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Chapter Text

October 2000

Fear is a powerful motivator. Hermione knew this all too well. 

With just a hint of it, even the best of intentions and most calculated of plans could be thrown to the wayside and destroyed like they were nothing to begin with.

An enemy could smell fear.

Sometimes, as she closed her eyes at night on the threadbare cot in the tent, she was reminded of an unpleasant truth: so much of how she had lived her life was driven by fear.

Fear of failure.
Fear of false friendships.
Fear of forgetting her parents.
Fear of feeling inferior.

And now, it took no effort to get wrapped up in the fear of death when the War brought constant loss and the reminder that no one was safe. 

As the War dragged on, the list of known deaths was only growing:

Hestia Jones
Ted Tonks
Dirk Cresswell
Nymphadora Tonks
Colin Creevy
Dennis Creevy
Michael Corner
Parvati Patil
Justin Finch-Fletchley
Angelina Johnson
Cho Chang
Dean Thomas
Fred Weasley
Rubeus Hagrid

There were many others missing, too.

The fear of losing the fight was contagious. No one wanted to accept the fact that so many deaths might be in vain because the Order was losing. Meanwhile, the number of Death Eaters was increasing. Each day that passed, Voldemort managed to build his ranks and gain the support of all pure-bloods. His popularity was growing all throughout Europe, especially with the older wizarding sects. It was like everyone either revered the Dark Lord’s return to power or feared a rule of terror in their own land and wanted to be on the winning side.

To make matters worse, large armies of Death Eaters would roam throughout forests torturing and capturing magical beasts and other sentient creatures to use in battle. If they could not be tamed or used for fighting, they were simply slaughtered. 

Hagrid had tried to prevent the attack on the giants, but the Death Eaters were using the Imperius Curse.

No matter who won the War, the magical world was already forever changed.

Although Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt headed resistance teams, they just didn’t have the organisation or numbers to create a successful offensive battle plan. Any fighters they did have were young and inexperienced. Therefore, the pressure for winning the War seemed to fall solely upon Harry.

The Horcrux hunt was deemed the Order’s top priority, so much so that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had never actually found themselves in the midst of a battle. The logic was simple; once the Horcruxes were all destroyed, Harry could defeat Voldemort. The War would be over. Deep down, Hermione knew that the downfall of a terrible regime wouldn’t be simple. Darkness would linger.

She often thought of the Muggle poet John Keats. His writings were proof that humans not only had a morbid fixation with death, but also with life:

“When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;”

Keats had been right all along. She would come to discover that there was something worse than death, and that was fear. Because living a life ruled by fear was no life at all.

War had the ability to manipulate the passage of time, with one day bleeding into the next. It was autumn already, the trees’ leaves a rusted orange, and the three were somewhere near a riverbank in Wales. These days, they were rarely called back to the Order’s headquarters at 12 Grimmauld Place.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a sullen mood. Ron was hunkered down in the corner with a blanket draped over him. The locket around his neck still glimmered in the dull lamplight.

“What?” Harry asked him, not even trying to disguise the venom in his voice. “Is it the fish again?”

Ron gave a low chuckle and then his eyes narrowed into slits. “If only the lack of food was our biggest problem.” 

“Then what is it? Is this camping trip still not meeting your expectations?” Harry's tone was one of pure agitation.  

“Ron,” Hermione interjected cautiously. “You should take it off. The locket—it’s influencing you.”

“You’re wrong,” Ron hissed, purposely ignoring Hermione. He was suddenly rising to his feet and stalking across the room. “But that’s no surprise, is it?”

“What’s that supposed to be mean?” Harry spat. He now had his wand raised.

Ron rolled his eyes. “I would have thought after three years you’d have some idea of what we’re after. Three years! But you still have no clue. And now, you expect me to be pleased we have to add Godric Gryffindor's sword to that list.”

Harry was livid at the accusation. “You knew, Ron. You knew as well as I did. Dumbledore gave us little to go on, but we’re figuring it out. Hermione’s reading Beedle the Bard everyday and—”

“But that’s just it. We’re out here reading fairy tales and everyone else is dying. My brother is dead. Are you waiting for my whole family to be gone? You don’t even care about Ginny out there fighting—”

But Ron was cut off as Harry barreled towards him, grabbing him by the collar.

“I do care! Don’t you dare say I don’t. And you don’t think I know what it’s like? My parents are dead!” Harry shouted. Just then, a hex almost left his mouth but Hermione was faster. 

“Prestego!” Hermione casted the shield just in time. The white light from her wand forced Harry back and created a translucent barrier between the two wizards. 

“Stop it. This isn’t getting us anywhere. It’s almost nightfall and we need to contact Moody or Shacklebolt about getting in touch with the Goblins.” Hermione tried to speak calmly and rationally, but Ron and Harry were still giving each other death glares.

Just then, the golden locket was thrust into her hand. 

“Have fun with that,” Ron said darkly. 

“Ron! Don’t leave!” Hermione called after him. “You can’t leave us!”

But it was no use; he walked out of the tent and was gone.

The air was icy and tiny snowflakes fell from the hazy forest sky. Hermione thought the snow looked like glitter; it would have been a beautiful scene if the times were different. 

It must have been December. Weeks had passed but there was still no word from Ron and no worthwhile updates from Moody or Shacklebolt. Harry and Hermione made a pact not to listen to Potterwatch anymore; knowing they would only be subjected to hearing a long list of deaths brought them too much anxiety. 

They were still somewhere in Wales, sitting on the stump of a fallen tree in the woods. Under The Order’s instruction, they were not to try and break into Gringotts or Hogwarts to search for Godric’s sword. Shacklebolt deemed it too risky for Harry. Instead, he insisted that Harry and Hermione continue traveling and hiding in warded campsites. He also suggested they take as much time as needed to figure out the meaning behind the fairy tale book. He thought perhaps Dumbledore transfigured it into a weapon; maybe it was cursed to vanquish the Horcruxes. 

I thought you would have had it figured out by now. Shacklebolt had written the note only to Hermione in a secret owl correspondence. She didn’t know why, but the words had stung.

“This symbol here,” Hermione said, pointing to the copy The Tales of Beedle the Bard, “looks just like the necklace Xenophilius Lovegood was wearing at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

Harry squinted, taking a better look. “It looks sort of familiar.”

“Krum told me it was the symbol of Grindelwald,” Hermione added quietly.

“Is it?” Harry took the book out of Hermione’s hands and paged through it frantically. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would someone draw that in a children’s book?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione sighed. “I’ve asked myself that a million times.” A feeling of hopelessness was descending upon her. She wanted to say it was the dread from wearing the locket, but in reality, she knew better. They were wasting their time, and the cost of each minute was deadly. 

Worst of all, Ron had been right. 

Hermione knew he was jaded from the start. The recent years had squashed his fun-loving side and affable nature. It was like he had been marked by a curse of inadequacy. Ron always resented the attention Harry received. But ever since the frustrations of the hunt and Fred’s death, his attitude had been downright corrosive. It ate away at any optimism they could have had.

Unfortunately, Ron’s interactions with Hermione had also been marred by jealousy. The bond from their years as childhood friends should have made for a more stable relationship. Instead, the stress of the War ruined it, just like it did all things. Ron was jealous of Krum asking Hermione to dance at the wedding, so much so he kissed Lavender Brown in the hallway of Grimmauld Place before an Order meeting. Hermione still hadn’t quite forgiven him and they still hadn’t had any discussion of where they stood. The purposeful lack of communication was juvenile, but maybe now wasn’t the time for romance.

As much as Hermione wanted to disagree with Ron, he had a point. Somebody on this side of the War needed to take a risk before it was too late. 

Harry needed to take a risk. 

Without the sword of Gryffindor, it was likely the locket couldn’t be destroyed, and neither would any other Horcrux. 

But even if she shared in Ron’s frustration, there was something deeply hurtful about his choice to leave them. Hermione was frustrated with the lack of progress too, but she didn’t blame Harry and she wasn’t going to give up. Giving up would only guarantee a loss. 

After a heavy silence, Harry finally spoke. “Ron’s abandoned us indefinitely, hasn’t he?”

“That, or he just can’t find us,” Hermione replied. She knew it wouldn’t help to add more misery to the situation, but her mood was dark. “Harry, we need a new plan.”

“Not you too,” he grumbled. “If we can just kill the locket, then it’s a small win. We’ll figure it out. We’ve no other choice.”

“We will,” Hermione began, “But we need better organisation and support from The Order. Why haven’t they sent members into Gringotts or Hogwarts?”

“Maybe they know it needs to be me.”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, finally expressing the frustration that was boiling in her veins. “You can’t win this War by yourself. I thought you would have realised that by now.”

“I know that,” Harry insisted. “You’re helping me. And there are people fighting with us! But I mean, what if I have to be the one to physically retrieve the sword?”

“If that’s so, then The Order needs to be devising plans with you. The two of us can’t continue on like this into the new year. We’ll be dead before any sword of Godric’s is discovered.” 

A heavy quiet returned between the pair. The only sound was the wind rustling through the snow-covered evergreens. A few birds cried out in the distance.

“Okay,” Harry said finally. “We'll go back to The Order and demand a bold search effort for the sword. But first, I’d like to visit Godric’s Hollow.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. She wanted to kiss Harry in a platonic way, of course. “Harry! That’s brilliant—the sword! It could be there!”

“Er, sword?” Harry question. From the look of his furrowed brows, he was absolutely perplexed. “I wanted to visit because...you know.”

“Of course!” Hermione added. “But think about it…Godric’s Hollow is named after Godric Gryffindor. Haven’t you ever read A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot?”

After all these years, Hermione was still floored by how obtuse Harry could be. But just as he was about to make the connection, Hermione was alerted to the vibrations of the Galleon from inside her jeans pocket. Harry looked at her, and she knew that he was aware of it as well. The Protean Charm had alerted both of them.

“Moody and Shacklebolt,” Hermione said. “They never contact. We need to go.”

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t say a word.

Instead, he helped Hermione to pack up what little belongings they had in the tent. The two friends worked in silence to gather clothing, food, and supplies to put into Hermione’s enchanted bag.

After a few moments, they both placed their hands on the tarnished old teapot which served as the Port Key; it would deliver them directly to The Order of the Phoenix headquarters at 12 Grimmauld Place.

It wasn’t advisable to go to and from Grimmauld. Moody had explained as much when Ron, Hermione, and Harry initially set out on their Horcrux hunt. Death Eaters were tracking every Order movement. They were not to return to Headquarters unless it was an absolute emergency. Likewise, no one from The Order was to request Harry’s presence unless a situation was absolutely dire. There were only so many Wards and invisibility spells that could be cast.

Hermione and Harry didn’t speak as their bodies were twisted and transported through time. She didn’t know for sure, but Hermione could sense it. Fear. Harry was thinking the worst, as was she. 

Ron.

Something had happened to him. Perhaps he had tried making his way back to the riverfront in Wales. He lost his way and had been captured by Death Eaters. Captured and tortured. Maybe he was dead.

They landed with an abrupt thud in the foyer of Grimmauld Place. The hallway in front of them was dark and eerily quiet. If they didn’t know any better, the entire place could have been abandoned. 

Hermione eyed Harry wearily. He nodded at her in silent recognition. Together, they walked a few paces and turned right into the kitchen. 

“Stupefy!” The magic came hurtling towards them from across the room. Hermione could feel her limbs lock up. She was still conscious, aware she was standing in the doorway next Harry who was also frozen, but she could not move.

“What was the last password Albus Dumbledore used for his office?” The question was directed sharply at them. Remus Lupin confronted Hermione and Harry as if they were imposters.

The magic which had gripped them was suspended. 

“Fizzing Whizzbees,” Hermione and Harry both answered together. 

Lupin assessed their appearance with a narrowed gaze. “Very well,” he said, pointing to the table in the kitchen. “Please come in and have a seat.”

Hermione entered the room cautiously, surprised to see the individuals before them. Moody and Shacklebolt of course sat at the table. Surprisingly, on either side of them, sat Ron and Ginny. For a moment, relief pulsed through her veins. Perhaps, death would not be the primary topic of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.

She could see it on Harry’s face too. His green eyes suddenly lit up upon seeing Ginny. Hermione didn’t blame him.

Ron was seated at the table with his arms folded menacingly across his chest. A grim look was plastered on his face. Even after all these weeks, his mood still seemed sour. 

Harry and Hermione sat across from Ron, Moody, Shacklebolt, and Ginny. Lupin took the other chair next to Harry. The sight of Lupin’s bloodshot eyes made Hermione’s heart hurt. She knew he was likely struggling with the loss of Tonks.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Harry asked directly, staring right at Shacklebolt. Hermione was thankful he wanted to get right to the point. “Is someone hurt? Are the Weasleys…are they all okay?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “For now, yes.”

Shacklebolt clasped both his hands together on the table. “No one is in danger, yet. But the circumstances for which this meeting has been called are very grave.”

Moody shook his head in vigorous agreement. “We need a new War strategy before it's too late. Our numbers are steadily decreasing at alarming rates. Soon, we won’t have enough eligible fighters to stage any worthy attack against Riddle’s death crews.”

“Please mind the Taboo,” Lupin interrupted. “We can’t say his name.”

“Er, right,” Harry commented. “Actually, I wanted to come to you,” he said, looking towards Shacklebolt and Moody. “It’s about time we create a plan to break into Gringotts or even Hogwarts. The sword of Gryffindor has the Basilisk's blood...it’s what can kill the locket. Hermione and I want to search Godric’s Hollow.”

“All in good time, Harry, but we are gathered here for an entirely different reason,” Lupin said; he sounded exasperated. 

“Beedle the Bard,” Moody said suddenly. “Where is it?”

“I have it,” Hermione replied, “hold on a minute.” She dug through her rucksack, knowing she wouldn’t forget to bring the clue from Dumbledore with her. “It’s here,” she said, placing the book on the table.

Shacklebolt picked up the book and paged through it aimlessly. “Miss Granger,” he began. “Please tell us everything you know.”

“About Beedle the Bard ?” Hermione questioned, unsure where the sudden urgency was coming from. It was no surprise; Hermione had expressed her frustrations in being out in the woods alone with Harry and Ron all those months. She was smart, but it would have been more beneficial to have a few other Order members study the fairy tales for clues.

“Yes, about Dumbledore’s book,” Lupin replied shortly. “We don’t have much time. Just speak.”

“Alright,” Hermione cleared her throat. “Based on the condition of the book, the wear and tear, it is likely a first edition. The embossed title with the runic symbols would suggest as much as well. There are five stories, the ones likely published in all editions. There is one curious element…this hand drawn symbol,” she explained, reaching across the table to direct Shacklebolt to the back cover. “I believe this is the symbol of Grindelwald. Or at least I was told. But Dumbledore gave us this copy for a reason, so we need to figure out why.”

Shacklebolt blinked several times. He was looking down skeptically at the strange symbol. “And you haven’t been able to figure out the connection just yet? There are no hidden messages? No explanations from Dumbledore as to why he would reference Grindelwald?”

Hermione let out a low breath. “I haven’t yet,” she said. “I’m used to books and research, being able to travel freely and seek out the information myself. If there was a library perhaps—”

“There isn’t,” Moody cut in. “Perhaps this book isn’t something we should be wasting time on.”

“Knowing Dumbledore, it’s important,” Harry said. “I know what he was like…he purposely leads you to something that seems meaningless, but it's for a reason.”

Shacklebolt tossed the copy of Beedle the Bard to Ginny. Hermione narrowed her eyes, not sure why Ginny would be interested. Years ago, she had left school abruptly to fight for The Order. Hogwarts wasn’t the same with the Carrows in charge. 

Hermione knew that Harry was bothered by the fact Ginny was out on the front lines. Shacklebolt had reassured him though that her role was limited to healing and delivering messages.

“Moving on,” Shacklebolt sighed, “if the fairy tales were left for sentimental reasons, we will leave that to Miss Weasley to decide.”

Hermione could feel her heart sink. “What do you mean? Harry and I have already discussed the symbol. Mr. Lovegood was wearing one, perhaps he knows—”

“Miss Granger.” Lupin’s voice was cold. “If you haven’t already made any worthwhile discoveries in six months, then it’s unlikely you’ll experience a sudden epiphany. In case you and Mr. Potter aren’t already aware, people are dying. Our loved ones are dying.”

There was a tense silence among the group.

“I am aware, Sir,” Harry said quietly. “We need a better plan. Er, we need to get the sword—"

“What do you think we are doing here, boy!” Moody exclaimed, pounding his fist upon the table. “We have a serious matter to discuss, and that involves  a new plan.”

Hermione looked at Harry, but he did not share her gaze. The color had drained from his face. He was likely experiencing the same emotion she was. Guilt.

After a certain pause, Shacklebolt spoke again. “You probably wonder why I have your Weasley friends here,” he began.

Harry’s eyes widened curiously. Hermione was also intrigued as to why both of them were there. She didn’t know anything of Ron’s whereabouts since he had left them in Wales.

“Starting this evening, Harry will resume his travels…the original mission,” Shacklebolt continued. Hermione noticed he purposely did not mention the word ‘Horcrux.’ Maybe it was still too secretive of information. “Effective immediately, he will be accompanied by Ron and Ginny.”

“Hermione and I could really use the help,” Harry said. His features looked hopeful, although he was still trying to gage Ron’s reaction. Ron didn’t appear overly thrilled. “I’ve missed you, Ginny. And we need you, Ron—”

“Miss Granger will not be joining you any longer,” Lupin spat. “That’s why we called you back.”

“What?” Hermione questioned. Her heart was pounding. The blood in her veins suddenly turned icy. “My parents—is everything? Are they—”

“Your parents are still alive, Miss Granger,” Shacklebolt replied. “As far as we know, they are still safe in Australia thanks to your Memory Charm and relocation efforts. But Remus is correct. We can no longer have you assist Harry.”

Hermione could feel a thick wall of confusion close in around her. “But why?” 

She knew that a new strategy had to be in order. The Order members were dropping like flies. Each day, more and more were sacrificing themselves in confrontations they were not prepared for with Death Eaters, mainly to hide the whereabouts of Harry and give him more time to find the Horcruxes. It was true; while she and Harry did not have any breakthroughs regarding Beedle the Bard or the whereabouts of Gryffindor's sword, she hardly thought that was grounds for removing her from the mission entirely. In fact, she had often been the brains behind helping Harry move from place to place. If not for her, he wouldn’t even know to look in Godric’s Hollow for the sword.

But maybe The Order had devised alternate plans for her. Perhaps her knowledge was needed behind the scenes. She was knowledgeable about foraging and potions–maybe they wanted her as Healer.

Moody sighed. “Miss Granger, I’m afraid we will need you to go away for a bit.”

Hermione’s heart stilled again. What did he mean? “Go…away?” she asked, uncertain as to his words. 

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “What we are about to share with you cannot leave the confines of this room, do you understand? Both of you?” he asked, looking between Harry and Hermione.

Hermione nodded vaguely, trying hard to still the nervous beating of her heart. Why did she feel like she had done something wrong?

“We won’t say anything, Sir,” Harry replied. He appeared completely perplexed as well.

“Severus,” Shackebolt said quietly.

Like a vampire emerging from the shadows, Severus Snape stepped out of the dark corner of the kitchen. His face was sallow and dark hair greasy as ever. 

An undeniable panic set in amongst Hermione and Harry. They had not even been aware of his presence. Out of the side of her eye, Hermione could see Harry reaching for the wand in his pocket. 

“Remember,” Moody advised, holding up a hand to Harry. “Snape is our spy. He’s rarely here at Grimmauld, but he’ll deliver us messages if they're critical.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Explain, then. Why is he here tonight?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Shacklebolt glanced at Snape. “Snape comes with a warning for Miss Granger…for our entire Order, actually.”

Hermione tensed. “If this is about me being a Muggleborn–trust me. I’m not scared. I know I’m a target—we’re all wanted by the Ministry–”

“I’m afraid the news is far more dire than that, Miss Granger,” Snape commented in a low voice. “I wouldn’t waste my time personally to inform you that the Dark Lord wants Muggleborns dead.”

“Then what do you want!” Harry was gripping the edge of the table furiously. Hermione knew that it was difficult for Harry to trust Snape. He had not tried to save Dumbledore that night on the astronomy tower. 

“Harry, please calm down,” Lupin ordered. “Snape comes here with news regarding a horrible Death Eater attack.”

“You may not be aware, having been on the move, but the Death Eaters have been relentless in their attempts to ensnare and add magical creatures to their ranks. They’ve already Imperiused the giants,” Shacklebolt explained. 

“I’m aware,” Harry said darkly.

“Severus,” Shacklebolt glanced at Snape. “I’ll let you take over–then you can share the memory with Miss Granger.”

Snape cleared his throat. “There have been particularly brutal attacks in the forests home to centaurs,” he drawled. “Argyll, Puck’s Glen, Cardrona…some of the largest populations of centaurs have been depleted in the last three months. I have been monitoring the situation. They are unable to be Imperiused. A few centaurs have accepted bribes to help the Death Eaters in surprise attacks against The Order. But most have been killed for failure to submit to the Dark Lord.”

“That’s terrible,” Ginny remarked. Her eyes were wide with horror. Hermione had forgotten she was even in the room.

“It’s not just terrible, Miss Weasley,” Snape continued. “The Death Eaters’ vicious attacks on these beings come with disastrous consequences for both sides of the War. Centaurs, as you may be aware, are mystical beings. They have a connection to the Stars. The Stars rule our fate; they foretell the eventual choices to be made. The centaurs’ life and death cycles influence the nature of our magical world. They are also extremely territorial beings.”

Hermione could feel the nervous tension pulsing through her veins. She knew whatever intel Snape had about the centaurs somehow was related to her.

“What’s happened?” Harry questioned Snape. This time, his voice was less accusatory. 

“If the population of centaurs drops to a certain level—in that they are endangered—it is not outside the realm of possibility that these creatures could put a curse on our wizarding kind,” Snape replied matter-of-factly. “A curse in the form of a prophecy.”

“Is that what happened?” Hermione asked this time. She wondered if perhaps Muggleborns would be cursed, but she didn’t see why that would be.

Moody’s single eyeball spun wildly. “A prophecy from a centaur is just as bad, if not worse, than a curse.”

Snape looked at Hermione directly. “Yesterday evening, after an attack in the Forest of Dean, a prophecy was made. It is an indication that the Stars have shifted; the Death Eaters have defiled nature with their incessant attacks on these creatures. The prophecy foretells an outcome of this War.”

Harry furrowed his brows. “But there was already a prophecy foretold about the end of this War–regarding me.”

“That is true Harry,” Lupin said. “All prophecies are valid, however. The truth of one prophecy does not negate the other. All outcomes are possible.”

Hermione swallowed. Her throat was dry. “What did this prophecy say?” she asked.

Snape sighed. “There was a prophecy involving a Muggleborn and a Pureblood—one fighting for the Dark Lord, obviously,” he began. “Two possible outcomes to the War were described. If the Muggleborn defeats the Pureblood, then the Dark Lord’s demise seems evident. But if the two were to join forces—to,” he paused, hesitating over the next part, “create a Half-Blood together, then The Order will fall. Darkness will prevail.”

There was a stunned silence among the room. Even Ron looked frantically at Hermione.

“The Muggleborn—do you think it’s her?” Ron narrowed his eyes at Snape. “We have lots of Muggleborns fighting on our side.”

“Mr. Weasley, if there wasn’t a strong possibility the prophecy is about Miss Granger, again, I wouldn’t waste my time being here. There is specific wording—I think Miss Granger needs to hear it for herself,” Snape said.

“I want to hear it,” Hermione cut in. “I don’t believe it. If its about me, then—”

“Miss Granger, here,” Snape interjected, handing Hermione a small vial. A grey mist billowed inside the tube. “This is my memory.”

Hermione gripped the vial. A strong wave of denial crashed over her being. There were many other Muggleborns; the prophecy might not apply to her. Although she had escaped Death Eaters numerous times with Harry and Ron, she hadn’t even been fighting in this War yet. 

“There is a Pensieve over there, on the counter,” Moody pointed out. “Take Potter with you.”

Hermione shrugged at Harry. The two rose from their chairs and walked over to the glass bowl in the dark corner of the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione grasped Harry’s hand as she poured the contents of Snape’s memory into the Pensieve.

A dark fog circle before them. As Hermione and Harry leaned in close to the glass, they were whisked away into the contents of the memory. 

…

The sky was almost black. A line of trees before them had been completely decimated. 

The smell of blood was in the air. Clouds of grey smoke and ash made it hard to breath. 

Harry and Hermione stood on the outskirts of the forest. Nearby, Snape was hiding in the shadows, standing somewhat further away in the woods. He had his wand drawn protectively; he was wearing his Death Eater cloak, but did not have a mask.

Hermione’s heart jolted. There was a group of at least twenty Death Eaters before her. She gripped Harry’s hand–for a moment, she had forgotten she was just in a memory.

The Death Eaters all looked the same; dressed head to toe in black. There were various different gold and silver masks, all skeletal in nature. She could hear their manic laughter and raucous shouting. They seemed to be taunting someone or something.

Just then, lightning struck from the above. Hermione did not even realise the weather had been stormy. The blinding lightning bolt caused several Death Eaters to jump back.

In the clearing ahead, Hermione could now see what it was they were surrounding. An injured centaur was lying on the ground; a deep slash was present on his chest. His beautiful white coat was stained crimson with blood from the wound.

“In all levels of life, in all worlds magical and non, the atrocities of War are the only constants,” the centaur’s voice echoed throughout the field of death. It had somehow been amplified. “The Stars align to guide the misguided. Thus, the future is set.”

“Just kill him already,” a voice snarled from one of the Death Eaters. 

“Wait,” another held out his hand. “It's a message for us—for the Dark Lord. He’ll be pleased.”

The centaur was breathing heavily. Hermione knew he was dying.

But he continued with a ragged breath:

“Within twelve moons, the meeting between signs Three and Six will be a time of reckoning. The defeat of the Pure-Blood with the most blood on his hands by the Muggle-Born with no blood on her hands will usher in the demise of the Dark Lord. But if the two unite, a new era of darkness will henceforth begin. Under this throne of chaos and the creation of a Half-Blood, the Order will fall and the New Reign shall defeat the Old.”

“Avada Kedavra! ” A green flash struck the centaur.

As the light left the centaur’s eyes, Hermione’s vision suddenly became foggy. She wanted to stay. There was an urge deep in her bones to go after those murderous Death Eaters. It was brutal-ending the life of that centaur like that.

…

But she and Harry were now back in the dimly lit kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place. 

Snape was still standing ominously near the table. Shacklebolt and Moody appeared frustrated. Ron and Ginny looked alarmed. 

“Well?” Snape questioned with an air of impatience.

“I don’t see how it’s about Hermione,” Harry started. “As Hermione said, there’s lots of Muggleborns.”

“I was asking Miss Granger,” Snape barked. “Sit down, Potter.”

Harry sheepishly returned to the table. 

Hermione clenched her fists. As much as she didn’t want it to be true, she agreed there was a possibility. “The Prophecy mentioned Sign Six…Virgo. That’s me; I was born in September,” she said. “I also don’t have any blood on my hands.”

“You can see why we are concerned,” Shacklebolt replied. “We need to keep you safe, Hermione.”

“Safe?” Hermione questioned, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t say the Prophecy was about me. I just agree that it could be.”

Remus pounded his fist on the table. “Of course, Miss Granger. We could go through every Virgo Muggleborn in wizarding Britain. Only one would be most likely to change the course of the War by meeting a Pureblood–the Death Eater with the highest kill count–within the next year. Considering your closeness to Harry Potter, who is still the Chosen One, it’s unlikely to be anyone else but you.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Miss Granger, we are ordering all Virgo Muggleborns to be on house arrest, just in the off chance it’s not you. It’s a small list though—about five individuals,” Shacklebolt added. 

Hermione shook her head. “I just don’t understand. How does this fit with Harry’s prophecy? And what do you even mean by keeping me safe?”

Lupin rose from his chair. “Ron, Ginny…come with me please. You’ve heard enough. You just need to know that you’ll be joining Harry starting tomorrow. Miss Granger, as you finish this talk, I bid you goodnight. Trust that The Order is doing everything and anything in your best interests,” Lupin said, nodding towards Hermione. He eyed Ron and Ginny. They each gave Hermione a weak smile and followed Lupin out of the kitchen.

“The centaur’s words only support Harry’s prophecy. They describe a future in which either the Dark Lord rules or in which he meets his demise. Therefore, this is not a matter to be taken lightly,” Shacklebolt explained.

“I understand that,” Hermione replied. “However, the prophecy mentioned that the muggle-born could defeat pure-blood, the Death Eater, obviously, as Remus put it.”

Moody chuckled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Missy. We have one plan and one plan only regarding this warning: you will stay put. You will go into hiding.”

“Hiding?” Hermione could feel her chest tightening. This seemed like an overreaction. It wasn’t fair that Moody or Shacklebolt wouldn’t even hear her out. “Harry, you must agree! This is preposterous. If anyone needs to be the most careful, its you."

“We both need to be vigilant,” Harry said. He sighed with frustration. “I’m going to miss having you around, Hermione. But if it’s for your safety, I won’t question it.”

“Wars come with risks!” Hermione exclaimed. She could feel her heart rate rising. The same Order leaders who gave Harry little to no guidance and devised no battle plans now wanted to order her around. “Do any of you even hear yourselves? Aren't prophecies unavoidable?”

“Miss Granger, please listen. Yes, in most cases, prophecies will come true in some shape or form. But time can change a prophecy–and so can deliberate opposing actions. A strong effort to keep you hidden can prevent this one from happening. This Prophecy is only good for twelve months. In a year’s time, you can return to assist Harry—”

Hermione cut Shacklebolt off. “In a year’s time, everyone will be dead. Harry included.”

The silence which followed was deafening. 

Finally, it was Snape who spoke. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Er, not yet, Severus. If you could stay, for just a moment. To explain the one part….” Shacklebolt eyed Snape nervously.

“What part?” Hermione asked, through gritted teeth. She knew it now; they wanted her off the mission because they were afraid. 

Shacklebolt spoke hesitantly. “The centaur mentioned that the Muggleborn, presumably you, either defeat the Pureblood, or join him…to create a Half-Blood as you recall.”

Hermione scowled. “I’m aware. But you're not even listening to me. I could defeat this pure-blood.”

“There’s no chance of that, Miss Granger! Believe me when I tell you!” Moody’s gruff voice was almost shouting at her. “This Death Eater is Voldemort’s right hand man. He’s killed more people in nine months than in some past wizarding Wars that have lasted years. Not just our wizarding folks, but tons of Muggles, creatures—”

“Fine!” Hermione snapped. “You have no faith in my magical abilities or my desire to fight. Just say it. You don’t believe I can be of help in this War.”

Shacklebolt sighed. “I know you’re passionate. And we want Harry to win this War, but you don’t know what you’re up against. The other part of this Prophecy, well, it suggests something quite dark."

Hermione was livid. “The other part of this Prophecy suggests I would unite with this pure-blood—that we would have a child! If you think I would honestly switch sides and let that happen, you’re mad!”

“It wouldn’t be up to you,” Snape suddenly interrupted.

“What?” Hermione asked. “I don’t understand."

“This is what we are trying to protect you from, Hermione. The Death Eaters suspect the Prophecy is about you too. They want the Order to fall. The Death Eaters will come after you,” Shacklebolt warned. 

“So, let them,” Hermione replied. “Harry can still hunt the Horcruxes. He can still end Riddle’s life. In a year’s time, I won’t unite with a Death Eater.”

“He will rape you.”

The words halted every thought and word that had been swirling around in Hermione’s head. She thought she understood the implications of the Prophecy, but now…

Snape repeated himself. “He will rape you and you won’t have a choice but to conceive a Half-Blood.”

“Who?” Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper. “Who is the Death Eater in the Prophecy?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Snape drawled. 

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy.

Hermione could see Harry’s lip curl in anger at the mention of the name. He only spoke once about that night on the Astronomy Tower. From what Hermione had gathered, Harry had arrived too late. Both he and Snape had raced up the stone steps to the tower to witness Dumbledore disarmed by Malfoy. 

The way Harry perceived it, Malfoy had been enraged. His hand was shaking as he threatened the Headmaster. “I don’t want your help!” Harry heard the heated words just before the Avada was cast. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the arrival of Snape had suddenly encouraged Malfoy to commit the deed. 

“And I don’t suppose you could do anything to stop him,” Harry spat. He glared at the former Professor.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Your precious Order knows I am only here for intel, Potter. Don’t be so arrogant as to take advantage of the fact that I was so generous to even inform you of the Prophecy in the first place.”

“Ah yes, well, that is why we have the plan,” Shacklebolt announced nervously. “If Miss Granger can be hidden away, it is not likely she will run into Draco Malfoy. Therefore, all of this is a non-issue.”

“I can take him,” Hermione said simply. “Give me some time to research offensive spells, curses, hexes…I can do it. I have no doubt I could outsmart any Death Eater. Perhaps they’re training Draco Malfoy like a pet.”

“No, no,” Moody shook his head venomously. “That may be so and that has made the boy extremely dangerous. Listen to our spy. I have no doubt Malfoy only has the worst of intentions when it comes to carrying out Riddle’s orders.”

Hermione felt the heat flare up under skin. “I’ll kill him. You don’t think I can?”

This time, it was Harry who looked at her. “Hermione,” he began. “I don't doubt you for a minute. You’re the smartest person fighting on this side of the War. And that’s what makes you so valuable. You’re irreplaceable as my friend, first and foremost. If Moody and Shacklebolt agree this is best, then I trust them.”

“As I said, Miss Granger, this arrangement will only be for a year. Please consider it as a sacrifice for the Order, for all the Muggle-borns who are captured and dying.”

“Don’t guilt me!” Hermione exclaimed. “I will never consider this my sacrifice. Sacrifice is going out there and fighting…fighting even when you know the worst can happen, fighting while accepting the fact you could die. That’s what sacrifice is. Don’t make up your own definition. Harry, you know this better than anyone.”

Snape let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll let you all decide amongst yourselves what is best. I’ve provided you with my memory. Miss Granger,” he eyed Hermione warily, “I hope not to see you again. If I do, don’t expect me to help you.”

And with that, Snape retreated into the shadows of the kitchen. Hermione noticed he used some type of tea cup as a Portkey. There was a whirling sound and he was gone.

“Harry…could we please have a word alone with Miss Granger?” Shacklebolt glanced towards the doorway. “Just wait over there.”

Harry nodded and left the room. He gave Hermione a sympathetic smile as he walked away.

“Sacrifice, caution, hiding, biding our time,” Shacklebolt folded his arms. “Fighting doesn’t always have to look like what you think it does,” he said adamantly. “We have many young Order members out there risking their lives every day to fight for our side. Hiding Muggle-borns, protecting the whereabouts of Harry. I know this isn’t what you’d choose, but we need to keep you safe.”

Safe. The word could be repeated over and over; it didn’t matter to Hermione. Every time it was mentioned, it would lose more and more meaning.

“It sounds hollow,” Hermione admitted. “Here I am, willing to risk my life. Willing to go out and kill Draco Malfoy. And you don’t care.”

Moody had his head in his hands. “Miss Granger, I knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“You’re right about that,” she agreed emphatically.

“If you can just agree for right now…until we can even devise a strategy for Harry. The Horcruxes need to be destroyed. As long as we focus on that, who knows, maybe you won’t need to be in isolation for a year,” Moody shrugged his shoulders.

“So you’d rather not risk a confrontation between me and Draco Malfoy?” Hermione questioned, glowering at the Order leaders. “I’m not aware of any genius plan you have concocted. So excuse me for being skeptical.”

“Miss Gran—Hermione,” Shackebolt said, uttering her name in exasperation. “If you can think of your time in hiding as a way to protect Harry…maybe that will mean something to you.”

“Mean something to me?” Hermione reiterated his words with disgust. “What or who do you think I’m fighting for? You act like I’m not out wanting the best for myself, for Muggle-borns, for the greater good—”

“This is for the greater good!” Shacklebolt exclaimed. “You staying put, hidden for a year will help Harry. There, I’ve said it. He can’t possibly defeat the Riddle without you. You’re clever, resourceful. To be blunt, Harry needs you. We need you.”

Hermione swallowed. The fire which made her blood curdle seemed to die out at the admission. 

“You don’t think Harry can win this War without me?” Hermione looked earnestly at Moody and Shacklebolt.

She wasn’t sure why, but it appeared both of them were already defeated. “No,” Shacklebolt insisted. “To be perfectly honest, we, the Order, will rely on you. Even if you are hidden away for your own good. Truly, Snape has a point. Your life is in danger. But if your life is in danger, that means ours is.”

Hermione could feel her shoulders tense. She didn’t want to see the logic in being locked up, hidden away. The fiery side of her wanted to go out and fight. 

“It’s true,” Moody added darkly. “Potter acts haphazardly. He’ll do what he needs to for survival. I’ve no doubt he can evade Riddle for the time being. Maybe what we’re trying to insist is that you, Miss Granger, play a far more integral part in winning this War than you can imagine.”

Hermione was silent. Even if it was true, she didn’t want to be eager to confirm Moody’s words. If anything, the new Prophecy was only cause for alarm. It seemed the Order still had great faith that Harry would  defeat Voldemort. They just didn’t trust that she could be of any use. 

“If that’s so,” Hermione countered, “then you would trust me to defeat Draco Malfoy.”

“A feat easier said than done,” Moody growled. “The boy has become inhuman. He’ll have every Death Eater vying to capture you. If not himself, he’ll employ every vampire, every werewolf, any creature possible to lure you in. You heard Professor Snape. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

Hermione let out a deep breath. “I just want to be clear. I don’t agree with any of this. I don’t agree as to your notions, your beliefs…your War strategy. Quite frankly, you’ve been to blame,” Hermione stated. She looked directly at Shacklebolt. “You are to blame for the loss of Tonks, Thomas, Finch-Fletchley, Johnson…Weasley. So I don’t condone any of your decisions.”

Shacklebolt lowered his head. “Miss Granger—”

“No, hear me out,” Hermione continued. “I’ll agree to go away. If that’s what Harry wants. He’s the only one that matters, I suppose. You don’t trust me with the Prophecy; you’ve made that abundantly clear. But don’t for one minute confuse the fact that I support you or agree with your choices in this War. Personally, I will be trying to convince Harry otherwise every chance I get, since apparently, he’s the only one that matters.”

There was a stillness in the kitchen. Hermione could hear the buzz of the dim fluorescent lights above. Her insides were burning with indignation–but other than setting out on her own journey, defying the wishes of Harry, her best friend whose actions this War truly depended upon in the end, she just didn’t feel like she had another option.

“There is a place,” Shacklebolt started hesitantly, “on the outskirts of Tinwall in Cornwall. Shell Cottage. The house belongs to Bill and Fleur Weasley. They have generously agreed to let you take refuge there.”

Refuge.

Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. “What will I be expected to do? Will anyone visit me? How will I not lose my mind?”

“Merlin’s beard! Your order is to stay put!” Moody snapped. “You can expect myself or Shacklebolt to bring you meals. You will not attempt to leave. Is that understood?”

Hermione’s heart suddenly lurched. She thought about all of the time she had spent trying to decode Beedle the Bard, trying to be of use. Trying to tell Harry where to go and where to look next. It was a slap in the face to suddenly not be wanted…to not be valued.

“Communication,” Hermione replied, ignoring Moody’s demand, “How will I stay in touch with Harry? How will I know what’s going on in the outside?”

“You won’t,” Shacklebolt admitted. “You won’t unless something comes up that is pertinent to your safety.”

Safety. There it was again. The emptiness of the word should have been branded on her skin.

“But what if there’s an emergency?” Hermione questioned. “What if I’m in danger?”

“You won’t be,” Moody replied. “The cottage is under a Fidelius Charm. Bill Weasley is the secret keeper. The house is unplottable, but The Order can find you if worse comes to worse. You can also keep the Protean Charm to contact us if necessary.”

Hermione stood. Her eyes were focused on the ground; she didn’t see a way out of what she was being convinced to do. “When do I leave?” she asked quietly.

“Tonight,” Shacklebolt said. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve asked Harry and Ron to travel by Portkey with you there tonight. You can, er, say your goodbyes.”

“Goodbyes?” Hermione suddenly locked eyes with Shacklebolt. “You really don’t have any faith we can win this War, do you?”

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “Please trust that this decision is for the best. For The Order, for Harry, and most importantly, for you.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. Instead, she rose from her seat. She adjusted the fabric of her jumper and ran a hand through her hair. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the kitchen. 

But before heading into the sitting area where Harry, Ron, and Ginny sat, Hermione stopped. She turned around and leaned a palm casually on the doorframe leading into the kitchen.

“Don’t think I’ll forgive you,” Hermione said. She stared fixedly at Moody and Shacklebolt. “You’ll wish you didn’t do this. You’ll wish you’d have sent me to kill Draco Malfoy instead.”

She could feel her cheeks flush; the pulse of frustration echoed throughout her like a heartbeat. She knew she was extremely capable, not just in battle, but in figuring out the whole Horcrux mystery. Now Harry would be left to his own devices. Ron didn’t have the critical thinking skills either and Ginny perhaps would be too cautious, maybe too worried about Harry’s wellbeing to make any strategic decisions. 

“Let’s go,” Hermione muttered from the corridor. She didn’t want to get too comfortable. If Harry and Ron were supposed to take her to Shell Cottage, she just wanted to leave. Being around Shacklebolt and Moody only incensed her. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Ginny said, rising from her seat. She headed towards Hermione and attempted to place a reassuring hand on her arm. “I know this meant a lot to you, the Horcrux hunt.”

“My life means a lot to me,” Hermione mumbled. “This is absurd. Moody and Shacklebolt might as well admit defeat, call the Death Eaters and Riddle to Grimmauld.”

“Don’t say that, Hermione!” Ron suddenly interjected. “Look, I felt as miserable as you last month. I know what it’s like to be hopeless. But don’t tell me you actually think you have a chance against Malfoy, and against Death Eaters using Dark Magic and Unforgivables. He killed Dumbledore. I’d hope I could kill him too, but I’d need some training. ”

“Who’s to say I don’t have a chance?” Hermione asked. A deep scowl highlighted her features. “Oh that’s right, this is coming from the person who deserted us. You left Harry and I stranded when we needed you. You have no right to talk!”

“That’s enough!” Harry declared, stepping between his friends. “I don’t like this idea any more than you do, Hermione. But Prophecies are not to be taken likely. And trust me…If I need your help, I’ll be the first person to change Moody and Shacklebolt’s minds. I’ll come for you.”

Hermione felt the back of her throat begin to tighten. She didn’t want the hot tears to spill out of her eyes. But she knew Harry was a good friend. Perhaps he’d see this arrangement made no sense. 

Ron simply looked away. He was never one for apologies or to admit he was wrong.

“The Portkey to Shell Cottage,” Harry spoke quietly, “is this book. Hogwarts: A History.” He gestured towards the first edition heavy tome on the coffee table. 

Hermione shook her head reluctantly, making her way into the room. It was now or never. She felt slightly comforted by Harry’s words. She knew that he likely wouldn’t get far in the Horcrux hunt without her.

“Are you coming, Ron?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow at his friend. 

But Ron only scowled. “No, I’ll pass. Wouldn’t want to spend anymore time with someone as ungrateful as the likes of her.”

“Ungrateful!” Hermione was seething. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you again. You know who’s ungrateful? This entire Order for not trusting me to fight!”

Ron crossed his arms. His face reddened to a shade almost matching his hair. “Have you ever thought about not being such a bitch, Hermione? Just once?”

Hermione’s hand automatically reached for her wand. She wanted to cast a jinx his way, but some semblance of self-control deep within her reminded her he wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t even wearing the locket, so there was no excuse for his callous attitude. Ron just didn’t care enough about her to say goodbye. If he wanted his potential last words to her to be an insult, so be it.

“Let’s leave now, Harry,” Hermione said darkly. “I’m done here.”

Harry bit his lip, glancing nervously at Ron and Ginny who both stood in the doorway. Ron only glared and left the room while Ginny shrugged. “See you soon, I hope, Hermione,” she added as Hermione and Harry prepared to touch the Portkey.

When their hands pressed down upon the ancient book, the vision of the sitting room suddenly contorted into a spinning vortex. Time and space gripped their bodies, and they were sent hurtling to a cliffside beach. 

Before she could observe the land, Hermione could feel the change in the surroundings. Next to the sea, the weather was somewhat cooler; the moisture filled her lungs as she breathed in the salty air.

“This is it,” Harry said. He was always one to state the obvious. “The sound of the waves. It’s kind of peaceful.”

Hermione murmured glumly in agreement. Her eyes focused on the quaint cottage ahead of her. On a cloudy day, its pale stone exterior and white shutters could make it blend right into the sky.

“Shall we go inside?” You first,” Harry pointed to the house.

Hermione cautiously ascended the rocky front steps. She couldn’t help but feel like this was some type of prison sentence. She had no idea if the Order would supply her with any books or quills or parchment. How would she pass the time? Even if they did bring her books, she was bound to be incredibly lonely.

Harry followed her as she entered the cottage. Just like the outside, the interior of the houses seemed very plain. There were no pictures or portraits; the walls were washed with different neutral shades of seashells. If the house had belonged to Bill and Fleur most recently, they had not yet added any personal touches. Hermione imagined that was the last thing on their minds during the War–it was a wonder they even held the wedding ceremony.

Beyond the foyer was a small kitchenette with two chairs and a table. In the adjoined sitting room, Hermione noticed a small blue sofa with a tiny wooden bookshelf nearby. She imagined the loft upstairs contained a bedroom and bath. In another time, the cottage would have served as a lovely escape, but living in this dull abode in such a remote beach location made her feel uncomfortable when she thought of everyone else fighting in the War.

“Seems nice,” Harry commented absentmindedly.

Hermione was still silent. She hadn’t even been in the cottage for five minutes, and already, the walls felt suffocating; they might as well be closing in on her. For so long, her focus had been her travels with Harry and Ron. They never stayed in the same woods for more than three days. Even if their attempts at destroying and finding Horcruxes had been unsuccessful, the constant moving, the quick thinking, the sometimes narrow escapes from Snatchers had made the weeks go by weekly. Now, she was doomed to spend months–the entire year in Shell Cottage.

“Hermione, er, the bag?” Harry looked pointedly at the small pouch that hung over her shoulder.

“Oh,” Hermione had almost forgotten. She emptied out the contents, digging within the magical reaches of the bag to retrieve the clothing and a few of her personal items. “Don’t forget, Harry. Everything fits through means of the Extension Charm. We didn’t have much food left, so I’d suggest going through the cupboards at Grimmauld–”

“Ginny’s already doing that,” Harry added. “I suppose I should head back, before it gets dark. I still want to go to Godric’s Hollow.”

“Right, of course.” Hermione didn’t want Harry to go and her heart hurt knowing that he would be continuing their mission without her. “Wait, Harry,” she began desperately, “did you really mean it when you said you’d come back for me? You’d convince Moody and Shacklebolt otherwise?”

“I did,” Harry responded. He reached out to grab her hand. “You’ve been with me since the beginning of this–last Spring. You’re brilliant, Hermione. Don’t doubt that for a second. If I need you, you’ll know. I’ll activate the Galleon.”

Hermione let out a gasp of relief. “Thank you. You don’t know how much that means. I don’t know if I can stay here.”

“Er,” Harry scratched his head. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but…”

His voice trailed off. 

“What?” Hermione could feel a tightness squeezing around her chest. She already felt so trapped. “Just say it.”

“You’ll be locked inside when I leave. The Order has it charmed to do so. It’s what makes it untraceable. Extra pre-caution to the Fidelius Charm.” 

It wasn’t a surprise. Hermione had figured as much. If Moody and Shacklebolt did not trust her to fight in the War–to fight against Draco Malfoy, then they wouldn’t trust her to simply stay put.”

“When will they visit? The Order?” Hermione asked. She clenched her fists together. Everything about the plan was so unjust.

“In a few days time, I think,” Harry responded. “Look, Hermione. You’ll be safe here.”

“I don’t care about safety. I thought I made that abundantly clear.”

Harry released a deep sigh. “You did. But at least I won’t worry about you. Again, if I need you, maybe we can rethink this. Maybe you’re right. I just don’t know anything…I need to find the sword”

“I know I’m right,” Hermione emphasised. “But it’s no use now. You’ll know where I’ll be.”

Harry reached out and pulled Hermione into a hug. “It won’t be the same, but I’ve got to continue on. Everyone’s counting on me. Take care of yourself, Hermione.”

Hermione gripped the wool of his jumper as he turned towards the door. “Come back for me, Harry. Please, come back!”

Harry only gave her a sad smile as he walked away. Once he was through the doorway, Hermione made a motion to follow him. She was stopped abruptly by a thick shield of magic. An invisible wall blocked her from going outside.

Knowing it would be useless, Hermione ran to the first window in the sitting room. Using all of her strength, she tried to lift the latch; the frame wouldn’t budge. She tried casting Alohomora and every other unlocking spell she knew, but the window would not open. Just in case the Order missed something, Hermione checked every window in the house to no avail.

She was being held captive in Shell Cottage and it was supposedly for her own good.

That evening, Hermione stood looking out into the distant shore from the upstairs window. Just a short time ago, she was reading wizarding stories from Beedle the Bard, trying to interpret the strange symbol Dumbledore had left behind. 

Now, as she tried to accept her new reality, the one in which she was trapped, she felt like a character in a Muggle fairytale. Rapunzel. Perhaps her hair would grow extra long and unruly during her imprisonment. In a year, would anyone remember she was here, let alone come rescue her?

What could she possibly do? It wasn’t like her to sit around and wallow in pity. 

As she stared out the window, Hermione couldn’t help but notice how grey everything was. There wasn’t very much color; the water faded seamlessly into the darkening misty sky as steel waves crashed upon the pebbled shore.

It was just impending darkness over so much grey.

For some reason, her mind flitted to Draco Malfoy. 

Of course, it had been shocking to learn he let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and murdered Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower without a second thought. Not only that, but he had made earlier attempts at taking the Headmaster’s life with the cursed necklace and poisoned mead. The fact that he could have taken the lives of other students didn’t even stop him. 

Even worse, he now apparently had the highest kill count among the Death Eaters. In the three years time, he had become a mass murderer. The Order evidently viewed him as dangerous and was afraid of him. She didn’t want to think about the Prophecy, but Snape had insisted that he would go after her. He would rape and impregnate her if it ensured the Order would fall.

The thought of him made her ill.

Hermione tried to recall. Did she ever notice a change in him during sixth year? While Harry had suspected Malfoy of being a Death Eater, she was of the belief that he was not due to his age. No matter how sick and depraved the Death Eaters and Voldemort were, she just couldn’t imagine them initiating a student. But for one of the few times in her life, she had been wrong.

Harry, who was normally oblivious, had suspected him all along. Looking back, while it wasn’t overtly obvious, she supposed that Malfoy had become withdrawn, but she didn’t think anything of it. Whereas in years past he was normally quick to call her a 'mudblood' or offer another cutting insult to anyone during classes, he was quiet. Even in the Great Hall, it had become more common to see him staring off into space than chumming around with Crabbe and Goyle. 

Hermione could remember one time during sixth year vividly. Not so much the moment, but Malfoy’s expression. After breakfast, all of the students were leaving for classes, but Malfoy remained at the Slytherin table. His platinum hair, which was always styled, looked rather unkempt. Not only that, but she could still see the way his shoulders slumped and the forlorn way he rested his chin in his hand. 

Malfoy’s despondent body language should have been telling, but his eyes held the real story. Those eyes had always been cold as ice and unsettling; they complimented his pale angular face and the usual sneer he wore so well. But this time she had looked upon him, his eyes were startlingly light. There was a depth to them she had not realised existed. There were specks of silver and a deeper sterling grey; they were the kind of eyes a person could get lost in. But his eyes also contained a heaviness. Something that spoke of terrible things unknown. Regrettably, she didn’t recognise the significance back then. He had always been cruel, but she should have known there was a darkness in him lingering just under the surface.

As the memory vanished, Hermione’s own eyes once again settled to the view outside. The bleak day was nearly over. The water was black; there was no horizon line as it merged against the night sky. Not even the moon was visible.

It would be easy to fall into a pit of despair. To blend in with the grey sky and sea during the day and indulge in disappointment and hurt at night. But Hermione knew better. She was clever and resourceful. She would make use of her time here at Shell Cottage.

Hermione would find a way out and when she did, she would kill Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Anyone of a lesser mind would have succumbed to the gloom of Shell Cottage by now. It was difficult to ignore how meaningless the trajectory of her life had become in captivity. But the one motivating factor to not give in or give up had always been that this was never her choice.

In fact, the very knowledge that Hermione was forced into hiding by weak and fearful men who dared to call themselves leaders lit the spark within her. With these attitudes, Moody and Shacklebolt would never command the Order to win the War. If anything, they were only experts at stalling and biding time for Harry. The more Hermione thought about it, there was not even a guarantee of victory when he eventually faced Voldemort. Unless there was some careful planning going on behind the scenes or a surprise attack on the Death Eaters, nothing would change the tide of the War to be in their favor. Horcruxes aside, the Order needed to prove themselves as a legitimate threat to Voldemort’s livelihood and so far, they were only good at evading battle and placing every hope for survival into Harry’s hands.

And it still wasn’t without a cost. 

On days where Shacklebolt looked particularly grim, he had managed to share the news of recent deaths.

Hannah Abbott
Katie Bell
Terry Boot
Seamus Finnigan
Ernie Macmillan
Alecia Spinnet

Each time, she walked away from him and headed up the stairs. The blood was on his hands; she had already predicted this.

One of the worst parts of being in seclusion was that Hermione was purposely kept from hearing the latest updates for months. For a long time, she had no idea as to what progress Harry, Ron, and Ginny were making in finding and destroying the Horcruxes. She had asked for a radio to follow along with Potterwatch, but Moody had denied that request.

“You’ll be one crackle of static away from having a Death Eater knocking on yer door,” he warned her gruffly. 

Hermione had only rolled her eyes. At this point, she would gladly greet any Death Eater knocking on her door. She tried to explain to Moody how radio signals worked and why they were the safest form of communication for the Order. She harped about how communication was key for organising an ambush or strategising the Horcrux hunt.

“Plus, there’s power in numbers,” she told him, “in knowing we’re not alone.”

Hermione’s words had fallen on deaf ears, of course. Power was something Moody and Shacklebolt were not familiar with. They led a far too passive form of resistance. One that she would not stand for. 

And so, it was up to Hermione to use her intellect and indignation to fight back and gain information. Like an animal in a cage, she probed her enclosure for weak spots. She used Moody and Shacklebolt’s weaknesses to her advantage. 

Even when the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, she got out of bed each morning, eager to work on her game plan. While the weather was still foggy and grey out her windows, she could tell it must be summer by the condensation on the glass. The temperature no doubt had to be humid.

Typically, Moody or Shacklebolt visited once every three days. They would meet Hermione a few minutes after sunset by apparating inside the doorway of Shell Cottage. They never knocked or went outside. Hermione wondered if perhaps they would also be blocked by the magical barrier, one that they themselves had a hand in creating with the Fidelius Charm.

Hermione surmised that Bill Weasley became the secret keeper just as Harry left that first night. The house was unchartable even to Order members. Moody and Shacklebolt had been informed of the location, but must not have wanted to draw any attention to the outside surrounding area. According to Moody, Bill Weasley’s location was also hidden by another secret keeper.  It was a tangled web; to Hermione, it only demonstrated the Order had learned nothing from the First Wizarding War and the demise of James and Lily. It also meant that Harry would likely not have the means to come back to her as he said he would. The magic would prevent him from finding or seeing the cottage. Activating the Protean Charm for him would be useless.

At the very least, Shacklebolt always brought her the books she requested. Hermione had to smile to herself–she always requested the most questionable titles found in the Grimmauld Place library. 

They might have seemed innocuous at first:

A History of Dueling by Aleric Godfrey
A Timeline of Curses in Medieval Times by Giles Clement
Maga Potens: Feminine Magical Power and Influence in the Middle Ages by Mirabel Guardia
Secrets of Magical Persuasion by Winifred Chapman

But then there were the additional books she requested that were referenced in the footnotes.

The Death Spell and Other Unforgivables by Castallen Fabien
Everything You Want to Know About Legilimency (But Are Afraid to Ask–We Already Know) by Jackson Thornhop and Melinda Darby
To Occlude or Not To Occlude, That is the Question by Samira Davis
Wizarding and Muggle Mind Magic by Viola Harper
Defensive Spells for Dark Times by Capsin Clerihew
Enemy Magic by Edwin Von Seggeran
Magical Interference in Muggle Warfare by Gertrude Sniper

Several months into hiding, Hermione had accumulated quite a collection of books explaining dark spells and how to use magic to control the mind. If Moody or Shacklebolt truly did not want her researching these topics, they had it within their power to stop her. However, Hermione imagined that they saw her as harmless. Reading about magic–the history and theory–would not make her a threat to them. But, their failure to challenge her, to question her about the titles, only drove her to seek out more knowledge and to continue her training during the days.

Short of having someone to duel with, Hermione did everything she could to learn new offensive and defensive spells. She arranged the table, chairs, vases, pictures frames, books–any objects her mind could imagine to be targets. She perfected the incantations, imagining herself on the run, having to duck behind trees to cast the spells from an angle. She memorised the wand movements and words to the darker spells, Unforgivables she didn’t imagine herself ever needing to know. In her head, she could visualise herself fighting in battle, firing off the dark spells and catching the Death Eaters off guard. 

When Hermione wasn’t training and practicing with the targets, she was either doing Muggle exercises to increase her strength and endurance or researching additional spells and mind control techniques from her books. While she couldn’t attempt legilimency on her own, she had plenty of quiet time to occlude. And when she wasn’t blocking out the thoughts in her mind, she was formulating the best possible plan for escape in her head. 

She had come to suspect that it was reasonable that Moody and Shacklebolt had already prepared for the possibility that she would try to disarm them. They had to have noticed the broken furniture and destruction her training had caused to the inside of the cottage. It seemed likely they already had a plan in place for an emergency, possibly a warning system through a Protean Charm like she and Harry had used. This led her to believe that simply hexing either of them would not be a viable option. Merlin, Avada-ing them would not be an option. She would still be trapped–she needed a way out of the barriers. 

This is where Moody and Shacklebolt would underestimate her magical prowess. 

Although Moody was the more suspicious of the two, she knew he would be the easier one to manipulate in terms of logic. Each time he visited her, Hermione would irritate Moody by providing an incorrect fact in relation to the Dark Arts.

“The Cruciatus Curse as performed by someone Imperiused will not have the same effect as one performed intentionally,” Hermione said matter-of-factly one evening.

Moody grumbled. “Nonsense! Where you be reading that? I know otherwise–I’ve lived it–trust me, you don’t know what these spells are capable of. You young magic folk read all the books and think you know everything.”

Hermione remained calm. “So that’s why you haven’t stopped me from reading those titles? You don’t think I can do any of that kind of magic?”

“You could say so,” Moody huffed. “You can read all you want, but it takes an unimaginable darkness to cast those spells. You won’t get the results you want in time. We’re trained to identify Dark Magic. Besides, you’ll need Shacklebolt or I to lift the shield. And that’s not happening for another seven months.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was already formulating her plan for escape; she just really just wanted information on the Horcrux hunt. “What if Ron was Imperiused to use the Cruciatus Curse on Harry? How would that bode for him? Let’s say if Harry happened to be wearing a Horcrux, such as the locket–”

“Locket’s been destroyed! Now enough with your questions. Shacklebolt will be expecting me back.” Moody turned abruptly from her and was ready to apparate away.

“Destroyed–but how? With Dark Magic?” Hermione asked curiously. 

“No! I mean, er, yes. But never you mind the how. The sword of Gryfinndor is in Harry’s possession.”

“That’s good news.”

Moody shook his head in exasperation. “I’ve said too much. Shacklebolt will be here in three days time. Stay out of trouble, Miss.”

Hermione smiled. That was the information she had been looking for. It really was good news if Harry had managed to destroy a Horcrux. When she escaped, she could offer to help him search for and this time destroy the Horcruxes—after she killed Draco Malfoy, of course.

Whereas Hermione could get answers from Moody by simply aggravating him, she knew that Shacklebolt operated on an entirely different scale. In order to take advantage of him, Hermione had to tap into his more emotional side. It was how she was able to get him to reveal the names of Order members who recently died in the War. She would strike up a harmless conversation, reminiscing about Hogwarts and old classmates. Eventually, Shacklebolt would feel awkward and have to admit that one or more had recently passed. And like clockwork, every time Hermione would leave the room upset, Shacklebolt would feel even more guilty, especially if she could make herself cry.

When he visited a few days later, Hermione knew that something was bothering him.

“I brought you a few extra books this time, Hermione,” Shacklebolt said, handing her a heavy satchel of tomes. “These look like the kind you’re interested in.”

Hermione skimmed the titles. There were more books on curses and magical warfare. “Thanks. You know, I’m glad you and Moody don’t object to my reading material.”

Shacklebolt sighed. “We’ve discussed it. In the end, I told him it would be better for you to be prepared–to perhaps have a few tricks up your sleeve if worse came to worse and you were discovered and captured.”

Hermione didn’t say anything for a moment. She didn’t know if she quite believed him. “Moody says I have seven months left in hiding. Is that true?” she asked finally.

“Just about. It’s June 5. The end will be here before you know it–then you can be free. I know this hasn’t been easy on you, but it beats the alternative,” Shacklebolt offered.

Hermione glowered. “Alternative? As in fighting alongside my friends? Going out and putting an end to Draco Malfoy before he and the other Death Eaters continue to kill our numbers?”

“Easier said than done,” Shacklebolt lamented. “Just today–Neville Longbottom–he was like you, thought he was invincible. He got caught in a skirmish. The Order members who managed to escape and witnessed it said it was gruesome–he was fed to Voldemort’s snake.”

“Leave.” Hermione glared at him. The news was disgusting and she didn’t have to try to exaggerate her feelings. But she would need to choose her words carefully–to get Shacklebolt exactly where she wanted him.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I take full responsibility, yet I don’t have a lot of say when members decide to go off on their own which is exactly what Neville did. They are under strict orders to only protect Harry–”

“You’re sick if you think that’s supposed to make me feel better. Neville is more of a leader than you’ll ever be. He died a hero. You–you will always be remembered in wizarding history as a coward, the one who cost Harry this War. Mark my words.” Hermione stood with her hands on her hips. 

“I’m doing the best I can! Keeping you and Harry safe has always been my priority,” Shacklebolt explained, his voice wavering slightly. “The prophecies–”

“Fuck the prophecies!” Hermione dropped to the ground. “What do your  priorities matter when we’re still losing this War!” It wasn’t hard to force the tears out of her eyes. She thought about Neville–how he had grown to be so fearless, dying for his beliefs and the ones he loved. She thought about all of the young Order members who had passed. Most of them had their whole lives ahead of them and they never stood a chance under the Order’s command.

“Hermione,” Shacklebolt was hovering over her now. He was attempting to brush the stray curls away from her face. 

“Just go!” Hermione sniffled. “I don’t want to see you.”

“I’m sorry.”

With those words, Shacklebolt was gone.

When she was fully aware of the silence of Shell Cottage again, Hermione stood up and used her wand to vanish the wetness on her face. She didn’t want to believe she was numb, but after a certain period of time, time that she spent alone with her thoughts and feelings, she had become well adjusted to disconnecting from the hurt of it all. She only needed the emotional display to play into Shacklebolt’s guilt. Besides, the more vulnerable she appeared, the less he would suspect a surprise attack from her.

Hermione knew Shacklebolt would be back. And when he came back, it would be her moment. She had waited long enough. He would be sorry.

In the midst of her scheming against Shackebolt, there was one other reckless idea that reentered her mind that summer night. She had actually thought to attempt this long ago when she was trying every possible type of magic to escape the barriers placed on the cottage. In the event it worked, she wanted to be prepared. Months ago, she wouldn’t have been prepared. But now that she was actively undermining Moody and Shacklebolt and had been practicing dark offensive and defensive magic, she didn’t see the harm in at least seeing if this would work.

This would be the perfect time since Shacklebolt just left and Moody wouldn’t be due to arrive for another three days.

Holding her wand out in front of her, Hermione steeled her nerves and reached for the doorknob. Upon opening the front door to the cottage, she could see the reflection of the moonlight spotlighting on the murky waters and hear the waves crashing against the rocky shore. The smell of the salt water air and feel of the gentle summer breeze brought a sense of nostalgia. After being locked away for so long, she longed for freedom and would gladly risk her life for it.

She wasn’t positive this would have any effect, but at the very least, she had to try.

“Voldemort,” she said, speaking the name out into the night air. 

Not sure if the Taboo was still activated, Hermione repeated herself. “Voldemort!” Her voice echoed out across the lonely expanse of the beach.

Gathering up all her strength, Hermione shouted once more, screaming the name at the top of her lungs. “Voldemort!”

Nothing happened for a moment, but a sense of euphoria was bubbling up inside of her. “Voldemort! I’m here! Come and find me! Voldemort!”

Hermione could barely contain her laughter. She knew it was the laughter of a mad woman. One who had managed to hang onto the last shreds of her sanity in hiding by occluding and reminding herself everyday that she would be going into battle. This wasn’t the end for her yet—it was just the beginning.

No sooner did that thought enter her mind when she heard a whirring noise. Like lightning strikes from the sky, three Death Eaters descended upon the cottage before her, appearing with a startling green flash of light. 

On instinct, Hermione shut the door and lowered herself to the ground defensively. She didn’t know what she had been expecting—house elves? Either way, the Taboo had worked, even from the confines of a secret keeper house. 

Crawling over to the window, Hermione sat on her knees, giving herself just enough of a vantage point to watch the Death Eaters. They stalked around close to the water, one of them was casting Homenum Revelio or what she could only assume was some dark equivalent. None of them seemed interested in exploring anywhere close to the house yet. It was odd; if the cottage was not traceable, then perhaps the magic was even capable of luring them away. 

It appeared the Taboo had alerted them to her voice, but the cottage would not make her presence known.

Wanting to test her theory, Hermione took a deep breath. She stood, still gripping her wand in case it would be needed. Taking a few steps, she proceeded to make her way back to the door. 

Preparing for the worst, Hermione reached for the handle and swung the door open. The hinges creaked loudly; her heart dropped as she swore one of the Death Eaters turned around.

“Macnair, you fucking wanker!” In the distance, she could see one of the Death Eaters throw a hex at the other’s feet. “There’s no one here. Aculeo! ”

“Ow! The Dark Lord heard it! Said it’s a female. I reckon it’s the mudblood. That mudblood,” rasped Macnair.

“Well you took us to the wrong place, you arsehole! Place is deserted,” a gravelly voice complained.

“Shut the fuck up, both of you. I hear something.” The Death Eater who had turned around was now stalking towards the house.

Hermione felt a chill run through her. The hairs on her arm stood up in alarm. She knew that Death Eater by the tone of his voice alone. It was that usual clipped voice filled with so much arrogance and disdain. If the voice didn’t give him away, then Hermione recognised his demeanor. Even with the skeletal mask, black Death Eater robes, and military boots, she recognised him by that swagger–the way he walked towards her with such utter certainty even though she knew, or hoped, that she couldn’t be seen.

Draco Malfoy.

Hermione remained in the doorway, wand in hand. She didn’t dare move a muscle as he approached.

Malfoy came to half just where the shield was activated. He was only a couple inches away from her. With the flick of his wand, he began to mutter some indistinguishable spells. His voice was partly muffled under the silver mask, but Hermione could sense that he was frustrated.

In a moment of pure terror, she was convinced that Malfoy could hear her heart beating. She had not moved and the shield had not given her location away, but he knew she was there because he could hear her heart thumping against her chest.

Just then, in one quick motion, Malfoy pulled the mask off his face. Hermione nearly gasped as he stood there before her, those familiar grey eyes boring right into her own. His platinum hair was damp with sweat, as if he had been out fighting all evening. 

Malfoy’s face looked different from how she remembered it at Hogwarts so long ago now. His features looked chiseled, but somewhat hardened to a degree as if he had become accustomed to wearing a figurative mask in addition to the literal. He didn’t appear tired or distraught anymore, but just seemed…cold. Everything about his face was cruelly symmetrical; it felt wrong to stare at him this close. His skin was still pale to an unearthly degree. Hermione didn’t know if it was the illumination from moonlight, but he looked dangerously ethereal. Maybe he was a ghost and he wasn’t really there.

Hermione had the strange urge to touch him. She wanted to know if that was truly him and if it was, was he everything they said he had become? She would need to know if she had to kill him. 

Her hand reached out, but the air caught in her lungs. On the other side of the invisible barrier, Malfoy held out his hand at the exact same time. He had tried to grasp for her hair, but knew it was no use. They were like mirror images of one another.

Hermione knew she had to close the door. Her memory flitted to all the dark hexes she had practiced, but in the moment, her mind went blank. She couldn’t tear herself away from the sight of him.

Malfoy blinked. He dropped his hand at once and let out a low breath. 

“Fuck,” he whispered before stepping away. 

Hermione didn’t even realise she was panting. She still stood frozen in the open door frame. 

In the distance, she could see that Malfoy had put his Death Eater mask back on. He approached the other two Death Eaters who had been arguing closer to the sea. 

“Avery, Macnair.” Both of the Death Eaters turned to face him.

“Avada Kedavra. Avada Kedavra!” After two green flashes of light, each of their bodies dropped to the ground with a thud. 

Before Hermione could make sense of what had happened, Malfoy lowered himself to the ground and placed a hand upon the bodies of Avery and Macnair. And as instantly as they had arrived, all three Death Eaters were gone.

Chapter Text

Close the door.

Hermione refused to listen to that small voice in her head, the one that was currently scolding her for not only brazenly activating the Taboo in the first place, but for also continuing to stand slack-jawed in the open doorway.

Draco Malfoy had seen her. She was sure of it. The ghost of his presence haunted her; she could picture his platinum hair plastered to his forehead and his brows furrowed in concentration as his light eyes studied her.

As she stood behind the shield, her brain worked overtime to analyse the mystery of Malfoy’s actions. If he really did see her, then there would be only two outcomes. One, he would be coming back for her. Perhaps he realised she was there, but just didn’t have means to break beyond the shield. Maybe he would return with stronger magic or more Death Eaters. Or two, he knew she was there, but had decided to spare her. For whatever reason, Hermione was convinced it was the latter. The fact that Malfoy had so quickly killed the other two Death Eaters suggested he was trying to erase his tracks or devise some plan to conceal the fact that he had discovered her.

So if he truly did decide to spare her after she had purposely been reckless, then why did she feel so disappointed? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been afraid. Her cheeks were still flushed with what she told herself was fear; it had been incredibly foolish to draw Malfoy right to her with the Taboo. It wouldn’t matter how long she had been studying dark spells or practicing defensive magic if she insisted upon feeding herself like prey to the hunter.

All possibilities considered, Hermione reminded herself she should be thankful she wasn’t taken without getting the chance to call for the Order. She should be relieved Malfoy hadn’t decided to rape her right over the threshold of the cottage.  

But as she stood in the door frame, hand still gripping her wand, she couldn’t help but feel let down. It didn’t make any sense—she should have been embracing the close call of it all. The wisdom of her conscience reminded her that just because she despised Moody and Shacklebolt for hiding her away didn’t mean she needed to take her existence for granted. 

As Hermione’s eyes gazed out upon the dark sea and the white foam that emerged atop the rolling tides, the truth of the matter crashed over her like the heavy waves themselves: As much as she wanted to escape, she wanted to be found. She wanted to be recognised for who she was outside of being in the Prophecy, outside of being a Muggle-born, and outside of being the best friend to the Chosen One.

At the beginning of her confinement, Hermione compared her circumstances to life in a fairytale. She thought her character was misunderstood and her abilities underestimated. But now, so many months in, she began to wonder if that was even true at all.

By now, the Order knew her very well. Moody and Shacklebolt knew of her resentment towards them, her criticism of their leadership, and of her desire to help in the War. They were well aware of who she was and what she stood for. Hermione began to speculate…maybe they weren’t afraid for her as much as they were afraid of her. 

She wasn’t some innocent storybook character in need of rescuing. No, Hermione had been planning her escape for months now. She was the Lady of Shalott, doomed to experience figurative death in captivity but cursed if she should ever leave. “I am half-sick of shadows,” Tennyson’s tragic heroine had observed from her lonely tower. But Hermione was more than half-sick. The wizarding society had always operated on mystical laws that defied nature; there was a certain freedom in roaming about the magical world that made her isolation feel like she was already dying. 

And so, Hermine realised that her encounter with the other half of her Prophecy must have spurred an awakening in her. When she escaped, she would fight. If her freedom was threatened, she would fight for herself first and foremost. 

It would be a cruel twist of fate if coming face to face with Draco Malfoy would somehow bring her back to life.

Hermione’s curiosity regarding Moody and Shacklebolt’s real motive was only heightened in their subsequent visits. 

A few nights after the incident with Malfoy, Moody had arrived to check on her as usual, but he was in a particularly foul mood. She knew better than to tell him about the Taboo. If he found out, there was no doubt the safe house would be moved and security measures increased. Perhaps the Order would go so far as to seal her mouth shut.

“Yer books, Miss,” Moody groused. “I’ll be needin’ em’ back!” His hazel eye spun wildly, circling the sitting room for the Dark Magic texts and dueling guides.

Hermione placed her hands on her hips. “Why?” 

“Don’t you be askin’ why!” he said, the exasperation evident in his voice. “It’s because I said so.” Using his wand, Moody sent out several enchantments to float all the Dark Magic books into a tall stack next to him.

The amused laughter that bubbled up in her nearly caught in her throat. “But why now? I’ve had them for almost all of my time here now. Why are you taking them?” Hermione questioned, unable to hide her smirk. Moody and Shacklebolt were so dense.

“No reason now…nevermind,” Moody grunted, probably thinking that the less he told her, the better. “Kingsley was the one who insisted it was alright for you to have them in the first place fer defense purposes in the chance that, well, you know.”

“Has my location been compromised? Is that it?” Hermione asked, more so to encourage Moody to keep talking. She still doubted Malfoy would come back.

“No, nothing like that,” he insisted, shaking his head adamantly. “It’s just, you always have a question for me and to tell you the truth, yer interest in the Dark Arts is starting to alarm me.”

Hermione had of course only been asking Moody bizarre Darks Arts questions to trick him into spilling news on the War. Other than researching and attempting practice with the darker spells for her own benefit and escape plan, she couldn’t say for sure if she had a genuine interest in unsavoury magic. It just so happened to be the only magic that would get her what she wanted. She wanted to laugh at his admission, but a part of her wondered if this was how one developed an affinity for the Dark Arts…by denying there was such an affinity in the first place. 

“Interest? You know as well as Shacklebolt that I’ve wanted out of here from the beginning and that’s as far as my interest goes. You said that I could never even harness that type of magic,” Hermione reminded him.

Moody scoffed. “Your interest is what I’m afr–I know what I said!” He was becoming irritated. “Doesn’t mean I can’t take the books. You’ve had yer time to research. Maybe you learned a few tricks for the worst case scenario. But it's not healthy fer a young witch to have a thirst fer that kind of knowledge. Doesn’t matter if we’re in a war.”

“Then what,” Hermione advanced towards him, hoping her proximity and accusatory tone would throw him off guard like it did Shacklebolt, “do you suggest I do with the rest of my time here? Stare at the wall?”

“I could get you other books,” Moody shrugged. “Book for witches...romances. I could ask McGonagall for suggestions. Or Molly Weasley.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother. I don’t suppose you could trust me to help with the war efforts? We could make a bargain–you give me a job to do, and I won’t plot my escape.”

“No, no, no!” Moody exclaimed. “The circumstances are not up for negotiation now. It's for yer own good to be removed from the War, both physically and mentally.” 

“My own good, hmm,” Hermione mused. “So, Beedle the Bard. Has Ginny figured it out? It's been months.”

Moody made a motion with his wand, shrinking the stack of books into a smaller pile. He turned away, books in hand, refusing to acknowledge the question. “‘Night Miss Granger. I’ll tell Kingsley you're bored. Maybe he’ll think of something.”

Glaring as Moody apparated away, Hermione knew this game was up. Moody and Shacklebolt had taken a risk in bringing her the books, and now, they regretted it. 

Moody may be stubborn, but even he had started to slip. She heard him right. ‘Your interest is what I’m afraid of’ is what he had meant to say.

In any case, Shacklebolt was the one she had always planned to exploit. 

The next three days passed by more slowly than any Hermione remembered while in isolation. 

When she had her Dark Magic books, it had become a routine after breakfast to spend the next few hours reading about a new spell. She would then close her eyes and recite the incantation until it was ingrained in her memory. It was a retainment technique she had developed; she would not allow herself to practice the motions of the spell without knowing it first. She also went through her entire inventory of recent incantations, reciting the previous ones she had learned as well. After taking a break for lunch, she continued, having the words memorised so she could put the new spell into action. Most of the physical efforts in learning the movements of the wand and imagining she was in battle happened in the afternoon. 

After dinner, Hermione would use the remaining time until bed practicing her Occlumency. It was rather calming to look out the window; her eyes would focus on the moonlit shore. She visualised each of her thoughts being buried by the waves, imagining weight to them and how they would sink below the surface, descending into the murky depths. 

Perhaps of all the spells and magic she read about the in past six months, learning to occlude had been the most useful. If not for being able to hide her more angry, intrusive thoughts about the Order, there was no saying she might have acted even more rashly than she had the night she said the Taboo. Since she was in control of her more frustrated emotions, she was convinced she would more easily be able to manipulate Shacklebolt. 

As mercurial as Moody had been during his last visit, Shacklebolt was quite the opposite, acting sheepish in a way that raised Hermione’s suspicions. He also looked exhausted; there were deep bags under his eyes and his robes looked disheveled, as if he had been wearing them for days.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you last week,” Shacklebolt began, nodding to her, but refusing to meet her eyes. “It’s always been Moody’s insistence that any news regarding the War should be withheld from you—for safety reasons, of course. But I can’t lie to you about the deaths.”

“I see,” Hermione said shortly. She didn’t want him to feel too much satisfaction for being honest when she had no plans to accept his apology. Yet, the thought he was trying to redeem himself in her eyes was gave her a rush of adrenaline. Typical Shacklebolt; his guilt would be his undoing.

He was digging in the satchel under his arm. “I’ve brought you something,” he began. “It’s from Molly Weasley.”

Sighing, Hermione crossed her arms. She already knew this was some pathetic attempt to pacify her since her spell books had been confiscated. “I already told Moody. I’m not interested in her books.”

“No books,” he said. “I asked her about a new hobby for you and she suggested this.” 

All of a sudden, several balls of coloured yarn followed by a pair of enchanted knitting needles floated over to Hermione. Making a mental reminder to occlude, she reached for one of the skeins, grasping the green twine in her hand.

“You know, I don’t even have anything to say,” Hermione started, knowing that she had to play her cards right tonight. “I’ll just ignore ‘this’,” she said, scowling as she held up the yarn ball to him, “for now.”

Shacklebolt shrugged sympathetically. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for you. Especially since you’ve been here so long. I can imagine it’s lonely–”

“We’re in the middle of a war. Loneliness has nothing to do with it,” Hermione cut in. 

“No? Well, I suppose that’s good,” he said, cautiously lifting his eyes to judge her expression. 

Hermione’s eyes flashed right back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Shackebolt cleared his throat. “I meant it sincerely. I’m glad you’re not feeling lonely.”

She stared at him incredulously. Why did he take her to be such a naïve fool?

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disbelief, Hermione started in on him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t lonely. Merlin, how thickheaded can you and Moody be! Of course I’m lonely. I just meant that loneliness is the least of my problems. First, Moody takes my away my books and you, you pretend to apologise! Don’t even get me started on the knitting. I’m quite disgusted, thank you very much.”

Shacklebolt’s expression instantly appeared dejected. Hermione thought he could benefit from some occluding. “I wasn’t pretending. I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about all of it. It pains me every time I visit you because I fear I’ve made the wrong choices in this War. I fear it’s going to cost us all.”

Hermione raised a brow. Now she was getting somewhere. “What choices? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, trying to sound as disengaged as possible. She twirled a string of yarn around her finger. “You know I don’t approve of your methods. Our Order members are unprepared. They go into battle blind with no plan from you.”

“It’s more than that,” Shacklebolt relented. His demeanor changed swiftly, as if he realised the gravity of what he had just revealed. 

“What else then? What is it?” Hermione questioned, using the opportunity to take several steps toward him. Hoping to get him talking, she placed her hand on Shacklebolt’s arm.

“You’re probably well aware,” he said while shifting his heavy brown eyes away from her. “But again, please take this admittance as me being honest. We can’t change course now.”

Hermione snatched her hand away from the sleeve of his robe. “And why not! You’re basically admitting you made a mistake in keeping me here.”

Shacklebolt let out a low breath. “I don’t think the plan itself was ever a mistake. But your reluctance is something that’s never wavered, never faltered.”

“Of course it hasn’t!” Hermione retorted. After all this time, she was still clamouring to be heard, begging to be seen. Shackebolt was just coming around to the idea that his actions have consequences. “Why would I suddenly be at peace being hidden away here, completely useless while my former schoolmates die?”

“My fault,” Shacklebolt agreed, breathing out heavily. “And, despite my best efforts going against Moody’s wishes to appease you by agreeing to your book requests or sharing news about the casualties, I still haven’t gained your trust. Trust is even more critical than respect, I believe.”

As a means to help herself think before speaking, Hermione wound the string of yarn tighter around her index finger. She could see how the skin turned white when she cut off the circulation. 

“It is, and no, you haven’t earned my trust,” Hermione replied after a moment. “But you could work to build it,” she added matter-of-factly.

Shacklebolt’s eyes focused on her with interest. “How? I can’t bring back your books or let you go. But what else can I do?”

“You could start,” Hermione said, bringing her hand to her face, tapping her fingers against her chin to demonstrate how deeply invested she was in the conversation, “by telling me what else it is you and Moody are afraid of. Why did you take my books?”

Shacklebolt was silent as he was weighing his options internally. He had already given her too much information; Moody would no doubt be irate. 

Finally, he let out a deep breath. Swallowing audibly, he began. “I want you to be able to defend yourself in the event of an emergency, in case something happens to either one of us or Bill. I didn’t feel right about limiting your access to knowledge on the Dark Arts when learning about it could potentially help you as well as benefit our side someday in the future.”

Biting her lip, Hermione hoped she wouldn't need to press him to say more. 

But shockingly, Shacklebolt continued, shaky voice and all. “But more recently, I’ve come to realise what a grave, terrible mistake that may have been, Hermione. You’re not only growing more disillusioned and livid by the day, but you now have the skills, potentially the great ability to hurt the Order.”

Hermione could feel her skin prickle at his confession; a feeling of pure elation was bubbling up inside of her. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

“And just how would I,” she took a step toward him, keeping eye contact with him the whole time, “hurt the Order?” The question was innocent sounding enough, but there was an undercurrent of dangerous curiosity in her voice. It was purposeful.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Shacklebolt replied, his voice quieter than it needed to be.

Hermione tried to stop the corner  of her mouth from lifting into a  smirk, but it was too late. “No. I really don’t think I do,” she said, matching his tone and volume. “I think you need to elaborate.”

“For one” Shacklebolt sighed, “you could escape. That would put us all at risk if you were captured.”

“But that’s where my knowledge of dark spells and defensive magic comes into play, right?” Hermione questioned, knowing there was something else Shacklebolt was still hinting at.

He sighed. “Yes, of course. But there’s always…” he trailed off, his gaze focused downwards as he was afraid to meet Hermione’s eye. His voice drifted away as if stating the idea itself would make it come true.

“What else?” she asked, her voice lilting. Witnessing Shacklebolt squirm was quite gratifying. 

Shacklebolt began to speak through gritted teeth. “If you escape, there’s always the chance…the chance that…”

“Just say it,” Hermione hissed.

“There’s always the chance that you would choose to be with Draco Malfoy, willingly. It’s another way to read the Prophecy.”

Hermione was quiet. She didn’t protest or even flinch. She rather liked how uncomfortable her silence made him. 

Eyes blinking rapidly, Shacklebolt tried to recover. “But I know that’s ridiculous. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you want to fight for the Order. You would be out there, fighting right now if you could, helping Harry destroy the pieces of Tom Riddle’s soul…” his words flitted away again. He stood there staring at her awkwardly, like he for once wanted her to argue with him as she usually did.

“And yet,” Hermione said darkly. “Here I am.”

Letting out a tense breath, Shacklebolt still appeared to be waiting for her denial. “You would never. Malfoy is cruel. He would hurt you.”

“It’s funny,” Hermione commented, her tone acidic, “to hear you speak of cruelty.”

Shacklebolt was sweating now. He reached his hand out towards her to grip her by the elbow. “You wouldn’t,” Shacklebolt repeated, the words laced with panic now. “He’s a Death Eater...”

This time, Hermione stepped back, removing herself from his touch. Her face and voice were void of any distinguishable emotion. 

“Hermione,” Shacklebolt nearly gasped. “Please,” he pleaded with her, desperate for the slightest hint of confirmation that his theory was baseless.

But the reassurance never came. 

Instead, Hermione tossed the ball of green yarn to Shacklebolt. He caught it, clenching the fabric in his fist with a bewildered expression on his face. In the split second he was analysing her action, Hermione drew her wand from her back pocket.

“What is this? Why are–” Shacklebolt started to ask, but his stammering was cut off by the force of Hermione’s spell.

"Serpens Qui Necat!"

Suddenly, the green twine transformed before their eyes; it was unraveling, its size increasing and movement becoming characteristically serpentine…

Shacklebolt’s eyes widened in equal parts terror and fascination. A twisting, undulating giant snake began to wind itself around his body as if he were a spool.

Before he could cast a spell or make a wandless intention to end the wicked transfiguration, the snake’s coiling tightened furiously around him.

“Argh!” Shacklebolt screeched in pain, likely feeling his organs being crushed.

Standing about a foot away from him, Hermione held her wand steadily; her concentration on the spell did not cease even when he cried out for mercy.

“Hermione,” he choked, his raspy voice withering as the serpent constricted his lungs.

“I thought about casting an Imperius Curse,” Hermione said, finally addressing him. “I practiced it. But I felt like this was more appropriate. You should really know how it feels to be trapped, suffocated even. I don’t really feel like indulging in the Unforgivables...yet.”

