away from her sharply, his eyes glacial. “What’s wrong?”
“I-,” she stutters, finding her hands slipping from his hair due to tremors. “S-sorry.”
He frowns and his hands lightly grip her waist. “For what?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she takes a moment in darkness before opening them, and
admitting, “Rodolphus, he- he licked me and that fucking barn door- I just- I can’t- I’m
witness-”
His eyes darken, pupils shrinking and he sits all the way up, pulling away from her
completely.
“I’m such a fucking moron.”

“No!” She hurries to reassure him, sitting up and reaching out. “It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t comfort me!” He admonishes in disgust, though he lets her take his arm and huddle
close. “This isn’t about me. Fuck.” He grabs her face, boring his eyes into hers. “This isn’t
about me.”
“You’re right,” she concedes, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and tilting her head to watch
him. “So don’t agonise over it. You weren’t to know. You couldn’t see everything he was
doing.”
His next words are bitten out and raw. “I saw enough.”
“And you took care of it,” she soothes him. “You took care of me.”
Looking at her for a long moment, he lets a short breath out of his nose.
“If you don’t want to anymore…” His jaw works, clenching and unclenching and he hugs her
close, pressing her body to his. “I know how this started for us but if you didn’t want to fuck
anymore, then we won’t. It won’t change anything. I know it probably doesn’t always feel
like it, but I do respect you, Hermione.”
Something warm burns in her chest and she nuzzles into his shoulder. “I still want you. I
just… not right now, okay? I’d really like to sleep, actually.”
He nods quickly and a hand rises to stroke her hair back from her face. He stares at her for a
long moment and she allows it, even though she’s not sure what he’s looking for. Finally, he
untangles himself from her, and once he’s halfway up, he stoops to pick her up bridal style.
She giggles softly, pleased to be held.
Even when they reach the bed, he manages to hold her to him and strip back the covers.
As he lowers her, she says, “I don’t sleep in here.”
“It’s just a bed, Hummingbird,” he murmurs back, pushing on her hip.
Dead people’s bed, she comments to herself but then she’s distracted by the pleasant tingle
the nickname generates.
Something that’s just hers.
Just theirs.
It scares her how much she adores this man; the things she’ll do for him.
“Is everything in place? The wards?” She checks as she watches him strip.
“We’re safe,” is his soft reply as he climbs in beside her.

Sighing softly, she readjusts when he’s lying down so she can hunker down in his arms.
Expecting to stay awake a while, Hermione’s surprised to feel herself drift off rather quickly,
and peacefully.
Part Two: June '98
Chapter Notes
GUYS.
The love I am getting for this fic is absolutely blowing my fucking mind. The
comments?! Unfucking real. A massive shout out to Kate for her videos on TikTok
hyping this fic. As always, big love for my top two recommenders on Reddit. So much
love to everyone commenting on my TikTok videos and following me over there. I'm
just so, so grateful. I know my updates have sucked because I've been trying to write my
final uni assignment but to thank you as deeply as I can for your patience and your
kindness, I've got a double update for you today. I hope you enjoy them.
When Hermione’s lashes flutter open in the morning, Draco’s sleeping face is her first view.
Compared to the chair in the room she woke up in at Shell Cottage, he looks much more
relaxed. His brow is smooth and his skin flawless. His lips are slightly parted and she can see
the fissure of red veins in his eyelids as the sun pours down over them.
For a brief time, Hermione allows herself the luxury of simply watching him. She scarcely
dares to breathe and certainly doesn’t touch him. The sheets have pulled down to his waist,
showing off his newly acquired muscles. Faded stretchmarks cleave at his biceps and his
Septumsempra scar streaks across his chest.
As she looks at him, she wonders if there’s any Veela lineage in his family line. Sometimes
he’s too beautiful to be considered normal. A piece of platinum hair shifts over his eye as he
breathes out. It seems to tickle the bridge of his nose because he wrinkles it in his sleep, his
breathing changing.
Hermione smiles.
Leaning forward, she kisses his forehead and doesn’t look back to see if she woke him when
she climbs out of bed. She heads into the bathroom, desperate to have a good wash. Certain
parts of her curls still smell like fire and it turns her stomach. She half expects Draco to rise
and follow her.
She runs herself a scolding bath alone and sits in it for a long while, washing her skin and her
hair until she feels as close to clean as she’ll manage. There’s a squeak of the bed sometime
later, and she looks up just as she’s dragging a razor down her thigh. Draco approaches the
steam-filled doorway, completely naked, and leans casually in the archway, folding his arms.
“Morning,” she murmurs, not wanting to disturb the humid haze of the bathroom. “Did you
want to come in? I’ll have to flush it out first.”
“No,” he rumbles, his sleep-rough voice pulling at something low in her stomach. “I’m
content to watch.”
She rolls her eyes to deter from her blush and returns her attention to shaving. Despite her
audience, she brings her foot onto the edge and makes sure she gets her ankles, focusing
intently. When she’s happy and puts the razor back on the side, Draco remains standing in the
archway.
Catching her gaze, his own softens from vivid longing and shifts into something more
playful. He moves into the room until he’s eventually standing alongside the bath. Hermione
peers up at him, her wet curls clinging to her cheeks as she ponders his next move.
She so rarely gets to wake up with him, she doesn’t quite know what he’s like first thing. He
takes her cheek, cupping it and swiping his thumb under her eye.
“Your beauty makes me breathless,” he whispers.
Butterflies explode in her stomach and she can’t resist the grin that pulls her cheeks up.
“You’ve always been stunning,” he adds and tilts his head to the side, eyes assessing. “I
wasted so much time not seeing that.”
Hermione flushes deeply, the crown of her head sweeping with prickles until they coat her
scalp.
“You’ve always been pretty,” she says in reply, still staring at him. “Pointy too.”
He grins at her and she blinks dazedly at it. It’s not the shark-like, mean, and malevolent one
she loves to hate. It’s joyful. It’s so beautiful on his face that she reaches out for his thigh and
drags him forward. He grunts, readjusting his feet for the new direction she’s forced him in.
She places a sloppy, hot kiss on his inner thigh. Draco groans and his cock twitches near her
face, his hand falling atop her wet head.
Voice hoarse, he moans, “Granger. We need to check in.”
“I need you.”
Draco groans again, his fingers clenching in her hair and gathering it in his grasp. She presses
another loving kiss to his skin and then bites down, luxuriating in the jerk of his muscles. His
cock jumps once more beside her face, and she smiles into his flesh. She pulls away with a
pop and looks up at him.
His chest is flush and panting slightly, his eyes shrunken and lips pouty. “You’re trying to
wreck me.”
“Then you shouldn’t enjoy being wrecked,” she quips.
The hand not hooked around his thigh grabs his half-hard cock and he grits his teeth down at
her. She’s never done this more than once and she’s excited at the thought of having a real go
at it. To see how he’ll react. She sticks her tongue out and bounces the head of his cock off
the flat of it experimentally.
Draco growls something between his clenched teeth but she can’t make out what it is. She
just hopes he continues releasing such exciting noises. Her cunt pounds with excitement, a
wetness building between her lips beneath the water. She repeats the action and his fingers in
her hair grip tighter, yanking on the curls.
Hermione gasps and then takes the opportunity of her open mouth to slide it around the head
of him. Her eyes flick up to his immediately and his cock twitches on her tongue, flooding
her chest and stomach with pride.
“Look at how beautiful you are, taking me,” he rasps.
She moans around his cock, taking him deeper and his lips part, his eyes zeroing in on where
she’s making him disappear in her throat. He doesn’t move his hips at all, letting her do as
she pleases. The visage of him is mouthwatering, all tense abs and strained forearms;
broadcasting bulging veins.
The taste of him is pleasant and light, and Hermione’s greedy for it. She drags her mouth
back up the length of him and then swirls her tongue over the head.
“Get out of the bath, Hummingbird,” he coaxes lowly. “Let me touch you.”
Cunt giving a desperate clutch, she does as he instructs and climbs out to sit on the edge. He
moves to the left of her, angling his hips back toward her face. Hermione tips her head up to
look at him and he reaches down to her thighs, pushing them open.
Her lips pop open as his fingers dip between her legs, his gaze darkening as he finds the slick
wetness waiting for him.
“You shouldn’t like wrecking me so much.”
Not deigning to answer, she takes his cock back in hand and guides her mouth to reunite with
the tip, tracing her tongue there. A sound comes from deep in Draco’s chest and his fingers
slip down to her opening, sliding inside and spreading her open. She moans, stomach
clenching, and wraps her lips around him, sucking eagerly as she churns her hips.
Something guttural exits Draco’s mouth and her thighs twitch in response.
“So, fucking pretty,” he growls down at her.
She doesn’t take her eyes off him the whole while, slurping and licking and sucking at his
cock with increasing desperation. His fingers, in mirror of this, work harder and deeper, his
thumb joining to roll over her clit. Her limbs tremble and she brings her hand in on the action
with her mouth, working Draco over in tandem.
“Fuck, Granger.”
A hand in her hair yanks her skull back and she gasps as she’s ripped abruptly from salivating
on his cock. A runner of spit clings desperately to her bottom lip and the tip of his cock,
hanging obscenely while their eyes lock. Draco’s jaw clenches but he continues to stare at
her, scorching her inside out with the vicious ecstasy gripping his features.
“Look at you,” he tells her reverently, gaze sweeping over her face and fingers still buried
inside her. “I could never get tired of seeing you like this.”
Arching her brow, she asks, “At your mercy?”
His fingers curl inside her as if to test that theory and she squeaks.
He smirks at her when he answers, “Wanting me.”
A network of sparks explodes in her stomach and fizzles down to her cunt, wetness sluicing
out of her with need.
“I want you to fuck me,” she gasps, shifting her hips again.
He doesn’t even answer her. He just takes his fingers from inside her, ignoring her resulting
gasp and the squelch of her pussy. Then he grabs her hips and walks her backward until her
arse slams into the counter. Hermione grunts, her hands gripping his biceps for stability. He
cranes his head down to watch her the whole while, but they don’t stop there.
Within a second, he’s spun her around and she has to support herself against the wall on
either side of the mirror. Catching her reflection, she becomes frozen, taking in the combined
visage of them together. Her skin is honey warm and his ice. Her hair is chaotic dark curls
and his mused, neat; white.
Their eyes are the same. Despite hers being cocoa brown and his stormy grey, they’re
shrunken; the pupils stretched. They look high on each other and it’s the most erotic thing.
Their skin is bare, his rippled and tight, hers softer and looser, a slight hang to her lower belly
and a thickness in her hips.
They both have the same faded stretch marks, though hers also cling to her breasts. The glass
cuts from Bathilda Bagshot’s exploding mirror have healed to white flecks across the bridge