Shacklebolt’s face remained fixed in horror. 

Continuing, Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “So, this is what’s going to happen. I will release the snake’s hold for you to remove the protective shields on Shell Cottage. If you refuse, cast another spell, or alert Moody, I will order it to squeeze the life out of you so fast you won’t even know you’re dead.”

There was a quick gasp of breath from Shacklebolt. Hermione took it as a sign of agreement, though he really wasn’t capable of responding.

“Mora Incantatem.” With the flick of her wand, the snake began to unwrap itself from Shacklebolt’s upper body.

When the snake fully uncoiled itself, Shacklebolt frantically gulped for air. His eyes looked upon Hermione with dread before he turned to face the door of the cottage. The snake stayed nearby, slithering and hissing by his feet.

“Hoc Obice Conteram … Revelare,” Shacklebolt recited the words, wandlessly unleashing an incantation. Suddenly, a silver light burst forth from the doorway; tiny sparks of magic erupted around the perimeter of the home.

Not wanting to waste a minute, Hermione raced past him. Her hand gripped the brass doorknob; when she swung the door open, she braced herself, ready to be held back by the invisible barrier, but it was nonexistent. As her feet touched the grassy, sand-covered ground, a midsummer’s breeze ruffled through her hair.

The thrill of finally being free sent goosebumps all along her skin. 

Hermione turned back to Shacklebolt. He stood still with a quiet anxiousness, almost appearing dazed inside the cottage as the serpent still circled his ankles. A feeling of triumph surged within her, and she had one last word for Shacklebolt before taking off into the night.

“One last thing,” she said calmly. “Your concern that I might willingly choose to be with Malfoy…is valid. Don’t come find me.” 

With that warning, Hermione swished her wand, causing the snake to whip its triangular head at Shacklebolt’s leg. Suddenly, it sank two venomous fangs into his flesh. His limbs spasmed a few times before his body collapsed lazily to the floor, his muscles stiff with paralysis.

Moonlight trickled down from the navy sky, illuminating the shadowy beach, providing a single spotlight for Hermione to make her escape. She hadn’t truly devised any concrete plans beyond making it out of Shell Cottage. Throughout the bleak months in captivity, her priorities had shifted dramatically. Her heart beat now with loyalty to herself.

As she hurried closer to the rocky shore, preparing to apparate away to the first place that entered her mind, something curious at the water’s edge caught her attention.

There were lines drawn in the sand.

Hesitantly, she approached, kneeling down to get a better look.

H.G.

Even though the night air was warm, she felt a shiver run through her. 

When the tide brushed up against the beach, her heart thumped. The water did not wash her initials away.

Even more unnerving, there was a strange pebble in the middle of the letters. It was almost iridescent, reminding Hermione of an abalone shell with its glossy swirls of purple and green. 

The pebble called out to her, begging to be touched.

Chapter Text

“Wingardium Leviosa.” 

Hermione enchanted the pebble to get a better look. Floating it towards her, she examined it. For as many shells and rocks that were already present at Shell Cottage shores, this stone seemed different. It stood out in a way that was purposeful.

Its surface was polished and glossy, the emerald and royal shades were attractive to the eye. It didn’t belong here.

Did he think she was stupid?

It was the only thought racing through her already overburdened mind. But it was also the only logical conclusion. Draco Malfoy thought she was naive. He left her a Portkey that would transport herself right to him. Who else could it have been? If she hadn’t already spent the last several months outsmarting the wizards who thought they owned her, she would have taken greater amusement. Like Moody and Shacklebolt, he had clearly misconstrued not only her basic intellect, but her agenda. 

Whether he ‘spared’ her or not a week ago remained to be seen. Hermione would not be transporting herself willingly into the belly of the beast tonight.

Levitating the stone into the pocket of her jeans, Hermione looked out towards the dark sea. The waves crashed heavily upon the sandy beach; the smell of salt water and fish permeated the night air. It would have been a lovely scene if not for the clenching of her heart–the panic that gripped her insides.

Shacklebolt was not dead. 

Or, he shouldn’t be dead, Hermione had thought. Despite studying the Killing Curse for months, she spontaneously opted for the dark transfiguration over the Unforgivable itself.  The poison had proved to be enough. Surely, Moody would have been alerted to the fact that Shacklebolt had not returned from the cottage. Out of all the wizards in the Order, Hermione assumed Moody would have an antidote on hand. 

Of course, Hermione’s freedom was tainted with the fact that she was now a fugitive. Her grand escape being merely an act of self-preservation, she knew she wasn’t out of the woods figuratively or literally. She didn’t want to be of assistance to Moody or Shacklebolt, but if her loyalties were truly within, she knew she needed to fight for the side of the War that respected Muggle-borns.

Therefore, without too much internal debate, Hermione walked a few steps along the shore, sensing the Apparition line. There had to have been one; Malfoy and the other Death Eaters had suddenly appeared along the water’s edge out of nowhere the other night. 

Suddenly, her eyes were averted to a tall section of beachgrass. She imagined it would be the perfect place to appear then disappear. Stepping near the giant fronds, Hermione closed her eyes. In the far corner of her memory, she recalled another body of water, this time, a rushing stream of cool water traversing along a lush riverbank.

The forest in Wales.

As her mind’s eye called the scene, Hermione could sense her external surroundings changing. A warm air circled around her body and before she knew it, she was caught up in the swirling magic of Apparition.

With a slight thud, Hermione landed near the dark but familiar riverbank in Wales. It wasn’t necessarily a meaningful location to her. In fact, its only significance was that fact that it was the last place she had stayed with Harry before she was taken off the mission.

Part of her wanted to laugh if the situation wasn’t so dire; this seemed like a misguided attempt to turn back time. It was true–Hermione didn’t have some impressive plan to invade Voldemort’s lair or go after Moody. If anything, she just needed a moment, some time to herself to regroup. When it was time, she would figure out her place in the war and use her newfound offensive and defensive magic to her advantage. But right now, Hermione just needed some time to think. It was a strange occurrence; though she had plenty of time alone with her thoughts at the cottage, they had all centered around the ‘how’ of escaping and not necessarily the ‘what’ in regards to her life post-captivity. 

Fighting for the Order had always been second nature to her, since her days in Dumbledore’s Army at least.  But more than that, she had always fought alongside her friends. Being a Muggle-born, her magical friends had been like family to her. And if anyone could understand the difficulty of being accepted into wizarding society, it was Harry. As much as she longed to be her own person, to fight and make a name for herself, it was foolish to think that she could do that without supporting him. Or at least so she thought. 

For as much as she wanted her freedom, now that it had arrived, Hermione was feeling strangely empty. If she did resume her fight for the Order, she knew it would be half-hearted. It wasn’t the cause she didn’t believe in–it was the wizards in charge.

But what other choice did she have at this point?  Would she just continue her life traipsing into the woods, hiding out like a sorceress? Maybe she could become some modern day Morgan le Fay and create potions in the woods, offering to heal Harry and the others injured in the War. And then if the timing was right, she could polyjuice herself to sneak into Death Eater headquarters for intel. Even though this was just a hypothetical thought, Hermione couldn’t imagine being more disinterested. She was not going to be some female version of Professor Snape, relishing in the role of double agent. She had no desire to play the part of Order heroine. 

For all she knew, Moody would be sending out search parties, perhaps under the claim that she was dangerous or unhinged. Perhaps Shackbolt would tell him that she indicated she would go to Malfoy willingly. In the heat of her anger, joining Malfoy by her own volition did seem preferable to being locked away by ones who thought they knew best.

As Hermione sat by the riverbank gazing up at the stars, feeling the gentle summer breeze rustle through her hair, she couldn’t help but think about the one action that might save her.

Gaining redemption in the eyes of the Order would likely be possible if she killed Draco Malfoy. 

Months ago, she had such a fire within herself, a raging passion to end him and prove the Order wrong. But now, that rage was a mere ember, dying out like the last spark in an abandoned campfire. 

Hermione told herself it had nothing to do with her recent sighting of Malfoy. It had nothing to do with the way he looked at her from the other side of the shield; the way he really seemed to see her. It had nothing to do with the fact he spared her and wrote her initials in the sand.

But it did have everything to do with her mistreatment from Moody and Shacklebolt. If they didn’t trust her initially to defend herself and fight against Malfoy, then why should she prove herself now?

Draco Malfoy may be the most dangerous Death Eater and the one referred to in the prophecy, but he was not the one who hid her away for six months. By that truth alone, he may be an enemy, but he was not the enemy , at least not in the damning way her own side had been. She felt deranged, but knowing Malfoy was alive and posed a threat to Moody and Shacklebolt made her insides flutter with glee.

Scanning the riverbank, Hermione took a moment to cast a few shields and disillusionment charms of her own. Transfiguring her jacket into a makeshift tent, she decided to settle in for the night. Without any food, blankets, or spare clothes, it wouldn’t be feasible to stay on her own for much longer. As she tried to get comfortable on the grassy earth, she came to two conclusions.

One, she would alert Harry to her presence. Being a well-trained fighter with a variety of dark spells in her arsenal by now, it would be ignorant of Harry to flat out refuse her help. She could resume the Horcrux hunt with him and help destroy the items that kept Voldemort immortal. However, she would make it abundantly clear that under no circumstances would she be taking orders from Moody or Shacklebolt. Or Lupin or Ron…or even Harry himself. Hermione would help Harry, but only if he agreed to work together with her. 

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, Hermione made up her mind that she would not set out to kill Draco Malfoy. She would fight Death Eaters in battle. She would use any spells or any means possible to defend herself from them. If Malfoy just so happened to be in the way or if he attacked her first, then yes…she would fight to kill him as she would any other Death Eater. But she would not be seeking him out on her own mission or wasting anymore of her life with that ridiculous prophecy. It was not her responsibility to prove her usefulness to the Order after they held her down for so long. Unlike the weak-minded men in her life, she had never feared the prophecy.

Hermione thought about these circumstances as she drifted off into a troublesome slumber. She didn’t care about Moody or Shacklebolt’s feelings or their reactions to her escape. As far as she was concerned, Shacklebolt had half-suspected her to do something drastic anyway. They had it coming...and if they were wise, they would leave her alone.  

As she curled up on the ground inside the dark tent, her mind was reeling with the implications of her actions. She wouldn’t soon be forgiven by the Order, but did it really matter? That ship had not only sailed, but was wrecked at sea by now.

The following morning, Hermione was jolted awake by the sounds of shrill voices coming from outside her tent. For a split second, she had forgotten where she was. She’d been so used to waking up in the loft at Shell Cottage, the reality that she was lying on the ground was startling. 

“You can’t catch me!” 

Hermione listened with apprehension. There was laughter; it was distant enough and she had cast the protection shields, but she’d rather not be caught off guard.

“Slow down, Eddie! Mum says you have to wait for me!”

Daring to lift the fabric of the tent, Hermione was relieved to see two young children running along the riverbank. A young brunette girl in pigtails was chasing after a boy who must have been her older brother. The sight of them seemed out of place, yet warmed the coldness that had settled into her heart. There was something very innocent about the sibling interaction in the midst of War. She had guessed they were Muggles only because she doubted a wizarding family would let their children roam about unattended in the woods during times like these.

After pausing a moment to make sure the children were gone, Hermione transfigured the tent back into her jacket. It had only been one night, but she already felt her stomach churning with hunger. 

When she really stopped to consider her circumstances, the dichotomy was quite alarming. In one pocket of her jeans was the Galleon, the Protean Charm which would alert Harry to her presence. As excited as she was to rejoin the Horcrux hunt, a small part of her feared retribution from Moody and Shacklebolt. What if Harry no longer trusted her? In the other pocket, however, she harbored the pebble which would likely transport her directly into certain danger. After being locked away for so long, it was a wonder to think she even had such a choice between fates to begin with. 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione reached into her pocket, pulling out the Galleon. Holding the coin in her palm and closing her fingers over it, she activated the Protean magic to spell out the message which would appear on Harry’s coin: Riverbank in Wales . She had been tempted to activate Protean Charm while at Shell Cottage, but decided against it. Ultimately, she didn’t want to make her prophecy Harry’s problem when he already had one of his own. Her escape was always going to be by her own doing. 

As the Galleon began to vibrate, Hermione stared out across the river. This part of the forest had always been so peaceful, so far removed from death and war. It had seemed like a lifetime ago since she sat near the winding water, reflecting on a new plan with Harry seeing as Ron deserted them. She would be curious to know how much progress they had made in finding and destroying the Horcruxes. After tricking Moody into giving her information, she only knew that the sword of Gryffindor was in their possession.

It was about a minute later when the outlines of Harry, Ron, and Ginny suddenly appeared at the water’s edge. As they looked around to get their bearings, Hermione couldn’t help but notice how grim and forlorn they appeared. All three of them appeared unkempt with dirty clothes and dark circles underlining their eyes; it was evident the War had taken its toll on them physically. 

“Hermione?” Harry questioned cautiously, taking a few steps towards her. 

“Harry,” Hermione greeted him in return, holding out the coin to show she had indeed activated the Protean Charm. “Ron, Ginny,” she added, nodding towards the Weasleys. They both looked shocked to see her.

“Er,” Harry began, “I have to ask. Whom did you attempt to Polyjuice into during second year when you made the potion in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?”

“Why Millicent Bulstrode, of course,” Hermione responded, a hint of a smile forming on her face. “Except her robes were full of cat hair. I was absolutely mortified, as you can recall.”

Unable to hide his relief, Harry strode forward, pulling Hermione into a tight embrace. “You have no idea how much I–we’ve missed you!”

“We’ve managed.”

Ron. Beyond Harry’s shoulder, Hermione could see the callous expression on his face. Ron’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously at her; there was a gloom present on his face much like she remembered when he had been wearing Salazar’s locket.

“Hermione,” Ginny spoke now, her tone bewildered. “It’s good to see you. But just what are you doing here?”

Stepping away from Harry, Hermione shrugged. “I always told Harry I’d be coming back to fight. Didn’t I, Harry? I never planned on staying in hiding.”

But before Harry could comment, Ron cut in. “But it wasn’t up to you. Moody and Shacklebolt put you in Shell for your safety and the safety of our entire side of the War,” he said, scowling.

“That’s one opinion,” Hermione said curtly. Ron’s attitude was already beginning to irk her. “It’s a little pathetic when they have no other War strategies though, isn’t it? Just how many of our schoolmates have died by now?”

Hermione could tell that Ron was ready to jump down her throat, but Harry held out his hand. “Please. We could go back and forth all day about what Moody and Shacklebolt could have done. What we all should have done,” he lamented. “But we have to work together now. It's the only way…” his voice trailed off. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Hermione continued. “Shackebolt let me go,” she added, glaring at Ron.

Folding his arms across his chest, he stepped towards her menacingly. “Oh, did he now? After all this time, Shacklebolt changed his mind?” Ron asked, his eyes flashing in disbelief at her. “And what role did you play in that, exactly? Because I don’t believe you.”

“What does it matter?” Hermione spat. “I never wanted to be in hiding, and Shacklebolt let me out. That’s all there is to it. I thought you’d be a little more thankful that I’m back. Riddle is not dead yet. ”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Harry stepped in again. “We are appreciative, Hermione! Speaking of Polyjuice, I couldn’t be more glad that you’re here. How many failed potions are we on now, Ginny?”

Ginny’s face flushed bright red. “Oh, I think about three, maybe four now?” She bit her lip. “We’ve tried…we just don’t have the right ingredients, maybe…”

“Polyjuice?” Hermione asked, looking at Harry. “Why do you need Polyjuice?”

“I need to sneak into Hogwarts,” Harry said, his voice suddenly quieter as if they were being spied on. “Luna gave me an idea regarding the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.”

Hermione raised a brow. “What is it? And why don’t you just sneak in using the Invisibility Cloak?”

Hermione wondered how useful Luna had been to the Order. Ever since Harris passed last year, she had heard that Luna became an unofficial groundskeeper of sorts, looking out after the creatures that Hagrid had left behind. She didn’t actually have access to the castle though. 

Harry sighed. “It’s a Horcrux. I think Riddle made a Horcrux out of something belonging to the founder of each house. And I thought about using the Cloak to sneak in. But Luna said the ghost will only talk to Ravenclaws. It would also be easier if my presence is fully altered in case the Cloak falls off. The Carrows won’t suspect a thing.”

“Elliot Bexley, fifth year Ravenclaw,” Ginny said, her voice heavy with frustration. “I have several hairs in a vial from his brother Ethan. I don’t know what we’re doing wrong. I know the potion is complex, but we have all the ingredients. I’ve already added the Fluxweed, Knotgrass, and leeches. I have stirred the Lacewings for about two weeks now.”

“You’re missing the last ingredients,” Hermione surmised. “Have you added the Boomslang skin? Have you crushed the Bicorn horn? You need will need additional Lacewings.”

Just how soon,” Harry interrupted, “do you think you could brew it? We have a copper pot. It just hasn’t worked yet.”

Harry and Ginny stood looking expectantly at Hermione. Ron was off to the side, still glowering.

“The potion could be ready in two weeks, maybe less than that. A month if we have to start over,” Hermione confirmed. “The last part is an 18 hour process.”

Without a word, Ginny reached into her satchel and with a few motions of her wand, suddenly recreated the familiar tent that Hermione had spent so much time in last year with Harry and Ron.

“Let’s have at, shall we?” Ginny said, nodding at Harry and glaring right back at Ron.

As the steam rose from the cauldron, Hermione realised she had never felt more in her element.

It had been a week and six days since she started helping with the Polyjuice. The sun had officially set; other than the sounds of a few owls and animals rustling through the woods, the quietness of night had descended upon the tent Hermione now shared with Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

She was grateful at least that Ginny had come around to her. Hermione didn’t fault her for not knowing how to brew the Polyjuice. It was a very elaborate potion; she assumed that Harry had not received clearance from the Order for his plan to sneak into Hogwarts as Ethan Bexley. If he had, then Moody himself or even Snape perhaps would have offered expertise in the matter. Knowing that Harry still had a recklessness in him to not follow the elders in the Order made her feel a strange exhilaration.

Ron had stayed mostly distant, busying himself with the Tales of Beedle the Bard, giving Hermione a sour look whenever their eyes did meet. It didn’t really bother her; he had not been kind in those last few days leading up to the point when Moody and Shacklebolt decided to send her to the cottage.

It was well past midnight when Hermione sat out by the riverbank once again, her thoughts drifting to her place in the War. She couldn’t possibly sleep until potion was ready; it would still be several hours. Although Ron was skeptical, it had appeared that Harry had not heard from Moody or Shacklebolt. They did not know of the measures she took to escape.

“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice low so as not to startle her. He took a seat next to her, stretching his legs out towards the flowing river. “I’m glad you're back, but I’m not entirely sure I believe you.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione gasped, unsure of where his accusation was leading.

Harry paused, seemingly in an effort to choose his words carefully. “I just can’t see Shacklebolt letting you leave.”

Her heart dropped several notches. “Tell me, Harry,” Hermione began, a new sense of ire lacing her words, “what would possess you to say this now? After I spent the last few weeks tending to your potion?”

“No, don’t get me wrong,” Harry insisted, swallowing nervously. “I’m not trying to start anything. You always said you would come back. And now you’re here. I just mean I haven’t talked to Shacklebolt recently. He doesn’t know about my plan. But I know how persuasive you can be.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. She couldn’t help but scoff. “Clearly, the three of you needed me.”

Harry shook his head in disappointment. “Well, we didn’t figure out Dumbledore’s clue with Beedle the Bard,” he admitted. “It’s still just as much of a mystery. But I’m making headway with the Horcruxes,” he said, an air of hopefulness in his voice.

Hermione paused for a moment, considering the information. She couldn’t help but feel frustrated. There had just been so much wasted time. 

“You didn't even let me help,” she said quietly, “while I was in hiding, I mean,” she clarified. “I would say I felt useless, but I did some research on the Dark Arts, on defensive magic. ”

“I wouldn’t have expected any less of you,” Harry said. “If you do want to study the fairytales again—”

“I can,” Hermione insisted, “but I really don’t mind being out on the front lines. I’m willing to fight…to help you in any way that’s needed.”

Harry’s green eyes widened in appreciation. “I know, and I love you for that,” he said. “So,” he said, with slight hesitation, “you’re really not afraid of Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione pursed her lips, her mind tangled with thoughts of Malfoy that she could not share with Harry. “It’s not that,” she said finally. “I suppose I just haven’t been given the opportunity to be afraid. I know prophecies can seem scary, but I’m not sure I believe in all that, to be quite honest. I really haven’t given him too much thought.”

“But that’s maybe because you were in hiding? You were safe?” Harry questioned with a quizzical stare. “I know you, though. You were never into Divination.”

“Yes, but even more so,” Hermione explained, “I really couldn’t stand to have my freedom taken away. I’d rather die. Malfoy really has nothing to do with it. I need to return to the potion now. It’ll be ready soon.”

“Alright,” Harry said, seeming to ponder her words. “Before you go, uh, I should say something,” he began, his voice starting to crack. “I kind of understand you. To be in a position that can’t be helped, to just want to accept the worst, to accept…”

Hermione stood, turning back to look at him. “What is it, Harry?” 

His posture looked defeated. Eyes drifting down, he spoke again. “It’s the Horcruxes,” he said softly. “I am one.”

There was a heavy silence between them then Hermione whispered. “Harry,” she said slowly, “do you really believe so?” But as her mind ran through the Horcruxes, the hidden items they had thought to contain Voldemort’s soul, the idea seemed very plausible. The original Killing Curse had backfired, forever linking the two together. Harry had often complained of headaches and had been plagued with terrifying dreams of Voldemort’s plans.

“The scar,” he said. “When he failed to kill me, a piece of his soul was transferred to me. The Parseltongue, the feelings of inexplicable rage, the dark visions…it’s all connected. You know what this means, Hermione.”

“Harry, no,” Hermione looked down at him. She needed to attend to the potion brewing in the tent, but her heart was breaking for her best friend. “There has to be another way, there–”

“I have to die,” Harry said resolutely even though his voice was still a mere whisper. “I don’t like thinking about it, but he needs to be stopped once and for all. I’ve come to terms with it. Once all the other Horcruxes are destroyed, I will be ready. He can finally be destroyed for good.”

Hermione shook her head in forlorn agreement. Turning back towards the tent, she halted, not looking at Harry. “Does Ginny know?”

“No…not yet,” Harry said.

“You should tell her.” 

Hermione headed back into the tent to stir the Polyjuice. Ron was asleep in an armchair while Ginny was fast asleep on a cot. In the center of the tent, the potion was bubbling; bright green swirls of smoke were rising from the cauldron. The potion was almost complete. Thanks to Hermione, Harry would have his opportunity to sneak into Hogwarts to kill another piece of Voldemort.

It was dark thought to know that each Horcrux Harry destroyed would only be bringing him closer to his own demise.

The following afternoon, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were concealed by a Disillusionment Charm just on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Harry had entered Hogwarts under the appearance of Ethan Bexley several hours ago. Luna, who was hiding out on the edge of the west courtyard, was alerted to his arrival by a Protean Charm; she had instructed the real Bexley to hide out in Ravenclaw Tower while she and Harry tracked the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw. 

As they waited with a nervous tension, the summer heat was stifling. They stood, sheltered from the oppressive sun in the shadows of the tall pines, waiting for Harry to emerge any moment with Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem.  

Suddenly, in the distance, she could make out the outline of someone running from the castle. Sparks of red and green could be seen illuminated against the backdrop of Hogwarts.

“I told you he should have taken his broom,” Hermione scowled at Ron. “Come on, let’s go.”

But Ron reached for her arm. “Wait, Hermione,” he gasped. “Let’s not reveal ourselves yet. It looks like he’ll make it…”

“Let me go! I’m not leaving him alone,” Hermione pulled away from his grasp. “Ginny?” 

With a determined nod, Ginny followed Hermione up the stone path to the castle. 

“Fine,” Hermione said plainly to Ron. “You wait here for Harry. Disapparate immediately. We’ll meet you back in Wales.”

Several feet away, they could see Harry was dueling with both Carrows. In his arm, he was carrying an antique crown adorned with several royal blue jewels. As he fired off a myriad of spells, Harry appeared to be holding his own. However, the Polyjuice was beginning to fade; Harry’s trademark scar and jet black hair were returning in full force.

“This isn’t good,” Ginny huffed as she raced towards the scene. “The Death Eaters will be called any minute now.”

“I can stop them,” Hermione insisted, her brain scanning through the Dark Magic she had read about for months.

Approaching the battle with a reckless lack of fear, Hermione shouted to Harry. “Run! We’ll take care of them,” she waved her wand, indicating she was about to cast a spell on the Carrows.

In the midst of dodging a curse, Harry caught Hermione’s eye. He blinked in recognition and then continued to race down the hill towards the forest. 

“Bombarda! ” Ginny fired the Explosion Charm, creating a smoke of confusion for the Carrows.

“Alert the Dark Lord,” Alecto hissed. Through the hazy smog, Hermione could observe that Amycus was pointing his wand to his forearm.

Closing her eyes, Hermione concentrated her full intentions on the control of Amycus. He would not be summoning a mass of Death Eaters to Hogwarts. “ Imperio! ” she screamed, aiming the Unforgivable right at him.

For a moment, it looked like Amycus was about to continue the calling the magic of his Dark Mark. But his eyes were suddenly growing dim; an emptiness replaced his previous gaze of malevolent intent. 

“Amycus! What is taking you so long? The boy has escaped!” Alecto shot a furious glance of annoyance at her brother before turning her attention towards Ginny and Hermione. “Well, if it isn’t the Chosen One’s little girlfriends. Have you both come to return to Hogwarts? I’d love to welcome you back–”

“Dentes Bestia! ” 

Without warning, Amycus fired the spell at his sister; the dark curse causing the fiery outline of a beast to stalk towards her. 

“No, no, what are you—” 

But she was suddenly without words as the spell came to life. The outline gave way to scales, to a reptilian, half-man, half-dragon creature. Its carnivorous teeth flashed, the sharpness of the fangs glimmered the light of the sun before it decided to hunt Alecto like prey. 

“No, no!” she protested, running away as her brother gleefully operated the curse. 

“Oblivate !... Oblivate!” Hermione shot the spells towards the pair, hoping to free herself from suspicion and muddle their minds from the incident even further.

“Let’s go, Ginny,” she said. 

Wordlessly, Ginny agreed with a shake of her head. She stood there studying Hermione with a terrified yet awestruck expression.

Hermione was back in Wales, hiding out once again with Harry, Ron, and Ginny at the familiar riverbank. Earlier that evening, Ginny had taken the honors, slicing through the diadem with the sword of Gryffindor. Of course, Harry’s mission had been successful mainly due to Hermione’s involvement. It was some time later in the night when she finally felt relaxed enough to shut her eyes. Curling into a blanket on the cot, her body went completely limp with exhaustion. She had used every part of her magical essence in the last day and a half, staying up all night to brew the Polyjuice and then exerting herself to cast the Imperius Curse on Amycus. 

She had always heard that the Unforgivables were damaging to the soul–that the darkness required of them would eventually eat away at a wizard’s mental and physical well being. But it was difficult for Hermione to assess the immediate effects when she hadn’t felt well in a long time. She had been trapped physically for so long at Shell Cottage; perhaps now she was just now remembering what it was like to operate off her own whims. Casting the Imperius on Amycus felt oddly freeing in a dangerous sort of way.

“Expelliarmus! ” 

Rattled from her state of partial sleep, Hermione’s eyes focused in the darkness, narrowing in on Ron hovering above her. In his hands, he held the vine wood wand with the heartstring core…her wand.

“Ron!” She suddenly shot up, aiming to retrieve it from him, but another spell was fired her way.

“Vinculum.”

Hermione’s body was bound to the cot. A panic suddenly seised her; her body was unable to move. Internally, she tried to draw up her magic, but even the pulsing vibrations of energy that normally could have resulted in a wandless spell seemed to be frozen.

Eyes widening in shock, Hermione could see Ginny and Harry approaching just behind Ron.

“We hate to do this,” Ginny started. “Believe me, we couldn’t have retrieved the diadem without you today, but…”

“What!” Hermione almost shouted. “Give me my wand. I need my wand!”

Ron advanced towards her, leaning down with a disgusted look in his eyes. “Moody informed us…you hurt Shacklebolt. You lied to us.”

Hermione blinked as if trying to even remember. The attack on Shacklebolt had been pushed back far in her mind. But even she knew that she didn’t purposely attempt to kill him, even though she somewhat wanted to.

“I had to escape,” she stammered. “You knew that. Life at Shell was killing me. They were killing me, and they didn’t even care–” 

“How selfish can you be, Hermione?” Ron questioned, not bothering to hide fury in his tone. “You just need to be the heroine, isn’t that right? Look at you today, using an Imperius. That’s what this is about.”

Feeling the heat in her bloodstream rise, Hermione fought back. “No,” she snarled. “You have the audacity to blame me when I’m the only reason Harry was successful today? You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never agreed with Moody or Shacklebolt’s choice to hide me away and you know it.”

Ron scoffed. “Doesn’t mean you had to try and kill him. He’s so weak…the wizard can barely eat or drink. He’s ill. What did you do?”

Harry sighed deeply, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “Ron, just let me–”

“No!” Ron spat. “I want to know what she did. I knew it. I didn’t believe her for a second when she said Shacklebolt let her go.”

But now Ginny inserted herself into the tense argument again. “Hermione, please try to understand. This is only for a few months longer. We’ll take you to the Burrow. Then we’ll find a new hiding place. Hopefully Shacklebolt will be alright–”

“No!” Hermione gasped. “You don’t understand. None of you understand. I fought everyday to make my escape and it finally happened. I’m not going back. I want to fight with you.”

“Hermione–” Harry implored, but Hermione wasn’t moved by his desperate plea. She wasn’t even listening. It was like a rush of water had suddenly filled her ears. The incessant voices, the demanding of others who thought they knew best for her–she was so repulsed by it all by now that her senses purposely muted it. She could see Ron’s face reddening in anger. He was most likely harping about her use of Dark Magic and the fragile state of Shacklebolt. Ginny, on the other hand, looked torn. Hermione knew she had appreciated the help with the mission; she was only lying to herself if she thought Hermione would be better off in hiding. And when Hermione’s eyes drifted to Harry, she couldn’t help but notice it was there. It was so subtle, but there it was... a certain despondency. It was the look of someone who knew that soon enough, none of this would matter.

So without giving it a second thought, Hermione ignored the pleading voices. Struggling against the magical restraints, her heart suddenly felt lighter when she realised her hand could reach into the pocket of her jeans.

Hermione would not be going to the Burrow. She would not agree to being held captive once more in a house hidden by a Fidelius Charm. She would, however, be throwing all caution to the wind, going wherever this Portkey was meant to take her.

Gripping the cold, smooth purple and green pebble in her palm, Hermione waited. She could feel a magic being called and imagined herself being swept away any moment. Even if she had to fight and face Voldemort, anything seemed preferable to the betrayal, the dismissal she was receiving from her supposed friends.

But Hermione was never transported anywhere.

Instead, Draco Malfoy himself, dressed in his full Death Eater regalia, materialised nearly on top of her.

Chapter Text

She knew it was him.

Maybe it was the memorable glint of the dark, malevolent eyes on the silver skeleton mask, but Hermione knew the Death Eater hovering mere inches from her on the cot was Malfoy. She had seen him in his Death Eater apparel only a few weeks prior; this particular mask in addition to the heavy hooded cloak and onyx chest plate were startlingly familiar. 

It was also not the first time Hermione had seen those buckled dragonhide boots, one of which was currently digging into her shin. Normally, in any other situation, she would have cried out in pain from the weight of it. Although she was restrained by Ron’s spell, her voice still worked. But she was so shocked, so taken aback by Malfoy’s arrival, she couldn’t bring herself to even utter a gasp. Her mind was spinning as she still grasped the pebble in her hand; it must have been some type of reverse Portkey. No matter, she was now face-to-mask with the very Death Eater of the prophecy which had caused her so much strife in the first place.

Time appeared to pass in slow motion. Hermione didn’t even think to look at Harry, Ron, or Ginny. Instead, her eyes were locked on Malfoy’s reflective mask. It was unnerving, the way she could just see the outline of her blurred form staring back at her. He then turned his head ever so quickly, stealing a single glance behind him before returning his focus to her. She expected Malfoy to recoil and to curse her. Or even worse, she flinched internally, thinking that he very well could just grab her and apparate away with her in this bound, wandless state. 

But Hermione was not prepared, not in the least bit, for Malfoy to lean in even closer to her. His gloved hands suddenly pressed down on her thighs while the cool metal of his Death Eater mask grazed her cheek. Her heart lurched from his touch, this increased proximity. She could smell him, she realised, as the spicy juniper and pine scent of his cologne invaded her senses.

“I thought you’d be alone,” Malfoy whispered, the low tone of his voice coming out more like a growl from behind the mask.

Before she could even think to say something in reply, their contact was broken by a rapid spell fired by Harry.

“Relashio!”

Red sparks and the heat of the Revulsion Jinx briefly overwhelmed her vision, but she could hear the resounding shouts and subsequent crackles of magic erupting in front of her.

Malfoy, having been forced back by the incantation, was already on his feet, engaged in a battle against Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

“Expulso! ” 

The fiery blue flames burst forth from Malfoy’s wand, flying Harry backwards, his body crashing into the far back corner of the tent.

“Bombar –” Ron had attempted to direct the blast at Malfoy, but the Death Eater was faster.

“Incarcerous.”

Ron’s movements were suddenly restricted; he fought unsteadily in a desperate attempt to not fall to the ground. His efforts became futile when the wispy chains of the curse circled around his body like a snake.

“Ginny!” He cried out, losing his balance, his body dropping to the ground.

For a moment, Ginny looked torn, deciding whether to check on Harry or remove the curse from Ron, when Malfoy fired another spell her way.

“Deprimo!” 

The earth below them suddenly began to crack, sending Ginny reeling, but she managed to counter with a spell aimed at Malfoy before falling.

“Confringo!”

The orange flare shot forth from her wand as the grassy earth continued to split, the little furniture and belongings drowning in a sea of flames as the tent was now set ablaze.

The fire halted Malfoy's attempts only slightly as his boots and cloak must have been charmed to be inflammable. Hermione could observe that he was stalking towards Harry who was now back on his feet. Even with the few cuts and bruises on his face, Harry’s eyes were narrowed with determination as he raised his wand.

“Aculeo! ”

“Morsus! ”

“Sectumsempr –”

As Harry and Malfoy dueled one another, the vibrations and blasts of increasingly dangerous magic could be felt throughout the now charred tent.

Hermione’s body had already tumbled from the cot; for minutes that seemed to stretch into eternity, she feared her only choice was to observe the fight like a captive spectator about to be swallowed by the residual flames when suddenly she felt herself regain muscle movement. 

“Finite Incantatem! ”

Ron’s voice sounded strangled in the midst of the explosions. Before Hermione could look to see if Ginny had freed him, her wand was sent hurling through the air to her.

“Hermione, here!” Ginny screamed, tossing the wand before turning her back to join the fight with Harry.

Ron was standing again too, aiming the bright white flash of light at Malfoy.

“Stupef –”

The spell was useless now, as Malfoy had waved an impenetrable shield around himself while he now had Harry right where he wanted him.

“Bombarda! ”

“Impedimenta !”

“Confringo– ”

“Depluso –”

Hermione braced herself, rising to her feet in the ashes of the smoky destruction around her. Gripping her vine wood wand, feeling its magical pulse once again between her fingers, she carefully sidestepped the wide craters in the ground as she raced towards the raging battle.

“Hermione!” 

She could hear the desperate cry from Harry as he continued to dodge the onslaught of sparks and explosions fired his way. It was apparent that Malfoy did not have any trouble defending himself against three separate attacks; in fact, his wand remained steady as he shot curse after curse. For every hex that was fired, Malfoy advanced closer, the flames of his magic threatening to enclose around Harry, either in a move to severely maim or capture him. For their combined efforts, Ron and Ginny did not seem to be any match when it came to hurtling offensive spells.

The ease at which he delivered the blows made Hermione stop to consider. Why hadn’t Malfoy killed them already? She knew he most likely wanted to keep Harry alive for Voldemort, but what about Ron and Ginny? Surely, he could have ended them by now. But it appeared he was purposely drawing out the battle, waiting for something.

Waiting for something.

As the bangs and sparks of the confrontation rolled through the air like a thunder and lightning storm, Hermione knew she was reaching a great divide. For long enough, she had been held down. The loyalties she once felt towards Harry and Ron were akin to the last embers in a dying fire. She didn’t remember what it was like to not be in constant defense of her own attitudes and abilities. While her heart longed to support Harry and his greater purpose which related to her own in the War, she would not be a martyr to any misguided beliefs and rationale that stemmed from fear and a lack of faith. If it was not for her summoning Malfoy with the pebble earlier, she would have been bound to the cot, transferred against her will to some other safe house without a wand for the rest of the year.

Hermione stood at the edge of the battle, the bursts of sparks and coloured lights scattering the sky.

“Reducto! ”

The blast from the Reductor knocked Ron off his feet as Ginny and Harry continued to defend themselves, aiming hexes at Malfoy.

“Hermione! Help!”

The plea this time had come from Ron who was crawling helplessly around on the ground, trying to regain his footing while avoiding nearby the blasts. But in Hermione’s newly freed state, his call for help sounded hollow; it did not awaken a sense of urgency within her. Had she not just been pleading for her own release, perhaps there would have been more validity, more weight to his request.

“I wish I was sorry,” Hermione mouthed the words, knowing Ron would not hear her anyway. The midst of the fight did not exactly lend itself as a time for serious conversation. It didn’t matter; her actions would make her true intentions known.

Without pause, without any inner debate, Hermione made her choice. She may have been running right into the path of ruin, but she didn’t care; her feet carried her away from her friends, across the lines to the enemy who was awaiting her.

He was waiting for her.

It wasn’t overtly obvious, with the Death Eater mask concealing any hint of an expression, but as Hermione approached Malfoy, she thought she noticed the slight tilt of his head. Although he was still actively firing curses at the trio, including one that had now caused what looked like shards of glass to rain down upon them, he didn’t make a motion to direct his wand towards her.

“Hermione, help us!”

“Curse him! What are you waiting for!”

“What are you doing!”

“Kill him, Hermione!”

“Obscura Lux.”

Their cries were drowned out by an eruption of a strange kind of magic; there was a deafening alarm of what sounded like a siren followed by the a cold tremor of what could only be Dark Magic.

Malfoy’s spell had plunged their surroundings into pitch blackness. But even in this heavy blanket of dark energy, Hermione could see that his Death Eater mask was illuminated; those soulless skeletal eyes were glowing in the dark, calling out to her, urging her to him.

With every step she took forward, a new feeling began to bubble up inside of her; it was one she had not felt in a long time, perhaps since the first time she realised she could do magic. It was a feeling of utter possibility and ultimate control.

Hermione hadn’t been aware of it due to the darkness, but Malfoy was reaching his hand out to her. As soon as she was within his grasp, he took hold of her, spinning her body around so that her back was pressed flush against him. Despite the heat from the battle, his body felt like ice against hers; she knew it was the physical effect of whatever dark curse he had harnessed. Keeping one gloved hand on her waist, his other gripped her wrist, guiding her to hold up her wand, pointing it out into the dark void. 

Distantly, Hermione knew there were shouts of confusion and panic from across the way, but she found herself unmoved and unconcerned by the voices as if they were nothing more than the haunting cries of ghosts from her past. She could only think about the now, the nearness of Malfoy’s body and how he was moving her wand hand in a familiar pattern…a movement she had studied and practiced countless times on her own.

Embracing the reality of the spell, knowing deep down she could do it, Hermione took a deep breath and then recited the curse.

“ Crucio! ”

A red wave of light shot forth from her wand, the force of it so intense it nearly threatened to take her with it. But as magnetic as the magic was, Malfoy’s grip was stronger. His hold around her middle tightened, and she could feel herself let go of the tension as his fingers clasped around hers, aiming the wand to a precise spot in the darkness.

“That’s it,” he said, his breath tickling her ear as he guided her to direct the curse. The low tremor of his voice from behind the mask sent a shiver through her body. “I’ve got you.”

All of a sudden, a piercing howl cut through the blackness ahead, shaking Hermione to her core.

Ron.

She didn’t know what was worse. The way the shrillness of his scream sounded like that of a wounded animal or the subsequent shrieks of terror from Ginny and Harry, knowing the mental anguish they were subjected to in having to witness the torture of a brother and best friend. 

“No, no! Stop! Stop it!”

“Ron!”

“Expelliarmus! –”

“Stupefy! ”

Harry and Ginny’s spells were useless in the thick cover of dark magic that still permeated the air, their sparks fading out immediately into indistinguishable little wisps.

“Ginny, the Portkey–now!”

For all of the time Hermione spent studying the Cruciatus Curse at Shell Cottage, nothing could have prepared her for this moment, being on the other side of the wand which caused another such excruciating pain; she could only imagine it felt like the tendons of Ron’s muscles were being ripped apart, each sinew being stripped away until the ache settled so deep in the bones that the hurt was no longer possible to endure.

Her resolve on the curse remained as steady as Malfoy’s firm grip on her hand. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, but she could have also sworn that his other hand on her waist was tracing small patterns, his fingers gently rubbing against the fabric of her shirt. 

If it hadn’t been for the darkness, she wondered if she would have gone through with it. If she could see the look on Ron’s face, would she still be here, taking comfort in how Malfoy was helping her through the spell?

The very question caused her to tremble; she did not break the spell, but internally, the sudden reminder of this intimacy made her insides tingle with an unidentifiable emotion. There was something very personal about allowing another witch or wizard to direct one’s magic, let alone share in the experience of casting a damning Unforgivable. Despite the way her mind was reeling at the fact her moral compass had been irreversibly shattered, her body had somehow relaxed into Malfoy. She felt safe in his arms; it was as if he helped share the burden of this terrible power she was wielding.

Perhaps that was why she didn’t even question, didn't even hesitate when Malfoy’s hand forcibly lowered her wrist, only to adjust her position again, this time tracing the outline of the deadliest incantation, the movement of the one curse she had envisioned herself using all those months in captivity, when she had been left alone for so long with nothing to do but seethe and develop an insatiable lust for revenge.

“Avada Kedavra– ”

The green light exploded from her wand with a vigor and intensity unlike anything she had ever known. Although the flash was blinding, the energy brought forward by the burst penetrated the air with a tangible darkness, as if every negative thought she had ever manifested was suddenly released out into the wild. All of her ill-will and all of her unadulterated hatred for those that had wronged her had been bottled up for so long. But now this malice had been unleashed, set free to do as it pleased. She was sure that the reverberation of the Unforgivable alone was enough to destroy any living thing within the vicinity.

“Shit.” Malfoy had suddenly dropped her wand hand, but his hold around her waist remained.

Their targets were gone.

Harry and Ginny had vanished; Hermione had imagined they must have used the transition between the Crucio and the Avada as the opportune time to grab hold of Ron’s body and escape.

Her heart suddenly lurched with dread, partly in guilt for what she had done and could have done, but more at the realisation that she was now alone with the other half from her Prophecy, the one wizard whose life she had vowed to end if they ever came into contact.

As if he could sense this subtle shift in her feelings, Malfoy leaned in close, the cold touch of his mask against her neck giving her goosebumps.

“So Granger, we meet again,” he drawled, his tone laced with quiet viciousness. “What will it be? Are you going to kill me? Or,” Malfoy continued, his grip around her waist tightening and his voice lowering, “am I going to fuck you?”

“Expulso! ”

The blue fire shot out her wand with a bang, the mini-explosion enough to free her from Malfoy’s grasp.

But the Death Eater had not been forced far enough away. He was still mere feet from her, sauntering towards her this time with his wand aimed right in her direction.

“Incarcero–”

“Confringo!”

Hermione fired another blast at Malfoy in an effort to deter him, as she was well aware of the fact he would only be stopped by something stronger. She needed a dangerous spell, something from her catalogue of Dark Magic, the ones she had prepared herself to use in warfare and in dueling. 

She needed to cast another Killing Curse.

But as Hermione dodged the hot sparks he sent her away, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he caught her. She recalled casting the serpent curse on Shacklebolt only days ago and the way in which it left her body feeling depleted. Now, while her will to fight was strong, the Crucio and Avada resulted in her being physically drained, incapable of rendering the magic needed to keep him at bay. She hadn’t anticipated these consequences.

Had Malfoy done this on purpose? Lured her into casting Unforgivables with him so he could take her without a fight? But then again, he hadn’t done much to entice her…she had gone to him, willingly.

It was the exhaustion, she told herself. Otherwise, she would have surely tried to kill him now.

“Bombard–! ”

The last fragments of explosive magic were emitted from Hermione’s wand in a disappointing fizzle. She was completely winded; the air had been knocked from her lungs and each gasping breath she took was met with sharp resistance. She stood there, doubled over, hands pressed to her knees, trying to regain the strength to at least run if she couldn’t fight.

But Malfoy had already approached; the dark shadow of his presence loomed over her. When Hermione looked at him, she could see his chest was heaving also.

For the first time that evening, he removed his Death Eater mask. His normally pale face was flushed pink from the exertion of the battle. While the angles of Malfoy’s cheekbones and jaw were harsh, the cut of the lines giving way to an expression of cruelty, there was a fleeting look of surprise which settled over his eyes. Those grey eyes, which had always appeared shockingly light, gave him a look of innocence despite the fact he was cold-blooded. 

“Just as I thought,” he said breathily, running a hand through his blonde locks, which were damp with perspiration. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Granger. I’m assuming it was your first time.”

“...What?” Hermione squeaked, trying to get her voice to cooperate but finding it difficult, overwhelmed by what he could possibly be implying.

“ Expelliarmus.” 

Malfoy took hold of her wand, inserting it into a loop on his belt buckle. Her heart clenched and her throat felt tight as she realised with horror that he was taking his cloak off.

This was it. It’s how the Prophecy would unfold. She was without a wand, and he would have his way with her.

But he didn’t remove any more clothing. Instead, Malfoy tossed his Death Eater cape over top of her. Her sight obscured, Hermione nearly lost her footing, stumbling from the sheer weight of it.

“Don’t speak, and don’t take this off,” he ordered, placing his hand firmly on her elbow.

With a dizzying tug, Hermione was whisked forward into the swirls of apparation. She could feel her body spinning next to Malfoy as they were transported away through time and space.

Landing with an abrupt thud, Hermione still felt the tight squeeze on her arm from Malfoy, who was now pulling her along with him in a hurried motion.  Having no idea where they were headed, she was only consignant of the fact that the air of the summer night felt considerably cooler away from the aftermath of the battle.

Trying her best to look down at her feet and observe her surroundings from under the thick cloak, Hermione guessed they were trudging along a gravel walkway. They walked for a moment before she was aware of a stream of light cascading across the ground; she and Malfoy entered through what must have been a tall arched doorway.

Their footsteps clacked across a white marble foyer. Malfoy had started to drag her along with him up the first few steps of a grand staircase when a throaty voice called out behind them.

“You missed the revel again,” the male croaked. 

Malfoy stopped them dead in their tracks. His grasp on her arm tightened with an unbelievable pressure; she was sure he would give her a bruise. 

“I was on a mission,” Malfoy replied darkly. Hermione couldn’t see anything, but she knew he was irritated. 

The other voice, presumably a fellow Death Eater, chuckled. “Back with another conquest? That kind of mission?”

“Fuck off, Dolohov.”

Malfoy suddenly resumed their journey up the steps, not caring that Hermione was nearly tripping, struggling not to fall over her own feet which were entangled in the cloak. When they had reached the top, Malfoy continued leading them a few paces more until he suddenly stopped outside of a door.

Hermione could hear him muttering a wandless spell. The hinges of the door creaked open and Malfoy thrust them both inside, the door slamming violently of its own accord behind them.

When he yanked the cloak off of her, she felt oddly exposed. Her hands grasped around her middle awkwardly. Hermione’s eyes adjusted to the dimness; there were no lights on, but the features of a bed, dresser, fireplace, and small sitting area with a bookcase were illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through a tall window. He had brought her to his manor; he was keeping her in his room. Malfoy was going to rape her. She folded her arms across her chest, already running through possible scenarios of escape; it seemed that was what she did best.

Malfoy was still holding his Death Eater mask in one hand. The pupils of his eyes seemed to dilate as he stood there studying her.

Hermione thought he was about to say something when he turned, pointing his wand above the doorframe.

With several flicks, Malfoy enacted a set of charms on the door; the red lines emitted from his wand like laser vines, creeping up and around the perimeters of the door and the surrounding walls of the bedroom.

When he was finished, Hermione could see from his outline in the dark that he looked defeated. His shoulders slumped slightly and he brought his hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. She could hear him cursing under his breath.

“The pebble,” Hermione spoke finally, hoping her voice wouldn’t give away all of the uncertainty and trepidation that was currently coursing through her. “Why did you leave it for me?”

Malfoy was silent for a minute before taking several steps back to her. Even in the semi-darkness, she observed the way his eyes glittered when he addressed her.

“I left it there,” he started, his body closing in on her, “so that I’d know when you left your safe house.”

Hermione nodded, feeling herself release a breath she didn’t know she was holding. There was something about being so close to him that unsettled her.

There was a heavy quietness between them again. Internally, Hermione was trying to ignore the after effects of the Unforgivables. She felt nauseous and every muscle in her body ached as the darkness swept through her system, the sickness setting in.

“I planned to kill you first.”

Hermione's eyes flashed wide at his admission, her body flinching and feet stepping back automatically.

But Malfoy only advanced towards her. This time, his hand settled upon her neck, his gloved fingers effectively reaching for her chin, directing her to meet his icy gaze.

“Let’s get two things straight, Granger,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “You’re not going to kill me, and I’m not going to rape you.” His eyes narrowed in on her, flickering over her body with apparent disgust. “Not if I don’t have to.”

She didn't even have time to gather the nerve for a reply because Malfoy had already turned from her abruptly, stalking out of his room. 

Hermione was left alone. 

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t know how much time had passed. Judging by the moonlight that streamed into the bedroom through the openings in the velvet curtains, she assumed it had to be the dead of night, sometime well after midnight.

She sat curled up in one of the rigid Victorian-style armchairs, knowing her body was probably too contorted to fall asleep. In any case, Hermione’s dabbling in the Unforgivables had left her feeling unbearably cold; what she really longed for was a steamy bath. Other than a brief check for hidden unlocked doors and secret passages, she didn’t dare explore Malfoy’s room or bathroom yet, not knowing if he had set up traps or enchanted objects which would curse her.

It felt like he had been gone for hours and that very likely was so. Malfoy’s disappearance wasn’t concerning. As it was, the fact she was currently being held hostage in his room wasn’t all that shocking to her either. With nothing but time to explore her thoughts, Hermione tried to review the past evening’s events. 

If the pebble had originally worked the way Hermione intended it to, as a regular portkey, then she had very well been prepared to face this circumstance anyway. She had been desperate and ready to avoid being imprisoned once more by the Order at all costs. Although her muscles tensed when she recalled Crucioing Ron, the memory of him confiscating her wand and placing a locking curse on her body still made her blood boil. 

Even worse, neither Harry nor Ginny were willing to come to her defense. The disloyalty she had felt in that moment was haunting her like a forlorn ghost. It was one thing to have Moody and Shacklebolt be against her all those months, but to face the same treatment from her ‘friends,’ those who were supposed to have her back, after she helped them steal a Horcrux no less, was crushing.

The feeling reminded her of a twisted version of the poem “A Poison Tree” by William Blake.

I was angry with my foe; 
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my friends: 
I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears: 
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night. 
Till it bore an apple bright. 
And my friends beheld it shine,
And they knew that it was mine. 

And into my garden stole, 
When the night had veild the pole; 
In the morning glad I see; 
My friends outstretched beneath the tree.

Taking Malfoy’s side in the battle hadn’t been something Hermione intended to do. But she just couldn’t suppress her wrath any longer. Prior to this War, she had always assumed that old relationships faded away gradually, perhaps dying slow deaths due to physical or emotional distance. But any flame of respect she had for Ron, Harry, and Ginny was snuffed out so quickly it made her head hurt. 

Hermione had no doubt that Moody and Shacklebolt had worse plans in store for her. She refused to resort to their actions of cowardice, to be a pawn in their weak scheme all over again. 

So why wasn’t she harbouring those same ill feelings now towards Malfoy? He had basically just done the same, used her for help in battle then stole her wand, and placed her in a captive state. When she had her wand, however, though she had been exhausted, she could have aimed to kill him, but she didn’t. 

Why was he different?

Malfoy admitted he wanted to end her. In his words, he had left the pebble so he would be aware she left Shell Cottage. He had ‘planned’ to kill her, but he didn’t.

Maybe he would have Avada-ed her if she would have summoned him alone on the beach. Yet, it also didn’t seem like Malfoy wanted to rape her either. As she sat there shivering in the chair, Hermione realised it was odd to not have the same loathing for her enemy that she had for the leaders of the Order and her former friends. 

Malfoy was, after all, her childhood nemesis and likely extremely prejudiced and bigoted to have so eagerly climbed to the top of Voldemort’s ranks. He was a murderer; she didn’t know his exact kill count, but figured it must have been the highest according to the Prophecy alone. As one of the youngest Death Eaters, he probably was responsible for hundreds of deaths ranging from those fighting for the Order to unsuspecting, innocent Muggles; he likely even killed sentient creatures like the centaurs.

She did hate him for who he was, what he stood for, and what he did, but just so happened to hate the others more right now. Malfoy was her foe, but the way in which she detested him lacked the certain fiery rage she was supposed to have.

Hermione wondered if being in this close of quarters with him would stir up the feelings of contempt she needed to in order to kill him. At the same time, she doubted her desire to fight with the Order would be renewed.

It seemed the battle had awakened something else entirely in her.

Hermione hadn’t even realised she had dozed off. Feeling as if she was being watched, her eyelids gradually flickered open to reveal herself slumped in the chair. In her fatigued state, her neck was tilted forward, all of the blood rushing to the forefront of her head. 

She felt a tapping at her leg; when she looked down, she was startled to see a little elf holding out an antique silver tray to her. Hermione glanced briefly at the contents; there was some toast, jam, berries, and juice. But her eyes focused back to the house elf and its intense gaze. By the look of the threadbare pink sack the elf was wearing, it appeared to be female. 

“What’s your name?” Hermione asked softly, reaching out to take the platter from the elf. 

But she did not respond. Instead, the tiny elf shook her head rapidly, tugging on the fabric of Hermione’s jeans in a motion indicating she wanted her to follow. She skipped ahead several steps until she was standing in front of the bathroom. Turning back towards Hermione, the elf nudged her head in the direction of the door.

Hermione rose from the chair, placing the breakfast tray on the seat. The elf pulled at her dress, and then pointed to the bathroom.

Quirking an eyebrow, Hermione studied the elf. “What’s wrong?” she asked, not sure what the elf was trying to communicate. “Do you want to take a bath?”

But the elf shook her head vigorously again, this time making an effort to point at Hermione and then the door.

“Oh,” Hermione started, thinking she finally understood. “You want me to take a bath?”

Giving off a relieved smile, the elf nodded dramatically. 

Taking a peek inside the bathroom, Hermione was taken aback by the sheer size and luxuriousness of it, everything either decorated in gold and marble. Neatly folded on the edge of a tall claw foot soaking tub was a stack of soft, white towels. On the counter of the double sink were some toiletries and various bottles of multi-colored liquids, presumably different bath soaps. In the far corner was an enclosed stone glass shower with a wall of different nozzles and showerheads. Beyond that, there was another door which most likely hid the toilet.

Hermione let out a short breath. She would inevitably need to use the loo and her entire body felt grimy, covered in smog and dirt from the battle. But as good as the hot water would feel washing over her aching body, she couldn’t help but feel guilty, like she was letting herself down. If she used Malfoy’s bathroom and ate the food he provided for her, it was like she was resigning herself to this fate; she would be admitting personal defeat. 

“I don’t have any clean clothes,” Hermione told the elf. “I’m not washing myself and putting these on again,” she explained matter-of-factly, holding out the edge of her tattered t-shirt.

The elf’s round eyes widened in understanding and she scampered over towards the wardrobe, opening one side of it. As the elf was only a few feet tall, she grasped the skirt of a long gown and corner of a robe, proudly holding them out so Hermione could see.

“Those are for me?” Hermione stammered, not bothering to hide both feelings of curiosity and disgust in her voice. Had Malfoy been planning to kill her or had he been planning for her to stay here? Which was it?

The elf nodded enthusiastically once again.

Hermione smiled weakly, not only annoyed at the fact Malfoy had left her clothes, but apparently left the elf with instructions to inform her of this while not permitting the poor creature to speak.

“Er, thank you,” Hermione replied, knowing the elf couldn’t help her circumstances. “I appreciate you bringing me the food. Do you know when Malfoy is coming back? I’m afraid your Master has my wand.”

At this question, the elf folded her little arms tight across her chest in a look of outright disapproval. She huffed in frustration and then brought a hand to her mouth, as if she wanted to explain but couldn’t. 

“Alright,” Hermione said quietly. “Just thought I’d ask. You don’t suppose you could get me out of here? Maybe apparate me to just outside the manor?”

As expected, the elf started to shake her head so furiously, her long bat-like ears whipped to and fro across her face. Before Hermione could ask any further daring questions, the house-elf snapped her fingers and vanished. 

Hermione glanced wearily at the door to the bathroom and then at the small tray of breakfast that the elf had delivered. She was starving and hadn’t bathed since she left the cottage. But with the reality of being restricted to a small space, the flashbacks of having to rely on Moody and Shacklebolt for food and supplies were coming back in full force, making her feel uneasy. 

She had to remind herself that despite the many months spent feeling hopeless at Shell Cottage, she was ultimately successful in gaining her freedom. Hermione had simply outsmarted both Moody and Shacklebolt at various points, eventually using her deviance to turn on Shacklebolt when he least expected her to. She supposed all things considered, she was just in a different type of prison now. 

Hermione could do it again. She would just need to outwit Malfoy. 

Studying the room, Hermione started to run through her options. She could either sit in her own misery and silent protest by refusing the food and the use of that glorious bathroom, or she could take full advantage of both, knowing that maintaining her health and physical condition was of the utmost importance. Staying strong would give her a better chance at getting her wand back and escaping from Malfoy. Perhaps she could even kill him if the desire was there.

Hermione scolded herself again internally when she realised the idea passed through her head like an afterthought when it should have been her main goal. If she killed Malfoy, all her problems would be solved. She would not only be released from this current confinement, but the expectations placed on her by the Order. They would no longer need to lock her up ever again; the Prophecy would no longer be valid. She would just need to escape other Death Eaters and then she could resume the fight with Harry. Voldemort’s demise would be imminent; she would be the heroine much to Ron’s dismay.

Except that wasn’t what Hermione wanted. She did want her wand back. She did want her freedom. But when it came to anything else regarding this War, she was detached, at an impasse…she didn’t desire to do anything that would give the Order an edge, not after what they did to her. 

Hermione sighed audibly even though no one could hear her. The more she dwelled on it, she knew this disinterest in killing Malfoy was related to her disinterest in the War. The Prophecy had never been her concern. She didn’t want to kill Malfoy any more than she wanted to help the Order.

It didn’t mean she cared for Malfoy’s life.

But thinking back to last night, Hermione felt a chill run through her. 

“That’s it…I’ve got you.”

Visualising the memory, she could still feel the vibration of his voice and the tickle of his breath against her ear, his words just audible enough through his mask for her to hear. What’s more, her heart clenched when she remembered the way he had held her, the way his fingers ruffled the thin material of her shirt, lightly drawing circles on her skin.

Hermione swallowed. Why was he like that? She tried to shake the question from her mind. She had imagined it; it could have just been the adrenaline, the shock of coming to terms with the fact she had joined Malfoy instead of helping her friends. There was nothing sensual about the moment. So then why was her stomach fluttering at the recollection of it?

In an attempt to get a grip on reality, Hermione blamed the lightness in her stomach on her hunger. She likely was suffering from low blood sugar; if she had food in her system, the ridiculous thoughts and flutters would go away. It was just more proof that her best course of action would be to take care of herself so that she could survive. She could thwart whatever plans Malfoy had for keeping her in his room and get her wand back.

When she escaped this time, however, she was unsure of what she’d do. Living life as an enchantress in the woods wasn’t sounding so bad afterall.

Without hesitation, Hermione grabbed the piece of the toast from the breakfast tray. It wasn’t until the bread was halfway down her throat when she nearly choked, realising how foolish she was. 

What if Malfoy had poisoned the food?

Coughing it up and spitting onto the plate, Hermione examined the breakfast more closely. She didn’t have any magical methods for scanning the tray. If anything was laced with poison, it probably was the orange juice. Bringing the glass to the edge of her nose, Hermione didn’t see or smell anything odd, but then again, the poison would likely be undetectable.

If Malfoy wanted to kill her, it would have been so simple for him to have done it yesterday, rather than sneak her into his manor. She thought back to the time at Shell Cottage when she had watched him murder those other two Death Eaters. Wandless and weakened from casting the Cruciatus, Hermione had let herself become vulnerable. Malfoy could have easily killed her and made it even look like an accident. Instead, he went through the trouble of covering her with his cloak, concealing her as he dragged her into the manor.

Resuming her eating, Hermione thought back to the interaction in the foyer, pondering if the home was some type of Death Eater headquarters. Malfoy had been admonished for missing a revel. She had once heard Snape had returned from Malfoy Manor, but assumed that Death Eaters would be clever enough to not all congregate in one central place. 

Did Malfoy have plans to take her to Voldemort? Was he planning to use her as bait to lure Harry in?

As Hermione finished the breakfast, she thought about how unlikely those possibilities were. If Malfoy seemed adamant about not raping her, he would not inform Voldemort that he had her in his grasp. Likewise, Malfoy had to have known that Harry and Ron would not be coming to her rescue…not after yesterday. At least she assumed so.

There was so much she didn’t know about Malfoy’s motives. In the case of the Order, Hermione knew they kept her hidden away out of fear. They had claimed it was for her protection, but she always knew better. Eventually, Moody and Shackebolt were right to have grown afraid of her.

If Hermione did plan on manipulating Malfoy, she would need to understand his reasons for keeping her here. But he hadn’t said much to her and even ordered his elf not to speak. She assumed that was purposeful. It seemed unlikely he would want to protect her; for his benefit, she would have thought quite the opposite.

Making her way over to the open wardrobe, Hermione grimaced when she looked at the dresses that had been left for her. They each looked like something out of another century, featuring built-in bodices with the long laces that would need to be tied. The stiff material would no doubt be uncomfortable; there would be no need for any undergarment. Ironically, if she was planning on becoming the next Morgan le Fay, the style would be perfect.

Hermione wanted to take a bath, but wasn’t interested in wearing the medieval frocks, no doubt Pureblood witch attire. Even though they were frayed from battle, there was a certain comfort in being able to wear her jeans and t-shirt again, as not to lose herself, her identity as a Muggle-born. In all of her years at Hogwarts, Hermione didn’t think she had ever once seen Malfoy wear casual clothes. Even if she were to snoop through his drawers and side of the wardrobe, which she already intended to do, she doubted she’d find anything less than a dress shirt…not that she wanted to wear his clothes anyway.

If she had her wand, she could repair the holes and cleanse everything at once. Unfortunately, her only option would be to soak her shirt, jeans, bra, and underwear in the tub, hoping they would be dry by the time Malfoy came back. Hermione had no idea what time it was. She figured the elf would probably return for lunch and then dinner.

Knowing that she had nothing else to do in the meantime, she headed into the bathroom to clean herself. She decided on washing her clothes first and then draining and refilling the tub so she could take a bath. As she stripped herself, the pebble, which she had forgotten about, came tumbling out of the pocket of her jeans. Eying it cautiously, Hermione decided she did not want to pick it up off the floor. Malfoy could return when he wanted; she didn’t want to accidentally touch the pebble and let him think that she needed him.

Studying her bare appearance in the mirror, she noticed for the first time several superficial cuts and scrapes along her chest and arms. There was one gash across her lower abdomen; Hermione remembered receiving the injury early in the battle yesterday when the tent had collapsed. She wasn’t aware she had been bleeding, however. Letting out a frustrated breath, Hermione longed for her wand, knowing she could easily repair the skin with a simple spell.

Sinking into the warm, lavender bubbles, she flinched when the warm water hit the wound on her stomach. But soon, the sting faded away, and Hermione was only aware of the soreness and tension easing away from every part of her. She wallowed in the suds for what must have been hours until the coldness from casting the Cruciatus Curse disappeared and the heaviness of her thoughts seemed to lighten. 

She didn’t know if it was pathetic or typical, but being betrayed by her friends after being isolated at Shell Cottage for so long had left her with a barrage of internal dialogue. Hermione was so used to being the one to reassure herself; for once, she wondered what it would really be like to have someone there for her.  Someone who could really listen to her. Someone with an equal mindset, who could respect her levels of ambition and not feel threatened by them.

She wasn’t usually the kind to feel sorry for herself, but there was a lack of…something in her life. And for the first time, the awareness of this lack, this admittance of her loneliness, pulled at her heart.

That evening, Hermione sat once again in the ornate armchair, her body wrapped in several fluffy towels as she waited for her clothes hanging in the shower to dry. 

The elf must have come and gone for lunch, as a cold bowl of soup was left nearby. When the house-elf reappeared suddenly for dinner, the tiny creature nearly dropped the tray when she took in Hermione’s appearance, perhaps worried that she caught her at an indecent time.

“Don’t mind me,” Hermione commented, trying not to laugh as the elf handed her the food with outstretched arms, her head forced to the side in apparent mortification.

As Hermione nibbled at the pot roast, she pondered what Malfoy had told the elf about her. She assumed he had to return tonight; he had been gone since before the sun had even risen. While she didn’t really want him to see her in the towels, there was also a part of her that didn’t particularly care. Her clothes weren’t dry and his options were abysmal. 

Feeling cramped in the chair, Hermione’s eyes drifted towards Malfoy’s bed. For someone that had left her with food, clothing, towels, and permission to use the bath, it was strange he wouldn’t have at least conjured her a bed or left her with her own blanket at the very least. It was one thing if he walked in on her half-dressed in the chair, but quite another if she looked like she was waiting for him naked in his bed…

Hermione tried to erase the thought. Again, if she had her wand, she could created a makeshift bed and it would be a non-issue. 

Instead, after brushing her teeth and using her fingers to try and tame her wild, newly washed curls, Hermione settled into the wooden chair again, this time stretching out her feet to rest on the chair opposite. 

Before she knew it, she had drifted off into a fitful sleep. While her body was cramped on the chair, her brain was working overtime, conjuring up dark dreams of dead bodies and familiar faces.

Malfoy still didn’t return the following day.

Or the day after that.

During the third day, Hermione was beginning to feel anxious, like perhaps she needed to rework her plan. Maybe she would need to trick the elf into talking in order to retrieve her wand. As much as she didn’t want to, Hermione envisioned threatening the elf. But the very idea of it made her cringe; the poor girl seemed so innocent. She was only following orders to begin with.

Hermione’s clothes had at least dried, so she didn’t have to worry about Malfoy seeing her in the towels, but at the same time, if he was gone any longer, she would need to repeat the process all over again. Not that she was sweaty or had exerted herself in the least, but having one pair of knickers was getting old.

Where was Malfoy?

In between the meals from the elf, Hermione spent plenty of time analysing her surroundings in the bedroom. Malfoy had not given her much to work with. In addition to the wards on the door to the room and the door that led to a balcony, she had discovered that his desk drawer and the side of his wardrobe were also inaccessible. There were also several cabinets in his bathroom that were locked as well.

The only items of interest she had come across were some old magical pictures, ones that had been fastened to the underside of his desk. There were a few moving images of him as a boy with Lucius and Narcissa, capturing memories from holidays at the manor and outdoor pictures at a pond. Hermione only had negative recollections of Lucius from Diagon Alley, the Quidditch World Cup, and the Department of Mysteries where his personality alone was quite revolting; it was no wonder his son had also become a loyal Death Eater. Hermione believed Narcissa to be just another haughty Pureblood housewife until she had referred to her as “scum” in Madam Malkins before sixth year. The witch radiated cruelty as well.

There was something about looking at the past Draco Malfoy that brought out a range of emotions in Hermione. She remembered that younger version of him quite well, the slicked blonde hair, round face, pointy chin, and playful eyes. He looked mischievous back then, but in a way that was harmless. 

There was no denying the fact he had been adorable as a child. But even now, the photos irked her as she recalled that impish grin he’d give when spouting talk of Pureblood superiority. It was the same face that had called her a Mudblood. Yet, Hermione found it difficult to reconcile who he was in the past with who he had become. When exactly did he go from tossing insults to becoming a full fledged monster?

Hermione dwelled on that question as she tried to settle into the chair for the third night in a row. She feared the crick in her neck was starting to become permanent. Of course, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t have had the decency to tell her where he was going or how long he’d be gone. He clearly wanted her alive for now, providing for her health and hygiene, but didn’t leave his elf with a reminder to grant her permission to use his bed. Maybe he didn’t want her to get too comfortable.

Permission.

Since when did Hermione need permission? The wild idea floated into her mind. Her only reservation about avoiding the bed was the fear that Malfoy would return and find her waiting for him. But she wouldn’t be waiting for him. Not in that sort of way at least.

Dropping all her reservations, Hermione rose from the chair and walked the few paces over to the four poster bed. As she pulled back the covers, she felt relieved to not have to stay in the chair for the night. At the same time, there was nervous energy buzzing throughout her insides. It was undeniably intimate, crawling into Malfoy’s bed, making herself cozy in the place where he slept. She vaguely wondered what side of the bed he slept on when another thought entered her brain.

What if Malfoy wasn’t coming back? What if he lived somewhere else, and had only brought her to this room because he knew he could ward the walls and no one would think to find her?

An undercurrent of anger pulsed through Hermione as she considered the idea. If this was true, she knew that he’d still have to return sometime soon. Even if Harry and Ron would not come rescue her, they would probably inform the Order about the battle. Word would have to get out to the Death Eaters that Hermione was with Malfoy…

She tried not to think about all of the confusing questions and scenarios. Closing her eyes as she rested her head against Malfoy’s pillow, Hermione also tried not to concern herself with the fact that the bed smelled like him, that cologne or body wash with hints of bergamot and pine. The realisation that it was far from unpleasant was incredibly bothersome. He might as well have been all over her.

Eventually, Hermione let the frustration and uncertainty subside. Her body was feeling light, relaxed in the bed. Forgetting her qualms, Hermione fell into a deep sleep, the first since she had arrived at the manor; her body stretched out comfortably, limbs wrapped in the softness of the blankets. For the time being, there were no disturbing dreams or dizzying thoughts that consumed her. She slept so soundly, it was almost as if she had taken a dreamless sleep potion.

Perhaps that was why she didn’t even hear the crack of apparition.

She didn’t even feel the shift of the mattress or the pull of the covers. She didn’t sense the weight of a body hovering close on the bed.

She wasn't aware of the cold stream of water that washed over her consciousness as she slept, the fact someone was in her head.

Hermione was asleep until she was roused by the soft brush of fingertips trailing across her stomach. Her skin prickled at the touch, the goosebumps forming ever so slightly as her mind awakened.

Her eyes flitted open to the sight of Draco Malfoy sitting before her, his knees bearing down into her thighs much the same way they were when she first activated the pebble. Except this time, he wasn’t wearing his Death Eater mask. 

In the moonlight, she could just make out the way his platinum hair hung lazily across his forehead; his grey eyes seemed to be narrowed in concentration. One of his hands gripped her torn t-shirt, while his other hand held his wand. Hermione was about to gasp in alarm, but she was distracted by a bright spark of warm light in the near darkness. 

Carefully, Malfoy directed the light from his wand to the flesh across her middle. 

She didn’t have to be able to see to know what he was doing. There was a small vibration, a tickling sensation as she realised the slash on her stomach was slowly disappearing. New skin formed at the edges of the old; as the wound healed and closed, her skin felt hot and itchy until she didn’t feel anything at all.

Hermione wanted to speak. A breathy reply of “thank you,” was on the tip of her tongue, but she was too overwhelmed by his audacity, too unsure of his next actions to say anything at all. Instead, her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him on top of her again, her gaze half-fearful, half awestruck.

Malfoy’s own eyes flashed at her in recognition. He seemed to be studying her too, possibly assessing her reaction to his presence. In the thin rays of moonlight that cascaded into the bedroom from the floor-to-ceiling windows, Malfoy’s skin looked extra pale, almost otherworldly. Even though his face held none of the boyishness Hermione had come across in the old pictures, there was still a small trace of that playfulness, just a hint of it in his expression that made the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw look less threatening and more attractive. When the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, it was all the more apparent.

As much as Hermione didn’t want to admit it to herself, Draco Malfoy was handsome. 

And in the dim night light, as he stared down at her, his blonde hair glowing in the dark and his eyes filled with something like curiosity, or maybe lust, she thought of how he was more than that. He was beautiful, even.

Her heart thudded at the observation.

Suddenly, the beat of her heart quickened as she was startled by an abrupt movement from his body. Keeping one hand pressed to her bare stomach, his other arm was now near her head, and he was leaning forward, until there was little space left between their bodies.

Hermione could feel her cheeks flush, partly in embarrassment, but mainly in anticipation of something she did not think she wanted, but now desperately needed.

His lips were suddenly very close to hers. She was attuned to his proximity, relishing in the heat of his body; she thought she could feel his heart pounding against hers too.

Her eyelashes fluttered once against his brows before she closed her eyes; she could feel the cool trickle of his breath against her chin as he exhaled.

But when their lips did not meet, Hermione blinked her eyes open with caution. She had returned to reality, awakened not from sleep, but from a forbidden fantasy.

Draco Malfoy was still dangerously close to her.

“Did you think I was going to kiss you?” he asked, giving her a devilish grin.

Chapter Text

The outline of his conceited smirk catapulted her back to her senses.

“What?” Hermione stammered.  Her voice was caught in her throat and while her cheeks were flaming red, she wanted to claim no responsibility for that momentary lapse in judgment. “No, of course not,” she managed to say dully, trying to sound back in control of herself.

Malfoy let out a low chuckle. But instead of backing away, he still loomed over her, eyes glittering with amusement. He was quiet for a moment before he responded.

“Did you want to kiss me?” he asked, his voice lilting again.

At this, Hermione’s heart nearly stopped. 

He knew what he was doing. If it wasn’t the teasing questions, then it was the nearness of his body, this disarming effect he had on her. Was it all because she had mentally confirmed his attractiveness? He certainly didn’t need to be a Legilimens to understand her reactions.

“No!” she exclaimed, this time sitting up with such a force, causing Malfoy to tumble off of her. Hermione glared at him as she pulled the covers close, bringing her knees up for protection.

“If you haven’t noticed, you’re the one invading my personal space,” she spat. 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re in my bed,” he replied casually. 

Hermione could feel the indignation pulsing through her. This had been her exact concern. Of course Malfoy had returned the one night she decided to sleep where he sleeps. 

“So?” she challenged, giving him a pointed look. “That doesn’t give you the right! That doesn’t give you the right to...to…” 

It didn’t happen very often, but Hermione was at a loss for words. She didn’t want to encourage Malfoy, to let him think he was onto something. Despite the fluttering in her stomach, she definitely did not want to kiss him now.

“The right to heal you?” Malfoy offered, returning her accusatory stare with a snide look of his own. “You’re welcome, Granger.”

Granger.

The way he drawled her name only increased her adrenaline. Hermione had no idea if her heart was pounding out of anger or some other intense emotion that shall not be named. In any case, he was making her blood boil.

Malfoy gave her a sneer and then turned from the bed, undoubtedly heading to his wardrobe. With one hand, he unbuttoned his billowing cloak, tugging it free from his body and draping it over his arm.

She had the urge to look away, but her eyes were glued to his back. He was still wearing the same Death Eater apparel. Silver-plated armor was fastened to his chest; the rest of his body was covered in what looked like uniform battle gear. Besides being taller and more lithe than she remembered, Malfoy was also quite muscular. She could see the definitions of his muscles through the tight fabric of his long-sleeved shirt and fitted trousers.

Hermione froze. Malfoy wasn’t going to undress in front of her…was he?

Since he had returned, her only focus had been defending her reactions to his impulsiveness, not letting him think he had any effect on her. She had not expected to be in close quarters with him so suddenly tonight. In the far corner of her mind, Hermione vaguely recalled some promise she made earlier to herself to manipulate him.

Just because Malfoy looked good in black didn’t mean the plan was off. She didn’t exactly know how she was going to deceive him, but if she remained a passive object of his amusement, she would never be able to get her freedom back.

And that was what she wanted…her freedom.

In a silent rage, Hermione rolled off the bed and stood there, hands on her hips, fuming at Malfoy. If he thought he had some type of hold on her, he was mistaken. She could play this game, too.

As he opened the wardrobe to hang his cloak, Hermione spotted what she had been looking for. Even though his back was turned, she observed he still had her wand tucked into a holster on his thigh.

Like a cat stalking its prey, she inched towards him stealthily, hoping to catch him off guard. Taking a deep breath, knowing this was her chance, Hermione steeled her nerves and approached him. 

Before he could notice her, Hermione wrapped both her arms around him from behind. In a swift movement, she darted her hand towards his leg in an attempt to grab her wand.

But Malfoy’s reflexes were unmatched. Without even turning to look, one of his hands clamped down on her wrist so firmly, he was the one now holding her tightly to his torso.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, mudblood?” he growled, his fingers gripping at her skin painfully. 

Hermione’s heart rate skyrocketed as she could feel him breathing heavily. She had no reaction to his slur because the only thing she could focus on was the heat radiating from his body. She knew she had to get away from him before it was too late…before he could hurt her, or worse. While one side of her body was forcibly pinned to him, her other hand was still touching his chest as if this were some type of twisted embrace.

“You’ve given me no choice!” she huffed. “Let me go! And give me my wand.” Even though she was no match for his strength, Hermione pushed against him, but it only made him grab her harder.

Malfoy let out a coarse laugh. “I’ve given you no choice? So it's my fault you left your precious safe house?”

“No!” Hermione snarled. “But you’re keeping me here. You’ve kidnapped me! If you don’t want to…to kill me or–” she paused, unable to speak about the Prophecy, “you know, then let me go!”

Malfoy was quiet. All of a sudden, he dropped Hermione’s hand, reeling around to face her. The motion caused her to stumble back, unprepared for the loss of contact. He stood there staring at her and just as Hermione thought he was going to back away, he stepped even closer.

“You think I still want to kill you?” he asked. As Malfoy towered over her, his voice was now soft and venomous, but it was nothing compared to the darkness that flashed over his sterling eyes. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. She couldn’t exactly read his expression, but assumed he was trying to unnerve her again on purpose. “I do,” she replied coolly. “You didn’t have to heal me. You don’t have to let me use your bathroom and bring me food. Maybe this is all some sort of sick plan to gain my trust and turn on me.”

At these words, Malfoy’s lips curled into a smirk. “You thought I poisoned you,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“Yes, I–” Hermione nearly gasped. How did he know? Unless…she recalled hearing from Snape that Malfoy was skilled in Legilimency. He had been in her mind, probably when she was asleep. She had absolutely no Occlumency walls intact then, not when she had dozed off into such a sedated slumber. Somehow, she was more worried about what he found in regards to her thoughts about him rather than anything else. But he certainly bore witness to her disdain for the Order, her fallout with Ron and Harry among other things…

She held his gaze, determined not to display her frustration towards him. “Well, then what’s stopping you, Malfoy? I’m sure you’d rather kill me than keep me alive. I’m sure it’d be better than the alternative, than…” 

Again, Hermione could feel the hotness rise in her cheeks. She couldn’t just speak what was really on the tip of her tongue. While she wasn’t completely innocent, it just wasn’t in her vocabulary to be deviant.

But Malfoy caught on instantly. This time, he leaned down close to her, bringing a hand to reach for one of her curls. He studied her once more in a way that revealed his curiosity…or was it fascination? She tried not to flinch as he wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger.

“Than fuck a baby into you, a little half-breed?” he asked, the revolting question sounding like a playful whisper. 

Hermione’s eyes widened, taking in his arrogant and taunting expression. She jumped back, not caring how it hurt to have her hair pulled; she was determined to distance herself from him.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she snapped. “You knew that’s what I meant! No need to be crude.”

As if they were not just in the middle of a battle of verbal threats, Malfoy returned to his wardrobe, straightening the cloak and reaching for what looked like other clothes. 

He seemed to be ignoring her until he closed the cabinet door. Clothes in hand, he was heading towards her again. 

Hermione braced herself as he brushed past her roughly. He paused, and then turned back to speak.

“If this is what you wanted,” he began, suggestively lowering one hand below his waist, then pointing to her wand in the holster, “then all you had to do was ask nicely.”

Unexpectedly, he thrust the gnarled vine wood into Hermione’s hand. It had been a few days, but the moment it was back in her grasp, she could feel her own magic thrum in her veins, that familiar sensation of power and  limitless possibility having returned. 

Speechless, Hermione held her wand defensively, almost prepared for him to trick and disarm her. She still didn’t want to entertain Malfoy by letting him think that she had suddenly been ensnared by his mind games.

Taking note of her guarded reaction, Malfoy gave her a sly smile. “Although, just a fair word of caution. I will not be responsible for what happens when you make it past those wards. I’ve already given you an out. I promised I wouldn’t rape you. But if you get captured again…” This time, he was the one to trail off. Running a hand through his disheveled blonde locks, Malfoy sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t be gentle.” His eyes flashed at her, a wave of cruelness descending upon his face.

Hermione’s hand gripped her wand fiercely as a new panic caused her heart to nearly throb out of her chest. “I could still kill you, you know,” she murmured, trying not to dwell on his warning. “Or you could still try to kill me. That would still solve our problem.”

“Our problem.” Malfoy winced as he repeated her words, shaking his head in disbelief as if to suggest she had misread him all along. “You don’t want to kill me, Granger,” he said plainly. “And I don’t want to kill you. For one, it’s too late, but also, if I killed you, I’d never find out what you’re capable of.” 

Raising an eyebrow to her, Malfoy turned away, walking towards his bathroom. “I’m going to shower. I’d be absolutely gutted if you’re gone by the time I’m done.” Despite his choice of words, his tone was dripping with sarcasm. Without waiting to see her response, he headed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Hearing the water turn on, Hermione raced towards the main double door entrance to the room. She didn’t want to waste a minute, not because she didn’t think she could escape at a later time, but because she wanted to be free of Malfoy.

She needed to be free of him.

If I killed you, I’d never find out what you’re capable of.

His words echoed deep in her ears like some sort of dark lullaby or mystical enchantment. Everything he had done up to his point was either in an attempt to insult her, seduce her, and now, even worse, intrigue her. His very presence was maddening; she should have been repulsed by the words that came out of his mouth, not to mention his very purposeful lack of regard for her personal space.

But she wasn’t.

Hermione closed her eyes in frustration. Malfoy’s aristocratic face and mocking words were replaying over and over in her mind, like some Muggle movie she watched too many times. Even worse, she could still feel that small tingle within her when he held her wrist down, her body trapped against the warmth of his own. She willed the imagery to leave her brain so she could concentrate on the wards. 

It was one thing to be betrayed by her friends, by those she had once trusted, but it was another thing entirely to be betrayed by her own self. 

“Specialis Revelio.”

“Alohomora Celatum.”

“Absconditum Mysterium.”

“Fores Revelio Sanguis.”

After each incantation, Hermione turned the knobs uselessly, but they did not budge. All around her, the air still felt heavy with anti-apparition measures swirling about and protective wards circling the doors and walls.

She supposed they were blood wards. If so, it wouldn’t be impossible for her to escape, but she would probably need some more time. She would need to research, need a sample of Malfoy’s blood to undo them…

I’ve already given you an out. I promised I wouldn’t rape you. 

What exactly did he mean? Hermione could still hear his condescending tone; she could still picture the way he sneered at her. In a moment of frustration, Hermione released her wand, letting it fall to the floor.

Had she forgotten that she had no formal plan? Yes, she longed for her freedom; her pride and self-respect would not let her be anyone’s captive, anyone’s pawn, or anyone’s sex slave all because of some War in which her participation was rejected because it hinged on some pathetic Prophecy.

If Malfoy wasn’t going to rape her, wouldn’t that be enough…for now? In an even stranger turn of events, he had given her her wand back. If she needed to protect herself, she’d have the ability. 

After all, biding her time and staying with him would still be a choice. Her choice . It didn’t have to mean she was choosing Malfoy; she would just be delaying her eventual departure. It wouldn’t mean she was betraying herself. 

Besides, if she had to admit it, there was something rather thrilling and quite  satisfactory about making the Order wonder about her motives and whereabouts. 

For all they knew, she was joining Malfoy willingly, as Shacklebolt had so nervously predicted. Hermione couldn’t help but scowl, recalling his incessant stammering and fearful accusations. For a brief moment, she wondered about his health–Ron had mentioned he was ill from the Serpentine Curse. 

As much as she’d hate to admit it, and would not be admitting it to his face, Malfoy was right. She had more to lose if she tried to leave now. Not only would she have to fight Death Eaters and risk being taken to Voldemort, who would likely force Malfoy to rape her, but even if she did escape, she’d have to confront the Order, which would be another battle in and of itself.

Picking up her wand, Hermione turned away from the doors and strode back into the center of the room. She supposed she could either see her fate as a hopeless, no-win situation or she could change her perspective and take matters into her own hands.

The War wouldn’t last forever.

Perhaps she could just stay undetected with Malfoy, as long as he didn’t hurt her, until the tide had shifted hopefully in the direction of Voldemort’s defeat. If she couldn’t, or rather didn’t want to, fight with the Order, then her only choice would be to hold out hope for something more for herself in the future…wouldn’t it?

But the outlook was bleak and the future was unknown, especially with how inept the Order was. It all seemed so pointless, all the fighting and mass casualties when Voldemort’s demise was tied to Harry and the Horcruxes.  

It was likely that Voldemort would sooner find out she was ‘captured’ by Malfoy than he would die an early death in this War.

As capable and clever of a witch Hermione had proven herself to be, she couldn’t control everything. She couldn’t change anyone’s perception of herself, revise anyone’s poor war strategies…she couldn’t help the fact that she was a Muggle-born.