of her nose and cheekbones. Draco’s Septumsempra scar on his chest is white lightening
across his skin, barely visible.
Draco assesses them together in the same manner she does, and in the mirror, his hot gaze
lingers on all her body parts. His cock against her arse jerks and Hermione smirks at him in
their reflection.
Something sparkles between their eye contact, and she watches him glance and reach down
before she feels his cock pressing into her. He doesn’t slam into her, but he slides in relatively
quickly through her wetness. Hermione watches her lips pop open and her spine arch to take
him.
When Draco’s settled into place, every inch buried inside her grasping cunt, he stills. They
pant together, his front aligning with her spine. His arm slides against her stomach, shoving
between her breasts and his hand reaches up to grab her jaw. Moaning throatily, she presses
her hips back and he hisses, withdrawing to thrust back in.
She shakes against the counter where he has her pinned, taking his increasing thrusts until
they become vicious snaps of his hips against her arse. It jiggles as she watches in the mirror,
the flesh of her hips and thighs moving too. She tries to move her eyes to look at him but he
jerks her head back with his hand gripping her face.
“Look at yourself, Hummingbird.”
She does and something deep and primal looks back. Her pulse throbs in her throat and her
face burns, scorching fire down her throat.
It opens her mouth, gasping out, “fuck me, that’s so good. You fuck me so good, Draco.”
He groans and pounds her harder in reward. Grunting, she fucks back onto his cock and dives
a hand between her legs to rub her clit. Draco shudders as she tightens on him and squeezes
her tighter while he rolls his hips to hit deep inside her.
Hermione eyes roll in her head, and she begs, “Don’t stop! I’m- I’ll come, Draco, please
don’t stop!”
“Ah, fuck,” he hisses.
He jerks upright and grabs her hips, using his new leverage to yank her back on his cock and
slam so deep inside her that she thinks she feels him in her stomach. She rubs at her clit
viciously, so close she can taste it. Sweat and bath water clings to her body and between her
legs drips down Draco’s cock, soaking both of their inner thighs.
“Take it,” he moans under his breath, pounding her harder; ripping her apart. “Fucking take
me.”
She sobs, the pleasure so good it’s muddling her thoughts and babbling her words. “It’s
yours, it’s yours, it’s yours!”
“Shit,” he hisses. “Shit.”
He releases her hips and snatches her wrists, violently pulling her arms behind her back.
Hermione’s finger slips from her clit, and she cries out, too buzzed with her cut-off orgasm to
resist Draco grabbing her by the forearms. Her shoulders whip back and her spine tenses, her
head dragged up from its slump to stare into the mirror.
In dual reality, she both watches and feels Draco obliterate her cunt, his hips snapping so fast
it leaves a stinging burn against her skin. Her pussy feels torn asunder, and her hips scream
with the violent stretch. The brutality of it snatches up her lost orgasm and squeezes it,
bringing it back to life so it can explode and flood out of her.
Hermione lets out something akin to a shriek and loses her eyesight, her eyeballs rolling right
up into her skull. Draco groans and his cock twitches inside her but he keeps going,
wrenching her orgasm through her body. Obscene amounts of wetness spill from her pussy
and soaks Draco, streaming down her thighs in rivulets.
Yanking out of her, he shoves his cock between her arse cheeks and grinds there, his hand
diving into her hair and pulling her head up. She watches, breath and chest staggering as he
finishes against her spine. He pants as desperately as her, a burning crimson staining his
cheeks, throat, and chest.
When he releases her arms, she groans softly at the ache in them and tucks them under her
body to recuperate.
“That was-” he gasps, hands now grasping her arse cheeks. “Just… fucking something else.”
She collapses against the counter, buries her face between her arms, and laughs.
“Thank you, Kreacher.”
Kreacher stares up at Hermione with wide eyes, drinking in the visage of her Polyjuiced as
Bellatrix. It turns Hermione’s stomach, but she can’t find it in her to hate the old elf.
Kreacher shakes his head so his big ears flap and then Dissapparates. The letter is barely in
her hand when he does so, leaving with a grunt that lingers behind the original snap. She
grimaces. She knows Kreacher still hates interacting with her, but he’s been keen to help
Draco, and so he and Dobby exchange notes between Malfoy Manor and Shell Cottage.
“Another note?” Draco asks in Rodolophus’ voice, entering from the bathroom.
She keeps her eyes on the parchment to scan her gaze over it and then holds it away from her
body.
Turning her head, she tells him, “Harry says we’re ready to do it tomorrow.”
The parchment bursts into flames and she lets the heat lick at her fingertips before fluttering
the ashes away.
Draco snorts, adjusting his robes. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”
She would like to make a joke about the blowjob being his birthday present but in their
current faces the idea wrenches her stomach.
“Come on,” Draco tells her, walking to the door. “Time to find out if we’re dead.”
Again, she would like to make a joke; and roll her eyes. He says this every meeting they have
since they never know if Voldemort has summoned the Lestranges and not been answered.
But it’s no joking matter. Every time they walk out of this bedroom door, they could be next
for the gallows.
They walk together down the hall, passing dozing portraits and traverse down the thick,
carpeted stairs, to the dining room.
“Bellatrix. So nice of you to join us.”
Hermione’s foot nearly skids on the floor and her tongue curdles in her mouth. She bites
down before she audibly chokes on it. She meets Voldemort’s eye on accident and quickly
drops her head, her pulse pounding so hard she vibrates where she’s stood.
“My Lord.”
She stares at the mahogany tabletop but in her periphery, Death Eaters ring around it in their
seats. Numerous clasped fists and wands close in on all sides.
“Might you explain your absssence?” Voldemort hisses venomously.
Swallowing, she brings her shaky hands behind her back and keeps her head down; dropping
her shoulders.
“My Lord,” Draco steps in at her side, his voice strong and his presence stronger. “Forgive
my wife, and myself, of course. Bellatrix had one of her… episodes.”
There are sniggers around the table until Voldemort’s hiss of displeasure severs their vocal
cords. Hermione still doesn’t raise her head, her heart threatening to rip out of her chest. She
grips her mind tightly and prepares for an invasion, sweat lashing against the back of her
neck and scalp.
“I heard it was very dark magic indeed, Bellatrix,” Voldemort muses now. “Some of your
best work yet.”
Forcing a straight face, she slowly raises her head; keeping her eyes over Voldemort’s
shoulder on the elaborate wallpaper. “In service of you, my Lord.”
“Sit.”
Scrabbling, she gets to her seat like a whipped dog and hunkers down in it obediently. Draco
pulls his chair back next to her.
“Not you, Rodolophus,” Voldemort croons.
Hermione’s eyes slide over to Draco and then Voldemort before dancing around the Death
Eaters amongst them. Amycus looks on eagerly, his eyes shining as he observes the scene
from opposite her.
“Bellatrix cannot outshine you in your prowess, can she? After all, you are usually the one to
provide our best entertainment.”
Draco’s Polyjuiced eyes become glassy and Hermione recalls his words: Legilimency. When
he was dying.
He seems to know what Voldemort’s referring to, even if she doesn’t.
“You remember our guest in the cellar, I’m sure?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Draco answers calmly.
“That’s very good, Lestrange. The younger ones are not getting the results I want from her.”
His eyes cut down the table to Blaise Zabini, who pops a sweat there and then, and then
Theodore Nott, who is permanently sickly pale.
“I should expect you would perform better.” He addresses Draco again. “Perhaps… show
them how it’s done?”
Draco inclines his head slightly, glancing towards Blaise and then back to Voldemort. “Of
course, my Lord.”
Voldemort’s fingers press together and he nods sharply. “Good. You’ll join Zabini and Nott in
the cellar shortly. First.”
Dismissed, Draco takes his eat. Voldemort settles back in his seat and it’s then that Hermione
notices Nagini coiling around his lower half. When her eyes tilt just so, she can see the back
end of the snake drifting from the chair across the floor. Her heart throbs dangerously in her
chest.
A Horcrux right there and there’s nothing she can do about it. Then the frustration shifts to
panic. Nagini could see her and Harry under their Polyjuice in Godric’s Hallow. What if she
can see Draco and Hermione? Sweat lashes across her flesh and her stomach quivers with the
same feeling as that live thing she felt on stage.
“Enough silly games.”
Hermione represses the urge to jump out of her skin when Voldemort speaks, her eyes
snapping to his in a moment of frightened forgetfulness.
“Malfoy Manor has been a generous host.” His lips twist and his long, pale fingers drift over
Nagini’s scales. “But it is time to take my foothold. It is time for me to claim Hogwarts.”
Silence buzzes over the room of Death Eaters and Hermione drops her eyes when
Voldemort’s sweep over it and nearly catch hers. She prays the collar of her robes will stop