What she could do, however, is take charge of her current circumstances. Hermione could start by taming these wild urges, these impulses that only flared when Malfoy was infuriatingly close. If he could leave her well enough alone and she could fight the battles within herself, then maybe she stood a good chance at surviving the War, too. At the very least, it would be a cruel summer with him.

Just then, as if Malfoy was privy to her inner dialogue, Hermione heard the water turn off. 

Her eyes flitted briefly to the bed before landing on the Victorian chair which she despised. Unfortunately, her previous attempt to steal her wand from him by being the one to get too close and invade his personal space, backfired immensely. 

It was their own personal war of wills. If Malfoy knew she was beguiled by his presence, he would continue to use that to his advantage. If he couldn’t irritate her or make false attempts to seduce her, then he really held no power. She would need to show him that she didn’t care.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione sulked to the far side of the bed this time. Not willing to part with her wand, she transfigured her own holster to her jeans, so that she could sleep knowing it was safe and sound.

Crawling into the bed, she pulled the sheets up high to conceal her whole body minus her head. Positioned towards the windows and hidden by the silky blankets, Hermione wouldn’t even need to look at Malfoy, if he even cared to join her in the bed.

Join her in the bed.

They would be sharing a bed.

As the bathroom door creaked open, Hermione forced the realisation from her mind. 

Maybe Malfoy would leave her again. Perhaps he’d only returned to shower and check on her. He was really living somewhere else and had a witch waiting on him. He wouldn’t want to share his bed with a filthy Mudblood anyway–

But no matter the scenarios she hoped for, Hermione was suddenly very aware of the sound of bare footsteps followed by the unmistakable feel of the mattress moving from the other side of the bed.

Now would be the opportune time to engage in that Occlumency she had spent so many months practicing. She could do it; she could ignore him. 

She would not turn, no matter how much her heart thudded, to face him. She was not wondering what he looked like with slightly damp hair or what he wore to sleep.

“Granger.”

Hermione flinched at the sound of her name from his lips. Malfoy’s voice was smooth and gravelly; he didn’t at all sound irritated or teasing this time. Still, she would ignore; she could pretend she was asleep–

“Granger, look at me.”

How was it possible his voice at once caused her heart to slide all the way into the pit of her stomach, yet increased her pulse by an extra hundred beats per minute? There was an easy, magical solution—she could cast a Silencing Charm—

“I know you’re not sleeping.”

“What!” she hissed. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Annoyed by her own failed attempts at avoidance, Hermione sat up quickly; as she whipped her body around to look at him, her frizzy curls casted wild shadows upon the walls in the darkness.

At the sight of her roused, Malfoy’s eyes seemed to glitter in the dim lighting of the bedroom. He was laying on his side, one hand underneath the pillow; a contemplative look was upon his face.

As Hermione had imagined, his freshly washed hair was neatly plastered to his forehead. His features looked more relaxed, his expression less intimidating when he wasn’t wearing the Death Eater gear. She couldn’t see too much, as most of his body was hidden under the covers too, but he seemed to be wearing a soft black t-shirt.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave,” he said, the tone of his voice less harsh than earlier. 

Relaxing back onto the bed, but facing Malfoy this time, Hermione exhaled sharply. She was weary, far from being trusting of his behavior. 

“It’s not like I didn’t try,” she admitted, “I couldn’t get past the wards.”

Malfoy’s silver eyes narrowed with curiosity as he studied her. “You didn’t let that stop you before.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened again, knowing he must have been referring to Shell Cottage. She had wondered how much he knew—what kind of glimpse he took into her memories just before. It was then when the gravity of what he could know truly dawned on her; he might know of her moral failings, her deviation from the light side, and the way her conniving-self had cursed Shacklebolt, forcing him to let her go. Maybe he was also aware she planned to use similar tactics on him.

“No,” she said breathily, not wanting to give him more information than necessary. “You’re right. It didn’t.”

But Malfoy didn’t press her for details.

 She didn’t think he was doing it on purpose, but the way his gaze was focused on her so attentively was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was like he was captivated by her; if only for a short moment, his face betrayed a sense of wonder instead of bitterness.

“I meant what I said before,” he began. “About getting caught. It would be very bad for both of us if the Dark Lord or the others were to find you.”

“But he’ll know I’m here? Don’t you think the word will spread around from the Order?” Hermione couldn’t believe that the Order wouldn’t intentionally or accidentally leak the intel that she had last been seen with Malfoy.

Malfoy smirked. “You think your friends will come rescue you?” The question was laced with his typical malice.

“No, I don’t,” Hermione said, quick to reply. “Not after…I just know how foolhardy the Order is. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

At her remark, Malfoy’s eyes flashed. He didn’t say anything, but turned from her to lie on his back.

“How much did you see?” Hermione asked, lowering the tone of her voice. She was angry that he had helped himself to an inside view of her mind when she was asleep, but she tried not to come off as accusatory. 

He paused before answering, still not looking at her. “Enough.”

“Enough? What do you mean, enough?” Hermione tried not to let her usual badgering take over, but she needed to know how much he knew. 

“I said ‘enough,’” Malfoy snarled.

Hermione bit her lip. She hadn’t considered it before, but Malfoy knew she really didn’t want to kill him.

“If the Order doesn’t reveal that I’m with you and I’m not seen by any Death Eaters, then you…you could let me go,” Hermione pondered. She was really working the question out for herself, although it seemed like more of a proposition to Malfoy.

Hermione was unsure of what his reaction would be, but she didn’t expect to be met with no response. “I’m not fighting with the Order anymore,” she added.

“I know.” 

Malfoy’s clipped reply was all she needed to know; he had dived deep into her recent past, becoming a witness to her shattered friendships and unexpected enemies. 

He probably knew all about her internal struggle and the shameful truth that she didn’t belong anywhere. She could boldly proclaim her freedom mattered, but in the end, her existence was already marred by the Prophecy; she could deny it all she wanted, but her future would be a lonely one. Other than being used as a method by which to win the war, she wasn’t wanted on either side. If Voldemort won, she would either be disposed of or face a life of enslavement. If Voldemort was defeated, she would be viewed as nothing but a traitor; the friends that had been family no longer existed. It was her own fault, really. She had no real escape plan because she had nowhere to go and no one who wanted her.

“You could let me go,” Hermione repeated the words again, but this time, her voice cracked with despair. Not wanting Malfoy to see the water that was filling in the corner of her eyelids, she turned away abruptly. Her throat felt tight and she released a sharp breath, refusing to cry in front of him.

There was only silence between them, or maybe tension, for some time until Malfoy’s voice drifted through the darkness:

“I won’t.”

Chapter Text

She could ignore him.

It was sometime much later in the night when the thought occurred. Hermione was still huddled on the far opposite end of the bed from Malfoy, her arms wrapped around herself for comfort. 

She wasn’t the type to wallow in sorrow or seek pity for long. Acknowledging the truth had been necessary. It wasn’t her fault Malfoy had raided her mind. Thankfully, he didn’t seem overly eager to discuss her fallout with the Order. He didn’t mock her feelings about them yet.

If solitude became Hermione’s only companion during the War, and isolation her only home, then so be it. She would allow herself to grieve not her past life, but her future–what could have been. Everything was outside her control; acceptance of this reality was more important than ever if she wanted to survive. 

Knowing Malfoy, maybe he wanted her to beg. Perhaps he was getting some sick satisfaction from his mind games with her. He would enjoy seeing her beg for her freedom.

He may not have agreed to let her go, but that didn’t mean Hermione had to give him the gratification of her displeasure. She wouldn’t bemoan her interment, not if that was what he wanted. He might have power in keeping her, just like the Order did, but she wouldn’t let him know it. 

Come morning, if Malfoy wanted to verbally irritate her or use his physicality to set her nerves on fire, he could try. He might even get a reaction. But it didn’t mean she had to respond or engage with him. If refusing to spar with him would aggravate him even in the slightest, it would be worth it. It might even help her to ignore those goosebumps when he got too close…the flutters down below.

Hermione shuddered.

She hoped Malfoy hadn’t been too pleased with himself in her memories of him. He was no doubt already using those recollections against her, but only she had the ability to put an end to it now. 

She was a young woman, no longer a child; they were perfectly valid feelings to have, considering Malfoy’s looks and her loneliness. Other than fooling around some with Viktor, Cormac, and Ron, she hadn’t really had the opportunity to explore those longings fully with another, only herself. The War had taken over, embittering Ron and destroying any opportunity for her to find someone new to date.

Letting out a discouraged sigh, Hermione closed her eyes. She could always stay in bed, pretending to be asleep. Keeping her interactions minimal with Malfoy would be key.

She wasn’t completely sure, but the gentle sound of his exhaling indicated he was asleep. Hermione wasn't about to roll over and check.

“Wake up, mudblood.”

The screeching of curtains pulling and rough tug of the blankets roused her from her sleep before the snarky tone of his voice did.

Eyelids blinking open, Hermione glanced around, thinking she would see daylight cascading into the bedroom if it really was morning. But her eyes settled upon the vast windows opening up to a dreary sky instead. A storm was on the horizon.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy was looming over her. He was already dressed in his sleek all-black Death Eater garb, sans protective gear, mask, and robe. Standing unnecessarily close as usual, his hand rested near her curls against the pillow.

“Did you sleep well?”

The question wasn’t genuine; Hermione could sense the derision and observe the cruel sneer which hardened his face. She was barely awake, but suddenly on guard as she noticed his eyes flicker over her body. They were the same gloomy shade as the steel sky.

Automatically, she reached down towards her leg, relieved to find her wand still attached to her jeans. She would be able to defend herself, but more importantly in the moment, she also needed to keep him out of her mind.

Remembering the latest strategy she devised, Hermione turned from him, refusing to grant Malfoy an ounce of her attention. Mental shield subsequently in place, she envisioned herself somewhere else, somewhere warm where the sun was blindly white hot. Her mind was closed off as she transported herself back to the beach, the holiday she spent in Italy with her parents as a child.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Malfoy’s icy voice may have been cold enough to cut into the memory, but her Occlumency walls remained intact. Keeping her eyes shut, she vowed to continue blocking him out.

“I mean it,” he scoffed. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Hermione flinched as she realised that Malfoy was suddenly leaning down into her, his head mere inches from her own. 

She could sense the nearness of him, the feeling of his soft hair brushing along her cheek. His cool breath sent ripples across her skin as he whispered into her ear:

“I don’t want to be inside you.”

Dropping her defenses, Hermione sat up abruptly with a force to push him away. She retrieved her wand, holding it out in the ready position for a curse

But Malfoy did not appear threatened in the least. Instead, he took a step back from the bed, his face lighting up with uncensored amusement.

“So, it appears I’ve struck a nerve,” he remarked, chuckling to himself. “It wouldn’t be a wise choice to hex me.”

Hermione scowled, holding her wand steady. He may have rattled her, but she wouldn’t let him get away with it.  He didn’t have to have the upperhand just because he could.

Malfoy flashed a mischievous grin before turning away. His body faced towards the window; he obviously was testing her to see if she would curse him behind his back. “I would’ve expected more self-control,” he admonished her, releasing a sarcastic tsk.

Without hesitation, Hermione lowered her wand arm. Despite his merciless taunts, Malfoy was right. He was too easily getting a rise out of her.

His voice was still taunting, but remarkably lethal now. “You should know,” he continued darkly, pressing one hand against the window pane, appearing to gaze out at the overgrown pond and eerie countryside, “I was referring to your mind.”

Aware of the flush forming on her face, Hermione turned her back just as she heard Malfoy snicker. This time, she buried herself in the covers…she didn’t want to witness his smugness, didn’t want to give him another opportunity to whisper in her ear.

“Relax. I’ll stay out of your head.” 

From under the covers, Malfoy’s words were slightly muffled but matter-of-fact in tone. The message was clear. It wasn’t so much that she trusted him, but Hermione considered the blaring truth. There wasn’t anything else useful in her mind. He had seen everything there was to see. Other than teasing her, he didn’t have any real interest in knowing her thoughts…at least not until her presence was detected by Voldemort, which would raise the stakes.

“Will you at least talk to me?”

The question was jarring; it sent a jolt right through her. Knowing her expression was concealed, Hermione could feel some of her tension flitting away. A small smile sparked across her own face this time; she had been right.

Malfoy was thriving on their interactions. Refusing to respond to his insolence would sting worse than any hex she could hurtle his way.

“Will you, Granger?”

Hermione’s smile faded just as her heart rate started to rise. Unless she imagined it, his repeated plea had a faint hint of longing to it. She wished she could have taken note of him. Was he making fun of her again? Or was the quiet desperation in his voice also apparent in his features?

Granger.

The silkiness in how he had spoken her name would stay with her; she knew she would replay the sound of it as she hid within the sanctuary that was the sheets.

But she had to remain strong; she couldn’t hide from him all day. Besides, didn’t he have Death Eater business to attend to? 

“Fine,” he relented. She could hear him release a frustrated breath. “I can play this game, too.”

Fighting the full-on urge to laugh, Hermione clasped a hand to her mouth, stifling the snort. No longer afraid to face him, she whipped the covers from off her head, not caring how the static made her hair frizzed and wild.

Giving him a self-righteous stare, she refused to avert her eyes in an effort to silently challenge him. If Malfoy thought he could beat her in this respect, he would be sorely mistaken. She wasn’t starving for his attention. In fact, she would welcome the reprieve from his callous and suggestive remarks.

Malfoy was glaring at her in return. Although he didn’t seem to appreciate the taste of his own medicine, Hermione noticed the fire set ablaze in his eyes, as if he was ready to prove her wrong.

With the click of his fingers, Malfoy summoned the house elf, who apparated instantly with a tray of breakfast foods. Setting the platter down near the sitting area, the little elf performed a curtsy before vanishing again. Avoiding her gaze, he stalked towards the tray, grabbing a piece of toast as he settled into the nearby armchair. From his pocket, he retrieved a scroll, the contents of which he was reading over as he ate.

Hermione felt her breath hitch. While the tray did not contain heaps of food, it clearly contained two glasses of orange juice. Unless Malfoy intended to drink both, the breakfast was also meant for her.

She supposed if it wasn’t, he would undoubtedly scold her, in which case she would win this battle of wills. 

Bracing herself, Hermione left the bed and decided she would use the opportunity to freshen herself up in the bathroom. Without making eye contact, she locked the door behind her, thankful for the stolen moment away from Malfoy.

It was strange to feel such relief when hours ago in the night she had been lamenting her loneliness. 

This wasn’t like Shell Cottage at all.

Hermione mused on the fact as she cast a Scouring Charm over her body. Despite the way the magic pulled at her clothes, she couldn’t help but feel grungy for having slept in Malfoy’s bed in her old clothing. She would need to apply some detailed spell work, but it could be done…she could multiply various versions of her t-shirt and jeans, even undergarments, to create a more suitable clothing selection for herself. 

Still, the thought of hanging her own newly-created clothes in Malfoy’s wardrobe was bothersome. It would feel too close to moving in.

Sighing, Hermione styled her hair with her wand, attempting to make it look presentable not because she actually cared, but because she wanted to waste the time. If she truly viewed herself as a worthy opponent to Malfoy, able to brush off his aggravating advances and biting comments, she knew she wouldn’t be filled with so much dread. She wouldn’t be hoping he had already left for the day.

Taking a deep breath once again, Hermione left the bathroom. As she spotted Malfoy still in the arm chair, sipping his juice, her spirit immediately deflated. Whatever was on his agenda did not seem to be an urgent manner.

Determined to ignore him at all costs, Hermione walked over to the tray, studying the contents up close. There were a few slices of bread, lemon scones, jam, and bacon. She was vaguely aware of Malfoy’s eyes on her.

Not wanting to display her internal stress over whether or not to partake in the breakfast, Hermione decided to wait. She could sit in the chair opposite him, refusing to meet his gaze and accept his hospitality. He had Death Eater duties and seemed to be delaying his departure for a reason Hermione could not discern.

Knowing he was still looking at her, she took a seat, content to busy herself with anything else other than focus on him. There were a few noticeable holes in her jeans; as a means to distract herself, Hermione got to work repairing the threads magically with her wand.

But as she focused on directing the denim strings back together, much more slowly than necessary, Hermione could sense the shadow of a presence standing in front of her.

She didn’t want to look up, but she knew he was there. 

Evidently in this contest of silence, Malfoy was not going to leave her completely alone. He was going to continue trying her, seeing if perhaps the closeness would break her.

Focusing on the task at hand, Hermione forced herself to appear far more interested in the sewing of her jeans than she actually was.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t give him a single glance.

The voice of her  conscience sent all the warning signals it could. Short of giving her heart palpitations, her entire body was begging her not to betray herself. There might as well have been beads of sweat dotting her forehead…her hands were beginning to shake.

Just one tiny peak. It won’t hurt.

The more she directed her attention to her magic, the more another part of her was daring her to abandon her restraint. But she knew this curiosity was dangerous. 

The need to explore the enigma that was Draco Malfoy was incredibly tempting. His tall, lithe yet muscular form, the harsh angles of his jaws and cheekbones offset by pale, delicate skin and misty ocean eyes…he was a walking juxtaposition. Only he could have such features marked by cruelty that at the same time elicited a hint of something more…perhaps a deeply hidden source of hurt.

Hermione wanted to figure out the mystery of him; it was in her nature. She knew Malfot was a killer, bad in every sense of the word. He was holding her hostage, treating her…not terribly, considering the Prophecy, but he was actively fighting on the side of the War that wanted Muggle-borns like her exterminated. Anyone that could treat another human’s life so carelessly was not worth exploring. 

Despite her involuntary responses to his physical allure, she would not and could not trust him. But still, she wanted to know his motives.

Why was he a Death Eater? What was his end goal? What was he wanting to achieve in keeping her here?

The fact she was even spending so much time analysing his being was an indication of her weakness.

Without warning, Malfoy reached a hand out to her, taking  hold of her wrist. Her heart hammered, thinking she had not anticipated him disarming her again. 

But the strength in his grip was enough to end the motion of her incantations. He was not attempting to take her wand, but to lower her arm. Rather, he thrust a glass of orange juice at her; Hermione had no choice but to take the cup before the contents spilled all over her.

Holding the cup in her hand, Hermione made the fatal mistake of ignoring the voice in her head. She was supposed to be ignoring Malfoy.

Her eyes darted up to view Malfoy’s steady gaze.  Before his eyes flashed in recognition, Hermione caught the fleeting furrow in his brow, a tiny glimpse of a glimmer in his eyes that appeared to be…concern.

Malfoy still did not speak. In a manner that was not forceful, but not exactly gentle, his hand reached up and lightly tilted the glass, compelling Hermione to take a sip. 

Before she knew it, his other hand was outstretched to meet her, holding up a scone. Without any protest, Hermione accepted the pastry, tearing off a small piece and bringing it to her mouth to eat.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Hermione eating the scone while Malfoy watched in silence. 

Finally, when she was done, Hermione thought that he might walk away from her. He might be late for whatever Death Eater chore was on his list for the day. Perhaps the scroll had contained an assignment.

However, Malfoy did not leave her. He still seemed to study her; the grey of his eyes reminded her of smoke; it wasn’t like he was Occluding, but more like he was deep in thought. For once, while he was not speaking, Hermione noticed how relaxed his expression could be when it wasn’t wrought with vengeance or malice. His lips were the perfect shape when not twisted into a smirk.

Abruptly, Malfoy turned. He strode towards his wardrobe; the click of his dragonhide boots echoed across the floor before he reached the door to retrieve his robe.

Hermione had not even realised she had been holding her breath. As soon as Malfoy had walked away, she could feel herself exhale…her pitter patter of her heartbeat slowed with disappointment. For lack of anything better to do, her hands gripped the edges of the armchair. She wouldn’t break now; she wouldn’t speak, ask him where he was going and when he was coming back, even if she wanted to.

She would have to find some way to pass the time…some way to cope with her miserable existence.

But just as the idea entered her brain, she was aware of Malfoy’s eyes on her again. 

He stared at her from across the room; the heat from his smolder intensified her heart rate, causing it to rapidly rise again. There wasn’t the feeling of terror or foreboding that someone like her should have felt. Instead, her stomach somersaulted; her insides were churning not with nausea or nerves, but with an emotion akin to anticipation.

As if she was expecting it, Malfoy made a quick motion to summon her. He didn’t call for her or taunt her….he simply held out his hand and waved his index finger in a sly movement to beckon her.

There were no words exchanged, only the slight nod of Hermione’s head. At first, she didn’t know what unseen force was driving her as she walked in a trance-like manner towards him. Yet, every step she took to Malfoy was her own. Just as she had sided with him in the battle against Harry, Ginny, and Ron, she was finding herself wanting to be in his vicinity.

Finally, when she stopped about a foot away from him, Hermione knew the reasoning behind her movements. Being this close to Malfoy, dressed to kill for a mission, she could sense it.

Power.

While she and Malfoy had been engaged in their own operation to undermine one another, she couldn’t deny the appeal of his position. She had seen him as a Death Eater in action; the ruthless way in which he had killed his own and held his own effortlessly in battle.

Hermione knew he could destroy anyone and anything in his path, and yet, here she was in front of him.

“If I killed you, I’d never find out what you’re capable of.”

His words from yesterday were enough to haunt her for a lifetime.

No one…not Harry, Ron, Lupin, Moody, or Shacklebolt had ever wanted that of her. They didn’t want that of anybody; it was why the young were losing their lives in a War they didn’t ask for. Despite all of her intellect and cleverness, and the way she had trained herself to fight, the Order had seen her as nothing more than an object to be hidden away. She was nothing to them; nothing but an afterthought masquerading under the guise of what little War strategy they possessed. 

In their sinking ship filled with fear over faith, she had been the unwilling vessel.  

Malfoy, on the other hand, was everything dark and terrible. Everything wrong. And yet, for Hermione…the lure was there. She could fight against it all she wanted. Perhaps she could even deny the way he enticed her physically. 

But there was something far more seductive, far more captivating about him than she had ever come to observe in anyone else. She didn’t think she would need to submit to him to find out.

Malfoy was the opposite of fear…a representation of limitless power. And Hermione wanted that. She wanted that for herself.

She deserved to be recognised for her potential. And Malfoy seemed ready to offer her that.

She didn’t know what was happening. But Malfoy was still holding out his gloved hand to her. Without a moment’s deliberation, Hermione reached for him.

There was the flick of his wand and the quiet recitation of a spell, barely audible: 

“Signatum est ad mulierem hominis.”

Hermione could feel the burning in her forearm before the black wisps of smoke began to swirl around her wrist. As the dark tendrils of magic tightened their hold ferociously, she could feel the beginnings of a knife etching into her skin, a blade taking its sweet time to mark her.

She cried out once, chewing her lip in the process as the darkness worked its way into her flesh. The magic didn’t just carve into her first layer of skin, but rather she could feel it penetrating to the bone. Every single nerve was on fire.

The torture was too much; she lost her balance. Before she collapsed to the ground, Malfoy caught her with one arm and held her securely while he completed the spell. She couldn’t do anything but whimper; this was a kind of pain that couldn’t be overcome mentally. The more she braced herself for the gouging of her skin, the deeper the jagged lines seemed to dig their way into her tendons.

Hermione couldn’t control how she was pressed up against Malfoy’s chest, her head thrashing against him as the magic continued to cut deep. 

But Malfoy tightened his hold on her.

“Bite me, if you want to.”

She was so out of it, she wasn’t even aware he had spoken aloud. But Hermione took the directive none-the-less, gripping his arm tight and resting her head against him. There was a feeling of ice…ice so cold it transmuted into a fire in her arm, a raging and relentless pain that spread like wildfire in an effort to burn her from the inside out. She wanted to scream, but instead, sank her teeth into Malfoy’s shoulder as the Dark Magic continued to stab at her.

“Good girl, Granger.”

Hermione sobbed violently; tears poured in endless streams down her cheeks. She bit into him again as the coldness now seemed to gather in her organs; it was like a million icicles were twisting along her insides.

“You’re doing so well. We’re almost done.”

Malfoy’s voice once again served to distract her from the spell. But she was so far removed from reality, it sounded like he was speaking to her from somewhere else. While the smoky fragments of magic began to slowly dissipate, Hermione found herself entirely seized by a darkness that would either destroy her or enable her to destroy.

There was one last stab of magic inking into her skin and then it was like everything had stopped. Only the sound of her own heavy breathing existed; Hermione’s lungs heaved as she was just coming up for air.

She found she was still resting awkwardly against the crook of Malfoy’s neck. In her exhausted state, she hadn’t thought to withdraw herself from his body yet, but then again, she noticed that one of his hands was pressed to the back of her head; the pads of his fingers stroked her lightly.

His touch was soothing; the caress of his hand through her curls gently guided her back to the present moment. It was grounding. 

With a deep breath, Hermione composed herself, stretching her legs and arms until she felt steady on feet again. 

Despite the Dark Magic that had poured into her, she felt like herself; she felt normal.

Taking a slight step back, Malfoy released the back of her head. As his eyes fell upon her, Hermione noticed the lightness in them again. The way he looked at her with such fascination, with such calculated interest…it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

Making sure she was steady on her feet, he reached a hand out to her face. His fingers brushed along her skin, wiping away her tears.

“The Order will regret ever hurting you,” he said, his voice soft and deadly. 

Hermione gasped as she looked down at her forearm. There, coiling below her skin were the inked images of two intersecting snakes. But unlike the typical Dark Marks she had seen, like the one on Malfoy’s arm, hers was different. The snakes circled around the script of a letter ‘M.’

“No one will ever underestimate you again.”

Chapter Text

The realisation of his words almost made her heart stop.

She was wanted after all.

He had marked her as his.

Hermione had to remind herself: this was not what she had predicted. But it was what she had wanted.

Wasn’t it?

She had wanted to belong. Now, there was a Dark Mark on her arm and it belonged to Draco Malfoy.

She belonged to him.

It shouldn’t have been that way, but it was. Hermione didn’t belong to anyone. She had no loyalties to anyone, never mind Voldemort’s highest ranking soldier.  

The black ink was swirling beneath Hermione’s skin, the letter ‘M’ sinking beyond the outer layers and settling farther within her bones and spirit. 

Yet, if she had not desired it, then where was her outrage? Was it possible his spell had sunk so deep into her psyche that she couldn’t protest even if she wanted to?

Hermione didn’t think so.

Being released from the pain, her body was flooded with endorphins. It was only logical to assume she wasn’t thinking right.

But that wasn’t right, either.

As if he would hold the answers to her barrage of internal questions, Hermione darted her attention to Malfoy.

He still stood unreasonably close to her, breathing heavily in the after effects of his magic. His shaggy platinum locks covered his forehead and misty eyes; he avoided her gaze directly and looked coolly resigned to whatever magic he decided to cast.

How did Malfoy get to look so calm? It didn’t seem right that he should be so unaffected, so casual about the fact that he had clearly marked her.

Was this some kind of cruel, sick joke to him?

If it was just a prank, it was more than she could bear. The Mark was far too permanent, too significant to be done in jest. If it was a joke, Malfoy was not laughing. He wasn’t even sneering at her.

“This won’t change anything.”

Malfoy’s voice cut roughly into her thoughts. Hermione felt herself step back, withdrawing from his vicinity. It was apparent once again that Malfoy was adept at reading her emotions.

“It won’t,” he restated, this time more forcefully. His eyes darkened as he took her in. “You won’t understand it now,” he started, “but you will.”

His eyes glittered at her with intrigue.

“How?” Hermione questioned, her voice audibly cracking. Her other hand reached for the Mark on her forearm which was still obviously settling within her skin. It felt…not wrong, but intrusive to have some part of him magically connected to her beneath her flesh.

Malfoy looked like he was going to speak, but he stopped himself abruptly. After a moment, much to Hermione’s surprise, he reached within his wardrobe, retrieving his silver Death Eater mask.

Hermione glared at the mask presented before her.

There was nothing courageous, nothing admirable or brave about being a follower of Voldemort. In fact, his followers were just as blind as the young fighters who put their faith in Moody and Shacklebolt. 

“Is your mask supposed to convince me?” Hermione spat the question before she could truly gauge Malfoy’s intentions.  He may have thought his Mark would make her fall all over him, but he would be sorely mistaken. She wasn’t anybody’s pet. 

But Malfoy simply gave her a small smile as he held out the shiny Death Eater covering.

“Mortem Larva Duplicatam.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief as the mask suddenly replicated itself.

Malfoy handed her the new silver skeletal mask; sparkling with its own enchantment, the overall hollow of its face was quite a bit smaller than his own.

“No,” he said simply, as her fingers grasped the edges of the Death Eater apparel. “You don’t need me to convince you.”

Hermione stood slack-jawed, turning the mask over in her hands, questioning if this all was real. She had woken up today, right? 

Her heart thumped wildly as she realised Malfoy had turned from her. Securing the clasp of his Death Eater robe and casting a protection charm over his chest, he seemed relatively unconcerned about whatever was to happen today.

Holding the mask tightly out of frustration, Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t like being left in the dark; the Order may have treated her as an afterthought, but she would not become amenable to Malfoy.

Even if she was unsure of his intentions, she didn’t have to let him know it. Now was as good of time as any to put her Occlumency walls in place.

“Fine,” Hermione spoke at last. “You’re right on both accounts; I’ll give you that,” she began. 

Malfoy whipped back around to face her. She saw the flashes of a cheeky grin before he concealed his expression with his mask.

Damn him.

He was easier to read when she could at least see the veiled glimpses of quiet desperation and loneliness that sometimes broke through his arrogant facade. Though with his handsome face hidden, Hermione supposed she would be less susceptible to being beguiled.

“One, this won’t change anything between us,” she continued confidently. “I still hate you.”

She expected Malfoy to at least chuckle or challenge the statement, but he remained unmoving. The Death Eater mask reflected back only vacant, dead looking eyes.

“And two,” Hermione added, “I don’t need you to convince me. I don’t need you, period. I am perfectly capable of fighting on my own. I can make my own choices in this War.”

There was a heavy pause before Malfoy stepped forward, and leaned down close to whisper in her ear:

“Exactly my thoughts, Granger,” he drawled through the mask.

Hermione gripped the mask in her palms tighter; part of her wanted to push him away, but the other part, the one with the physical feelings she was trying to ignore, wanted to pull him closer…wanted to…

Her breath hitched when Malfoy suddenly touched her forearm again. A row of goosebumps prickled along her skin where his gloved fingers idled on her Dark Mark. The touch was ever so faint and lingering in a way that was almost caring.

“I’ll call for you when it's your time.”

Before she could even scold herself for letting the butterflies loose in her stomach, there was a crack of magic and Malfoy was gone.

Hermione looked down at the mask in her hands. She supposed she didn’t have to join him. She didn’t know whether or not the Dark Mark would be painful, forcing her to apparate to him against her will. But his words didn’t make it seem that way.

Malfoy had accepted her hatred of him and the fact she was fighting on her own. But had he done so to aggravate her or to encourage her?

It wasn’t obvious that Malfoy meant to drag her along and force her to do his bidding, although she supposed he could if he had wanted. Afterall, she still had her wand, still had the autonomy to defend herself from him if she so wanted.

She could even attempt to escape from him, though she supposed the Mark was also a way to track her.

‘When it’s your time.’

Her mind flashed back to being trapped in Shell Cottage and the memory of Ron taking her wand. When had it ever been her time with the Order? 

Without so much as a second thought, Hermione made up her mind. She drifted over to the other side of the wardrobe, the side which Malfoy had designated for her. Her hands sorted through the disappointing array of old-fashioned, witchy dresses. The velvet bodices, the ornate lace, the heavy chiffon of the gowns…these wouldn’t do. 

“Diffendo.”

Using her wand to altar a black dress, Hermione slashed the seams of the fabric, envisioning a far more suitable war look. Rather than the flowy skirt, she could keep some of the sheer material in the back, but sew most of it together to fit snugly on her legs as a pair of tights. Likewise, she just needed to add long lace sleeves to the corset. She wasn’t sure what type of magical armor Malfoy had conjured; she would need to ask him. 

“Reparo.”

With the snap of Hermione’s wand, the satin and lacy threads fused together to take on a new shape. In an instant, the Venetian-looking black dress was suddenly transformed into an outfit of her own creation, one that would better allow her to aim, dodge, and run in the throes of battle.

Even though he was gone, she still felt strange about undressing openly in Malfoy’s room; therefore, Hermione took the clothing into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Wasting no time, she stepped out of her plain Muggle jeans and t-shirt, slipping into her newly crafted…Death Eater suit? 

No.

The terminology seemed incorrect. Yet, there was no denying she had a Mark and now a mask.

Directing her wand to tie the strings of the corset tight in front of her, Hermione took a deep breath before gazing into the arched antique mirror above the sink.

Her appearance was startling for only a split second. It was one of those odd, almost existential moments where time froze. The young woman in the reflection didn’t seem like herself, and yet she was. 

There was undoubtedly something different about Hermione’s face that was brought out by the Death Eater clothing she was wearing; she had to admit: black was her color now. Her cheeks were more defined, her jaw sharper and more intimidating and there was something ominous about the shade of her eyes, the brown so dark it appeared like obsidian in her irises. 

Whereas there had been something more carefree, more innocent about her usual casual Muggle manner of dress, this apparel was far more deadly and sophisticated. The gothic spider lace looked sleek around her arms, and the corset gave her waist and hips a figure to be envied. She wasn’t wearing a dress. She wasn’t just some household witch, but more like a sorceress to be feared.

It was new, Hermione thought, to finally be able to dress in a style that reflected the shadow side within herself; it was like all those feelings of  anger, betrayal, and disillusionment were finally being drawn to the surface, acknowledged rather than suppressed. The outfit was just as formidable as she was. 

And for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt free.

Just as this thought occurred to her, she felt it. It was very subtle at first at first; a slight chill ran through her before a tiny tremor started to develop in her arm. For as much as it hurt when the Mark was carved into her, the magic which called to her now was not excruciating; it was not the pain she had been anticipating. Instead, there was a light sort of pulsing that ran from the center of the ink down into her fingertips.

Grabbing her mask, Hermione needed to do just one more thing.

“Facere Novum.”

She did a simple incantation, causing her old white trainers to suddenly mutate into a pair of black leather military boots. They were not the best of quality, but the transfiguration would have to do.

Not completely certain as to how the Dark Mark operated, Hermione held out her wand again. Taking a deep breath, she pointed the tip directly to the center of the Dark Mark. She tapped once against her skin.

Before she could even question whether or not she needed to do something, Hermione felt herself fall forward. It was unlike Apparation and Floo travel; unlike the usual dizzying vortex, she could only feel herself falling fast into a dark bottomless void, the air growing icy as it whipped past her face.

Hermione landed with an uncomfortable tumble. The coldness vanished instantly as a smoky heat started to consume her. 

She was transported to the middle of a battlefield; she didn’t know where was she was, but the surroundings looked like wetlands, some type of marsh or bog against the backdrop of a dark wood.

Thankful that the mask concealed her identity, Hermione rose unsteadily to her feet, trying to gauge her surroundings. 

She was not alone. About twenty feet away, she could see the explosions, the colored streaks lining the air as a battle was well underway. 

The Death Eaters were easily identifiable with their fearsome masks and dark robes or battle gear. She assumed Mafoy had to be among them, but where, she did not immediately know. With each spark and fiery blast, they seemed to forge ahead, forcing the line of Order fighters further into the outskirts of the field. But within the forest, Hermione could also spy several masked individuals, hiding and ready to attack. Soon, the Order would have nowhere to go; they would be trapped in the dense woods with no option other than to apparate if they could or face certain death.

Hermione observed the scene in horror for several minutes. Had it never even occurred to Moody or Shacklebolt to invest in some proper fighting gear? There was no excuse; the War had been going on for over a year now, and this ragged group in the distance looked as every bit unprepared as she could have imagined. She had never had the chance until now to be in the midst of a true battle, but it was evident. No one had trained these young soldiers to fight back or strategise; no one was leading this troop for the Order. They shouldn't have all been standing in a row.

Moving stealthily into the ranks of the Death Eaters ahead, which did seem to include several witches fighting in addition to the men, Hermione hoped to blend in. The more she witnessed how easily the Order’s fighters were attacked, the more her blood pressure started to rise.

Their efforts were clearly in vain. How could anyone, no matter how much hope they placed in Harry to defeat Voldemort, think they stood a fighting chance against the Death Eaters? It made Hermione livid to think that perhaps Moody and Shacklebolt didn’t care. They only needed fighters to distract Voldemort and lure the Death Eaters away while Harry searched for the Horcruxes. Did most of these witches and wizards fighting even know about them? Or were they purposely misled, coaxed to believe they stood a chance or that their death would perhaps mean something?

It was infuriating.

Just then, there were several flashes of emerald lights that ricocheted off the edge of the line of trees. In quick succession, bodies of the Order members started to drop one by one.

There were a few raucous shouts and cackles of laughter in the ranks amongst her. 

Hermione glanced around, watching the Death Eaters celebrate their victory. They started to retreat from the woods, hollering with manic glee. Yet, she couldn’t look away from the forest. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, but she wanted to see the dead. She wanted to know who the noble and wise Order leaders sacrificed this time.

Wand out defensively, she ran towards the edge of the forest, opposite of the ones chanting victoriously. The closer she came to the dead bodies, the quieter the sounds of the Death Eaters behind her grew. There might have been another flash of green light out the corner of her eye, but Hermione’s senses were only focused on the scene in front of her.

Her feet came to a sudden halt as she noticed a few familiar faces lying lifeless on the ground:

Zacharias Smith
Anthony Goldstein
Lee Jordan
George Weasley

Hermione was about to be sick. The color was drained from their faces, but their brows remained fixed in concentration as if they did not expect to die when they did. The Death Curse was cruel and instant like that. She turned away sharply, bending down to press her palms to her knees. As she tried to let the wave of nausea pass, her mind flitted to Malfoy. Where was he? And why had he called her now, so late to the end of the fight?

She was asking herself those questions when she heard the sudden pop of Apparation. 

Appearing just to the left of her were Moody and Lupin.

Lupin seemed unaware of her presence at first; it wasn’t like him to be aloof, but his eyes immediately rounded on the sight of the bodies.

But Moody’s roaming eye centered on her immediately with laser focus.

“Incendio! ”

The flames shot forth out of his wand, but Hermione was quick enough to roll to the side.

“Glacies duratus!”

She quickly countered his spell with a blast of ice that repelled the fire he was releasing, though most of the flames had already started to spread along the ground, weaving their way closer to the dead bodies.

“Remus!” Moody growled, snapping his head towards Lupin. “It's as we feared.”

“Is it really her?” Lupin was squinting as if he too had some enhanced vision to see through her Death Eater mask.

“Incarcerous!”

Hermione had pointed her wand, pretending to aim at Lupin, but then shifted in a split second, sending the wispy metal chains to capture Moody instead.

His body was contorted awkwardly in the restraints from Hermione’s spell; he let out a defeated groan as he turned to face Lupin, though his eyeball was spinning every which way.

As Lupin was about to raise his wand in an action to challenge her, Moody yelped, sounding like an animal trying to flee a trap.

“The plan, Remus,” he rasped. “Go with the plan. You talk to her.”

Lupin paused the motion of his wrist, and took a daring step towards Hermione, lowering his wand instead.

“Hermione,” he began cautiously. “You don’t have to do this.”

Hermione was still for a moment; her spell was still activated, holding Moody at her mercy. She could feel a slight shiver run down her spine at the hint of something in Lupin’s eyes…a look reminiscent of fear.

She thought of how uneasy they must feel, believing she had switched sizes. Believing she had killed just now. She thought of the terror they must have felt deep in their veins at not being able to assess her reaction from behind the mask.

She stood unmoving for another uncomfortable minute. Lupin seemed to be holding his breath and she noticed that his hand clutched his wand with unease.

“Crucio.”

The burst of scarlet shot out of her wand, engulfing Moody who was still ensnared by her chains.

The old wizard howled in misery as Lupin looked on in shock before hurtling a counter spell. 

“Relashio! ” He tried to cut into Hermione’s curse by removing the restraints, but Moody’s body was still thrashing with the tortuous force of the Cruciatus.

Hermione glared at Lupin, daring him to try something else. 

“I didn’t do anything,” she corrected him, her voice laced with derision. “This is all the Order’s doing.” Hermione made a concerted effort to nod towards the fallen Order members. At the same time, the flames were spreading further amongst the blades of grasses, consuming the bodies and turning them to ash.

Moody cried out again as his limbs lifted unnaturally, the sting of the curse flaying his skin.

“The plan,” was all he managed to gasp.

“Stop!” Lupin called to her with more desperation. His plea was nearly lost in the thick air, which was littered with smoke from the dying fire. He held his wand out but did not cast anything. “Come back to us. We were wrong.”

But Hermione only intensified the curse she inflicted on Moody. She could feel her blood stream carrying and radiating the energy of her emotions. Her rage was funneling through her, directed at the appropriate source.

“No,” she said darkly. “The Order was right to be afraid of me.”

Seeing that Moody only let out incoherent grunts as his body continued to spasm, Lupin raised his wand to her.

“This isn’t you, Hermione!” he pleaded. “Let me help you. I know what it’s like to have to control your fury, you can do the same as I–”

“You don’t know me or my wrath,” Hermione scoffed, “and none of you are man enough to admit that this blood is on your hands.”

She released the Cruciatus Curse and Moody’s body dropped to the ground with a smack.

In a swift motion, she pulled away her Death Eater mask to reveal herself, wanting Lupin to understand what they made her become. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes burned with indignation; the accusation was written all over her face.

Before Lupin could even react, Hermione sent an additional chain incantation his way. He was nothing but an optimistic fool if he thought Moody’s ‘plan’ to change her mind would be successful.

“Incarcerous Perpetuum.” 

He tripped over his own feet in an attempt to dodge the spell.

Hermione smiled, lowering her wand hand as she no longer needed it to harness the chains. She was pleased she had both Lupin and Moody at her mercy, restrained and bound by her magic. The force of the Unforgivable was still new to her, however; she had used every raw ounce of willpower and negative energy within her to cast the Cruciatus. She didn’t know if she physically conjure it again the moment, but she wasn’t about to let these two go.

While Moody’s body convulsed every now and then with the residual tremors from the torture, Lupin was breathing unevenly, as if he had put up some kind of worthy defense.

“Hermione,” he spoke again, this time more softly. “From now on, we’ll let you fight for the Order. We’ll–”

But he couldn’t finish. Hermione’s laughter interrupted his offer.

“So generous to grant me permission,” she corrected him snidely. “It’s too bad I don’t answer to you any longer.”

Lupin shook his head frantically as he struggled in an attempt to break out of the enchanted chains.

He gave her a warning look. “Malfoy will dispose of you. Riddle will see to it. It may not be too late if you’re not—”

His voice trailed away unexpectedly; the whites of his eyes looked like moons as his shocked gaze settled on a figure approaching behind her.

Hermione didn’t even have to turn around. There was a slight tingle on her Dark Mark before she observed his shadow first. She was keenly aware of his presence; her heart beat in unbridled anticipation as her body felt drawn to him like a magnet.

“Not what?” Malfoy snarled. His voice was unmuffled, filled ice and ire. He was no longer wearing his Death Eater mask.

Suddenly, Hermione felt a tug around her middle and let out a small gasp as she felt Malfoy’s arm drape protectively around her waist.

“Crucio.”

The red heat of the curse attacked Lupin’s body; he cried out once before hitting the ground so violently, Hermione thought she could hear bones crack.

“I asked you a question." Malfoy's eyes flashed with deadly malice.

He had released the Cruciatus, but kept his wand aimed at Lupin. His other arm continued to grip her more firmly, ensuring her back was flush against his chest.

“If she’s not pregnant,” Lupin wheezed. “I was referring to the Prophecy.”

Malfoy chuckled. Hermione could feel his fingers on her stomach, circling lower now. His touch trailed past her belly button, sending sparks right to her core.

“You think,” he said menacingly as his hand hovered dangerously close to between her legs, “that she doesn’t want what only I can give her?”

Hermione resisted the urge to whimper; instead, she concentrated her efforts on relaxing into Malfoy, feeling her pulse increase as she tried to ignore the way her insides clenched…the way her body responded so favorably to his taunts.

“Hermione would never!” Lupin spat. “She’s misguided because you’ve captured her. She may be Imperiused for all–”

“Crucio! ”

Malfoy flicked his wand casually again, delivering another round of the Cruciatus. He released the curse abruptly, glaring as Lupin hit the ground once more.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s hand reached for Hermione’s chin, tilting her head roughly to him.

“Show them, Granger,” he whispered, leaning down to her face. “Let them see what you want.” His words floated over her like a melody, pacifying her and stilling the nerves which raced all throughout her body.

Hermione released a short breath as she gazed up at Malfoy; she could see his own eyes were half-lidded. There was something so alluring, yet almost peaceful about the way his long eyelashes covered the silver gleam of his eyes. 

He wasn’t about to force himself on her.

He's your enemy. 

And yet, he was giving her the invitation.

In a deliberate movement, Hermione raised herself up onto her tiptoes, bringing her hand to the back of Malfoy’s neck for balance. Her fingers were shaking as they grasped the silky strands of his hair, pulling him even closer towards her.

As her lips grazed his ever so lightly, she was aware of the fact her heart had completely stopped.

This wasn’t the way she had expected to die in a War. 

What was she doing?

But as soon as her head could remind her heart to beat again, Malfoy had already twisted her back, ending the kiss before it truly began.

His hand still touched her waist as he aimed his wand at Lupin and then Moody.

“Avada Kedavra…Avada Kedavra.”

Chapter Text

There was an eerie stillness that accompanied the green flashes of the Death Curses.

It was so quiet, Hermione could hear the exhale of a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she watched the bodies of both Lupin and Moody slump unceremoniously to the ground.

“Let’s go, Granger.”

Malfoy was pinching the fabric of her corset, yet her boots felt rooted in the earth. All around her, the air reeked of death and torture; the hazy smoke and piles of ash on the battlefield made everything feel like some dark daydream.

Lupin and Moody were gone. Two very prominent Order members, one of whom had directly played an unapologetic role in holding her hostage were dead. They had offered to make amends, to let her fight for them, but Hermione was not naive to the rules of war; they had only backtracked because they underestimated her. They never appreciated nor realised her strength in the first place and had now paid dearly with their lives as a result.

“Granger.”

Malfoy repeated himself and Hermione had no choice now but to shake herself out of this reverie. She felt no connection, no despair or sense of loss when thinking of Lupin or Moody. But there was something else…something else weighing heavily on her mind.

“You…you were testing me,” Hermione stammered, turning to look up at Malfoy for the first time since their almost-kiss.

His eyebrows scrunched in confusion and he whipped his head away from her to the direction of the corpses. 

“I don’t need to test you.” His reply was curt as ever. As teasing and lilting as his voice could sometimes be, Malfoy was particularly good at hiding any hint of emotion when it came to being vulnerable.

Hermione shook her head. “No,” she corrected him, “you were. I thought you wanted to send a message back to the Order. I thought you were testing them by putting on some type of show.”

There was a brief pause before Malfoy responded. His grey eyes flashed at her and for a moment, Hermione thought she saw a glimmer of hurt. His voice was tinged with annoyance. “How so?” he asked, seemingly offended by her accusation.

“I thought you wanted them to know I was with you,” she said, glancing at his perplexed expression before looking away again.

But Malfoy didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t give a fuck what the Order thinks. You should know that.”

“You don’t,” Hermione agreed. “So you were testing me instead…to see how far I’d go for you. So you do care if I…” her voice trailed away. As confident she had felt in telling Lupin and Moody off, she suddenly didn’t want to discuss the moment she had shared with Malfoy, the way she didn’t seem to mind standing on the edge of her toes to meet his lips.

“If you’re referring to the Prophecy, you can just drop it,” Malfoy snarled. “I don’t give a fuck about that either.”

Hermione held back a smug grin. “So if you don’t care at all, then why are you out here trying to get me to kill? You can hate the Prophecy as much as me, but you can’t deny what it says.”

This time, Malfoy’s eyes flashed with anger as he turned directly to face her again. “Watch what you say, Granger. You don’t know the first thing about being forced to kill.”

“No,” Hermione sneered. “I suppose I don’t. I only know what it’s like to be held against my will, completely at another’s mercy. I only what it's like to have no choice at all in this War, to have no say in my life—”

Before she could finish, Malfoy had grabbed her arm roughly and they were apparating away, twisting and turning through the vortex of time and space.

With a thump, they landed abruptly back in Malfoy’s room.

“Go on,” Malfoy growled. With the short flick of his wand, he vanished the armor from his Death Eater suit and was advancing towards her, pushing her back in the direction of the bed. Still irked by her assumption, his chest was heaving and his blonde locks hung loosely over his eyes, drenched in sweat from the exertion of the battle.

“Say that again.” His tone was much lower as his arms closed in on either side of her, forcing her against the end of the mattress. 

Hermione could feel the heat radiating from off of him; there was a palpable jolt of energy between their bodies, a shared loathing that too easily transformed into mutual fury…or was it desire?

He was leaning over her in that towering display of dominance that Hermione was all too accustomed with by now. She was startlingly aware again of what it was like to be on the edge of powerlessness; she didn’t want to give into the weight of him against her, but at the same time, the scent of his woodsy body wash and the citrusy smell of his cologne was becoming too much.

“Make me,” she seethed. At the same time, Hermione raised one of her knees up protectively, shielding herself from how nearly his hips almost positioned themselves between her own. It was her last defense.

Her body was contorted; she was holding herself up by her forearms, balanced on the end of the bed, yet Malfoy obviously didn’t care. He was livid just a second ago, but now Hermione could sense another feeling coming to the forefront of his gaze. His eyes flickered over her body once; his pupils were dilated again and his features became predatory like he could devour her whole.

“Don’t tempt me.” He spoke the words through gritted teeth, but Hermione could hear the challenge behind his voice, the indication that he wanted her to.

What would he do?

What could he do?  

If she suddenly stopped hesitating, as she had done before, the move in this game between them would be his alone…and she preferred it that way.

Had he always made her feel like such a fool for losing all semblance of her physical self-control around him? Or was she perhaps overthinking her own responses, maybe reacting to some hidden humiliation for having the urges in the first place? Was it possible he was reprimanding himself internally as well?

It was maddening the way he could flirt with her, deny that he was testing her, when he knew very well the types of reactions he would get. The thought made her want to slap him like she had done in during their third year. But now, as a young woman, she couldn’t help but feel there was a better way to funnel her rage.

If Malfoy thought she was some weak witch that he could bend and move to his every whim, then he had another thing coming… well, he could bend and move me, she thought. In fact, she wanted him to. 

Without warning, Hermione kicked her leg away, leaving Malfoy no choice but to sink down on top of her.

She could sense his surprise, the way his eyelashes brushed hesitantly against the side of her face. He let out a low breath and Hermione knew he was about to hoist himself off of her when she made another sudden move and raised her hips.

Crossing her legs behind him, Hermione pulled Malfoy into her so there was no space left between their bodies. She gripped him firmly, her feet locked around the backs of his thighs.

“Malfoy,” she whispered darkly. “Don’t you tempt me.”

Closing her eyes, Hermione could feel his heart pounding rapidly. She knew the spark from this new touch was causing the blood to rush through his veins with the way his breathing grew more ragged.

“Or what?” 

The question that left his lips was faint against her ear; it disappeared into the quiet of the room like it had never been uttered in the first place. She almost expected him to retreat, to draw away from her again, but this time, Malfoy surprised her by thrusting his hips even further into her core.

This was her chance, her one opportunity to recoil, to unfasten her hold and kick him away. Instead, her back arched reflexively and she drew herself up to meet him, feeling something very hard right at the center of her…

Oh…oh.

One of them would have to end it. Biting her lip, Hermione held back a moan as she clenched her legs even tighter around Malfoy, suddenly aware of tug in her lower abdomen. A pleasurable wave was spreading; she couldn’t stop the pooling sensation down below where Malfoy’s erection pushed against her. She wanted more and involuntarily found herself rubbing against him.

Keeping her eyes shut, Hermione was lost in her arousal. There was a distant voice ordering her to stop, but she quelled her troubled mind by reminding herself of the fact that they were both clothed. Yet, at the same time, she pictured the way her body must have looked, so open and wanton for him, her legs spread wide and inviting.

The room was silent save for her panting. Fluttering her eyes open slightly, Hermione observed that Malfoy too was lost in the friction of their bodies. His breath was hot and heavy on her cheek as he moved. It wasn’t romantic, but more feral, the way he thrust up into the heat between her legs, his pace not hurried but growing more punishing with each touch. She didn’t know if it would be enough for him, but then again, she imagined he was probably liking the way his trousers pulled against his cock.

The thought alone was enough to make Hermione gasp.

No, don’t think about it, she scolded herself. 

But the warning was useless as their bodies continued to rock into each other like they were horny fifth years. Hermione didn’t care, didn’t care about anything except–

“Fuck…”

Before she could even process the loss of contact, Malfoy had pushed off the mattress with enough force that Hermione almost went with him. Her feet brushed against the wood floor, and she braced herself, pulling her body back up awkwardly to the edge of the bed.

Malfoy was standing in front of her, his head lowered so as to avoid her stare. Her eyes immediately darted to his lower half. There was a nagging sense of rejection, an ‘I-told-you-so’ from her conscience, and a growing hole in her chest as she figured he must have come and was suddenly repulsed by her. Though, she told herself, she should really be the one repulsed, for letting herself get so physical with someone who hated her.

But as he stood there, his body shaking lightly as he gripped his forearm, Hermione realised that he did not come. In fact, the tent in Malfoy's trousers was still very much noticeable. 

Even more, as he finally looked up at her, she could see the frustration evident in his eyes. His eyes were glazed and and his cheeks flushed, but he was wincing in pain. 

“The Dark Lord,” he explained, turning over his arm to display the black inked snake which was coiling furiously. “I have to go.”

Hermione knew she was blushing. She didn’t know what to say…even a simple ‘goodbye’ felt too intimate.

Instead, she settled on nodding her head and then looked down at her own Dark Mark.

With the crack of Apparation, Malfoy suddenly vanished. 

Sighing, Hermione laid back on the bed, covering her face with her hands.

It had to be close to late afternoon or evening by now, but with the dreary summer storm clouds still on the horizon outside, the scenery out the arched bedroom windows gave no indication of the passage of hours. 

She was curious to know why Malfoy was called away so suddenly. It was probably for the best.

It seemed like for the most part his missions were delivered via owl or possibly planned out ahead of time. Though she wondered if today’s battle had possibly marked some type of turning point.

The loss of Lupin and Moody no doubt was a significant loss for the Order. Hermione wondered why they had even come to survey the damage and lives lost–now they had just made the foreseeable ambushes or upcoming fight even more perilous for any young Order soldiers. It was all around an irresponsible, poorly thought-out move, but then again, she was not shocked in the least. 

The Order’s last and only hope was Harry. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised to learn if Shacklebolt was keeping him locked away in Shell Cottage. But it would be a mistake if Harry wasn’t out hunting the Horcruxes himself. Ron and Ginny were not capable of such a vital task on their own.

She had to wonder if the time was approaching when perhaps Voldemort would be declared victorious–either that, or the Order might be forced to disperse and fight on an individual basis, possibly launching attacks when the Death Eaters least expected it.

Either way, none of the Order's plans truly mattered to Hermione now. Their battle methods had been a disaster, dooming them even before the Prophecy was announced. Harry might have represented the face of good in the War, but there was nothing honorable, nothing admirable about his leaders. And in matters of life and death, good leadership was paramount for survival. 

Did she fully trust Draco Malfoy?

Running her hand across the magically engraved letter ‘M’ on her arm, Hermione didn’t think so. In fact, she knew she didn’t. 

But Malfoy didn’t seem to want to hurt her and seemed to recognise some hidden potential in her. He also despised talk of the Prophecy. All things considered, she could live with that. She could live with his Mark if it meant he understood her to some degree. It had been far too long since anyone did. 

Admittedly, Hermione had to acknowledge that using the Cruciatus Curse today felt good. It could partly be attributed to the insidiousness of the dark magic etching itself into her psyche, but there was no denying she hadn’t prepared for that battle for a long time. Months on end, locked away with nothing but books to read and dark spells to practice, it felt like she had dreamed the moment into her life.

Rising up from her stretched position on the bed, Hermione was alerted to the grumbling from her empty stomach. Her muscles also felt surprisingly heavy; she had deployed every ounce of strength in her to keep the torture going for as long as it did on Moody. 

She wanted to shower and then lay around in a fluffy robe as she ate dinner. For the first time, oddly enough, she decided those things would make her content. It was a strange thought to know she could be happy when she was normally concerned with strategising or wallowing in dread. And it wasn’t like she was comfortable around Malfoy, but neither of them were wishing the other dead, and again, that was enough for now. 

Even in a war, the simple things mattered, she supposed.

You are somewhat comfortable, her inner voice snickered. Comfortable enough to –

She shook the voice away. 

Making good on her promise to relax, Hermione headed into the bathroom, taking care to transfigure one of the soft towels into the bathrobe she was imagining before stepping into the shower.

It felt renewing even just to stand in the hot water and steam; casting the Crucios did not leave her body as cold and achy as it had the last time, but the shower made it seem like everything dirty and grimy about the War was evaporating away. 

When Hermione left the bathroom, her long curly ringlets still damp, she half-expected Malfoy to be in the armchair, waiting for her with his usual aggravating smirk.

But the sitting area was empty. There was however a tray of food.

Upon closer inspection, she observed the silver platter contained only a single serving of cottage pie, green beans, and bread. There was also one goblet of red wine and a pitcher of water along with another glass.

Malfoy was obviously not planning on returning tonight. At least she assumed so; maybe he had given his house elf special orders.

Not wanting to think too much about where he was or when he would return, Hermione decided to eat her dinner in peace. She deserved that.

Five days had passed and Malfoy had still not returned.

Other than the fact that she was growing restless, Hermione tried not to let it bother her. His loyalties to Voldemort were really none of her business unless her presence had been discovered. It was risky, she knew, going out into the battle as Malfoy’s Death Eater. But she somehow knew that Malfoy had accounted for those risks; it was probably why he had called for her closer to the end of the fight.

The house elf was still refusing to speak to her, even though she was only innocently asked for books and copies of the Daily Prophet. With not much else to do, Hermione had taken to writing. Malfoy’s desk at least had plenty of parchment, ink, and quills; she started off by drafting long lists of all the curses she could possibly use in the battle, the ones she had memorised during her weeks at Shell. After that, she wrote a short note to Ron, and a much longer letter to Harry. She tucked the parchment away, doubtful she would never send them. But the act of relinquishing those heavy thoughts to the paper seemed to take the burden off her mind.

It was near nightfall when the idea came to her. 

His Dark Mark.

The Wards.

It was quite silly for the notion to not have occurred to her sooner. When Malfoy had first brought her to his manor, he didn’t apparate her directly into his room. She assumed it had to do with the protective magic. He couldn’t just intentionally bring her his home just the same way that she couldn’t leave his room once he had activated new Wards around the door and walls. But he had just recently apparated her to and from the battlefield with him.

Was there some type of familial or part of his magical trace within the Mark he had given her?

Hermione was sure of it. But she didn’t know what it meant exactly. She assumed Malfoy could call her or she could activate the Mark to alert him. But what did this mean in terms of the manor?

She was already wearing her bathrobe which she had also decided to sleep in the last few nights. It may not have been the wisest choice of apparel to test her theory in, but Hermione couldn’t help herself.

Quickly, Hermione scampered over to the double-doored entrance of the bedroom. Preparing to feel the harsh sting of magic or the heavy vibrations of the Wards, she drew in a breath as her hand pressed down upon the door knob.

With a slight creak, the door opened effortlessly. Pleased with her deductions, Hermione could feel the joy bubbling up from within.

Malfoy was not holding her captive.

Well, he was. But not in the typical way. Maybe in a way that was even more twisted, more confusing when Hermione actually stopped to consider it. Whatever his motives though, he was done with locking her in his room. Being confined had really taken its toll on her mentally, so this also felt like a weight lifted.

Stepping out into the hallway, Hermione was taken aback by the vastness of it. There were doors upon doors in both directions, though Malfoy’s room was the closest to the grand staircase.

“Lumos.”

There were candelabras every few feet, but the flickering flames were nearly dying out. For being the middle of summer, she couldn’t get over how cold the corridor felt. The entire floor felt eerie and abandoned. She was beginning to rethink that the manor was a headquarters for the Death Eaters. There was just a deadly silence and pervasive coldness to the stone floors that told her elsewise. 

Surely, if Voldemort himself was somewhere within the location, Hermione assumed there would be more raucous voices and Death Eaters roaming about; there would be the tangible air of hatred and anger…the rotting smell and feeling of death only his snake-like resurrected body emitted.

But the surroundings in the hallway only gave off a great sadness. Hermione didn’t like the vibration of it no matter how subtle; a sorrow so deep that it could burrow itself in her soul and never leave.

She was just about to turn back into the bedroom when a small bead of light caught her eye. It wasn’t her wand; the Lighting Charm had cast more a blue overall glaze to the doors and walls around her.

No, this was like a tiny silver round flame; it was so small, hovering in the air just an arm’s reach away from her.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione kept her illuminated wand out in front of her. As she stepped towards the ball of light, she was surprised to see its movements growing more frantic. It was dancing away from her, as if asking her to follow it down the corridor.

Steeling her nerves, Hermione took a few cautious steps towards the silver light. It bounced almost with excitement as she followed it into the continuing darkness.

“Filthy, unworthy scum.”

“Disgusting, soiling these halls of noble blood–”

Hermione jumped. Her pulse quickened with the thought of not being alone before she observed that the conversations were just coming from two miserable Malfoy portraits who had been awakened by her wandlight.

“Silencio.” She whispered the spell, not sure if it would have an effect. But the pointy, pale wizards in the paintings scowled when they realised their mouths were now moving without sound.

Turning her attention back to the floating silver ball, Hermione resumed her exploration, despite her own nagging inner voice that urged her to go back.

The light suddenly stopped outside a door near the end of the corridor. It was faint at first, but grew in intensity as she approached–someone was crying.

The voice, undoubtedly female, was now sobbing uncontrollably. The cries were beginning to sound choked, as if whoever it was had reached a point where her voice could no longer function. 

A cold, terrible feeling washed over Hermione as her body was locked and listening. It was like someone was carving into her heart with a blade made of ice. Standing frozen outside the doorway was enough to make her forlorn and hurt. She knew that feeling all too well…the way the body almost shuts down in pain when there are no more tears left.

“You …you brought this upon yourself. You pathetic, weak, traitorous excuse for a-”

Hermione’s heart dropped into her stomach. Paralyzed in her fear, she watched in horror as the silver light disappeared before her eyes.

There was another witch’s voice–this one scathing, harsh, and accusatory. But it had suddenly stopped.

“–Who’s there?”

Hermione could hear the sharp clicks of heels making their way towards the door.

Apparate! Apparate to the room–apparate anywhere!

She wanted to move, wanted to run, wanted to escape into the air. But the coldness of the manor combined with the heaviness and fear in her heart made it impossible. Her feet were stuck; she had already waited too long, now it was too late—

There was so much sadness. It made her feel dead inside.

The doorknob was just beginning to turn when Hermione felt it.

The Dark Mark within her skin was tingling with urgency. A strong jolt beneath the ink demanded her to take action when the rest of her body was numb. Pointing her wand to her arm, Hermione felt her body retreat within itself and then suddenly she was gone, her entire being pulled away into nothingness.

She arrived gasping and shaking, feeling herself land forcefully upon something solid.

There was a hand reaching for the back of her head, pressing her into the woodsy scent of evergreens and amber. Then there was a heartbeat against her ear, the soft pulse of which calmed her own down.

Malfoy .

He was holding her close, perhaps too tightly, for Hermione to even get her bearings. Her eyes were streaked with tears, but she was starting to make out the forest green walls of the bedroom and the oil lamps casting a warm glow across the floor.

Her heavy breathing was starting to even out. She was safe.

As if hearing her internal voice, Malfoy released her from his arms.

Hermione expected him to lash out or to at least lecture her about leaving the bedroom, but he did not seem cross.

Instead, he let out a short breath and a small hint of relief flashed over his features. But as soon as it happened, he tried to blink it away in an effort to conceal the look.

It was useless, she thought. 

The lightness of Malfoy’s eyes would forever give away even his most restricted and forbidden feelings. When his guard was down, his irises were the same color as the morning mist, the afternoon rain, and the moonlit clouds. To Hermione, they were a window to the past, a glimpse into simpler times; they were a reminder that beauty and magic still existed in a world tarnished by death and destruction.

“You should know better than to go roaming the halls wearing that,” he drawled, choosing to break what had nearly been a real moment.

“Right,” Hermione said absentmindedly. They both knew the bathrobe was of no matter; Malfoy was deflecting for a reason she could not discern. She had so many questions…she wanted to know who was behind the door she encountered and the source of the silver ball of light, but the very thought of entering the hall again made her blood run cold.

Hermione was so consumed by the memory of the horrid crying that she hadn’t even noticed Malfoy walk away from her.

He was standing by his wardrobe, beginning to undress. 

Her first thought was to look away; Malfoy really had no decency, but then again, this was his room.

But as Hermione began to turn, something fiery red against his porcelain chest caught her eye.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

Chapter Text

Malfoy continued to undress and then dress for night, pulling a soft black shirt over his head without so much as a glance at Hermione.

But it was too late. She had noticed the fresh wounds; the deep scarlet gashes on his torso were burned into her vision even after he ignored her.

“What happened?” she asked again, this time raising her voice. But Malfoy still didn’t acknowledge her; the way he ignored her made her feel like a ghost.

He avoided her gaze, turning purposely from her to disappear into the bathroom; he then made an effort to forcefully shut the door.

Folding her arms across her chest, Hermione let out a frustrated huff. 

She knew he didn’t have to answer to her, yet his distance was off putting. There was so much she didn’t know about his life as a Death Eater, about his loyalties to Voldemort. Where did he go for days at a time? What types of missions was he called on?

It also seemed strange that Malfoy would be punished after that most recent battle. So many Order members had died along with Lupin and Moody; Hermione assumed that Voldemort would have been pleased about that.

Glancing at the bed, Hermione suddenly felt tense again. 

Her thoughts and notions towards Malfoy, the War, the Prophecy, and her place in life were ever-changing, evolving at such a rapid speed that she herself could not keep up with them. 

It was rational that she should not care about Malfoy or his comings and goings. But, in a way, he had fought against the Order for her, healed her battle injuries, and rescued her from whatever darkness was in the Manor corridor. Physical tension aside, Hermione could not deny her curiosity about his life or his interest in her. 

Why had he given her his Mark?

Malfoy had been in her memories; from what little he observed, he knew she would be more than willing to take revenge on the Order. He obviously hated the Order. But specifically, what exactly did he have to gain with her on his side?

It was against Hermione’s nature to live with more questions than answers. Just days ago, she had vowed to mentally break Malfoy the same way she did Moody and Shacklebolt. However, this was before she had realised that he had other intentions for her, before she knew that he saw her potential to fight and didn’t want to rape her or keep her hidden away.

Malfoy kept his emotions carefully guarded; for as long as Hermione had been with him these few weeks, she realised how little they had actually talked. But it made sense. Whatever existed between them in the War, she didn’t want to consider it a relationship. The word had a lot of implications that were all too close, too real to even consider. 

They weren’t friends. 

“Nox.”

With the flick of her wand, Hermione turned off the lights and crawled into the bed. 

Malfoy’s bed.

A shiver ran through her at the reminder; she didn’t think she would ever get used to the idea. They had technically only slept together once. As far as his wounds were concerned, he didn’t seem to be in his usual mood, pushing the boundaries between them to get a rise out of her. Maybe he was in too much pain.

Perhaps she could be the one to do so this time in an attempt to shed some light on his motivations.

When the door to the bathroom creaked open, Hermione made sure to shut her eyes. She nestled into the cool, silky sheets and concentrated on taking even, measured breaths. She could pretend to be asleep.

Feeling the mattress sink down on the other side, she was keenly aware of Malfoy sliding into the bed, stretching out and pulling the blanket over his body.

She was waiting…waiting for Malfoy to say something irritating along the lines of ‘I know you're not asleep, Granger,’ or maybe ‘Goodnight, mudblood.’

But there was only silence, a quiet so heavy Hermione was able to hear own fake breathing. 

Either he really was hurting or exhausted or both. But that shouldn’t matter, Hermione told herself. He had ignored her boundaries before with both his body and his words…why couldn’t she do the same?

Steeling her nerves, Hermione lightly brushed the covers off her body. She turned ever so slightly to face him. She was still wearing the fluffy bathrobe. While she wore nothing underneath it, it was far from a seductive look. But considering what happened a few days ago, she assumed it was probably a good thing. Her cheeks flushed at the recollection of how they had rubbed up on one another fully clothed. Neither one of them had made any effort to stop…it had felt so good.

Hermione closed her eyes again in an effort to will the memory away. Logically, it was foolish of her to have acted so primal with Malfoy. But she would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t want it to happen again. Logic and reason were slowly becoming foreign concepts. 

Without another thought, Hermione sat up and retrieved her wand from the nightstand.

“Lumos.”

In one quick motion, she shuffled closer to Malfoy. Sitting on her knees, her fingers reached out to grab his shirt.

“Let me see,” she whispered.

“Fuck, Granger! What do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy had already recoiled from her. He sat up so abruptly, he was dangerously close to falling off the edge of bed.

“Nothing you haven’t already done to me,” Hermione replied plainly. “Those didn’t look like ordinary wounds, from what I saw.”

“It’s because they’re not,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go back to sleep.”

But Hermione reached for him again, grabbing hold of his wrist this time. “Just let me take a look at your wounds, okay? I can try to heal you.”

“You can’t,” Malfoy said with a hint of anger laced beneath the words.  He withdrew his arm forcefully from her touch. “They’re meant to heal, so just forget it.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Not meant to heal?” she questioned. “Is it some kind of curse? Dark Magic?”

Malfoy was back to resting his head on his pillow. “You could say that.” 

Hermione paused. She had initiated the interaction simply to get Malfoy to talk. She was genuinely curious about the gashes on his chest, which had been glowing red when she had seen them. But she had to tread carefully…he was not the kind of person she could easily pick apart. He also wasn’t about to let her take off his shirt at the moment.

Inching away from him, Hermione extinguished the wand light and laid back down.

“Why did Lupin and Moody even bother to show up at the battle? Everyone was already dead,” she commented, her tone cynical. She hoped that by changing the subject, Malfoy might divulge…well, anything.

Malfoy laughed darkly. “I think you answered your question. It appeared to be Lupin’s job to report on the expendables.”

“You’ve seen him before then?” Hermione asked cautiously.

“Every time,” he confirmed. “Though never Moody, or Shacklebolt for that matter.”

Hermione pondered the information. “Why didn’t you kill Lupin before then?”

Malfoy let out an amused tsk. “Because I had better things to do.” From the sound of his voice, she could tell he was smirking. “I knew I’d get to him eventually.”

“I see.” Hermione was conscious of keeping the conversation civil. She didn’t want to seem like she was prying, even though she was. “So,” she began hesitantly, “the battle was a success then, I’m assuming?” 

“You were there. Everyone died,” he answered casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

“So...that’s a ‘yes’?” Hermione didn’t realise she had bit down on her lip. The thought of all the young Order fighters being lured into a losing battle made her stomach churn.

She couldn't see in the dark, but she could sense that Malfoy had turned towards her. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Oh,” Hermione remarked, “I was just thinking that your Dark Lord would be very pleased, you know, with Lupin and Moody gone. But—” her breath caught and she suddenly regretted bringing up what she really wanted to know. “Never mind.”

But Malfoy was already intrigued. “No, go on. What are you on about?”

Hermione tensed. “It’s just you were called away so suddenly. And then you came back injured.”

Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh. “I already said that is not your concern.”

 “I know,” she continued. “But if you are going to bring me out to fight—look, I’m just trying to understand. If you were punished…well, that just doesn’t make sense to me.”

Malfoy was silent.

But he wasn’t stopping her, so Hermione continued. “The Order has to be losing. I think you already told me as much.”

“They are,” Malfoy said, his voice clipped. “Lupin and Moody were of no greater importance than any other fools from the Resistance.”

Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t sure if he could notice in the darkness.

“The Dark Lord is not particularly impressed just because everyone is dead,” Malfoy explained. “The losses on both sides…they’re detrimental to the wizarding population as a whole.”

She pondered the information. “That’s obvious,” she said. “But isn’t it your job to kill?”

“It is,” Malfoy replied matter-of-factly. “It’s also my hobby.” 

Whipping her head to face him, Hermione had the distinct feeling he was smirking again.

“I don’t understand what that means,” she said quietly. “Though I don’t know if I want to.”

“You don’t,” Malfoy assured her, chuckling. 

Hermione could feel the prickles on her arm; his nonchalance made her skin crawl. She had not forgotten Malfoy was the deadliest Death Eater, but it was disconcerting to hear him be so casual about it.

“Your wounds or the curse or whatever,” she started, determined to at least get some part of her curiosity satisfied, “they do close eventually, right? They may not fully heal, but I can’t imagine you just live like this.”

Her voice trailed away. She half-expected Malfoy to interject or reprimand her for getting too personal again.

He seemed to be holding back, but then spoke. “There’s a lot that I’ve learned to live with, Granger.”

“Right,” she remarked, lost in her thoughts. For some reason, her mind’s eye was picturing the old photograph of young Malfoy with his parents she came across under his desk. Once again, she couldn’t reconcile how that innocent face became a killer. “I can imagine,” she said, her voice cool and free of judgement.

Malfoy let out a short gasp of breath. “Can you?” 

His voice was suddenly lighter. The question was genuine and there was something almost hopeful in his tone.

“Hmm,” Hermione said. Her heart was pitter-pattering; she didn’t want to think she was on the edge of a breakthrough, but this was certainly something. “‘The Shield of Achilles,’” she explained. “W.H. Auden. Have you read it?”

“I don’t read Muggle rubbish–”

“The Iliad perhaps? Well, if you did, you would know that Thetis requests Hephaestus to forge a shield for her son, the warrior Achilles. It was supposed to represent the valor and honor of war with vines and olive trees, orderly cities, flowery altars, music and ritual dance, tall ships upon vast seas. But in Auden’s version, it doesn’t. Do you want to know what is depicted on the shield instead?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Grey skies. A million expressionless eyes. Voices without faces giving orders. A child who knows only of a world where girls are raped and boys knife one another…a world where no promises are kept, where it’s unheard of to weep for another’s pain.”

Hermione clenched her fists, bracing herself for Malfoy’s reaction. The air between them was tense and heavy.

“Your Muggle story,” Malfoy said finally, “is relevant to the Order. They come into battle passionately naïve, unprepared and untrained, willing to die blindly as heroes. Death is honorable and violence is justifiable only because their cause is worthy.”

“It's a poem,” Hermione clarified, “And you can’t blame those who fought and died foolishly for the Order. Not when they didn’t know any better. Not when their own leaders are cowards who refuse to strategise. But your Dark Lord’s side is no different. For someone so determined to keep the magical world pure…,” she trailed off, thinking about the darker images of the poem. “There’s no magic.”

Malfoy scoffed. “I suppose there are Death Eaters just as blind to the futility of war as members of the Resistance—in fact, I know there are. After all this time, I know the Dark Lord’s objective is self-serving. But he leads through instilling fear and shame. There are no promises of glory. There is no honor in dying.”

“That doesn’t change the fact,” Hermione said, “that everything's ugly. This isn't a world I’d want to raise a child in. This isn’t a world I will ever belong in. You can't possibly relate. Because what are you doing besides willingly serving another’s self-serving agenda? Coming home with incurable lacerations? But that must not bother you because you’re…what? You’re loyal to that pure-blood ideology? Because you’ve taken the Dark Mark?”

Malfoy was quiet again. She wasn’t quite sure, but across the bed, she thought she saw his hands trembling.

“You,” Malfoy seethed. “You. I spared you the pitiful details of my observations from your memories. You can at least have the decency to not objectify my place in this Hell. You don’t know anything about my reasons for what I do or who I kill. Nothing in this War is that simple or black and white…I would have thought you of all people would understand that.”

Hermione swallowed; her throat felt dry and her head suddenly felt feverish. She had not meant to make him angry, but if this is what it took to get him to open up, she was not sorry.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know about this fucking War. Because the last time I checked, you were hidden away by the Order; nothing you could have said or done would have convinced them that you were anything but pathetic and useless. But I saw inside your mind…if they would have let you, you would have killed me for their cause without a second thought. You were just as caught up in the Prophecy as anyone else.”

“That’s not entirely true!” Hermione tried to interject. “There were a lot of things I said to the Order to try and get them–”

In a short, violently abrupt move, Malfoy was upon her. In the pitch darkness, she could feel the bed shift; the weight of him pressed into her, his knees dug into her thighs. He didn’t hear her out. His hands were gripping her arms roughly.

“And in case it wasn’t clear, mudblood, my mission for the last six months has been to find you, rape and impregnate you, then after you give birth, kill you. At least that is how the Dark Lord interprets the Prophecy. Would it make you feel better to hear me say I plan to do that because it fits your narrative of me?”

Hermione could feel her heart thumping. She had felt uncertain when Malfoy was this close before; she was used to that spark between their bodies. But this time, an icy fear was concurrently running through her veins.

“No,” Hermione insisted. “But I’m also not going to thank you for having enough of a moral code to not rape–”

“Fuck,” Malfoy said through clenched teeth. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. “I wouldn’t expect you to. What is it that you want from me then? Do you want to hear that I’m numb to torture and killing? That I’ve seen the lights go out in hundreds, maybe thousands of eyes and I don’t even dream about it anymore…is that what you want to hear?”

His legs bore down on her with so much force, she cried out from the pain. “Malfoy,” she gasped. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I know you. That I know anything.”

He eased some of the pressure off but remained on top of her, locking her both her arms and lower half into place.

“I think,” Hermione attempted to explain, “that I meant to say that this War isn’t who we are. I don’t know your motives and," she paused for a moment, still feeling her heart thudding with abandon, “I’m still figuring out mine. Vengeance can’t last forever.”

Malfoy released one hand from her. He covered his face, masking an indignant snort. 

“Speak for yourself, Granger,” he said darkly. “But you’ll find out how easy it is once you find that reason. You’ll kill over and over for that one person because they’re the only one who makes your life worth living.”

Hermione’s heart nearly stopped beating–she knew, assumed rather, that he couldn’t possibly be referring to her. And yet, his reflective, ice cold eyes were boring right into her soul.

“I don’t belong,” she rasped. “You know it’s true. You call me a mudblood—ahh, don’t.”

Malfoy’s knees were pushing down on her again. This time, his hand gripped her arm with his Dark Mark. 

“What do you think this is?” he asked incredulously, attempting to twist her forearm up so she could see. “You don’t know? You can’t possibly be that daft.”

Once again, Hermione’s breath caught in her chest; at the same time, her heart was still beating overtime. She didn’t think her mind could possibly catch up to her pulse and the way she was so very aware of the blood pumping through her veins and the way she was becoming acclimated to the feel of Malfoy upon her.

“I don’t,” she said softly, letting her voice fade into nothingness. She had been so confident a moment before, so confident that she was one step ahead of him. But he was unhinged, and wild, and infuriating and intimidating, and every bit as challenging as she had always secretly desired someone to be. Just when she thought she had him unraveled, he had her pinned and there were more layers to him; despite the rage of their disagreement, she couldn’t help but think they each held the same anger, the same fears, and the same desires, as opposite as they may be.

“Oh, I think you do,” he said, this time his tone more lethal. “Mudblood.”

There was a raw edge to his voice; he was being facetious to prove a point. Malfoy, for all his intentions, did not want to see her hurting and weak. 

Hermione let her body sink into the bed; she relaxed her muscles, imagining her bones drifting down into the mattress below. She knew Malfoy would feel her lack of resistance; as if on cue, he removed his tight grip on her arms.

With a deep breath, Hermione dared herself to reach a hand up to him. She had wanted, for so long, to feel those blonde locks between her fingers, to see if his hair was soft as it looked and she imagined.

“Enlighten me,” she said, repeating his earlier choice of words while stroking her palm against the side of his head. 

As her fingertips whisked alongside his hairline, Malfoy looked down; a devilish smile played upon his features. 

“I told you I wasn’t going to let you go,” he whispered. “I keep my promises. Always.”

Hermione’s hand stilled; she didn’t want to think, didn’t want to picture how attached to one another they must have looked on the bed.

She didn’t know what to say, so she simply shook her head in understanding.

“I will never force you to fight by my side,” he continued. “But trust that if you choose to do so, no one will ever hurt you. I mean no one…the Order, the other Death Eaters, the Dark Lord. We might not have had choices in our past, in this War, but together we can change that. We can change our future.”

Her fingers brushed against his cheek as he nestled his head into her touch.

“You will come to understand me,” Malfoy said, his voice just a faint whisper. “You will.”

“Alright.” There was something grounding now about his weight on her, about the simple way in which she caressed his face. Touching him was a reminder that the only thing that mattered was this moment, not the past, and not what she couldn’t control.

“The Dark Lord,” Malfoy began, “has too much faith in me,” he explained with a dark chuckle. “I submit to him and willingly accept his punishments so he will never question my allegiance.”

“Hmm,” Hermione hummed, considering the words. 

“The Order,” he continued, his sterling eyes gazing at her intently, “had no faith in you. No trust in your intellect or abilities.”

“They didn’t,” Hermione agreed.

“The way I see it, both sides have made a grave mistake,” Malfoy said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a dark grin. 

He was looking down upon her with such fixed fascination, his eyes glittering with unrelenting intensity, telling her that together, they could make a heaven of this Hell.

Hermione’s heart again wanted to drop from her chest; meanwhile, the longer she stared at him, the more the butterflies swirled in her stomach.

Before she could think to respond, her body flinched in disappointment as Malfoy moved away.

He was back to his side of the bed, resting his head on his pillow. 

“Tomorrow, Granger.” 

The sun was peeking through the curtains too early. 

Hermione’s eyes flitted open to the harsh rays casting a line about her body. She couldn’t remember the last time the weather had been sunny. Each passing midsummer day had only been gloomy with storm clouds, but it appeared that pattern was finally going to break.

As she stretched, lifting her legs and pointing her toes under the covers, she heard the creak of a door opening and bare footsteps across the wood floor.

Malfoy was leaving the bathroom, his hair fresh and slick from a shower; a towel was wrapped around his body. The red gashes from yesterday were still present across his bare chest and back, though not as bright and startling as she had remembered.

If he knew she was staring at him, Malfoy paid no attention. He was moving rather quickly through the motions of his dressing routine, using his wand to cast the articles of his Death Eater garb over his body. His last spell placed a sturdy and shiny coat of armor flat across his middle.

Fastening a cape around his shoulders, Malfoy turned to look at her finally. He was gripping the skeletal Death Eater mask in his hand.  

His silver eyes flashed at her. “When I call for you, I want nothing more than for you to come to me.”

With a crack of Apparition, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Want.

If she wasn’t already privy to how entangled their lives and their affairs had become, she would have deemed the phrasing curious.

But it meant everything to hear Draco Malfoy speak of a desire so simply, as one might speak of wishes for a meal or an outing. The truth was their world was war-torn, bleak, and wrought with a darkness so heavy, it was suffocating. Death had debts that needed to be paid. Yet in this unimaginable reality no longer defined by goodness or beautiful things, marked only by loneliness and loss of innocence, having that one confidant who understood, that one ally you could rely on, that one person who wanted you wasn’t just significant. It was life-changing.

And so, Hermione dressed in all black once again. Without hesitation, she transfigured another dress into a battle-ready corset and body suit. She retrieved the metal mask, the eye sockets of which looked as hollow as she was used to feeling inside.

Motives be damned.

By all accounts she was a Death Eater. The enemy of the Order…the enemy to her own person. As she studied her reflection in the mirror though, she felt far from traitorous. In fact, she had never felt so new…so loyal to a repressed part of herself.

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

Hermione always had an affinity towards Nietzsche and her books, an unwavering trust in her authors and philosophers and psychologists to give her an insight into the journey and her place in it. It would be far too easy to justify her actions as the result of perpetual hopelessness, a descent into moral depravity as she blended into her surroundings. 

Perhaps though, Hermione was coming to discover, it was impossible to analyse everyone and everything. She was only starting to learn about Malfoy–what made him tick, what made him kill, and what regrets, if any, he had. But there was the mystery of him…her heart began to race thinking about the unpredictability of it all. Their interactions, characterised by knowing looks, flirtatious talk, and forbidden touches, were always too much, and never enough, at the same time.

It was safe to say now that her new choices, the decisions she had made of late and would be making, were born from out of the shadows. It didn’t make sense, but maybe she would find her light again only after embracing the dark. The Order could have driven her to absolute insanity, but instead, she was now very calm. Some might call it a thirst for power, and while that was partly true, it was more about the reclaiming of herself…revenge was just the tip of the iceberg.

There hadn’t been much time since Malfoy had left, and already Hermione could feel the goosebumps forming on her flesh against the Dark Mark. Again, it wasn’t a burning or stinging pain, but rather a rippling light as a feather from the outside in. She shivered with the thought…he might as well have been caressing her, brushing his fingertips across her skin.

He was calling for her.

With the tip of her wand pointed against her Mark, Hermione felt herself being tugged forward, her body twisting and curling into a black nothingness, spinning and then falling as she was rapidly transported to another place.

Boots solidly on the ground, Hermione stood in place to get her bearings. 

Unlike the last battle, the sky was noticeably brighter; there were no clouds of dust or ash, no residual fires from wayward spells or explosions. If she didn’t know any better, it could have been an ordinary summer’s day. In another time, this type of weather would have lightened her mood. But knowing this was the backdrop of the War made it feel fake.

The sun’s rays were unforgiving too; the air was sticky and hot even without the mask on. After casting a quick Cooling Charm, Hermione trudged forward, her heart beginning to pick up the pace with each step.

She was once again wandering through woods. The unleveled land and familiar canopies of trees in the foreground reminded her of the Forest of Dean. Walking several more feet, she had the feeling that someone was watching her. The wildnerness was unnaturally quiet except for the occasional cries of birds and rustling of branches.

Hermione was about to turn back, thinking she had made a mistake. If Malfoy so urgently needed her in battle, maybe she would have felt a stronger sense from the Dark Mark–heat or an inkling of pain.

But out of the corner of eye, some distance away, she saw something that caught her eye. 

A small green tent was set up on the edge of a blue lake. The sparkle of the water in the clearing had actually attracted her attention first. 

Gripping her wand, Hermione took a deep breath. Her heart was beating with nerves, but the adrenaline flooding her system wasn’t entirely unpleasant. As she approached the campsite, she had the gut feeling this was where she was supposed to be; where Malfoy wanted her to be.

Standing just outside the makeshift doorway, Hermione could hear voices. There was a heated conversation or an argument, something tense.

Not wanting to be caught off guard, Hermione cast a detection charm as she entered the tent.

“Revelio.”

There were no hidden sources of magic illuminated in the flare of the wandlight.

Rather, as Hermione stepped cautiously inside, she was met with a rather strange scene.

Ron and Ginny each had their wands drawn; they were surrounded on either side by Lavender Brown and two burly Order members. Hermione recognised the pair, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, as Gryffindors who had been Beaters on the Quidditch team.

The group was huddled around someone tied by magical restraints to a chair…Malfoy.

Hermione’s heart gave a lurch. There was something not right about this situation. 

Could Ron and Ginny really have been so foolish to believe they had caught him? They had already proven themselves incapable against him in battle. They knew Malfoy alone had killed off so many soldiers in the Order…surely they knew they were no match. Were they not aware this was a trap? 

Hermione knew it the moment her eyes locked on his from behind her mask. 

Ron was casting a Stinging Jinx at Malfoy, who didn’t even flinch, not registering the sensation from the protection of his Death Eater suit. He was leaning back in the chair, his legs spread in a posture so wildly casual despite the wispy red chains that held him to the wooden chair. 

Malfoy had also been unmasked; his platinum hair was lightly tousled and there were a few beads of sweat dotted across his forward. His cheeks were mildly flushed, but just as Hermione had assumed, he was not the least bit concerned to be tied up. In fact, when he saw her, he flashed her a maniacal grin.

His eyes were sparkling with amusement as they focused on her, alerting the group to her presence. Malfoy was scheming.

“ Incarcer –”

“Protego! ” 

Ginny had attempted to cast chains on her as well, but she was not fast enough. 

Hermione kept the shield spell in place, knowing not to lower it until she fully devised a plan in her head. Everyone in the tent it now had their wands aimed right at her instead of Malfoy.

“He said you’d be here,” Ron said bitterly. “It’s true then.”

Hermione only shook her head ominously in the affirmative. She wasn’t in the mood to explain herself, least of all to Ron.

“Maybe she can tell us then,” Ginny started, glancing at her brother warily. “Where are Moody and Lupin? Did you…did you kill them?”

At this, Malfoy gave a barking laugh.

Ginny turned quickly, pointing her wand at him again. “They’re dead,” she said to the group, her voice trying to disguise any fear. “We can at least confirm for Shacklebolt.”

Hermione, still raising the shield of blue light, took a step closer to Ginny. She could still feel Malfoy’s eyes on her; she had never been so aware of another in her periphery, feeling drawn to him.

“What does it matter?” Hermione questioned dully. “The Order is no worse off without them. Shacklebolt should hardly find this a surprise.”

“It matters!” Ron interjected, raising his voice. “Bloody Hell! We’re talking about peoples’ lives here. Lupin always brought back any bodies he found, so now without him to do so—”

“Oh,” Hermione started, this time feeling an uncontrollable rage bubbling up from deep within her. “How noble of him. To never fight himself, but to deliver families their dead.”

“Weasley’s just upset there will be no one to bring his body back to his mother.”

Hermione and Ron both looked at Malfoy who had spoken. His eyes were still glittering, still focused on her as though she were the only one in the room.

Ron’s face turned bright red, but he ignored Malfoy, instead choosing to glare at Hermione. “You don’t know how Lupin fought, Hermione–it’s useless, useless for me to explain it to you. Did you forget about Tonks? Either you have no empathy or you’re Imperiused.”

“Don’t lecture me on empathy, Ronald,” Hermione replied darkly. 

Ginny was still holding up her wand fiercely. “Be on your guard,” she warned the group. “I’m willing to bet she is Imperiused.”

“Imperiused or not…this is dangerous,” Lavender started to back up slowly, making an effort to position herself behind Ron. “I don’t like this.” The colour had drained from her face and she held her wand with shaky hands.

Malfoy let out a low chuckle. “Want to show them?” He winked at Hermione and although his body language was still relaxed, there was a suggestive edge to his tone.

In one quick move, Hermione tore the Death Eater mask from her face. 

“I’m capable of resisting the Imperius Curse, you know,” she said, her voice concealing her full contempt. 

Ginny let out a sigh. “I don’t understand then, Hermione,” she pleaded. “Why? Why are you doing this? This is what the Order tried to protect you from. I’m–we’re sorry. You didn’t want to be locked up–”

“Don’t apologise to her, Ginny! If she wasn’t Imperiused, there was no reason for her to Crucio me!” Ron was shouting, turning towards Hermione now. “How could you just kill Moody and Lupin like that? Knowing what Malfoy wants to do to you…or has done,” he added with a shudder. “There’s no way the Hermione I knew would do these things. The Hermione I knew understood her place.”

Hermione let out a sharp gasp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “You’re mental if you think the Death Eaters will accept you. They’ll kill you when he’s done with you.”

“I’m aware,” she replied coolly. Hermione didn’t want to argue. She was so tired of Ron’s outbursts; she realised it was why she hadn’t thought of him and didn’t miss their friendship.

Ron shook his head in disgust. “You must be pretty desperate then, starved for attention, to cast Unforgivables and solicit Malfoy. He’s just using you. I don’t understand.”

“You’re not meant to understand,” Hermione responded matter-of-factly, her eyes drifting down to Malfoy for guidance; he appeared thoroughly entertained by the exchange. She smiled at him. “It’s our Prophecy.”

“Merlin,” Ron said, his eyes widening with disbelief. “I thought you were selfish before. You refused to hide away, to do the one thing that could help Harry win this war–the war he is fighting for your kind no less. Now look at you,” he grimaced at her.

Not hiding his loathing, Ron continued, his voice thick and bitter. “You always have to be right, Hermione. It's the most pathetic thing about you. You think you’re infallible. But you’re wrong. Malfoy hates your guts. You Know Who can’t wait to see you die. You can’t admit that no one likes you. And even now, if you continue like this, Ginny and I will just have to…,” he trailed off and then let out a short breath, “kill you.”

Hermione laughed. Malfoy was snickering too, but Ron just looked enraged by their reactions. Meanwhile, Lavender and the Order members raised their wands, trying to be intimidating.

“It’s not funny,” Ron reprimanded. 

“I don’t like this,” Lavender repeated, her voice quaking in fear. “Let’s just take them to Shacklebolt or get out of here.”

“No, Lav,” Ron demanded. “We finally caught him. I refuse to back down in fear. She hurt me once, but she won’t do it again.” He gave Hermione a scathing look. “We were friends. We’ve been through so much together. That doesn’t mean anything to you?” 

“Hermione,” Ginny said with quiet desperation. “We don’t want to do this. But you’ve tortured, you've killed our side now; you’ve given us no choice.”

“No choice,” Hermione laughed again, shaking her head in exasperation. “First of all, I wanted to kill in order to face this Prophecy long ago, but no one let me. Secondly, you don’t know if I’ve killed. And thirdly, you’re not killing me.”

Ginny looked at Ron nervously now. “Do you want to ask?” She glanced at Malfoy, then back to her brother. “I mean…since we’ve caught him? She knows the Death Eaters will kill her.”

Ron raised a skeptical brow. “No,” he answered breathily. “This is what Moody and Lupin probably tried to do and now they're dead. She would have killed Malfoy already if she wanted to.”

“Yes, but,” Ginny looked at Lavender and the other boys encouragingly, “there’s more of us to take them down. Maybe she just couldn’t do it on her own. It couldn’t hurt to ask,” she explained, as if Hermione was out of earshot.

There was a rigid silence until Ron spoke. “Fine,” he began reluctantly. “But I’m tired of this being on her terms. I’m not giving up. Fred and George and so many others didn’t die in vain. Harry will win. We need to be focused on the hunt—we should be helping him. I say we demand it.”

Ginny nodded, turning bravely to face Hermione again. 

“Listen,” Ron addressed Hermione with a callous finality. “Either you kill Malfoy right now or this entire group will kill you. And then him, of course. You wanted your chance to help the Order, here it is. If you still think for one moment that your life and your choices are more important than Harry winning this War, then you’re sorely mistaken. This is your last chance to do the right thing, Hermione.”

Lavender was still shaking. “This isn’t a good idea. I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. Malfoy is restrained and Hermione’s just playing dress up,” Ron said determinedly. His voice grew suddenly softer. “I’m giving her one last chance only because she was my friend and deep down, I know this isn’t who she is.”

“What if,” Lavender’s voice trembled until it was barely audible. “What if she’s already pregnant? Ron, it’s too late for this.”

“Hermione…are you?” Ginny’s voice was just as shaky. The question seemingly went into a void. “Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

There was a strained silence. Everyone was waiting for Hermione to speak, waiting for her move. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her. But there was only one person’s gaze she cared to return.

Her heart was pounding forcibly, ready to thump right out of her chest. Even with the Cooling Charm she activated earlier, she was feeling feverish.

Slowly, very slowly, Hermione lowered her wand, releasing the magical shield. She was aware of Ginny exhaling a tense breath and could vaguely see Lavender cowering behind Ron again.

With a careful, conscious effort, Hermione took a step closer to Malfoy in the chair. He still appeared at ease.

As she pointed her wand to him, he gave her a devilish smirk. Despite the fact the room wanted him dead, his face betrayed no emotion, no display of anything besides a telling look that was only meant for her. Those grey eyes were mostly clear, but there was a playful glint that hinted he was holding a secret, maybe a silent admittance of ‘ I trust you.’

Deliberately, Hermione moved closer and raised her wand, letting the tip of it graze him just under his chin. She was so near to Malfoy now, she could feel their shared heat, that undeniable and inexplicable spark that always ignited between them. The energy was giving her life, giving her the edge she needed to take a risk and the permission to be reckless. 

Without warning, Hermione lunged forward, positioning herself onto Malfoy’s lap. As she straddled him, the corners of his lips twisted into a dark grin. Out of her side vision, she could see wands directed at her and heard the beginning vocalisation of a spell from Ginny.

“Confrin–”

“Wait,” Hermione gasped, once again ensuring that the end of her wand was touching Malfoy’s chin. “I forgive you, Ginny.”

Hermione nodded to her and then glanced at Malfoy, to indicate that she would be continuing. Meanwhile, her other hand trailed down his front, her fingers skimming along his protective armor.

There was stillness again; Ginny’s wand arm froze as she stopped the incantation.

For an excruciatingly long minute, no one moved a muscle as they waited with bated breath.

Then, with a certain elegance, Hermione arched her back and stretched her hand out, reeling her wand around in one even, circular motion. 

The trajectory of her magic’s path was aimed straight for Malfoy.

“Membrum Confractus.”

The curse was already whispered, but with an abrupt swivel of her hips, she shifted the direction of her wand, concentrating on sending the spell just to the right.

“Ah..Ahh!” 

“No…”

“Stop her!” 

“Bloody Hell!

...

“ Auget Dolor .”

By the time Hermione recited the second part, multiplying the effects of the torturous curse, Ginny and Lavender had already hit the ground. 

“Ron, my knee!” Lavender cried out in pain, realising with horror that she was stuck. “Help!”

Hermione’s curse had caused each person’s limbs to tear at random. The sound of crunching bone and the crackling churn of the severed ligaments and tendons was nauseating.

Ron was swearing under his breath, trying to straighten out his wand arm to retaliate. One of the Order boys was attempting to do the same, applying pressure to a dislocated shoulder.

At the same time, Ginny was wincing and gasping from her affliction, calling out for the others as she was crawling away, one leg obviously out of commission, using her hands to drag herself to the other side of the tent.

No longer concerned with the threat of the group, Hermione turned back to Malfoy. Wrapping one arm around his neck, she nestled in close to him, wanting to feel the reassurance of his touch, the gentle throb from his steady pulse.

As her head rested against his chest, she could feel her own heart rate begin to decrease.

“Finite.”

She flicked her wand effortlessly to counter the locks of Malfoy’s chains. Suddenly freed, she could feel his body flinch. He jerked his head to her and brought a hand up to the small of her back.

As he held her, Hermione knew the ghost of a grin was forming upon his lips as he whispered into ear.

“That’s my girl.”

His voice was low and gravelly; she wanted to bottle it up and replay the words over and over. It was damn impossible to ignore the way her own heart was bursting or the goosebumps that prickled along her skin or the butterflies that were trapped in her stomach. 

Letting out a short breath, Hermione looked at him again, noticing his eyes flash at her with approval. No one had ever looked at her like that with such reverence.

“Malfoy.” 

His name fell from her lips haphazardly. It was the entirely wrong time, but the only thing she wanted to do right now was kiss him without abandon, feel both of them let go of whatever fears and reservations that were in the way…give into this magnetic force that somehow always left them breathless and electrified in each other's presence.

“Bombarda Maxima! ”

But an explosion was hurled their way; Hermione braced herself for the impact of the blast, feeling her body break away from Malfoy with crushing force.

In the midst of the detonation, the tent collapsed; Hermione felt the intense thud from a metal pole slamming against the back of her head.

Everything went dark.

But even in the split moment of darkness, she felt no fear, no sense that she was alone. She just knew she had to get to Malfoy.

Blinking her eyes back open, Hermione's attention was drawn to flames, everything in the vicinity on fire. Unhurt but dizzy from the blow, she rose unsteadily to her feet. Through the hazy smoke and swirling colours of curses and spells, she could hear shouting.

Ron and the other Order boys were locked in a fiery dual against Malfoy who was holding his own. It appeared that neither Ron or the Beaters were skilled enough to have released a lethal curse yet.

Ginny was nowhere to be found and Lavender was still slinking about on all fours, desperately searching for something.

“The Port Key,” she screamed, her voice frantic. “Where is it! Somebody help me!”

Another heavy blast shook the ground causing Hermione to nearly lose her balance again. She tried to rush forward, to join Malfoy’s side, but the smoke was too suffocating, filling her eyes and lungs.

Out of nowhere, she felt a strong hand grip her forearm.

“Don’t move, Granger.”

Malfoy was holding her tightly with one hand as he whipped his wand directly into the sky above them.

“Vertiginem Capitis.”

Suddenly, the remnants of the tent started to whirl. Hermione could hear distant echoes, the air filled with cries of distress and pain as she witnessed the sensation of everything and everyone around her spinning perilously out of control. In the center of the twisting, black vortex, she observed bodies being tossed around, the hands and legs flailing around like rag dolls.

But she was out of harm's way; her body was tethered to the ground, anchored by Malfoy whose touch kept her safely by his side.

With precision, Malfoy relinquished the dark spell.

“Incarcerous.”

Just as Ron’s body was flung to the ground, Malfoy had sent chains around both his wrist and ankles, each of which looked battered and blue.

A few feet ahead, she could see at least one of the Order members was dead. Hermione observed the other boy prodding him, trying to shake him awake despite his evident unconsciousness.

“Avada Kedavra.”

But it was useless. Malfoy strode past them, casually speaking the Death Curse like a passing greeting. Clearly, he was interested in taking only one prisoner.

Lavender was crying again, half tears, half blood this time running down her face. Something had happened to her, Hermione thought; her vision was likely gone, but her hands were still desperately clawing the ground, hopelessly looking to grasp the object which would transport her out.

“Please…no,” Lavender sobbed, her cries becoming more distressed as she realised her hands were now touching a pair of dragonhide boots.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Everything was eerily quiet now.

Malfoy was surveying the contents and remains of the tent, as if he too were searching for something or someone in the smoky aftermath.

Ron, chained and bound to the ground, was starting to sniffle. His round eyes were wet and sorry-looking, filled with equal parts regret and horror. 

“Hermione,” he choked. Ron strained his neck upwards to get her attention. Hermione couldn't tell if he was solely in pain or trying to escape the restraints; either way, he thrashed about in a pitiful manner. “Hermione…”

Upon the second utterance of her name, Malfoy ceased his inspection. His head snapped automatically in her direction.

He turned swiftly, stomping across the grounds. He didn’t halt until he reached Ron. 

Hovering over top of him, Hermione could see Malfoy’s brow furled with agitation as he leaned down.

“Don’t you fucking say her name,” he growled menancingly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Segmentum.”

Hermione’s hands clasped over her mouth in shock as she realised what was happening.

As if it were a dagger, Malfoy was using his wand to slice open the top of Ron’s throat. There was a strangled cry, then the sound of gurgling as Malfoy reached his hand inside Ron' neck, digging around until he pulled out what appeared to be bloodied piece of rubber with strings.

He calmly gripped the small organ between his gloved fingers and held it up, studying it with a look of disgust before tossing it aside.

The larynx. Ron's vocal chords.

“Episkey.”

Just as calmly, Malfoy closed the wound, then scourgified the blood off his hands. Standing up and placing a boot upon Ron’s heaving chest, he looked at Hermione.

“I planned to do that.”

Hermione simply nodded, folding her arms across her chest. A shiver ran through her; she felt half-terrified, half-thrilled as she considered the implications of his violent action.

“I have an errand to run,” Malfoy began, gesturing towards Ron. “A delivery for the Dark Lord.”

She shook her head in understanding, not sure what else she was supposed to do.

“You should Apparate back to my room,” he said. “Wait up for me.”

Before she could think to say anything, Malfoy lowered himself to the ground and gripped Ron’s shirt. 

In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

Chapter Text

In the late afternoon, Hermione let the water run over her in the shower, first on the coldest setting and then the warmest. However, the jarring change in temperature was not enough to shake the sick feeling that was settling over her. Her head felt heavy as a boulder and flashes from the day’s events in her mind made her nauseous.

Remembering the crunch of bone was enough to make her dry heave. But when she recalled Lavender’s cries for help and the fact that her curse had actually caused limbs to break, she couldn’t help but sink to the tiled floor and throw up.

It was mostly bile. Once Hermione was sure the contents of her stomach had been emptied, she rinsed herself off and turned off the taps, making sure to wring any excess water out of her hair. She stepped out the glass door of the shower and somehow felt refreshed.

The mirror was fogged up; she waited impatiently before bringing her hand to wipe across the surface, not wanting to dissolve the steam completely from the room. She took extra care in casting spells to brush her teeth and dry her hair; it was time well spent if her reflection could remind her of who she really was.

Casual cruelness.

The words entered her mind with the memory of the alarmingly calm way in which Malfoy had carried himself in battle. He didn’t debate his actions; she didn’t notice his features stricken with guilt or indecision. But rather, he strode across the grounds of the decimated campsite after casting the Avadas like he only had one thing on his mind.

Her stomach churned again and her fist clenched as she heard Ron’s echoing accusations:

“You have no empathy or you’re Imperiused.”

She wanted to laugh, here in front of Malfoy’s bathroom mirror, at how wrong he was. He had been so ignorant, he didn’t even realised he had challenged her. But Ron had always been wrong when it came to assessing her. A dark half-smile was beginning to form upon her face when she considered his whereabouts now. He would be held captive, but even worse, had no way to voice his sorrow…his regrets…his pain.

As Hermione wrapped the fluffy white bathrobe around her body, she could suddenly feel her own muscles become less tense. Either there was some relief from the retching or the thought of Ron had suddenly made her numb again.

She supposed the reaction was only human. But Hermione didn’t know, more like didn’t quite believe that she had the same capacity for viciousness as Malfoy. 

It was strange, his ability to make the Death Curse not only effortless, but elegant.

Hermione didn’t expect Malfoy to return early that evening. He had told her to “wait up” for him, which made her think he would actually be back quite late.

Upon exiting the bathroom, Hermione noticed the elf had left some Earl Grey tea. Hermione poured herself a cup and sipped slowly; she sat cuddled up in the sitting area, wishing Malfoy had Muggle books to read so that she could just escape and not think too much about anything.

She would be lying to herself if she tried to quell the little ripples of excitement that moved through her bloodstream every time she thought of him. 

Her heart still wanted to leap out of her chest when she thought about how Malfoy looked at her today. He didn’t hide that devilish smirk and or the way his handsome face lit up when he watched her cast the spell to free him.

“That’s my girl.”

A red, hot heat started to rise in her cheeks as she remembered he had verbally claimed her. Hermione’s insides practically somersaulted at the memory–she knew she had his Mark and that they were more or less accomplices, but she had never experienced this giddy sensation; the combination of his simultaneous possessiveness and praise was enough to send her reeling.

Hermione knew she would also be lying if she said she didn’t care if Malfoy came back injured and tortured from Voldemort. Deep down, she hoped that he would be spared in delivering Ron as a prisoner. Again, Malfoy had kept his motives to himself, but she was starting to think that Ron could be used as bait to draw Harry out from hiding. If the Order never had any strategy for her besides hiding her away, then she assumed Harry himself would follow along that same path. This was likely dependent on the number of Horcruxes left to be destroyed, of course.

It seemed risky though; if Voldemort had the Legilimency skills he was rumored to be known for, then he could easily look into Ron’s mind and see Hermione’s presence for himself. If he figured out she was in Malfoy’s possession…then what?

She was already over that threshold; she had dangled dangerously over the edge so that now she was falling into a blind but undeniable trust in him. More than once, Malfoy had assured her he wasn’t going to hurt her. He knew it all…he knew the depths of her despair from being betrayed. Hermione knew that wasn’t enough to protect her, not if he was ruthless or held secrets. But she wanted to think that if this War was enough to destroy them both, that perhaps they could be ruined together. 

There were fine lines between love and hate, but even finer lines between want and manipulation. Malfoy wouldn’t hurt her to spare himself, not after she took his Dark Mark. Would he?

Her mind tossed and turned over the question until she decided she didn’t want this debate, at least not now. But there were secrets. Just as hurt and betrayal had brought her to him, Malfoy too had his own agenda…one that made him the brutal killer he was.

Checking the pocket of her robe for her wand, Hermione stood and first observed the door before looking back across the room and out the window. The slanted angle of the orange sun coming through the tall arched glass told her that nightfall was on its way soon. The elf hadn’t yet arrived with a dinner tray, so maybe this was her chance.

The last time she had explored the Manor hallway, she had been entranced by the eerie sound of a woman crying and then rooted and frozen in fear when she heard another scathing voice and was nearly discovered. Malfoy had rescued her; he didn’t necessarily forbid her from leaving his room, yet he was elusive when it came to who or what she had experienced. The energy that had come from the room was dark and tangible; it had drawn her in and even now, she was curious about it.

As Hermione tiptoed beyond the bedroom door, her bare feet were nearly silent as they touched the smooth, wooden floor. Even though it was summer, there was a permanent chill in the air.

Unlike the other night, there was no ball of light, nothing compelling her to continue into the dimly lit corridor. She could see the same door, just ahead on her right.

Taking one last glance down the hall, Hermione confirmed she was alone. She heard no crying, no whispers, and certainly none of the threatening tones that had scared her before.

“Alohomora.”

Hermione exhaled as the tall door creaked open. Venturing forward, she held out her wand, ready to defend herself just in case.

Unlike Malfoy’s bedroom, the walls of the room appeared much more confined; the curtains of a single window were drawn tight. There was barely any light, but she didn’t dare cast a Lumos. Only a sliver of remaining sunlight escaped through the threads, sending harsh lines across a bed and chair. 

Her heart thumped as her eyes focused in on a body on the bed. It was small and there was something unnatural about the appearance. Whoever was here was not sleeping; in fact, they looked Petrified.

Against her better judgment, Hermione stepped forward to get a closer look. Light and dark locks were splayed out just above a pillow; the woman’s face was pale and hollowed, captured in a state of shock or horror. She didn’t want to touch the pallor looking skin, but Hermione had a feeling if she did, it would be icy to the touch.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Her eyes were wide open, white and empty, void of all emotion.

She almost didn’t recognise the witch at first, but there on her ring finger, was a dazzling emerald stone set in antique silver; it was the same jewelry she had seen in the old photographs.

Just as she started to wonder how Narcissa could possibly have been the one crying, Hermione felt an uneasiness creep up along her spine. Maybe that was her ghost.

 Something was not right. 

The longer she stared at Narcissa, the worse she felt. It had seemed the shower had cured any sickness she felt over the torture she had inflicted upon the Order, but now the bad feelings were swirling inside her again.

Everything suddenly felt hopeless. 

There was some truth to Ron’s words; Hermione was just playing a part and before she knew it, she would find herself taken advantage of. Her pulse quickened as the thought twisted into her like a knife. 

It would hurt even worse when Malfoy betrayed her because she had willingly walked right into his trap. She trusted him when she gave up on everyone else.

Though some far off part of her wanted to help Narcissa, Hermione couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer. All of her doubts and all of her fears were nagging at her, trying to overwhelm her until there was nothing left. She turned, slamming the door behind her before running down the corridor like a mad escapee.

She knew she could have Apparated, but she wanted to feel the cool rush of air brush past her face, the exhilaration that came with fleeing; it reminded her she was alive.

Having reached Malfoy’s room, Hermione felt relief wash over her as soon as she hurried through the door. She didn’t know if he had cast some special type of protective mental Wards, but she didn’t feel the same oppressive darkness that had threatened to consume her when she looked upon Narcissa. 

It was a curse, she thought. Someone had placed Narcissa under some very dark magic. Hermione hated the idea of it, but it was possible she was no longer alive. Maybe she wasn’t dead, but there wasn’t any spirit left in her, just a dark pull that could have devastating consequences if anyone stayed in her vicinity too long.

Her eyes took in the stillness of the bedroom. Malfoy had not returned yet; there wasn’t a hint of his presence and the bathroom door was open. The elf must have been by to drop off dinner. Two plates with a roast, potatoes, asparagus and bread had been delivered; they were charmed to be kept warm with the steam rising.

Maybe it was the battle or her encounter down the corridor, but Hermione suddenly felt drowsy. Her head felt light but there was a throbbing pulse behind her eyes; her legs felt wobbly, almost like she would just collapse if she didn’t sit down. 

She tread forward unsteadily, thankful she made it to the bed without falling. There wouldn’t be any harm, she supposed, if she took a small nap. Then she could be awake and alert for Malfoy. Hermione didn’t even have time to crawl up to the pillow before her eyelids drifted down and she was no longer conscious.

Hermione’s mind was awake before she opened her eyes. She didn’t think she was out long, but something was different. She was still in her bathrobe but no longer lying flat on the bed. Her body was curled up and her head was resting comfortably against a strong and warm surface. Against her ear, she could feel the gentle pulse that could nearly lull her to sleep again, the rhythm of someone’s heartbeat.

Malfoy.

She was resting in his lap, her face pressed against his firm chest. She blinked her eyes open. Below, she could see that his legs were extended across the bed. He was wearing his soft pajama bottoms and black t-shirt again. A flutter arose in her middle when she realised the intimacy of the position. Cradled in his arms, she felt safe like a child. 

Hermione didn’t ever want to move. But somehow, maybe it was too much at once. She made a motion to inch away, but a steady hand held her still in place.

“You had a concussion, Granger.”

“I do?” She whispered the question, thinking back to the afternoon. She had associated her sickness and dizziness as an emotional after effect of the battle.

“Did,” Malfoy responded. In his hand, he held up an empty vial. “I hope you don’t mind. Well, it's too late if you do.”

“Oh God.” Hermione shut her eyes again, wincing at the thought of Malfoy giving her some unknown potion. She had made herself so vulnerable to him again, she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. It should have been her first order of business to check her internal health; just because she had no outward sign of injuries didn’t mean she left the battle unharmed.

“I wasn’t thinking right,” she sighed. But before she could wallow in that mistake, she felt his fingers brush across her forehead. 

“It’s alright,” he said soothingly, trailing his hand along her hairline. “You were hit pretty badly when the tent collapsed. That’s why I told you to wait up for me. I should have just told you to run the diagnostic yourself, but I wanted…nevermind.”

“Oh,” Hermione felt the response leave her mouth before she could fully process it. There was disappointment dripping in the sound of it; she had thought he had wanted her in some way. Her heart rate suddenly picked up as she panicked, thinking he could sense this reaction. 

Malfoy let out a low chuckle. 

“Accio.”

He whisked over a cup of water and chunk of bread from the tray. Helping her sit up some, he brought the glass of water to her lips. 

“Drink,” he said simply, tilting it to help Hermione take a sip. “You’re dehydrated. And you should at least eat something.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She still felt mortified, but also hoped that Malfoy wouldn’t move away. It was against her nature to feel fragile, but if this state would keep him so close to her she could feel the heat radiate between their bodies, so be it.

“Look,” Malfoy began, handing the bread to her so she could nibble at it, “I didn’t go into your head, if that’s what you're worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” she answered. “It’s just not like me to be careless. I have to look out for myself.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Wandering the halls of the Manor without me is careless.”

Hermione could feel her blood run cold, thinking back to what she had seen of Narcissa. “I thought–you said you didn’t go into my mind,” she stammered.

“I didn’t. Tilly keeps tabs for me,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Hermione felt her face heat up; of course he had his elf watching her. She wanted to scowl at him and then apologise at the same time, if only for her invading a situation that must be highly sensitive and personal. Malfoy had not discussed his mother and she felt like it was not her place to ask what was wrong. He wasn’t really scolding her.

He brought the cup of water to her again and reverted their discussion back to the former topic.“You weren’t careless today. Fucking far from it. That torture spell you cast…I’ve used a lot of methods and never seen anything like it.”

Hermione could feel a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I found it in Enemy Magic by Von Seggeran.”

Cautiously, she craned her neck upwards to get a good look at him. 

Malfoy’s fringe was damp; he must have recently showered as his shiny platinum locks were skewed messily across his forehead. Through his long lashes, she could see his grey eyes sparkling down at her with intrigue.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. As the words left his lips, she noticed a slight change in his features. There was almost a of look of sadness that ghosted his face before his expression flickered back to one of pride.

“I can’t help it.” Hermione looked away and finished the bread. She knew she would have to get ready for bed herself, but she didn’t feel like moving just yet. She had him trapped in a way, under her so to speak. If he was being this civil to her now, maybe he would continue conversing with her.

“Er, Malfoy,” she began hesitantly, “Your Dark Lord…he won’t find me now, will he?”

There was silence between them as Hermione rested her head back down on his chest. Her own heart rate started to pick up in pace; she didn’t know if Malfoy would flinch away at her questioning.

“I can’t guarantee that, Granger,” Malfoy said roughly. “But I will do everything in my power to prevent it. I will end anyone who proves to be even the slightest threat.”

Hermione felt herself nod in confirmation. “But he’s a powerful Legilimens, isn’t he?”

She could tell Malfoy was smirking just by his tone. “Was,” he corrected her. “While he is still incredibly adept at doling out Unforgiveables and magic of a physical nature, his mental energy has been on the decline. Almost like his mind has been ruptured. It makes him angry.”

“I see.” Hermione thought of the Horcruxes. Immediately, she remembered Harry and his defeated sense of acceptance when it came to his soul link with Voldemort. She wondered if perhaps as each Horcrux was being destroyed, that their connection was growing stronger and Voldemort’s ability to see into anyone else’s mind was somehow eclipsed.

“If minds need to be invaded, the Dark Lord will utilise myself or Snape,” he explained.

Hermione was quiet again, contemplating Snape and his loyalties to Voldemort versus Malfoy and the Order.

She was pulled out of the reverie by Malfoy’s hand running casually down the length of her arm. She immediately felt a jolt; Hermione wished she hadn’t been wearing the thick robe again.

“And don’t you worry about Weasley,” Malfoy started, his voice acidic. “You saw me take care of his voice already,” he said. A hint of dark laughter following his words. “I took care of his mind, too.”

“Okay,” she replied breathily. She couldn’t even fathom what Malfoy had done to Ron; maybe he blinded him, removed his brain from his skull, or tortured him senseless. But she didn’t care. The lowness of Malfoy's voice was having a pleasant effect on her. Here she was in the lap of a killer unable to control the tingling she felt below.

Hermione wanted to interrogate him more, but she was suddenly becoming too aware of the heat from his chest.

Suddenly, as if feeling her desire, Malfoy shifted away. Hermione almost let out a whimper of dissatisfaction, but his arm maneuvered around to her back instead so she didn’t fall against the headboard. She was no longer lying on him, but he didn’t break their interaction. 

If anything, Malfoy had turned to position his body so he could lean down towards her.

His hand reached out to grip her chin.

Oh Merlin. Was this really going to happen now?

The beat of her heart started to accelerate as she noticed the searching way Malfoy was looking into her eyes.

It reminded her of more than a month ago, when she had unexpectedly locked eyes with him in the open doorway of Shell Cottage. She didn’t know him back then and she barely knew him now. Yet, there was one thing she was sure of; whereas his eyes lacked a certain warmth all those weeks ago, there was a dazzling spark in them tonight. 

Malfoy stared at her so intently, Hermione would assume he was searching into her memories again even though he had promised he wouldn’t. But he was looking farther as if trying to see into her soul. Despite the fact he was a harbinger of Death and was surrounded by so much darkness, those cold grey eyes were capable of holding this raging fire just for her. This undeniable truth set her own nerves ablaze and caused her lower abdomen to clench again in anticipation.

As she looked back into his lustful gaze, it didn’t matter who he was or who she was becoming. The only thing that mattered in this moment was this burning feeling…this thought that if their lips didn’t touch, she might implode.

“Granger,” he started, his fingers gripping her jaw tight, “what was it you said about the Prophecy today?”

Hermione could feel herself shaking. She was actually trembling as she racked her brain, cursing her concussion for not knowing what he was referring to.

“Hmm?” She muttered the sound in confusion, knowing that any other words would be incoherent. She was desperately hoping he wouldn’t back away.

“When Weasley asked you about the Prophecy, you said he wasn’t meant to understand it. How did you refer to it again?” Malfoy clarified the question. He still held her chin and she gasped as he pressed his thumb closer to her mouth, as if trying to coax a response out of her.

Hermione swallowed. She was still full of nerves but riding high on his touch, never wanting it to end.

 Her mind flitted back to the battle at the campsite; visions of Ron’s livid face with his flared nostrils were instantly replaced by the image of Malfoy grinning seductively at her while he was tied to the chair; his cool and devious expression that afternoon would forever be burned into her memory.

“I said it was our Prophecy,” Hermione answered him. She was looking away but could feel her own features begin to soften under his commanding touch, hopeful that this was what he wanted to hear.

Though it appeared he wanted to keep his demeanor void of any tell-tale emotion, Hermione noticed the flash of a smirk appear on Malfoy’s face before he looked at her again. He looked pleased.

“Say it again.”

His voice was gravelly; Hermione had no choice but to respond once more, this time hoping he might reward her.

“Our Prophecy.” She spoke the words clearly despite nearly losing her breath, but this time she braved herself to look up at him.

His eyes were even more aglow than she had ever witnessed before. She could feel her sight begin to blur when Malfoy’s hand traveled lower; his fingers were trailing along the skin of her neck, coming to rest just upon her clavicle.

She wasn’t even aware of the fact her tongue had darted out of her mouth. Unknowingly, she licked away the dryness across her top lip, still not wanting to end their eye contact.

She barely had time to observe Malfoy’s eyes become half-lidded as he was already leaning down closer to her. 

His breath was hot against her cheek.

“Forgive me, Granger.”

And just like that, Hermione’s heart stopped beating. She let out a quick gasp and felt her body shiver before his lips crashed upon her own. 

It didn’t matter that she was sitting on the bed; she could feel her legs start to buckle underneath her. There was an electricity between them, a circuit of magic so hot from their mouths it almost burned. Wild tremors were beginning to run through her whole body at the feel of his mouth moving so commandingly against hers; there was nothing giving about the way he sucked on her skin. 

It was a kiss meant all for the taking...and she wanted him to have it.

As Malfoy’s tongue began to work across her lips, nudging her to open to him, his hand began pressing circles into the flesh of her neck, causing her pulse to skyrocket as he brought her head closer, guiding her into him so that he could explore her mouth at his own pace.

Hermione was so lost, so helpless to every sensation firing along her nerve endings that she didn’t even recall when she had started kissing him back.

Her heart felt like it was spasming uncontrollably; she had no choice but to fall forward into his arms, needing the steady feel of Malfoy’s broad shoulders and muscular chest to stablise her. As she was lost to the intensity of her own actions, the way her tongue glided up against his and the way her lips moved perfectly in time with his, she felt her hands wander up to his soft blonde hair. 

The force between them was like a magnet; she was pulling him into her while he not only kept his hand on her pulse point, but was increasing the pressure.

She had lost control of her breath and all sense of time. Every once in a while, she was aware of the small murmur of his name escaping her lips; sometimes he would respond with a breathy sigh. The only thing Hermione was certain of was that she had never experienced a kiss like this before. 

It was startling, dizzying, and intoxicating; she had never been kissed by anyone with such intensity and she had never once returned the favor with such vigor.

She felt like she had dissolved into him.

It made sense then when suddenly her body collapsed onto him. She rolled over to the side, letting her head rest next to his shoulder. They were both panting, having broke away at the same time.

Malfoy, with his chest heaving, turned to look at her again. From a side view, Hermione could just see that his eyes were still that lighter shade, free of all hints cruel and foreboding. He was studying her curiously, perhaps trying to gauge her reaction.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice small but certain, “I wanted it too.”

She felt him release a breath; his own pulse was beginning to steady itself.

There was an awkward silence. Hermione thought about leaving the bed; retreating into the bathroom could save them both the embarrassment. Maybe this was just something they had to get out of their systems, some impulse that was better off indulged in once rather than denied forever. She didn’t want to say that she forgave him. The truth was he didn’t need to make that apology in the first place. But she understood why he said it.

Malfoy’s hand found the side of her wrist, this time holding it down, not in a manner to be seductive, but to indicate that he wanted her to stay. A crooked smile formed upon his face, the smirk she knew was coming from a mile away.

“I could never tell,” he said teasingly.

Hermione felt the heat spread along her cheekbones. She made to pull away again, but he forced her hand back to the mattress.

“You know,” he began, exhaling deeply, “I'm beginning to have a different thought about the Prophecy.”

The inside of her stomach fluttered; she was not sure where he was going with this.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked the question lightly, hoping to get an open, unguarded response from him.

“I used to hate it,” he said, shrugging.

Hermione nodded, knowing that he probably wanted her to just listen.

“Fuck it, I still do. As if I didn’t already lack enough control in my life, now I have to listen to some half-man, half-horse breed who thinks he’s saying something important about the tides of the War,” he drawled, rolling his eyes in irritation. “I believed for a long time that I could avoid it. Or that when the time came, I could kill you. The same thoughts you had."

“I know,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry I wanted to kill you.”

Malfoy shook his head. Another laugh of disbelief escaped him as he responded. “Don’t be.”

He was quiet again, then continued. “When I saw that rage in you, it was all the confirmation I needed. Why would I want to kill someone who hated the Prophecy even more than I did?”

Hermione felt a smile playing upon her lips; she couldn’t help it, recalling she felt that same sense of validation.

“So I went back to avoiding it, since it’s the only logical thing I could think to do,” he said, his tone somewhat exhausted. His gaze flickered innocently to her as if she could solve the dilemma.

“But?” Hermione questioned, knowing that he wasn’t finished.

He let out a tense breath. “But there’s a part of me that thinks it's unavoidable.”

Hermione’s teeth grazed the edge of her lip with a nervousness. She was speechless and wanted to commend Malfoy for admitting it. But there was also an uncomfortableness in the fact she had not yet allowed her own self to fully wander into that forbidden territory. She had always distrusted most forms of Divination; she had disliked Professor Trelawney and found prophecies to be one of the more unreliable, far-fetched aspects of the magical world. Subconsciously, it was like Hermione had always known the Prophecy was unavoidable, which is why she was so determined to kill Malfoy for the Order instead of waste away in hiding. But now, the implications of the Prophecy were making her head spin, especially if she considered the way her mind and her body wrestled with her attraction to him. That, and the fact she was now fighting alongside him. She remembered how Shacklebolt stated his fear that she would join Malfoy willingly.

“I know you just wanted to torture Weasley,” he continued. “But there was something about the way you referred to the Prophecy as ‘ours’ that…I don’t know. For the first time, I didn’t hate the sound of it.”

She didn’t know whether to say ‘thank you’ or not, so she just nodded her head in understanding. 

Hermione closed her eyelids as they were feeling heavy; her body was now feeling the tiredness and ache from the exertion of the day. 

She knew how Malfoy felt. The stream of his thoughts was parallel to her own. They were both stubborn and strong-willed; it wouldn’t be like them to suddenly accept let alone welcome the Prophecy into their lives. Hermione was still unsure of Malfoy’s aim; just before, she had those lingering doubts about whether she could trust him.

But outcome of the War aside, what would become of her life? The question was haunting and better left buried, so she recalled Shakespeare instead:

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, that our devices still are overthrown; our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Hermione believed Malfoy to be asleep when he spoke again. “I still don’t want the Prophecy to come true, Granger. Well, that part of it.”

“Me neither,” she mumbled, half-asleep.

The very last thought on her mind before drifting into a deep slumber was that she really wanted to kiss him again.

Chapter Text

“Granger.”

“Granger.”

“—Hermione.”

Upon hearing her name, Hermione was awoken from a vivid dream. She was in a desolate field with Malfoy; they were each casting an Avada Kedavra.

“What?” Hermione asked in confusion. “Did you just…” She trailed off, knowing there was no need to question what she heard. 

Though she had woken abruptly, her head felt clear and she no longer had the dizziness from her concussion.

It must have been early morning. A pale yellow light was just beginning to show through the curtains. Head against the pillow, she was curled up in a foetal position still wearing her robe.

She could see Malfoy lying on the other side of the bed. His eyes were gleaming with mischief as usual.

The sight of him made the memory from last night come crashing back. He had kissed her. Hermione shivered as she recalled the desperate way he pressed his lips to hers. She had then kissed him back just as determinedly. It was no ordinary kiss; she had never felt so lost in someone, but so connected to herself and everything she ever felt at the same time. The energy that had been building from their lingering touches and longing looks had made the kiss explosive.

“You’re awake now,” Malfoy chuckled, stating the obvious. “Notice I didn’t say ‘Mudblood.’”

“I noticed. How decent of you,” Hermione replied. She rolled her eyes at him, pushing their make out session back into the recesses of her mind. “Well, what is it? Do we need to go?”

“You don’t need to go anywhere–yet,” he said. “I have business to attend to. But when I come back, I need you to be ready.” Hermione noticed he appeared to be staring at her rather reflectively.

He turned to leave the bed. Hermione watched him as he headed over to the wardrobe; her eyes were attracted to his broad shoulders and muscular back.

“Come back?” she questioned, processing his choice of words. The last few times, he had always used his Dark Mark to alert her.

Without shame, Malfoy stripped himself of his sleep shirt as he started to dress in his full Death Eater regalia.

“Yes,” he clarified, casting the shields of magical armour over his chest. “This is a different mission of sorts.”

Hermione said nothing, but averted her gaze. She had lost count of the weeks she had been staying in the Manor. Despite reaching a new level of intimacy with the kiss, it still felt intrusive to watch him dress.

When he fastened his cloak around his neck, he turned to address her once more.

“You’ll need to wear one of those gowns,” Malfoy explained, nodding towards her side of the wardrobe. “You’ll also need a Glamour Charm.”

“Where are we going?” 

Hermione was sitting up in bed now. She placed her hands atop her knees and looked at Malfoy curiously. 

She thought back to their conversation from last night as well. Though he was still secretive when it came to his intentions, he seemed to be letting his emotional guard down bit by bit. But Hermione knew it didn’t matter how skilled either of them were in battle if they didn’t communicate properly. If she was fighting alongside him, he would need to be open with her.

“Lestrange,” he replied, grabbing his Death Eater mask. “Rabastan’s manor house.”

“And what exactly is the mission?”

Malfoy looked at her intently. “We can discuss it later. I have to go.”

He was on the verge of Apparating when Hermione leapt out of the bed. 

“Wait,” she said, rushing towards him. “I need to know now. What is this about?”

She felt silly again in the fluffy bathrobe, but she didn’t let the feeling stop her from grabbing his wrist. She could see a brief hint of irritation on his face.

“I want to know what I’m getting myself into,” she continued. “I refuse to bend to anyone’s whim. You should know that.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Did you just say ‘anyone’s’?” His voice was callous, more typical sounding.

Hermione squeezed his arm as reinforcement. “I did.”

He was quiet now; his eyes flickered down to where she held him. “First of all, I’m not just anyone,” he said haughtily, redirecting his focus on her. “Secondly, this isn’t a whim. That’s not how I operate, Granger. You should know that.”

She tried to hide the beginning of a cheeky grin; she had successfully struck a nerve.

“Tell me your plan then,” Hermione insisted. While she released the tightness of her grip, she did want to drop his arm just yet.

Malfoy sighed. He seemed to be mulling his words over before he spoke. “You might not like it. I need you to accompany me to a Death Eater ball. This likely won’t include any fighting. But I’ll have a task for you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “Go on.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “I can’t.”

“Why not? If you’re so calculated, prove it—”

Before she could say anymore, Malfoy clamped his other hand down on her elbow, effectively spinning her body around. He now had her locked in his grasp with her back pressed against his chest.

Hermione’s heart was in a frenzy as he leaned down to speak in her ear:

“I can’t because you’re holding me back,” he said roughly. “There’s some foraging I need to do, but you can’t seem to let me go.”

“For potions?” Hermione asked innocently. She attempted to remain in control of her senses but her insides were tingling being this close to him. His scent, his body heat–she could never get enough of it. Her pulse quickened when she thought about the double meaning behind his words.

“What else?” Malfoy replied as he increased his hold on her. “Just be sure to Glamour yourself beyond recognition for tonight.” 

“Alright,” she said, relenting. “Er, you can let me go now.”

Hermione flinched as she could feel Malfoy’s lips graze her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“Yes...” As the word left her mouth, she knew her body was becoming limp in his arms. His breath was still tickling her forehead as she relaxed against him. “No,”  she mumbled; her voice was wispy and quiet, but she knew he could still hear her.

As suddenly as he had grabbed her, Malfoy now twisted her around again. He stepped away, giving her a sly grin before placing the Death Eater mask upon his face.

“Be ready for me, Granger.”

He then disappeared.

The rest of the morning and afternoon were excruciatingly dull. 

Tilly had brought her a light breakfast of tea and pastries and then a ham sandwich with pumpkin soup for lunch.

Out of boredom, Hermione was half-tempted to venture into the corridor to check on the condition of Narcissa Malfoy. But she thought better of it when Malfoy insinuated it wouldn’t be wise to wander without him. She remembered there had been another Death Eater around the night he brought her to his room, leading her to think the Manor was some type of headquarters. She was never truly sure if they were alone.

Instead, she decided to stretch out across the bed and read one of the books on Malfoy’s shelf: Generational Magic: (Pure) Wizarding Families of the 1600s Across Northern Europe by Gwendoline Goshawk.

Once the angle of the sunlight in the room had shifted, Hermione decided to get ready. She opened up the wardrobe and raked her hands through several of the witch garments. She grimaced, not finding the old fashioned bodices or gowns any more appealing than the other times she had laid eyes on them. Pulling out a dark emerald dress, Hermione twirled it in front of her.

 Just like she had made her own Death Eater suit, she could create a much sleeker design. In her defence, if she did need to run or fight, she couldn’t risk tripping or being weighed down by too much material in a dress.

A glittery blue line of light emerged from the edge of Hermione’s wand as she rid the gown of its excess fabric. She narrowed the long sleeves and cut out the back so that the fit would be more cinched at the waist. 

She slipped into the bathroom to try on her dress and found herself very pleased. Just as she was starting to contemplate the Glamour Charm, she heard a pop and the sound of feet on the floor in the bedroom.

Malfoy.

Hermione walked a few paces to stand in the doorframe. “I’m almost ready,” she announced. “I just need to cast the Glamour.”

He was standing near his desk, retrieving several potion vials from his pockets. “Good,” he said, not bothering to look up as he was assessing the potions. 

But Malfoy didn’t continue because he suddenly looked up, catching sight of Hermione in the green dress.

Hermione couldn’t exactly read his face. His grey eyes widened and there was almost a softness in his expression, but then it vanished instantly.

“Is something wrong?” she said. “You know I wasn’t going to wear the clothes you left for me. I don’t care to look like some Renaissance witch from the Goshawk book.”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, it's just you look…,” he struggled to find the words before changing the topic. “Be on your guard tonight. Don’t accept any drinks. Even if you alter your voice, avoid speaking at all costs.”

“I understand the risk,” Hermione told him. “No one will recognise me.” 

She headed back into the bathroom to study her appearance in the mirror. With expert spellwork in the Glamour Charm, she would not only be able to change the colour and texture of her hair and shade of her eyes, but also the bone structure of her face.

“Mutatio Imaginem.”

Whispering the incantation to alter her looks, Hermione lifted her wand and directed it to the top of her head first. In her mind’s eye, she had a clear picture of the witch she wanted to be. Her curls suddenly flattened and the colour of her mane darkened from dull brown to a shiny black. She then transformed her normal honey eyes to ones that were startlingly blue but also beadier. Lastly, she added a more defined arch to her brows and lengthened her chin, overall making her features much harsher. 

When she was finished, Hermione gazed into the mirror. Whereas her ordinary face still had a youthful innocence to it with her unruly hair and freckled nose, this disguise made her look older and as cunning on the outside as she felt inside. 

“I’m done,” she called, exiting the bathroom. “What do you think?”

Malfoy was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the liquidy black contents swirl in one the potion vials.

His eyes shifted to take in her Glamour. While the lines of his mouth seemed to be forming a frown, he nodded his head in approval. 

“Not my taste,” Malfoy shrugged. “But it’ll do. It's not as if I’m supposed to know or like you anyway.”

Hermione scowled. “It's fine. We also don’t have time to concoct a story.”

He let out a derisive snort. “Everyone knows I don’t date the witches I bring around.”

“Really?” She eyed him warily. “Then what do you do?”

Malfoy gave her an exasperated look and lowered his head.

“Oh.” Hermione ran her fingers along the side of her dress. She recalled weeks ago when Malfoy was gone the first several nights; she had been left alone and wondering if he was spending his nights somewhere else. All of a sudden, the idea of him sleeping casually with a random witch made her cheeks flare with embarrassment and indignation. The feeling was illogical, she scolded herself. It wasn’t as if he belonged to her then or even now. 

“It's not really what it seems,” he added after an uncomfortable minute. “It serves a purpose for me to be seen…” Malfoy appeared to be assessing her reaction. “Nevermind.”

Hermione didn’t say anything because she didn’t know what to say.

After a moment, Malfoy spoke again.

“It goes without saying, Granger,” he said, his voice in a warning tone, “you will need to mind the conversations you hear this evening. Occlude if you have to.” 

Hermione sighed. “Talk of the War. Of the Prophecy. Of myself, I assume.

“I will only say this once,” Malfoy began, lifting his hand to the smoky substance in the potion vial; he flipped the contents, making them float from the top back down to the bottom. “Do not waste your mental efforts analysing anything I say tonight.”

“Noted.”

His demeanor changed from serious to impish as he gave her a wicked smile. “I take it you do that a lot.”

“I do not,” Hermione huffed. Her cheeks were burning again. “Let’s stay on topic. What am I doing tonight?”

“Hmm,” Malfoy hummed. He was still smirking, flashing his alluring eyes at her. “Consider this a covert operation. Be as unassuming as possible.”

“I can do that,” she assured him.

He stood and sauntered over, emptying his pockets of the remaining vials. “Three potions. Your victims are Augustus Rookwood, Thorfinn Rowle, and Corban Yaxley. I can point them out to you. You can offer to refill their glasses. I will distract them.”

Hermione took the vials from him. She studied the swirling misty substances, observing the dark colour and consistency. “Draught of Living Death. I assume you added something else?”

“Yes,” Malfoy confirmed. “The Draught was brewed with hemlock root. It will be undetectable in alcohol. These three will sleep for many months before succumbing to their deaths. They’re too high rank for me to just take them out after a battle.”

Her heart pounded with anxiety; she recalled the memory of Malfoy casting Avadas on the other two Death Eaters outside Shell Cottage. She knew of his disdain for the War and had long suspected he had his own agenda. Afterall, he had said killing was not only his job, but also his ‘hobby.’ 

“As for myself,” he continued, “My target is Antonin Dolohov. But I suspect I won’t see him. He’s been on missions in Romania,” he said, a deep scowl forming on his face. “He doesn’t deserve the Draught anyway.”

Hermione nodded. She looked at the potions once more before discreetly tucking them away in a seam in the bodice of her dress.

She didn’t know what Malfoy’s deal with Dolohov was. If she was recalling the name correctly, that was the Death Eater who was in the Manor the night Malfoy brought her to his room.

“Come,” Malfoy said, gripping her just below the shoulder. “Remember. Close your ears. Close your mouth. Stay close to me. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I’ll get my reward.”

“Which is?” Hermione asked out of curiosity, thinking she’d learn more about his long-term plans.

“Never having to see your ugly face again,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her heart sank immediately, but then she remembered the Glamour. She looked up to see Malfoy give her a devilish grin.

Upon Apparating out of Malfoy’s bedroom, Hermione found herself on the outskirts of a large, unkempt lawn that was overgrown with weeds. 

Rabastan Lestrange’s house was not as expansive as Malfoy Manor, but the property was still intimidating. There was an attached cemetery in which she noticed many dilapidated tombstones and piles of unearthed dirt. The house itself was dark brick and covered in moss and vines. Above the doorway was a family crest with a raven.

“Follow me.”

She trudged up the gravel pathway, keeping a step behind Malfoy. From inside the house, she could hear the strings of an orchestra and the clinking of glasses.

“Malfoy.”

Hermione turned her head. Someone in a dark cloak exiting the mansion spoke in passing.

“Nott,” Malfoy greeted him. “Leaving so soon?”

She recognised the Death Eater as Slytherin classmate Theodore Nott. She knew his father had been a prominent figure in Voldemort’s inner circle, so it wasn’t surprising to know he was one as well.

“Arriving so late?” Theo asked scornfully. "I made my appearance. By the way, he’s not here.”

“Figured,” Malfoy responded. He grabbed Hermione by the elbow. “I’m not staying long either.”

Theo nodded. “See you around.”

Malfoy pulled her closer as they continued up the steps and made their way through the towering Medieval-looking front door.

Hermione blinked several times upon entering the foyer. The lighting, supplied only by candles, was extremely dim, making the hall feel crowded and dark. There were lots of Death Eaters milling about, some with witches in formal wear on their arms, others throwing back glasses of whiskey or chugging from goblets.

The room to her left appeared to be a ballroom; the classical music sounded out of a place in surroundings that otherwise could have been a haunted house.

“This way.”

Malfoy guided her down the corridor. They entered a smaller room; it looked to be an office of sorts with several leather chairs. Cigar smoke and raucous laughter filled the air.

“Speak of the devil.”

Several heads turned to look at them. There were five or six Death Eaters in the room. Two of them were playing some type of wizarding card game while the others sat smoking and drinking. One of them stood to greet Malfoy, thrusting a glass of Ogden’s into his hand.

“The devil and his Knockturn witch of the week. Tell me, will she be having anything?” 

Hermione flinched as she could feel the wizard’s sickly breath graze her skin. He made no attempt to hide the way he leered at her, licking his lips.

“No.” Malfoy took Hermione by the wrist and directed her forcefully into one of the open loveseats. 

Taking a seat next to her, Malfoy took a sip of whiskey. Hermione could see him scanning the room before he spoke.

“Dolohov’s still working under Karkaroff, I assume?” 

Yaxley let out a low laugh. “More like Karkaroff is taking orders from him,” he said with sneer. “Jealous?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Hardly. Convenient he’s gone when the Dark Lord specifically tasked him with finding Potter’s sidekick. I hate having to do everything.”

Dark laughter erupted from the room. 

“Tell me, Malfoy, how did you manage to restrain yourself? To not just kill the ginger right then and there?” Yaxley was on the edge of his seat.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t say I restrained myself. The Dark Lord wanted him alive. He didn’t specify to what extent.”

The Death Eaters chuckled again.

The one with the stringy, greasy hair looked at Malfoy with interest. “Is it true then? The rumour that Potter’s Mudblood is dead? Be a shame for you.”

Malfoy let out a low breath. “Nonsense, Rookwood. She’s alive and it’ll only be a matter of time before I find her.”

“You reckon she’s hiding then? The Order claims she’s been captured. Probably a ruse. Maybe you can torture the truth out of Weasley.”

Malfoy turned to Hermione. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and refill Yaxley’s glass?” He reached forward to grab the goblet out of the Death Eater’s hand. “Now.”

Hermione stood automatically at the command. There was a liquor trolley in the corner of the room. She glanced wearily at the Death Eaters, but they all seemed too enthralled in their conversation with Malfoy to pay her any attention. She eyed an extra glass on the cart—this would be a good opportunity to mix two poised drinks.

“I can’t tell you how, but I found her safehouse,” Malfoy was saying. “The Mudblood was gone, but she touched a tracker I left.”

Another Death Eater chimed in. “Fucking Muggleborns…too stupid for their own good.”

“The Order is too stupid for their own good. They’ll be wiped out in what, a month’s time?”

Malfoy chuckled. “If that.”

Hermione gasped. She was debating reaching into the fabric of her dress to retrieve the vials when she suddenly felt a hand running up the back of her leg. Fingers pressed firmly into her thigh, then pinched the flesh around her knickers. She heard an indistinguishable mumble as the hand continued rubbing along her arse.

She could feel her hands shaking at the touch; she was breaking out into a cold sweat.

A low grumble sounded behind her and she whipped around.

“Rookwood—you fucking wanker,” Malfoy was glaring at the Death Eater who had come up behind her. “Get your grubby hands off what’s mine.”

“Too late,” Rookwood chortled. He gave Hermione a rotten, toothy smile as he shuffled back to his chair.

The conversation continued as if nothing had happened. Hermione turned, trying to calm her nerves as she resumed her task.

“Potter will stay in hiding until he dies, mark my words,” one of the Death Eaters added in a gravelly voice. “Maybe he and the Mudblood are shacking it up.”

Rookwood turned his head to the voice that spoke. “Doubtful. He’ll give up his pathetic self when he realises he fights alone. I personally can’t wait until Malfoy gets his Mudblood. The Dark Lord said he will let us all watch the fucking.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. She knew it was just talk; Malfoy had warned her it would be uncomfortable. She had just finished slipping the Draughts into the drinks.

The group laughed as she turned around to face them again. She held the two heavy glasses in her hands, looking pointedly at Yaxley and Rookwood.

She approached the Death Eaters, making an effort to give Yaxley his glass back. He snorted and gave her a wink upon taking the goblet.

Hermione was about to offer the second glass to Rookwood who was nearby when Malfoy held out his hand. “Rowle’s missing a glass,” he said, nodding to the grey-haired Death Eater in the far armchair.

Rowle held out his hand eagerly. “Over here.”

Hermione delivered the glass and then took her seat again.

“That won’t be happening,” Malfoy sneered. “I don’t need an audience to perform.”

Rookwood laughed. “Tell that to the Dark Lord. It's about humiliation. If it were me, I wouldn’t care who was watching. I’d put that bitch in her place. I’d Crucio her, then fuck her face until she couldn’t breathe. Then I’d fuck that pussy so hard until she’s bloodied and crying. I bet she’s a virgin,” he mused.

“Tight,” Malfoy said darkly. “Lucky me.”

Laugher burst forth amongst the group again.

“Have you thought about how you will force yourself on her?” Rookwood asked. His eyes centered on Hermione. “Maybe fantasised while fucking your Knockturn whore here?” 

“I don’t need to do that,” Malfoy interjected. “The forcing part,” he clarified. “I’ll make her want me.”

There were a few amused murmurs from the group. Yaxley raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“And just how do you plan to do that?” Rookwood asked curiously. “Give her a lust potion? I would.”

Malfoy sneered. “I don’t need advice from the likes of you,” he quipped. He placed a hand on Hermione’s knee. “I’ll win her trust,” he said. His voice lowered and a devious smile took over his face. “I’ll make her think I’m on her side,” he added. “She’ll have no choice but to submit to me.”

The Death Eaters raised several glasses. Rookwood displayed a look that deviated between being shocked and impressed.

Meanwhile, Hermione couldn’t help the sick feeling which settled into her bones. She could feel Malfoy’s touch on her leg, but she felt completely numb. Her insides were vibrating uncomfortably, but she tried to brush away the feeling. But it was impossible to ignore such a threatening conversation about herself.

“Wait for me outside.”

Malfoy placed his hand upon her neck, giving her direct instructions.

As if she were in a dream, Hermione rose from her seat. She was aware of the Death Eaters’ eyes on her as she walked towards the doorway. Malfoy stood as well; he gave her a quick nod and then turned to the others.

She didn’t hesitate as she walked down the corridor. Her legs seemed to carry her when her mind was riddled with distress. Again, her nerves felt numb. The party at the Lestrange’s was still raging on as far as she could tell. Her goal was to make it outside the house, but with each step, she was becoming more and more nauseous.

Hermione stopped, halting her movements outside a long hallway. Malfoy had suggested she Occlude; he explicitly told her not to analyse what she heard. Yet, she couldn’t help the sickness that was threatening to take hold.

She was standing somewhere in the main foyer. She leaned over once, hands pressed to her knees as she was gagging, almost about to empty the contents of her stomach. All around her, there were Death Eaters carrying on, music flowing throughout the house.

Suddenly, there was a strangled groan. Hermione jumped; she wasn’t sure where the noise was coming from.

Venturing a few feet to her right, Hermione peaked through the doorway of what looked like a kitchen. 

The room was dark, dinner likely having been served hours ago. It was empty too, except for two shadowy figures near the sink.

Malfoy was there, looming over the body of a scared Rookwood. She sucked in a breath as she watched the scene.

“You should fucking know better,” Malfoy drawled.

“I didn’t mean anything!” the Death Eater exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have said anything—I didn’t mean it.”

“The fuck you did.” Malfoy was looking at him furiously. 

“No,” Rookwood was breathing steadily now. “I didn’t do anything. Malfoy—talk to the Dark Lord—he will tell—”

“Fuck you to Hell.”

Malfoy had gripped the Death Eater forcefully around the neck; he was squeezing him now. He held Rookwood so tightly, the wizard’s face was starting to turn blue. There was a quick spell muttered from Malfoy; Hermione's expression was overcome with shock as she saw the Death Eater's eyeballs pop out of their sockets.

Hermione let out a short breath and turned away again. She was close to hyperventilating; Malfoy clearly had Rookwood in a headlock. By the looks of it, he planned on blinding him. 

She stood completely still, listening to their voices before shifting her eyes back to the scene:

“You low life,” Malfoy drawled. He had Rookwood in his grasp; he wasn’t privy to Hermione looking at him. “You fucking sick bastard—”

Hermione drew in a quick breath. She watched Malfoy intently, who seemed to be taking great pleasure in choking the life out of Rookwood. He then pulled out his wand.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The heavy thump of a body hitting the floor reverberated throughout the kitchen. Hermione hurried away and walked a few paces down the crowded Death Eater-filled corridor.

In the distance, she could vaguely hear the clanks of glasses and vile laughter. Her own nerves were still pulsing, still vibrating with nervousness from the discussions she overheard.

Before she could fully assess her surroundings, Malfoy appeared at her side.

“Don’t let go.”

She didn’t have time to comprehend what had happened, but he was grabbing her wrist, pulling her further down the hall.

Hermione finally felt the cool night air whip across her face.

Instantly, Malfoy Apparated them out of the Lestrange property and back into his room.

Hermione was aware of her feet meeting the floor forcefully.

She let out a tense spurt of air. Her gaze was focused on Malfoy, who was likewise getting his bearings.

There was silence for a minute when Malfoy turned to look at her.

“Granger,” he mumbled. “You did it.”

Hermione nodded, her mind reeling back to having arranged the poisonous drinks for Yaxley and Rowle.

She was quiet again though when Malfoy took a few steps towards her.

“I—,” he stumbled upon the words again.

Hermione concentrated her vision upon him. She let out a short, sarcastic breath; apparently, Malfoy didn’t have it in him to apologise. Yet, she knew he was not about to align himself with the others who took such dark pleasure in the discussion of him hurting her.

She was motionless. All her earlier nerves had disappated. It was surreal in a way, to hear the worst of the talk from the Death Eaters. She knew those comments were nothing new, and yet, being in the same room as wizards who saw her as less than a piece of meat was disturbing.

“Granger…”

Malfoy was still in front of her; despite her obvious discomfort, he hadn’t backed away.

Hermione shook her head, hoping to discourage any interest he had.

“Granger.”

Malfoy uttered her name once again, much to her dismay.

“Don’t,” she rasped. “Just don’t—”

“Hermione.”

Malfoy took hold of her again, this time bringing his hands to clasp around her wrists.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, his fingers squeezing her hands. “You’re safe.”

Hermione nodded. She could feel the strength in Malfoy’s hold on her hands, yet his words weren’t sinking in. Having been in the presence of the Death Eaters, his words felt hollow.

Suddenly, Malfoy was leading her over to the door.

“Do what you need to, Granger,” he commanded.

She felt the air leave her chest. He was leaning against the door frame now; his grey eyes looked heavy like molten steel. Hermione let out a short gasp when she realised what he was waiting for.

She stepped forward, feeling the cold energy of the Death Curse cascading off him.

At once, Hermione retrieved her wand, which had been tied under her dress. She cast a quick Finite spell, removing her Glamour.

Her chest was heaving as she reached out.

“Do it,” Malfoy urged her on.

Hermione tugged on this blonde locks. She could feel her heart beating unsteadily without any rhyme or reason.

“Shut up,” she stammered, as she pulled his face into her vicinity.

His long eyelashes fluttered once. Malfoy refused to meet her gaze.

“How could you?” she gasped, narrowing her eyes to him. 

There was a short pause before Hermione moved her legs to settle around him.

“How could you,” she repeated without hesitation. “Fuck you...”

Malfoy growled, but the sound was eclipsed when she brought her lips to his mouth.

Her kiss was a punishment.

Chapter Text

There was no timidness and nothing hesitant about the way she moved against him. The meeting of their lips was smouldering and even more so when she slipped her tongue inside.

Whereas the last time, Malfoy had been the one to kiss Hermione first—the one to unleash this fiery floodgate which offered a glimpse into the pleasure they could have if only they gave in to one another, she was the one taking charge now. 

The harder she kissed him, the more she lured his body away from the door and into herself. Her hands roamed about his head and then settled around his neck; she broke away for only the shortest of breaths before returning her mouth to him once more.

Despite her control, Malfoy was far from passive. In the give and take of the kiss, he didn’t hold back, but rather let her take the lead. It didn’t matter that sometimes their teeth clashed together or that she was pulling rather roughly on his hair. He followed her, kissing her back just as forcefully when she would allow him.

It was like he knew how risky this physical course of action was too, not only because it was backed by anger, but also because it was so addictive and all-consuming. It contained the very essence of who they were when they were together.  If their kiss alone was a dangerous spark, anything more had the potential to burn the whole world down.

When Hermione finally pulled her mouth away from him, Malfoy remained hovering over her as he gasped for air.

“Fuck,” he cursed, breathing heavily; he then nudged his nose against her nose in a bid to get her attention.

But Hermione was dazedly twirling her fingers through the soft strands on the back of his head. She liked this feeling after the kiss; her mind was empty and her head felt airy and weightless. 

“This beats getting slapped by you,” Malfoy teased her. 

Hermione could feel him coaxing her again, his eyelashes this time fluttering against her brows. She wasn’t full-on looking at him, but she knew that devilish smile already made its appearance.

“Shut up.”

She didn’t know what compelled her to do so, but she placed a few more light kisses along his jaw, as if in warning to say ‘I’m not done with you, yet.’ This of course elicited a sensual groan from him.

Pulling back from him once more, she caught a glimpse of something in his hooded gaze that nearly stopped her heart. His expression was unguarded and while his grey eyes were still burning with lust, there was something deeper and thereby more terrifying in those dilated pupils…a fondness of sorts.

“I might still slap you,” Hermione retorted. 

Malfoy didn’t move, didn’t react, which meant he didn’t doubt her for a second.

His breath was gradually steadying as he brought a hand up to the side of her face.

“I told you not to over analyse anything I said,” he reminded her, his fingers grazing along her cheekbones. “But I’m kind of glad you did.” The corner of his mouth lifted into another grin.

Hermione scowled. She had given herself credit for not outing herself and murdering Malfoy right then and there at Rabastan’s party. Of course that would have probably resulted in the untimely capture and death of herself as well, but she was impressed with the way she remained so composed.

The other Death Eaters, namely Rookwood, had been more crude, but Malfoy’s words had a cruelty all to their own she would not soon forget:

“Tight…lucky me.”

“I’ll make her want me.”

“I’ll win her trust.”

“I’ll make her think I’m on her side.”

If he was secretly trying to instil doubt and fear into her, or at the very least, play some sick mind games, he had chosen the right things to say. She almost would have preferred him to be more savage.

But as bad as Malfoy’s comments had been, she found herself feeling more frustrated about his deviation from their plan by killing Rookwood himself. Without a doubt, he would now be tortured by Voldemort; if he did have further goals in decimating the Death Eater ranks, this type of reckless behaviour could interfere with those plans. 

Did he not know he was putting himself in danger? Did he not care?

His carelessness made Hermione feel so heated, especially when she thought about her own reaction. Internally, she was wrangling with the knowledge that she had a stake in his safety…she cared.

“Funny,” Hermione began softly, “you told me not to dwell on your words. You told me to Occlude when you strangled Rookwood in a fit of rage before Avada’ing him right out in the open where anyone could have seen—”

“Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

Malfoy’s voice was sinister now. The hand stroking her face suddenly tensed, but he did not move it away. She could see that his eyes were narrowed and any softness in his features had quickly vanished.

“You're going to be punished,” Hermione said simply. “Or worse, killed.”

He withdrew his touch now; at the same time, he shut his eyes in a display of disbelief as he shook his head, giving off an air of being utterly perplexed.

“Thank you,” he replied bitterly.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest defensively. Even during these kind of exchanges, where they were both headstrong and stubborn, she could feel the energy radiating off him in their closeness. She wanted to kiss him again, but knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere.

“So then why did you do it?” she asked, her voice hushed for no reason as she spoke the question. “Why put—”

“I meant you should say ‘thank you,’” Malfoy snapped. “Don’t you dare speak of punishments or what I can or cannot handle.”

Hermione glared at him, dropping her hands. “Thank you? And I do dare, thank you very much. I don’t understand you.” 

Malfoy scoffed. “You sure don’t.” The room was heavy with a drop of silence before he added, “I did it for you.” His head hung low as if he suddenly felt some instant regret. 

Hermione’s breath caught in her lungs. 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t considered the possibility, but it was surprising to hear him admit it nonetheless. But what did he mean ‘for us’? She knew Malfoy had watched Rookwood feel her up. He had also been the most vocal one about the rape.

“The Dark Lord said he will let us all watch the fucking.”

“It’s about humiliation.”

“...until she’s bloodied and crying.”

Still, she didn’t know the inner workings of his relationships with the other Death Eaters. Malfoy had obviously planned for Rookwood to die tonight anyway, but he changed his mind and wanted it to be violent. For her. For him.

“Why?” Hermione asked the question as innocently as she could though her pulse was racing. All of sudden, it felt like her heart was dangling on this revelation and she couldn’t bear to see Malfoy dejected.

He was quiet for a moment and then his eyes lifted to hers.

“I am aware that Rookwood’s death will be traced back to me,” Malfoy began. “In fact, that’s what I want. If any other Death Eater so much as mentions talk of the Mudblood rape being a public spectacle, he will meet the same end and I won’t be nearly as gentle. Let his death start rumours and serve as a warning.”

Hermione clenched her fists to stop her hands from trembling. “What about Rowle and Yaxley? Tell me you won’t take credit for those deaths too.”

Malfoy shook his head. “The Draught of hemlock, on the other hand, will take some time to set in; Rowle and Yax, along with the others, will likely have discovered Rookwood’s body. I doubt those two deaths in particular could be pinned on me. But I’m already working on a cover story.”

“What is it?” she looked at him wide-eyed, half fearful and half amazed.

“Distraction,” he said simply. “I’ll capture someone from the Order and claim the fool Polyjuiced into the party as one of Rabastan’s Squib butlers and poisoned the drinks. Delivering this culprit to the Dark Lord may buy me some forgiveness for losing my temper with Rookwood.”

“I see,” Hermione remarked as she considered Malfoy’s plan. She expected such scheming from him, but there was still something heavy drowning out most of her thoughts. “Rookwood,” she wondered aloud, “do you think he’s the only one who hoped for a…a ‘spectacle’?”

She said the word cautiously, echoing Malfoy’s own diction on the matter.

The light behind his eyes seemed to dim as a dark glower overtook his face. “There are very few punishments from the Dark Lord I wouldn’t take, Granger,” he said, his voice trying to conceal some fury. “I would consider that one of them. Though, I suppose there always is the Imperius Curse.”

Hermione nodded in understanding; it seemed Malfoy was insinuating he’d rather die than have to take her in front of the Death Eaters. 

There were again so many ideas and questions clouding her head. Voldemort along with his supporters obviously interpreted the Prophecy as Malfoy impregnating her by rape. She knew this much from Snape early on. But unlike Shacklebolt, they couldn’t envision a scenario where any such coupling was consensual. As Death Eaters, their logic made perfect sense. After all, the alternative for them would mean Malfoy climbed the ranks of Voldemort’s army and somehow fell in love with a Mudblood.

The idea sounded outrageous even to Hermione herself. Malfoy was her ally in this Hellish war-riddled magical world. He had marked her as such with the Dark Mark. They had each other's backs for several battles and so far, she had remained hidden from the Death Eaters. Then there was their undeniable chemistry. The confusing elements regarding their union as it aligned to the Prophecy were getting harder to ignore. Hermione had just kissed him (again) after all, and if there was such a chance that more could happen…well, she didn’t think she would say ‘no.’ Of course, she didn’t wish to be taken against her will and jeered at, nor did she wish to end up pregnant.

She chewed on the inside of her lip, not wanting their conversation to end just yet. 

“Er, Malfoy,” she started, and his eyes flashed to her, “have you given any more thought about what would happen if the Death Eaters did discover me?”

His clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Of course I have. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Yes,” Hermione insisted. “But I was thinking more along the lines of the spectacle. Say you—we—had no choice. What would happen?”

Malfoy suddenly brushed past her, not caring that he pushed her out of the way as he stalked to his wardrobe.

“I already said, it's not happening like that, so you can stop worrying.” He was clearly agitated, sorting through several of his dress shirts in an attempt to look occupied.

Hermione let out a purposefully exaggerated sigh. “I’m not talking about the Prophecy as much as I am the Death Eaters forcing you on me—”

“We’re talking about the same thing, Granger,” Malfoy scoffed. 

“If that happened,” Hermione corrected herself. “I meant to say ‘if.’”

“Then we’re fucked, okay?” He was glaring at her now. “We’re literally fucked. Are you happy? Is that what you want to hear when I’m doing everything in my power to prevent it? I’d go so far as to kill myself before that happens and you still—”

“No, no,” Hermione repeated herself. Her throat suddenly felt tight as she looked at Malfoy across the room. His face was more than distraught; there was a hint of a real brokenness. “You haven’t come this far to give up—don’t say that, don’t do that, ever. I just didn’t know if we should take certain…precautions.”

He was still studying her, but he brought a fist to his forehead in frustration. “Like what,” he mumbled, his voice so quiet and uninterested it was barely a question.

“Well, a Contraception Charm for starters,” Hermione suggested calmly. “I am aware of how to cast one before or after. I’m, er, assuming you do as well, but I wanted—”

“You wouldn’t have a wand anymore in this scenario,” Malfoy huffed. “And as for me, there are time limits. For all you know, the Dark Lord could order me away immediately or throw you in prison before he demands it to happen all over again.”

Hermione shook her head in agreement, undeterred. “A potion for me then. I say ‘for me,’ as I’ve read that most sperm reduction elixirs are highly ineffective. Contraception potions have been scarce since the War, but you could forage for the ingredients and I’ll brew it—”

“You talk as though I haven’t thought through every scenario, Granger.” His arms were folded now and he gazed at her not so much anger, but with obvious disappointment.

Hermione could feel the heat rise to her face. This kind of discussion was bound to be uncomfortable; if the most she could learn was that Malfoy already tried to problem-solve, then so be it.

“There will no doubt be some type of tonic poured down your throat, some antidote or fertility enhancer,” he added dully.

“Alright,” Hermione conceded. “Then maybe we should brew the wizard one—”

“If it would get you to stop talking, then by all means, yes. I’ll go now to get the ingredients.” He was still eying her as if she had lost all common sense. He then made a motion to grab his cloak.

“Stay,” she said, taking a few wary steps across the floor to close the distance between them. She fidgeted with her nails, trying to find the words to keep him with her. Hermione realised the last thing she wanted was for him to leave her tonight. “Please, don’t go.”

His brows unfurled slightly, but he still looked unconvinced. “Are you done?”

Hermione reached for him now, clasping her fingers around his wrist. “Almost,” she replied. “There’s something I want you to know. If the worst should ever happen…I know that you never intended to hurt me.”

Malfoy was silent; his face grew so pale at her words it looked almost translucent.

“I mean it,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I want us to keep fighting no matter what. We could get through it.”

He did not move to touch her, but he lowered his head, unable to look up. “This War has taken everything good from me,” he stated, his tone acidic. “Everything. It's like everything I touch is fucking cursed, destroyed. So forgive me for trying to protect us. For not wanting to ruin you, Granger.”

Hermione felt a pang; it was like the talk of the rape made their situation too real. It had always been his idea for her to join him in this upheaval, this blatant rejection of the powers that claimed ownership to them in the War. But the farther they fell into this chaos of their own making, Hermione knew she had to reassure him. 

“You won’t ruin me,” Hermione insisted. “We’re making our Heaven, remember?” she reminded him, emphasising her words as she gently patted his hand.

Malfoy seemed to be considering something before finally nodding his head. When he finally returned her gaze, his face was resolved, his eyes hard as steel.

“You have given me permission to hurt you,” he remarked with eerie calmness. “Remember that.”

She nodded in trance-like confirmation, her eyes drawn to the sharp lines of his face, mesmerised by how he could look so beautiful yet be so lethal. 

Suddenly, he brought his hand around to her lower back; he was methodically pressing her back in the direction of the bed. Hermione felt her legs hit the mattress. At once, Malfoy was straddling himself above her; he hooked his arms underneath her thighs to lift her up.

He inched towards her on the bed, adjusting his body so he was on top of her.  His voice was silky in her ear. “We will see to it that every last Order member dies and every last Death Eater meets their end. The Dark Lord himself will suspect nothing until the moment the light leaves his eyes.”

“We will,” Hermione whispered back, her fingers running down the smooth muscles of his back and along his shoulders. She could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart matching her own against her chest, the tickle of his hair as it gingerly swept the side of her face. 

Without warning, his lips found her pulse point. Hermione gasped in surprise as he kissed her sensitive flesh just below her jawline.

“Malfoy,” she whimpered his name in need as he continued sucking on the skin of her neck. The feel of his mouth on her went straight to her core; she couldn’t help but cant her hips. She was attempting to angle herself and spread her legs so that she could feel the weight of him down there. 

But his hands were strong, keeping her in place so that she could not thrash below him; he was making it so that she did not have the ability to seek any kind of the friction she so desperately wanted.

He placed a small few kisses upon her shoulder blades before returning his mouth closer to her ear. 

“I want you, Granger,” Malfoy admitted as his teeth nipped on her ear lobe. Suddenly, his hand found her hand and he was directing it lower to his abdomen, opening her palm so she could feel his hard length, his throbbing erection for her through his trousers. Hermione let out a short breath, feeling her inside churn with desire, but there was something else about the moment and the way his voice had a striking new layer to it. “This is because of you,” he said rasped.

He sounded different; for once, his tone wasn’t cold, dark, or laced with purposeful seductiveness. When he spoke again, Hermione realised it for what it was. “I want you so bad it hurts,” he continued, a very real desperation coming through for the first time. “But I want you on my own terms. I may ruin you, but promise me…nothing, and I mean nothing, will ruin us.”

Us.

Hermione slowly withdrew her hand, choosing instead to grip Malfoy’s side. Though she also physically ached for him as well, there was another, more prominent feeling emotion from somewhere deep inside. If he could see her heart, it would be glowing. His sincerity was generating a pleasant warmth in her, a fuzziness she had not felt in quite some time; she felt like her childhood self discovering the existence of magic.

“I promise,” Hermione replied breathlessly.

She wanted to say so much more, but she didn’t need to. Malfoy was already kissing her, drowning out her words and thoughts with his mouth.

The more he deepened the kiss, the more Hermione understood. It was not only her that Malfoy wanted to save, but whatever this flicker of something good was that was developing between them. Outside these walls, they faced a reality that was dreary, bleak with constant battles, and marked only by disillusionment and death; a life void of all hope and colour except maybe for red. But together, they had their own little world of comfort built upon stolen glances, flirtatious words, and electrified touches. This growing intimacy was not meant to be rushed and acted upon out of fear and distrust like everything else in their lives, but rather it was something worth exploring fully.

Whatever continued to blossom between them would need to be protected at all costs. 

Malfoy was punished in the days following Rabastan’s party.

He had returned late one night wounded; deep crimson rivers from an unknown torture spell flowed along his back, but Hermione said nothing. Instead, she cradled his head in her lap and stroked his forehead as if her touch could take away his pain.

Despite the punishment however, Malfoy would not rest. He spent long hours each passing August day on the battlefield, eliminating the pitiful numbers of Order fighters and secretly slaying unsuspecting Death Eaters.

Hermione had become used to their routine. She would kiss Malfoy goodbye passionately; each time, she would wrap her arms so tightly around his neck and fasten her lips to his as if she never wanted to let him go. When he would eventually direct her away, his breathing was laboured and the edges of his mouth lifted into a little smirk as if to suggest ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see me soon.’

And she did see him soon. It was always in the late afternoons when Hermione would feel the pleasurable tingles on her forearm; he never failed to call for her because they were a team. The etching of the letter ‘M’ script would glow a searing white in contrast to the granite coloured lines of the skull and snake. Hermione only needed to point the tip of her wand to her Mark to be pulled into the spinning maelstrom, the cursed form of Apparition.

It didn’t matter where her boots landed. Hermione was always on her guard from the moment she arrived; she strode across desolate fields, stormed through shady woodlands, and trudged through abandoned wizarding villages with only one word in her mind:

Vengeance.

Somewhere deep within her soul was the desire to draw up dark spells and unleash them against both sides of the War. As some kind of wild vigilante Death Eater, not only did she do this and find it sensible, but the Dark Magic she discharged quickly became a form of therapy. Hermione had so much knowledge ready to burst inside her; the need to release it along with her repressed emotions was close to psychotic. All of a sudden, the stories and examples from her months of research and Order-banned books were materialising each time she would try something new. Her time at Shell Cottage had her served her well.

“Extremum Timorem.”

Hermione recited the incantation to throw a few Order soldiers off guard. She spotted the three hiding behind a garden wall, most likely hoping not to be seen in the current Death Eater ambush that made their surroundings explode with a rainbow of hot and fiery battle spells. There were two teenagers that looked like brothers; she only thought so because of their shared auburn hair; the other one seemed a bit older with a greying beard, perhaps some friend of Shacklebolt’s.

The adverse magic she cast by her wand took effect immediately; the young wizards began to tremble and their eyes were suddenly glazed over with a film of fear. Hermione’s spell had distorted their vision so that only their worst visions or haunting memories played and replayed before their eyes.

“Someone…stop it,” one of them cried out uselessly. “Help!”

“Please, Merlin no!”

Hermione stood frozen like a statue; she was numb to their begging and pleading. Their pleas ricocheted off her until their voices grew hoarse. She had been in that same position, crying out to be heard, to be acknowledged as little more than a pawn in another generation’s war.

“There’s my girl.”

Hermione didn’t think she would ever tire of Malfoy coming to find her; she knew he must have been alerted to her presence by way of the Mark. Yet every time he approached her was like the first; his appearance was undoubtedly fear-inducing to anyone else as he was the picture of death with his billowing onyx cape and menacing skeletal mask. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

“—Kedavra.”

“—avra.”

Malfoy was the finisher. When the last of his death curses were issued, he always reached for her. His lips always felt like ice cubes against her skin, the coldness of his mouth was always a shock to Hermione. But it didn’t matter; her stomach was alive with flutters, with never-ending butterflies.

And once found her, he didn’t let go.

His hand clasped around hers and together, they ravaged through the bleak war zones, casting curses left and right while holding on to one another, always maintaining their physical contact. Hermione had never felt a higher emotion than walking through the battlegrounds with him; knowing she had him with her was better than revenge.

“Obliviate!”

“Bombarda Maxima.”

“Crucio.”

The curses fell from their lips like prayers, each one laced with enough emotion to illicit pure torture or death.

Hermione’s favourite part of the fights was always near dusk, when the sun was nothing but a burnt ruddy outline of its earlier appearance. 

Malfoy always gave her first dibs on the Death Eaters. Whether she preferred to surprise them with a simple leg-locker jinx or practise some unknown form of unheard of agony in a new curse, he never stopped her.

“Crucio!”

“Laedere.”

“Dolor in Aeternum.”

“Avada Kedavra.”

There was never a time when Hermione and Malfoy didn’t walk away in complete silence. 

Their Death Eater cloaks cast long shadows across the land; these shadows were twice their actual sizes, creating quite the disquieting scene in the backdrop of the War.

The sun would always be inching towards the horizon line; its setting form was rusty like an old, abandoned dream. Yet, their hands would always be joined together; their fingers clung to one another like lifelines, like they were the only solid, real things in this Hellish nightmare.

Together, they could take down anyone or anything that stood in their way.

It was sometime near the tail-end of summer when Hermione was summoned to a graveyard, one that was familiar only because it had been described to her so many times.

Godric’s Hollow.

Her body landed with a thud in the twilight town. 

The air was already heavy with death and Dark Magic; Hermione observed her surroundings without trepidation. She knew very well, however, of Harry’s connection to this place and the subsequent legacy of his parents.

The houses seemed abandoned; unlike other locations she had been called to, the quietness alone of the location was alarming. Her skin prickled with nervous goosebumps as she walked past the various tombstones.