the distinct thumping of her pulse in her throat.
“Severus has kept the castle for me and cleaned out the filth.” His lips turn up into a
grotesque smile. “But I shall expect some resistance nonetheless.”
As subtly as she can, she takes a deep, fortifying breath. It’s okay. She’s seeing Harry
tomorrow. She can tell him then. But the news feels so vital, so big that she wants to run to
tell him now. Perhaps she’ll risk a message via Kreacher and Dobby later on, though she likes
to limit the exchanges as much as she possibly can.
“That is all,” Voldemort dismisses now, looking bored with them until his crimson eyes pin
on Draco. “Rodolophus, I shall expect results.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
In his usual roils of smoke, Voldemort Disapparates from his chair, taking Nagini with him.
The tension in Hermione’s gut releases momentarily before her eyes fly to Draco’s chair
scraping against the floor.
“Zabini, Nott, with me,” he barks.
She remains seated, feeling rooted in place as he clambers to Rodolophus’ full height and
snaps his fingers in the direction of his summoned torturers. Dread sinks heavily in her body
until she doesn’t think she’ll be able to move at all. He doesn’t even look at her as he walks
out with the two other men.
To hurt somebody.
To torture them.
A wave of nausea sweeps over her and her palm grips at her chair's heavy arm. The room,
never having raised much in noise, is silent when it empties moments later. Hermione stays,
staring at the surface of the table.
The panic from last night explodes in her stomach and she clutches at it, and her ribs,
trembling. Draco has gone to torture a prisoner. She killed a girl last night. She fucked him
this morning like this is not the reality they live in. What is wrong with her? Her chest picks
up with her breathing, her self-loathing throttling her.
It could be minutes or hours later when she shoots out of her chair and races to the stairs that
lead to the cellar. Ignoring the drawing room. Ignoring the memories. The screams. Her mind
breaking. Rodolophus begging. Draco seething.
Ignoring it.
I’m standing witness.
She’s not sure what she intends to do, truly. She can’t stop him. She knows that. How would
it look? She can’t do it but fuck, does she want to. She’s repulsed by this. She’s dying
because of this. Her soul is eroding in the face of the atrocious acts she partakes in and has
knowledge of.
She hovers there, at the landing of the cellar, looking down upon the iron gate. Then the
screaming starts. It bursts out in a tidal wave, blasting Hermione with chills that coat her
whole body. For a split second in time, it’s her. She grinds her teeth and clenches her jaw to
resist the urge to join in.
Hermione knows how to scream like that. She knows that split in the middle when it keeps
forcing itself through the breaking of vocal cords. The girl will feel it for days after.
“Please! Stop! Please, please! Theo! Blaise! You know me! Please!”
A cold ball forms in the pit of her stomach and she backs away, nearly stumbling over her
feet.
“Course you came to listen, Bella.”
Hermione jerks, spinning her head to face the person she didn’t hear creeping closer.
Mulciber stands tall, bulking and leering behind her. She curls her lip at him, willing her
heart to settle in her chest and her ears to stop ringing.
“And what of it?” She snaps.
Mulciber rolls a shoulder and lets out a grave laugh. “Just wondering why you’re bothering.
You know Rodolophus always comes to me after a session.”
She stares at his curling lip and smug expression for a moment, her heart clenching in her
chest. Draco has had to fight off this piece of shit the whole time they’ve been here. He never
complains about it or brings it up, but Hermione sees the constant advances. Draco won’t let
her do anything about it and stresses how important Mulciber is as a source of information.
Yet Hermione knows if the roles were reversed, Draco would have already taken Wulfric’s
hands. Staring at him now, at the visual reminder of what Draco has been exhausting himself
fending off, and the acts he’s engaging in right this second, makes Hermione just want to
hold him. To hide him behind wards and charms and every lock she can craft.
“Alas,” Hermione finally breathes nonchalantly over another round of screaming from below.
“You’re right, Wulfric. He never does quite enjoy me as much as you.”
Mulciber smirks. “I do enjoy our little arrangement, Bellatrix. Do remind Rodolophus what
he signed up for, won’t you?”
Fighting the puzzlement, Hermione keeps a straight face and only inclines her chin. She
knows she’s being dismissed but her feet feel glued to the ground. Her stomach flips as she
tries to decide what to do when the iron grinds below. Her head whips around and Draco
appears as Rodolophus, cleaning his bloody hands on a piece of once white cloth.
Her stomach bottoms out and her throat becomes slick. Somehow it hurts her every time, to
see the man she loves wearing such a vulgar mask.
“Bella, you needn’t have waited for me,” he comments as he comes up the stairs.
“You’re required,” she snaps, refusing to glance at Mulciber.
“Oh?” Draco raises his eyebrow and lets the rag fall to the floor; his eyes pinned to hers.
She becomes breathless with her desperation to hug him. “You know I am… fragile,
Rodolophus.”
Wulfric snorts beside them. “I should have known. You always choose pussy when she’s at
her most insane.”
Draco loops his arm around her waist and drags her against his side. Hermione’s pulse skips
and disgust crawls over her skin. Her gaze pings to Mulciber, just so she doesn’t have to see
Rodolophus holding her when she already has to endure feeling it.
“She lets me do anything when she’s like this Wulfric, you know that.”
Hermione lets her gaze grow fuzzy and focuses inward on the thought of Draco putting her to
bed last night. Wrapping her up, safe and cozy. That’s all she’s doing. Just letting herself get
tucked away while her brain and body run on autopilot.
“At least drink with me,” Mulciber growls now. “If you won’t give me anything else.”
Autopilot is where she stays while they collectively head to the dining room. Autopilot is
where she stays while they drink and talk about how Draco hurt the girl in the cellar.
Autopilot is where she stays while she laughs with glee and asks questions about the screams
the girl made.
Autopilot is where she stays when Draco mentions that the girl is Daphne Greengrass and she
was a good friend of Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, and oh how she cried when her
friends kept hurting her.
Autopilot is where she stays when Wulfric comments that she used to hang out with that
Malfoy brat too.
Autopilot fractures when she feels the warning tingles in her features.
“Enough,” she butts into the laughter between the two men, sitting up in her seat.
“Rodolophus, you’ve had your fun.”
Draco looks at her and smirks. He turns to clink his glass with Mulciber's and then downs the
last of it. It clinks decisively on the table, then he stands and grips her by the arm, dragging
her out of the dining room.
Autopilot snaps completely when they make it through the doors of the Malfoy suite, and
Draco falls to his knees, wraps his arms around Hermione’s legs, and buries his face to sob.
Hermione’s hands shake as they push into his now platinum hair, her throat growing tight and
her eyes watering.
“Is she dead?” She whispers.
Draco’s breath hitches and in answer, he releases a noise so devastating it rips into her chest.
Part Two: June '98
“Tom wants to take Hogwarts.”
There’s no softer way to say it, so Hermione just lands it on Harry and Ron the moment she
sees them.
Harry’s mouth pops open and he turns deathly pale. “When?”
Hermione grimaces. “He didn’t say but he feels like that’s the most logical next step. To take
a foothold that makes a mark.”
“I’ll say!” Ron cries, aghast, even paler than usual. “Fucking ‘ell. We should tell the Order.”
Hermione hesitates. “I don’t know, Ron. They’ll want me and Draco to do something with
our position and I don’t blame them but-”
Looking at Draco, she observes his blank expression but can only hear his sobbing from last
night.
She looks back to Ron, finishing decisively, “We already have our plates full having to play
them. We can’t be transferring information too.”
“I agree,” Harry jumps in. “The sooner we can get you out of there, the better. We’ve been
heading towards the vault all along. Once it’s done, you’re done.”
Relief sinks into her skin like ointment to hear that. She’s been playing around with the idea
for a while now. They could stay there, of course. There could be real benefits to being inside
Voldemort’s inner circle and she’s still not entirely sure if it’s wise to give up the position.
However, after what she’s had to do so far, and now what Draco’s had to endure, she’s not
sure how much more they can take. It’s selfish. It puts their needs above the war but it’s
what’s in her heart.
“We should go back after,” Draco inputs firmly.
Her head swivels to face him, her face scrunching up. “Why?”
His eyes, Polyjuiced as Rodolophus are eerily tender when they look at her. “We at least need
time to weigh the merits of leaving such a position.”
Hermione’s insides twist. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t care if she’s being petulant or
selfish. She simply doesn’t want to but logic has always been her guidance through life, and
she knows she must.
“Fine,” she sighs. “We’ll go back.”