“Hermione.”

She turned her neck towards the sound; the voice was almost a mere echo in the wind. But it called to her again.

“ Hermione .”

She drew her wand at once; her nerves were suddenly frozen, fraught with apprehension.

But she didn’t cast anything just yet. Instead, she paused…listening to the late summer’s wind howl through the trees.

“It’s me…Harry.”

Chapter Text

She knew that voice. Unless it was some kind of deception, Hermione would know that voice anywhere.

“Revelio.”

The outline of her old friend began to materialise before her. Harry was lifting up his Invisibility Cloak. In one hand, he clutched his wand, in the other, the tattered copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

Out of instinct, Hermione removed her Death Eater mask.

But he wasn’t looking at her. Rather, Harry was squinting, trying to read the names that were barely still etched on moss-covered tombstones.

“Lumos.”

Hermione was motionless as she observed him; her fingers were locked around her own wand. She couldn’t help but notice how different they each looked at this moment. 

Even with the frame of his round lenses, she could see the blue circles under Harry’s eyes. His t-shirt was torn and there were several visible bruises and wounds covering his arms. Just by his posture alone, she could tell he was exhausted.

Hermione, on the other hand, had a sort of healthy fierceness to her appearance. Her curls were loose, shiny, and wild; there was even a radiance to her skin and permanent blush in her cheeks that spoke of being alive. She had put on more weight and more muscle since her time on the Horcrux hunt and her months locked away in the cottage. With her flowy cloak and black leather combat boots, she looked dangerous.

“The Peverell brothers,” he said finally. “Does that surname sound familiar?”

“No,” Hermione answered truthfully. As short as her reply had been, the word felt caught in her throat.

“All three buried here,” Harry remarked, his tone sounding incredulous. “I assumed Ignotus would be, but next to him are the other two.”

He still wasn’t talking to her; more like, he was thinking aloud.

“Three brothers,” Hermione mused. “Wait, the ones from the tale? You mean to say they’re real?”

Harry turned towards her now. He held open the delicate cover of the book, showing her the symbol of the line and circle enclosed by a triangle. 

“This is what Dumbledore wanted me to know,” he surmised. “The symbol is the Deathly Hallows. I can already account for the Cloak of Invisibility. Somewhere, there's a Resurrection Stone, too. But the wand from the Elder Tree—this is what I’ve been having visions of Riddle searching for.”

Hermione was listening. There had to be a point, after all, to the drawings in the book. While one might think that the fairytales were nothing more than morality stories for the wizarding young, it was like Dumbledore to be cryptic.

“According to the story, it's the most powerful wand in existence,” she added. “If it is real…who has it?”

“You mentioned this before,” Harry explained, his eyes narrowing slightly, “Viktor Krum was angered by Luna’s father wearing the same symbol. He said the symbol belonged to Grindelwald.”

“It was apparently carved into the wall at Durmstrang," Hermione said, remembering Krum’s heated exchange.

"I’m certain the Wand is real and that it once belonged to Grindelwald, ” Harry explained. “I’m sorry…you were onto something.”

Hermione thought for a moment. "Grindelwald could have owned the wand until he was defeated by Dumbledore in 1945,” she determined. "I could see Dumbledore owning such a thing."

“Exactly,” Harry said, his voice suddenly lower. “And then who defeated Dumbledore?”

Hermione swallowed nervously. Her throat felt tight.  She knew the answer to this, but she could not bear to speak his name to Harry.

“He doesn’t have it,” she said simply. “I would know.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Besides, it doesn’t matter who has it if he’s the true owner,” he replied, just as nonchalantly. “But I invited him here tonight. You must be covering for him.”

“I’m not,” Hermione gasped. “And he’ll be here. You should, er, go.”

She didn’t know what compelled her to caution him; maybe it was the way they were sharing theories like old friends or just the fact that Harry was the first friend she ever had. But for the first time in many weeks, there was a strange ache in her heart when she thought about hurting him. It was a foreign feeling—a sympathy she had not had for anyone else.

“Go?” Harry asked, his tone filled with disbelief. “Should I be thankful that you, somehow a Death Eater, are sparing me?”

“No,” Hermione said. “You’re right. But Malfoy will capture you. And if you haven’t yet found all the Horcruxes—”

“Finally you say his name.” Harry was livid now. Breathing heavily, he advanced towards her. “Do you even hear yourself, Hermione?”

She was still again, but her fingers were twirling around the knotted vines on her wand.

“Tell me,” he exclaimed, “If I had rescued you from Shell Cottage, would you still be here now? Would you have thrown away years of our friendship for someone who calls you a Mudblood?”

Hermione could feel herself shaking. Shaking with that familiar rage.

“That’s just it, Harry,” she began, speaking through gritted teeth. “I should never have needed anyone to rescue me in the first place. You know as well as I do that rehashing the past doesn’t matter. It comes down to the Prophecies.”

“So now you believe in them?” Harry questioned bitterly. “Did you for a second ever think of how I must feel with my Prophecy? The conversation I had to have with Ginny?”

“I did!” Hermione replied; she was practically shouting. “I thought of you all the time and how pathetic it was that the Order did nothing to make sure you and everyone else wouldn’t…,” she trailed off, not wanting to say the words ‘ die in vain .’ So she continued. “But no one, I mean no one cared about me. Everyone abandoned me when I wanted to fight.”

Upon hearing this, Harry closed his eyes. He seemed to be lost in thought; Hermione could tell that his breath was steadying. 

“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “None of this matters…not when the Prophecies are already set in motion.”

Hermione flinched; there was the low chiming of a church bell in the distance. Its tones sounded foreboding signalling the midnight hour.

“Harry,” she whispered, and before she could stop herself, Hermione flung herself into his arms. Warm droplets were sliding down her face as she sobbed. “If this is the last chance I get, I want to say goodbye to you.”

Her hands were around his neck; she could feel Harry accept the embrace half-heartedly.

“Hermione,” he said, patting her back awkwardly, “I wish things were different. But I don’t know if I have it in me to forgive you. Kingsley is dying a slow death, but what about Moody and Lupin? Did you kill them? Ginny says you’ve tortured and attacked—”

“Stop,” she choked. “I didn’t kill anyone. But I’ve made my choices…this is me telling you ‘goodbye.’”

They stood there huddled together, hidden amongst the gravestones for a minute before Harry spoke again. “Do you, er, love him?” he asked so softly, the question was nearly swept away in the night air.

Hermione felt her insides turn cold. She stepped back, blinking the tears away from her eyes. “What?”

“Do you love Malfoy?” Harry repeated the question, his face depicting an obvious disgust.

“I heard you,” she said, still taken aback. “But why?”

Harry was suddenly paging through the Beedle the Bard book, pointing to words that were hardly visible in the darkness of the cemetery.

“Because I came here with the intention of slitting his throat,” he said, indicating the text of the story. “If Malfoy’s the owner of the Wand, I have to kill him. This Elder Wand might be my only fighting chance against Riddle.”

Hermione found herself shaking her head furiously. She pulled the book out of his grasp. She herself had read the stories dozens of times, but now she wanted to confirm the wording for herself.

“He doesn’t have it. Besides, you’re taking the tale too literally,” she said. “I know it—here—”

She was still skimming through “The Tale of The Three Brothers” when she could feel Harry’s eyes on her. She looked up to observe him staring at her expectantly.

“He doesn’t need to have it; the Wand will sense my loyalty if I defeat him. It’s that simple.”

“No…no,” she gasped, feeling her chest tightening. 

“Why?” Harry demanded. “Why do you want to be with someone who thinks you’re inferior?”

Hermione ignored the question. “It says ‘ The thief took the wand, and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother's throat .’ You would just need to disarm Malfoy or take his wand, but you can’t.”

Harry was looking at her like she was mad. “Why?” 

“Because you’re no match for him, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “I was the only one who offered to kill him months ago. But now, I won’t let you disarm him.”

“He couldn’t possibly love you,” Harry argued without skipping a beat. “He’s not capable of that. Look what he’s done to you. Look what you’ve done. Maybe I can’t…or don’t need to kill him, but it would benefit us both if he were dead. It’s not too late if you change your mind.”

An icy chill spread throughout her veins. For some reason, the thought of Malfoy being dead made her heart want to shatter into a million pieces. Ever since she had joined him out on the battlefields, everyone had used this tactic—they tried to paint a reality which to her didn’t exist. It was useless; she was done being told what to think and how to feel.

She tossed the Beedle the Bard book to the ground and advanced towards Harry.

“I’ve loved you, Harry, as my best friend for so long,” she started, “for so long.” Though she was seething inside, her voice sounded eerily calm. “But I hate to tell you, you’re wrong. Ever since I’ve been with Malfoy, I’ve never felt more like myself.”

Without warning, Hermione rolled up her sleeve to show Harry the Dark Mark. The tiny snake was coiling around the bold letter ‘M.’

Harry’s eyes seemed glazed with horror, but as if on cue, his focus shifted beyond Hermione’s shoulders to a shadowy figure approaching in between the overgrown grass and headstones. 

She turned to see Malfoy striding towards them; her heart gave a little lurch as he uncovered the silver mask from his face. His lips were curled into a sneer and his brows were furrowed with anger as his cold eyes latched onto Harry.

“Come to turn yourself in without a fight, Potter?” Malfoy questioned, his voice filled with cruel amusement.

“You wish,” Harry snarled. He gripped his Invisibility Cloak almost like a shield as he held out his wand. “You know why I’m here.”

Malfoy chuckled. “If it has anything to do with the Weasel, I’m sorry to inform you that he’s probably dead. Don’t know, don’t care, actually.”

But Harry was still eying him aggressively, as if trying to decide whether to cast a spell or to physically charge at him.

“No?” Malfoy said with mock innocence. “If you’ve come to collect Granger, then I’m afraid you're too late. She’s quite fond of me as well as the Cruciatus Curse.” 

He had a sly smile on his face as he turned to Hermione. “Want to show him?”

As Malfoy’s eyes were glittering at her, she knew this was her chance.

“Expelliarmus! ”

In one swift motion, Malfoy’s wand flew out his hand. Hermione rushed forward to grab it as it skidded across several tombstones.

She picked it up, studying the Hawthorn wood for a moment, wondering how this elegant looking wand could be capable of issuing so much death.

When she finally made eye contact with Malfoy, she was satisfied. His face gave off a look of shock and somewhere, deep within his irises, she could see the reflection of hurt. She knew that pit that must have been in his stomach, the crushing feeling of an unexpected betrayal.

Malfoy was speechless; meanwhile, Harry was gaping at Hermione, either with premature happiness or wide-eyed fascination.

Hermione held the wand out to him. “If this is what you came to do, Harry, I’m sorry. You’re too late,” she informed him. “The Elder Wand will sense me as its true owner now.”

She walked several steps to Malfoy now, who seemed to be trembling with growing rage. Hermione placed her hand upon his heart with a touch meant to calm him. ‘Just you wait,’ she suggested with her eyes.

“Who’s inferior now, Harry?” she asked, her voice lilting and falsely gentle. “Go ahead,” she dared him, her hand now affectionately running down Malfoy’s chest. “Try to hurt him.” Hermione looked directly at Harry now in an attempt to goad him. “See what happens.”

Harry didn’t move; he barely raised the tip of his wand. 

“Expell —”

“Crucio! ”

Hermione was faster, whipping her wand to aim the Unforgivable before Harry could disarm her.

“Ahh!” He dropped to the ground with a raspy cry, his body spasming as the sparks of red burst forth from her wand.

She ended the torture spell much sooner than she typically did. Harry was struggling to move, groaning as he tried to steady himself and get back on his feet.

“Let that be your little warning for threatening to slit his throat,” Hermione said. 

She looked up at Malfoy who was observing her with careful consideration now. He pulled her into his arms so her back was flush against him. She sighed, feeling herself melt into the heat of his body. He held her tightly and brushed his lips up against her ear.

“There she is,” he murmured in her ear. 

Harry didn’t say a word upon observing their intimacy, but covered himself in the Cloak. His body vanished under the shimmery material; Hermione casted a few lazy Revelios, but she knew he was gone.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy continued, his voice lethal and mouth hot and ticklish along her neck, “whether I should punish you or kiss you?” She could sense his familiar smirk forming.

“Both?” she suggested. She closed her eyes as she felt him Apparate them away.

Hermione didn’t even know how it happened. They had been swept away in the flurry of magical travel. An invisible force was pressing up and all around her sides, but before she knew it, she was on Malfoy’s bed and his hands were now roaming all over her body.

He tugged at her hair roughly, holding her head to him as his lips melted into hers.

Malfoy was kissing her then so forcefully and with so much desperation that Hermione thought she might forever lose her breath. But the weight of his body on hers was a welcome one; the woodsy smell of him was addictive and she loved how sexy his platinum hair looked when it was lightly damp with sweat.

Just as she was admiring him, now letting him line her cheek to shoulders with small kisses, her attention was suddenly diverted elsewhere as a hand started to lower the waistband of her trousers. Her breath caught in her throat. She already knew that she was wet for him; in fact, he had that kind of effect. She could just look at Malfoy, notice the way his eyes lit up just for her, and become a puddle.

Hermione reached down to help him undress her, but he suddenly had her pinned. With one strong hand, he held her arms down while she subtly tried to raise her hips to him.

“I’m punishing you, remember? Clothes on.” 

“Fine,” Hermione huffed, hoping that he wouldn’t just ignore her.

Malfoy smiled deviously; he seemed to be waiting for her reaction as he placed his hand between her legs, purposely running a single finger along the fabric covering her mound.

“Malfoy,” she purred, knowing that her eyes were probably half-lidded, her expression filled with lust. “Touch me.”

“You disarmed me because of a wand,” he said as he finally put his hand underneath the waistband of her knickers. He ran his knuckles between her folds, gathering up her arousal. Malfoy stroked her for a bit and then as he pressed a finger into her cunt, she could see his eyelashes flutter with eagerness at the feel of her heat.

Hermione was squirming, wanting him to add more pressure. But his statement had really been more of a question.

“The Elder Wand, if you believe it,” she replied with a shaky voice. “Disarmed you thereby defeating you just before. Harry seems to think Dumbledore wanted him to find it. You were the last known true owner having killed the Headmaster.”

“Mmm,” he mumbled, continuing the same maddening single ministrations before catching her off guard and slipping another finger into her slick. But she felt something cold this time...his silver signet ring was inside her. Hermione’s eyes rolled back as she was starting to thrust up into his touch, her breath quickening as she rubbed against the heat of fingers and chill of the metal. 

“Eyes on me, Granger,” Malfoy scolded her, withdrawing his digits slightly. She was about to pout, but as soon she locked eyes with him, one of his fingers playfully flicked at her clit.

“Oh,” she gasped, not sure if she was reacting more to the pleasurable sensation or the way his grey eyes were so possessive of her as he touched her in that moment.

“So you in theory possess this wand now?” he questioned, his fingers now working in a pace as if to coax an answer out of her.

“Yes,” she half-moaned and half-laughed as her response was fitting. “It’s supposed to be the most powerful wand there is. It’s obvious why Harry and the Dark Lord both want it if they must battle one another to the death.”

“Can you take one more?” His tone was so low and gravelly; Hermione thought his voice alone might make her come. She nodded just at the same time she felt him add a third finger into her opening.

Her eyelids were closing as she lost herself to the feeling building and bubble getting ready to burst inside. But upon observing her eyes shut, Malfoy nearly withdrew his touch; when her eyes flashed open to look at him, he continued.

“What makes you want the Elder Wand?” he asked, curling two of the fingers and pressing deep within.

“Hmm,” Hermione was trying to formulate the words, trying to keep her focus on him even though she knew she could fall apart at any moment. “You,” she gasped. “When Harry threatened to hurt you…I, well, it felt like he was going to hurt me,” she explained, not knowing if her words made sense. “You can get another wand. I suppose it's important that at least one of us has ownership of the Elder.”

“Makes sense,” Malfoy said. His expression looked peaked with curiosity as he watched her. He was adding more pressure, pressing into her with such a rhythm that caused an extreme pressure to build down below.

“Do you feel that?” he asked. “The pulsing?”

"Mhm," Hermione responded, unable to keep her eyes open anymore. She was arching herself against him as his fingers were beginning to draw out her orgasm.

“Clench down,” he told her. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

She couldn’t respond, but her body automatically reacted to his words. His mouth swallowed all of her moans as a tension deep within her core broke loose. Her walls squeezed his fingers; her core muscles were convulsing so violently, she didn’t think she had ever come so hard from her own or another’s touch.

As her heart rate began to return to normal, she was aware of Malfoy still kissing her; his tongue searched her mouth while his fingers were brushing idling along her inner thighs like everything he made her body do gave him some type of ownership of her. But she found she didn’t mind in the least. This need to give herself fully to him was beyond the physical; it was something untamed and feral.

“Did I answer your questions?” she whispered. Malfoy had finally broken their kiss. He rolled to the side so their bodies were facing each other. 

“And then some,” he said, smirking. He pulled her in closer now so that their foreheads were touching. She felt suddenly self-conscious upon seeing his smugness. As a natural reaction, she reached down to pull her knickers back up.

“So you honestly didn’t know about inheriting the Elder Wand?” Hermione asked, trying to redirect her focus someone else. She was genuinely curious as she herself stopped analysing the Beedle the Bard book once she was removed from the Horcrux hunt.

He shook his head; Hermione giggled, knowing he just wanted to nestle his face into her.

“I’ve heard rumours about it. Can’t say I believed them. But then again I’ve killed so many wizards, Granger,” Malfoy sighed. “Who knows what other gifts await me?”

“We don’t need it,” Hermione began, “but maybe the Elder wand is located in Dumbledore's tomb. Or his old office. Unless Harry or the Dark Lord already found it.”

Malfoy was silent; he seemed to be contemplating something. 

“I know now,” he replied, “why the Dark Lord wants to kill me. He believes he needs the Wand.”

“Wait,” Hermione felt her heart crumble with the sickening realisation. How did she not think this through earlier?  She knew Voldemort was ruthless, that he was a merciless and vindictive force of evil. But he could also be so power hungry he was blind to the obvious; she had always assumed that Malfoy would be safe for a long time based on his high kill count—that, and the Prophecy. But if Voldemort, like Harry initially, thought the Elder Wand could only be possessed by killing the current owner, then of course he would want him dead. 

The fact that Malfoy had yet to kidnap and impregnate Hermione as to enact the Prophecy also probably did not win him any favours. 

“Malfoy,” she said, as her mind was in a panic. “You have to take me to him now.” Her heart was thumping with abandon; she wanted to jump out of the bed, but somehow she couldn’t convince her muscles to move. She was paralysed with dread.

Malfoy released a low breath, but he did not move either. “No. I haven’t killed Dolohov yet. And you know what will have to happen.”

Hermione could feel a cold terror spread through her insides. “Who cares about Dolohov? Malfoy, please,” she pleaded. She grabbed both of his hands in hers. “We need to take control of this situation,” she whispered, giving his wrists a squeeze. “For all the Dark Lord knows, you are the owner of the Wand. Unless Harry tells him otherwise. He doesn't have any reason to, though.”

He still looked reluctant. “There are fragments of his being, right?” he asked. 

Hermione's brow scrunched in confusion, but she nodded. “They're called Horcruxes. Riddle split his soul into seven pieces. I think most of the objects have been found—Harry is supposed to be destroying them. But we can also work to bring him down from the inside. I’m afraid our time is running out—you need to find me. I know that’s all you do, prove your worth over and over,” she sighed. “But you know it's true. We can buy some time if you capture me.”

He was quiet; Hermione was unsure of how to read him.

“Now that I think about it, I believe Dolohov has been sent on secret missions to find the Elder Wand,” he explained. “And to secure those...pieces. But so far, he has been unsuccessful. He mentioned raiding Dumbledore's tomb. Unless he's keeping the wand for himself, it's not there.”

"I see." Hermione moved a hand to the back of Malfoy’s head. Her fingers stroked under the strands of his soft locks. He seemed soothed by this.

 “Are you sure then? Because once I take you to the Dark Lord, there’s no going back. And this still doesn’t guarantee that he won’t kill me,” he reminded her. “Or you—once, you know. I still want you, you know.”

She pressed a soft kiss upon his lips.

“And I’ll still be with you,” she said. “But the sooner we do this, the sooner we can take charge. You can bring Voldemort the Elder Wand. You can kill Dolohov. We could figure out the rest of the Horcruxes.”

“What about Potter?” 

Hermione could feel her body tense with the mention of his name.

“You could bring him to the Dark Lord,” she said, her voice not as confident as she hoped. “I suppose I shouldn’t have let him get away today.”

“Obviously,” Malfoy said, "But I meant with the Elder Wand. You don’t think he’ll be trying to find it too?”

“Maybe,” she answered. “Though I don’t know how he could defeat me. That’s his own battle. No one needs the Elder Wand,” she said with a shrug. “Look at how powerful you are.”

“And you." His eyes were concealing nothing; Malfoy had both admiration and worry in his gaze.

“I just don’t want the Dark Lord to have it,” she said. 

They were both quiet; so much time had passed by since they returned, Hermione felt forlorn knowing it was almost time for the sun to be rising. 

"Will you..." Malfoy spoke finally; he seemed unsure of how to phrase the words, "Do you...do you promise to still want me too no matter what happens?"

"I promise," Hermione assured him. She knew they had to do this; she couldn't stomach the thought of finding out Voldemort had decided to kill Malfoy on a whim because he hadn't yet found her.

“I trust you, Granger,” he said, his voice soft and quivering against her cheek. “I trust you to use your intellect and to fight like Hell. But do you trust me?”

“I do,” she whispered back. 

“Good,” he replied, his tone suddenly curt, void of any concern. “Because it's the only way you’re going to survive.”

Before she could say anymore, he was sealing her promise with a demanding kiss. Her body was so intertwined with his, she felt like she was a part of him.

Chapter Text

Hermione blinked. A long thin ray of unwelcome early light was streaming through the curtains.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but her heart jolted when she realised her head was resting in the crook of Malfoy’s neck. His arm was draped across her side and her thigh was hooked over his leg. Their bodies were so contorted she should have been sore. But being tangled up with him did something to her inside. Her heart was glowing at the thought he needed this physical touch as much as she did. Based on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Hermione didn’t think he was awake yet.

Just a few short hours ago, he had been kissing her. She had felt so warm and so tethered to his body that she must have drifted off. 

She was only wearing her knickers. A flush rose to Hermione’s cheeks when she remembered he had made her come during his playful ‘interrogation’ about the Elder Wand. 

But that was before they discussed the awful but necessary decision to have him take her to Voldemort.

A pang suddenly took hold when Hermione thought of their burgeoning intimacy. The fact she was a virgin was practically irrelevant; she knew how her body reacted to his presence. Every time they were close, there was a little flutter in her womb. It was becoming more than just an attraction. There was an aching need only he could fill. 

But she understood Malfoy was holding back because he could. As such, he had not yet carried her to his bed and ravished her even though she really wanted him to. But whenever he kissed her, she assumed it would be only a matter of time before he decided he had to have her. She knew he felt it too, the way the rest of the world faded when their lips met. Hermione could only imagine that everything bad and terrible would disappear once he was inside of her.

Last night, after Malfoy brought her to orgasm with his fingers, Hermione wondered if he had intended for more or planned to make her wait again. Because of the expectations placed upon him by Voldemort and the Death Eaters due to the Prophecy, it was possible he had some underlying guilt for something he had not even done. At the same time, they each had so little agency in the War that this longing and desire for one another was truly the only thing worth waking up in the mornings for. 

Hermione’s pulse quickened the thought. Harry’s question was echoing in her head as well.

Do you love him?

She had known the love of her parents. She used to have love for friends, the love which had now morphed into a dark loathing.

Though it was too soon to tell, Hermione thought that with Malfoy, something akin to romantic love existed in this bleakness; at the very least, there seemed to be devotion.

Despite knowing she would face certain peril, she trusted that Malfoy would do everything in his power to keep her safe. By pretending to be his captive, she would be doing the same for him. 

But even though she promised him she’d still want him no matter what happened, there was no telling what horrors awaited. This could be their last moment of peace for a while.

Without overthinking it, Hermione started to place small kisses along Malfoy’s neck. She didn’t want to push him with her words or a conversation that would doom them back to reality just yet. 

As she kissed near his jaw, she pressed the pads of her fingers flat upon his toned chest. Lightly, she pinched the fabric of his shirt, as if to signal her intentions before moving her hand further down his abdomen.

Though he did not open his eyes, Hermione could sense the shift in his body. He released a short breath just before she placed her mouth on his lips.

The kiss started off soft and exploratory, but soon grew with vigour. When she nudged her tongue inside, Hermione felt Malfoy’s hand suddenly grasp the back of her head. He was drawing her in closer now, kissing her back passionately in his newly awakened state. As his body was almost withering against her, Hermione cupped her hand over the hardness protruding from his trousers. She gripped him as best as she could, slowly running her hand along his length.

“Granger,” he murmured, his voice thick from sleep.

Hermione broke the kiss and reached up for his belt buckle now. Even through the layers, she could tell he was of an impressive size. As she fidgeted with the bronze clasp, her eyes darted up to Malfoy; there was a part of her that felt he might grab her wrist to stop her. 

But his eyes were simply burning with arousal. There wasn’t a single indication of any hesitancy or second thoughts.

She unhooked the latch of his belt and made a move for the zipper. Unsure if she should try to lower his pants, Hermione simply pulled down on the waistband to allow his cock to spring free. She glanced down only momentarily, her eyes wide with shock as she took in the intimidating length of him. An anxious question entered her mind— how was he going to fit? 

Hermione was unable to dwell on it though as Malfoy was guiding her mouth back to his. At the same time, his outstretched hand clasped around hers to guide her palm to his throbbing member.

She didn’t think he could sense her worry, but he showed her how to stroke him up and down at a pace he liked. When she felt a little bit of wetness at his tip, Malfoy suddenly rose to his knees. She thought maybe he was going to have her suck him off, which she would have, but instead he hovered over her. His hard cock poked her stomach as he directed her to lie underneath him.

With a bite of her lip, Hermione knew her face displayed a nervousness. She was about to lower her knickers for him when she felt his hand touch her waist.

She looked up to see Malfoy smirking at her. 

“Let me take care of you,” was all he said before he placed her hands above her head. “I’m...giving in to you.”

In one swift motion, he lifted the shirt off her head and then removed her panties with one quick swipe. As for himself, he unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his trousers and pants, pushing them both to the floor.

Her bra was the only item of clothing remaining between them. Hermione was thinking about how he might choose to leave it on when he leaned in close to her, lowering himself onto his elbows so that his lips touched her skin, marking her with small kisses across her shoulders and around her neck.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you,” Malfoy admitted, his voice breathy and hot near her ear now. The lower tremor of it sent a pulse of pleasure to her down below. “Ever since the day I saw you at the cottage.”

Hermione felt her heart race at the admission; she knew there was always something between them. Even all those weeks ago, she herself was obsessing over his handsome face.

He was continuing a path of kisses down her chest now. All of a sudden, he pushed back onto his thighs and she felt his hands knead around her breasts, squeezing them so her flesh spilled out over the top of the cups.

“Malfoy,” Hermione gasped. There was something innately sensual about being so powerless to him, only allowing herself to react to his touch as her hands were out of reach over her head. She couldn’t help but cant her hips from the pressure he was applying, his fingers massaging and ever so faintly brushing over her nipples.

She thought he needed help undoing her bra, but when she began to lower her arm, Malfoy pushed it back.

“Tsk, tsk, Granger,” he scolded her, a devilish glimmer present in his eyes. “You’re mine now.” He was inching closer to her now so his head was level with her breasts. “You’re going to find out what that feels like.”

Hermione batted her eyelashes at the response; her heart was then thumping wildly as Malfoy’s tongue teased around her areola. The feel of it sent more tingles down below which only intensified when his mouth clamped down on her nipple; he was alternating between sucking and swirling his tongue over her flesh.

She was outright squirming now when he switched to the other breast, suddenly not feeling so concerned about the logistics of Malfoy’s sizable cock and her virgin self. The emptiness was pulsing deep inside her; she felt she might combust if he didn’t do something soon. He seemed to sense this, holding open her thighs with a strong arm. 

Releasing the nipple from his teeth, he looked up at her, eyes half-lidded, no doubt seeing the look of wantonness on her face as well.

His long fingers trailed down to the apex of her legs; Hermione couldn’t help but whimper as he ran a single digit through her slick.

“You're so needy,” he murmured before kissing her stomach. “I can tell you like this,” he explained. “But you’re going to come on my cock.”

Hermione nodded, releasing a tense breath as she wanted that too. His fingers were working through her folds now, his thumb circling very close to her clit. Eventually, he concentrated on pressing two fingers inside of her while applying just enough pressure where she needed it most.

When her eyes rolled back and her hips rose in hopes he would increase the speed of his touch, Malfoy took it as a sign she was ready.

She drew in a breath as she watched him pump his length a few times before hovering his body over her. For some reason, she expected him to fuck her at a punishing painful pace; she expected it to hurt regardless this first time, so she was beyond the point of caring.

But just when she felt his tip poke at her entrance, Malfoy paused.

“Granger,” he sighed, his breath ragged against her cheek. “You can put your arms down now,” he indicated, his eyes fluttering up above her head. “Hold onto me if you want.”

Hermione lowered her hands to his shoulders, still beyond having any second thoughts herself. She wanted this with him.

Suddenly, his lips were on her mouth just as she felt him begin to press into her. She let out a short gasp, unable to kiss him back as her body tensed around the initial stretch.

“Fuck,” Malfoy groaned.

He stilled. She noticed his eyes closing from what she assumed to be pleasure from the tightness.

“Take a deep breath,” he said, and Hermione didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself out loud. Regardless, she took in a gulp of air just in time to feel him slide out a little and then push into her with more strength.

“Ah,” she hissed at the sting. She couldn’t help but dig her fingernails into his shoulders, feeling even more of him now. There was a sharpness, the uncomfortable sensation of something new and different invading her.

Malfoy’s eyes opened to scan her again, perhaps to check if she had any visible signs of distress since she did not tell him to stop.

“You can keep going,” she reassured him, her fingers roaming along the broad edge of his back.

This time, when he adjusted his hips to move out, she felt the first real motion of the dragging of his cock inside her…this is what him fucking her would be like. Her stomach fluttered at the new sensation. 

Hermione then let out a surprised gasp when he entered her again with one forceful push; he had finally bottomed out.

“That’s right,” he assured her, placing delicate kisses along her jaw. “It's going to feel really good now.”

Malfoy began to thrust even and slow; she at once knew he was moving with a gentleness to let her get used to him. At the same time, his mouth found hers again; she was kissing him back with more fervour as if her lips could let him know that she was okay…she was more than okay. 

“Malfoy,” she whispered, her head dropping back as she felt vibrations down below, pleasurable ripples along her walls as he moved in and out of her. 

Automatically, her hands travelled up to his head to pull on his hair. “Did you know that I…,” her voice trailed away, her cheeks suddenly burning as his eyes opened wide with confusion. “Never mind,” she said. Hermione didn’t need to ask; he likely knew she was a virgin from the time he was in her head. She supposed it didn’t matter; her heart was thudding with an unnamed emotion, one of gratitude for the way he eased her into it and exhilaration for getting to experience her first time with him. 

He didn’t seem bothered by her mumbling, so he continued rocking his hips into her, this time with more force seeing that she was letting out little contented sighs and moans.

“You feel incredible,” Malfoy groaned, his hands now returning to her breasts; he twirled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. “It's like you were made for me.”

Hermione released a sudden breathy whimper; her eyes darted up to see Malfoy’s expression darkened and filled with intensity as he looked upon her. She felt like his words might just send her over the edge.

Without warning, Malfoy slowed the thrusting; Hermione almost whined from the lack of movement, but then he angled his hips a little differently so that his tip was repeatedly hitting some place even more sensitive.

“Oh Gods,” Hermione rasped, feeling a sudden tension coiling somewhere deep inside. This was different, she thought. She had never had intercourse before, never felt such friction on this spot inside her.

Her pulse was quickening and she was starting to moan and make other indistinguishable sounds, not even feeling self-conscious in the least because she could tell Malfoy was also finding pleasure from her body. His eyelashes fluttered closed and he was biting his lip as he continued driving into her.

It was at this moment that Hermione realised she never wanted this to end. She would do anything to keep this feeling forever, the way Malfoy belonged inside of her, their bodies meeting one another thrust for thrust. There was nothing else that mattered except chasing this high with him. 

When his mouth descended upon her, his tongue swirling along her lips and prodding into her with the same energy as his cock was driving into her opening, Hermione knew he felt the same.

“I want you to think of us like this,” he said, breaking the kiss. His voice was muffled and gravelly near the side of her face, but she could tell he was sincere. “Capture it in your mind. Nothing else that will happen matters.”

Suddenly, one of his hands reached between her legs. His thumb was rubbing circular motions around her clit. This coupled with his hips slamming against her now made Hermione gasp…she could feel her walls start to flutter, her cunt start to squeeze around his cock.

“I think,” she stammered, not sure she could even get the words out. “Malfoy, I’m going to…”

“Come for me.”

His command was issued at the same time she was crying out, feeling the bubble within her burst; there were tremors rolling through her and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold onto anything solid as her soul felt like it was coming right out of her body.

“Granger,” Malfoy grunted, slowing his thrusts to watch her come undone. “You look so beautiful like this. Fuck, I can feel you, too.”

“Mhm,” she whimpered, still unable to form any coherent words as her limbs suddenly felt like putty. 

He gave her a few minutes to recover. His silver gaze still seemed to be relishing in her body and the way it had been so responsive to him. When Hermione affectionately placed a soft kiss on his forehead, Malfoy resumed his fucking, this time thrusting into her hard and fast.

His hair was wet with perspiration; Hermione loved the way it covered his brows and skimmed her face. Malfoy’s breathing was laboured as his hips still thrashed into her. “Fuck,” he groaned, his movements now uneven and jerky. “I can't—”

Abruptly, Malfoy hissed, pulling out out of her. Hermione could feel the spurts of his come hitting her thigh. 

He was still then, his chest heaving as he reached for his wand on the nightstand.

With the quick motion of his wrist, he casted a spell: “Nolite Conceptionis.” He tossed Hermione her bra and knickers, and then flicked his wand again to Scourgify the mess.

They were both quiet as they dressed. Hermione glanced towards the wardrobe, considering her options.

“You should shower,” Malfoy instructed her, a rigidness in his tone. “I’ll have Tilly bring us breakfast. And you absolutely must eat. We are not leaving if you don’t eat.”

“I will.” Hermione had an inkling as to why he was so insistent. She felt he just should have added a ‘while you can’ to his orders.

She hurried to the bathroom, but then stopped. Wearing nothing but her undergarments, she rushed back to Malfoy, who was pacing near the sitting area, no doubt waiting impatiently for the elf.

Throwing her arms around his neck, Hermione clung to him, pouring her emotions into the strength of her embrace. He wrapped his arms firmly around her in return, pressing his face into the unruly curls of her mane. 

Hermione knew words didn’t need to be exchanged. Somehow, she knew Malfoy could sense everything—her worries, her fears, but most of all, her hope. The hourglass had been tipped over and final grains of sand were about to fall. Their relationship was delicate in its infancy, and now it was about to be tested in the most sinister of ways. 

But if they could somehow remain unscathed, loyal to one another, then they could have it all…a life worth living.

Malfoy had an idea. 

Hermione tried to follow his logic, but she didn’t quite understand. She just couldn’t comprehend why he was so hung up on Dolohov.

“If Dolohov can be a good little servant and find the Elder Wand, the Dark Lord will surely see to his end,” he was saying. “I could lead him to it.”

“No,” Hermione said, swishing her wand to use magic to lace up her trainers. “You would still be killed. Riddle will still believe the Wand is loyal to you. That’s why it's important you capture me. Hopefully this will buy us some time; we can find out about the remaining Horcruxes.” 

Malfoy scowled. “I want to do more than buy us time,” he said. “For one, I want Dolohov dead."

“Why does he matter so much?” she questioned, shaking her head in confusion. “Didn’t you say Riddle assigned him the job of finding the Wand? Why would he be killed for that?”

“I told you the Dark Lord never rewards, never keeps his promises,” Malfoy responded with a wry smile.

Hermione shrugged. “You could always Avada him out on the battlefield I suppose.”

“I’ll do more than that,” he snarled. “I’ll slice him open and strangle him with his own intestines. When his eyes plead for mercy, I’ll rip them out with my bear hands so they dangle out of sockets—”

“Or that,” Hermione added, interrupting Malfoy’s fantasy. “I’m sure there is some sort of spell to test the Wand’s affiliation,” she pondered. 

“I hope not,” Malfoy was shaking his head this time. “Then you’ll be outed as the owner. Do I need to conquer you?” He was looking at her with calculated interest, fastening his cloak around his shoulders. 

“I think it's still best if it belongs to me,” she explained, “in case Riddle does attempt some identification spell. Due to the Prophecy, he may not kill me right away.”

Malfoy’s brows were narrowed as he considered her words. “You should leave your own wand here in my room,” he said. “It’ll be safe; no one can disarm or defeat you for the Elder.”

Hermione nodded. Deep down, she was hoping Voldemort might just order her to stay locked up in Malfoy’s room. She could have her wand and perhaps their lives wouldn’t be all that different. But somehow, she knew that thinking wasn’t just foolish, but dangerous. She was their enemy after all, and without a wand, it would be difficult if not impossible to defend herself.

As if reading her mind, Malfoy approached her. His expression was hardened and the sharp lines of his face seemed to be exaggerated when he was dressed in his full Death Eater gear.

“If any wizard besides me so much as lays a finger on you, he will regret the day he was born,” he said darkly. “I’ve made that fact abundantly clear.” With the tap of his wand against her forearm, Malfoy vanished her Dark Mark. 

Hermione turned her wrist over, curious as to the spell he casted. She had already planned on concealing it herself. 

“It’s still there,” Malfoy explained. “Just Glamoured.”

He then placed a dragonhide leather gloved finger under her chin, guiding her face to his lips. Malfoy’s kiss was all-consuming; he pulled her body into his chest which was plated in magical protective armour.

“Thank you,” she replied breathlessly, suddenly feeling the urge to stay in his arms forever. It was strange not to be dressed for battle along with him. Instead, Hermione was wearing the Muggle jeans and t-shirt she arrived in. 

The plan would be for Malfoy to Apparate them both into the woods. Hermione would pretend to run and he would find her and deliver her to Voldemort.

With a sigh, Hermione removed herself from Malfoy’s hold. She walked over to his desk, opening the drawer to conceal her wand inside. Looking around the bedroom one last time, she felt a heavy uneasiness settle over her. For perhaps the first time in over a year, she would have to rely on someone other than herself…someone who was not only becoming the most important person in her life, but someone who was also tasked with hurting her.

“Let’s run away,” Malfoy said, holding out an arm for her.

Hermione gave him a half-smile. “We will be running,” she reminded him. “At least I will be.”

“I mean it,” he said, his eyes observing her reaction. “We can go somewhere far away, just the two of us. Then I won’t have to…” his voice became distant, not wanting to verbalise any of what they both dreaded.

“You can’t escape,” she replied softly, gazing at his own Dark Mark. “Besides, the more we avoid the inevitable, the less control we have. We’re doing this for us.”

Malfoy nodded. He was about to put his mask on, but he hesitated. His grey eyes looked unusually clear as he studied her. 

“Granger,” he started to address her, but his voice sounded strained. “I know you're not naïve to the fact that the dynamic between us will change.”

Hermione stared at him, unable to discern his emotion. He seemed distressed.

“I'm not,” she said. “I, er, gave you permission if you recall. This was my suggestion.”

Malfoy did not seem comforted by those facts. “Good,” he said. “You remember.”

She reached out, hooking her arm around his.

Without another word, they were whisked away in a subtle twist of magic.

It was still mid-afternoon, yet the Forbidden Forest was the darkest Hermione had ever seen it in the daylight hours. 

The late summer leaves on the trees created an ominous canopy over the grounds. In the distance, the harsh caws of crows and cries of unknown creatures could be heard as they seemed to suspect a disturbance.

Hermione hadn’t realised she still had a hand on Malfoy until he pulled away, making a motion for her to run.

“I’ll give you a head start,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

Hermione turned and immediately began to run. The terrain was difficult; there was no obvious path as the dirt was covered by overgrown vines and knotted fallen branches. If it was even possible, it appeared the Forest grew more even more wild now that Hogwarts was run by the Death Eaters.

The more hurried her pace, the heavier her heart felt. It was useless to exhaust herself when she would not be able to hide without magic. Malfoy would simply be able to alert himself to her location. 'You want to be found,' she reminded herself.

Hermione paused then to catch her breath, resting her back against the trunk of a tree. It was then that she heard a crunch...several crunches. 

She heart the footsteps first, then the male voices:

“Zabini…Nott. Business as usual, I assume?”

Hermione knew it must be Malfoy; he couldn’t be too far from her anyway.

“Of course. Patrolled the perimeter. Acquired a few new recruits by Imperius,” a bored voice responded. “You?”

“Tracking that fucking Mudblood,” Malfoy sighed, “the bane of my existence.” 

“I thought she was dead,” one of them continued casually. It was Nott.

She heard a derisive snort from Malfoy. “If only I could be so fortunate.”

“Well, once you find her and fuck her, you’ll be doing us all a favour. It's about bloody time this War is over.”

“Pity that’s not how it works, Zabini.”

“It’s not? If I didn’t know any better, there’s a Prophecy that says otherwise. Why am I getting the feeling you’re purposely stalling—”

“Shh! Did you hear that?”

Hermione held her breath; in her attempt to listen more closely, she accidentally stepped on a twig.  Internally, she knew she was supposed to be discovered, but she still hated being without her wand.

“Over here.”

Knowing she had to do it, Hermione suddenly dashed out from behind the tree.

“Get her!”

She raced forward, leaping over spiked stumps and sidestepping deep holes on the forest floor.

There were several loud explosions of magic; though sparks scorched her bare arms, Hermione continued to run. She had to fight against the instinct to reach into her empty pocket. It was an unnatural feeling, not being able to turn around and cast a dark spell or defensive jinx.

“Obscura Lux.”

Hermione almost stopped in the midst of the curse, but she continued on, despite her vision becoming warped as a great velvet curtain of dark mist descended upon her.  When the foreboding siren sounded, she recalled the first time Malfoy had used such a disorienting spell. 

In the smokey, thick air of the curse, she fell forward, her foot catching on a log. Though she didn’t hear any snap of bone, she was aware of the tendons in her ankle churning as she stumbled rapidly over a chunk of jagged wood.

“Incarcerous Ignis.”

Hermione attempted to get to her feet, but suddenly her hands were tied together by a thick rope. She couldn’t propel herself forward and she lacked balance; her twisted ankle was still throbbing. Letting out a small cry, she desperately hoped Nott and Zabini would not throw any hexes her way on top of the curses Malfoy cast.

"Let me go!” she winced, not having to fake any hurt as the transparent rope was burning into the thin flesh of her wrists.

Though she was unable to see, she could hear the amused chuckles from the Death Eaters.

“What do you know? It's your lucky day, Malfoy. Congratulations on your impending fatherhood."

“Fuck you.”

“Why don’t you just hand the bitch over to Dolohov and be done with her?” 

“You can’t be that daft, Zabini. You do realise that means a death sentence for me.”

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m fucking right. Now, why don’t you two go inform the Dark Lord? I’m going to inspect the Mudblood and snap her wand. Tell him I’m coming.”

“While I don’t appreciate your tone, Malfoy, I’m glad to do it. Merlin, this news will probably give the old snake a boner. Maybe he’ll let me off duty for week—”

“Just go, Nott.”

Hermione heard two ‘pops’ and then the woods fell mostly silent again except for the occasional screeches from an owl. She was alone with Malfoy.

“Finite.”

As the cloudy air from the curse began to dissipate, she could sense him stalking towards her, hearing heavy boots stomping from a few feet away. When he was directly behind her, he released the transparent ties from her wrists as well.

With one hand, Malfoy snatched her elbow, pulling her to her feet. She was unsteady though; the bulging muscle from her ankle was preventing her from standing up straight.

He tore the Death Eater mask from his face, his eyes immediately darting to her leg. In one quick motion, he knelt down to direct his wand to her foot, reciting the incantation for an instant healing spell. At once, Hermione felt a soothing warmth consume her skin. The fuzzy feeling continued to spread further under her skin and into her muscle tissue, eliminating the sting from the sprain. Her ankle returned to normal size.

“You can’t walk,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth.

It was not a suggestion, but an order. Before Hermione could even pretend to collapse, he was scooping her up into his arms.

Her hands folded around his neck by their own accord. Her heart skipped a little beat when she reminded herself she was not supposed to like this. She should be fighting back, but she really didn’t want him to let her go. At least no one else was around.

Hermione assumed they were meant to be going to Voldemort, but Malfoy was taking his time, carrying her a few steps farther into the forest. 

“What was that about Dolohov?” Hermione whispered. "Tell me."

The question stopped Malfoy in his tracks. He let out a dark laugh.

“You’ll find out soon enough, Mudblood.” 

And with those words, she gripped Malfoy’s cloak as he Disapparated them.

Chapter Text

He made her promise.

“Do you trust me?...it’s the only way you’re going to survive.”

Malfoy’s prior words replayed in her head along with the slur about her blood impurity. Though it stung to hear him use it so flippantly, she assumed the insult was meant to be a preview of what was to come, maybe even an admonishment for getting too close, for thinking he would set aside time to reassure her of her safety. He was hopefully just reminding her to stay in her role as his captive.

As they arrived inside the gates of a manor house in ruins, Hermione tried to ignore the nagging feeling that something was actually terribly wrong. The location itself was foreboding; the estate looked like some decrepit storybook fortress, a haunted nineteenth revival castle. Twisted vines like snakes grew around every inch of mouldy stone. She couldn’t help but think that someone was watching them from one of the high turrets. 

Why would Blaise Zabini have suggested that Malfoy ‘give’ her to Dolohov? She knew Malfoy despised the Death Eater, but what did she have to do with him? 

The questions swirled in her mind as Malfoy carried her up the gravel path to the entrance.

“Malfoy, tell me,” she begged again, her voice only audible enough so he could hear. “Please.”

But he made no effort to respond. Instead, he lifted his mask to cover his face and seemed agitated, stomping his boots through the door and into the foyer.

Almost immediately, Hermione could feel the drastic temperature change inside the place. There was a prevalent coldness in the air that went straight to her lungs. It was a chill so heavy that it made her bones ache, the type of atmosphere created only by an overabundance of Dark Magic.

Hermione’s chest constricted with nervousness for the first time. If she actually had been captured, she knew she would have been screaming and clawing at him right now. Malfoy would have needed to keep the magical chains on her. 

As they headed down a winding corridor, she felt like a lamb to the slaughter in his arms. She was his sacrifice. Though she would need to be a convincing prisoner, she thought about how vital it might be to conserve some of her energy for later as well. 

Malfoy turned the corner into what appeared to be a large hall. Before them, there were rows and rows of wizards and witches dressed in black wearing the skeletal masks.

Hermione wanted to gasp at the sheer number of Death Eaters; she knew it wasn’t possible, but there seemed like hundreds of them. Her fist clenched with worry behind Malfoy’s neck. She was again debating on how much to act like herself. Somehow, knowing her capture was planned was driving her to become considerably retrained as far as displaying any emotions at all. At the same time, though she expected this to be an awful ordeal, she really hadn’t prepared herself for the very real internal fear she was experiencing.

Is this where Malfoy would have to rape her? In front of this audience?

Her body shivered with a horrifying realisation—what had started out as possibly one of the best days of her life was quickly devolving into an inescapable nightmare.

But she had no one to blame but herself.

You asked for this. You’re doing it for the both of you.

Trust him.

You should trust him…right?

Her own voice became a source of both comfort and doubt as she ignored several snickers directed at her from the crowd of deranged followers.

A high pitched cackle broke her reverie.

“Potter’s little Mudblood has finally come to play,” the witch laughed.

Bellatrix Lestrange, standing next to Voldemort himself, looked down upon her with derision. The two were front and center of the grand altar of this hall; everyone else turned to face Malfoy and Hermione as they approached.

“Indeed,” Malfoy responded coolly. With his mask concealing his expression, she really couldn’t get a true sense of his demeanour.

“Draco,” Lord Voldemort greeted him, a manic grin spreading over his serpentine features. When he opened his mouth, Hermione was disgusted to see the many jagged teeth which gave him an inhuman appearance along with his slit for a nose. “You have proven yourself most valuable in acquiring the Mudblood. As you know, this Prophecy shall mark the Order’s demise.”

Hermione could feel Malfoy nod his head in acknowledgement. She was beginning to feel sick…it wasn’t in her being to be so helpless. Her cheeks flared with embarrassment when she realised how pathetic she must look in his arms.

Voldemort smiled again; he was drifting over to them now, his robes swishing and gathering up a foul, icy blast of air as he snaked to their side.

Hermione was drawn to his long, decayed fingernails hovering over top of her. She thought perhaps he was going to touch her when his leathery palm gripped Malfoy’s shoulder instead.

She could feel Malfoy flinch; somehow his reaction was a bit grounding, as she could sense he did not want that type of contact.

“Whether you have succeeded in this mission because you are like me or because you have a weakness for your dear mother’s soul, I’m not certain,” the Dark Lord whispered, his scaly digits drawing circles around the top of Malfoy’s chest . “Either way, you are unlike your father who was nothing but a disappointment. Be proud. It is better without him here to influence you, don’t you agree?”

Malfoy shook his head ever so slightly and was still again. He stood rigid and reserved, waiting for further instructions.

“We are all gathered here,” Voldemort addressed the large assembly of Death Eaters, “to witness this historic turning point in the War for our Pure-blood supremacy. Potter's time has come to an end! Together, we shall leave the Dark Ages and enter a new Golden era in Wizarding Britain and beyond. Only those worthy of magic, such as yourselves here, will thrive. Any wizard clinging to the old ways shall suffer greatly and die a most deserved death. No doubt, with this dirty, so-called ‘witch’ in our possession, a creature who defiles the very nature of magic might I add, the Death Eaters will reign supreme.”

Hermione thought her heart was about to beat right out of her chest. As a loud cheer erupted from the masked group, she swallowed anxiously. Her throat felt narrow and dry. She felt threatened.

“Does the one with the dirty blood have anything to say?”

Voldemort was eying her now, a look of pure contempt in his eyes.

Though Hermione drew in a quick gulp of air, she was unsuccessful in settling her nerves. She was shaking uncontrollably. She didn’t mean to, but she tightened her hold on Malfoy.

“No,” she said shortly.

Bellatrix howled with amusement again. “Make her speak, Draco,” she snarled.

Voldemort nodded with encouragement. “Show the Mudblood in her place.”

Without warning, Malfoy forcibly released his grip on her. Her body dropped to the marble floor; she winced from the fall, holding her knee which throbbed from the impact.

Raucous shouts arose from the Death Eaters and although her back was turned, she could suddenly feel all eyes on her.  She tried to stand up, but was caught off guard.

“Crucio.”

She was first aware of the red light in her peripheral just as the Unforgivable fell from Malfoy’s lips. Taking a deep breath, Hermione braced herself for inexplicable torture, immense pain she had issued herself but never was on the receiving end of until now.

Think of something else…think of him. 

But her heart tore in half with the knowledge that Malfoy was really hurting her. Her mind was no weapon against the first razor sharp sting of the spell that cut deep into her bones. With a piercing cry, Hermione was spasming, her limbs tossed to and fro against the ground. She no longer had control of her muscles or nerves. The feeling of being sliced open persisted until it was replaced with an invisible fire, a scorching heat that made her feel like her flesh was being burned from the inside out. She wasn’t even sure if she was screaming. Vaguely, she knew her body was thrashing about, but had no passing awareness other than a single wish for death.

Hermione was barely cognisant when the torture ended. She didn’t even know how long Malfoy had used the Cruciatus Curse on her; it likely was only about a minute, but the way her body ached, it felt like hours. There was a point when she realised the scarlet flashes of the curse had faded, yet remnants of the searing pain still pulsed under her skin, particularly under her forearm.

Her Dark Mark.

As she was lying on the floor recovering, her fingers grazed over the spot where the Mark was hidden. For some reason, her skin felt particularly irritated there. Hermione turned her head so her eyes could catch a brief side view of Malfoy.

He was hunched over. He still clutched his wand even though his hands were resting upon his thighs, as if he needed to steady himself. Despite him wearing the thick cloak, Hermione could see he was breathing quite heavily. Again, she could not gauge his reaction.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to the many crude voices around her. Sinister laughter echoed overtop the vaulted ceilings of the hall.

“Very well,” Voldemort clapped, his hands lifting to the air with merriment. “I would say this is the ideal moment for Draco to ensure the Prophecy is enacted.” Again, there were several encouraging murmurs from the ranks of Death Eaters.

Malfoy adjusted himself instantly, standing tall once more. Hermione wasn’t sure, but she thought his body was trembling. Meanwhile, the heat she was feeling from the Crucio was beginning to dissipate. 

“There is, however, one caveat,” Voldemort continued.  

Upon this statement, there were a few jeers and disappointed huffs, followed by outright vocalisations of questions and gasps confusion.

“Quiet!” The snake man commanded in an effort to control the response of his followers.

Hermione repositioned herself so that she was sitting up on her knees, supporting most of her body weight with one arm. She looked around cautiously, afraid to seem stare too long at any one Death Eater. 

“Antonin,” the Dark Lord called. “Come forward.”

Hermione could only hear the plodding footsteps of a wizard making his way to the front of the hall.

The air was thick with suspenseful silence; she imagined everyone was just as curious as she was. But Hermione's stomach was churning with more than curiosity. Waves of panic were undulating throughout her system.

Her gut told her it was something bad.

“You,” Voldemort addressed him. “You, unlike Draco, have continually disappointed me.”

“My apologies, my Lord…I even interrogated Grindelwald as you asked, killed the wizard—”

“Quiet! How dare you speak when not asked.”

The atmosphere of the hall was still heavy with tension. Voldemort waited several uncomfortable minutes before continuing.

“Draco’s persistence has put you in a precarious position,” he announced. “We are all eager for the breeding of the Mudblood to commence. However, I am still without my one treasured possession…the Elder Wand.”

No one spoke a word; Hermione was motionless herself, watching the dark shadows of Voldemort’s robe billowing about in front of her.

“Antonin—you have made no secret of the fact that you desire Potter’s uncleanly sidekick to be your personal whore,” he said with a sigh, the comment eliciting several muffled chuckles from the Death Eaters. “But, pray tell, what have you done to deserve such a prize? Please, answer us now.”

“If I may,” Dolohov started, his voice cracking in response, “I have nearly as many kills as Draco. My birthdate, 25th May, also applies to wording of the Prophecy. For you, I have single-handedly ended several Resistance armies that sprouted up in Austria. Not to mention, I have worked to form alliances in Bulgaria. Finding your Wand is—”

“Something you have continually failed and failed to do,” Voldemort answered for him, his voice an equal mixture of wrath and boredom. “You may think the Prophecy references you, but why would I take out Draco? He has never once disappointed me to the extent you have.”

“My Lord,” Dolohov practically whimpered, “I have not given up. I have visited the old headmaster’s tomb twice in search of it.”

“Crucio!”

All of the sudden, Dolohov’s voice withered away as his body was slammed with repeated force to the ground. Voldemort aimed his wand the recklessly; several Death Eaters shielded themselves as sparks of the Dark Magic darted out into the far regions of the hall.

He lowered his wand and strode over to Dolohov.

“Need I remind you there are two Prophecies?” he snarled. “The Prophecy involving the rape of the Mudblood is only part of the plan to defeat Potter. I need the Elder to ensure he dies.”

“I understand, my Lord. I will retrieve the Elder Wand—I shall not fail you any longer,” Dolohov offered in desperation.

“It is I who makes the demands,” Voldemort corrected him. He let out a cruel chuckle and began to make his way over to Malfoy again. 

Hermione froze; she shifted slightly to watch the interaction behind her.

“Though I doubt you are as eager to sully yourself with the Mudblood as Antonin is, Draco,” he began, “I am starting to believe you are my one and only loyal servant.”

Malfoy let out a low laugh. “You are correct. I do not intend to fuck the Mudblood for sport. However, I will see this task through to completion as I have every other mission you’ve assigned to me. I live to serve you.”

Voldemort gave him a wicked smile. “I have no other choice but to request your services once again. Pick her up,” he ordered. 

Hermione’s heartbeat quickened as Malfoy pulled her to her feet roughly. His hands locked over her arms and her back fell against his chest.

“Let this be a competition then,” Voldemort stated. “I realise the true reward of impregnating the Mudblood is only of value to one of you. Draco…Antonin…it is both of your assignments to bring me the Elder Wand. Whoever brings me the Elder Wand gets the Mudblood. Perhaps you, Draco, may have better luck. The Wand might just have some allegiance to you.”

Just as a hushed mumbling resounded throughout the hall, Hermione felt Malfoy’s fingers clench down on her skin so firmly, she nearly cried out at the pinch. A sinking feeling took hold of her as she realised that he must have always been privy to Dolohov’s desire for her.

This isn’t right…this will never work.

Her mind was already running wild with scenarios; she was unsure if Malfoy anticipated a challenge like this or if he even had an inkling of a plan worked out. Was he aware this would be his new mission? She didn't think so.

It made her nauseous to think that even if Draco was able to find the Elder Wand, Voldemort would likely kill him anyway to gain possession of it. He would be killed regardless.

She recalled Malfoy’s words about Voldemort from the morning: “The Dark Lord never rewards, never keeps his promises.”

What would happen to her? Would she be sent to Dolohov anyway? The idea made her want to throw up.

This was all a mistake and in her naivety, she had underestimated the Death Eaters and Voldemort’s depravity. It hurt to think she had casually brushed aside Malfoy’s idea to run away. Maybe they would have been better off taking their chances.

“Take Potter’s Mudblood to the dungeons,” Voldemort instructed Malfoy. “We’ll see to it that she is nice and ready for the victor,” he hissed.

His scathing voice interrupted Hermione's apprehension, bringing her back to reality. It didn’t matter that her feet didn’t feel capable of moving as Malfoy was dragging her unceremoniously through the lines of Death Eaters. There were quite a few of them acting as spectators, leering at her and letting out lewd remarks.

“I’d fuck that…maybe Dolohov is onto something.”

“Bet he’ll share. Malfoy already said he won’t.”

“I’d fuck the Mudblood…choke her out. Serves her right.”

Just as they reached the arched doors at the end of the hall, Hermione glanced at the Death Eater who seemed to be keeping watch outside. He stared her, seemingly shaking his head in disappointment. She didn’t know at first who was behind the mask, but she recognised the voice instantly when he spoke:

“Foolish girl.”

Snape.

Malfoy didn’t stop to address him or any other Death Eaters that called his name. He was possibly Occluding she thought, unfazed as he pulled her along forcefully through the candle-lit corridors of the manor.

They were suddenly descending a twisted, rickety spiral staircase. Again, the air felt even more frigid the further they descended into the depths of the home. 

Hermione held in her breath as they passed by several cells in the dungeons. There were prisoners lying on the ground, others propped up against the metal bars.

The surroundings were damp and musty; the sickly and putrid smell of decay was permeating the air. With horror, Hermione looked into one of the holdings and it dawned on her—most of these bodies were long dead and rotting. 

No wonder the prison was eerily silent.

“I’ve already got her accommodations right here,” came a gravelly voice in the distance. 

There were two Death Eaters acting as prison guards; a third without a mask was pointing to a large cell.

“Rodolphus,” Malfoy greeted him. He paused, waiting with Hermione just outside of the cell. 

For a brief moment, Malfoy let go of her only to lower his mask. As he reached for both her wrists again, she assumed that he wouldn’t be looking at her, but she was wrong.

He was was observing her, his eyes wide and seemingly analytical. His hair was mussed, scattered every which direction. The angles of his face appeared harsh and unforgiving in the dim light of the prison, but she saw those grey eyes were swirling with a plethora of conflicted emotions. Her initial read into his gaze was one of distress, perhaps pity. But he looked away from her suddenly, his brows furrowing with anger.

“See to it no one removes or touches the Mudblood,” he ordered. Then, with more force than necessary, he directed Hermione into the cell. “Especially Dolohov. He has no claim on her unless he secures the Elder Wand.”

As Malfoy pushed Hermione closer to the wall, she expected him to release his grip, but he was still squeezing her wrists, his hands shaking with apparent rage.

Rodolphus laughed. “I don’t know if I can guarantee that.”

Malfoy finally let go of her as he stepped forward to lunge at Rodolphus.

He gripped him by the collar. “I have done everything for her. Everything,” he snarled, "in the hope that she lives.”

“Look at you,” Rodolphus quipped. “Still paying for the sins of your father.”

“Don’t you dare,” Malfoy threatened. “Say another word and I’ll kill you. Auntie Bella doesn’t even want you. Don’t pretend you don’t know she’s been sleeping with the Dark Lord.”

Rodolphus drew his wand. He was seething, his chest puffing out with indignation. “You’re wrong!” he spat. He shook his head in disbelief and then a dark look passed over his features. “Fine. I’ll see to it that your precious Mudblood stays here.” He whipped his head in the direction of Hermione, giving her an evil glare.

“Make sure she eats.”

Hermione was surprised when Malfoy entered the cell again. He stepped into her personal space, backing her into the stone corner. He observed her carefully, as if appraising her. She knew the move was meant to be intimidating, but she had to close her fists in order to stop herself from reaching out to him.

Rodolphus scoffed. “I’ll ensure she eats,” he said, his voice filled with sarcasm. “She’ll be kept alive,” he laughed scornfully.

Suddenly, Malfoy grabbed hold of Hermione’s forearm. His fingers ran along the spot of where her Dark Mark was supposed to be.

“Good,” he replied, turning to face the other Death Eater. “Anything less would be an interference. The Dark Lord would grant me full authority to dispose of you instantly.”

His eyes shifted back to Hermione. Again, her pulse quickened as she studied Malfoy’s face, trying to see if he was attempting to communicate with her. She looked at him searchingly, and a flash of something like hatred mixed with disgust washed over his expression.

“Dolohov must really be fucked in the head to want you,” he sneered. He leaned in closer, his voice now a menacing whisper. “And even more fucked if he thinks he can have you.”

There was a sharp crack of magic and Malfoy was gone.

Chapter Text

“Colloportus .” The silver trail of lights from the locking spell sparked around the perimeter of the cell. 

Rodolphus Lestrange was leering at Hermione, his yellow teeth glowing in the bleak dungeon.

“Your red headed bloke is across the way,” he rasped. “Pity he can’t talk. Sure would like to hear his cries when Dolohov comes for you.”

Hermione was still; she had no discernable reaction to the knowledge in any capacity. The instant Malfoy had left, a churning started in her gut. She knew she looked haunted, her eyes wide and expressionless as a ghost’s. Meanwhile, she was fighting internally to suppress her instinct to retaliate. It was like she was a stranger in her own body, refusing to speak and refusing to fight. 

There was so much she had not anticipated.  If she had known about the other Death Eater’s sick interest in her, would she have chosen to hide away? If she did, would Malfoy just have decided to turn her in anyway to save himself? Or would he have been willing to die as punishment for failing to find and present her to Voldemort? 

The more scenarios Hermione was analysing in her head, the more confused she felt. She couldn’t help but feel that Malfoy avoided telling her about Dolohov for a reason.

But he knows Voldemort better than anyone.

He wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.

Her own conscience was her only reassurance.

“The Mudblood has nothing to say?” Rodolphus’ eyes were mere slits as he examined her.

Hermione pursed her lips and turned away; she was not sure how much it would benefit her to retort something smart. It already felt as if her lungs were compressed as her breath caught in her throat. Though all of her doubts and fears were competing for her attention, the stark reminder to conserve her energy and guard her emotions was still at the forefront of her mind.

“Saving your screams,” the Death Eater chuckled. “Wise.”

And with that remark, Hermione was left by herself as Rodolphus vanished. 

It wasn’t long before the orange flames glowing from the candelabras on the prison walls were extinguished. A heavy shroud of blackness cloaked her surroundings. At once, a pulsing terror surged through her veins. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was beginning to feel exposed. Hermione didn’t know who or what might find her. But when she reminded herself she was trapped behind bars, the fact she could not see felt all the more pressing. 

Instead, she was hyper aware of the cold mossy stone walls on all sides of her and the pebbled floor beneath her; it was then she imagined boulders closing in on her body. Lowering herself cautiously to the ground, Hermione hugged her knees to her chest.

You can do this.

Just wait. 

Maybe it was a response to the stress or an attempt to calm herself, but Hermione closed her eyes. She did not sleep, but she waited. 

She opened her eyes upon hearing a strange scratching noise. She blinked a few times, almost forgetting that she was behind prison bars. It was impossible to tell in the darkness how much time had passed. However, her stomach was twisting and gurgling; it must have been hours since she last ate breakfast at the Manor.

Screech. The sound was distinct, maybe the scratching of fingernails across the floor.

The noise made her heart leap, her muscles tense. What she could imagine was likely worse than any reality. Perhaps it was nothing more than a rat. No matter, she clasped her hands firmly around her legs as if to shield herself from the unknown.

“Potter’s Mudblood…she’s over here.”

“Alohomora.”

As soon as the metal bars clanked open a tad, a bright, searching light illuminated Hermione’s cell.

She gasped as the face of a rather hostile-looking witch stared down at her. In the blue haze of the wand light, the woman’s face appeared distorted, like one half of her had been scorched from a blaze or curse. The deep, patterned grooves in her skin made her look much older. Her greying hair was also thin and scraggly, tied back into a strict long braid.

But Hermione couldn’t look anymore because she was being hoisted to her feet. Rough hands pinched her arms behind her back and held her in place while the witch studied her curiously. With an exaggerated flick of her wrist, a glowing diagnostic spell was cast before them.

“Ostende Fertilitatis.”

Hermione felt the heat rise to her cheeks as Rodolphus let out a low huff near her ear. “She’s in my care for now,” he explained, gripping Hermione more tightly than necessary. “Virgin, I assume.”

Not him too.

She didn’t know when it started, but her limbs were shaking violently. Rodolphus laughed as he stilled her trembling. “I could help break you in,” he snarled.

But his lewd comment was simply ignored by the woman examining her, who Hermione thought must be some sort of mediwitch.

“No,” the witch replied, her voice dull and void of real expression. “The diagnostic indicates otherwise.”

“Why, you little trollop,” Rodolphus slurred, pulling on Hermione’s arms. It felt like he wanted to break her bones as he violently jerked her wrists in a threatening motion.

But the witch continued with her assessment, speaking only to Rodolphus as if Hermione were not the real, breathing human being she was analysing.

“Her next fertile window is in exactly seventeen days from now. It is recommended she receive one vial of Augendae Utero daily until then.”

The woman handed a black wooden box over to Rodolpus, who abandoned his hold on Hermione to receive the contents. 

“It’s the green liquid,” the mediwitch indicated, seeing the Death Eater’s face scrunch in confusion. “The other is Amor Nebula. It can be given to her daily or saved for whomever is engaging with her, I suppose.”

Hermione swallowed with nervousness, recalling Voldemort's hissing: “We’ll see to it that she is nice and ready for the victor.”

Rodolphus snickered, raising one eyebrow crudely at her.  “She's in good hands.”

The witch sighed with disinterest. “If that is all you’ll be requiring of me, I must leave at once.” She walked away, her heeled footsteps clicking furiously before she Disapparated into the distance.

Rodolphus performed a quick unlocking charm on the box. He stepped towards Hermione, his body idly invading her space.

“Eat,” he demanded, pulling a stale loaf of bread out from his robes and thrusting it into her hands. “And don’t forget to drink.” As he cackled, he grabbed her neck, causing her to drop the bread. Forcing the green vial up to her chin, he tilted her head back and forced her to drink the sour potion. Not caring that she gagging, he did the same with the more bitter, rust-coloured one.

When he let go of her, Hermione was still shaking. She studied the crazed, almost angered look in Rodolphus’ eyes. Her plan was to survive by cooperation and live off the hope Malfoy would come back.

“I’ll personally see to it you're ready,” he sneered. "Dark Lord's orders." He slammed the metal cell door behind him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Dolohov now either,” he chuckled at her through the bars. 

Thankfully, when Rodolphus left, he not only left her alone, but also kept the sconces dimly lit this time. Hermione felt a small tinge of relief, sensing that he had been serious about ‘breaking her in,' but changed his mind when he discovered she was not a virgin.

Maybe it was the effect of the potions or just the sheer mental exhaustion of the day, but Hermione’s limbs felt extraordinarily heavy. Her body sunk to the ground; she knew she couldn’t stand even if she wanted to.

The night must have passed in a blur. Vaguely, she was aware of odd sounds, little echoes that reminded her of where she was. Forlorn wails, tortured cries, dark manic laughter. Sometimes she could feel the familiar heat of a Cruciatus Curse cast down the corridor. Somewhere deep in her mind, a voice reminded her to listen. The more she could observe about the prison and the Death Eaters, perhaps the better she could calm her nerves and devise some type of emotional survival plan.

Screech.

It was the scratching noise again. Someone was trying to get her attention.

Inching closer to the curved metal barred doors of her prison cell, Hermione waited with patience. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a decent size rock from the cell across from her was tossed into her space.

The clatter of stone against stone startled her for a moment. 

Crawling over towards where she thought it had landed, Hermione ran her palms against the damp ground until her fingers finally gripped the rock.

She squinted, studying the stone in the dim light until she was aware that there were some letters scrawled in red ink. Blood.  

F.U.

Her heart beat at a normal pace as her mind tangled with how she was supposed to feel. 

Slowly, Hermione lifted her head to gaze into the confines in front of her. Ron, his face barely recognisable all battered and bruised, was glowering at her. His sunken eyes were crackling with part brokenness and part rage. The more he lasered in on her from behind the cell bars, the more Hermione felt he was trying to force remorse on her. 

She should have felt something, she surmised. Hermione had played a role in Ron's capture. She had Crucioed him relentlessly. She was a prisoner herself now too, here by her own doing.  

It should have meant something that her actions in this War had been entirely self-serving. She had become exactly what Ron and everyone else accused her of being: a traitorous, selfish bitch. 

The irony of it was almost too much to bear. A selfish Muggle-born. Ron wanted her mangled with the burden of living with a disturbing, terrible guilt. 

But there was no space in her heart; her insides felt so incredibly hollow. So empty without him.

Hermione thought about whipping the rock back to him, maybe aiming for his head or his eyes. But some instinct told her to keep it, to hold onto and weaponize it when the time came.

“Thank you, Ronald,” she said, turning the rock over in her hands. “Just so you know, you would have died either way.” Her voice drifted casually across the corridor of the dark prison. She was not particularly trying to get his attention; a tiny smile played upon her face when it occurred to her that she addressed him as if he were already dead.

Hermione knew a full day had passed when Rodolphus again arrived with the bread and potion vials. The potions likely had to be taken at a specific time.

But by this many hours now, her head throbbed from dehydration and her stomach felt like it was closing in on itself. She hadn’t anticipated being treated humanely, but never did she expect the servings to be so bare-bones. She just wanted a glass of water.

“Drink up.”

Rodolphus tugged forcefully on her hair, yanking her head back as he brought the green vial to her mouth. Hermione barely had time to breathe before he repeated the action with the other, more bitter-tasting elixir.

He then pushed her away; as she stumbled back to the ground, he cackled. The piece of bread fell out of her hands. 

"You depraved animal,” he howled. 

Hermione quickly reached for the bread, thinking Rodolphus might do something cruel like kick it away. She nibbled on the crumbly loaf miserably, wishing desperately for something to drink.

The Death Eater was evidently amused. 

When Rodolphus Disapparted, Hermione relaxed against the stone corner of the cell, feeling suddenly nauseous. She had the fleeting realisation that her mind was teetering on the edge of lucidness. Meanwhile, she just knew her physicality would diminish rapidly without any more food or water.

He’ll come check on you.

Without risk, there is no reward.

Eventually, hours ticked by. Hours turned into nights and nights transformed into shadowy days. Or so she believed. Her surroundings remained unchanged. Vaguely, she observed the hooded skeletons patrolling the dungeon. They never spoke or showed their real faces, however.

Her life was turning into a series of awful little dreams, all of the compiling into one extended nightmare.

She was always hungry and near delirious from lack of water. At first, Hermione didn’t mind, sure she could survive a few days without food and drink. The less she consumed, the less she would need to use the bucket in the back of her cell.

As if she willed it into reality, the times a glass of water had arrived with her bread and potions were few and far between. Rodolphus had been brutal, sometimes pouring the water out before she could reach for the cup.

But why? Her throat might as well have closed up already. Her lips, cracked and chapped, were traced with dried blood. She didn’t have the ability to speak, but she had never cried once. Never even yelled for help. She played by the rules. She didn’t attempt to escape. She had been so quiet, so compliant. The potions made her dizzy, drowsy, and nauseous, but Hermione took them anyway in the hopes Rodolphus would quit administering them himself. Maybe then she could pretend to take them.

Ron was always looking at her. Always glaring, always judging from across the way. But she had taken care to angle her body away from him, to sleep and sit against the far wall and stretch her legs out. 

Sleep helped to pass the time.

But it was whenever she closed her eyes that Hermione saw things and felt things. There were the voices and visions, too. It was getting difficult to distinguish between her dark dreams and reality.

 One dream in particular was so vivid. Male voices, not yet gravelly with age, filled her ears.

“Well,” one of them had commented, “she looks like a damn corpse.” Though her eyelids were shut tight, she could place the voices. They weren't her friends, but they were familiar nonetheless. She went to school with them. Their names just escaped her in this dream-like state.

“I'm not telling him,” the other replied with an exaggerated sigh. "She looks far from fuckable."

“You know who’s into that. Not Malfoy. She's dirty too.”

"She's a Mudblood. What else did you do expect? I’m not interfering. It’s his fight.”

“Piss off then. Alohomora. ”

Hermione was alerted to the sound of metal creaking. But her ears were buzzing and her mind was trapped somewhere else. She was caught in a different dimension, the one between being awake and asleep.

She flinched.

There were hands; someone was touching her. Fingers were moving along the loose waistband of her jeans. 

Someone was trying to undress her? 

No, she didn’t think so. But there was a hand pressing down on her upper thigh. Even if he was attempting to pull her jeans down, her limbs were immobile, her muscles far too weighed down to do anything. Her voice had been buried a while ago. 

Mentally, she tried to fight him off. But it was no use when her body wouldn’t obey. As suddenly as the hands were on her, they were gone. The lock snapped shut on the prison door and then the voices were gone.

Eventually, all was silent. Hermione was listening, trying to push herself back into awareness when out of nowhere another voice, scathing and cruel, broke into her scattered mind:

“I’ll win her trust…she’ll have no choice but to submit to me.”

The understanding hit her fast and hard. She had been in and out of clarity, debiliated by her physical state. Yet, the suspicion and the terror of the memory electrified her and cut into her heart at the same time. It was like her body had been jolted with a shock of Unforgivable magic. Her eyes flickered open and she blinked rapidly, adjusting to the gloominess of the cell.

Malfoy.

If his plan all along had been to deceive her, then Hermione had to admit he was good. She was clever, but he was conniving. He had so easily beguiled her, she had gladly entered enemy territory on her own. He had won. He played into their mutual hatred of the Prophecy and deceived her.

The idea made her sweat, made her gut wrench, but there was no possible way her stomach had any contents to expel. But maybe the churning she felt was related to her period cramps. Perhaps the potions made everything worse.

It was all an elaborate hoax.

The worry preyed upon her still, refusing to leave and stalking her in her newly awakened state. It was easier, perhaps, to suffer through the pains of hunger, to be unaffected despite her thirst and aches and physical discomfort. But all of it combined was taking a toll on her mentally. There were only so many comforting thoughts she could issue herself in the face of horrifying doubt.

Foolishly, she wished she could slip back under the sea of unconsciousness, to not be fully aware of where she was. The real truth of how she ended up in the dungeons would kill her before any Death Eater could.

Hermione stared bleary-eyed out into the void of the prison. She was sitting propped up against the wall.  Time passed again; how many hours, she could not even guess.

“Fucking slag.”

The insult coming out of nowhere caused her chest to rise with apprehension. 

The lock on her prison door unlatched once more, and she heard more livid grumbling as Rodolphus approached her. He was carrying a large satchel which he promptly shoved into her lap.

“Who’s the slave now?” he groaned, leaning closer. His voice became more high pitched as he laughed maniacally. “Me?” 

Something about his demeanour was amiss. Hermione recoiled as she took in Rodolphus' face. Two wide, deep gashes were trailing from the edges of his mouth down towards his neck; the skin was loose and hanging, his jaw was sliced wide open. It was obvious the crimson wounds were still raw. She gasped as she realised she could see the sinewy tendons move when he spoke.

Rodolphus gripped her by the arm, effortlessly pulling her to her feet. The bag, clunky and full, remained on the prison floor.

“If you fucking die on my watch,” he spat, not bothering to continue the statement as he held up the potion bottles to her one at a time. As usual, he ensured the liquids were forced past her lips.

He backed away then and disappeared in a pop of magic instantly, but not before locking her door.

Hermione stood motionless and then lowered herself to the ground, curious about where her bread was and why Dolohov had brought the satchel. She rummaged through the contents in the bag: there were several large metal water bottles covered in cloth. Among them were also tins of crackers and cans of tuna and chicken. There was no stale roll to be found, but pouches of dried fruit and containers of nuts instead.

Her initial reaction was one of confusion, followed by distrust. 

Poison.

Rodulphus was trying to do away with her. She had caused him trouble and this was his way of getting back.

But her hands didn’t seem to agree with that logic as she was already twisting off the top of the flask.

Nothing tasted off as she quickly poured the chilled water down her throat. She drank ferociously , not stopping to take a breath until her lungs forced her to take a gulp of air. She knew it wasn’t real, but she could feel her nervous system reactivating, like her organs were inflating, coming back to life. Blood was pumping through her, rushing to her head and clearing out the fog that had consumed her for what felt like weeks.

Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Hermione was digging through the bag again, opening the containers of rations. She didn’t want to eat too much or too quickly at once, but she was ravenous. 

When she felt abruptly satisfied, Hermione scooted over to the far nook of her cell where she usually slept. After her post-eating frenzy, she was beginning to feel sleepy, which usually happened after once she consumed the potions anyway. 

Though she felt unusually alert for once, her head still pounded. It was physically impossible to feel comfort, so she curled herself into the corner as best she could, allowing her back and knees to rest upon the two coarse walls.

Her hands hugged across her middle. She wasn’t used to eating so much, so her insides felt both revitalised and pained.

Hermione was about to close her eyes when she felt something strange. Something sharp in the pocket of her jeans. 

Reaching inside, Hermione found a small, wrinkled piece of parchment. She examined it front and back; there was nothing written on it, nothing special she could notice at first glance. Distantly, as if recalling a dream, she remembered someone touching the pocket of her jeans.

A secret message, perhaps?

 Sure enough, the longer she stared at it, a thin iridescent outline started to appear.

An obvious letter ‘M’ materialised on the crumpled paper. Her heart thumped recklessly as she recalled the last sighting of the same thing: her concealed Dark Mark, the skull and snake with the added letter.

‘M’ for Malfoy.

 But upon closer inspection, there was something peculiar about the drawing, the shape of the letter itself. The lines forming the ‘M’ were exceptionally jagged.

If it wasn’t the alphabetic letter, then the shape could only depict one other symbol she was very knowledgeable about. An ancient rune.

Ehwaz.

Of all the runes Hermione had studied in Professor Babbling’s class, she would never forget the meaning of Ehwaz because it was the only rune she had identified incorrectly on her O.W.L. exam. She had thought it meant defence, confusing it for Eihwaz.

But Ehwaz did not indicate protection, but rather something that chilled the very marrow in her bones when considered its relevance to Malfoy:

Partnership.

Babbling had quite simply taught that the rune meant harmony or the joining of two magical folk with common goals.

After receiving the result of her O.W.L. (which was still an Outstanding), Hermione of course looked everything up about the rune Ehwaz as to never mistake it again:

Ehwaz is represented through the image of two horses, she learned. It is associated with highly charged emotional energies, suggestive of a deep, spiritual connection between partners who are also lovers. This connection is first established by the need to follow instinct rather than reason. As such, the union symbolised by Ehwaz is always life altering. Boundaries are often shattered in the process and never reestablished. But the bond is one of permanence, as the rune evokes a relationship strengthened by intellectual and sexual compatibility. 

Her hand clung to the tiny parchment as she remembered the most significant aspect of the rune:

The loss of Oneself and the embrace of the Other through whom you become whole again, thereby finding your True Self. It encompasses both your power and your weakness.

Years ago, she didn’t understand it. In fact, Hermione had scoffed at the text she was reading, turned off by what she assumed was a reference to being codependent. She would never lose herself to another wizard. She didn’t need partnership . She wasn’t weak.

But she had been wrong then.

Her skin prickled with goosebumps when it all started to make sense. Her Dark Mark and this hidden message. Though not entirely conscious, the voices she heard earlier were not part of a dream or hallucination. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott had visited; one of them had slipped her this parchment. She was sure of it.

And when Hermione thought about her lack of trust, she was certain she was wrong again.

What did this rune tell her?

Why give he give her this?

Draco Malfoy had chosen her. He marked her for himself and he wanted her, not because he wanted to control, own, or even protect her, but because he knew they were one and the same. He could not live without her.

And deep down, amidst all her irrational fears and crushing doubts, Hermione knew it too.

She did not want to live without him.

Chapter Text

Hermione crumpled the parchment, stuffing the message back into the pocket of her jeans. She knew the rations she consumed were partly responsible, but the discovery of the rune granted her a renewed sense of determination. The desire to be with Malfoy overwhelmed her. The energy of this resolve pulsed through her bloodstream, delivering her from despair.

She could hold on. She had already endured so many repetitive days that turned the passage of time into a blur. While she didn’t know Malfoy’s plans, the note was a sign that he wanted a life with her.

Eventually, more days did pass.

The best part was that Rodolphus was mainly absent. He arrived once a day to force feed her the potions; other than that, he didn’t bother to grumble at her or visit just to taunt her as he usually did. With the adequate supply of canned goods and water, Hermione could feel herself slowly building up her strength. Though she still had sustained quite a bit of muscle loss, she no longer had the drowsiness she had become accustomed to during the weeks of starvation.

If the days felt insufferable, Hermione blamed her returned alertness. Mostly, she was used to life in the cell half-asleep and unaware of what was going on around her. Now, she had no choice but to listen the cries of other prisoners during the many episodes of torture. But then silence ultimately became worse as it was an indication that the same captives had died. Though she would never know who they were personally, it was enough to know they were young soldiers from the Order. 

Her fists still clenched with indignation when she imagined all of the sad, magical youth on the wasted brink of adulthood, those with the right intentions, lured into sacrificing themselves for a false glory. Moody and Shacklebolt would have claimed they had died ‘for the greater good.’ It wasn’t right, she thought. It would never be right.

Ron was his typical self, never wasting a moment even in his suffering state to issue her a dirty look. Hermione, however, smiled back. He didn’t know what the stakes were, and how much she really had to live for.

Life continued on behind bars as usual until one night when Hermione was again startled by two voices. Like last time, she almost thought she dreamed them as Rodolphus had already visited her to dispense the vials quite some time ago. 

As her eyes fluttered open, her heart thudded with a premature hope, wondering if perhaps one voice belonged to Malfoy. If not, maybe he sent Blaise and Theo to check on her again.

But the voices this time were older and throaty-sounding, the volume of their harsh tones rising into what sounded like an argument. 

“You promised to keep the Mudblood malnourished for me, Rodolphus.”

Dolohov.

A menacing, raspy laugh echoed throughout the cell blocks.

“You overestimate your esteem in the Dark Lord’s eyes. I believed you once. But I’m not taking the fall for your ill-devised plans. Did you even acquire the Wand?"

“Bollocks! That hardly matters. Now let me see—”

A heavy sigh. “No, just go. He will find out. I don’t know how, but he will.”

“Petrified of your own nephew? You're more pathetic than I thought.”

“I’ve been warned. I didn’t ask to house the filthy scrubber, nevermind the rest of them. Need I remind you, I follow the Dark Lord’s orders first and foremost? You’re the one forgetting your competition has implicit permission to kill anyone in our ranks impeding in the War efforts, you tosser.”

“Scrubber?”

There was a heavy pause, followed by a cynical huff.

“She’s no virgin.”

Hermione tensed, now hearing the reverberations of boots plodding across the stone floor.

She saw nothing other than wispy blackness until the tip of a wand illuminated her surroundings, giving her quite the start.

In the distance, Rodolphus was sneering at her. Arms crossed, he was leaning casually against the door to Ron’s cell. But Dolohov was right in her face, smiling eerily at her, his eyes scanning her up and down as if she were an animal in a cage.

“Alohomora.”

“Look at you, poppet,” he said, glowering at her as he approached. “Miss me?”

Every nerve ending in Hermione’s body was alight with panic. It was easy to be compliant when she was left alone. She drew in a sharp breath, thinking she should back away. But the last thing she wanted was to be cornered by the Death Eater.

The locks of his scraggly black hair were twisted and greasy, his face noticeably unshaven; he reached with a clumsy savageness for her, gripping her worn t-shirt between his fingers. Without warning, he breathed in her scent first, the bristly hair on his face poking her neck.

Hermione was repulsed by the action, but even more so Dolohov’s grunginess as his own smell of stale tobacco filled her nostrils. 

“Such a shame,” he murmured, tugging her closer to him. He tightened his other hold on her forearm, his nails digging into her skin. “For whom did you whore yourself? The mute back there?”

There was a perturbed scoff from across the way. Rodolphus snickered at Ron, but then returned his focus to Hermione and Dolohov, his expression transforming from annoyance to curiosity.

Dolohov turned back to address him. “You could have at least Scourgifyed the bitch.” He let out a howling laugh, then returned his beady eyes to her.

Hermione was frozen in place, yet there were a million impulses firing off one by one in her brain. A sick inkling informed her of what he wanted to do, of why he was there. But everything else was unfolding as if she was an outside observer, a nonparticipant in the horror about to occur. The increasing intensity of her pulse told her to get out of his grip.

She took one hesitant step back to avoid Dolohov smothering her, but it was already too late. 

“My turn now, Mudblood,” he chuckled, squeezing her with purposeful force. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Before Hermione could process what was really happening, Dolohov shoved her to the ground. She heard the sounds first—the clank of a belt unbuttoning, the hissing of a zipper being lowered.

With one rough hand holding her arms down, Dolohov had her trapped. Hermione was unable to move, feeling crushed by equal parts fear and the forcefulness of his actions. In her immobile state, he began to tear at her shirt before deciding just to raise it over her head instead, obstructing her vision and air supply.

Her first defensive instinct was to kick, then to clamp her thighs shut.

“Don’t,” Dolohov grunted, forcing her legs open to him, his fingers clawing at the band of her jeans. 

For the first time in awhile, Hermione was reminded of the fact she had a voice. Her own cry sounded muffled, caught in the fabric of her cotton shirt as she thrashed, her body recoiling as best it could without any apparent direction from her mind.

It was true; for some time she had been weakened. Not only in the physical sense, but in the mental. But that was before…she had slowly been regaining her strength and sense of purpose with food and the hidden message from Malfoy.

This was still all your idea.

If she could just get her wits about her…she was pinned underneath this Death Eater against her will because…

The wheels turning about in her mind halted abruptly as Dolohov’s teeth sank down on her earlobe. She gasped, wincing at the sharpness of it, thinking he drew blood.

“Be still,” he stammered, “I told you not to move.” Dolohov continued his attack, roughly yanking on her breast just then, which she only just realised with dread was exposed. But it was when he pulled down her jeans that Hermione felt the brutal force of his body upon her. At once, rough fingers seized the band of her knickers and down below, she felt exposed in the cool damp air of the prison.

An odd grunt, more of a groan of rapture bounced off the high ceiling of the cell. But it wasn’t coming from Dolohov.

“I knew you’d want to watch,” Dolohov wheezed.

Immediately, Hermione was overcome by a dizzying wave of nausea and a punch to her gut as she contemplated the knowledge of Rodolphus pleasuring himself. But her thoughts could linger only briefly on the sickness of it all. 

Suddenly, her muscles flinched, her body tensing to an intrusion. Between her legs was the prodding—Dolohov trying to press into her.

Both of his hands pushed upon her arms, locking her limbs into place as an icy terror flooded rapidly throughout her system.

No, this isn’t what you asked for.

Fight him.

Fight him without magic…with everything you have.

An awareness had finally activated in Hermione’s brain. She wasn’t required to suffer through this. She had every right to be strategic, to play a game of give and take with the Death Eaters, as long as she would belong to Malfoy.

Her mind was analysing a dozen scenarios instantaneously when she recalled his voice, threatening in its own right, but so familiar and so comforting in this moment:

“When his eyes plead for mercy, I’ll rip them out with my bear hands…”

The memory of Malfoy's wrath towards Dolohov gave her an idea. For a split second, Hermione let go of the rigidness gripping her muscles. She needed Dolohov to think he had her—to think she had given in.

Releasing a deep breath, she braced herself, ignoring the sharp jab from Dolohov and counted… 1, 2, 3 .

With the intent to employ every reserved and repressed emotional force inside of her, Hermione lunged herself upwards, freeing herself from the shirt covering her face and breaking out of Dolohov’s grasp. She knocked heads with the Death Eater so violently, the force of the clash shocked even herself.

“Argh!” Dolohov yelped as he backed off her, losing his balance slightly in the process.

Hermione was already on her feet. Without hesitation, she readjusted her clothing, reaching to pull up her knickers and fasten the button of her jeans. She looked up sharply to see Rodolphus outside the cell stunned, but not stunned enough to put his engorged cock back into his trousers.

“Fucking bitch.” Dolohov was hunched over in pain, his own erection seemingly deflated as he had both hands covering his head.

Gouge his eyes out.

Now.

Her inner voice called to her, ordering her to instigate the second part of her defense.

Hermione placed her palms upon her knees, as if daring Dolohov to lower himself to her level. With an aggravated grimace, Dolohov lurched towards her, removing his hands from his head in an action to grab at her. But at the very second he bent down, Hermione attacked again.

Driven by a primal urge to maim, to destroy, or to kill, she lunged once more, this time digging her fingers into both sockets of his eyes. She felt her fingernails scrape against the rubbery flesh before she drew back, turning to look at the door to her cell, which was still propped wide open.

“Argh! Oh bloody fucking hell, my eyes!”

“My turn,” Hermione whispered, repeating his earlier words. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Dolohov was keeled over, so Hermione made a run for it. She dashed out of the metal barred doorway, past Rodolphus who was pulling up his trousers. He shouted incoherently at her, but she didn’t dare stop, knowing she had to keep going, unable to Disapparate without a wand.

Fueled by pure adrenaline, she darted up the boulder-like staircase two feet at a time, not at all deterred by the masked Death Eater standing guard up ahead. Escapes were likely a rarity, she thought, considering the poor condition of most prisoners.

“The Mudblood! Get her!”

Rodolphus screamed from the bottom of the stairs, then fired off a stream of hexes and curses.

“Stupefy!”

“Confringo!”

“Crucio!”

But his aim was off. Though sparks left indents and burn marks on the backs of her arms, the curses did not hit her directly as Hermione continued her escape up the steps in a zigzag motion. She was more concerned about the other Death Eater blocking her exit.

Sure enough, the guard issued a spell to capture her with wispy metal chains, pointing his wand at her she raced towards him fearlessly and head on. But as soon as the curse left his mouth, Hermione huddled her body up against the wall of the stairwell, avoiding the red hot energy of the magic.

The guard fired another round and Hermione ducked again instinctively, catching him by surprise. This time, the Death Eater seemed torn, perhaps debating whether or not to just physically catch her.

Due to his momentary indecision, Hermione was able to run past him. As soon as she emerged out of the prison cellar, she found herself trying to get her bearings. It had been over a month, maybe two, since she was brought to the Lestrange house. She remembered Death Eater Hall and seeing Snape glare at her just outside the entrance.

This way.

It was a straight shot down the corridor, she recalled. She bit her lip, hoping Voldemort himself wouldn't try to go after her.

It was likely the fastest Hermione had ever run in her life. Behind her, the angry bellows from Rodolphus continued and as she neared the main door in the foyer, she was aware of several more Death Eaters materialising behind her. She couldn't see them, but she could hear the 'pops' of their Apparations.

With some quick thinking, she stood against the arched wooden frame of entryway, hoping one would shoot a curse her way.

“Incarcerous!”

“Bombarda!”

She ducked, but just as she had hoped, the blast ricocheted off the surface of the walls, shattering the hinges to the entry door.

Dusting herself from the rubble, she ran once more, this time outside. Despite the returning fear threatening to paralyse her every movement, her legs still carried her onward. Her heart, too, was pounding so vigorously, she thought it might just quit on her.

Hermione sprinted down the gravel path of the estate. It was a dark misty night; she could hear the hooting of owls and fissling of trees from the forest up ahead. When she had first come to the Death Eater headquarters, the air was humid, unmoving and suffocating in late summer. But now it was windy and giving off the chill of fall; ground was subsequently littered with rusty leaves.

How long had she been here?

The question pinged in her mind, but she didn’t have time to contemplate the answer because up in the sky, Hermione saw it.

The swirling symbol of the snake and skull. Morsmordre.  Death Eaters had been called.

Suddenly, it was as if the night sky itself decided to suffocate her. There were Death Eaters everywhere, enemy figures Apparating on all sides of her. She was trapped. 

Stopping to catch her breath, Hermione considered her options. She could either give up in this moment, seeing as she was being hunted, or she could try with all her might to evade them, eventually surrendering to face even more bodily violation. 

Nothing…nothing seemed appealing.

But Hermione chose to run again. If she could somehow get to the woods, she could hide, maybe not forever, but for the time being.

Darting so carefully in an effort to sidestep the flames of hot curses, Hermione swallowed the night air, the coldness of it burning her lungs. She would run against all odds, she decided, despite her chances of actually escaping, despite the reality she was outnumbered and without magic. 

She would run because she was a fighter and would not subject herself to such carnal abuse, with the exception being…the exception…

Hermione couldn’t complete the thought in her head. But more pressing was the fact now that more and more Death Eaters were arriving on brooms, setting fire to any possible route into the woods.

But nonetheless, she continued to run, her vision limited by such thick smoke and a constant stream of blasts and Unforgiving curses…the cloaked and hooded figures with the hollow eye masks were all gaining traction, using their worst magic to cage her.

Keep going.

Hermione urged herself forward, steering clear of the coloured flashes of magic bursting in the night sky. She raced ahead again, stopping only when a set of arms suddenly closed around her.

She screamed only once, in a futile attempt to break free, but the Death Eater’s clasp on her tightened in response. Though she was trapped, pressed into his chest, she could feel her body spasming, every part of her shaking with the uncontrollable fear that finally caught up to her.

“No,” she sobbed, unable to stop the teardrops from rolling down her cheeks.

Meanwhile, Hermione wondered if her heart was indeed ready to explode, used and exhausted as her legs from her failed trek to freedom.

But she was held so firmly in the Death Eater’s arms. He caught her and the feeling of him was so warm, she hadn’t even thought to compare it to an embrace until his hands moved away to grip her by her shoulders.

Through the waterfall of her tears, Hermione could see him remove his mask.

It was then she was staring into captivating eyes of a piercing silver, reflective as the surface of a sword. Her favourite eyes. His gaze was so incredibly fierce and unyielding; Hermione didn’t understand how one look could encompass everything protective and soft, but elicit such dangerous and uncontainable rage at the same time.

“Granger, what happened? What did he do to you?” Malfoy’s tone was also forcibly calm, but she could sense the alarmed undercurrent—there was something feral waiting to break loose.

“He…they, both,” Hermione took a deep breath, but she was hiccupping, gasping for air as if she had been held underwater.

“Who?” Malfoy’s voice was a sinister mere whisper. Meanwhile, his own hands were beginning to tremble.

“Dolohov. But I didn’t let—he tried…and Rodolphus, he…” To her own frustration, she trailed off again. She was still shaking too violently and wanted so badly to tell him, but her lips refused to form the words.

The more she stuttered, the darker Malfoy’s expression grew. He didn’t say anything, but spun her around. Delicately, his fingertips glided over her tear-stained face, wiping the rivers of her pain away.

Before Hermione could react, everything happened very quickly. 

With a short flick of his wrist, Malfoy directed his wand high into the air.

“Tempestas et Mortis.”

All of a sudden, the night air grew eerily still; everything went starless and dark. The surrounding Death Eaters and those in the distance were illuminated only by the moonlight. It reminded Hermione very much of the moment before a storm.

There was a quiet hum and then a wave of vibrating energy grew increasingly palpable. While Malfoy continued to cast the dark magic, she was vaguely aware of his soothing touch, his other hand massaging her forearm.

With a loud, crackling snap, the sky swiftly broke open and what appeared to be glittering rain fell from enchanted clouds above. It was startlingly beautiful, each droplet catching the rays of the moon as it flickered down upon the hellish landscape below. The light reminded her of the patterns from a mirrorball. 

But accompanying such a scene were desperate shrieks and wails, the exclamations of obvious pain both equally terrifying and haunting. Hermione gasped. It was not rain that she saw issued from the sky, but thousands of tiny blades. The daggers rained purposely down, as if attracted by a magnetic pull to their victims. 

Suddenly, Death Eater bodies collapsed one by one, some falling off brooms from multiple angles in the air and others just slumping to the ground nearby. Their pleas and shouts for mercy went unheard, and as abruptly as the curse was issued, it was over. Dark puddles of blood merged to form a new body of water upon the grounds of the Lestrange estate.

The silence in the night air returned once again; it was as if Death made himself at home, and out of fear, not even the tree branches dared to rustle or the barn owls dared to screech.

At that moment, Hermione didn’t know if Dolohov or Rodolphus were among the fallen. But she found she didn’t care. Every lifeless body in her peripheral represented something like a poison drawn out of her, a nightmare erased from her memory. 

And now, the only thing she could feel was the steady beat of Malfoy’s heart as she leaned into him. It was the only thing she needed to feel. The gentle thumping slowed the rhythm of her own heartbeat, lulling her into a sense of security.

The rain from his curse had washed her clean.

Chapter Text

The feeling of renewal had just begun to settle over Hermione. Before she could fully understand the lengths he had gone for her, a practical declaration of ‘this is how much I care about you,’ Malfoy was grabbing her hand.

With a meaningful tug, he was leading her along, his heavy dragonhide boots stalking through the field scattered with either dead or barely-breathing Death Eaters. Though they hadn’t really talked, Hermione had a feeling she knew who he was looking for.

As they sidestepped the bodies, she squeezed his hand, partly to indicate her gratitude and partly just because she could. There was a certain stability that arose just from being in his presence, like her own strength was somehow magnified. The night sky was misty now; a heavy fog combined with the tangible cold of Dark Magic permeated the air. They continued for several more paces until Malfoy paused, dropping Hermione’s hand. His heel came to rest upon the chest of someone pinned to the ground by numerous blades.

“Nephew,” Rodolphus croaked, his voice wet and gurgly from a throat filled with blood, “I should have known.” He tried unsuccessfully to lift his head and grunted with irritation, noticing the various daggers that pierced through his arms and legs. One was sticking out just above his heart.

Hermione stood by and while she took in Rodolphus’ mangled state, his crazed eyes flashing up at the moon, she was more interested in observing Malfoy. His expression remained eerily unaffected, though she could see the glint of emerging wrath behind his cold-blooded gaze.

“Was it worth it?” Rodolphus coughed. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

Without missing a beat, Malfoy kicked him with a brutal force, causing him to spurt more blood. “You didn’t do shit,” he snarled, “for me or for her.”

“I gave up Bellatrix so she could help your mother.” Rodolphus smiled manically, his mouth appearing like a gaping wound of gushing red. “You didn’t know that. But you’ve always been an ungrateful, spoiled—”

“Fuck you.” Malfoy lunged forward now; he was leaning over Rodolphus, one hand reaching for the blade closest to his uncle’s heart.

“How many dead this time? A hundred? All because you can’t control your temper over the disgusting Mudblood.” Rodolphus was glaring now, a purposeful attempt at provocation in his last moments. “Mark my words, the Dark Lord will be livid.”

Malfoy twisted the dagger, angling it down slightly further but not all the way into his chest. “This is your fault. She escaped under your watch.”

Rodolphus let out a strangled, wheezing breath. “She’s not even a virgin. Was it the redhead or Potter?” he laughed, blood covering his teeth, “Some sick fuck was already inside of her—”

But he said no more. The words were cut off, and suddenly the only sound that filled the darkness was that of Malfoy driving the blade repeatedly into Rodolphus’ heart. He stabbed at him so violently, raising his arm each time with increased vigour, digging the blade further and further into his uncle’s chest. With every slash, he was seemingly spurred on by the guttural sounds of crunching bone and squishing of flesh and tendons. Blood splattered out everywhere; Hermione jumped back so she would not get drenched.

Her eyes widened at the sight though. It should have repulsed her, should have made her nauseous at the very least. But there was only a satisfaction washing over her as she watched the decimation of a man so depraved, one who was all too eager to get himself off as she was about to be raped. The more she watched this primal anger unfurl from Malfoy, the fuzzier her insides felt.

Finally, when there appeared to be no more blood left to expel from the Death Eater’s body, Malfoy backed away, rising to his feet. Hermione saw he was breathing heavily as he wiped his brow, smearing more redness into his icy hair. He stood staring at Rodolphus’ corpse, like he was half expecting him to speak again.

Just then, Hermione’s attention was drawn to a searching light in the distance; the outline of a Death Eater limping down the gravel path of Lestrange estate.

“Dolohov,” Malfoy said, observing exactly who the far off wandering figure was.

He seemed to stumble with every step, falling to his knees every so often and tripping over bodies that should have been apparent.

“I don't think he can see us,” Hermione replied in a hushed voice. “I gouged his eyes out.”

Upon this revelation, Malfoy turned to her. In the spotlight of the moon, he looked wild and terrifyingly beautiful, his defined jaw and angular cheekbones decorated with blood. Hermione watched as his pupils appeared to dilate, a look of sudden curiosity and interest replacing his now tempered rage.

He smiled and moved towards her almost predatorily. One strong hand grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her into his grasp. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you,” he whispered against the side of her neck, his breath giving her tingles. “Hearing you say that just does something to me.”

And before Hermione knew what was happening, she was wrapped up in Malfoy’s arms and they were Disapparating.

They landed on the edge of a running creek. Wherever they were, it didn’t appear to be too far. The woodsy ground was still coated with fallen orange and yellow leaves and pine needles, but there were no traces of any Death Eaters nearby.

Hermione looked around, disoriented and feeling a slight pang Malfoy had not brought her back to his Manor. She longed for a hot meal and warm bath, but even more, she wanted the comfort of sleeping next to him again in his bed.

That would be too risky, she thought bitterly.

Malfoy appeared to notice the look of disdain cross her face. The mischievous gleam in eyes which had been present quickly faded as he seemed to really get a decent look at her.

She was dirty, and while her clothes were recently torn and stained with blood, there was a deeper grunge to her skin. Her hair felt heavy with grease and she knew her body looked far from appealing, gaunt and weak with muscle loss.

“Here,” Malfoy said, holding up his wand, “let me.”

And lightly, so delicately with his other hand, he held her pointed chin, his fingertips so soft she barely felt the touch. He then directed his wand over her body, quietly murmuring a myriad of healing spells, ending with a Scouring Charm. 

When he was done, Malfoy analysed her carefully, only a slight glimmer of hesitation left in his eyes.

On a whim, Hermione reached for his wand, closing her hand over his clenched fist. “Your turn,” she added, and felt his grip suddenly relax. 

While she might have expected to feel that certain power return in holding a wand, there was only the gentle pulse of magic as Hermione directed the flow of the current first over his head and then down his broad shoulders, removing the dried blood from his skin and Death Eater suit.

She could feel her heart fluttering, watching Malfoy stand still before her, the ugliness of War physically disappearing from him. It was intimate, Hermione felt, not only the fact she was using his wand to cast the magic, but the very act itself. If his curse had cleansed her, then she was repaying him the favour. When the blood had vanished, he looked younger somehow. Hermione knew she couldn’t take it all away—whatever had driven to become so violent and ruthless. But she could show him she was here. She would never let him down.

As Hermione finished the Scourgify, she wordlessly handed him back his wand. The woods around them were quiet, every animal and creature in the world likely hiding or asleep.

“I want to go back for Dolohov,” Malfoy announced at once. There was something unsettled about him, a quirk where his fists still seemed to be trembling with fury. “But I shouldn’t.”

Hermione gripped his wrist. “Is it true, what Rodolphus said? You’ll be punished?” She already possessed the thought herself, but then again, she didn’t quite understand Voldemort’s ranks or the authority that Malfoy held. “If you killed Rodolphus for letting me escape, then that’s excusable.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, but instead tilted his head and shook it in confusion. He looked as if she had spoken a foreign language, so Hermione tightened her hold on him.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “You’ve done enough tonight.”

Malfoy sighed audibly, his shoulders tensing rather than relaxing. “It’s not that,” he explained, touching his Dark Mark. “I should keep Dolohov alive…he needs to be the one to get the Elder Wand.”

“Why though?” Hermione questioned, her voice more desperate than she wished it to be, “Why let Dolohov find the Elder Wand?”

Malfoy let out an exasperated sound. “I told you. The Dark Lord doesn’t play fair. Dolohov is too ignorant to realise that. But it's a struggle for me not to kill him right now for what he did to you.”

Hermione paused, letting the words sink over her. She really didn’t understand how any of the Death Eater politics worked. But then again, the Order had lived by rules just as complicated and unjust.

“How do you know?” Hermione questioned. “How are you so sure your Dark Lord—”

“Fuck! Hermione, I know,” Malfoy snatched his wrist away like somehow her touch hurt him. But his eyes were now more than cold, iced over to a lethal degree. She felt her own heart start to pound at the fact he had used her actual name.

He brought one hand up to his temple and it was then she saw he was trembling again.

“I already have to hurt you to keep you,” Malfoy said through clenched teeth. “You don’t know…” his voice trailed away and then he clicked his tongue with impatience.

There was a thick silence in which only the ripples of the water flowing over the rocks of the creek could be heard.

“Tell me,” Hermione said softly, taking a cautious movement towards him. 

He was staring at her fiercely, a mixture of rage and indignation swirling behind his pupils.

“What do you want to know?” Malfoy asked sardonically, his body language still defensive. His senses seemed heightened, his demeanour not at all open to diverging his life’s secrets. 

Hermione didn’t say anything. She decided to stay put in uncomfortable silence until she dared to stretch her hand out, letting it trail down his chest.

“Everything,” she confirmed, feeling the heat of his body despite the chill of the night surroundings. “Mostly everything about you.”

Malfoy chuckled, the sound of it low and barely escaping his mouth. He didn’t move, but instead placed one hand on top of hers.

He didn’t say anything more, but somehow, Hermione understood.

She imagined that in just a few short hours, the sun would rise and he would have to take her back. She would be a prisoner again, useless and inferior as ever, still willingly playing the role. But she would do what was needed to survive…not only to survive, but to survive against all odds for the life she wanted with him.

She looked up at Malfoy, seeing him illuminated by the moonlight, his frame glowing amidst the dark canopy of trees. “I’m here.”

Her words were simple; she didn’t want their frustrations to ruin what dwindling time they had left. Hermione stood on her tiptoes and smoothed a section of Malfoy’s hair away. She then wrapped her arms around his body, pressing her face into his chest. He really was so much taller than her, and she liked the feeling of how she could almost hide and disappear. 

She wasn’t aware of when he had started it, but Malfoy was cradling the back of her head; one of his hands was playing in her curls, twisting a strand around his finger.

Hermione was beginning to feel his small touches were increasing the temperature in her bloodstream. Just being in his presence made her feverish with a desire, a lust born from wanting to hold onto a stolen moment.

He pulled her in closer as he spoke again. 

“If you could be anywhere in the world right now, Granger, where would you be?” Malfoy’s voice, soft and lilting, was carried to her in the night breeze.

Hermione tried to suppress the lightness in her own tone. “Right…here,” she said cautiously. “With you.”

She released a sort of breathy snort, as if to convey her words were just a joke. A joke that conveyed the absolute truth. But her insides were churning with equal parts longing and apprehension as soon as she said it.

Malfoy tsked with admonishment. “Wrong. Minus fifty points from Gryffindor. Try again.” 

Hermione felt goosebumps at the touch of his hand running down her back, then his fingertips playfully finding their way underneath the fabric of her shirt.

“In your bed.”

The response left her all too easily since the thought had actually been on her mind. She could feel Malfoy still his touches. The energy between them felt positively charged.

“A place, Granger.” 

He was too skilled at coming across affronted, so Hermione didn’t bother to look up at him. Rather, she was encouraged by the slight shift in his voice, something darker and seductive.

“That is a place,” she replied casually, trying and then failing to conceal a cheeky grin.

But Malfoy was picking her up now. Hermione squealed as she felt him spin her around, her thighs enclosing around him for balance.

He released his own breathy huff. “What am I going to do with you?” The question was vibrating and ticklish against the skin of her neck.

“I can think of something.”

Hermione had just whispered the rely when suddenly Malfoy was walking her backwards, rather forcefully, to somewhere she could not see. But it didn’t matter to her; a knot was forming, a sensation stirring down below. She squeezed her legs around him, wanting to seek friction against his now growing erection.

“You’re burning up,” Malfoy growled as he pushed her back up against the smooth trunk of a willow tree.

It wasn’t the most comfortable, but just thinking about the image of him driving into her in the woods, in the dead of the cool night surrounded by the chorus of crickets and running waters made her insides clench. This need for him was something raw and primitive, like she would only feel complete once their bodies were joined.

Malfoy’s eyes flickered over her at the same time to assess her comfort. He decidedly cupped her head and adjusted their position, hooking one arm underneath her leg.

“Kiss me,” she gasped, her hands grasping at the long strands of his hair to bring his head down to her.

Hermione heard herself whimper as his mouth finally descended upon hers. Her heart was pounding, her limbs feeling a certain weightlessness as his tongue darted into her lips. 

His kiss was as controlling and relentless as the first time; she would never tire of the feeling of being devoured, of being all-consumed as his lips moved against her with such demand. He nibbled upon her lower lip, his teeth grazing her flesh ever so slightly before his tongue returned to search her mouth. The more he kissed her, the more her veins were throbbing. A fiery passion was pulling into her core, and it could only be doused by one thing. 

It was the kind of kiss that left her breathless and never caring if the air ever returned to her lungs.

Hermione wasn’t ashamed that her hips were rocking against his wantonly; she should be, some logical far off voice told her inside. This can’t be what you want, not after—

But the rationalised thought process was crushed by the urgency taking over her. If he wasn’t going to fuck her, then he was going to use his hand to make her come. If he wanted her to beg, she would beg. It was too late now—she wanted to come and she had to have him. Alone with him, she really was in another time and another place…a place so far removed from all of the terrible things the world had to offer.

She longed to unbutton and lower her trousers, to give him a sign to take her, but her hands were trapped upon his shoulders, her body too interlocked with his.

Thankfully, he wasn’t going to make her wait.

“You know, Granger,” Malfoy rasped in between placing small kisses all along her shoulder and then up to her ear. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing than fucking you. Fighting alongside you and fucking you, always.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat again, his words electrifying her. She was relieved now at the sound of him unbuckling his belt and the feel of his hands tugging at the waistband of her jeans.

“Mark my words,” he said, his voice sounding both aroused and dangerous as his hand dipped into her knickers, his fingers trailing through her wetness, “you will fight alongside me.” He then pressed the cold metal of his signet ring to her aching clit, which sent tremors throughout every nerve ending of her body. “The next time you fight, you will kill.”

Hermione tried to shake her head in acknowledgement, but she was far too gone, chasing the high of his touch, the manner in which his fingers teased and coaxed her. She released a moan at the feel of Malfoy’s cock lined up at the entrance to her cunt.

“Say you will,” he ordered, pressing just his tip into her before withdrawing again. “Look at me.”

Her eyes were closed and she had turned her head away, prepared to escape into the pleasure, but she turned to face him. His steele eyes were searing, the intensity of the look burning right into her soul.

“I will,” she stammered, biting her lip. “Malfoy, please.”

He drove into her then, one hand holding up her arse and the other still supporting the back of her neck. The angle at which he was thrusting into her allowed her to feel him so deeply. She didn’t know, or rather didn’t believe it would have been possible to reach the edge like this, with just his cock sliding in and out of her rhythmically. 

But the way her body was locked beneath his, pressed firmly into the wood behind her, told her otherwise. As his hips continued to snap, his cock dragged along her walls, enticing her and reaching some unknown depth inside. At the same time, his pelvic bone pressed against her clit with every thrust, urging her closer and closer to coming undone.

“You feel so good,” Malfoy murmured. “I can tell you're close.”

And suddenly, maybe it was the way he knew her body, or the fact he was pounding into her now with abandon, or the savage thought he wanted her to kill, but Hermione cried out as she was coming, a wild tremor coursing through her system.

Malfoy had slowed his thrusts as she came, dotting her cheek with calming kisses as she worked to even her breath. But he resumed his pumping, no doubt on the very edge himself as it seemed like her cunt was still clamping down around him.

She liked this now, watching the way his eyes were shut, his face handsome and lost in the pleasure he found being inside her. His pace increased to something frantic, his hips snapping against hers, his cock burying so deep each time, igniting that flame within her again.

Just at the same time his thrusts grew unsteady, Hermione gasped with surprise, feeling her walls beginning to spasm. Her hands closed down upon his shoulders as if her body needed to be tethered to the ground. She could feel it happening again, and he was going to—no, he wasn’t, but she wanted him to—she could hear Malfoy groan as her nails dug into his biceps.

“Don’t,” she whispered, “Don’t pull out.”

“Oh fuck,” Malfoy hissed, his movements halted, his clear eyes locked questioningly on her. “Granger…”

“Come inside me.”

The second she had urged him on, he was coming, releasing himself into her with pulsating spurts that caused the walls of her cunt to contract involuntarily around him, bringing her to another breathless climax.

They were both motionless except for their heavy panting, Malfoy practically having collapsed on top of her, her body pressed and balanced against the tree. Hermione might as well have left her body; she still felt the vibrations of the act.

It wasn’t until he slid out of her that she was brought back to the present time. She felt her heart jolt, awakened to the jarring realness of his come dripping down her leg. In the outdoor air of night, it felt cold dripping out of her.

Hermione blushed, still partly dazed, but now feeling a little self-conscious of the mess.

With a step back, Malfoy adjusted his clothes, then drew his wand, Scourgifying the wetness away from between her legs. He reached out then, forcefully pulling up her knickers and jeans.

Hermione then took over, zipping up and buttoning her trousers as Malfoy held up his wand again. He began to utter the beginnings of an incantation when she stopped him.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his wrist to stop the spell. “Did you…ever stop to think about the Prophecy…about how you’d want it to be?” She swallowed nervously, regretting her stumbling over the words. “When you have to impregnate me?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes contemptuously. “That’s not why I just fucked you,” he said coldly.

“I know,” Hermione agreed. Inside though, she had the start of a half-formed theory, a dawning on her that they could take back control of everything, regain their lost agency if only they let unfold what had to happen, but the way they wanted it to.

“So, you didn’t think about it,” she remarked, more to herself than him.  

A dark look came over his features. “I didn’t say I didn’t. If it happens, it happens. But I don’t want a baby, Granger.”

“Okay,” Hermione said quietly, not wanting to press the conversation. It was odd; his words shouldn’t have stung. Malfoy’s reaction was valid. It was still difficult for even her to come to terms with, and she knew it wasn’t right for parenthood to be forced on either of them.

Hermione let go of her hold on his hand and Malfoy resumed the contraception spell. 

“Nolite Conceptionis.”

Malfoy was still holding his wand over her stomach, lost in contemplation.

“This should also…undo anything…Dissipatus.”

He was about to turn away when suddenly he turned back to her, a suspicious look in his eyes.

“You’ve been given potions, haven’t you?” Malfoy questioned, something occurring to him suddenly. “A fertility potion, maybe a love potion.” His face grew pale as he answered his own question. “That’s why you wanted me to—”

“No, that’s not why,” Hermione explained, keeping her voice low and calm. 

Her mind was wrought with panic, knowing that she too, would be very upset if their relations were somehow tainted by the green and red liquids she had been forced to ingest. But the truth was, she really didn’t know. If there was some influence from the potions, it was almost impossible to distinguish it from the very real desire she already felt for him.

“Maybe there were some physical effects,” she continued, then paused seeing his eyes blink, his emotional retreat. “But honestly, I wouldn’t know the difference. I always want you. And I don’t know what came over me, but I didn’t want you to hold back. I wanted to feel what it was like.”

Malfoy looked wounded.

“Malfoy,” she whispered. “Believe me.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but stood there still, his hardened eyes not quite meeting hers. But then, without warning, he reached for her, taking her chin in his hand.

“I do,” he said with a sigh, and then he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, dissolving whatever tension existed between them with a kiss. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a simmering murmur against her mouth. “It's just I’ve never needed anyone the way I need you.”

Hermione was the one kissing him now, pulling him roughly into her orbit, grabbing onto the locks of his hair which were damp with perspiration. She was hoping that he could feel every little spark between them the way she did, as if a whole new lifeforce existed whenever they touched. It was addictive.

“The rune Ehwaz,” she said after trailing kisses down his jaw. “I meant to tell you. I got your message, and I know what the Dark Mark means now.”

Malfoy was studying her. His eyes turned reflective like glass crystals. “I’m yours,” he told her, breathing steadily. “And you’re mine. We’re partners, never forget that.”

A smile came to her lips as the airy, swirly lightness of butterflies took over in her stomach. They were a pair, as the rune indicated: lovers, trapped in what was both equally a dream and a nightmare. But their union would be strong…together their love would be their weapon.

“I won’t,” Hermione returned the sentiment, the intensity of his promise causing bubbles of happiness to rise up in her chest. 

He was still holding her, gazing at her with perhaps more affection than anyone ever had before in her life.

“My soul is damned,” Malfoy started, his eyes never leaving her. “You know that, right?"

"Yes," Hermione responded automatically, her smile vanishing. "I mean, no, I don't believe so." 

"It is," he corrected her, chewing his lip between his teeth. Malfoy's fingers circled around her wrists and then he took her hands in his. "Maybe you can save the part me worth saving." 

“Don’t,” Hermione whispered back. “Don’t think like that. Every part of you is worth saving to me.”

His eyes flickered with some type of torn emotion, an internal darkness she couldn’t read. “My mother was ashamed of me. Sixth Year, I killed Dumbledore to protect our family. She was horrified; she must not have thought me capable of such a thing. Afterwards, she made plans for the two of us to go into hiding with Andromeda. But the plans fell through. There was a spy—maybe Bellatrix or Rodolphus. My father lied to the Dark Lord for us, tried to blame everything on Andromeda. But Riddle saw through it, and tortured both him and Ted Tonks to death in front of us as punishment. He wanted to make an example out of our family…show the Death Eaters the consequences of being disloyal.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said. Her throat felt tight, her stomach twisting just hearing the story.

But the sides of Malfoy’s mouth lifted into a forced grin. His expression was coolly detached from what must have been years of well-practised Occlumency. “My mother, as you’ve discovered, is cursed. Every time I displease the Dark Lord, a little piece of her soul is further destroyed. She’s just a shell now, her body kept alive as a constant reminder for me not to fail. I’m told she’s in pain.”

Hermione closed her eyes, wishing she could unhear it all, but even more, undo his past. She placed her palm upon Malfoy’s beating heart to show him…he was still living, still breathing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, feeling the tears beginning to well in her eyes. “God, I wish I could do something.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Her last memory of me…she was disappointed.”

“No, no,” Hermione reached for him, and their bodies pressed together. She held onto him tight, wanting him to melt into her, to absorb all of his feelings of sadness and regret. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”

They were quiet, embracing each other to forget everything in the slowly fading night. Somewhere, beyond the shadowy outline of trees ahead was a small light on the horizon—the first glimpse of the sun rising. 

Just then, Malfoy swore, and Hermione realised she felt a scorching hotness against the side of her own body too. His Dark Mark was scalding.

“You’ll take me back then?” she asked, not wanting to insert any of her own distraught feelings into the question. She bit her lip, feeling an ache in her chest knowing he was going to be reprimanded by Voldemort.

He nodded in silent confirmation, letting out a low breath, likely trying to ignore the blistering burn in his forearm.

“Hold on…the Elder Wand,” Malfoy said, running a hand through his mussed hair. He seemed to be mulling something over. “Maybe you can lead me to it? I just thought of a way to trick Dolohov.”

Hermione shook her head nervously. “I don’t know. What if it takes us a while?” Her eyes focused in on his arm, the tattooed serpent undulating and angry underneath his pale skin. “What if you’re punished even more?”

At her question, Malfoy smirked. “Oh, Granger. I don’t care about that,” he said, an almost evil light in his eyes. He leaned in closer, his whispered voice causing her to shiver. “I just want to be the one who gets to punish you.”

Chapter Text

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek. His words should have been unnerving. If they came from any other Death Eater, they would have been. But somehow, Malfoy had this ability to turn the worst of threats into seductive promises.

She just wanted to be his. Though she already was in the figurative sense, the sooner she could be identified as such by Voldemort and his followers, the better chance she stood at regaining some type of control over her life. It didn’t seem logical, but then again, nothing was fair or orderly in war. And so, Dolohov needed to be out of the picture.

“Where have you looked for the Elder Wand?” Hermione asked, preparing to take mental notes. Despite the fact Malfoy was not at all concerned, she knew they couldn’t waste any time. “It doesn’t make sense for it to be in anyone’s possession but Dumbledore’s.”

“I’ve checked everywhere,” he replied darkly. “I’ve ransacked the old coot’s tomb twice, searched his former office at Hogwarts, and questioned his brother.”

Hermione scrunched her brows in confusion. “Brother? I didn’t know Albus had any living relatives.”

“Not anymore,” Malfoy said casually with a dismissive wave of his hand. “His name was Aberforth. You might remember him from the Hog’s Head. Long grey beard. Smelled vile. He’s dead now.”

“I see,” Hermione said. “And what about Grindelwald? Do you believe Dolohov killed him? If he knew Dumbledore died with the Wand—”

“Yes. Rest assured, I’ve visited Nurmengard Castle. No sign of anything except Grindelwald’s rotting corpse.”

Hermione crossed her arms, her mind swirling in contemplation. “You don’t think Dolohov really has the Elder Wand, do you? If that’s been his mission all along, perhaps he’s just stalling.”

A tiny smile crossed Malfoy’s face but it did not meet his eyes. “Believe me, if Dolohov found the Wand, you would know.”

“He’s already tried to have his way with me,” Hermione reminded him.

Malfoy stretched his hand out, letting his fingers trail along the skin of her concealed Dark Mark. “In secret, yes,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “But there’d be no reason for him to hesitate when his reward is getting permission to rape you…openly.”

Hermione tensed, feeling suddenly nauseous. “You must be right,” she agreed. “Then tell me, what is your plan for him? I’d rather die than have Dolohov force himself on me again.”

Malfoy’s eyes were glittery and scheming. “My plan is to deceive Dolohov and thereby save myself.” His fingers stilled their movements and he seemed to be waiting for her reaction.

“Alright,” she surmised, still not sure she understood. “Are you going to lead him off a cliff or something?” 

There was a beat of silence and then Malfoy laughed. He pulled Hermione into his grasp, his arm locked around her waist now. “Think, Granger.”

“I am thinking,” she whispered. She pressed both her palms to his chest, becoming relaxed as she felt the gentle beat of his heart. Inside were the usual stirrings, a sudden lightness filling her own heart. This close to him, his woodsy scent of teakwood and pine was overwhelmingly comforting.

“Are you?” Malfoy questioned, his voice almost playful.

“Let him gain physical possession of the Elder Wand,” Hermione pondered, considering his words. “Riddle will see to his demise.”

“Precisely,” Malfoy said with a nod. “For a while now, I’ve determined this is what needs to happen. Otherwise, you know I would have killed him myself.”

“But in the event your Dark Lord casts a wand identification spell? If he finds out the Wand is loyal to me? Or just assumes it is still loyal to you?” Hermione looked up to Malfoy, scanning his eyes for some sort of reassurance that he had thought everything through.

But he only gave her a sly grin. “I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied, his light eyes flashing mischievously back at her. “Afterall, it was you who said the Dark Lord wouldn’t kill you because of the Prophecy. You’re the exception. Meanwhile, I’ve proven my worth to him over and over. I can also prove Dolohov is a liability."

“True.” Hermione released a frustrated breath. “I’d be safe for about nine months,” she added.

Malfoy ignored the quip and looked at her knowingly. “Don’t forget, this mission is about saving me. I never said anything about helping you.” He smirked at her.

Hermione stood frozen, glaring at him and trying her best not to smile. Physically and emotionally, she felt drained from her time in prison; she hadn’t quite returned to herself. Yet, as irritating as Malfoy should have been, her heart wanted to explode with fondness.

“I’m still planning to slap that smugness right off your face again,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Just when you least expect it.”

She made a motion to raise her hand, but Malfoy caught her wrist instantly, lowering it down to her side. “I’m waiting,” he said, his eyes challenging her. 

Deep down, Hermione wanted to laugh, wanted to get lost in kissing him while she had the chance, but the persistent nagging feeling, the looming darkness of their perilous situation got the best of her.

“You know you already hold all the power over me,” she said instead, her voice sounding much more despondent than she intended. “If you’re saved, then I’m saved.”

Malfoy tightened his grip on her hand. “Fuck,” he stammered, “I wish you wouldn’t say it like that, not before…” His words disappeared as all the colour drained from his face.

Hermione shook her head. She would never mince her words, especially not around him. But now just wasn’t the time. 

“The Order,” she said calmly, changing the subject. “Maybe Harry has somehow discovered the Wand since our last encounter?”

Malfoy’s expression remained aggrieved. He had let go of her wrist entirely and stepped back to create some space between them. He didn’t say anything but stared at her disapprovingly. 

“No,” Hermione agreed, reading his thoughts, “if the Order held anything of importance, anything at all to suggest they had an upper hand, they would make that known and use it to their advantage. If Harry was smart, he’d inform the Order of our skirmish. He’d spread the word that I disarmed you.”

Malfoy scowled. “That’s assuming Potter has your brains, your cunning,” he said. “Who know, perhaps he will try to win you back yet.”

“No,” Hermione said with an air of certainty. “Not after the Cruciatus. The Order likely demands my head on a platter. Some actions just can’t be forgiven.”

“You want to be forgiven.” Malfoy said the words to her as a statement, not a question. He was studying her discerningly, as if trying to ensure she wasn’t going to lie.

“No,” she insisted, glancing away. Though the memories of her past and her ruined friendships were painful, Hermione had not dwelled on them. So far, she had not mulled over her choices in this war with regret. The truth was, she had too much to worry about regarding her future, regarding her life. Perhaps, though it was a frightening thought, she had far too much to hope for. “The only thing I want is to be understood,” she continued, her voice unwavering, “and I think…no, I know , that you’re the only one who understands me, Malfoy.” 

Hermione returned her focus to him. For a moment, there was a noticeable softness that settled over Malfoy’s features. She could describe it as an affection in his gaze, but really it seemed like something more…a look that said ‘You’re the only one who knows me. We're the same.’

He looked like he wanted to speak. His lips moved in formation of speech, but then he held back, running a hand through his tousled hair. Malfoy stepped forward to take her chin in his hand.

“I want you to fight me,” he said finally, his voice soft but demanding. “When it comes time for me to…” Malfoy didn’t elaborate any further, but Hermione knew what he was referring to. “Fight me like you did Dolohov and Rodolphus. Scratch my eyes out if you have to—”

“I’m not doing that,” Hermione interjected, the words coming out breathy from his touch. She was about to continue with a laugh, but he gripped her jaw harder.

“I’m serious, Granger,” Malfoy said, his voice growing in strength. “There is not a single part of you that I’m not attracted to. I could go on about your face, your body, your intellect. You don’t realise it, but you have power over me, too. What draws me in is that you’re not weak . It's not what you’ve been, it’s not what you are, and it's not what you should ever pretend to be.”

She made to nod her head, but he leaned into her, his lips touching her own. He kissed her with reckless abandon and then nestled his face against her forehead. 

“Do what you must,” he added. “I’ll always understand you. I’ll never doubt you.”

A jolt of what felt like magic pressed upon her heart. His intensity was something she would never get used to, but every declaration of some type of devotion to her, she would take. Hermione knew it then; for once, she was with someone she didn’t have to explain herself to. She was chained to the War, but Malfoy was her freedom. She would never have to justify her words or actions to him.

“Let’s find the Elder Wand.” He was still embracing, his hand circling the small of her back.

In another reality, Hermione knew she would be running to the library. The Hogwarts library, preferably, but anywhere she could research wandlore would do. But there wasn’t the time, not while she was a Mudblood fugitive and not while every second they were gone Malfoy risked a more horrible punishment from Voldemort.

She tried to recall everything she knew about wands. Like most magical devices, there was a subtle sentience to them. In the case of the Elder Wand, she assumed there were contrasting elements of betrayal and loyalty stemming from the tale of the Peverell brothers. This most likely accounted for the reason this powerful wand could be in one’s possession simply by disarming the previous owner of any wand. She imagined the Elder Wand could come with a warning label: Murder encouraged, but not required.

Hermione wondered…if the Elder Wand were truly loyal to her, would it appear to her alone?

“I’m not certain,” she said aloud, still working through the idea internally. “But perhaps if I went to Dumbledore’s tomb, the wand would make itself known to me.”

Malfoy nodded. “I’ve searched high and low there. But let’s test your theory.”

He Apparated with her to the shores of the Great Lake. In the background, the Hogwarts castle looked like a mirage or something out of a dream. It had felt so long ago since she was a student.

By now, the sun had fully risen. But it was a strange veiled sky where the sun looked to be blanketed. Though the forest from a distance still showed hues of green, up close Hermione could see the emerging leaves of rusty red and weathered yellow. The gloominess of the early stages of fall, she thought. 

“What day is it?” she asked as Malfoy led her down a twisted path in the woods.

“It's the 20th of September.”

“Hmm,” Hermione remarked, her mind reeling with the fact her birthday had come and gone, come and gone with the worst of circumstances in prison, but also the best reprieve in being rescued by him.

“What is it?” Malfoy turned towards her, genuinely curious as they walked, but before Hermione could mention it, she gasped.

Several feet away, a pile of rubble which could only be the desecrated tomb of the former Headmaster took her breath away. There were shards of glass and broken chunks of white marble scattered about like boulders. She didn’t want to look, she really didn’t—but her eyes were drawn to several bones and body parts lying in the midst of the destruction: a withered arm and then a part of a leg. Just beyond a lone pine tree, she thought she saw the whisps of snowy hair, a curled beard, then an ear...Merlin, it was the Headmaster's head.

She stopped dead in her tracks, not wanting to go any further.

Malfoy stared at her. “I was the last one here, obviously. I didn’t do it. But I’d be lying if I said I cared," he stated plainly. "Well, I was responsible for some of it.”

Hermione winced. “I understand.”

It was frustratingly difficult if not impossible to resent the wizard, not to wish the worst upon him in death for his inaction, his purposefulness in taking so many secrets to the grave. He also had so much power to intervene during their Sixth Year, but he didn’t. And even worse, Dumbledore’s kind of laissez-faire approach to leadership carried over into the Order. Shacklebolt no doubt trusted him and his methods so inherently. It was why their side had feared the Prophecy so much.

But there was still a wrongness to it. Hermione knew Voldemort and likely Dolohov had destroyed the grave in search of the Wand. Dumbledore was a hated enemy to them. But while war could destroy all things good, take away lives, Hermione believed the dead  should at least be allowed to rest. He couldn’t do any more harm, so his body should have just been left to be.

“Summon it, then,” Malfoy suggested with a shrug, looking unbothered by the sight. “The sooner we find it, the sooner we can leave.” 

Hermione let out a breath, feeling her muscles tense. Leaving meant returning to her life as the Death Eaters’ captive.

Regardless, she knew it had to be done. She closed her eyes and visualised the Wand, thinking back to memories of Dumbledore with it and reflecting on her knowledge of the Tale of the Three Brothers.

“Accio Elder Wand.”

She hadn’t actually expected anything to happen, so when the earth rumbled beneath their feet and a few stones suddenly rose high into the air, her heart spasmed within her chest. She could feel the cool air brush past her face first, and then it was like the wind carried the Elder Wand right to her.

Reaching out, Hermione grasped the knotted elder tree wood with one hand. It was heavier than she had imagined; it didn’t seem like a wand she could wield with force or precision in battle.

Malfoy gave her a cocky grin. “I'm disappointed. I was expecting his hand to still be attached to it,” he said. "I would have loved to have seen the look on your face."

“Shut up.” 

He smiled again at her as he approached, his eyes widening with fascination not so much at the Wand itself, but at her.

Hermione inspected it more closely. “In the end,” she pondered, “it's just a way to channel magic. But Riddle has already made up his mind. He needs it to defeat Harry. It’s rather limiting for him.”

Malfoy was still eying her curiously. 

“What?” Hermione questioned, the side of her mouth lifting into an almost smirk. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy replied. Yet he stepped into her vicinity now and placed a kiss upon her cheek. “You’re just brilliant. But you already know that.”

“Thanks?” she responded, feeling somewhat confused, but also not able to control the warmness inside her, the way he always made her heart rate increase. “You know I disarmed you. I didn’t do anything special to acquire it.”

Malfoy shook his head. “It’s not that. I’m just thinking about our Prophecy, actually.”

“Oh?” Hermione responded, intrigued. Depending on the day, it seemed Malfoy’s feelings about the Prophecy wavered, his temperament hot and cold to the truth of it all.

“It's not too late for you to kill me,” he informed her, looking calmly off into the distance at the lake. There was still the ghost of a grin on his face. “You look quite intimidating.”

“Shut up,” Hermione said again, his flirtatious remarks causing an excitement to bubble up within her heart once more. “You’re quite aggravating, you know that? I’d kiss you, but this is the last pla—”

But Malfoy was already upon her. He picked her up, twirled her around in the cold fall air, and then bent down. With one strong hand, he pulled her hair back in an effort to direct her mouth to his. The idea occurred to her then that it didn’t matter anymore; they couldn’t keep away from each other. She would never turn down a moment to get lost in the feel of his lips pressing against her own, his teeth lightly nipping at her skin, and his tongue nudging her open, searching her and electrifying her.

She loved the way he broke away from the kiss too, how his breath was still hot and ticklish on her face as he spoke. 

“You look intimidating, and I like it,” he whispered.

Hermione kissed him back again in response. She still gripped the Elder Wand, but with her other hand, she traced her fingers along the small hairs at the back of his neck. 

“It's not too late for other things, too,” she told him, hoping he would get her message. 

Malfoy pulled away from her touch. To her surprise, he wasn’t peeved or put off. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Granger,” he said, tsking his head with mock admonishment. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“Just remember what I said earlier,” Hermione reminded him. “I know we may not have a choice in the matter, but what if we somehow did? If we wanted it…” her voice faded away. She wanted him to consider reframing the pregnancy, much in the same way he expressed interest in owning instead of avoiding the Prophecy. He had already come to care for her; it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for him to agree to it.

"Just remember, I don't want it." His gaze was warm, but there was a bit of disbelief behind his eyes. He dropped his hand to her collarbone and lightly stroked a few fingers along the skin of her neck.

“We should go,” he continued, biting his lip. “I can’t predict how everything will play out, but if…if something happens to me, then call for the Wand, do whatever it takes to kill and get yourself out—”

“No,” Hermione interrupted him, feeling her stomach begin to knot at the desperation in his voice, “nothing’s going to happen to you. Don’t say that.”

She didn’t even want to picture it when she knew she wouldn’t be able to gather up the strength to go on without him.

Malfoy released a tense breath. “I was going to say—never mind,” he squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re right. Give me the Wand. I won’t disarm you.” His tone was clipped now, the warmth of it suddenly evaporated.

Hermione released her grasp on the Elder Wand. He tucked it away in the front pocket of his cloak and drew his own wand, aiming it right at her.

“Hands out. Incarcerous .”

Malfoy recited the spell dully, guiding his wand to lock the shimmering chains in place over her wrists.

As they Disapparated into the crisp morning air, he was whispering into her ear: “Whatever happens next could be either the beginning or the end of us. Forgive me.”

The outside of Lestrange Manor was oddly silent when they arrived. Hermione had expected Death Eaters to be roaming about, for there to be guards patrolling steadily in search of her, but the grounds were just as eerily quiet as they left them.

Though there was a brisk chill with the autumn wind picking up, the atmosphere felt heavy and stale, touched by so much death. The lawn was still littered with the corpses of Death Eaters; most of their eyes were wide open in shock. Likewise, the rotten smell of decay was pervasive.

Malfoy was holding her arm, guiding her through the maze of dead bodies. As they neared the gravel path to the entrance of the Manor, he began to pick up his pace, roughly pulling her about and not stopping when she stumbled.

Suddenly, the quietness was shattered by a startling, piercing cry.

“Why! Why, Draco, why?”

Bellatrix Lestrange had swung open the front door. She was stomping about, throwing her fists into the air. “My Rodolphus!” she gasped, clasping a hand over her chest. “What did he ever do to you?”

“Not now.”

Malfoy brushed past his aunt into the home, not bothering to explain himself or console her. He didn’t even stop to look at her.

“Tell me!”

Without warning, Bellatrix had thrown herself at his feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably, pounding her knuckles upon the checkered marble floor. Black rivers of mascara tears ran down her hollowed cheeks making her face look like that of a nightmarish banshee.

Malfoy kicked his boot at her, shooing her away with disinterest. “Can’t you see I’ve found the Mudblood?”

Bellatrix collapsed again, throwing her head into her hands. She was crying so hysterically now, no sound even escaped her.

Malfoy sighed audibly and rolled his eyes in annoyance, tugging on Hermione’s arm as he continued stalking down the main corridor. He then paused for a moment outside the double doors of Death Eater Hall. He stood there listening as there appeared to be some type of gathering inside.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, he summoned a rather elderly, decrepit-looking house-elf. 

The elf bowed before him. “At your service, Master Malfoy.”

“Grubby, tell Dolohov to meet me in the parlour. The matter is urgent.” 

“But sir, the Dark Lord is not to be interrupted. He is meeting with the Masks right now. He is very angry and told Grubby that if Grubby values his life, he will—”

“If Grubby does not do as I say, he will become Nagini’s dinner tonight. How does that sound? Tell Dolohov I’m waiting.”

Letting out a tiny wail, the elf vanished with a pop.  Malfoy turned again, this time dragging Hermione behind him into a room just across the way. Though it was only about an eighth of the size of main hall, the room had enormously high ceilings. The walls were painted such a dark green shade they were almost black; the space was also designed with ominous stone columns that merged into two intertwining snakes near the beams. 

“Sit.”

Malfoy released his grip on her and pointed to the leather sofa in the middle of the room. With a flick of his wand, he closed the door.

Hermione felt a dizzying whirl of anxiety as she walked to the seat; now that Malfoy was no longer holding her arm, she was almost certain she was going to faint. The suspense of the unknown was crushing. It was a terrible feeling to know that she could possibly be moments away from losing what she wanted most of out this hellish life—to survive and to be with him.

Malfoy was pacing across the floor, waiting for Dolohov and not looking at her. 

The silence between them seemed unbearable, but then a few minutes later, heavy footsteps sounded outside the door.

“Malfoy, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Dolohov greeted him snarkily. “Whatever do I owe the pleasure–ahh,” his voice lifted in surprise, most likely at seeing her seated upon the sofa.

Hermione cautiously watched the Death Eater enter the room. He had a slight limp and wore some type of magical eyepatch over one eye; she could observe a small red light flashing every now and then, like it was enchanted with a healing spell.

“The Mudblood bitch has been captured at the cost of no less than a hundred lives,” Dolohov snarled. 

“All because you couldn’t practise a little patience,” Malfoy replied.

“What?” Dolohov questioned, shaking his head indignantly. “I don’t know what you’re going on about."

Malfoy turned sharply to face him. “I searched her memories—she escaped due to you and Rodolphus’ negligence. The cell door was left wide open. You could have at least tried to fuck her behind locked doors.”

 Dolohov let out a dismissive chuckle. “The prison Wards need to be stronger. There’s no reason she should have made it outside.”

“Regardless,” Malfoy asserted, “the truth is you thought you deserved to get yourself wet, get yourself a preview of that filthy Mudblood cunt. In the meantime, I was busy finding the Elder Wand. I have it now.”

“Bullocks,” Dolohov sneered in return. “The Wand doesn’t exist or Potter has secured it. I searched everywhere.”

Suddenly, Malfoy withdrew the Elder Wand from his cloak. “Just because you’re incompetent doesn’t mean I am.”

Dolohov’s mouth dropped open. He rubbed his head and then pulled down his eyepatch as if that would make a difference. “Where ever did you—did you have it all this time?” he stammered.

“Of course not,” Malfoy retorted. 

Hermione was still; out of her peripheral vision, she could see that he was approaching her. She shivered as Malfoy placed a hand upon her shoulder. 

“I have a proposal for you,” he continued, his hand drifting into Hermione’s hair. She looked up at Malfoy curiously, but he just gave her a look of disgust, yanking her head away by pulling on her hair roughly. “Not all of us are interested in sullying our bloodlines. I myself prefer to keep my lineage clean.”

Dolohov laughed again. “The Prophecy states a Half-Blood needs to be created, not kept—”

“Make this known,” Malfoy snapped. “I will always do the Dark Lord’s bidding. But the very thought of taking the Mudblood repeatedly until she is with my child is repulsive.”

Dolohov was leering at Hermione now; she couldn’t turn away as Malfoy still held onto her. “So,” he asked, “what did you have in mind? Convincing the Dark Lord to let me have her?”

Malfoy let go and crossed the room, holding out the Elder Wand. “It's yours to offer the Dark Lord,” he said casually. “No need to duel or disarm me for it; present it under the guise you acquired it. The Mudblood will be yours.”

But Dolohov smiled sceptically. “This is a trick, isn’t it? You killed Rodolphus for no reason—countless others, too. I don’t trust you,” he rasped. "You're up to something."

“Some of us also take pride in serving the Dark Lord, in our reputations,” Malfoy said, a dark undercurrent to his words, “and in our Pure families as I’ve told you. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Dolohov seized the Wand now, running a hand along its length. “I wish I could believe you,” he surmised. “But the Dark Lord—I fear he may kill me if he suspects the Wand belongs to me.”

“The Wand has allegiance to one who disarmed or killed its previous owner,” Malfoy reminded him, “and that is still me. I have come to terms with it—the Dark Lord may very well have thought I overstepped my bounds lately. I’ve slaughtered too many of our own as you have indicated.”

Turning the Wand over in his hand, Dolohov appeared torn.

Malfoy stepped closer. Hermione had never seen such a serious look on his face. He seemed to really be putting in an effort to convince Dolohov. His eyes drilled into him with what looked like real sincerity.

“If you must know, I secured it from the old Headmaster’s gravesite. The Wand revealed itself to me as I am the true owner,” Malfoy explained. He then turned back to Hermione, giving her a look she couldn’t quite place. “You do know there are spells to determine who the Wand belongs to.”

Dolohov shook his head rather quickly. He let out a raspy murmur of agreement. “Very well, Malfoy,” he said, holding his hand out to him. “You have yourself a deal.”

The two shook hands.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” he admitted. “Both Prophecies can now come to fruition.” He turned to glare at Hermione. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like a moment alone with my Mudblood.”

Malfoy gave him a righteous grin. His eyes then drifted to Hermione; there seemed to be an urgency behind his silver orbs. “Be my guest.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how the moment had devolved into a personal hell so quickly.

Malfoy had left her. He had not only closed the door, but she could have sworn she heard the faint click of a lock.

He’ll come back for you.

He trusts you can fend for yourself.

He knows you’re not weak.

The voice in the back of her head was offering her a myriad of reasons for why he had left her when she told him she’d rather die. Perhaps he assumed she had some ability to summon the Elder Wand right out of Dolohov’s greasy hands. Though that might have been true, that type of action seemed too drastic—it felt like a last resort. Weren’t they supposed to be going to Voldemort?

But even if she wanted to use the Wand, her hands were tied, by Malfoy’s magic, no less.

She had blocked out so much of Dolohov already…his single eye ogling her, the stale stench of tobacco, the feel of his calloused hands gripping her throat, the grunting noise he made as he unzipped his trousers and pulled his member out of his pants. 

He was mumbling something incoherent while his hands slipped under her shirt, roughly grabbing at her bra until he snatched it down to palm her breasts.

Hermione tried to imagine her body was made of lead; she envisioned herself as heavy and immovable, unable to be used as an object for Dolohov’s sick pleasure. But he was easily able to control the motions of her head and neck; he had pushed her upper body back against the edge of the sofa. She thought he was going to reach for the button of her jeans, but with one free hand he grabbed her jaw, holding her face to him so she couldn’t twist around.

“I suppose I should thank Malfoy for gifting you to me,” Dolohov chortled. “My own Mudblood slut to fuck and breed.” He squeezed her throat so forcefully, Hermione felt her lungs might give out; she was aching for a breath and her heart was pounding against her chest like it wanted to escape as much as she did.

Laughing, he tilted her neck upwards. “Open up,” he rasped, his fingers now reaching for her mouth. “I’ll teach you a little lesson about running away from me. I own you now, you whore—"

Hermione bit down on a finger as hard as she could, feeling the leather-like skin between her teeth.

"Argh! Bloody fucking hell!"

She didn't let go until he pushed her away. 

“Get off!” she cried, kicking her knees up at the same time.

But Dolohov lunged back at her, forcing her below him on the sofa. He had her pinned down by the forearms.

“So the Mudblood wants to play nasty, eh? You won’t be conscious, but you’ll wake up with my cock shoved so far down your throat your face will turn blue."

He drew his own wand from out the side of his belt loop.

“ Petrificus Tota —”

Dolohov had almost cast the incantation to paralyse her, but he was interrupted by a sudden pop and frantic male voice.

“Yous both is to come to the Hall right this minute!”

Grubby had materialised right next to the sofa. The house-elf’s face was about eye-level with Hermione’s. His own eyes turned into saucers when he noticed what was happening. 

“All the Masks are waiting for the return of the Mudblood. The Dark Lord is livid. It angers him to know Master Dolohov has been hoarding the Elder Wand for himself all this time. And now I must tell him that Dolohov is also hoarding the Mudblood when she is supposed to belong to Master Malfoy.”

Dolohov cleared his throat. “Excuse me? That fucking wanker. Fuck Malfoy! I’ll kill him—I’ll kill him right now—”

“Yous is to come now!” 

Grubby had barely vanished and Dolohov was already leading Hermione by her wrists out of the parlour and into the set of double doors opening to Death Eater Hall.

Though the space was filled with rows and rows of the masked followers in dressed black, Hermione could only keep her focus to the small stage ahead, the altar where Voldemort stood menacingly with Nagini slithering around his feet. 

Malfoy stood next to him with his arms crossed. He was unmasked and his grey eyes looked the darkest she had ever seen them. 

She could have sworn she heard a collective gasp from the crowd of Death Eaters as Dolohov pulled her swiftly down the aisle. As they approached the front of the altar, Voldemort’s eyes narrowed into slits small enough to match his snake-like nostrils.

All of a sudden, Dolohov stopped with an abrupt force. Hermione assumed he had hestitated in fear of walking farther, but she noticed Voldemort directed a silent spell right at him.

“Halt,” he ordered, not looking the least bit amused. “Do not let go of the Mudblood.”

The scuzzy Death Eater nodded enthusiastically. Dolohov then twisted Hermione around so that she was positioned awkwardly in front of him, her body trapped against his chest.

Hermione flinched as he presented the heavy Elder Wand he had hid inside his robes.

“This belongs to you, my Lord,” Dolohov said, offering it to Voldemort.

The sinewy, serpent hand reached out to snatch the Elder.

Dolohov bowed his head in reverence and then strengthened his grasp on Hermione, likely out of nerves. She recoiled instantly, disgusted by the feel of the sudden sticky heat of his body, thinking the foul droplets were somehow being absorbed into her back.

Voldemort hissed with delight and a slick smile now arrived on his face as he raised the Elder Wand into the air. 

“It appears I may have misplaced my earlier wrath,” he said, his voice crackling, still simmering with rage.

“Malfoy gave me the Wand just now—I swear! I didn’t find it—”

“SILENCE!”

Voldemort used the Elder Wand to unleash a small fireball which landed right at Dolohov’s feet. Hermione jumped instinctively, narrowly avoiding the sparks.

“If there is one thing I can not tolerate, it is disloyalty,” Voldemort wheezed in vexation. “Malfoy knows that better than any of you.”

Hermione stared at Malfoy but he had no discernable expression. He wasn’t even looking at her; the path of his eyes seemed to be directed towards the audience of Death Eaters.

Dolohov shook his head in disagreement. A few nervous whimpers escaped him, but he did not dare to speak.

Voldemort pulled a small vial from out his billowing dark robe. “Malfoy has provided me with two memories—one of you retrieving the Wand from the white tomb and another of you claiming the Mudblood though I did not award her to you as your prize.” He shook the smokey contents at Dolohov and then stuffed the memories back into the lining of his robe.

“There was no Wand at Dumbledore’s grave—and Rodolphus, it was his idea for us both to fuck the—”

“I SAID SILENCE!”

He shot another fiery bolt; this time, a few flames burned into fabric of Dolohov’s trousers.

There was a stiff, awkward silence in the Hall before Voldemort continued. 

“Dolohov, you have the audacity to waste so much of my precious time and resources in this War. In case you have forgotten, Potter lives—and that is a problem for me and for us all. But to think you are so above your Death Eater brothers…to think you could possibly be on par with Draco…is quite simply a joke.”

Hermione could sense that Dolohov was shaking; whether it was with fear or anger or pain from the fiery curse, she didn’t know or care.

“All these months,” Voldemort continued, his voice sinking to an eerie whisper, “you kept the Elder Wand from me because you have a sick obsession with the Mudblood. Meanwhile, you attempted to place the blame on Draco, forcing him to decimate our own ranks in order to rightfully bring her back to us."

“No, no…,” Dolohov pleaded, but it was useless. 

Voldemort was nodding his head in affirmation.

“Yesss,” he corrected, his reply sounding more like Parseltongue. 

Another short silence. Hermione felt her own muscles begin to tense. The combination of warring emotions inside her felt exhausting. She might as well have been balancing on a tightrope. Once she fell, she knew she would be consumed by equal parts ecstasy and fear.

“I shall declare the victor,” Voldemort announced, “but first, there is one last element I must be sure of.”

He retrieved his personal wand from his robe and pointed it at the Elder Wand, which he clutched in his other hand.

“There's just one stipulation, as I’m sure you know about, Draco,” he said, giving Malfoy a maniacal smile. 

Hermione suddenly felt her body go numb. She was afraid—afraid to even look at Malfoy even though she knew he wouldn’t give her any sign or sliver of his attention anyway.

“The Elder Wand is finally mine,” he said gleefully. “But I must ensure that I take it by force. I must ensure that it has no prior relations, if you will.”

The hall was completely still. She knew that every pair of Death Eater eyes was upon her back now—she felt like a glowing target though everyone was really watching Voldemort.

“The Wand knows,” he said. “Magic tells the truth when men lie. Show us the true owner of the Elder Wand."

Voldemort raised his own wand into the air; a trail of tiny multi-coloured lights flowed from out the tip. 

Hermione could feel the vibration of the spell. As it pulsated in tangible waves, her knees became wobbly and weak from the sheer terror the moment. Though she didn’t want to, she leaning against Dolohov for support.

Lifted by the sea of lights, the Elder Wand ascended into the air.

“Designandum ad Verum Dominum.”

Voldemort recited the incantation as if in a trance. 

The Wand spun wildly, caught up in a twisted vortex of magic. As if expecting a certain revelation, Voldemort turned his head sharply towards Malfoy.

Wild chills and tremors took over her body as she watched the spell unfold. The Wand was still spinning, but slowing down now. The colours which had blurred together like a misty rainbow were separating, becoming more distinct as the motions stalled.

It was a shame Hermione had not thought to take a deep breath—the anticipation of the outcome was eating away at her insides. She wanted to throw up.

The answer become apparent when the lights suddenly faded. The Elder Wand was hovering in the air as if someone controlled it with magical strings. 

And it was floating, almost gracefully and light as a feather, right to her.

Chapter Text

Though Hermione had always prided herself on her bravery and on being able to react without the slightest bit of hesitation or self-doubt in a moment of pure terror, she couldn’t help but fully recoil when the Elder Wand began to descend in front of her, as if it were trying to find its way into her hand.

Despite the risk of anyone noticing her movement, she pressed her back into Dolohov in an attempt to establish the necessary space between her and the Wand. In these mere seconds of time, a few very distinct scenarios passed through her mind’s eye: she pictured Voldemort killing her, Malfoy killing Voldemort, and then the entire Hall of Death Eaters killing him. 

Calm. Logical. Rational. Fearless.

Internally, Hermione repeated the words to clear her headspace. They were the qualities she admired most in the heroines of her Muggle stories. If there was any time in her life to adhere to these traits, it was now.

“Take what is yours.” Voldemort hissed. Though the harsh whisper of his words caused her spine to tingle, Hermione remained completely still, feeling Dolohov’s grip on her tighten. He was still shaking, she realised, perhaps from both fear and wrath.

The Elder Wand stayed in place, dangling mere inches away from her. But even as Voldemort strode towards them, his spindly, frail limbs hidden under his flowy dark robe, neither Hermione nor Dolohov made any motion to grab it.

Voldemort loomed over them. His presence was like one giant shadow, his sickly breath invading Hermione’s senses before he even spoke again. “I said…take what is yours. Crucio! ”

She stumbled forward as the flash of red light broke forth from the Dark Lord’s wand. Dolohov had shoved her in a frenzied attempt to shield himself from the torture spell. But his fumbled actions were no use as the curse found him anyway; the vibrations of the magic hit his body like laser beams.

“Ahh…Argh!”

Midscream, Dolohov collapsed onto the floor. His body thrashed as it rose high into the air before crashing back down to the ground with a violent thud. Meanwhile, Hermione stayed in place as she was frozen with tension but also with the common sense to make no sudden moves.

“Finite.”

The hum of the Wand Identification spell, which had echoed out across Death Eater Hall in tangible, pulsating vibrations, was no more. There was a collective gasp from the observing crowd as the Wand dropped to the floor and landed next to Hermione’s shoe before rolling backwards and stopping just at the fingertips of Dolohov, who was laying face down behind her.

Voldemort smiled menacingly. “Must I repeat myself? Take your Wand.”

Out of her peripheral view, Hermione could see the Death Eater had stretched out his palms; evidently, Dolohov was trying his best to balance himself and grab the Elder Wand. But he was moving as if punished in slow motion, his breathing laboured and body reeling from the Cruciatus Curse. He finally gripped the Elder wand, but he could not manage to stand upon his feet. After three miserable attempts, Voldemort’s voice rang out in disgust.

“Pity,” he barked, looking down upon Dolohov. “I put my trust in you.”

Dolohov was gasping in frustration, his body stunned and stuck to the floor. “M–my Lord—” 

“Do not speak!”  

Dolohov was sobbing. Small, hiccups and gasps for breath left him as Hermione imagined he was still struggling to stand.

“Pick it up,” Voldemort demanded, his raspy voice filled with derision. “Or must I ask Draco to do it for you? In outing yourself as most untrustworthy in your selfish endeavours, you have somehow also proven yourself incapable of completing the most menial of tasks,” he added with a chuckle.

Hermione did not move a muscle. She didn’t dare to turn around and look at Dolohov, who she could hear grunting in his attempt to reach the wand.

“Almost,” Voldemort announced with a dramatic sigh. His reaction elicited a few low murmurs and muffled scoffs amongst the other Death Eaters. “Stand.”

“I—I can’t,” sobbed Dolohov. “Here, my Lord.”

It seemed as if his body must have given out again; Hermione was still observing Voldemort whose gaze was fixated to the floor with a fiery hatred. Without further pause, she could see him lean down before his withered arm reached high into the air.

A haunting high-pitched laugh echoed throughout the Hall. “Patience,” the Dark Lord rattled on, this time triumphantly holding the Elder Wand that he must have plucked out from Dolohov’s fingers, “my patience is wearing thin. Though I have secured myself ample time in this War, the same can not be said for those who disobey me. In this fight for our magical preservation, we must ensure all of our chess pieces are in place.”

Tucking away his former wand into the side of his robe, Voldemort pointed the Elder directly at Dolohov. 

“Antonin, your attempt to keep what is rightfully mine from me,” he rasped, circling the Wand in slow motion in the air, “is more than foolish.” Voldemort paused; a grimace formed upon his face. “It is a fatal error.”

A breathy plea fell from Dolohov’s lips, but the sound was eclipsed by a bright burst of green light. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

Voldemort was aiming the Elder Wand with precision, his expression gleeful with the fact the Wand appeared to bend to his will, effortlessly executing the death curse.

Dolohov’s lifeless body must have crumpled upon the ground. Hermione was only aware of the resounding sniggers and the reaction of several of Death Eaters applauding upon witnessing the death.

“Nagini—come get your treat.” With the snap of his fingers, Voldemort summoned his pet, which seemed to materialise in the centre of the Hall. But as the serpent slithered all too near, heading straight towards the dead Death Eater, Hermione realised the snake had just camouflage itself into the foreground. 

Voldemort bowed his head, relishing in the attention. “There can only be one true owner of the Elder Wand,” he said with a shrug. 

Suddenly, his beady eyes settled on Hermione. His own snake-like orbs seemed to bore into her with all the hatred in the world. Though it was only a split second he looked at her, she knew all the colour had drained from her face. The attention luckily had not been on her earlier with the wand spell. But now it was as if the entire Hall was alerted to her undesirable presence. She felt like a confused ghost lost between the realms of death and life; had she already died and not remembered?

Her blood was icy when he spoke again. “And there can only be one outcome of the Prophecy. Draco, come here.”

As if expecting as much, Malfoy lowered his Death Eater mask over his face and sauntered towards the middle of the altar where Voldemort stood leering at her. He approached without hesitation, his stature beyond intimidating in his Death Eater apparel. 

“I would demand you to claim your award,” Voldemort continued, his voice filled with a dark merriment. “But I know this foul creature is no prize to you. I am aware of the great sacrifice you are making in offering your services to fulfil the Prophecy.”

Malfoy seemed to nod solemnly, but Hermione could obviously not assess his true emotions with the mask on.

“Tarnishing one’s bloodline is not to be taken lightly,” the Dark Lord insisted, this time speaking out to the crowd of his followers; some murmured heartedly in agreement. “You understand as much, Draco. Therefore, it is not my intent to punish you. I shall personally offer my services to you when the time comes by killing Potter’s Mudblood and the half-breed scum myself. ”

A few Death Eaters cheered at Voldemort’s promise. Hermione couldn’t help it; she stared at Malfoy, but he did not move. She didn’t think he would, but knowing that underneath the lifeless eyes of the mask, he might be looking at her too, made her heart beat pick up rapidly.

Voldemort smiled, flashing rotten teeth. “And, as a token of my appreciation for your sacrifice in this matter, I insist there shall be a Pureblood bride awaiting you at the end of nine months.”

A collective gasp sounded from the Hall; several male voices could be heard talking and laughing; a few whistled and clapped mockingly.

“That shall hardly be necessary.” Draco spoke finally, his voice clipped and lacking any sort of amusement despite the new uproar in the hall. 

“My dear nephew…”

Hermione turned, seeing Bellatrix Lestrange waltzing into the scene. If it were even possible, her character appeared even more demented than she recalled seeing earlier. Her hair looked positively electrocuted and her face was still stained with long black streaks of make-up. 

As Malfoy towered over her, Bellatrix had to stand on her tiptoes to place a hand upon his shoulder. “The Dark Lord is only looking to protect us,” she cooed, “to preserve the Pure family. Draco, think of what your father, what your mother would want.”

The Hall was buzzing again with cackles and outright jeers now; one Death Eater had even mentioned something about ‘Knockturn Alley’ loud enough for Malfoy to hear. He remained quiet, but Hermione thought she could see his fists clench.

Voldemort chuckled. “Any witch you desire, Draco. Name your pick and I will ensure she is yours. Now, we mustn't waste any more time.”  

Bellatrix shuffled away as Voldemort focused his attention back on Hermione. Suddenly, she felt a stabbing sensation in the pit of her stomach. Though she had long anticipated the darkness of it, there was nothing that could truly prepare her for the reality, the real horror of what was about to happen to them.

“While there is reason for celebration,” Voldemort began, addressing the watchful Death Eaters, “with the Elder Wand rightfully in my possession and the Mudblood back in her rightful position so that our Prophecy can come to fruition, we must not be ignorant to the fact Potter and his Order still persists. We must not deter from our path and declare a premature victory. Therefore, I am delaying our revel until after dinner this evening. In the meantime, you are all to resume your assignments while I meet with my informants.”

Hermione still felt unnaturally cold. She knew she should be sick and filled with dread at the thought of her and Malfoy being after-dinner entertainment. But her senses just felt dulled. Behind her back, she could feel all of the Death Eaters staring her down and heard some rumblings about a ‘punishment.’

“Draco,” Voldemort instructed, his frail hand gesturing at Hermione. “Please see to it that the Mudblood is returned to her confine here in the Lestrange dungeons. The Wards have been adjusted and there are additional guards. While your public performance is scheduled for this evening, I demand that you break her in upon delivering her to the cell. Let that serve as her reminder not to attempt escape again. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

Hermione felt herself shiver upon hearing the low tone of Draco’s voice. 

“Very well.” Voldemort resumed his attention towards his followers. “If I have requested your presence, please remain in the Hall. Otherwise, return to your usual posts immediately.” He then gave Hermione one last twisted grin. “Accepting your fate so willingly?”

“Incarcerous.”

Hermione was about to answer, but she was caught off guard by the wispy, magical chains of Malfoy’s spell. The shackles, though translucent, pinched and pulled at the skin of her wrists. She could feel her body being tugged forward, and she was unexpectedly delivered into Malfoy’s grasp.

“Never,” Hermione managed to scoff. But she wasn’t even listening to Voldemort’s responding laughter. Instead, her senses were drawn to Malfoy who had enclosed his arms around her. Her chained hands were suddenly pressed upon the armour covering his chest; she pushed at him, knowing she had to look appalled, but inside she felt so much relief in being this close to him once more.

“I’ll take good care of you,” Malfoy snarled. He stepped forward again, invading her space just enough so that she could smell the spiciness of his cologne before forcefully turning her body around so that he could lead her by the chains of his magic.

Unless she wanted to stumble, Hermione did not have any choice but to follow Malfoy to the doors leading out of the Hall. All around her, masked Death Eaters ogled her or tried to scare her before Disapparating.

“I want you to fight me.”

Hermione didn’t forget his words. The reminder was still alive inside of her, calming her nerves, pulsing in her head like the distant, comforting sound of a wave upon the shore at night. Deep down, she knew why he had said it:

He had all the power over her. 

Malfoy knew for a fact that if he were anyone else, Hermione would claw his eyes out, rip at his skin, kick at his groin and bite his ear off. She would shutter her legs, take her chances at broken bones and bruised skin; she would rather be Imperiused or die than subject herself to such bodily abuse and horror. But because it was him, she wouldn’t. The most she could do was feign fear and pretend to run. 

Though in their own dynamic, he could claim she ruled over him, that he was held captive by her wit, beauty, and strength, this was not her world. It wasn’t his world, either. And so, Hermione believed his order to fight back was coming from a place of deep affection. While she saw them both as equals, fighting to cling to one another in a world ravished by War, he had already elevated her status in his eyes, perhaps to cope with the inevitable pain that would arise whenever he would be forced to hurt her. If she could fight back, she could retain part of herself…a part he had definitely fallen for.

Outside in the corridor leading to the prison cellar, the air felt less stifling than the Hall. It was mainly empty except for a few Death Eaters milling about, likely stalling before they had to return to the battlefields or their missions. 

Hermione’s heart sank upon seeing the heavy wooden door leading down to the cells. She could see three Death Eaters standing guard near the entrance. As she and Malfoy approached, the heavy vibration of the magical Ward made her skin crawl. She didn’t know who would be in charge of bringing her meals now that Rodolphus was gone. 

“Who’s down there?” Malfoy halted, causing Hermione to stop abruptly as well.

The masked Death Eater at the door waved his hand. “I dunno. There’s the ginger mute for one, and—”

“I don’t give a fuck what prisoners are down there,” Malfoy cut in, “I’m asking about the guards.”

“Oh!” The guard shook his head apologetically. “Scabior and Crabbe, Sr.”

For a moment, Malfoy didn’t say anything. Hermione thought he was possibly analysing the Wards. He seemed to be watching as a red, flashing light glowed and flickered out around the doorway. He was still holding onto her through the chains of his incarceration spell.

“If she tries to escape,” he started, turning his head to look at the other two guards, “or if you see any other Death Eater besides me remove her from this prison, you are to alert me immediately.”

The guards nodded in unison. “Will do,” the one voiced his agreement. He then stepped aside, allowing for the wood door to swing wide open.

“Good,” Malfoy commented, “if anything happens to her, I’ll come for your heads.” Malfoy flicked his wand which caused the chain to yank on Hermione’s wrists. Together, they descended the stone steps leading to the cell blocks. 

The prison was damp and musty as ever, the stench of rust and blood permanently soaked into the ground. There were no recognisable screams or cries of torture, suggesting there hadn’t been any added Order inmates since her escape the other night.

“Malfoy.”

A lanky-looking Death Eater tilted his head in sarcastic greeting. His face was dimpled and marked by scars, and his long, black hair was piled up into a messy bun. He had been pacing back and forth impatiently in the middle of the row of cells, very near the cell that had been Hermione’s last time. 

“Put your mask back on, Scabior,” Malfoy huffed in annoyance. 

Scabior laughed. “I don’t answer to you. There’s no need. I’d dare to say Potter’s pathetic heroes already know their place down here. They should know the faces of their superiors.” 

He sneered at Ron, who was still sitting on the ground in his same cell. Hermione noticed he looked unchanged, maybe his face was a bit thinner. Upon seeing her, the scowl on his face became more apparent.

Suddenly, Malfoy grabbed Hermione rather forcefully by her forearm. She winced, feeling his fingers clamp down on her skin. “In the case of the Mudblood, you do answer to me,” he corrected Scabior. “You are to have no interaction with her. You will not look at her, speak to her, or otherwise acknowledge her presence.”

“Er, the food?” Scabior questioned with confusion. “It is my duty to withhold or deliver the rations as I see fit—

“I will see to her meals,” Malfoy interjected. She could tell he was quite livid now, his tone scathing from under the mask. 

Scabior shook his head in disappointment. “But I am also under strict orders from the Dark Lord to dole out the Cruciatus daily or any other kind of physical torture—”

But before he even finished, Malfoy had let go of Hermione to lunge forward and grab the Death Eater by the throat. “You will not cast an Unforgivable or lay a hand on her. You will not touch her; do I make myself clear?”

Scabior let out a few stifled gasps as Malfoy purposely twisted the closure of his robes, allowing the material to dig into his pulse point and cut off his air supply. His eyes widened with desperation as he could no longer form a complete explanation.

“Mhm,” he muttered, attempting to wrangle his neck free. But Malfoy didn’t budge.

“You might recall my own uncle, Rudolphus Lestrange, failed at this same duty. He failed to listen to me,” Malfoy reminded him, “and he’s gone now.” With all of his might, he gripped at the fabric near Scabior’s neck. Hermione could see that he was trembling with quiet rage. “I am the only one with permission to touch her…with permission to rape her.”

Scabior grunted.

Malfoy began to ease up his hold on him. He paused to think for a long minute, and then finally let go. “Where is Crabbe?”

The Death Eater immediately brought a hand to his throat, massaging the skin where Malfoy almost suffocated the life out of him. “He’s patrolling in the other cell block,” he wheezed.

“Make sure he and everyone else knows my rules,” Malfoy said, his voice having almost a detached quality to it now. He turned back to Hermione now. In a manner that was slightly more gentle than before, he placed a strong hand upon her shoulder, effectively guiding her into her cell. 

“Of course,” Scabior said, his voice still strangled. He appeared jittery with nerves, but a perturbed look was back in his eyes.

“Stay.” Malfoy gave Hermione the order. He was at the door to her cell, casting some sort of protective enchantment, she realised. She could then hear the lock click into place. He was still with her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see him removing his cloak.

Inside, she was experiencing all sorts of emotions bubbling to the surface. On one hand, it would be a lie to say she did not feel rage at her circumstances, at the very fact Malfoy would even need to stake some sort of claim on her as her sole rapist. But the fact that he had and that she was relieved about it, happy even, was beyond her darkest dreams. Their circumstances were purely barbaric and if they could endure and manage to keep some small strand of their dignity…well, she knew they could survive anything together. 

Hermione could feel her whole body shaking, knowing that Voldemort had given Malfoy explicit instructions to ‘break her in.’ What would he do? Up until this point, she had only known him to be as disgusted as she was. He had always been so adamant about having her on his terms. This was far from his terms.

Hermione flinched upon hearing the unbuckling of a belt. 

This was it. He was really going to do it. 

She did not move, but all of a sudden, her heart rate increased exponentially. Her palms felt sweaty now. They were mainly alone, save for Ron and Scabior— Ron . Hermione bit her lip; she had given up long ago on caring about his reactions to her, winning his approval. From their battles, Ron had bore witness to the fact there was something between Malfoy and her. Yet at the time, he had insinuated that she was being deceived. But Hermione knew Ron could never understand the complexities of her burgeoning relationship—she barely understood them herself.

“Turn around.” Malfoy’s command had interrupted her train of thought. 

Hermione had been facing the wall, but when she spun around, her gaze was locked on Malfoy who was still wearing his Death Eater mask. He had removed his outermost layers, the cloak and armour, as well as his belt. His hands were still gloved; with one finger, he beckoned her to him.

She inched forward.

It’s just him.

Internally, she felt grateful for the fact this would not be their first time together. Even more grateful this would not be her first time.

Beyond Malfoy’s shoulder, she could see Ron narrowing his eyes at her from his cell. He was staring at her with derision; a smug suggestion of ‘I told you so’ was plastered over his face. The more she looked at him, the more Hermione felt a familiar anger returning as if it were just rippling under the surface of her skin. She had made her choices–if Ron was going to sit there and judge her as having been played and taken advantage of by Malfoy, then he had another thing coming.

“Hold onto the bars.”

And so did she, apparently. Hermione’s attention was quickly averted to Malfoy. Though his voice was deeper without any trace of warmth while wearing the mask, it was enticing nonetheless. He was next to her, waiting for her to follow his instructions. She took a deep breath and gripped the metal in front of her, feeling her fingers settle uneasily around the cell. The bars were cold as ice.

Don’t look at Ron.

She focused instead on the uneven pattern of stones and pebbles upon the floor. The ground was wet and marked with mysterious rings that were probably water damage or mould, but also could have been spots of dried blood. It was truly an awful place to reside and especially sleep. Her body ached from a constant tiredness, a type of hurt in her bones that had become routine from sleeping in a huddled position in the corner. What she wouldn’t give to return to Malfoy’s bed…

“Spread your legs.”

Her thoughts were diverted back to Malfoy and his controlling nature, which seemed magnified in his Death Eater persona. Hermione found herself wanting to follow his every command; she could so easily go under his spell. But lurking in the shadowy corner, she was aware of Scabior watching them with a curious expression. This had to be their time to practise. She needed to be appalled. No one could find out they were together.

She also needed to not forget herself. The self Malfoy was so attracted to.

Hermione shook her head, crossing one ankle over the other in an attempt to keep her thighs closed.

Malfoy let out a low laugh. “That’s your best defence?” he asked with an air of ridicule. “Poor little Mudblood. You’ll never fight me off without magic.”

She thought about turning around to hit him. She had joked about it with him so often and though she knew this was all an act, the self-righteous tone of his voice still grated on her nerves. 

“Incarcerous Maxima. ”

But it was too late. Malfoy’s chains had returned; they fastened around her hands, securing them to the metal prison bars. With all her might, she tried to wriggle free and tried to at least put some space between herself and the cell bars. But it was no use; the magic was stronger this time. It vibrated and pulsed along her fingers, tightening them against the metal.