Harry doesn’t look happy about it, but he nods. “Let’s get through today. You’ve been doing
this long enough; Hermione and you have her wand; you’ll be plenty convincing.”
Hermione merely stares at him while holding Bellatrix’s wand. There are dark circles under
Harry's eyes and his unruly hair is more grown out than ever. Next to him, Ron doesn’t look
much better. Even still, their cheeks are full and rosy, signs that they’ve been looked after
while staying at Shell Cottage.
She tries not to be bitter or resentful for the small slice of sanctuary they’ve had while she’s
had to sit around the table with Voldemort and Death Eaters. The wand in her hand thrums at
the thought, reminding her keenly of its presence, almost begging to unleash chaotic magic
again.
Even being Polyjuiced as Bellatrix, Hermione’s still not gotten used to the malevolent thing.
Now that she’s used it to kill… no. She shuts it out. The face of that young girl, the stringy
ginger hair falling into her eyes. The way the wand took over, revealing and funneling the
darkest essence of her magic.
Not now, she begs her brain.
Draco, on her left, seems to notice the tension collecting in her muscles because his fingers
reach down and encircle her wrist. She peers down at them before following the trail of his
dark robe sleeve and back up at him. She’s familiar with seeing him as Rodolphus now but
she still detests it.
Especially when she needs his comfort and finds nothing comforting to look at.
“Think what that wand’s done,” Draco whispers, as if Ron and Harry are not opposite them;
avidly watching. “You can wield it. It doesn’t wield you.”
Swallowing, Hermione nods slowly. She’s in control. The door opens behind them, and they
all stir in panic, but it’s merely Griphook who enters. Hermione notices that Harry
immediately reaches for the hilt of The Sword of Gryffindor and draws it closer to him.
Griphook’s small black eyes flick to the movement and a scowl grips his thin lips.
“We’ve just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook,” Harry hastens to inform the
goblin.
Griphook doesn’t look like he much cares for this announcement but still stands avidly at
Harry’s side. Hermione’s stomach tenses, even awash in the soft and calming baby blue of
Fleur and Bill’s living room. Bill’s warning floats over her mind and the more she dwells on
the lie Harry told Griphook, the more her nerves wind tighter.
This feels like it’s going to go wrong and she’s not entirely sure if she could blame anyone
but their own choices. She hates having to constantly decide what’s for the good of the hunt
and the war. She’s tired of making decisions. Tired of playing a part, be that as Hermione or
Bellatrix. She just wants to rest but there’s still so much to do.
They have to get into Gringotts for Hufflepuff’s cup, and then they need to destroy it, along
with Nagini and the Diadem.
If the Diadem even is a Horcrux.
Harry continues, his eyes sweeping over the group of them. “We told Bill and Fleur last night
we were leaving today, and we told them not to get up to see us off.”
Hermione nods, glad she was firm on this point and Harry followed through. She and Draco
had to arrive this morning as Bellatrix and Rodolophus, and they didn’t want the inhabitants
of Shell Cottage to see.
As well as Bill and Fleur, they’re still caring for Ollivander, Dean, and Luna. Poor Luna is
now an orphan and even slightly loopier than she was before, having borne witness to her dad
being tortured and murdered. Dobby sticks around the cottage to help out and now he also
passes messages with Kreacher so she and Draco can communicate with Harry and Ron.
“Bill’s lent us another tent,” Ron tells them. “And we’ve still got your bag, Hermione. Harry
will take it for the cup.”
Hermione only hums in acknowledgment, thinking about how she will be returning to Malfoy
Manor when this is all over. Griphook now with them and final mutterings shared, they
unanimously slip out into the garden through the back door.
The dawn is chilly but there’s little wind now that it’s June. Hermione glances up at the stars
glimmering palely in the dark sky and listens to the sea washing backward and forward
against the cliff. It’s a lovely, soothing sound, working to settle her nerves. When Hermione
gazes back at the group, they’re all gawping up at the sky too, even Draco.
“Right,” she mutters through a deep breath. “Ron, come here.”
Ron trudges forward over the sand, driving piles of it up with his shoes. “'Member, I don’t
want the beard too long, Mione.”
Hermione rolls Bellatrix’s heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking
handsome.”
Ron shudders. “Please don’t do that again.”
Sighing, she sets to work, muttering under her breath as she transforms various aspects of
Ron’s appearance. He’s being given a fake identity to stand guard outside Gringotts'. Only the
Lestrange’s can get into their vault and Harry will be with Griphook under the Invisibility
Cloak.
“There,” Hermione announces, stepping back from Ron when she’s done.
Harry appraises their friend, who now has long, wavy dark hair and a thick brown beard and
mustache. His freckles are no longer to be seen and he has a short, broad nose and heavy
eyebrows.
“Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” Harry comments lightly.
Draco makes a choking noise and swivels his head to flare his eyes at Hermione as if to say
what?!
Then he cringes and turns away.
Hermione presses her lips together to suspend what would be Bellatrix’s cackling laugh.
Draco keeps doing this. Turning to share a joke with her and forgetting he’s wearing
Rodolophus's face and she Bellatrix. Every time he doesn’t see her features and grimaces, it
makes her want to laugh.
Though she’ll never admit it, in her own delusions, it’s endearingly sweet. As if he’s visibly
displeased to not see her face specifically.
It makes her feel better about herself at least.
Harry doesn’t notice this exchange, only now looking up from putting the sword away in the
beaded bag he’s in possession of.
“Shall we go, then?” Draco asks, still looking askance.
Ron, Harry, and Griphook look back at Shell Cottage with witfulness. Hermione wishes she
could feel the same sorrow. At least they have some kind of haven to look back on. Thank
Gods for Draco, otherwise her only sanctuary would be Malfoy Manor.
“I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?” Griphook grunts.
Harry bends down and the Goblin clambers onto his back, hands linking eagerly in front of
Harry’s throat. Hermione represses a grimace at the firm little grip the Goblin has on her best
friend. She’s always tried to be somewhat of an advocate for Magical Beings, but some of
them, like Wizards, live up to their reputation.
Retrieving the Invisibility Cloak from the beaded bag, Harry passes it to Ron. Dutifully, Ron
throws it over Harry and Griphook so they disappear from view.
“Good?” Harry’s voice asks from the air, shuffling and rustling the cloak.
Hermione bends to adjust the hem at his ankles so his feet disappear and then stands. “Good.”
Looking at Draco, she smiles sadly, remembering his tears soaking into her shoulder. She
wishes she could reach out and take his hand; try and provide him strength.
“Happy birthday, Draco.”
Briefly, his mouth downturns and his eyes toss like brewing storms. She wonders if he can
hear Daphne Greengrass’ screams in his head too. He settles for rolling Rodolophus’ eyes at
her and Apparates them away with his eyeballs still in the back of his head. She’s told him
they’re going to get stuck like that if he carries on.
Moments later, her feet find pavement and Hermione glances around at Charring Cross Road.
Muggles bustle past with the misery of an early morning shrouding their expression and
drooping their shoulders.
A humid, summer rain spills from the sky, dousing them all with its vigor. Ron, Hermione,
and Draco hurry into the Leaky Cauldron in full, disguised view and Harry and Griphook,
invisible, trail after them. Inside, she shakes the water from her hair and wipes it from her
brow while cataloging the interior.
It’s nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, polishes glasses behind the bar
counter. A couple of wizards muttering between themselves in a far corner glance up, spot the
Lestrange couple with a fellow Death Eater and promptly blend into the shadows.
Disturbing as it is to admit, Hermione thrills a bit with the reverence. A lifetime of being
looked down at, whether that’s due to her gender, skin color, academic inquisition, or blood
purity has never afforded her such an experience.
“Madam Lestrange,” Tom murmurs, inclining his misshapen head.
Hermione glowers at him silently until he whimpers and goes back to scrubbing at the bar top
with a filthy rag. She sniffs hauntingly as she strides past him. Once outside, Hermione draws
out Bellatrix’s wand and raps a brick embedded in the nondescript wall in front of them. At
once, the bricks begin to whirl and spin.
A hole appears in the middle, which grows wider and wider until it finally forms an archway
onto the narrow, cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Up to this point, playing her increasingly
familiar role of Bellatrix has been relatively easy. But standing at the apex of Diagon Alley,
her heart plummets to her stomach and gurgles in acid.
Grief grips her insides. No matter how this all ends, she will never again be simply Hermione
Granger, a Hogwarts student, rushing through Diagon Alley. Never again will she feel the
joyful innocence of pounding the path to Flourish and Blotts for her schoolbooks or browsing
new subjects to learn.
Her throat clogs unexpectedly tight and she has to rapidly blink, taking it all in. It’s quiet,
barely time for the shops to open, and hardly any shoppers around at all. The crooked,
cobbled streets like Hermione, are severely altered from her memories.
The rain seems to have stopped whilst inside the Leaky Cauldron, but water speckles
decorate the cobbles. More shops than not are boarded up, though she spies several new
establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts.
Harry’s, Hermione’s, and Ron’s faces glare at her from posters, with headers Undesirable
No.1, 2, and 3 respectively, that Draco told her about months ago. The sight is just as absurd
as she imagined. A few ragged people sit huddled in doorways, moaning, pleading for
galleons, and insisting that they really are magical.
One man sports a bandage over his eye that looks infected and is a rusty, brown color. There
are the first hints of trepidation in her gut as she, Draco, and Ron set off along the street.
When the beggars glimpse her, they seem to melt away, drawing hoods over their faces and
fleeing as fast as they can.
Unlike the conversing men in the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione doesn’t feel very powerful at all
as they do so. Out of the dissipating crowd, the bandaged eye man springs forward. Draco,
presenting as Rodolphus rounds on the approaching Wizard before she can so much as gasp.
Hermione steps forward quickly, angling Draco behind her.
His overprotectiveness, as much as it stirs her heart, is going to get them in trouble soon.
Before Draco can try and move her aside again, the man points a dirty finger at her and
bellows, “My children!” His voice cracks, high pitched and so distraught it makes her
stomach flip. “Where are my children? What has He done with them?! You know! You
know!”
The clench of her heart in her chest threatens to kill her. Children? She thinks, aghast.
The man lunges, reaching for her throat before Hermione can even think up a response. Red
light engulfs her vision, and following a bang, she spins to find both Draco and Ron with
their wands pointed. The man lands on the ground unconscious after he sails through the air,
a wound trickling blood down his temple.
Sorrow rises and smashes into anger, and Hermione wishes they had the privacy for her to
unleash her emotions. As it is, faces appear at the windows on either side of the street. A knot
of prosperous-looking passers-by gather their robes and break into gentle trots, keen to
vacate.
As Hermione looks around, she realises how inconspicuous their arrival has been so far. Part
of her thinks it might be best to just leave now and try another day, but the rational part of her
brain won’t allow the fantasy. They continue on their way in terse silence, and all too soon
arrive at the marble steps leading to the great bronze doors of Gringotts.
“This is where we leave you, for now, friend. We shan’t be long,” Draco tells Ron, clapping
him on the shoulder.
Ron scowls, side-eyeing Draco’s hand and delicately shrugging himself out from underneath
it.
His big, blue eyes flit to Hermione. “I’ll hope you won’t be too long, Bellatrix.”
Hermione laughs sharply. “Now, now, you surely know better than to rush me, old friend.”
Ron nods slowly, the worry in his eyes thick and reaching out for her. She tries to provide
comfort with her expression alone, but wearing Bellatrix Lestrange’s face, she doesn’t think
she succeeds very well.
Draco and Hermione turn back towards Gringotts. The liveried goblins who usually flank the
entrance have been replaced by two wizards. They could be brothers, their features similar in
their full lips and cold, bronze skin. Both of them are in Gringotts uniform and are clutching
long thin golden rods.
Probity Probes.
Thanks to Griphook, Hermione knows they detect spells of concealment and hidden magical
objects. As planned, the guards each give a little start when Harry, concealed, hits them with
Confundo. At least he’s still beside them. In the June breeze, Hermione’s -Bellatrix’s- long
hair ripples behind her as she climbs the steps.
“One moment, Madam,” a guard interrupts, raising his Probe.
“But you already did that,” Hermione answers sharply.
“Marius.” Draco’s voice is so scolding, even Hermione blushes. “You’re not losing your wits,
are you? You’ve already done both of us.”
Marius frowns tightly, looking between Draco and Hermione. They stare blankly back at him
until he fidgets.
He laughs nervously. “Course, silly me. Go on.”
The two of them sweep forward. Hermoine resists the urge to look back at Ron, holding
confidence in her bones as she ascends the steps. Two Goblins stand before the inner doors,
which are made of silver, and carry the poem warning of dire retribution to potential thieves.
Once through them, they find a long counter running across the room manned with Goblins.
They sit on high stools serving the first customers of the day, their workspace covered with
all manner of treasures that glint under the golden lights. Draco and Hermione head toward
an old Goblin who is examining a thick gold coin through an eyeglass.
The goblin tosses the coin aside, says to nobody in particular, “Leprechaun,” and then turns
his dark eyes on them.
“Madam Lestrange,” he greets. “How may I help you today?”
“I wish to enter my vault,” Hermione says simply.
The goblin folds his hands together and uses his clasped fist to lean forward over the desk.
“Identification?”
Producing her wand, she places it down on the high counter. After sweeping his eyes over it,
the old goblin nods and then looks to Draco. “Mr Lestrange?”
As Hermione did, Draco places Rodolphus’ wand down. Tiny black eyes assess it then nod
again. While both she and Draco reach to retrieve their stolen wands, the goblin claps his
hands. His long nails click like the skittering of bugs as he does so. Hermione’s stomach
fizzles with nerves at how well this is going so far.
A younger goblin comes bounding over and stares at the seated goblin, clearly awaiting some
form of instruction.
The seated goblin says, “I shall need the Clankers.”
The younger goblin dashes away and is only gone for mere seconds before he returns with a
leather bag full of jangling metal.
He proffers it with a squeaked, “Here, Bogrod!”
“Good, good! So, if you will follow me, Madam Lestrange.” Bogrod hops down off his stool,
takes the bag, and begins to walk away. “I shall take you to your vault.”
Taking a moment to peer at Draco, she resists the urge to swallow nervously. He gives her a
reassuring nod. It’s okay. Nothing has gone wrong. Yet. Surely, she can manage something in
this journey of Horcrux hunting that doesn’t go wrong? It hits her just then, as they follow
Bogrod, what they’re so close to.
Another Horcrux.
Her earlier nerves kick up in intensity, setting her skin abuzz. They follow the clanking
goblin to one of the many doors leading off the hall. Through the door, they pass into the
rough stone passageway beyond, lit by flaming torches.
Hermione hears it as Harry whispers, “Imperious.”
Bogrod’s facial expression wipes away as the door shuts behind them. He doesn’t react at all
to the site of Harry Potter in their midst when Harry takes off the cloak, nor Griphook
jumping down from his shoulders.
“What next, Griphook?” Harry checks.
“We need Bogrod to control the cart.” Griphook sweeps a hand down his sleeve, fiddling
with the cuff. “I no longer have the authority.”
Harry grimaces but points his wand at Bogrod, who begins to whistle. It seems to summon a
little cart that comes trundling along the tracks toward them out of the darkness. Hermione
takes a deep breath, quelling her nerves. Everything is fine. They planned this down to the
most minute detail.
When the cart arrives, Bogrod and Griphook get in the front. This leaves Hermione, Draco,
and Harry to get in the back. She thinks about Ron standing out front in the warm sunshine,
while they dither in the craggy darkness.
“We’re alright,” Draco whispers to her quietly.
She glances over at him with a tight jaw, trying to see past Rodolophus’ features. “I know.”
“Tell your face that.”