Hermione let out a short cry of frustration. With her hands out of commission, she doubled down on her idea of keeping her legs folded. She could concentrate all her efforts on forcing her ankles to lock, pressing her body away from him and into the prison poles.

Malfoy laughed again. It wasn’t his real, genuine laugh, but the kind fit for a Death Eater, a cruel and mocking kind. His hand slapped her thigh; she felt the sting from his touch through her jeans. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

She felt the tension in her legs begin to ease up. She hadn’t offered much of a fight, but then again, she never had wanted to. There were many conflicting thoughts running concurrently through her mind—she wanted him, yes, but not like this because he was ordered to take her. But at the same time, shouldn’t ignore the way her lower abdomen contracted and her nerve endings burned with hot desire at the forbidden thought of him taking her simply because he could.

His fingers reached for the button on her jeans. “Let’s try this again. Spread your legs.”

What began as some sparks in her core ignited into a full on fire; a heat was spreading through her body as his words were making her tingle down below. Without warning, Malfoy was pulling down her pants, his hands gripping her arse and sliding her knickers down to her knees. She wondered if he was already hard, but then it dawned on her. When her back was turned before, he must have been touching himself, pumping his cock in preparation to enter her.

Suddenly, she felt his hardness poking at her entrance from behind. Instinctually, Hermione took a deep breath. Her fingers were already locked into place, but they were without feeling. She had no way to brace herself, to anticipate the stretch that was coming. As a result, her muscles relaxed momentarily before he surged into her.

It had not been that many hours since he had fucked her outside against the tree. As Malfoy withdrew and then thrust his length back into her, Hermione wondered if maybe she had still been wet from before or if perhaps her body was just that acclimated to him. If there was any mental reservation on her end, real or pretend, her body had not gone along with it.

She swallowed in an attempt to keep the short, shallow breaths from leaving her. Because she didn’t have any way to bear down on the bars in front of her, she felt all of him, the tip of his cock hitting some place so deep within her. With his palms still positioned at the top of her cheeks, he was also able to keep her in place. She bit down on the inside of her lip as Malfoy increased his pace. Every drag of his cock along the walls of her cunt felt intensified when she didn’t feel like she was holding onto anything.

A deep chortle resounded from outside the prison bars. Scabior was leaning against the far wall; when Hermione caught his eye, he licked his tongue across his lips. While his posture indicated boredom, his eyes were lit up with a sick interest. 

“Turn the fuck around, Scabior. I’ll wait.”

Malfoy suddenly pulled out of her. Hermione stifled another gasp; she could feel the hotness of him, knew he was pulsating and denying himself, his tip pressing just at her opening again. All the while, her clit was throbbing from the lack of friction; she needed so badly for him to move again.

Scabior sighed and shrugged, walking some distance down another aisle of cells, but Hermione assumed he was going to stay within earshot. When Malfoy determined he was far enough away, he inserted himself back into her cunt. He canted her hips back, this time gripping the sides of her thighs so that he could drive into her at a new angle. Hermione was surprised when one of his hands trailed around her waist and dipped in between her legs. His gloved fingers caressed the top of her mound as he continued pounding into her. As soon as his thumb worked its way over her clit, she let out a whimper.

Malfoy slowed his thrusting.

He let out a quiet tsk of admonishment before leaning in, the cool silver of his Death Eater mask pressing into her neck.

“I know that feels good. But don’t make a sound,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Hermione was breathing too heavily to reply. She nodded, acknowledging his words, but unsure how she could hold herself back. He continued to drive into her; the combination of his thumb playing against her and the way his cock angled into her was making her come undone, but she had to be silent—she was not supposed to want this, to react so wantonly…but what did it matter? They were practically alone now—

Ron.

And just then, just as the tight coil within her burst and she felt herself coming on Malfoy’s cock, her attention drifted to her old love interest in his cell. Though she had not cried out, he no doubt would have known by the expression on her face, the way her eyes flickered back with lust as she gave up every part of herself to the Death Eater fucking her from behind.

Ron had been watching them the whole time, his round eyes were glassy and Hermione didn’t know if his reaction conveyed feelings of shock, horror, disgust, or lust. His chest appeared to be heaving though and before she was able to analyse his face any longer, he covered his head with his hands.

At the same moment, as she tried to control her breathing amidst the aftershocks of her orgasm, Malfoy was coming.

His breath from underneath the mask was hot on her skin as his own heart rate steadied. He slipped out of her harshly, leaving her with his mess trickling down her thighs. Malfoy didn’t immediately release her from the spell either, which kept her locked in place against the cell. He was focused on adjusting his trousers and then retrieving his chest plate and Death Eater cloak.

“Finite Incantatem.”

Once freed from the bars, Hermione took a minute to flex her fingers, to get some blood flow and feeling back in them. She felt self-conscious all of a sudden, standing there with her jeans around her ankles. If her hands had not been feeling like pins and needles, she would have pulled her knickers back up by now.

Malfoy didn’t appear to be looking at her though. It was hard to tell with the mask, but it seemed he was searching the perimeter of the prison, as if checking to see if Scabior or anyone else was there and listening.

It seemed a split second decision when he flicked his wand at Hermione and recited the incantation, his voice hushed:

“Nolite Conceptionis.”

“Try and clean yourself up,” Mafoy said, brushing past her. He locked the cell door and then checked to make sure it didn’t open. The metal of his mask seemed to glow in the darkness of the prison as he stared at her. “I’ll be back for more.”

Chapter Text

The waiting was the worst part.

It was always impossible to gauge the passage of time in the dungeon. What might have seemed to be several hours dragging by might only be a few minutes.

Yet, as Hermione sat with her knees tucked up under her chin, head turned purposely away from Ron, she couldn’t help but wonder if the day had really ended. She had not been able to ‘clean herself up’ and instead sat squirming in her jeans, still feeling the stickiness between her legs. Of course Malfoy had been quick to issue a discreet Contraception Charm, but he was not about to risk casting any other spells in front of the guards for the sake of her comfort. 

Hermione closed her eyes; she was trying to imagine his perspective. As far as she was concerned, the War really had three sides: The Order, the Death Eaters, and the two of them. They were fighting alongside each other and against everyone and everything they despised.

It was hard to grasp just how bleak their reality. She thought that in some ways, this hopelessness might weigh heavier on Malfoy than herself. Whereas she had never been born into the magical world and had never experienced true belonging (ironically, in part due to him), he was the one watching the only world he knew crumble. He had been strictly raised to keep hatred in his heart, pushed to do another’s bidding, made into a killer, and it was still not enough.

It was also hard to picture what the future would look like. After all, their only hope for survival was to dismantle both regimes. 

But somewhere deep in her consciousness and safe-guarded in her heart, Hermione knew that they were choosing to act on the only thing in their lives that felt real and true. There was an energy between them, a magic of its own kind that seemed to promise that life that would someday be fulfilling…that life someday wouldn’t hurt. A magic that guaranteed they would someday be free from this earthly Hell.

It was because of this vision that Hermione had fully come to terms with the Prophecy herself. This wasn’t the world she wanted to raise a child in either, but then again, it was the only world with magic they had. They would fight to destroy all that existed if it meant their world could be reborn with change. 

But it also made sense to her that Malfoy would be against any such pregnancy. Because he was being forced to impregnate her, he detested the very notion of it. On the outside, he appeared and was by all means limitlessly powerful. He displayed such indifference and so much cruelty with ease, casting the Unforgivables without a second thought. But Hermione supposed that he was weakened internally by his lack of autonomy. So much of his youth and now young adult life had passed him by and he was living for everyone but himself. In fact, his very relationship with her was like an act of rebellion. 

They just had to make it past the part where Malfoy was supposed to hurt her in front of the others. Knowing he had to when he didn’t want to wouldn’t make it any easier.

Her own will to survive as a Muggleborn had always been at the forefront of her mind. But now, Malfoy had been in her life just long enough to take up every available space in her heart and soul. War could break a person; it could ruin one’s morals or reason to live. It could forever damage and alter a life path. But it also could create something so terrifyingly beautiful—something so undeniably precious that was worth both living and killing for.

Hermione was pondering all of this when her attention was drawn to clanking footsteps descending into the prison. Scabior and Crabbe Sr. had already left their posts some time ago. They were replaced by two other unknown Death Eaters who had not said a word as they stood guard at the bottom of the staircase. 

Angling her neck slightly so that she could see who arrived, Hermione found that she did not even need to look as she recognised the new voices immediately.

“We are here to fetch Mudblood!” 

Bellatrix was back to her giddy self, dancing on her toes as she watched the Death Eater guard approach the cell block. 

“It is a pity that the War has come to this,” Snape drawled. The way he stared at Hermione like she was some kind of specimen to be examined made her skin crawl. 

“Draco will do anything to please the Dark Lord.”

“Alohomora.”

The doors to her cell unlocked, but Hermione did not dare to move yet. She looked up at the masked guard with wide eyes, waiting for him to either reach for her or demand she rise. In an attempt to scare her, he raised his wand and hesitated for far too long before issuing the spell Malfoy always used to chain her.

“Incarcerous.”

The chains darted out and then locked tightly around her wrists. With one single swish of his wand, the Death Eater pulled her to her feet, dragging her out of the cell. 

“He has already proven himself time and time again.” Snape was still conversing with Bellatrix, still eying Hermione with interest as she was brought forth.  “If the intent is to humiliate the Mudblood, then surely he is capable of achieving that on his own. This is only another punishment for him.”

Bellatrix cackled. “You are concerned for Draco’s well being? He is no longer a boy, Severus.”

“I am not. He will do what he must, but I am merely suggesting an alternative to nightly revels. While some may find this type of depravity tantalising to the senses, I feel it is counterproductive to our War efforts. It is too much of a distraction.”

There was a short silence before the Death Eater guard transferred the magical chain to Snape, who had mumbled a quick spell under his breath as he held up his wand. 

“And what alternative could you possibly suggest?” Bellatrix sneered at Hermione before shifting her gaze to Snape.

“Let them partake in the merriment just this once,” he said, gritting his teeth. “But then the Mudblood would be better off left in Malfoy’s possession. He doesn’t need the encouragement and I certainly don’t want to give it.”

Bellatrix seemed to be considering his words. “It will be rather revolting to watch my nephew defile himself,” she hissed, her beady eyes scanning Hermione. “But, dare I say, there is a bit of concern on the Dark Lord’s behalf. These nightly revels would ensure a halfbreed is actually conceived.”

“If he still distrusts Draco solely because of his last name, then he could employ the use of a Legilimens such as myself to ensure progress is being made. Or perhaps you could volunteer to watch over them—”

“Absolutely not, Severus. It pains me that this dirty-blooded bitch is even permitted to leave the dungeons! I am disgusted to see her feet walk upon my floors. To think that I would want to be her keeper, to subject myself to such utter filth—”

“You misunderstand me,” Snape interjected. As he turned to head up the stairs, Hermione felt herself being pulled by the wispy chains. “You would be doing a favour for the Dark Lord and for us. I have no desire to gather for this act once, let alone nightly. By contrast, I could sift through Draco’s memories without truly observing them.”

Bellatrix was muttering disgruntled curses under her breath as they reached the top of the stone steps. The long corridor beyond the prison door was quiet and deserted. Though Snape and Bellatrix’s discussion had piqued her curiosity, Hermione once again felt that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Let them partake in the merriment just this once.”

She knew this was coming, but at the same time held onto some naive wish that they would be spared the mortification. This wasn’t merriment; it was cruel, invasive…a pastime to be enjoyed by only the most deplorable and deviant of Death Eaters who clearly represented the majority.

Hermione had dreaded this moment for so long and now it had arrived. But perhaps Malfoy had been clever again…maybe he found a way to avoid having the Death Eaters watch.

As they headed to the open doors of Death Eater Hall, Snape seemed to slow down on purpose, his billowing cloak nearly causing Hermione to trip.

“Inform the Dark Lord that the Mudblood is ready,” he said to Bellatrix, his steps now coming to an abrupt halt. “And do consider my proposals. As you know, the Dark Lord can only be persuaded so much.”

“As you wish.” Bellatrix curtsied and then gave him a sanguine smile, flashing her stained teeth before disappearing into the Hall. 

The air in Lestrange Manor was stale and thick when Snape turned to Hermione, his black eyes darting around with suspicion. But when he seemed sure they were alone, he placed one hand upon her shoulder. At once, she could feel the iciness settle over her forehead; he was flicking through her memories with effortless speed, watching the pictures in her brain as if he were watching an old film reel.

Hermione clenched her fists together with panic. She tried to move her head, but her neck felt frozen at the base. She was thinking this was very bad, having Snape privy to her most private moments and all her thoughts and emotions towards Malfoy and the War. She blushed as he passed through so many of their flirtatious and intimate times: the day they had dry-humped after a mission, their first kiss in his bed, the night she had lost her virginity. 

But these were evidently not the images Snape cared to analyse. He paid close attention to the evening Malfoy had given her his Dark Mark. He also seemed particularly engrossed in the times Hermione was fighting, stopping to observe her torturing of Moody and Lupin and her interactions with Harry and Malfoy in the graveyard, the night she had taken possession of the Elder Wand.

Finally, he pushed out of her mind, leaving Hermione wincing at the sharp pain his examination left between her eyebrows. Her head was throbbing. Snape very well could have intended to make it hurt, but she assumed he just didn’t have the time to invade her mind slowly.

He stood there studying her, evidently perplexed. In all the years she had known the former Potions Master, Hermione had never seen him look puzzled. Because he was so skilled in mind magic, he was always incredibly hard to read. But now, after reviewing this knowledge of her and Malfoy, she could see an odd mix of confusion and fascination cross his face.

Leaning in closely so that his words could be a whisper, Snape spoke to her for the first time that evening. 

“Make no mistake, Miss Granger. Malfoy has you exactly where he wants you.”

She flinched at the warning tone in his voice. “What?” Her question was no more than a breathy gasp.

“He may love you,” he replied with a dark smirk, “Or he may just desire to bring about your downfall in the most spectacular fashion. Either way, you are in for a world of hurt. Proceed with caution.” 

Snape backed away and started to pull her towards the door again, the magical links of the chain forcefully jerking her forward.

Hermione didn’t get a chance to reply, but it didn’t matter. She was too stunned say anything.

Tell me something I don’t know.

There was no reason for him to comment on her memories. If his goal was to plant a seed of doubt or fill her with even more uneasiness, then he had succeeded. But if his aim was to change her, he would need to try harder. Hermione was done—done with her former mentors trying to influence her choices and her feelings. 

She had not come this far, come into ownership of the Elder Wand by being cautious. Snape’s gloating attitude reminded her again of how Moody and Shacklebolt tried to control her. She didn’t know his exact motivations in the War, if he was even a real double agent, but with those words, he definitely fit right in with the Order. His know-it-all demeanour made her blood churn with resentment. He was the one who would need to proceed with caution.

Everything that was worth something in her life, anything that was a light in this nightmarish darkness that was War, had come about because of her tenacity. Good things would always be worth the risk.

Malfoy was worth the risk…wasn’t he? 

Her heart was beating faster and she still had the urge to lash out at Snape, but as they reached the entrance to the Hall, Hermione realised this was not the time nor the place. 

Her appearance triggered a chorus of hoops and hollers amongst the crowd of Death Eaters. While they were still standing in military-like rows, their behaviour was not as formal as during the other meetings she had witnessed. Some of the Death Eaters still donned their masks and full capes, but many of them were downing glasses of whiskey and a few were smoking cigars. Clearly, her arrival signalled the start of their sick idea of entertainment for the evening.

“Ah, the Mudblood has graced us with her presence,” Voldemort announced mockingly from the front of the room. His words elicited laughter and heckling comments. “Severus, bring her to Draco,” he instructed.

Hermione scowled at Snape as he yanked the misty links of the Incarcerous chain down the aisle of Death Eaters. On both sides, the men leered and sniggered at her. She could tell many had been drunk for several hours; she could smell their sour breath as a few reached out to grab at her as she passed. If there were any Death Eater women other than Bellatrix, who was standing dutifully next to Voldemort, then they were huddled on the outskirts of the Hall.

A few feet away, in the front and centre of the altar, Malfoy was waiting for her. Thankfully, he was still dressed in his full Death Eater suit and cloak, his face concealed by the silver mask. If this was really going to happen…if there was really no way to avoid becoming the so-called spectacle, then Hermione decided she didn’t want to look at him. She couldn’t bear to look into those reflective eyes which had mirrored so much of what she herself felt inside—despair, longing, rage, but most of all, wild hope for a better life.

The closer the magical chains delivered her to her Death Eater, the more Hermione felt a tangible corruption taking hold throughout the Hall. Voldemort was grinning maniacally, his nostrils flaring and disappearing into the crevices of his pale and death-touched face. Bellatrix was still glowering, her arms folded impatiently as if this were somehow all Hermione’s idea.

Raucous shouts and whistles from Voldemort’s most loyal ones echoed off the high ceilings and blended together into a haunting melody; the sounds were twisting through her ears into her head, as if to ensure she would never forget this night. Hermione wondered if the few Death Eaters who had left their masks on perhaps felt embarrassed. Maybe they didn’t want anyone to watch their own appalled faces. She noticed that she had not spotted Blaise or Theo anywhere in the room.

Snape lowered his wand, effectively ending the Incarceration Spell. He looked at her pointedly, his sallow face devoid of emotion once again. “This should be easy for you,” he droned, just loud enough for her to hear.

Hermione felt her cheeks flame at the remark. She turned her head sharply as Snape stalked off into the distance. She could see he conjured a quick type of magic, allowing for his Death Eater mask to materialise in his hand. When he joined a row towards the back with other masked followers, she lost sight of him.

She was so focused on watching Snape walk away that she did not even notice Malfoy had approached from behind.

“Incarcerous.”

With ease, his chains settled around her waist and he reined her back as he went to position himself next to Voldemort. He ended the spell when she was a mere foot away, instead choosing to place one hand upon her arm.

The crowd of Death Eaters was murmuring; many were pointing and whispering as their Dark Lord began his speech.

“Let us revel in the pleasures of our magical superiority tonight. I hold in my hand the Wand of Destiny, the Death Wand which shall secure my victory over Potter,” he announced in his scratchy voice, raising the Elder Wand triumphantly into the air.

There were several cheers and a resounding applause from his followers. Voldemort turned to Malfoy and continued. “Remember, there is no bigger hindrance to our advancement in this War than fear. Draco, you have demonstrated such unfaltering loyalty, such unwavering determination even amidst the weaknesses of your fellow Death Eaters. You have shown you are not afraid…to get your hands dirty.” 

Voldemort waved the Elder Wand to point at Hermione and the crowd guffawed in amusement.

“You hold the Mudblood enemy who shall be disposed of after fulfilment of the Prophecy. Take a moment to remember your noble status. Do not trouble yourself with thoughts of sullying the Malfoy bloodline; think of this as a temporary sacrifice to ensure the downfall of the Order. Your enemy and her kind will soon be eradicated. Trust this is just another part of your journey to greatness.”

The sounds of clinking cups and murmurs of approval rang out amongst the Death Eaters.

Meanwhile, Hermione remained frozen. Malfoy did not squeeze her arm or signal any type of reaction through his touch to her. If he did disprove of Voldemort’s words, he did not let it show.

“Go on, Draco,” Voldemort hissed. “Show the Mudblood her place. This is the Prophecy.”

As soon as he spoke again, Hermione felt a chill as Malfoy released his grip on her. 

I want you to fight me.

The reminder to fight was there, but it was so distant and fuzzy to her now like a message spoken underwater.

The truth was, as Hermione heard the jeers and dark laughter reverberating around her, she did not feel like fighting, even if it was for show. She didn’t want to force herself to display a strength that wasn’t sincere—she didn’t feel at all like running or pretending to hurt him. Would Malfoy be disappointed in her? She knew she couldn’t worry about that.

She just wanted this to be over.

Malfoy seemed to be delaying the inevitable on purpose, as if he were waiting for her to do something first. When she didn’t and the taunts of “Mudblood,” “fuck her,” and “fuck the Mudblood bitch,” grew louder and more unhinged, Malfoy further closed the distance between them.

Hermione looked down to see his dragonhide leather boots in line with her own worn out white trainers. She felt her chest constrict; the Hall suddenly felt very claustrophobic and it didn’t help knowing that all eyes were on them. But nonetheless, she drew in a quick breath and thought to keep her own eyes locked on the ground.

Malfoy did not make a move for her yet, but she noticed that he removed two vials from the pocket of his cloak. One was a fizzy red concoction contained with an ornate black-jeweled stopper. She could see him untwist the top and in one quick motion, she knew he downed the substance because there was riotous laughter coming from the crowd. The second vial with the green-coloured fertility potion. It was the same one that Rodolphus had provided for her during her initial weeks of imprisonment. 

Without warning, Malfoy reached for her. Whereas she thought he might grab her wrist or push her right to the ground, she felt his gloved fingers circle around her neck instead. He yanked her forward to him and in a move that probably  appeared aggressive but did not hurt, pressed one hand forcefully to flex open her jaw. When her lips were parted slightly, he forced the liquid down her throat.

Hermione coughed, feeling the potion tickle her throat. 

“Take her clothes off.”

“Fuck the Mudblood!”

She was aware of the vicious voices behind her, the orders for Malfoy to humiliate and violate her in the worst way. She watched him toss the empty vials aside before returning his attention to her.

One of his hands was still resting upon her throat when she felt it: there was an undercurrent of some magic bubbling under the skin of her arm with the Dark Mark. Immediately, her eyes focused on him. Hermione desperately wished she could see his face behind the mask, knowing that this tingling inside her arm was somehow part of her connection to him. Out of nowhere, she felt waves of emotions, but they were not all her own.

There was a feeling she could only describe as raw anger; her skin felt flushed and hot and every nerve in her body was vibrating with this pent up frustration. But there was an even stronger emotion taking precedence over that. This one nearly took her breath away—the feeling of it made her throat feel dry and tight…it made her chest physically ache. It felt as if someone had taken a dagger and very slowly cut into her heart, leaving it mortally wounded and open to bleed out.

Hermione was suddenly breathing very rapidly. Though she had felt partly defeated and resigned to this fate, she had managed to remain composed. But now, it was like a weight had dropped upon her. Hot tears were threatening to spill from out the corners of her eyes. 

I’ll make it stop.

The words flitted through her mind as her fingers instinctively squeezed her forearm with the Dark Mark. She shook her head and took one clumsy step backwards.

As she was trying to ignore this onslaught of painful emotions that crashed over her in violent waves, Malfoy raised his wand to her.

“Crucio!”

A flash of red magic shot forth; as if everything were occurring in slow motion, Hermione’s eyes had just enough time to follow the sparks of the curse as it landed directly upon her arm. She collapsed to the ground, not from any actual distress but more as a delayed reaction to dodge the spell. 

The Death Eaters cheered upon seeing Malfoy unleash the Unforgivable.

But while Hermione was hunched over, her body convulsing in a natural response to the expected pain, she did not feel anything from the curse. Even more odd was the fact that the terrible emotions had suddenly vanished too. She felt a distinct emptiness inside, as if all of the rage and crushing hurt from the moment before were somehow obliterated by this Cruciatus Curse. She didn’t know how the magic worked, but it the physical energy of pain had managed to cancel out the worst of the emotional torture.

Hermione’s brain was working overtime to understand the power behind the Dark Mark and the way it had almost acted as a shield against the Cruciatus. Emotions and mental states were integral to casting any spell or curse—she had read a few case studies on dark curses during her time at Shell Cottage, but there was still a lot unknown about alternative uses specifically of Unforgivables for obvious reasons.

Because her mind was reeling over the Cruciatus, she didn’t even notice that he had dropped to his knees before her. With another wave of his wand, Malfoy released magic which slashed her cotton t-shirt and bra and then shredded the seams of her jeans.

Hermione stared into the soulless eyes of his Death Eater mask.

From behind her, the Death Eaters began to chant something indistinguishable. She wasn’t focused on them, but on wrapping her arms around herself, trying to maintain some hold on her dignity. She felt a certain safety, keeping her body small and protected by her own embrace.

“Come here, Mudblood.”

Malfoy spoke for the first time, his voice dark and raspy sounding from the mask. He seemed to release a tense breath and then at once heaved himself forward, knocking her back to the floor.

Hermione lost her ability to breathe momentarily as she was trying to come to terms with the familiar weight of Malfoy upon her and the vile jeers and shouting arising from all sides of them. She had not been focusing on their audience before, but could now see that many Death Eaters had stormed to the centre of the Hall and altar in a fight for a front row view which left only a small circle of space around them.

Malfoy’s knees were digging into her thighs. Momentarily, he raised himself onto his haunches to unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers before pushing his body down again roughly upon hers. Unlike earlier in the dungeons, there was a cruel urgency to his every move; she felt it in the frantic way his fingers tugged at her knickers and the irreverent manner he spread her legs apart.

Without any other touch, Hermione felt the head of his cock at her opening. She bit down on her lip, sucking in air between her teeth. There would be nothing else to this…of course Snape was wrong. It would not be easy for her. They had to do this, but she did not want it like this. She could not make her body want it like this.

Hermione gasped as Malfoy surged into her and then nearly withdrew himself completely before slamming his hips to her again. There was a metallic taste in her mouth as she gnawed on her lip, drawing blood to cope with the stinging sensation inside of her. 

Malfoy briefly stilled his movements, pausing to hover over top of her. Vaguely, she was aware that his hands on either side of her were shaking. She knew that he knew this was painful for her; she was not aroused and he had purposely not cast any lubrication spell.

When he did start thrusting again, Hermione was almost relieved, not because it was hurting any less but because the pain must have distracted her from the sea of Death Eater faces, masked and unmasked, who appeared to be driven into a euphoric madness as they watched the act unfold. They were laughing—laughing with each other—no, at her, and she was meant to feel worthless and mortified.

Close your eyes. Block them out. Relax.

There were words and ideas coming into her head again—they weren’t her own. Though she was forgetting to breathe and felt wetness in her eyes from the burning down below, Hermione still managed to feel nothing. It was wrong, so wrong they had to do this, but emotionally, her heart was not compressed with fury. She was aware she was supposed to feel distraught and humiliated, but she just felt numb.

Hermione drew in another sharp breath as Malfoy snapped his hips into her with even more force. She felt it would not be much longer now; her walls had never stretched to accommodate him. The act was all him and she knew that he would not last much longer with how tense she was. He was pounding into her so roughly, she could feel the bruises forming on her lower back and her thighs. With every downward thrust, she felt herself overpowered by the full weight of his muscular frame, suffocated and barely able to gasp for a breath.

When the movement of his hips grew increasingly erratic, slowing and then jerking a few more times, Hermione knew he had reached his climax and then immediately felt the pulsations as he emptied himself into her. He remained still for a few more seconds, catching his breath before withdrawing suddenly, pushing her off of him.

“Get up,” she heard him say. Malfoy was adjusting his trousers, fastening his belt as he looked down at her. “Get the fuck up!”

Hermione flinched at the harsh tone of his voice. She was able to lift herself onto her elbows but her legs remained sprawled on the floor.  She was sore and raw, her skin scraped and battered from being pressed into the hard ground. She didn’t understand the urgency. Her clothes were ripped and his come was leaking out of her—it wasn’t like she could just get up and walk back to her prison cell. Malfoy had to know that.

She couldn't bear to move.

But before Hermione could contemplate any further action, she felt the brute force of several arms at once holding her down. She was forced to lie back again and could not see anything else except for the gleam of an unrecognisable Death Eater mask.

This wasn’t Malfoy.

The horrifying realisation made every emotion which had been contained through the carefully crafted magical connection come crashing back to her.

A strangled cry left Hermione’s lungs; her body spasmed and salty tears flowed down her face. She winced, feeling an intrusion at her entrance again while all around her, ripples of laughter and taunts carried on so close, she could feel the insults as if they were rocks hurdled against her bare skin.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The Hall was illuminated with a dazzling blaze of green; there were several choked gasps and startled clamours sounding out around her. Like an emerald bolt of lightning, the Death Curse hit the Death Eater on top of her—Hermione heard him scream and watched his body thrash once before it fell down motionless upon her. At the same time, the group of Death Eaters who held her down so that she could raped by this unknown assailant left her side in a panic.

For a brief moment, a wave of nausea trickled through her as she realised she was trapped underneath this dead body. She half-expected the Hall to explode into laughter and cat calls again, but there were only hushed utterances and one exasperated exhale from the Dark Lord.

“Rather unfortunate to lose Jugson like that,” he commented dully. “Nagini, how about a late-night nibble?”

Voldemort called the snake forth. Hermione could hear the hiss of its tongue before she caught sight of the scaly creature slithering to the front of the Hall.

“Get up, Mudblood.”

Malfoy happened to be standing in her peripheral, holding up his wand. His voice was softer this time but still acidic. When she didn’t move, she could hear him sigh. He walked several paces and then kicked Jugson off her, watching as the lifeless Death Eater body rolled down several steps directly into the path of the snake.

He was pulling her to her feet then, grasping her shoulders in an effort to get her to stand up straight. But Hermione was shivering now, feeling back on display with the watchful but silent Death Eater crowd and the new tension that had taken over. Trembling, she pulled up her knickers and tried to cover her breasts with the torn fabric of her shirt.

Voldemort looked pleased as he watched her squirm.

“Well done, Draco,” he said. “Well done.”

Chapter Text

There were a few murmurs of approval and a rather subdued applause from the crowd. Everyone’s attention was diverted to Nagini who was devouring Jugson. Even Hermione found herself unable to look away as the snake’s throat expanded to swallow his body whole. But she was grateful in that moment to not have a hundred Death Eaters ogling her.

Malfoy was still gripping her by the shoulder, supporting her weight, she realised, even though he didn’t have to. She knew he could feel her limbs shaking and her upper body heaving with exertion. 

He had hurt her, as he always said he would. But he also killed for her, again—

“Tonight’s revelry has come to an end.’ Voldemort’s voice rang out with an air of finality.

The announcement spurred hushed agreements and nods of acknowledgement; a few of the Death Eaters even turned away, some clearly preparing to Disapparate or walk out of the Hall.

“You are not dismissed! Do not me move,” The Dark Lord hissed from behind her, his warning carrying into the crowd with a wrathful vengeance. Whereas his tone had conveyed no apparent emotion before, Hermione could see his eyes were burning, sparking with black flames.

“This night should not have cost us. I can not afford to lose a single follower.”

A tension-filled silence blanketed the room. Several Death Eaters looked to Malfoy however, and Hermione once more felt on display.

Voldemort strode forward. She could sense he was standing just on the other side of her as the material of his cloak brushed against her leg.

“To those of you so eager to defile a Mudblood , go to our prisons…take to the battlefields where there are others. The purpose of this evening was for Draco to enact the Prophecy.”

None of the Death Eaters dared to speak, most likely in fear of drawing attention to themselves.

“Therefore,” he continued, enunciating every word, “We will not celebrate again. We will not revel in our accomplishments until every last Order member has perished. Until Potter himself is conquered and lifeless before me.” His scaly hand caressed Hermione’s cheek and she shivered. “Until this Mudblood and her half-breed spawn are dead.”

She kept her breath even and her eyes focused on the ground. She wanted to recoil from his proximity, but knew it was wise to not make any sudden movements.

“Bellatrix,” Voldemort hissed, “deliver the Mudblood back to her cell. I need a word with Draco… now .”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Bellatrix bounded up the steps to the altar, but her demeanour was lacking her typical frivolity. Instead, when she approached Hermione, her eyes widened as if she had seen a ghost.

“Incarcerous.”  

The chains issued from Bellatrix’s wand twisted and travelled up Hermione’s legs like slithering vines until she was firmly secured around the waist. With a flick of her wrist, Bellatrix directed the flow of magic. She turned and began the journey down the centre aisle of the Hall, the heels of her boots clacking away.

Hermione was jerked away then, pulled forcefully out of Malfoy’s grasp. She couldn’t cover her body any longer and was aware of all the Death Eaters watching her once more, but still, she glanced over her shoulder to see Malfoy standing there, hands behind his back now and masked-head hung low.

She was being dragged to the doorway when she felt the temperature in the Hall drop to a deathly chill. 

“With overarching power comes the need to show awareness. You have demonstrated, Draco, an astonishing lack of fear when it comes to eliminating those in your path to greatness. But you have also showed a lack of discernment which I find most concerning in regards to your mission…”

It was as if a rain cloud settled over the place; a dreadfulness was pervasive in the air as she heard the utterings of a strange incantation:

“Sanguis Familia Tormentis…Sanguis Familia Tormentis…Sanguis Familia Tormentis…”

From what Hermione could gather, the words sounded almost like a chant, nearly like Parseltongue coming from Voldemort. The heaviness of the magic that clouded the Hall could not be escaped—she had a feeling everyone was drowning in these tidal waves of icy darkness.

Though her torso was bound by the wispy links, Hermione had the thought to touch her arm. If the Dark Mark connected her and Malfoy somehow, especially in ways relating to emotions and physical pain, then she might be able to tell if something were happening. 

She did not want to trip as Bellatrix tugged the chain and rounded out of the Hall and into the outside corridor, so quickly with the intention, she placed her fingertips upon the spot of the Mark. 

A strangled cry left her lips—she felt the rush of Dark Magic immediately. There were deep, clawing gashes being carved into the skin on her back. The magic was sewn into her so fiercely; it burrowed deep under the skin, the feeling of it so cold it felt hot as fire. The spell worked from within, the dark tendrils of the magic seemed to gnaw away at the bones of her skin, making her feel as if she were nothing but a rotting pile of flesh. 

She wanted to die.

 Death was the only logical thought.

Hermione cried out again, unable to remember where she even was.

…

“Move it, Mudblood!”

Hermione blinked her eyelids open slowly in an attempt to determine her whereabouts. Everything was foggy at first. But then she realised she was back in the damp prison dungeon, lying on the floor at the bottom of the staircase. Her head ached—it seemed she had been dragged down the stairs when she was unconscious.

Bellatrix was standing over her, kicking her in the side to wake her up.

“If you think I am going to fall for one of your tricks, think again.” She sneered down at Hermione, shaking her head at her with disdain.

Reaching up to rub the side of her forehead, Hermione was caught off guard by Bellatrix pointing her wand beneath her chin. 

“Do not waste your precious time believing that I would have sympathy for you and your dirty blood. Will you go to your cell willingly? Or do you need some persuasion?”

“No,” Hermione gasped, still trying to get her bearings. “I’ll go.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed with equal parts alarm and confusion as if she had likely expected Hermione to fight back or at least argue. But instead, Hermione made a motion to touch the cellar ground with her hands. The earthy feeling of the cold stones flat against her palms brought her back. 

She was safe now, away from such terrible magic. After taking a deep breath, she pushed herself up onto her knees. Her muscles and joints felt oddly feeble—though she willed herself to experience Malfoy’s torture through the connection of the Mark, she knew she herself had not been harmed. She felt no after-effects of the Dark Magic, but nonetheless felt weak from having been rendered unconscious by opening herself up to the physical pain of it.

She crawled to her cell, not caring to catch any smug look from Ron across the way. 

Bellatrix was still eying her suspiciously, perhaps assuming this was all an act and that she might still make a run for it yet. But when Hermione collapsed against the wall of her cell and brought her head into her hands, she knew there could be no mistaking her body language for what it was. She felt all sorts of bad emotions returning. It would impossible to forget what had just happened, not when her skin was bruised, her clothes were ripped, and her thoughts were all muddled. 

Malfoy was by all means paying for his rashness. 

“Every time I displease the Dark Lord, a little piece of her soul is further destroyed.”

In a vulnerable moment, he had told her the truth about his mother. This torture was not only his to bear. In his own words, Narcissa was a shell. Her body was being kept alive physically so she could still feel the pain, this pain of her soul being slowly damaged beyond repair. Her curse was a fate worse than death.

Hermione felt the ripples of indignation pulsing through her. Tom Riddle could corrupt his own body and mind, split his soul into as many pieces as he wanted. But he was not some magical deity or even a demon. He was a mere mortal, a man thinking it was within his right to defy the laws of nature by placing a witch somewhere unreachable between the space of life and death.

Almost a year ago, Hermione had been at the mercy of good wizards, but nonetheless weak-minded men in positions of power who also thought the War and Prophecy automatically gave them a claim over her agency and life. But because they fought against Riddle, fought for her kind, she was the enemy for escaping and defying them. And it was true; she embraced the role of the enemy—it felt good when she hurt them. 

But even in some different universe, even if she was born with the right blood and married another Pureblood, she could still be subjected to the orders of the wizard in power. Even as a Pureblood witch, she might serve no other purpose than to be used as a means to control the actions of men.

“Colloportus.”

Bellatrix locked the cell door and shuffled away in a huff. She did not leave the prison just yet, however. Instead, she stood by the end of the staircase. Her arms were crossed and one foot was tapping with impatience. Seeing as there were no other guards on duty, she likely could not leave.

It was then, upon observing Bellatrix, that Hermione began to laugh. Despite the tightness in her throat and fact she had every reason to hold back tears, she couldn’t help the way she started to hiccup. The sound of her manic laughter broke through the deathly quiet prison, bouncing off and around the walls. The thought that her sudden mirth had no doubt woken up other prisoners made her laugh even more.

“Hush! Or I shall cast a permanent Silencing Charm upon you!”

Bellatrix threatened her but did not aim to move. Instead, she appeared more interested in picking the dirt from underneath her fingernails. “There is nothing amusing about your situation, you clump of dirt.”

Hermione shook her head in disagreement. “But there is,” she said in between more bouts of laughter. “Do you want to know what it is?” She found herself grinning even as Bellatrix ignored her.

“Silen—”

“Wait,” she gasped, holding up a hand, “I understand you.”

At this, Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed with malice. “What did you say?”

Hermione smiled, but internally, she knew she had to be careful with how she phrased this. “I used to think you were crazy. The way you torture people and laugh and dance on their graves—I didn’t get it before, but I do now. You take pleasure where you can find it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bellatrix asked, unable to hide the disgust in her tone.

Hermione shrugged and looked away. “You are a witch from one of the oldest, most prestigious wizarding families and you can’t even leave this prison right now. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, but it does.”

Bellatrix advanced towards the cell. “You don’t know anything, you scum!”

But Hermione continued, unphased and determined to get under her skin. “You entertain yourself with tasks to pass time. Crucio-ing someone here, killing someone there; it's easy to get drunk on that type of instant power. I’ve felt it, too. But ultimately,”

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about casting an Unforgivable,” Bellatrix snarled.

“You are only trying to fill a deep void.”

“Crucio!”

Bellatrix released the curse expertly and without warning. The cell was illuminated with an angry flash of red and then Hermione screamed until her voice was raw—the Cruciatus electrified every nerve in her, the vibrations from the curse rippling beneath her flesh in hot waves. 

The volume of her piercing cry must have alerted the Death Eaters upstairs because all of a sudden, a group of them Apparated into the prison corridor just as Scabior and Crabbe Sr. came barreling down the staircase.

“What is it?” Scabior asked.

The Death Eaters inspected the confines, mystified at the fact nothing seemed amiss. Hermione, meanwhile, was sprawled out on the ground, her muscles still twitching from the lingering pain. She was just lucid enough to notice that Malfoy was not among them, but she had the feeling that he couldn’t come because he was still being tortured himself.

They were all talking amongst each other at once—but not a single one addressed her or Bellatrix. 

The venomous witch was still glaring at her. Letting out a rattly breath, she held her wand high in the ready position, looking as if she might whip another curse at Hermione. But without another sound, she turned and barreled up the steps and was gone.

Hermione mustered up her strength to pull herself back into a sitting position. Hugging her knees to her chest, she mentally worked to steady her heart rate, relieved that momentary manic feeling was gone now. 

There had just been a strange epiphany when her initial laughter started—the idea that maybe she was not so different from Bellatrix.

Afterall, Hermione was a mad woman, too. 

She could pretend to justify her actions; she could lie to herself and make herself believe that she was fighting for loftier ideals in life. But really, that was far from the truth when she was fighting for her own selfish agenda and for him…for a future that was not promised.

Sitting here by her own accord, half-naked and shivering with the remnants of so much pain…this was the price of vengeance, she thought. This was the price of becoming the villain.

Somehow, the night brightened into day.

Hermione was awoken by the sound of the creaking hinges of her cell door. A harsh, searing light was searching her face. Her eyes flickered open to reveal the face of a woman she had seen not long ago staring back at her. 

It was the Mediwitch; she directed the spark of her wand to Hermione with precision.

“Ostende Fertilitatis.”

Despite the witch’s rather hag-like appearance, with her half-scarred face and unkempt salt and pepper hair, she eyed Hermione with an expression of something close to pity.

“Of course you’re not pregnant yet,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “It may be too early to tell, but I’d recommend trying again in a few days. You’re just outside the window. Are you still taking Augendae Utero daily?”

Hermione looked at her blankly. The Mediwitch had never spoken to her directly before.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” she commented. Withdrawing a long scroll of parchment and what looked like a Quick-Notes Quill from her satchel, the witch watched as the Quill automatically scribbled a few notes for her.

“Healer Alden,” she said, holding her hand out. “We’ve met before.” 

When Hermione failed to reciprocate, the witch squinted as if trying to assess her health from observation alone. “You didn’t eat your dinner last night. Is there any reason for that?” With her wand, Alden pointed to the corner of the cell.

Hermione followed the wandlight, spotting what looked to be a chicken thigh next to a single a slice of bread on a tray. Her heart thumped with excitement when she noticed the glass of water nearby. As she reached for it, she winced, feeling incredibly achy. There was also a burning sensation down below.

It felt like a tiny prize, being able to grasp the water cup which was still cold. With trembling hands, she downed the water; the rush of quenching her thirst blocked everything else out. She was so dehydrated, she didn’t desire to listen to or acknowledge the Mediwitch’s other questions. With her mind and body both mentally and physically spent, she hadn’t even been aware of the fact food had even arrived in her cell last night.

“Your cooperation isn’t required,” Alden continued, “but nonetheless it would prove useful. Draco Malfoy has agreed to let me oversee your care. It is not only by order of him, but also by the Dark Lord that I do everything possible to ensure the pregnancy will take.”

“What?” Hermione spoke finally. Her voice was scratchy, raw from the previous day’s screams. 

The Mediwitch only shook her head. “You shouldn’t skip meals,” she said scoldingly. “I’ll return later this week.”

Hermione wanted to ask her for more water, wanted to inquire what she meant by overseeing her care, but more importantly, wanted to tell her about the discomfort and burning she felt. Once again, she was without access to a proper toilet or even a means to cleanse herself without her wand and magic.

But Alden was gone, having Disapparated before she could say anything further.

As if she had willed it into existence, the contents of the dinner tray vanished. A meagre breakfast consisting of two pieces of toast and bacon took form instead. The green fertility potion also appeared.

To her relief, the glass of water in her hand also replenished itself. No doubt the meals were arriving by elf magic, Hermione was grateful in that moment to not have to interact with any of the Death Eaters. 

She would save her mind games for Bellatrix.

Time drifted by in a misty haze. Or at least, that is what the next few blurry days felt like to Hermione. 

She now had an ache in her lower back and often felt sweaty with a fever despite sitting upon the cold and dank cellar floor. She kept eating what she could of the small meals though she had no appetite. There was a distant yet vital thought to keep her strength up, if only for her former spirit’s sake.

She had remembered that the Mediwitch would be returning sometime soon.

It was when she was curled up, huddled into a shaking ball for warmth, that she was surprised to see two figures descending the staircase. 

One was the outline of Alden, her scraggly hair pulled back into a slick bun. The other was a Death Eater; she could see the sheen of the mask, the dark flowy cloak, the black, silver-topped cane—

Her heart suddenly dropped into the pit of her stomach.

As they approached, illuminated by the ghastly light of the prison sconces, she could see the Death Eater behind Alden was tall and lithe. His posture didn’t seem shrunken or aged, yet he was walking with a slight limp, supporting himself with the stick.

Hermione had seen this cane before. The Death Eater’s hands gripped the head of the familiar hissing serpent.

It was Malfoy, using the cane which belonged to his late father.

“Alohomora.”

Alden opened the door to the cell, yet she didn’t move and seemed to be waiting for further instruction.

Hermione remained motionless as well. She peered up at Malfoy, trying to imagine what his face said behind the mask. She had not seen him since the Hall. She envied the fact his mask offered him so much protection, the ability to hide the worst of his emotions. Because of their connection through the Mark, she knew he had been distraught.

She wanted so badly to see his eyes. 

Malfoy tapped the cane with impatience. “Cast the diagnostic.”

“I did,” Alden began to explain, “I already told you, she’s not pregnant. But should you, ahem, have relations starting today, there is a good chance a pregnancy will occur. I can confirm with additional tests in a few weeks.”

“I said, ‘cast the diagnostic,’” he repeated through gritted teeth, his tone void of any cordialness. 

“Ostende Fertilitatis…you can clearly see here, there is no evidence that conception has taken place—”

“You ignorant bitch,” Malfoy drawled. Hermione could see that he was livid, his hand almost twisting the cane into the ground. “She’s obviously sick. Cast a full scan now or I’ll Crucio you so badly, you’ll forget your own name.”

“Of course.” Alden flinched, but stepped forward to kneel down and examine Hermione. Waving her wand and murmuring a different diagnostic spell, a purple chart took shape between them. A rainbow of colours dotted the transparent screen, but there was an area in the lower quadrant that was blinking red.

“She has an infection,” she said evenly. “It doesn’t appear to be serious, but if it is left untreated, it could possibly spread to the kidneys.”

Hermione felt another chill run through her. She had experienced the burning for nearly a week; she could have told the Mediwitch as much.

Malfoy was still. “What kind of infection?”

“Urinary,” Alden confirmed. “I can brew her potion. The infection should be cleared up in a matter of days, if you still want to proceed with—”

But the Mediwitch’s speech was cut off as Malfoy jabbed her with the end of his cane.

“Do not think my use of this is indicative of weakness,” he said, further pushing the cane into her chest so that she backed away from Hermione. “I am not afraid of punishment or afraid of what consequences might come with disposing of you. Do you understand?”

Alden nodded. She also dropped her wand in apparent wish for mercy. “Yes,” she gasped.

“Tell me the truth. How did she get this infection?” Malfoy removed the cane, but tapped it loudly against the ground again in his demand for answers.

Alden looked at Hermione and then back at Malfoy. “There could be various causes. Some witches are just prone to them after intercourse. But if I had to guess, I would say that the reason is likely stems from uncleanliness.” She gestured towards the chamber pot in the corner of the cell.

“So you would describe these conditions as being detrimental to her health? Even more so considering she is expected to carry my child?” 

Hermione could hear the slight shift in his tone. While there was still an undercurrent of anger it, Malfoy’s question came out more like a statement.

“The conditions in this cell could be improved,” Alden answered hesitantly. "They could be more favourable."

Malfoy sighed. The sound of it was so exasperated, it came out as a near growl from under the mask. “That’s not what I asked,” he snarled.

Without warning, he unhooked his cloak. Pulling it from off his body, he tossed it to Hermione.

“Put this on,” he ordered. “Your constant shaking is starting to irritate me.”

Hermione did as instructed. Draping the cloak over her shoulders, she felt goosebumps prickle upon her arms from the sudden heat. She was actually still feverish and running hot, but her chest felt tingly when she realised the cloak smelled like him, like fresh pines in a winter forest.

Malfoy turned back to Alden. “Just look at the Mudblood,” he said with derision. “She’s dirty, malnourished… infected . If you think there is even a slight chance of me fucking her like this, you are sorely mistaken. This is all your fault.”

Evidently nervous, Alden gulped. “As I’ve said, she should recover in a few days time.”

“I also refuse to fuck her in this decrepit cell again like some medieval peasant,” he continued. “She’s already filthy enough.”

“Alright,” the Mediwitch agreed. “I can talk to your Aunt Bellatrix. There might be a spare bedroom she will allow us to use on the fertile days—”

“There is no ‘us,’” Malfoy spat. “You may have been assigned the task of observing that this deed is done, but you are still beneath me. You are the Healer—you will write up a document for the Dark Lord outlining the explicit order that for health reasons, the Mudblood is to remain in my custody. She will be transported to a prison room in my Manor immediately.”

Alden already had her Quick-Notes Quill scribbling away. 

Malfoy nudged Hermione’s ankle with his cane. “I will not be inconvenienced by any further ‘uncleanliness,’” he said, a mocking edge to his voice. He looked back at Alden. “You will monitor her vitals starting tomorrow. When the infection is completely gone, you will alert me. The sooner she is pregnant, the sooner I can be rid of her…the sooner the Dark Lord will triumph over the Order.”

“Very well.” Alden held up the piece of parchment. “I will inform the guards and the Dark Lord of the change at once. Be on the lookout. I plan to owl you the supply of potions tonight.”

“Do not delay. She needs them at once.” His voice was eerily calm now. “And remember, this is your recommendation.”

“Yes,” Alden said. She took one last glance at Hermione who was wrapped in the Death Eater cloak. “It is.”

Hermione was vaguely aware of Alden speaking to Scabior and Crabbe Sr. near the staircase. Malfoy was lifting her, grabbing her under one arm and trying to get her to stand. He was partly unsteady himself, relying on the cane to balance the weight of the both of them when she finally got to her feet.

He guided them in taking a few clunky steps until they were outside the metal bars of the cell.

“Keep holding on,” he whispered.

She watched as the darkness of the Lestrange cellar began to disintegrate before her eyes and then felt herself being carried away into the disorienting magic of Disapparition.

Chapter Text

Tall arched windows.

Velvet emerald-coloured curtains.

The Victorian armchair.

Dark blankets and linens adorning a king-sized bed.

Malfoy had brought her back to his bedroom.

Though it had been months ago since she had last been there, everything looked the same. And there was so much solace, so much relief in this sameness. They had just survived one awful ordeal, she thought—maybe this meant they were in the clear.

Hermione watched as Malfoy hobbled to his wardrobe. She could hear the laboured breaths he took as he put away his mask and then removed the outer layer of his clothing, the armoured Death Eater suit.

His back was still turned to her; she watched him run a hand through his sweaty platinum hair.

“You should clean yourself,” he said finally. He gestured towards the bathroom with his cane but did not look at her. “While you have the chance.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but nonetheless followed the directive. For too long, she had longed for a bath, for the chance to soak away the dirt and grime of the prison dungeons. 

Closing the door, Hermione eyed the edge of the clawfoot tub. Not only were her favourite fluffy white towels waiting for her, but on top of them was a silk nightgown. It wasn’t revealing or all that short, but the material felt exceptionally soft when her fingers brushed it. 

She drew a hot bath and added a few drops of lavender soap. When the tub was half-full and sudsy, she stripped herself of Malfoy’s cloak and was glad to see her ripped bra and torn jeans drop to the floor. She remembered how particular and prideful she used to feel about wearing those Muggle clothes, but now she just couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Hermione dipped one toe into the bath and upon feeling the temperature was just perfect, descended fully into the bubbly water. She had just started to run a washcloth over her legs when a sudden ‘pop’ caused her to jump.

“Tilly did not mean to startle the Miss,” came a small voice from over the side of the tub.

Before she could reply, the house elf was levitating a platter across the tub, making sure it hovered at just the right height.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to speak to me,” Hermione replied. “And I don’t need this food right now.”

The house elf let out an indignant huff. “You must eat now! Tilly is most glad to be serving the Miss again and is under strict orders that she must eat. If the Miss is ungrateful, then Tilly cannot promise that future meals will be served to her liking—”

“Okay,” Hermione interjected, picking up the fork and stabbing a potato. “I didn’t mean to offend. I’m just not feeling well. But thank you, Tilly. I truly appreciate it. I’m happy to see you again, too.”

The elf’s green eyes sparkled with joy. She bowed her head and then Disapparated with a little squeal.

Hermione ate what she could of the meal, but left a large portion of the roast beef on her plate. The bathtub had been charmed to keep the water warm, so she took her time relaxing. Though bathing brought her some relief, she soon found herself growing weary and hoping that Alden sent the potion for her infection.

Once out of the bath and dry, she pulled the soft nighty over head and continued to scrunch her curls with the towel. 

She was pleased to find more soaps and toiletries at the sink, including a Muggle toothbrush. Malfoy had clearly intended to bring her back.

The thought of him preparing for her to return both warmed her inside and gave her knots in her stomach. Glancing at the bathroom door, she realised how familiar this all was again. But during the summer, things were different. She didn’t know if she could trust him, could never pinpoint his next move, but that had all changed now. Hadn’t it?

As she gripped the doorknob, she felt somewhat uneasy. She supposed this was a normal response. What had happened in the Hall was far from normal…it was utterly traumatic.

When she ventured back into the bedroom, Hermione half expected Malfoy to be gone. There used to be times when he did leave her alone. If he was feeling anywhere as awkward as she was now, she didn’t blame him if it was easier to avoid her for the time being.

But Malfoy hadn’t left. Wearing a black t-shirt and trousers, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, grasping a vial of a pinkish-coloured potion.

“It's your medicine,” he said, holding the contents out to her. He still wasn’t looking at her when she took the vial from out of his hand.

“Thanks,” Hermione responded. She quickly poured the liquid down her throat. It had a tart taste, one of berries. 

Setting the empty vial down upon the nightstand, Hermione looked around. “Er, the other potion, I’ve been taking it with breakfast these past few days—”

“You don’t need to explain, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice was soft, defeated sounding. “You should lie down.”

Hermione gave a weak smile, though she was aware he was still avoiding eye contact with her. She hoisted herself up onto the bed and crawled past him, settling under the covers on the opposite side of the bed. Her side of his bed.

She stretched her legs out, waiting for him to say something more. But when he didn’t, she turned on her side, reaching her hand out to touch the small of his back.

Malfoy winced audibly, releasing air between his teeth.

“Sorry,” Hermione said at once, removing her hand at once. “I forgot.”

He shook his head. “It's not that bad.”

She wasn’t going to accept his statement. Instead, she changed the subject, only slightly.

“You can look at me, you know,” she said, her tone laced with the smallest hint of frustration. "I'm okay."

At this, Malfoy let out a dark chuckle. “You’re sick.”

“It's not that bad,” Hermione quipped, knowing that repeating his words might get a rise out of him. “You heard Alden—”

“She’s a fucking cunt,” he cut in. He didn’t turn around yet, but he did wave his wand and mumbled a spell which turned off the lights. 

Though Hermione could only see the shadowy outline of Malfoy’s form move in the darkness, she noticed the careful way in which he eased himself back against the pillows.

“Rightly so,” she agreed with him. “Though it's thanks to that cunt I’m no longer sleeping on the cellar floor.”

Malfoy scoffed. “No. That’s thanks to me.” Somehow, she knew he was smirking.

“As I was saying, thanks to that cunt, I’m no longer in prison. And I have my medicine,” Hermione continued, unfazed. “So truly, things are not that bad.”

“You’re still in prison,” he said, his tone lighter but matter-of-fact. “So am I,” he added glumly, without missing a beat.

“Hmm. Unless I’m confused, this is your bedroom.” Hermione bit back a smile. They needed to talk seriously, but it was impossible not to fall back into rhythm with him, into the banter that had attracted them to one another in the first place.

“You’re barmy. This is a prison. Were you not just visited by the guard just before in the bathroom? She’s about two-feet tall, with long, floppy ears and too big of eyes…it's grim here.”

“Ah, yes,” Hermione added. “She is quite intimidating. But it's only because I hear her Master is the worst. He’s such a prick that at one point, he even forbid her from speaking. Can you imagine?”

“A right tosser.”

A small, breathy guffaw escaped her. Hermione could feel herself smiling again, but as soon as she realised it, a certain heaviness pressed upon her heart. She let the playful conversation die. If he wanted to, Malfoy could sustain it.

Silence settled between them instead. 

She almost thought he was asleep when words drifted out into the dark.

“If you don't want me to sleep next to you, I understand,” Malfoy said, his voice low. “There’s other bedrooms in the Manor—other prison cells,” he added somewhat jokingly.

“Stay with me.”

The phrase left her lips before she even had a chance to ponder his reasoning. She knew why he suggested it of course. But apparently, she had such unwavering faith in this connection they had and such an undeniable belief that everything bad might be happening for a reason, she didn’t even need time to think.

Even without any formal discussion of the matter, she knew he was hers and that she was his. The last thing she wanted was for him to go.

Without knowing if he would even see the movement, Hermione casually reached her arm towards him, letting it rest in the middle of the bed. She unclenched her fist, leaving the palm of her hand open and waiting.

Malfoy was quiet again. But his steady breathing told her he was still awake. He was not going to leave her.

She felt the air get caught in her lungs when his hand suddenly covered her own. The way his fingers gently stroked her skin before giving her wrist a squeeze told her everything she needed to know.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice carrying over to her across the bed. He continued to hold her hand. “I’m sorry for not getting you out of there sooner.”

“It's alright,” Hermione responded. “You couldn't, being hurt and all. I didn’t even expect you to accompany Alden today, I was—”

“It's not alright. It will never be alright. Tell me,” Malfoy continued, his tone softer, but more urgent sounding. “Did you…did you expect I’d actually do it?”

Hermione felt her muscles tense.

“Don’t lie to me,” Malfoy said, his voice broken.

“Honestly, no. I didn’t,” she whispered back. Her throat was tight, as she was on the verge of breaking into tears. “You warned me. You said you’d hurt me. But just…just knowing how clever you are, I naively thought you’d avoid having to do so at all costs.”

“There was no other way. That night had to be that way—and now thanks to Jugson and my ‘lack of discernment,’ there will be no more revels, at least for the time being.” Malfoy was stroking her hand again. “You’re safe, but you're still my captive in front of Alden, in front of anyone, of course.”

“I know,” Hermione gasped. She was sobbing now. She took a deep breath, attempting to steady her voice. “I know all of that now. I know you didn’t want to, that it was all an act. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. My heart just hurts for the both of us, for what they made you do…made me into.”

“Hermione.”

The sound of it spoken into the darkness was jarring. Her name was beautiful, coming from him in the midst of this vile memory.

“Hermione, listen to me,” he said. He took her hand now and brought it to his lips. He kissed it once before continuing. “I’m not sorry,” he was saying, his voice shaky now. “I don’t regret it all—in fact, I’d do it again.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. 

“I’d do whatever it takes so that no one else could ever harm you. I’d suffer right along with you for even a sliver of peace. I’d go through this Hell over and over again if it meant I could always have you.”

She understood. 

“The magic,” Hermione said, raising her arm with the Dark Mark. “You tried to destroy both our bad feelings. I remember feeling so numb to it all.”

“I did.” Malfoy kissed her hand again. “But I think it makes it so the memory is worse than the moment.”

Hermione inched forward and he pulled her into his arms. Her head was tucked under his chin. The thump of his heartbeat gave her a fuzzy feeling of comfort.

“I mean it,” she said, nestling herself into the crook of his neck. "I'm okay now. We're okay."

He was still holding her hand. Laying his other arm across her, he let his fingers play with her hair.

“Nothing will be okay until every last one of them is dead,” he whispered. Despite the threatening nature of the message, Malfoy’s tone was cool and even as could be. “Do you know what I used to dream about?” he asked.

“What?” Hermione’s eyes were already closed. She lived for these sleepy conversations with him, where the worst side of her and the best side of him seemed to fuse together so flawlessly.

“I used to envision my inevitable rise to power…killing off the Order and having all the Death Eaters bow down before me. I used to dream about the Dark Lord kneeling down to me. He made me what I am, after all."

“And now?” Her mind was already entering that dream-like state. She was asleep in his arms, her spirit in another realm. But that didn’t matter because before he even spoke, she already knew his answer.

“Now I dream of standing next to you, watching all of them at your feet instead, pleading for a hint of mercy. Begging to be spared."

She was dreaming...she was sure of it. Her consciousness had taken her somewhere warm and safe in a little house away from war.

"The best part of all is that they will never even see it coming.”

Chapter Text

In her dreamlike state, his voice took up residency in the farthest reaches of her mind. The words were a threat, but to her, they were a testament of his faith in her. 

They would bow down to her.

Malfoy wouldn’t resent her or take her for granted like the Order.

Hermione slept soundly. She knew it was because she was back in his arms.

When her eyelids fluttered open some time later, the room was pitch black. No light poured in through the curtains yet, but there was a distinct spark in her peripheral vision. She heard a faint whispering and then felt his hands. His fingertips were gliding over a wound on her ribcage before she felt the end of his wand emit a gentle pulsing sensation against her skin.

“Malfoy?” 

Lifting her head, she spoke his name to ask what he was doing, but when she felt his wand move lower to her bruised thighs, she already knew.

“Go back to sleep, Granger.”

The next moment her eyes opened, everything in the bedroom was illuminated by the morning sun.

Malfoy was asleep up next to her. 

Adjusting herself to look at him but not wake him, Hermione rested her forearm upon their shared pillow. Over the last few months, she had come to find that she would never tire of analysing him. There were so many layers to uncover, so many expressions to decode. Normally, she was accustomed to seeing the brutalness of the War etched upon his handsome face by way of his structured cheekbones, furrowed eyebrows, and piercing gaze that could cut like a shard of glass.

But when Malfoy’s eyes were closed, it was impossible not to notice his long eyelashes or the heart-like shape of his lips. It was startling, Hermione realised, how he could project not only innocence, but inherent goodness. She imagined that both sleep and death were similar in this respect, allowing one to temporarily and then permanently escape from his or her transgressions. 

She was filled with warmth as she watched him sleep so peacefully. It was too simple to write it off as fondness; it was like everything that had led her to this place next to him had a purpose. They were more than just two forsaken fighters, former enemies, and rogue Death Eaters. The skies could dim around them, the world could burn forever, and none of that would matter because they would be each other's guiding light in the darkness and air to breathe.

When a single teardrop fell down her cheek and landed upon his own, Malfoy blinked. He was awake now, yet his face remained in that state of purity. His grey eyes glimmered with part understanding and part fascination as he looked up at her.

He didn’t speak, but raised his hand to brush away the wetness under her lashes, his fingers tracing the tracks of her tears before settling upon her neck. Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for him to kiss her. But his eyes were still roaming her face, staring at her with a look that seemed to say ‘I only feel whole when you look at me. This is your power.'

It was apparent then, despite his ruthlessness and affinity for killing which no doubt already plunged his soul into the deepest pits of Hell, that he also experienced something close to sublimeness in her presence.

Malfoy directed her to him as he cupped her face; he kissed her not on the mouth, but instead lined her cheek with tiny kisses. He had dried her tears and now worked to place small pecks upon her skin where the evidence had been. The movement of his lips was so soft and featherlight, Hermione felt her heart swell again. A sense of comfort rippled through her and she was momentarily transported back to her childhood—his tenderness reminded her of being consoled by her parents.

Her heart wanted to beat right out of her chest when she processed the implications of his treatment of her. The kisses were small but monumental in their meaning. She was precious to him. This unexpected gentleness caused another thought to blossom in her mind, one that made the region below her abdomen clench…the thought that Malfoy would be a good father.

When his kisses ceased, he pulled her into him; his embrace was like a weighted blanket that slowed the distressed rhythms of her heart. It wasn’t supposed to be sensual, yet she melted into him still.

Her arms were locked around his middle, and when she felt Malfoy flinch from the sustained contact, Hermione lowered her hands until her fingers landed upon the outline of his wand tucked into his front pocket. He didn’t stop her when she reached for it.

“Let me,” she said, her voice a melody.

She gripped the wand and scooted away from him just enough so that she could lift up his shirt.

He flinched again when her fingers skimmed across his lacerated flesh; she knew the real ache from Voldemort’s curse was not limited to just the surface level. The injuries were more likely bone deep and obviously weakening his muscles and affecting his ability to balance. So she began her work, whispering spells and simple healing charms that wouldn’t cure him, but would alleviate some of the pain. 

Hermione knew that there was this silent understanding between them. The War would continue to maim them. But in their darkest hours, they would always be there to heal one another.

“You will rest,” Malfoy was saying. He was freshly showered and wearing only a towel around his waist; Hermione watched him with interest as he raked a hand through his dripping locks. Her eyes followed the path of a bead of water as it trickled down from his scarred chest to his stomach.

She was still lying in bed and content to do so for the time being. She could tell last night’s potion had already taken effect. Combined with Malfoy’s healing, she felt like a new witch again.

“What about you?” Hermione asked. 

She also observed he was moving with more ease. He still had a slight limp, but he wasn’t using the cane and from his face, she could see he was no longer wincing in pain as he dressed.

Malfoy wrapped his cloak around him and then withdrew his Death Eater mask from out of the wardrobe. He didn’t fully answer the question, but gave her a pointed glance. 

“I have places to be, Order members to kill. Tilly will deliver your meals,” he said, voice clipped.

He put on his mask, all at once transforming back into his Death Eater self. He stood there just watching her for a moment. The scene would have looked disturbing to anyone who didn’t know their situation.

Malfoy was about to Disapparate when Hermione shook her head. “Wait,” she called.

Cloak swishing, he strode towards her; his dragonhide boots clanked across the wood floor. He hovered over top of her, placing his hands on either side of her legs. As she looked up at him from the bed, she could tell his eyes beyond the mask were boring into her.

“I thought I should tell you,” she began, her voice quaking with a ridiculous nervousness. “Snape knows. He looked inside my head and saw everything. I didn’t have the energy to try and block him.”

Malfoy didn’t respond to this either, but Hermione supposed he was reflecting on the revelation. He cocked his head as if deliberating. Meanwhile, she didn’t think she had anything more to say on the matter. 

“Alright,” he said plainly, but he let out a tense exasperation; there was a breathiness to the response. “I’ll deal with him.”

He remained still above her, so Hermione took the opportunity to pull his mask aside. She needed to see his reaction, needed his reassurance that they would be safe.

Malfoy seemed lost in contemplation. When he was this close to her, she couldn’t help but feel charmed by him. He was so effortlessly alluring. She could stare into the reflective prisms that were his eyes forever.

“Don’t get yourself punished again,” she said.  “It was bad for you this time. I could tell.”

At this, Malfoy gave her a small smile. “It will only get worse and worse.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Hermione blushed as she said it, her heart racing as she let herself be vulnerable.

“You’re growing quite attached to me,” he replied. She could see his eyes were teasing though he remained otherwise composed.

“Not at all.” A breathy laugh escaped her. “Not even a little bit.”

Malfoy chuckled then. He smiled again and this time it was genuine as the skin around his eyes crinkled. “That’s too bad for me, Granger.” He moved in even closer, letting his lips brush against her cheek once more. “Because I’m very attached to you...so much so, I'd do anything for you.”

“Anything?” Hermione asked, curious as to what he was getting at.

“I’d die for you.”

His words were like an arrow straight to her heart. She was positive her soul had left her body; she was floating with an energy she had never felt before, feeling all once triumphant and ruined. It was like this admittance from him sent her to another dimension—it was the best and worst thing she could ever dream of hearing.

Hermione’s only response was to grab his face; she kissed him with everything she had, refusing to let him go or take a breath until he firmly cupped her chin with his hand.

“For Merlin’s sake, don’t get too excited,” Malfoy rasped. His eyes were dancing though and he seemed pleased. “It's not like I have anything better to do.”

Hermione attempted to roll her eyes, tried to downplay her own feelings but her heart was fluttering with exhilaration. “Right. I should have known.”

For a minute, they were both grinning wholeheartedly, almost stupidly at one another.

But as the worry returned to Hermione, her smile faded. “Don't,” she said, letting her fingers caress the side of his face. “Don’t die and leave me here.”

“I won’t,” he said finally, his voice thick. “But I have to go now. I’ll come back. I promise.”

Still reeling with the magic from the interaction, Hermione nodded. She relaxed into the pillow behind her and watched as he readjusted his mask.

Though his face was covered, Malfoy lowered himself to place a goodbye kiss upon her head and then he was gone.

“Tilly, this is too much.”

Hermione poked her fork at the heaping platter of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, toast, tomatoes, and pudding. A separate plate presented a stack of pancakes and there was also a bowl of berries. Tall glasses of pumpkin juice and water, along with the fertility potion, rounded out the tray.

The elf, however, was unfazed. 

“Master Malfoy says Miss must eat. She is not to leave a morsel of food untouched,” Tilly explained. She crossed her arms and gave Hermione a smug look. “Tilly will watch.”

Hermione shook her head incredulously. “I’ll eat what I can,” she replied. She was used to operating in survival mode; her appetite had all but disappeared and her stomach had shrunk after being continually denied actual meals in the Lestrange prison. “Malfoy’s not my master,” she added, flashing her eyes at the house elf.

Tilly stared at her; those jewel tone eyes grew even wider. “But he is,” she said, throwing her little hands up in the air. “You can’t leave.”

“Fair enough.” Hermione grumbled and helped herself to the eggs. “But he doesn’t own me. I want to be here…with him.”

“You sleep in the Master’s bed,” Tilly shook her head with certainty. “Tilly thinks you could be his wife.”

Hermione nearly choked. “What?” she asked, clearing her throat. She took a sip of water and then reached for a piece of bacon. “What gives you that idea?” She hoped Tilly wasn’t privy to everything that happened in Malfoy’s bedroom.

Tilly lifted her shoulders with nonchalance. “The Master was enraged when you were gone. Everyday he vowed to get ‘his witch’ back. He spent two thousand Galleons buying you the finest robes and shoes.”

“I see.” She continued to eat, seeing as the elf was focused on her plate.

Tilly shrugged again. “But he would never marry you.”

Hermione looked up at the elf and then forced down another forkful of eggs, hoping the elf would elaborate. She continued to eat, watching as Tilly’s face lit up the more food she devoured. 

“Did Malfoy tell you that?” The question shot out of mouth before she could stop it. Hermione was bracing herself for the impact. Marriage was not on her mind, but for some reason, she was not sure she could handle hearing the affirmative.

“Not exactly,” Tilly admitted, beginning to fidget. “Tilly knows you do not have the right blood for marriage.”

When the dishes and bowl were empty, Hermione stared at the potion, leaving it untouched and then finished the last of her pumpkin juice. She pressed her hand over her stomach, feeling uncomfortably full.

“Master will be glad you ate everything.” Tilly was beaming. “It hurts him seeing you so feeble. He said you lost too much weight and muscle.” She vanished the tray.  

Hermione stretched out on the bed, thinking a nap might be the only thing she could do while she digested the heavy breakfast and conversation.

He would never marry you. You do not have the right blood for marriage.

Deep down, she knew the elf was plainly stating a fact. Tilly was serving in the halls of a nearly sentient Manor that lived and breathed blood prejudice for generations, but nonetheless, the words stung. But maybe this notion was already shattered, she thought. Malfoy didn’t seem to have a problem with her blood—he treated her like his queen.

“Call for Tilly if you need anything.” The house elf was still there, pulling the covers over Hermione. She fluffed the end of the pillow. 

“Thank you,” Hermione replied dazedly. 

Tilly was about to Disapperate but then she turned. “Master Malfoy did not have a happy childhood,” she said, her voice squeaky and her eyes shining with tears. “His mother loved him and now she is dying. You may have dirty blood, but you make him happy.”

The day drifted by with Hermione spending the hours sleeping and eating. She didn’t even bother to change out of her nightgown, but she did eventually get out of bed only to sit in the arm chair. She could tell she needed the rest and felt her physical aches and pains slowly dissipating. But as her body was recovering, she found she couldn’t stop her mind from overexerting itself. 

Narcissa is dying.

Hermione had assumed as much, but hearing Tilly reveal it so plainly made it all the more real. For some reason, she found the image of Narcissa lying in bed with a detached spirit to be utterly disturbing. She had never cared for the witch’s haughtiness. But learning the story of how she attempted to save her family by fleeing only to be caught, resulting in the murder of her husband, continuous punishment of her son, and removal of her own soul, made her think. 

It was true that she didn’t really know Narcissa at all; she only knew the witch looked down on her. On one hand, she supposed it could be what one deserved after years of wanting to purify the wizarding population. Yet if aligning herself with Malfoy had taught Hermione anything, it was that a woman’s motives in the midst of war were never that simple.

The wizarding world was still a man’s world and nothing about the War was black and white. And as hard as she tried to fight for what was right and save the Order from itself, Hermione failed because they wanted her to fail. Moody and Shacklebolt had miscalculated her cunning and strength just like they misjudged every young member’s ability to survive on the battlefields.

So now she crossed lines she never thought she would cross. Hermione hurt people she never dreamed she would hurt. Ever since her escape from the Order, she only saw life in tunnel vision…everything around her was blurred except for the image of a tall blonde Death Eater with a possessive glint in his eyes, one that looked at her like she was the only beautiful thing left in the world.

For more than one reason then, Hermione couldn’t stop the empathy from stirring inside her. She was still relieved her own parents were safe and faraway; one day she would see them again and they would know her. She wondered if there was room in the grand scheme of plans to save Narcissa.

She was lost in this pondering when she heard a sudden ‘pop.’ 

Malfoy had Apparated back into the bedroom. He was breathing heavily and holding his mask in one hand. His white hair, slick with sweat, was stuck to his forehead; the scorch marks across his cheek confirmed that he just came from a battle.

“The Order has allies,” he announced, not quite looking at her as he flung his cloak from off his shoulders and used his wand to remove some of the armour from his chest. “Not enough to make any real difference. But enough to let this drag on and allow Potter to continue hiding like the pathetic coward he is.” 

“From where?” Hermione tried to cover the concern in her voice as she watched him cast a Scourgify.

“Rebels from France,” he replied. He seemed to be racking his brain. “And a few were from the U.S. I believe, based on their accents.”

She took a moment to process the news. “If their numbers increase, this could be bad.”

Malfoy turned then; she could see his eyes light up at the sight of her curled up in the chair. As he walked towards her, a smirk formed upon his lips. He may as well have been coming home to his prize.

“It doesn’t worry me, Granger,” he said darkly, kneeling down to face her as she sat in the chair. “Strategy was never the Order’s strong suit.” 

Her heart was almost spasming when he hovered over her. She could feel a draft; the coldness of Dark Magic and the Killing Curse radiated off him in waves. But the familiar scent of him, of balsam and the outdoors, only made her feel warm.

“Besides, they’ve already lost in my mind,” Malfoy continued. He lifted his hand, letting his fingers skim her collarbone. “The Order lost the moment they lost you.”

Smiling, Hermione leaned into him. She wasn’t going to deny his compliment. It was because of her that Moody was gone and Shacklebolt remained weak and behind the scenes. Malfoy was right; even if a few vigilante soldiers helped the Order, it was entirely too late for new plans to be made and new tactics to be devised, especially when the rest of the magical world was not particularly following the ins and outs of the fighting in Wizarding Britain.

Hermione touched his face and then smoothed the messy strands of his hair.  “I’m just glad you made it back. You look well.”

Malfoy shook his head dismissively, as if Voldemort’s punishing curse had not pushed him to use the cane. “The killing rejuvenates me. How are you feeling?” His eyes were scanning her face so intently he might as well have been looking at a diagnostic chart.

“As good as a prisoner can feel,” Hermione replied, the corner of her mouth lifting into a sly grin. “I went from being starved to being force-fed by your elf.”

“Tilly would never.” His voice was firm with mock disagreement. 

“She didn’t. But she did make sure I finished my meals. So yes, actually. I meant to say I am better. Thanks to you.” Hermione watched his eyes brighten. 

“What about…er, your infection?” Malfoy asked, his tone softer.

“I haven’t felt any of the burning,” she answered. Though she doubted it was fully cleared up, it was true she hadn’t suffered any of the symptoms throughout the day.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” A look of momentary relief washed away the worry in his expression before a hint of irritation settled in. “I owled Alden, essentially telling her I was out of the country. She’ll come to check you Friday instead.”

“Alright.” Hermione did feel some relief. It would be a reprieve not to have to see the Mediwitch’s face for a few days.

Malfoy’s eyes were flickering with something like disdain. 

She supposed he didn’t want to talk about it—the fact that Alden might have to watch them perform. Though it would be nothing compared to what happened at the revel, it would no doubt be uncomfortable. In many ways, it was like their intimacy was being stolen from them, that or morphed into something twisted and wrong.

“I didn’t take the fertility potion this morning,” Hermione said, thinking it might be something he’d want to know. “When Tilly took the tray away, I figured that meant you didn’t want me to.”

“Smart girl,” Malfoy replied, not skipping a beat. As he looked at her, Hermione could see the defiance growing in his expression. “As long as you’re here, we have some control over the matter.”

Hermione nodded though she was starting to feel weary. They couldn’t avoid the pregnancy forever, not under Alden or especially Voldemort’s watch. “Don’t forget to cast a contraceptive charm this week,” she reminded him.

“I won’t forget.”

They were still inches apart. She felt his breath on her face, cool and minty as he exhaled. His hands were placed on the arms of the chair; there was a reverence to the way he positioned himself below her so that he could stare up into her eyes.

The urge to kiss him was there, but so was that ridiculous nagging doubt that made her think he didn’t want a baby because he didn’t want her.

“If I don’t get pregnant by the end of this year, Voldemort will be livid,” she said, trying to disguise the actual anguish she felt. “He might decide to kill you or me.”

She could see the wheels turning in Malfoy’s mind as he took in her words. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

“You want my baby, Granger. I know,” he whispered. His tone was decidedly light for how off putting she knew the topic was for him. It was a statement, but he seemed to be waiting for her reaction.

Hermione’s cheeks burned as she tried to think of something to say. They had already had similar conversations, but his phrasing was purposely making her sweat. 

Did she ‘want’ it? While she couldn’t imagine being pregnant, wasn’t ready for the responsibility, and was filled with so much dread, the idea of having Malfoy’s baby was something else entirely. Of course, they really didn’t have an option to avoid becoming parents unless they could somehow destroy Voldemort overnight, but she wondered if it really was just easier for her to admit that she had accepted the Prophecy rather than confess that she wouldn't mind being impregnated by him.

Malfoy could apparently see through her. He knew she had not only come to terms with the Prophecy, but that there was a part of herself that was irrevocably gone for him. Inside her was a maternal instinct, something primitive that wanted her to choose him. When she thought about it, he was everything and more she desired in the father of her child…strong, capable, nurturing, not to mention, he would kill anyone who threatened them.

The thought of it made Hermione's insides tingle.

She was arranging her half-formed thoughts, still not ready to reply, when Malfoy’s hand suddenly dropped to her knee. She watched as his fingers trailed over the cotton material of her nightgown. He was caressing her but just barely; his touch caused goosebumps to spread over her skin as his fingers moved up, tracing small circles and getting closer to the apex of her thighs.

Involuntarily, Hermione spread her legs, opening herself to him.

He froze. 

“Yes,” she gasped. “I want it. I’m sorry.”

His gaze was not on her and his blonde locks covered his eyes, so she couldn’t read him. By the way his chest heaved, she tell he was breathing heavier. Maybe it was too soon, too much after—

Malfoy removed his hand. He looked at her once more and she found frustration in his face, like he was trying to contain his emotions.

Instead, he pulled her to him. He grabbed her by the waist and she felt her stomach flip as she was forced to wrap her legs around his torso. A dizzying heat was running through her. It was beyond desire, a deep feeling of contentedness that she always had when she was this close to him. 

She liked that he always kept her guessing; he always left her on bated breath and dangling over the edge for him, leaving her with no choice but to fall into him, body and soul. Her nightgown was pulled up over her stomach so she could practically feel his cock twitching through his trousers.

“I’ll give it to you,” he said, squeezing her tight. His voice was gravelly and he spoke the words into her hair, breathing in the scent of her. “You just have to be patient.”

Hermione still didn’t speak. His promise had ignited a flame in her; she was aware of her blood pumping through her veins, making her feel more alive than she had ever felt. She rubbed up against his hardness, wanting him to know that she wanted it now. But his hands held her firmly in place.

She closed her eyes as he held her, letting the tension inside her dissolve and rebuild itself over and over again as he nibbled on her neck. She had her answer at least.

…

The rest of the night passed in the same fashion. Nuzzling into each other, they exchanged soft kisses and lingering touches. It was intimacy without being intimate; the cuddling and the certainty of things to come was as therapeutic as any healing charm could be. 

“I need you.” 

Those were the last words she heard before she drifted off into a blissful sleep.

The next morning, Hermione was surprised to wake up to breakfast in bed.

Malfoy, however, was not next to her. 

He was already showered and dressed in his Death Eater robes, looking as if he were late to a battle.

“Eat up,” he said, gesturing to the tray next to her. 

“You have another mission?” As she grabbed a fork, she didn’t know why she asked. Of course he would always be gone, always be expected to be doing some type of task for Voldemort. 

Malfoy was eying her; a sort of playfulness was evident as he watched her eat from the fruit bowl.

“You could say that,” he replied. “I’m going to take my rage out.”

Hermione nodded. She continued to eat and was expecting that maybe he would come over and tell her goodbye. But she could still see him standing across the room, his dark outline facing her.

When after a moment he still didn’t move, Hermione reached for her glass of pumpkin juice and looked up at him.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, her lips forming into a wry smile. “Are you going to kiss me or do I have to beg?”

“You,” he said, catching her off guard. “I’m waiting for you.”

Chapter Text

Upon observing his expectant look, her eyes lit up with a radiance, matching his. She was a fighter at heart and he always knew it.

Malfoy gave her a slight smirk. “Finish your juice.”

“No.”

Hermione was already bounding out of the bed and rushing into the bathroom. Washing her face, brushing her teeth, trying to tame those twisted curls. For a second, the mundaneness of these tasks hit her—everything she was doing was so routine considering what they were about to do.

Her blood ran hot, not cold, when she thought of Malfoy out on the battlefields. He could kill for many reasons and none at all. It made her heart spasm, thinking of the jadedness which consumed him. She wondered how it was possible for him to be surrounded by so many ghosts, but not haunted.

When Hermione was done primping, she headed out the bathroom, pulling the cotton nightgown over her shoulders. She let it fall to the floor and sauntered past him in nothing but her knickers. Aware of his steely gaze on her, she opened up her side of the wardrobe, finding her same makeshift Death Eater suit. 

As soon as she stepped into it, the material became fitted to the curves of her frame, as the outfit was designed with her own magic. She found her combat boots and laced them up, feeling back to her old self. 

Malfoy was still watching her, appraising her.

Her fingers skimmed her Death Eater mask.  She was ready but needed her wand which she presumed was still tucked away in his desk.

As she walked by him, mask in hand, she twirled around once; the sheer black chiffon half-skirt attached to her hips fluttered up against him. He was still drinking her in, his face flushed with colour and life from the sight of her intimidating and dressed to kill.

“Alohomora.”

Her wand was there of course, waiting for her. She felt a comfort as soon as she gripped it, her fingers clasping around the knotted vine wood. The magic rippled through her, renewing her.  She looked back to him, waiting for further instruction, wondering if he would Apparate her to him as he always did by the Mark.

“Come.”

His voice gave her shivers and as if propelled by some hidden force, she moved to him. Never would she imagine herself obeying the directives of a wizard the way she did with him.

Her pulse raced when she noticed how they complimented one another. It always felt right being near him, but seeing them both dressed as black as their hearts, as dark as their emotions and the War and world around them, made her skin prickle with pleasantness. 

Malfoy reached for her arm. He gently rolled up her sleeve and then with a single touch of his wand, lit the Mark on her skin with his magic. She could feel the heat spread through her, her body feeling all at once light as a feather and indestructible at the same time. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me, looking like this?”

There was a sudden urgency in the air between them. The rage he had spoken of earlier flowed freely in red, wispy ribbons, circling their bodies.

He brought his hand to her chin and pulled her up onto her tiptoes roughly to devour her. His mouth crashed upon hers and all at once, she felt his anger from before transforming, shifting into raw passion as his tongue searched her. Knowing it was a release for him, she stayed still, her lips soft and pliable as he deepened it. 

Hermione pressed into him automatically; she had one palm on his abdomen, her touch encouraging him even though pressure was building  in her lungs, as she desperately needed a breath. She would gladly die from his kiss if she had to.

His teeth nipped her lower lip once before he exhaled against her, no longer kissing her but not backing away yet. His hair was tickling her forehead in the way she adored, her heart racing at the feel of how he held her so tightly to him.

“I’ll call for you,” he said, his voice gravelly. “It won’t be long.”

“Who are we fighting?” She eyed him as he finally released her to put on his mask. Hermione was wondering if they’d be facing the Order or ambushing Death Eaters again.

The soulless eyes of the silver skeleton face stared back at her. “Everyone.”

It wasn’t long before he called her. Only an half hour had passed before the tingling erupted beneath the skin in her arm. Hermione was beginning to think she was growing accustomed to it, the feel of this strange and sensual current undulating from her Mark, flowing into her whole body.

Touching her wand to the Mark, Hermione was immediately whisked away into an unseen portal, her body tossed to and fro in the space where the Muggle terms of speed, time, and distance ceased to exist. Even in this magical transport, there was a chill in the air, a reminder that the seasons would be changing yet again, the weather growing ever colder. 

She landed forcefully next to Malfoy, who was standing on the edge of a short cliff. His expression was hidden behind the mask, but she could see his determination through his body language, his stature firm and unmoving as he watched the carnage just before him.

They were surrounded by forests. There were evergreens, but the once lush trees were now naked. In the clearing just below, there had to be at least twenty Death Eaters sending out Unforgivables, the sky lighting up like a holiday display with lasers of red and green. Hermione couldn’t see much beyond the smoke, but there were bodies on the ground; a few ragtag fighters remained for the Order, dodging curses and trying to outrun Death. 

“Where are we?” Hermione observed the rows of bare trees in the far off distance. There was nothing distinctive about the land. 

“Somewhere near Cardiff.”

She nodded, moving a step closer to him. This was his forte; while she had confidence in her own offensive abilities, she would gladly let him take control. It was something Hermione admired about Malfoy the moment she came to understand him during the War. He might have been motivated by that constant, simmering rage, but in his mind, he was still strategizing, always two steps ahead of everyone else. Like her. 

“Just watch,” he said, his voice low, having sensed her next to him. “When they think it's over—that’s our signal.”

Her eyes were already transfixed on several scenes: a Death Eater kicking and then stomping upon a fallen body; a Death Eater holding another wizard by the neck, slicing his ear off with an enchanted dagger; a group of Death Eaters leaning lazily against a large rock, no doubt planning to Disapparate.

Malfoy nudged her shoulder, and then to her surprise, he grabbed her hand.

“Obscura Lox.”