“It’s not my face,” she parries.
“Not funny,” Harry mutters but when she looks at him, she finds a smile curling at his lip.
“See that?” She murmurs to Draco, keeping her gaze straight ahead. “You nearly made Harry
smile.”
Draco scoffs on her left. “What an atrocious birthday present.”
With a jerk, the cart moves off and immediately begins to gather speed.
Harry leans forward to see past Hermonie and asks over the roaring wind, “It’s your
birthday?”
“It is.”
Harry only hums. Hermione rolls her eyes.
Boys.
She digs into her robes, where she has a new extension charm in place to replicate her beaded
bag. The cart begins to twist and turn through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward
all the while. The rattling of the cart on the tracks becomes so obnoxiously loud, that
Hermione doesn’t try and speak again.
Her hair fans out behind her as they swerve between stalactites, flying deeper into the earth.
They take a hairpin bend at a speed and see ahead of them, a waterfall cascading down. The
rush of water is even louder than the screeching tracks.
Griphook cries, “Now, Miss Granger!”
Hermione retrieves the umbrella from her pocket, pops it free, and murmurs, “Engorgio.”
The umbrella balloons in size, swarming the cart and as they pass through the waterfall, it
crashes against the plastic and pools off the sides. They huddle together, dodging stray
droplets. Griphook has to yank Bogrod back into the cart when he becomes bemused and
tries to lean out of the side to see.
Once clear, Hermione smiles and pulls the umbrella back to size, shaking it off so it can go
back into her pocket.
“Thank the Gods for you, Griphook,” she praises.
The goblin looks at her warily as if he can’t tell if she’s being sincere or not.
Eventually, he mutters, “Thank you, Miss Granger.”
Hermione lets her resulting smile fall when he turns away. She leans to share an unperturbed
look with Harry on her right who merely grimaces in reply. She doesn’t trust Griphook as
much as she wants to. Bill’s warning keeps playing in her mind. Finally, the cart pulls to a
stop and they clamber out facing a roughhewn, damp wall.
“Round the corner?” Draco confirms now, gazing around at the dripping walls.
“Yes,” Griphook answers gruffly, righting himself.
They follow behind him and Bogrod, who merrily walks at his side, looking dazed. Hermione
thinks using the Imperious on him might have made her feel more uncomfortable in another
life. But after what she did to that girl-
She blocks her thoughts, refusing to become distracted.
Upon turning the corner, they see the thing for which they were previously prepared but still
brings them all to a halt. A gigantic dragon is tethered to the ground in front of them, barring
access to four or five of the deepest vaults in Gringotts. One of them being the Lestrange’s.
The beast’s scales have turned pale and flaky during its incarceration underground.
Its eyes are milky pink and both rear legs bear heavy cuffs from which chains lead to
enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its
body, would fill the chamber if it spread them. When it turns its head toward them, it roars
with a noise that makes the rock tremble beneath Hermione’s feet.
Vibrations ride her bones, rattling in her skull until she has to grit her teeth against them. The
dragon opens its mouth next and spits a jet of fire that sends the pack of them scrambling
back up the passageway. Hermione realises when she throws her head back to look at it, that
this dragon is a grown, tortured version of Draco’s Patronus.
Her gaze cuts to his, and in Rodolphus’ body, his jaw flexes and clenches, staring back at the
chained beast.
“It is partially blind,” Griphook pants, clutching the craggy wall. “But even more savage for
that. However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the
Clankers come. Give them to me.”
“That’s fucking vile,” Draco spits, a fine tremor skimming over his flesh.
Griphook says nothing as he takes the bag from Bogrod and retrieves several small metal
instruments. He hands them out and Hermione feels sick accepting hers. She hates that she
has to keep doing terrible things. She also hates how distraught Draco looks under
Rodolophus’ features, still avidly watching the dragon.
“You know what to do,” Griphook tells them. “It will expect pain when it hears the noise. It
will retreat and Bogrod must place his palm upon the door of the vault.”
Once more, they head back to the dragon, shaking the Clankers. The awful noise is like
anvils clashing. It echoes off the rocky walls, grossly magnified so that the inside of
Hermione’s bones jangle with the din. The dragon releases a hoarse roar, then retreats. It’s
impossible to say, but it looks like it’s flinching.
It makes Hermione’s stomach roll.
The closer they get, the more she can make out scars made by vicious slashes across its face.
Hot swords. She swallows bile and keeps moving.
“Bogrod needs to press his hand to the door,” Griphook urges Harry.
Harry nods, taking his eyes off the wounded beast and turning his wand upon Bogrod. The
old goblin obeys, pressing his palm to the wood. The door of the vault melts away before
their eyes. Hermione’s heart thunders, in disbelief at how close they are. Even from here, she
can see a small pocket of the inside.
The opening is cave-like and she finds herself thinking of the Muggle fairy tale Aladdin.
Crammed floor to ceiling are gold coins, goblets, and silver armor. There are the skins of
strange creatures: long spines and drooping wings. Potions in jeweled flasks and a skull
wearing a dazzling crown choked with expensive emeralds.
“Search fast!” Harry instructs, his voice lifting with unease.
“Wait.”
Hermione turns, finding Draco still watching the dragon.
He swallows and then looks at her, not Harry. “I can’t leave it.”
“Malfoy!” Harry hisses, edging closer to the vault where Griphook and Bogrod are lingering.
“It’s awful, I know and I’m sorry, but this isn’t a rescue mission! We can’t save a dragon!”
“I can,” Draco answers firmly, still looking at Hermione. His voice softens, just for her. “I
know I can.”
Hermione is torn between Harry’s palpable tension behind her and the Horcrux hunt, and
Draco’s anguish in front of her. He doesn’t ask her to do things for him. He asks her to
survive, to play her part but not for him. Her heart clutches.
“How?” She asks now.
“Hermione!” Harry groans, still edging towards the vault.
Draco smirks which she detests on Rodolophus’ face and grips his wand tighter. “A lot
simpler than you think. Do you have a box?”
“A box?” She parrots incredulously.
He merely nods and stops shaking his Clanker. The dragon stirs, a low growl in its chest and
Draco focuses his attention on it. Hermione stops shaking her own Clanker and hurriedly digs
in her robe pocket, snapping her head up to watch Draco in between rummaging. She pauses,
up to her elbow in her robes when Draco very efficiently silences the dragon.
Then casts, “Reducio.”

Her mouth gapes open as the dragon shrinks. Not as well as it would if it were averaged
sized. The dragon lets out a mute roar, mouth gaping, and shoots a jetson of scorching flames.
“Draco!” She cries hoarsely.
He dives to the side, narrowly missing being toasted. Hermione’s heart beats a tattoo against
her chest, shuddering her whole body.
“Leave it!” She implores. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”
Draco throws her a grin that makes her gape in outrage. She hates to see Rodolophus smiling.
Then he throws himself back out in front of the dragon. It stamps its enormous feet,
wrenching the rocks beneath them to grind viciously. The noise rips into her eardrums and
she cringes, eyes locked on the idiot she’s in love with.
He strikes out his wand and shrinks it again. He’s wicked fast with his resulting spell work
and keeps going until Hermione can’t even see the dragon anymore. Squatting down, Draco
picks up the tiny, figurine-like dragon in his palm, not even wincing when it puffs small
bursts of fire against his skin.
Turning to her and Harry, calmer than the situation allows, he prompts, “Box?”
Hermione blinks herself into focus and produces a cracker box, pulse still thundering and
limbs shaky. She tips the wrapped crackers into her pocket and then offers him the empty
container. Draco raises an eyebrow at it but jerks his chin, muttering incantations under his
breath as he slides the shrunken dragon inside and seals it, very delicately putting it back in
her pocket.
“I have no idea how to feel right now,” Harry comments.
“I have a dragon in my pocket,” Hermione murmurs dazedly, impressed and terrified in equal
measure.
“And there’s a Horcrux in that vault,” Draco adds, nodding behind them.
He has the gall to whistle as he walks past her and Harry.
Harry throws her a bewildered look and she shrugs while beginning to follow after him. “It’s
his birthday.”
“It’s a dragon,” Harry enthuses, speeding to catch up with her. “Surely they’ll notice a dragon
missing?”
“Not necessarily,” Griphook replies as they draw close to him, his bewildered eyes on Draco.
“Goblins do not come down here for centuries at a time. That is why thieves tend to starve
and die before they are found.”
“Comforting,” Harry responds drily.

Once they’re all inside, there’s a muffled clunk from behind them, the door sealing them all
inside the vault.
They plunge into total darkness.

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Close Encounters

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43539780.

Inspired by Secrets and Masks by Emerald_Slytherin

Post update note (03/01/24)

Post update note (03/03/24)

Post update note (20/03/24)

Post update note (15/04/2024)

That despite it all, he was just a boy.

“You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Malfoy mutters suspiciously.

He’s clever. Strategic.

Malfoy is the Order’s dog. She wonders if he knows it.

“Goodness, Granger, hypocrisy is fetching on you.”

“You are a self-righteous little bitch,” he snarls in her face.

“-These jeans, I will hex you into oblivion so th-”

“-on, it just never ends-”

“-at your grandchildren will-”

“Gods, your hair is positively awful from the back.”

“I suppose,” he answers slowly, almost carefully.

“Oh, I’ve eaten,” Hermione lies.

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Mum,” Ginny whines with embarrassment. “Stop making a big deal.”

“Who indeed?” He mocks, a taunting smirk on his face.

“Kreacher?” She calls.

Cocking an eyebrow at her, he smiles sarcastically. “Hot date?”

“Something like that,” she answers just as sarcastically.

“Don’t act silly now, Granger, it doesn’t suit you.”

“What the fuck are you doing?!” She demands.

Hermione’s voice climbs sky-high. “Malfoy, I will Avada you!”

A mean smirk stretches his mouth. “I look forward to it, Hermione.”

A nip. “I’m aware.”

“Oh, you’re so difficult!” She hisses, successfully detaching their mouths.

“That’s entirely the point.”

“Are you smoking?” She asks in astonishment.

“It’s just very… Muggle of you.”

“So, you what…? Decided to pick up Muggle habits too?”

“What does that mean?” She demands.

“I have no intentions to be impressive, Malfoy. I intend to be truthful. It’s only as I said: I

“I know, so do us all a favor and do it!”

Her taking. Not him. Not this time.

With that, enjoy.

Hermione thought Grimmauld Place was lonely.

All Hermione. Always Hermione.

A snout, wings, scales.

She has a horrible feeling she knows.

He smirks spitefully. “Touchy.”

She’s going to murder him.

Who says we’ll be here next year? Who indeed?

I know The Golden Trio is on the move.

You’re leaving. Tonight.

I used that, is unspoken.

“Oh, don’t be so morose, Granger. I think it was a fairly mutual exchange.”

“I’m sure,” he sneers, lip curling.

She can’t believe they’ve ever been pressed to hers.

“Well, spit it out. I can’t stand to be in your presence much longer.”

Malfoy sneers at her. “Why else would I shag you?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“-phoenix tears,” Harry interjects, helping her spell it out.

“Oh lovely, just what we need,” Ron adds scornfully.

Being as you can’t handle literally anything else.