It was his signature curse that sent an odd ringing into the atmosphere, a far off ominous vibration that unsettled the air. Hermione watched as the fighting below came to a halt; the remaining assailants on both sides stopped in their tracks, looking around for the source of the strange siren. 

Once everything was plunged into absolute darkness, Malfoy tugged her forward, pulling her with him off the cliff. It wasn’t a far distance to drop and they could land with magic, but her heart thumped ferociously, making her feel alive with the reckless thrill of it all. She felt high from the weightlessness, her stomach flipping in the best possible way as they fell down together into the wasteland.

“Who’s there?”

“Fucking Hell—what is the meaning of this?”

Ahead of them, whispered questions of confusion grew into shouts of agony and shock.

Malfoy let go of her hand, but Hermione knew he would not stray far from her. He wasted no time casting the Death Curse in the darkness.

“Avada Kedavra!”

“—Kedavra…Avada—”

“Avada Kedavra.”

Bodies belonging to both Death Eaters and suffering young Order soldiers dropped to the ground as the black mist began to fade.

The Death Eaters who had watched mystified from the outskirts now charged to their fallen comrades, their wands withdrawn and raised to attack.

“Blimey, who is that?” 

“Malfoy?”

“No, the other one—his partner?”

“The Dark Lord shall hear of your transgressions…”

“Only he would dare to take his place.”

“Traitorous scum like his father!”

“...Dolum Mortis.”

A dazzling flash of purple light was emitted from the end of Malfoy’s wand.

Hermione lifted her own wand; she knew this curse he had just cast. She had read about it in one of the illicit spellbooks during her time at Shell Cottage. The Trick of Death. He had cast it for her, she thought. He was giving her free reign to perform whatever she wanted, to torture to her heart’s delight.

She of course was prepared. Malfoy knew they were alike in this way, always dreaming up a million fantasies to seek revenge. 

Without delay, Hermione waved her wand sharply, feeling nothing but empowerment and the motivation from Malfoy’s own madness. If this is what the world had pushed them to become, they would show everyone the disastrous ramifications—they were fierce and fearless together,  a force to be reckoned with. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about the men behind those masks. The ones who savoured her defilement…the ones who cheered and laughed as Malfoy fucked her in anguish.

“Strangulatus est per Herbam.”

The group of about ten Death Eaters braced themselves. They seemed taken aback, waiting for sparks or the force of a spell they could deflect. But what they weren’t watching was their feet, where all of a sudden, the little blades of grass beneath their boots began to sprout, growing rapidly and twisting higher until they started to close around the men’s ankles.

“What—”

“Fuck!”

“Impedimenta!”

“Crucio!”

“Avada—”

“Bombarda!”

But their swearing, their curses, and their cries were useless. 

Hermione’s curse had caused the grassy tendrils to dig into their skin, to sear and cut into even the coarse material of their Death Eater apparel. Their flesh was being squeezed by magical vines akin to thousands of tiny snakes; it would only be a matter of time before the curse caused their lungs to explode or the snakes reached their faces, the pressure of the enchanted blades of grass enough to pop their eyes out of the sockets. 

Each one of the Death Eaters collapsed to the ground, no longer able to balance or wield their wands. They were withering helplessly next to one another—the more they grunted, their faces turning blue and eyes becoming bloodshot, the higher Hermione's spirits soared. 

She looked to Malfoy and she knew, despite not being able to see his eyes, that he was also riding the same wave of vengeance. This was confirmed when suddenly he reached for her, and directed her back to his chest. His strong arms settled around her middle, and she could feel his breath tickling her ear.

The cold, October wind caressed them, adorning them with golden leaves. Hermione thought the moment would have been utterly romantic had the sounds of wheezing not been present. 

But every moment in his arms was perfect.

“My girl never lets me down,” he whispered. 

She would never let him down and would never tire of him claiming her. The combination of his sheltering embrace and the darkness in his voice set her soul on fire. “You’re so fucking hot right now.”

Dazedly, she relaxed against him, certain that if she had a choice, she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

He nestled further into her neck. “Do you think they’ve had enough?”

She smirked though he couldn’t see it.

One of his hands pressed into the side of her hips. It stayed there for a while before he moved his knuckles lower, his fingertips coming dangerously close to reaching her inner thighs. Despite his thick trousers, she could feel him hard, his erection pressing into her from behind.

They remained like this for a bit, basking in the pleasure from both the pain they inflicted and the closeness of their bodies. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Hermione felt electrified. She didn’t know if he was referring to the torture or his touch, but it was all the same. She had tingles all over.

Malfoy was still leaning in, his head hovering just above her shoulder. “Mind games,” he murmured. 

He stepped away from her suddenly; Hermione shuddered at the loss of him.

“Finite Incantatem.”

The Death Eaters who had been rolling, squirming from the suffocating curse were still. They remained on the ground though, a few tearing their masks off, their mouths wide and gasping for air; they were trying to speak but only capable of sputtering.

Malfoy stared them down. A few tried reaching for their wands or crawling, attempting to grab at the end of his cloak.

They continued to struggle, wincing and coughing from the lingering discomfort. 

“Malfoy, you’ll pay—”

When one of them managed to sit up, a quick, violent burst like a purple flame brought him back down. One by one, the delayed magic of the Trick of Death curse caused each of the Death Eaters to slump back down to the earth where they belonged.

Hermione looked out at the deceased, the many bodies in black robes, and others who were obviously fighters for the Order. The air around her felt heavy with loss of life and the aftershocks of Dark Magic. Whereas a moment ago, the battlefield was riddled with the vibrations of curses and the pleas and grunts of the tortured, everything was now eerily quiet.

Malfoy didn’t turn to her yet; she got the sense he was still on guard, waiting. 

Several feet away, she saw the movement. Perhaps he had already spotted it as well.

There was a girl, no more than sixteen wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans. She was sitting up cautiously, her movement purposely slow so as to not draw attention. The young witch appeared to be looking anxiously at something in the distance— an old football, deflated next to a tree.

Hermione recognised it at once. A Portkey used by the Order. The girl was so young she had not yet learned to Disapparate. 

This teenager was seemingly the only one living and breathing. She would have to make a run for it.

As Hermione watched her, she could tell something was holding her back; maybe it was fear, knowing she stood no chance against two Death Eaters, ones who had just maimed and killed off everyone including their own. 

But it wasn’t that. The witch was grabbing at the sleeve of someone next to her, desperately shaking the arm of a boy who appeared to be even younger than she was, someone who had the same shade of mousy brown hair as her, most likely, her brother. When he didn’t move, the girl let out an ear-splitting  sob, no longer caring if she was spotted. She covered her eyes with her hands, reeling in brokenness from the grief.

Malfoy was already advancing towards her, his wand raised.

Hermione started to run then, leaping over bodies, nearly tripping, not thinking about anything else except getting to the girl. 

“Run!” she wanted to scream. “Go before my lover kills you…”

She was so focused on reaching the girl that she ignored the crackling of magic around her, the various ‘pops’ as figures started to materialise in the field.

There were wands everywhere and white hot flashes of light all aimed at her. The Order had backup, volunteer foreign soldiers arriving too late. There were wizards encircling her, these ones all wearing robes of a light blue. 

 Hermione was already issuing defensive spells back. 

“Confundus!”

“Protego!”

She wasn’t thinking about nor had the minutes to cast out an impressive curse as she only wanted to reach the girl, who she observed was now futilely attempting to drag the boy with her to the Portkey. 

The closer she made it to the pair though, the more it occurred to her that there was nothing she could say to convince the girl to abandon her brother.

Hermione thought about shouting, “Who sent you here? Shacklebolt?”  

But deep down, the answer didn’t even matter. War was deceiving like that—crushing regret lurked in the same shadows as the notions of good conquering evil.  Everyone talked about the possibilities of bloodshed and death, but no one talked about the guilt from the hasty decisions that lead to those realities. It was rage-inducing to see the Order was still sending out their young to fight without training.

“Imperio!”

Hermione casted the Unforgivable and watched with anticipation from behind her mask as the witch suddenly dropped the boy’s hand.

“To the Portkey,” she demanded, her voice strained with venom.

 The girl’s eyes were wide as if she had seen a spectral. In her trance, she ran without a second thought to the football. Hermione watched the girl vanish, she turned back to the picture unfolding out in the clearing.

All of the fighters from this volunteer Order troop were sending jinxes and curses out at Malfoy. The sky was ablaze with a dozen colours, a mixture of lethal and non-deadly spells shooting through the air. He was holding his own naturally, dodging their attempts and issuing multiple green blasts of the Death Curse.

It had only been seconds since she went after the girl, but Hermione felt excitement bubbling in her chest as she watched these wizards battle him. They had arrived too late to aid their allies, and now they seemed all too proud to combine their efforts to take down the single Death Eater before them, completely ignorant of his power and ability.

Her eyes drifted to the lifeless body of the young boy—the girl’s brother. 

As much as it rattled her, she knew she was undergoing a brutal transformation. She wouldn’t blame herself for having empathy; she once was that same girl fighting for the greater good. But the War had snuffed out the flame inside of her that flickered for philosophical goodness…there was another fire in her, one small but raging and impossible to extinguish, a blaze that deserved to burn before anything else.

As she watched green sparks scatter down across the land and the bodies of several Order soldiers collapse, she knew then that Malfoy had already come to terms with his own morality months, maybe years ago. He didn’t have empathy, but he wasn’t killing for Voldemort’s agenda. He killed out of selfishness and necessity so much so he was numb to all the screams of horror and tears of regret. He spared no one and nothing he did kept him awake at night, nothing except for—

Hermione charged forward, her legs carrying her full speed as she was powered by adrenaline and the wild need to protect the only man in this ruined magical world she cared for.

“Crucio!”

A scorching trail of red light shot forth from her wand. She aimed it at a wizard with his back turned, one least expecting an attack on the outskirts of the group. Several others sent spells her way, but Hermione dodged them, all the while turning to elicit more Unforgivables.

“Imperio!”

She casted the Imperius this time on the soldier who was confronting her, directing his motions instead towards the one fighting next to him. He was her puppet, and this time, she made him cast the Cruciatus. 

Hermione continued like this, inflicting her own torture upon the Order fighters while putting others under spells and causing them to do the same to one another. With every shot of magic leaving her wand, she could feel her anger subsiding, like it was being pulled from her psyche.

The Cruciatus Curse was effective in bringing the fighters to the ground. Even after releasing the curse after several seconds, most were in too much pain, withering on the ground and unable to get back to their feet in time to retaliate.

Directly across from her, on the opposite end, Malfoy was still casting Avadas. But this time, he followed her pattern of the torture curses and promptly went after those who were still dodging the spells. It was real teamwork.

Soon, the number of soldiers alive and fighting dropped to less than ten. Though they were still outnumbered, Hermione could sense the other wizards’ fear—she saw it in their eyes as they looked around at everyone who had vanished.

Malfoy was relentless; she didn’t know how he had the fortitude inside him to keep going. But every Death Curse of his was sent with precision, expertly casted with controlled wrath and the necessary disregard for another’s beating heart. The ease with which he killed made it look like the casting of the curses was cathartic for him as well. 

When there was only one soldier left, Malfoy pretended to raise his wand in the formation to cast an Avada, but he angled it differently, casting Locomotor Mortis instead. He gestured for Hermione to come near, his gloved index finger beckoning her to him.

Keeping her wand pointed directly at the leg-locked wizard, Hermione stalked across the battlegrounds, once again careful not to fall over the fallen.

“Mais qu'est-ce que j'ai fait pour mériter ça?” 

She observed the young man, evidently a recruit from France, trembling from the waist up as she passed. His eyes were bulging, his expression filled with terror as he awaited his fate.

When she reached Malfoy, she wondered if he was going to teach her the Death Curse again. But he took hold of her by the elbow, bringing her to his side.

“The Order recruited these extra forces to capture me,” he said. 

“Well, they know they don’t stand a chance.” Hermione looked at the soldier. His eyes had closed and he seemed to be mumbling a prayer. “Of course they need other wizards to fight their battles. The more helpless, the better,” she added bitterly.

Malfoy stood unmoving. “But they must plan on finding you.”

“They want me dead.” Hermione spoke the words aloud mostly to herself as she worked out the likelihood of it all. Obviously, the Order was going to battle against any enemy, any Death Eater. But Malfoy was right. As for any special missions, it made sense they would send soldiers get her. Technically, Ron and Ginny had already threatened to kill her before, but it was the most idle threat she had ever heard coming from those two. 

“They don’t need you dead.” Malfoy turned to her now, though she couldn’t gauge his expression from under the mask. 

The way he said it, Hermione knew. The Order needed her away from him and they didn’t need her fighting against them. But what they really didn’t need was the ‘creation of a half-blood.’ As much as it was Harry’s aim to go after the Horcruxes and defeat Voldemort, their side was still trying to stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled in that way.

She continued staring at the soldier who was probably contemplating his death by now. “What do they think they could do at this point?”

“Force you to kill me,” he offered, his voice thick. “And...you know.”

She was glad at this moment for the mask. Inside, there were so many emotions battling their way to the surface; she was certain her face was distraught. This was nothing new, but the weight of the War, of a world no longer welcoming, seemed very heavy again. She wasn’t even pregnant, but somehow she felt a strong sense of indignation at the injustice of everything. She had to fight because she would never— they would never—be able to live a peaceful life no matter who won the War. Both sides would make it so that they wouldn’t  be able to live. 

They would have to be careful in the timing of everything—the dismantling of the Dark Lord’s regime and the destruction of the Order.

Malfoy apparently sensed her overthinking. He didn’t say anything, but he reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Somehow, even that small gesture made her heart flutter. It was his way of saying he understood—he was never leaving her side.

It occurred to Hermione once more as she stood, dressed as one of her enemies, in a land littered with corpses, just how much she really needed him. She felt so much warmth; he was that fire and light inside her, the only one who could bring her out of all this darkness.

Still holding her hand, he  walked her with him until they were a few steps away from the soldier whose legs were still bound by Locomotor Mortis.

“Encore juste une petite chose et vous pouvez partir,” Malfoy said to the man, lowering his wand.

The soldier gasped and then a single tear slid down his cheek. “Je vous remercie du fond du cœur,” he responded. His eyes conveyed a look of surprise and relief.

Malfoy made a motion to Disapparate with Hermione, stepping back with her ever so slightly. But then he turned sharply, his body language indicating it was her move. 

With a simple flick of her wand, Hermione placed the curse:

“Caecum in Aeternum.”

The whites of the wizard’s eyes suddenly turned black; his vision was interrupted and he must have felt lost seeing the battlefield swirl into a rainbow of colours before everything went dark. He let out a loud, unstable whimper and looked out to nowhere, as he was unable to put his hands over his burning eyes.

Malfoy didn’t leave him in the pathetic state for long. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

He had done this, she hoped, not solely to be cruel, but to give her the practice she so desperately needed.

“This,” he said, squeezing her hand again, “this is what matters.” Malfoy didn’t elaborate and he didn’t need to. His words conveyed the indestructible truth that she belonged to him and he belonged to her. The War would never take that away from them.

Hermione was inspecting the contents on a shelf. There was a mouldy jar filled with bug carcusses and a box containing fishing hooks and twine. 

They were waiting somewhere near the edge of the woods, in some kind of shanty, not too far from the battle site. Malfoy was insistent that the Order would return to the clearing.

“Someone has to collect the dead.” 

She turned back, hearing him exhale, and watched him run a hand through his damp blonde locks. They had taken off their masks for the time being. He continued to fix his hair, but then his gaze shifted to her, those silver irises still the most stunning she had ever seen.

Hermione could tell Malfoy was trying to recuperate. Though she could barely hear him panting, his chest was heaving and his cheeks were still flushed from exertion; little beads of sweat made his face dewy  in the dim lighting of the shack. It took a lot out of him, she imagined, to cast that many Death Curses continuously.  She knew how powerful he must have felt in the moment, channelling his rage so efficiently he was able to decimate two entire forces.

The curses she had cast were similar only in that fact that they were performed brilliantly as her clear intentions behind them powered her to torture without remorse. But her magic had not directly ended another’s life—she wondered what kind of after effects Malfoy might experience.

She recalled researching the repercussions of casting Avada Kedavra long ago. reading about things like coldness, tremors sickness, depression and nightmares. 

As Hermione studied him though, she began to feel a certain concern combined with that same resentment she held for the world again. She didn’t care if it was wrong or mad of her to think so, but Malfoy didn’t deserve to hurt. Not when he was doing this to protect her, to give them both a shot at a life after all of this…not when he was killing for her out of—

“Malfoy.”

His name escaped her lips as soon as the thought formed. He was killing for her out of… Hermione inched towards him, her own eyes fixating on him like a moth drawn to a flame. He had that half-smile, the one that suggested maybe he was thinking of naughty things or trying to conceal just how much his heart really beat for her.

“Hermione.” 

He spoke her actual name, catching her off guard and throwing her heart rate into a tizzy. His tone was a low, sexy rumble, one that undoubtedly suggested ‘come here, now.’

The desire between them was palpable, growing more intense as she approached. 

“Thank you,” Hermione said breathlessly. She placed her hands on his pectoral muscles and raised herself onto her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss. He didn’t reject the kiss, but she could sense that he was about ready to scoff at her. ‘For what?’

“Draco.” 

But she whispered his given name to him too, and at the same time, bent down to run her hands down the front of his buttoned black shirt until her fingers reached his waist, effectively silencing him.

Hermione knew his eyes were pinned to her, watching her every move as she lowered herself onto her knees and unbuckled his belt. Without timidness and without thinking of the last time she did something like this, she unzipped his trousers. She heard his breath hitch as she pulled down his boxers to take his length into her hand. 

She knew Draco was aroused before, finding her undeniably alluring as he pressed up into her bum while they celebrated the demise of the Death Eaters. Now, she wanted to make him thick with need for her again. Wanted to make him come.

In the limited number of times they had had sex, excluding of course the time she prayed wouldn’t permanently taint their intimacy, she had never had the chance to actually take in the sight of his cock up close, to really touch him or to taste him. She decided to run her hand along him first, allowing herself to let her touches be exploratory and finding that he must have liked how she tugged at him lightly as he let out a short huff. 

“Fuck...”

Hermione could tell her grip was more teasing in the way it wasn’t enough, but she felt she was doing something right, feeling him grow hard once again. She continued to caress him, relishing in the little noises he made and felt all the more encouraged when he made a sound like that of a moan and a sigh. She continued to stroke him in her hand, and then paused to lean in, planting a single kiss upon his inner thigh before bringing her lips to his cock.

He groaned again as soon as her tongue darted out, licking him in a manner that wasn’t hesitant, more experimental to test what he liked. She paused, still holding him, to trace her tongue around her lips, wetting them and deciding at the same time that she liked the taste of him. She didn’t know why, but the texture and flavour of him was so appealing, it was making her core clench; she was feeling turned on.

Hermione returned her mouth to him and angled her head this time, licking up from the base of his throbbing cock to the tip. With her free hand, she reached out tentatively and then worked up her courage to grasp his testicles, having read in Muggle magazines this was something guys liked. She massaged them, all the while still pumping and licking his smooth length. At this, he grunted and dropped his hands down to her shoulders, letting his fingers dance along the back of her neck.

“What is this for?” 

His voice was sultry, lost in the sensations and not at all mad sounding despite the abruptness of the question. His hips jolted as she worked him, causing him to grab the back of her head now, guiding her reflexively into him.

Hermione found herself unable to stop the smile from forming on her lips. She shrugged, and licked him once more before responding: “You're good to me.”

“Hmm.”

A low hum left him not only in reaction to her words, but also to the fact she had him in her mouth now. Her lips were suctioned firmly now and she started to suck gently at first, her head bobbing and her tongue running along his ridges; she learned that she loved the power it gave her knowing he was losing himself to this pleasure she gave him.

A pop resounded as Hermione pulled his tip from her mouth. She wanted to keep sucking, but had thought of something she wanted to inquire about. 

“I didn’t know you could speak French,” she said, her voice raspy.

She had been impressed by his command of the language earlier, though she assumed his Pure-blood upbringing required him to be so cultured as a boy.

He groaned as she kissed him before putting him back in her mouth. She began sliding up and down him again, loving the way his fingers played in her curls, the way he took all her hair in his fist when she circled her tongue under his head where he seemed to be most sensitive.

“Je ne suis pas bien sans toi.”

He was breathing so heavily, his words came out soft but garbled.

Hermione felt her mouth twisting into a grin again; she wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to leave him again, so she decided to suck him harder in response. She made the mental note to ask him what he said later. It shouldn’t have been unexpected then when she glanced up at him only to see that he was looking down at her too, his eyes filled with lust but shining bright as diamonds, mesmerised by the sight of her. She was also lost to watching his eyelashes flutter when she applied extra pressure. She normally would have blushed from such unwavering eye contact, but instead she only felt comfort in this connection to him, in this effervescent feeling she experienced being with him. 

His hands were on the back of her head and he was rocking into her now; she took as much of his cock as she could, gagging a bit when he hit the back of her throat. Eyes watering, she continued caressing him with her tongue though, amazed that she felt his length stiffen, not thinking that was possible.

Draco made a quick motion then, yanking her head to pull her off of him. He was grunting, his words coming out between wispy breaths. 

“I can’t—Hermione, if you—fuck, I’m going to—”

But Hermione didn’t release him, didn’t stop sucking him. She only increased the pressure until he was coming. She watched him, too; his face was gorgeous as he threw this head back in rapture at the exact same time his hips jutted to her. He came in spurts, filling her mouth with hot saltiness.

She was unsure of what to do. Draco’s grip on her hair had loosened, but then tensed when suddenly they heard voices coming from right outside the shack:

“Let them capture me. This will buy you and Ginny time to break into—”

“No! It's too risky…you really expect a Death Eater to just swallow any story you concoct?”

The door swung open. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t like Hermione intended to spend the rest of the day on her knees with her mouth full of come, but the intrusion of the all-too-familiar voices entering the shack caused her to swallow with urgency.

Draco, for his part, was already pulling up his boxers.

“What in the....” 

“For the love of Godric Gryffindor—”

“Stupefy !”

Ginny had cast the Stunner.

She felt the white hot heat of it soar over her head and before she could do anything, Draco fell limply on top of her.

“No, no…” Hermione mumbled to herself as the weight of him crushed her. She couldn’t reach her wand which was tucked into the holster on her thigh. But looking down, she found Draco’s wand attached to his belt loop.

“Kill him! Now’s your chance, Harry—”

“Not yet—”

“Fine. I’ll do it!”

“No, she has the Elder!”

…

“Avada—”

“Expelliarmus.”

“—Kedav—”

“Bombarda! ”

The wooden beams supporting the shack snapped; the walls crumbled and the residual smoke made it impossible to see. Not waiting for the dust to clear, Hermione aimed his wand behind her shoulder.

 “Protego Maxima .”

A silver bubble formed above and then more spells ricocheted off it one by one: trails of green, blue, and red raced and exploded and then fizzled into nothingness. Relieved, Hermione used all of her strength to twist herself around, pulling Draco in front of her. With his head resting upon her chest, she could now grab hold of her own wand. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she almost thought Draco would awaken from the thudding of her heart which was about to pound right out of her ribcage.

Glancing down, Hermione could see his eyes were wide open in shock. But his face still had that freshly-fucked glow to it and if she wasn’t so on edge, she would have been amused. Needing him to be battle ready, she placed his wand into his palm, not the least bit surprised it was loyal to her.

Outside the shield, she watched as Harry, Ginny, and Bill Weasley kept their wands pointed. Their voices were muffled, but of course she could hear them arguing.

“It’s not worth it. We should go,” Ginny was saying. Her eyes were darting nervously between Bill and Harry.

But Harry was adamant. “No. I need the Elder Wand.”

“We also need them dead. You almost had him, Ginny! Why give up now? There’s three of us.” Bill took a step closer to the shield.

“We’re no match,” Ginny replied, shaking her head. “You haven’t seen them fight together.”

“Hermione can’t truly be a Death Eater. There’s no way.”

Ginny made a scoffing noise. “She’s not. She’s deluded; that’s what she is. This is why we need to kill Malfoy. She’s nothing without him.”

“Are we certain she’s not Imperiused?” Bill asked, shrugging. “I mean, she looked like she was sucking him off. And Snape did say he raped her.”

“She’s not Imperiused,” Ginny said through clenched teeth. “Malfoy is a murderous scumbag, but she’s worse. She’s a traitor! So much so, she would willingly subject herself to that—”

“You should leave,” Harry interjected, his attention still focused on the protective bubble. 

“No, you can’t possibly take them on by yourself.”

They were still debating. But their voices were drowned out as Hermione’s ears filled with a ringing, with the surging of blood that was the rage coursing through her veins, overtaking her system.

She’s nothing without him…she would willingly subject herself to that.

She knew it wasn’t the truth, but it stung. Ginny didn’t have the whole story, and therefore could never understand her conflicted emotions, the stirrings of hope, regret, and disillusionment deep in her heart. She had expected the War to interrupt her life, to take away her peace.  She had even been prepared to face the death and destruction accompanying battles, but she had not anticipated that the most difficult fight of all would be the one for herself and now the one she had come to care deeply for.

She realised then, in this split second before breaking the shield, that as livid as the  words had made her, Ginny was onto something. If needing Draco made her weak…then so be it. She would not hide from that truth.

Without another thought, Hermione placed a kiss upon Draco’s forehead. She was still holding him tightly in her arms, the warmth of his body helping to turn her fury into the strength she needed to fight.

“Rennervate.”

She whispered the spell and then felt the spasm in Draco’s body as he was revived. His eyelids fluttered open; his eyes drifted to hers briefly and with a look of determination, he was on his feet just as the shield surrounding them dissolved.

There was a flurry of sparks and scattered lights again and then shouting lost into the air:

“Expelli —”

“Serpens Qui Necat !”

“Confrin–! ”

“Crucio.”

Draco had Bill Weasley on the ground first, his wand directing the red laser of light from the Cruciatus. He was thrashing about, his legs flailing up and down, whimpering for mercy.

His pleading was drowned out by a scream from Ginny. She was just about to aim a spell towards Draco, but instead fell to her knees. Her eyes grew wide with shock as she realised the black strings of her trainers were starting to creep up her legs.

Guiding the magic with more precision, Hermione held her wand high, steadying her wrist as the curse took hold, watching as Ginny shut her eyes out of fear. Her lips were moving but no sound came out when Harry rushed to her side.

“Hermione, stop! Don’t do this.” Harry held out his hands, as if they alone could stop the curse from already taking effect.

“I have no other choice,” Hermione responded, her voice numb and void of emotion. She might as well have been Imperiused; she had fallen off the ledge of reason so long ago, but nothing she said or did before that made any difference. 

Harry turned, steadying his feet in front of Ginny.

“Harry, move.”

“Ca…cru… Cruci—.” He tried the incantation, waving his wand in a hesitant motion, but only appeared frustrated as nothing happened. 

But Hermione ignored Harry whose attempt at the Unforgivable was half-hearted at best. She worked on intensifying the intention of her own spell; she could see Ginny’s face growing red as she was gasping for air, the tendrils of Dark Magic squeezing around her.

To her left, she was vaguely aware that Bill had stopped moving. Hermione couldn’t tell exactly what was happening, but Draco was leaning over him.

The wisps of magic had Ginny by the throat now causing the shade of her skin to shift from scarlett to a bruised purplish-black. 

“Hermione! Please. You don’t need to be so cruel.”

Hermione lowered her hand. The dark mist surrounding her evaporated. She moved sharply, now angling her wand threateningly towards Harry.

“You don’t know what you speak of,” she spat. “If I am truly nothing, then she should consider this curse a sign of my generosity, my goodwill. Cruelty comes in many forms, and if any of you think that for one second I will stop fighting for myself and,” she paused, her eyes flitting over to Draco, “everything I hold dear, then you are sorely mistaken.”

Ginny was gasping for air; Harry looked torn as to whether to respond or to help his girlfriend. “Hermione, we don’t need to—”

“We do,” she insisted. “I already said my goodbye to you. You should know the greater good means nothing to me. And I say this to you as powerless as I am, as a prisoner.”

Hermione did not let her gaze or hold on her wand falter. Not only that, but she was ready; she was prepared to fight Harry if she had to. He would not stand a chance at disarming her.

“Crucio.”

The red light made both Harry and Hermione flinch. 

Draco had reinstated the curse on Bill; it should not have been a particularly startling moment as he had been on the ground for quite some time now. Even with the crunch of what sounded to be bones breaking, Draco did not blink or show a single sign of being affected. As he performed the torture, his eyes narrowed with warning over to Harry.

“Avada Kedavra.”

There was a flash of green and Bill was gone. Draco remained eerily calm. His lips curled into a satisfied smile and he lowered his wand, taking a step towards Harry.

“Bill…no…” Harry clenched his fist, but he was too shaken up to cast a curse of his own. He seemed to be in a state of mental agony over Ginny who was still hunched over and clearly not able to stand or raise her wand in defence.

“You’re not powerless, Hermione,” Harry said finally, his voice strained. He reached into his pocket and removed something that looked like a silver flask. Hermione recognised it as the one that had belonged to Moody. “Is that what you want to hear?”

He moved one of Ginny’s hands to cover the flask and placed one hand over his own over top of hers while reaching over to touch Bill’s wrist.

“Good will always triumph over evil,” he added, though he wasn’t looking at her. “You can make any excuse you want, but—”

“Goodness will always win.” Wand raised, Hermione jutted towards him; stray ringlets halfway covered her face and though her voice was raspy and marked by a certain feralness, she was fearless. “It just looks different these days.”

And before another word could be exchanged, the group was gone.

They had no sooner Disapparated from the battlefield and arrived back in the bedroom at the Manor when Draco held out his arm.

“Just stay here,” he said, rolling his eyes as he rolled up his sleeve. Hermione watched as the inky snake undulated beneath his skin. 

She caught herself biting the skin of her lip. Just as she thought about reaching out to him, Draco grabbed hold of her first. He pulled her into his grasp; he smelled of smoke and ash and his body radiated a sort of cold electricity, the after effect of casting the Death Curse. His hand found the back of her head and he devoured her with a kiss that was no doubt both a guarantee that he would return and a reminder not to worry. 

Draco pointed his wand at the Dark Mark and Disapperated. 

Due to their combined efforts, a large number of Death Eaters had been killed earlier, but Hermione didn’t see how Voldemort could pin the deaths on him when there were no witnesses or evidence left behind. But he left her with no formal  goodbye, only the kiss, perhaps to remind her that he wasn’t worried. There was no use fretting over a punishment that hadn’t even happened. 

Hermione decided to shower. As the hot water cascaded down her body, she imagined the grunge of the day evaporating out of her pores. She watched as the steam rose above the glass door and fogged up the adjacent mirror. Meanwhile, her thoughts were a thick fog clouding her mind.

The War had changed everyone whether they wanted to admit it or not, even Harry who clung to his virtues and could not bring himself to torture though he had tried. His aim had always been to defeat Voldemort and he had not made this War personal against her, at least not until now. He was hopelessly desperate for the Elder Wand. But it was unlike Harry, she thought, to place all his hope into an object, a vessel, rather than a person…rather than himself. 

Turning off the taps, Hermione stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. She scrunched her locks until they formed springs and shook her head as if to scatter away the wild image from behind her eyelids, the one of herself in the middle of a final duel between Harry and Voldemort. If she could hold a funeral in her heart for her old friend, she would.

Wrapping herself in the familiar fluffy robe, Hermione took one last glance in the fogged mirror. She had to do a double-take, thinking she saw Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hours had passed. 

The sun had long set and Tilly had already cleared the afternoon tea and was now vanishing the remains of her dinner of cottage pie.

“If Master wishes to eat, he can help himself in the kitchen,” she said in her small voice, irked at Draco’s absence.

Hermione didn’t reply to the elf, but stretched out on the chair, letting her feet dangle in her boredom over the armrest. All these months later, she was in the same place. Of course Harry and Ginny wouldn’t understand her choices let alone her battle. She was still so far from freedom, so far from possessing any kind of autonomy or authority. 

And she knew that soon, she would be pregnant. While it was impossible to even imagine what that would be like or how she would feel, there was a part of her wondering how it would affect her…usefulness. Seeing as Draco had barely come around to it, deep down she was sure it was because he needed her fighting alongside him. He needed her just as much if not more than she needed him.

Before long, her eyes had closed and Hermione was in a dream. It must have been a vivid sequence because she could only remember running through the woods, her heart pounding. But her eyes flickered open and focused to view a dark figure in the room.

Her neck was stiff, but from her contorted position on the chair, she could see that Draco had returned. He was undressing, vanishing the boots from his feet and hanging his cloak in the wardrobe. 

When his eyes caught hers, Hermione felt her heart spasm in alarm. There was a rapturous quality to his irises, a swirling depth that seemed to indicate he was lost in his thoughts. What if he was hurt but trying to hide it? What if he had the scorching red gashes upon his back again?

He must have noticed the concern cross over her face because his expression changed immediately into something lighter.

“I thought you’d be in bed,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her.

“You know I could never purposely sleep without knowing that you’re alright. Are you? Did he—were you punished?”

She sat up now, straightening herself against the back of the chair. She was watching him intently, though he did not seem to be wincing in pain.

He unbuttoned his shirt and tore it away from his body. He turned sharply as if to indicate he was untouched. Hermione’s eyes were transfixed on his muscular pale chest where only white scars could be seen.

“Not in the usual manner,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm. 

Wearing only his trousers, Draco closed the doors to the wardrobe and then walked towards her. His eyes seemed to drink her in as they always did; there was a definite fondness to his gaze, perhaps seeing she was clean and comfortable in the robe again. He lowered himself so that he could kneel next to the chair, his head level with her chest.

Hermione couldn’t help but run her fingers through his hair. She would never tell him, but she loved when his locks were dirty and unkempt. The texture was still soft and the strands settled into and just above his eyelashes, making him appear devilish and unpredictable like a fallen angel.

“The Dark Lord interrogated me about the massacre,” he explained. “But he was pleased to find out that a troop from France had been decimated.”

“That’s odd,” Hermione commented, still stroking his hair. “You’d think he’d be angered by the loss of Death Eaters. Anytime blood is spilled, he takes it out on you.”

“Rightfully,” Draco said, shrugging. “He could be testing me. He can’t risk injuring me if he truly is afraid of the Order gaining momentum. He says he wants to send me away to France and then Romania to stomp out any rebel forces before they even have a chance to fight.”

Her fingers stilled and she frowned. “When are you leaving? How long will you be gone?

“I don’t know yet. He didn’t say. I think he wants you pregnant first.” His voice was quieter now, marked by a heaviness.

 “I see.” 

Except Hermione didn’t really see. She didn’t want to think about him going away, considering the fact she would be doing nothing else besides missing him and rotting in bed.

As if sensing her worries, Draco put a hand on her thigh and looked up at her. “The Dark Lord may change his mind,” he said reassuringly. “I’m still not rushing what has to happen. The last thing I want to do is leave you.”

The admittance made her heart swell. Even more, she could feel the skin on her leg prickling from his touch.

“I know.” The words came out as a whisper even though a smile had formed fully across her face.

“There’s something else,” he added, his eyes flickering with deep thought again, “well two things. First, when I looked into the Weasley’s mind today, I came across some interesting Order plans. He was planning on being captured to enact some sort of rescue mission for his brother.”

“Awful bold of Bill to assume he was worth being taken prisoner in the first place.” Hermione kept her expression even. She pretended to be quite interested in her fingernails.

At this, Draco laughed. He grinned up at her; it was a real smile that reached his eyes. “Damn, Hermione. This is why I—I thought the same. But never mind that.”

“Unless his decomposing corpse is capable of organising a coup.”

“Doubtful,” Draco responded, still chuckling. “But anyway, there is another plan involving Potter and the Weaslette. I didn’t see how, but they are planning to break into Gringotts to steal a cup belonging to the Dark Lord.”

Hermione felt her muscles stiffen. “A Horcrux,” she said. “It has to be.”

Draco nodded. “I’ve confirmed the plan with Snape. Actually, it’s because of him that they even have the idea—he gave Potter the suggestion. The cup is locked in my Aunt Bellatrix’s vault. They plan on breaking in Christmas Eve.”

“That’s still a ways away,” she said, thinking out loud. “It would be nearly impossible to break into the bank let alone a vault. I suppose they will use his Invisibility Cloak.”

“Originally, I believe the mission hinged more on Snape’s involvement,” Draco added. “But now that he knows I know, I doubt he’ll want to be included. Bellatrix doesn’t know and neither does the Dark Lord.”

“Part of me wants Harry to have this victory,” Hermione said with a sigh. “We also need the Horcruxes destroyed. Out of curiosity, do you trust Snape?” 

Snape of course was the only one who really knew the truth of what was going on between them. But he had never offered any support; his demeanour had never indicated anything other than pity.

Draco’s eyes flashed and he gave her a dark smile. “I trust Snape enough not to kill him.”

Hermione’s brain was running through a reel of different scenarios. “The Dark Lord would be enraged if he knew one of his last Horcruxes was destroyed and you knew about it,” she surmised. “We could pin this all on Snape. But if it backfires and he tells the Dark Lord about us…I don’t want to take the risk.”

 “I don’t want to blow Snape’s cover for that very reason,” Draco said. “I learned Legilimency from him years ago. Despite that, I wouldn’t say we have anything more than an unspoken agreement not to cross each other. But I don’t know his aim and he doesn’t know mine.”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. “Your aunt seems a bit flighty. Otherwise, she could secure the cup for you and replace it with a fake. Potter would steal the dupe and we could destroy the real one later.”

Draco chuckled again. “Auntie Bella is deranged. She wouldn’t miss an opportunity to show off in front of the Dark Lord. She couldn’t keep a secret. But your idea of replacing the cup is quite intriguing.”

“That’s it!” Hermione exclaimed, reaching her hand out to squeeze his forearm. “We’ll sneak in Christmas Eve and transfigure a fake. I can Polyjuice myself into Bellatrix to get into the vault. Later, you can present the cup to Bellatrix. Tell her you pried it out of Potter’s hands before he could steal it. The Dark Lord will be so relieved that neither of you will get punished. You can offer to keep the cup at the Manor.”

“Or I can insist the cup is safest at Lestrange Manor. That way the blame falls on her and the other Death Eaters when we ultimately destroy it.”

“Alright,” Hermione agreed, nodding. “We’ll just need a strand of her hair. There’s plenty of time to brew the potion, as long as Harry’s plans don’t change.”

“I won’t inform Snape of the mission, but I’ll try to find out what he knows,” Draco replied. He stood to stretch an arm over his head. Yawning, he was clearly exhausted from the day. “The hair will be easy to get—Bellatrix leaves it behind everywhere just like you do.”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest in mock annoyance. She smiled but felt her cheeks burn red. “I do not leave strands of my hair everywhere.”

“Sure you do,” Draco said with tsk. He stepped backwards. “There’s hair on my pillow, on the floor, in the sink. In fact, I pulled a brown curl off my cloak earlier this evening. Good thing I’m supposed to be fucking you, otherwise the Death Eaters might find it suspicious.”

He smirked at her and before Hermione could retort, he disappeared into the bathroom.

When she heard the water running, she slipped out of her robe and changed into one of the silk nightgowns he had given her.

Still feeling rather indignant, Hermione ruffled through the bed and inspected a pillow up close. Sure enough, there was a coiled strand on the case.

With a huff, she crawled under the covers, wrapped herself tightly in the sheets. She spent the next half an hour fighting off sleep, mentally preparing a defence; she was ready to fire back at him with a list of reasons why she was shedding, all of them trauma-induced. Draco wouldn’t be smirking anymore once she reminded him that she was severely malnourished in the Lestrange dungeons. Or maybe she would tell him that her hair had actually been falling out since the time he held her down in Death Eater Hall and—

Her internal monologue ceased abruptly when she realised he had stepped out of the bathroom. The lights were off now and she kept her eyes forcefully shut, wondering if he knew she was still awake. 

But she had her answer when he laid down behind her, positioning his body so that the curve of her back aligned with his chest like they were two puzzle pieces. He draped one arm protectively over her and pulled her flush to him, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck…into her mess of curls. Hermione could smell that he was clean; she breathed in his woodsy body wash as he took in the scent of lavender shampoo.

“I like your hair,” he said, his voice soft and sleepy sounding. 

“You do?” she whispered.

“Mhm,” he hummed, the vibration tickling her ear. “Your hair is wild and beautiful just like you. Whenever I come across a strand on my pillow or in my bathroom or on my clothes, I think about how lucky I am.”

His tone was light and she knew he was smiling, likely teasing her again.

“Really?” she asked with a hesitant grin. Her heart was bursting though; she no longer wanted to make him feel bad but she also didn’t want to ignore the compliment. “I don’t know if I believe you. It's kind of annoying, finding hair everywhere.”

Draco hugged her tightly. “It reminds me that I’m not alone. I have you.”

As he kissed the top of her head, a surge of pure happiness poured out of her heart and into every nerve in her body, making her feel tired and giddy all at once. There was a certain peace and completeness she felt in his arms. She wondered if he felt it as well and then shook the question out of her mind. Of course he felt it.

She thought about kissing him, but she squeezed his hand instead to let him know that she understood.

It was perfect, she thought, falling asleep to these words. 

Chapter Text

“Just trust me.”

Awakened by his voice, Hermione opened her eyes. 

The bedroom wasn’t entirely illuminated, but a sliver of sunlight shining through the curtains brightened Draco’s face. He was still lying next to her, but he was aiming his wand at the side of her temple. She grinned at him, but her expression must have held some scepticism because he leaned in and kissed her fiercely, his hand and the wand tangled in her hair.

The feel of his lips moving against hers was electric; little sparks danced along every nerve ending. Toes curling and eyelids closing again, she pressed further into him. One of her palms touched flat against his chest and although it was not quite over his heart, she still felt his blood racing, his pulse increasing just for her.

He was smiling midkiss and before she could say anything or ask why, Draco rolled on top of her. He pulled both her wrists over her head and held them there while his knees kept the rest of her pinned down.

“You’re making this difficult, you know,” he said, his voice raspy. His blonde locks fell over his brows in the way that she adored, but she could still see his eyes scanning her body, his pupils dilating upon taking her in.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her teeth grazed her lower lip and she was now aware of the urgency in which her own heart was beating. Hermione was locked in place but tried squirming nonetheless, her hips moving because of a familiar tingle between her legs.

It was maddening—this very raw chemistry that existed in the space between them. Like magic, the attraction seemed to take on a life of its own; it was an energy stronger than anything she had ever experienced. Though they had only both come around to the Prophecy, she would not be surprised to learn that the stars had aligned to bring them together.

Draco’s gaze was still transfixed on her, but his demeanour was more serious. 

“How am I supposed to take you to Alden this morning?” he asked, a deep sigh following the words.

She understood the question was rhetorical, but having forgotten about the end-of-the-week appointment, replied anyway.

“It’s alright,” she said, partly lost in her thoughts. “She can probably attest to the fact that there’s a low chance of me getting pregnant at this point in my cycle—”

“It's not that,” Draco interjected, shaking his head. She could practically see the veins in his arms twitching with some kind of restrained emotion. “It will never be alright.”

Hermione wouldn’t disagree with him. 

He released his grip on her hands, but she did not move. The colour of his irises darkened as he held the wand to her again. As he hovered over her, her lower belly clenched with longing.

With a short flick of his wand, Draco whispered the words to an incantation she did not immediately recognise off the top of her head: “Calefactio.”

Her heart jolted despite knowing beyond reason that he would not hurt her.  Hermione watched him intently at the same time his eyes traced her. They were both waiting for some sign of the spell to take effect.

Out of nowhere, she felt a heat spreading under her skin. It wasn’t painful, but her breathing now seemed like a chore. It seemed like there was some type of sickness her pores had to purge, and her neck and forehead suddenly shined with sweat. She knew her body temperature must have risen to unnatural levels.

Draco brought his hand to the side of her head and flinched at the heat before letting his fingers smooth her damp curls. He then smirked, seemingly satisfied. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. His cool breath felt soothing against her hot face as he spoke again.

“I hate having to fuck you like it’s nothing.”

Of course, in the midst of whatever magic he had cast, some intense version of a warming charm, Hermione felt her blood even more on fire for him. 

“I know,” she reminded him. “We do what we have to do. But it’s never nothing.”

His mouth curved into a wry smile. “I thought I could fuck you like you mean nothing.”

“You thought wrong,” she said, nudging her nose to him, urging him to kiss her again. “Very wrong.”

His head dipped lower and exhaled against her shoulder before kissing her on the neck. 

“I want to take my time,” he insisted between kisses. “Bury my cock deep inside you, make you come from the feeling of being so full of me—”

“Draco,” Hermione gasped, feeling beads of perspiration trickling down her face. “Is this…is this a lust spell?”

She didn’t know why he would think to cast such a charm. But momentarily, she panicked, thinking it was true. Though neither one of them would want to perform in front of Alden, she would have thought that Draco knew her better. 

He sat up suddenly and his eyes flashed at her with a mixture of false hurt and amusement. “I’m insulted.”

“I am too,” Hermione said, touching her forehead. She couldn’t be mad though. He always kept her on her toes with his cleverness. There was also the fact she was deeply attracted to his mischievousness, not just the darker side of him, but how he was always so unpredictable. They were a good match like that. She narrowed her eyes, curious as to what the spell was. “You know I don’t need anything to want you.”

Draco chewed on his lip. He didn’t respond, but in one swift motion, yanked back the covers and tugged the side of her nightgown. He guided her towards the edge of the bed with him.

“I know that,” he said, with a certain emphasis. He was on his feet now. “You’re just all hot and bothered naturally. You were made for me. Come on, we need to see Alden.”

He headed over to his wardrobe. “This will be quick,” he added. He winked at her before pulling his t-shirt over his head.

Hermione found she couldn’t look away as she watched him dress in his Death Eater garb. His words of course made her heart soar (“You were made for me”), but now she was looking at the most perfectly defined muscular chest and abdomen. She felt guilty for thinking so, but the scars from Voldemort’s lacerations only made his appearance more desirable. 

“Should I change?” she asked, looking down at herself.

He shook his head. “Not for Alden. We’ll stop back here to eat and you can get dressed.”

“Alright.” She didn’t question him, knowing he always made their plans for the day. Secretly, she was hoping there would be time for her to shower since her skin was all sticky.

Draco of course didn’t seem to mind in the least. Once his dragonhide boots were on, he sauntered over to her. “Tsk, tsk, Granger,” he said, pulling her close. “You left me hard.”

Her eyes flitted down below his belt as if she needed proof. His trousers were tight and the armour he wore combined with the long cloak couldn’t quite conceal it. 

“I’m not sorry about that,” she quipped.

“Incarcerous.”

He had cast the chains to her wrists without warning. Taking one exaggerated step forward, he caused her to stumble right into him.

“You shouldn’t be,” he said, turning back to her with a knowing look. “Anyway, let’s get this over with.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. She had felt so invincible in the last week, sending out curses and torture spells every day on the battlefield. She would have to hold back and at least pretend to know her place. She wasn’t planning on speaking to Alden at all, but rather on letting him lead. 

Draco stroked her arm, just where she knew his Dark Mark was. “We have places to be, people to kill.” He leaned down and his hand found the back of her head. “I have you to fuck, taking my time of course.”

Her body temperature was already off the charts, but now her knees were weak and her heart had practically dissolved into her bloodstream. Hearing him talk of violence and his lust for her at once did things to her inside that she could never admit to anyone…she could barely admit it to herself.

They walked in silence for what felt like several minutes, past many closed doors and the main staircase to the other wing. Having only spent time in Draco’s room except for the time she found Narcissa soulless, the manor seemed foreign to Hermione. She could tell the portraits were charmed not to speak, but they seemed to sneer at her even more.

Draco stopped and hesitated outside a room with double doors. He released a short breath and then looked back at her, his expression and stance hardening. He didn’t say anything, but she could read him. His brows were furrowed and in the darkness of the corridor, the shadows fell heavily onto his face, making his pointy features appear rather intimating. 

He turned sharply and strode into the room. Hermione followed behind as best as she could, nearly tripping due to the pull of the magical chains.

“She’s still sick.”

He looked at Alden with accusation, folding his arms across his chest. 

The Mediwitch was seated on a sofa, sipping from a steaming mug of tea. She blinked as if not hearing him quite correctly, her eyes drifting beyond him to Hermione. Meanwhile, Tilly was standing nearby, nonchalantly arranging a tray of pastries. The elf stole a cautious glance as well, her eyes wider than ever.

“I said, ‘She’s still sick,’” Draco repeated. His voice was not louder, but softer actually and laced with malice.

Alden rose, wiping her hands on her robes. “It is possible there could be some type of secondary infection. She does look a bit flushed.”

Draco’s shoulders tensed and he made the move to observe Hermione with effort, his body shifting to her with great disgust. It wasn’t real, but she had recalled this dramatic behaviour from him in the past, during their years at Hogwarts.

“I don’t fancy looking at the Mudblood, let alone touching or inspecting her. That’s your job,” he said derisively. “I have assignments in both France and Romania next month. The Dark Lord would not be pleased to learn I caught a disease from her. He would especially not be understanding if she remained ill under your watch, so ill she would not be able to bear my child.”

Alden shook her head and rushed towards Hermione. “It's obvious she’s running a fever. I just need to run some diagnostics. Can you bring her to the bed?”

Draco didn’t reply, but turned away at once, pulling Hermione with him to the queen-sized bed on the other side of the room. He stopped towards the edge of the mattress to cast a quick blast of magic that forced Hermione upon the bed.

“Lie down.”

Before Hermione could even react to him, Alden was waving her wand above her forehead.

“Her body temperature is elevated,” she was saying. 

Hermione could see that Draco had stepped away. She was still connected to him by the Incarcerous spell, but he was leaning down and whispering to Tilly, who was nodding her head. 

A complex pattern of many coloured lights and formations lit up the space above her head; Alden in turn had a Quick-Notes-Quill frantically scribbling away in an old journal. “Her vitals are good though, very good. I daresay that she is in better shape physically than she was the last time I saw her. I checked—there is no infection in her organs or her blood. But she does have a fever.”

Draco didn’t say a word to that. Tilly vanished and he approached the bed with reservation. He brought a hand to his chin and stole a glance at Hermione before turning his attention to Alden.

“Inform me,” he said, his voice void of any discernible emotion, “what happens when she becomes pregnant?” 

Alden seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him. “What do you mean? I’m following your instructions to provide her prenatal care here at the Manor. Once the child is born, well, I assume my duties are over.” The way in which the mediwitch’s voice faded gave Hermione chills though she was burning up internally.

Draco was quiet, his gaze fixed upon the floor.

For some time, Alden continued having the Quill take notes. The atmosphere in the room buzzed with tension, the current stronger than when they first entered.

“I’ve taken a great risk in opening up my Wards to you…and her,” Draco said finally, glaring down at Hermione. “It would be a shame to come to find that my orders were not being followed.”

“A shame indeed,” Alden agreed. “And just so I know, your orders are the same as the Dark Lord’s?” she asked. She seemed like she was just trying to busy herself now, casting an array of different magical medical scans over Hermione.

Draco nodded. “The same,” he said easily. “This is all for the Prophecy of course. The conception guarantees the downfall of the Order.”

Alden pointed to a circular light on the diagnostic. “Unfortunately, her fertile window this month has passed. But next month, with the help of the fertility potion and without any sickness, she should be able to conceive. But it still might be worth it for you to try today—”

“I can get her pregnant all on my own,” Draco cut in. “Next month.”

Alden seemed taken aback. “I’m just trying to help. The Dark Lord has specifically tasked me with overseeing this project. I understand it is not very pleasant for you to be intimate with her, so I am on a strict timeline to ensure—”

“Pleasant?” He looked down at Hermione with dismay and then back at Alden. “You think I care about ‘pleasant’ when I’m murdering hundreds for the Dark Lord? Do you honestly think I care about ‘pleasant,’ coming back to this empty Manor day after day where my mother isn’t dead enough to be declared dead? Do you think ‘pleasant’ is on my mind when I’m still being punished for the failures of my father? Fucking the mudblood is nothing.”

Alden flinched as Draco took one menacing step closer.

 “I didn’t mean to say it like that. If I don’t carry out this task for the Dark Lord, then I am afraid…” She trailed off but gulped audibly.

A twisted smile took over Draco’s face. He was enjoying Alden’s unease.

 “You need to be afraid of me,” he started, “because while I follow the Dark Lord’s orders too, I also have whims. Something might set me off. You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I celebrated my sixteenth birthday by killing my Headmaster. After all these years, I’m quite numb to the effects of the Death Curse. So numb in fact, that casting that green light is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

The Mediwitch shook her head. “That’s not right—nothing about that is right. I could—I can try to help you. I have access to the best potions, to the best mind Healers. You’re right. Once this War is over, we can all look forward to some normalcy.”

“‘Normalcy,’” Draco repeated the word and chuckled. His eyes were glimmering with unhinged rage as he spoke now. “It’s too late for that.”
The diagnostics which hovered above started to glitch and then disappeared entirely. Hermione remained still. Alden was shaking. Mentally, she seemed to be grasping for the right words.

“What do you want then?” she asked warily. “I could take your word for it. I could lie to the Dark Lord and say she’s pregnant. Is that what you want?”

He grinned. “The Dark Lord would kill you then.”

Alden closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Tell me then,” she begged, “what is it you want me to do?”

Draco nonchalantly ran a hand through his hair. The more unnerved Alden became, the more relaxed he was. Hermione tried to remain calm too, but she was aware of her skin heating up even more, and of her facial muscles struggling to remain expressionless. 

“I don’t want you to do anything,” he began. “No, I take that back. You have my word: she will be pregnant by the New Year and you will confirm the pregnancy for the Dark Lord. You will be as responsible as you always were for her care. But there’s something else.” His voice trailed away now and suddenly his attention was back on Hermione.

“What is it?” Alden questioned. Her face was pale with horror; her eyes flitted back and forth between the pair.

“Hmm,” Draco hummed. His eyes never left Hermione as he spoke. “There’s been some talk that the child is not needed for the Prophecy; that the conception is enough,” he said, turning to face Alden. “What do you think about that?”

Alden shook her head furiously. “I am not an expert in Divination. I have no authority to speak on that matter.”

Draco scowled at her. “Do not mistake me,” he said, his words followed by an amused laugh. “What I am about to ask of you is not coming from any place of care or concern for the Mudblood, or the child for that matter. But often the Dark Lord gets overzealous.”

“Go on.”

“Once Potter is dead, the War might seem like it is over. Your version of ‘normalcy’ might start to take place. The Dark Lord will claim victory and award me with a Pureblood bride.”

He looked down then at Hermione; his eyes were swirling with mist. She could tell he was Occluding. “There wouldn’t seem to be much use for the mudblood or a bastard child.”

“Yes, of course.” Alden nodded enthusiastically. 

However, her reaction must have angered Draco as his eyes were suddenly clear again.

“You’re not getting it,” he spat. “As much as I despise her and will detest a half-breed, they must live,” he said. “You admitted you don’t know much about Divination. But the Prophecy refers to a ‘new era.’”

Alden looked confused.

“I’m afraid—I don’t—“

“You don’t know what fear is,” Draco snarled.

She nodded and then gulped, trying desperately to hold the conversation, but she was choking on the words she tried to utter.

“I—I’m following orders—“

“Unless you wish to die in the most painful way imaginable, you will not hurt the mudblood or dispose of the half-breed, no matter what commands the Dark Lord gives you. Do you understand? If you do anything to harm them, I will end you in the most terrible way imaginable when you least expect it. You would be better off killing yourself than waiting for the torture I’d inflict. Why, you ask? Because once this Prophecy comes to fruition,” he paused to let his eyes lock on Hermione, “the Order will fall, but the order of command will change.”

Alden was shaking.

“Give me your word.”. 

“Yes,” the mediwitch responded weakly. “I will do as you say. If—if I’m asked to harm the mudblood or the child, I won’t. I will come to you.”

“Good.” Draco’s eyes remained empty of emotion, but Hermione could see the beginning of a smirk on his face. “I’d ask you to make an Unbreakable Vow but trust me when I say I’ll kill you without warning if you give me even the slightest reason to doubt you.”

Alden lowered her head in what Hermione assumed was agreement, but she couldn’t see the witch’s face to be certain.

With one quick pull of the Incarcerous chains, Draco effectively dragged Hermione off the bed. She tripped over her feet, but before she hit the floor, his hand caught her upper arm. He held her so purposely tight she knew there’d be a mark.

“Tilly will continue to ensure she drinks your potions daily,” Draco said casually.

Alden did not answer.

His fingers then trailed up to Hermione’s neck. He held her chin in his hand and flicked his wrist so that she had no choice but to look up at him. He was speaking to Alden but his eyes were burning into her.

“The next time you see the Mudblood, she will be carrying my child. I don’t care if I have to fuck her every day. It will be done.”

His smile was icy, making him look deranged, but Hermione still felt a heat inside her, one that was not related to the fever spell he had cast.

“Eat up.”

Hermione teasingly rolled her eyes at him. After she had showered, she put on a tight black corset and fitted trousers. She was eager to fight, hurriedly eating her breakfast. He didn’t need to tell her twice; she knew she needed to keep gaining her strength. Inside, she was still reeling from Draco threatening Alden. She wondered if he even needed to, but then again, seeing him so protective made her heart burst with affection. Somehow she doubted the witch could hurt her. Part of her wanted Alden to try.

“What are you thinking about?” The beginning of a sly grin emerged on Draco’s face as he finished the last of his orange juice and stared at her.

“Vengeance,” Hermione responded simply. “The only thing I think about besides you.” She couldn’t stop a full-blown smile from taking over.

Draco raised his eyebrows, but she could tell he was delighted.

He was about to take a bite of his toast when he bit his lip instead, discarding the bread to his plate. “You’re only saying that because you know it turns me on. You know I can barely handle seeing you dressed like that—what are you trying to do to me?”

Hermione looked at him pointedly, flashing her eyes once. “I have to eat.”

Draco left a few minutes before her, as usual, to scope out the battlegrounds. When Hermione felt the vibration from the Dark Mark on her forearm, she touched it and was suddenly swirling into a vortex, letting her body follow the trajectory of the magic until she landed upon the moss of a forest floor.

“The Forbidden Forest,” Draco said as he grabbed her hand, entirely taken with her in her Death Eater apparel. His mask was lowered as he looked towards Hogwarts in the distance. He pulled her flush to him and lifted her mask, greeting her with a kiss that left her lips tingling. 

“The Order sent some foreign friends to stake out the castle,” he explained. “For what reason—I don’t know.”

“It’s not a ruse, is it? A distraction while Harry breaks into Gringotts?” Hermione watched as a few rag-tag Order members Apparated in the distance, on the opposite edge of the Forest. Next to them, about fifty other wizards dressed in battle robes appeared.

Draco shook his head. “Snape would have told me.”

They stood silent for several minutes. Hermione felt strangely calm; she realised it was because Draco’s gloved hand was still intertwined with hers.

As soon as several Death Eaters materialised just in front of the Order’s troops, Draco turned to her and nodded. He pulled his mask over his face and Hermione followed suit. The dull autumn sky was ablaze as the Death Eaters released the first fiery spells into the air. For several minutes, they both watched as coloured smoke and sparks surrounded all sides of the battle. Slowly but predictably, the Order and their assisting fighters began to fall.

Draco squeezed her hand and pulled her forward. Together, they ran fearlessly into the continuing battle, dodging stray curses. She tried to hold onto him, but it was impossible this time. Hermione deflected the white-hot remnants of several spells, all the while keeping an eye on Draco who was stealthily casting the Death Curse, taking out both the Order’s soldiers and a few Death Eaters too. She watched in awe of his speed and precision.

“Confringo!”

She jumped, narrowly avoiding the orange flames gathering near her feet. A middle-aged wizard fighting for the Order was charging at her. The soldier’s eyes were squinted with determination as he raised his wand at Hermione.

“Membrum Confractus.”

Hermione pointed her wand at the man; as soon as the curse left her lips, she watched as he stumbled back and cried out, desperately trying to stay upright before his knees gave out. Though he was swaying unsteadily, he managed to lift his wand.

But before he could shout a counter-curse at her, his eyes flashed with surprise as his body was struck with a green light.
Draco sauntered over to her.

“It’s time, Granger,” he said, his words dark and muffled coming from behind the mask. “Show me who you really are.”

Hermione’s heart pounded as he approached. He grabbed her by the arm and guided her back several feet, more towards the outskirts of the battle. They were hidden in plain sight, just between two trees at the entrance of the forest.

“Draco?”

She had just whispered his name when he pulled down her mask. Hermione watched closely as the battle raged on; Order fighters and Death Eaters continued to attack and block spells and injure and kill. In that moment of observation, she felt small but very powerful. It was something to see the world before her burning. Her whole world of course was no longer in front of her, but next to her. 

Hermione knew then what he wanted her to do.

“Close your eyes.”

Draco’s voice was cool and commanding as usual. She could feel that his mask was off too because he lightly kissed the side of her mouth, his breath ghosting her skin. He stepped behind her now and helped her to raise her wand.

“Think of the darkness inside you, the pain from every deep cut and the hurt from every open wound. Remember the rage that brought you to me.”

His other hand pressed into her waist.

“Use it.”

Hermione opened her eyes. She wanted to ask about a target but didn’t. She knew it was her old self that would have required a full report on who was the most worthy to die. She would’ve wanted to play the judge before being the executioner. 

Hermione gripped her wand more firmly then; encouraged by Draco’s presence, she focused her eyes on a Death Eater who was Crucio’ing one of the Order’s mercenaries. She drew in a quick breath and thought about what still enraged her:

“She’s nothing without him.”

Her pulse quickened and her fingers tightened around her wand. Ginny’s taunting words were in her head again as she looked straight at the Death Eater. Her hand was shaking though and for a moment, she wondered if this was something she still wanted to do, or even could do, when she felt Draco brush the side of her face.

“I’ve got you.”  

She nodded, feeling her heart swell from the memory of the other time he had seduced her with this same dark promise. Hermione steadied her wand. She imagined a terrible scenario then—the Order or the Death Eaters threatening Draco, threatening to take away their child.

 A piece of her was about to die, but she was ready. For too long, she had trusted that inner voice that told her she was better off maiming her enemies, torturing them even, because then she could never truly be a cold-blooded killer. She knew that thinking was illogical anyway. The War had warped her deepest beliefs and had already permanently scarred her soul. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

Chapter Text

The moment the curse left Hermione’s lips, she felt a strange freezing sensation in her body. Her blood was solidified into a frozen block. But as soon as the green light burst forth from the tip of her wand, all the cold feelings left. Something hot like lightning then coursed through her veins and started to break through the ice.

She stood unblinking as if watching a silent movie: the flash of emerald hit the unknown Death Eater whose back was turned. She watched as his knees buckled ever so slightly before his body went rigid; he didn’t even collapse but fell forward. His heart must have stopped beating the instant the magic touched him. 

Hermione was vaguely aware of two things—the explosions from the fight continuing before her and Draco’s fingertips on her waist, guiding her swiftly away before anyone could determine where the curse originated from. As she finally lowered her wand arm which had been held high with tension, she was aware that a new type of energy was coming into her system. Her heart rate increased, but it felt like the breath had been knocked out of her lungs. It was difficult to assess whether her nerves felt electrified from terror or exhilaration. 

She had she had killed someone—a Death Eater. Someone unknown.

“Is he?”

She was mumbling incoherently as her mouth would not let her fully form the words. Her mind was churning out the thoughts, but physically she could not express them.

“Relax.”

Draco was still behind her. Grounding herself, she breathed in his scent. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed to a more steady rhythm. Her muscles slackened as she leaned into him. One of his hands pressed down on her hip while he brought the other up to her neck, stroking her collarbone. He then wrapped both arms around her fiercely, embracing her. 

“You always had it in you,” he whispered.

The low sound of his voice at once gave her goosebumps and caused the shock from the Death Curse to fade. She felt a strong pull to him; her desire form him was chemical.

“Draco…”

She turned to face him, needing the feel of his mouth against hers. Balancing on the tips of her toes, she reached a hand up behind his neck and pulled him down to her. She kissed him then, feverishly and wildly. She felt herself smiling as his hand caressed the loose curls of her hair. His teeth gently nipped at her lower lip and she felt the thrill of this brief but exquisite respite in the hellish world that was war.

It was their lust language, this intimacy tied to curses and death. She wondered—would they ever speak the words out loud? With inexplicable certainty, she knew she would not kill for just anyone or any cause. Her sense of right and wrong had been stripped away and as she longed for him to strip her of her clothes, she found herself falling deeper into what would have been a trap in any other lifetime. But it wasn’t a trap. Learning the Death Curse from him felt more like a vow. 

Draco broke the kiss but remained still. He rested his chin upon her forehead before pulling away. 

“Come on, Granger,” he said, smiling devilishly. “Let's finish what you started.”

Hermione looked up to see his grey eyes flickering, filled with pride. It was a gaze that made her heart flutter and made her knees weak.

Mirroring one another, they pulled down their silver masks and turned around to the battlefield. The air was dense now, heavy with smoke and ash and illuminated by sparks of every colour imaginable. He took her hand.

“See that line?” Draco nodded to the row of Death Eaters casting various torture spells and curses at the Order’s soldiers. “I’ll start attacking behind the Order; you take the Death Eaters. We'll work from the outside in.”

Hermione shook her head in agreement.

Draco squeezed her wrist affectionately and then disappeared, making his way to the edge of the field. With confidence, she headed back into the crossfire.

Stealthily, she jogged several paces so that she was just a few feet alway the unsuspecting group of Death Eaters. She paused to ensure her cloak was pulled over her head, concealing her hair.  Then, she raised her wand to the Order soldiers in the distance. 

“Confringo!”

“Reducto!”

Hermione released a few wayward explosion spells to blend in. When it was clear no one was the wiser, she steadied her wand and drew a deep breath. She tracked a Death Eater in the centre of the fight, one who had just cast the Imperius Curse upon two boys from the Order, forcing them to torture one another. She took a second to centre herself, to feel the ground firm beneath her boots. Her dark eyes narrowed then like a snake’s as she aligned the end of her wand to the Death Eater’s chest.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green light was dazzling and again, she almost felt her spirit leave her body with the force of the Unforgivable. She was overwhelmed with coldness and then emptiness as she watched the curse hit the Death Eater.

She wanted to do it again.

She moved lithely, disappearing into the fog created by the remnants of dark magic.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Of all the spells, this was the only one that stripped away a layer of the soul as a sacrifice. It demanded this offering—the abandonment of self. It was magic married to intention. As Hermione felt truly separated from her body, curses, screams, and smoke filled the air. Out of her side vision, she could see someone was barreling towards her. Someone young. Someone who was not dressed in black.

“Bombarda Max—”

“Avada Kedavra!”

She turned automatically as a sixth sense alerted her to another presence. She saw hooded figure like her; his mask was tarnished though and grotesque.

“Bloody fool,” the Death Eater remarked gruffly. “How long before all of Potter’s minions are dead—”

“Avada Kedavra.”

It was simple this time. The air had permanently left her lungs. Her insides felt so tight. Maybe if she just—

“Avada Kedavra!”

She set her sights on the others in the distance. One of them sunk into the muddied ground to meet Death, but two more charged at her, flailing their arms and wands idiotically.

“Gibbon’s down!”

“We have us a traitor! Get him.”

Hermione smiled though they couldn’t see it. She was nervous, but energised by the adrenaline. Her stomach flipped and she didn’t know if it was from the elation or overdoing the curses.

“Traitorous filth—Avada—”

But Hermione was faster; her wand was already in position and her feet were firmly planted on the ground.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The accusing Death Eater never finished his curse.

As his friend raised his wand, Hermione watched as a green light overshadowed the wizard from behind.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He was down. Beyond him, in the clearing of the smoke, Hermione saw a tall frame, the muscular outline of the only masked man she cared about.

Draco nodded to her and then he was gone. His hooded figure appeared like a mirage in the battle: he was her guardian, her dark angel, and mentor always keeping his eyes on her. She observed from a distance as he obliterated nearly fifteen Order fighters in what had to be under a minute.

Hermione felt her body shivering again as an icy wave of nausea rippled through her. She only had four more Death Eaters to kill.

The rest of the battle was a fever dream. The sky was darkened with thick grey clouds and the atmosphere smelled of death.

Though she felt progressively weaker with every Death Curse she shouted, her determination never wavered. The dark magic was causing her to feel high and dizzy with exhilaration.

“Avada Kedavra!”

...

...

...

After attacking the last of them, Hermione fell to her knees. Her wand had was calloused, so she pressed both her palms into the ground. It was scorched, its temperature elevated from the destruction. Or maybe, her skin was colder than it ever had been. There was a pain, too—a sharp twinge that hurt her heart. Her lungs might as well have been deflated, it was so difficult to breathe. Her ears were buzzing.

Though her vision grew spotty, she knew she was not imagining the shadow looming over her.

Strong hands grasped her from behind.

Draco lifted her mask. He held her tightly to him and nestled his face into her neck. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the small kisses he left on her shoulder blade. She knew from the feel of his heavy breathing that his skin must have been glowing with sweat. Her heart rate only slowed once she breathed in the scent of him.

“I don’t feel good.” She attempted to stand, but could not get off her knees.

He chuckled.

“I know. I’ll take care of you.”

He picked her up then and carried her in his arms. Wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his chest, she braced herself as they disapparated from the war-torn perimeter of Hogwarts.

When they arrived back at the Manor, Hermione was a rag doll. Draco tried to set her down, but her legs were wobbly. She could not balance from her core no matter how much she tried.

“I’m—”

“Don’t apologise,” Draco said firmly. He helped her over to a chair. He was on his knees then, unbuttoning her cloak and pulling off her boots.

He looked up at her; his eyes were still blazing with admiration. “How many did you kill today? Ten? Even some Order soldiers?” 

His signature smirk returned.

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “Not that many. Not as many as you.” She tossed her head back, hoping that the nausea would leave her.

Draco was still beaming. “Give yourself some credit. Hardly anyone can cast that many Death Curses successfully the first time.”

Hermione let out a short breath. “I’m sure you did.”

Draco laughed. He leaned into her, placing a kiss on her forehead. “I did. And so did Dark Lord did,” he confirmed. “You’re in good company.”

Hermione managed to lift her hand. She imitated his touch, letting her fingers slide through his blonde locks.

“Will it always feel like this?” she asked, her voice small but eyes widening to let him know she was serious.

She watched as a reaction settled over him. It looked a bit like regret, but then she realised it was the feeling of being jaded by the War.

“It will,” he said solemnly. “But you’ll get used to it. You’ll come to welcome it even. Afterwards, you gain a deeper understanding of the worst parts of yourself. It’s sounds terrible, but someday you’ll realise you need that knowledge to survive.”

“I see.” She didn’t truly comprehend his words though. She blamed it on the lightheadedness, this state of dysequilibrium after the battle.

Draco lowered his head. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were shining with earnestness.

“You are dangerously powerful, Hermione. You have known that for so long. You have already done so much worse.”

“I have.” Her voice was faint, but she agreed.

His stare was hard now. “Manipulating Shacklebolt. Turning on Potter. Torturing your friends—”

“They deserved it,” she insisted.

Draco bit his lip, hiding his grin. His hands began to roam her body, massaging her waist and then rubbing her legs.

He kissed her lower stomach. Suddenly, her heartbeat increased and she was clenching her thighs together because his touches made her feel all tingly down there.

She let out a small sigh. Draco looked up at her; his eyes were the colour of granite, darkened with desire now.

“Beguiling me,” he said, lowering himself to hold her thighs open and placing a kiss right over her clothed sex. 

A whimper escaped as she shook her head. She was still weakened, but she let her hand touch the top of her black skintight trousers. Her fingers felt numb and she fumbled with the button and zipper.

Draco swatted her hand away.

“Let me,” he said.

In one swoop, he already had them down to her ankles. He hooked his fingers around the elastic band of her underwear.

“You’re a bad girl, Hermione,” he said, licking his lips. “That’s why you’re mine.”

She felt his cool breath at the apex of her thighs. He pressed one open-mouthed kiss to the cotton fabric of her knickers.

Hermione gasped again, feeling an instant shot of pleasure between her legs. She looked down then to see his eyes were on her, those grey irises sparkling.

She forgot all about the nausea. Her mind was only focused on one thing.

Draco kissed her again.

“Take them off,” she said, her demand breathy.

She could feel him smiling, but he obeyed. She was withering against him, wiggling her hips impatiently as he pulled down her knickers.

Automatically, she reached for his head to run her fingers through his hair again. She wanted to watch him devour her, but more than that, she was craving the escape, wanting to lose herself in what only he could give her.

She closed her eyes, feeling the sensations of his mouth, of the little kisses placed between her legs like he was trying to mark her, of his fingers now that gently stroked her just above her opening.

The longing inside of her skyrocketed each time he dragged his tongue over her clit, purposely driving her wild by drawing little circles. There was a pull, a delicious coil building deep in her lower abdomen. She tried to wriggle against him, to close her legs, but his broad shoulders kept her splayed open.

“Draco…”

She could tell he liked that, the needy way she whimpered his name. His tongue continued swirling vigorously, drawing more gasps and sighs from her.

It seemed a reward; this pleasure he treated her to might be something to take away the painful aftereffects of the Death Curse. But she knew on another level that it was more than just his method of healing her. They were always intentional with one another. It started with a primal attraction and became something deeper than that. He was showing her again that they were the same; they were in this together, disillusioned and determined to rewrite their destiny.

When he finally sucked on her clit, she gasped again. She was already breathless, every muscle in her body was completely useless as she gave in. She cried out, coming undone for him; the tension unfurled and sent vibrations that made her entire body shake.

After her breathing became somewhat normal again, Hermione looked down at him. His lips were shiny and his cheeks were pink. He didn’t take his eyes off her. As she stared back at him, she might as well have been gazing into her own soul. It didn’t seem real; the way he worshipped her with his mouth made her feel reborn.

She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. He smirked and did the same as if to indicate he could never get enough of her.

Draco exhaled then and reached up to let his fingers twirl in her hair.

“It might hurt right now, but believe me…that sickness inside of you is your true self finally coming out. If you don’t fully embrace your darkness, you won’t survive. The Death Curse is only the beginning.”

Hermione nodded. She felt cured by him and his tongue, so much so that she would never dwell on the lives she took.

“Teach me,” she said, her voice quaking. “Teach me the worst magic, your curses that can obliterate a whole battlefield in the blink of an eye.”

She thought he might laugh at her. She sounded dazed and power-drunk in her post-orgasm haze.

But he didn’t even flinch or smirk. His demeanour remained stoic.

“You are beyond capable, Hermione,” he began, his tone calm. “I saw it for myself. At Shell Cottage, you taught yourself what was forbidden to save yourself. You can do it again.”

Again.

The way he looked at her was telling. She knew exactly what he meant. He knew that soon she was going to be impregnated and trapped by him.

“If I do anything,” she reminded him, “it will be for us. Not just for me.”

Hermione half-expected him to challenge her, but he didn’t. 

“If you want to damn yourself down to my level, you needn’t go far. The library is yours to explore. I’ve scanned the room for any hexes that might have found you.”

Her heart skipped several beats.

“Really?”

She couldn’t control them, the fireworks exploding in her heart; she was bursting with lightness inside. It had been a fantasy, a life goal to visit the library of an old wizarding family. War aside, she had always craved the hidden knowledge of the generations before her. She wanted more books that would be deemed restricted in any other setting.

Draco leaned into her, placing a kiss on her belly. Her insides clenched, knowing he was alluding to what was to come. He gazed up at her again, this time with a sly grin.

“Make a Horcrux,” he casually. 

Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

“Do it.”

“No,” she said primly, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know I would never do—”

“Do it for me,” he drawled. There was a hint of playfulness in his seductive tone.

Her cheeks flushed. “Draco, no.”

“Set a record. Make ten.”

“Shut up.”

He let out a low laugh as she tugged at his hair and placed her hands around his neck, effectively dragging him up so to her that she could reach his lips.

As they kissed, Hermione felt the last remnants of doubt leave her. She knew that he wouldn’t mock her. He admired her tenacity. He would lead her and she would follow him to Hell and back, to the ends of the earth.

He pulled back slightly, but kept her in his arms, cradling her just the way she needed him to.

His voice was a whisper.

“It will be important to know your limits when the time comes. I know you know that.”

Hermione awoke the next day to the sound of a tray clanging. She had fallen asleep in bed pressed against Draco, but when she opened her eyes, he was nowhere to be found. She must have been sleeping very soundly to not have noticed him stirring.

Her heart pulsed with panic as she sat up.

“Master was called away,” came a squeaky voice, startling her.

Tilly was uncovering a platter of eggs, toast, and sausage. She placed the breakfast dishes on the little end table and then magically filled a glass with pumpkin juice.

“Oh,” Hermione replied. “I see. Where did he go? When will he return?”

Tilly shrugged. “The Dark Lord called him.”

Next to the juice, Hermione noticed the bubbling contents of Augendae Utero, the fertility potion.

“Did he say anything about me?”

She felt compelled to ask. 

Tilly addressed her with her bulging eyes. “Master says the Miss must eat and take the potion.”

“Right,” she said, reaching for the vial. She downed the fizzing liquid in one gulp. Seeing that she needed to be pregnant sooner rather than later, she assumed Draco did intend for her to ingest it this time. It didn’t truly matter when her fertile window would not be for another few weeks.

Hermione rested her head back on the pillow. She relaxed and pulled the cover over herself again. Though she would always be concerned about Draco, she supposed she could check out the library today. 

“They want you dead,” Tilly blurted out. 

Hermine turned towards the elf. 

“It is because of your dirty blood. You must have a child with the Master. But Tilly also hears that after you conceive the baby, the Master will marry his pureblood bride. Don't tell Master, but that makes Tilly sad.”

Hermione could see the elf's eyes welling with tears. Keeping her own composure, she grabbed a slice of toast off the plate. “Thank you,” she said politely. She took a bite of the bread, swallowed, and then shifted her eyes to Tilly. “Thank you for bringing me this food.”

“Tilly is glad to serve,” the elf responded. 

Seeing that Tilly was about to vanish, Hermione waved her hand. 

“Tilly, one more thing,” she added, beckoning the elf. “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

She paused, appearing curious but hesitant to partake in the secret. 

“Master says he needs to know anything the Miss tells Tilly.”

“He already knows.” Hermione smiled.

The elf's big eyes widened in anticipation. She approached the bed and stood on her tiptoes; one of her batlike ears reached the top of the mattress. 

Hermione leaned down to whisper. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Tilly. I promise you.”

Tilly gulped. She seemed entirely relieved. 

Hermione spoke once more. “And no one is marrying Draco except for me. I’ll make sure of it.”

A sliver of hope was apparent in Tilly’s expression. She had a feeling that the elf had always liked her.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Miss Hermione.”

With a snap of her finger, the elf squealed and disappeared.

Hermione pulled her legs over the side of the bed. She stretched out her arms, pleased to feel no lingering muscle weakness or dizziness from yesterday.

Of course the biggest battle was still to come. They would not only need to destroy Voldemort, but also take control of the Death Eaters. Other than setting out to destroy the remaining Horcruxes and possessing the Elder Wand (not that she was truly convinced of its power), she herself had not devised a plan detailing exactly what they would do. This time next year, she would even have a child to protect.

She wondered if wielding the Death Curse had suddenly disturbed something inside her. A small but violent tremor in her heart made her feel like a beast was trying to claw its way out of her.

What if Draco married someone else? 

Even if the marriage would be temporary and only pretend on his part, the idea made Hermione clench her fists in fury. She shut her eyes and saw sparks of red and then flares of green. There was only one thought that quelled this new rage: I’ll kill her.

 When she opened her eyes, she laughed because she was grinning. She felt deranged but so overwhelmed with glee.

After lunch, Hermione showered and dressed plainly in another nightgown. While Draco gave her permission to visit the library, she needed to look like the captive she was if she encountered another Death Eater or Alden. She tucked her wand into the stitching on the inside of the lingerie. Deciding she’d also need solid footwear, she laced up her boots. 

She stalked towards the door, feeling unafraid to face the Manor for perhaps the first time.

Stepping out into the dim corridor, Hermione looked around. Barely any light came in from the long windows as it was another dreary November day. A few sconces were already lit making the time feel much later than it really was. The house was deathly quiet. She didn’t hear anything or feel the hairs on her arm tingle. But a heaviness in the atmosphere was still palpable. A mist floated from out of Narcissa’s room at the far end of the hall. She ignored it this time, quickly turning the other way towards the grand staircase. She assumed the portraits were sneering at her, but she didn’t want to waste her time scowling back at them.

Before she reached the staircase, Hermione happened to catch herself in a full-length, walnut-framed mirror. 

Her first thought was that she looked like a ghost, a lost Victorian wife in white wandering the second floor. Her hair was freshly washed and unruly, longer than ever and the curls were mostly frizz. Her eyes, permanently darkened, held no semblance of innocence. She tilted her head. Her appearance reflected a certain change from within. Whereas her face might have given off weariness or gauntness before, her cheekbones remained defined but her skin was plumper and her lips fuller. She had every bit of that harsh elegance. She had to admit—not only was the witch staring back at her stunning, but she was fearsome.

Hermione descended the stairs slowly, finally taking in all of the Manor’s terrible beauty. It wasn’t a ‘home’ in any sense of the word, but rather a fortress; its walls and architecture gave off the power and protection that only the combination of generational wealth and dark magic could. While the arched ceilings, stone columns, and marble floors made everything colder, it was as if she now understood the purpose of such a foreboding place. In the past, she could never see herself settling in a house more like a museum where the furniture was not meant for sitting. But with war looming just outside the Manor’s gates, she felt a strange comfort in its unwelcoming shadows. She wondered if in the past, there ever was a warmness in these halls. She was sure there had been at one time. Though his upbringing was likely centred around strict rules and pureblood traditions, she assumed that young Draco was mischievous enough to earn both looks of admonishment and amusement from his parents. Her heart swelled at the notion and she longed to ask him about his childhood.

The thought of Narcissa gave her pause too. She reached the last step and an idea crossed her mind to research soul-severing curses. Maybe the Manor was sentient. If so, was it somehow offering refuge for the Lady of the Manor's soul? Could she do anything to undo the curse?

She crossed the foyer, hoping she was heading towards the correct corridor leading to the library. The sharp clicking of her boots echoed high into ceilings with each step she took. If she needed to, she could always call on Tilly.

She turned a corner and jumped; she was greeted by a dramatic, ear-splitting cackle.

“Well, well…the pretty Mudblood has come out to play!” 

Emerging from the cobwebs was the one witch she dreaded running into, but secretly wanted to see.

Bellatrix.

Chapter Text

Instinctively, Hermione stopped moving.

She was aware she could reach into her dressing gown to retrieve her wand, but she didn’t want to give away her secret or give Bellatrix the impression she was scared because she wasn’t. Her heart was beating ferociously with a sense of empowerment.

Bellatrix’s eyes flashed and a threatening look consisting of curiosity and disgust took over her face. Her dagger-tooth smile widened.

During their last exchange in the Lestrange dungeon, Hermione was delirious. She had lost her mind to think so, but driving Bellatrix to Crucio her had seemed a clever life choice. She had the strangest epiphany then, one that refused to leave her even though her strength had returned. It was like casting a Lumos in a treacherous cave: she could easily get under the witch’s skin.

While it took becoming deranged to know deranged, it didn’t take any form of divination to see that Bellatrix had a sick fixation on Voldemort. Everything she did was for him, to earn his attention and admiration. She didn’t care about his cause or his orphan upbringing. She feigned hurt that her husband was gone. Her false tears flowed effortlessly.

Obsession alone had the power to make a woman mad; lust could corrupt the heart eternally. All of a sudden, curses were love letters and terrible deeds were signs of devotion. Murder was true romance. Tom Riddle was the War and his affection was the only battle Bellatrix needed to involve herself in. And like Hermione was discovering about herself, the witch felt pleasure from doing bad things for him.

She was sure that Bellatrix had sought her out for revenge. If someone she despised had suggested she knew her, claimed she understood her black heart and twisted mind, she would have reacted defensively too.

The question was—did she want to make Bellatrix angry? Or did she want to scratch the surface of her just enough to make her bleed?

Hermione didn’t like the thought of it for reasons that ripped at her own heartstrings, but she still had enough righteousness inside to question why a witch would throw away everything—her name, her wealth, and her power—for a wizard who wouldn’t do the same.

There were still many questions she had for Draco that she knew might hurt him (or her), so it was easier not to ask. But she knew he was not born with his cruel and terrible nature. He had perfected it under the guise of showing bravery and undoing his father’s failures. He sharpened his ruthlessness into a deadly weapon for years. If he wanted to murder his Aunt Bellatrix, he would have by now.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Bellatrix started, interrupting her reverie. She held her wand just under Hermione’s chin. “Harry Potter’s prized mudlood, a vessel for the Dark Lord.”

Hermione looked her in the eye. “You can’t kill me.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You never learn.” She raised one eyebrow and as she centred her vicious gaze at Hermione, the dancing lights in her pupils suddenly went out.

“You can try,” Hermione said, her voice unwavering. “The Prophecy won’t let that happen.”

“You dare to defy me? You little speck of dirt—you have the gall to speak to me—Crucio! ”

The blast of scorching magic forced Hermione back. The waves propelled her into the open room behind her. Unsteady,  and shaking from what felt like electricity, she fell to the floor. Her skin was set on fire; every layer was peeled away only to be burned again. To fight off the pain, she concentrated on her surroundings—the glitter of the chandelier, the outline of a marble statue, and the cold wooden floor upon which she was withering.

“You are nothing!” Bellatrix bellowed from above her. “You are scum, wandering this Manor like a lady, as if worthy—”

Hermione screamed. Though her inner voice reminded her she wouldn’t die, the torture wasn’t easy to bear. She couldn’t control the tears streaming out of her eyes.

Bellatrix lowered her wand and cackled. “You’re hurting.”

“The baby,” Hermione gasped. “The Dark Lord would never forgive you. He’d murder you.”

“Ah, did I hurt the child?” she asked with evident disdain. But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Do not speak of my Dark Lord!”

Hermione took a deep breath. She had withstood the intense pain and only felt more invincible. Bellatrix, however, was still shaking with rage.

“Fine,” Hermione replied. “The Dark Lord wouldn’t kill you. You’d already be dead.”

“What are you implying?” she asked dramatically, raising one eyebrow.

Hermione bit her lip.

“Tell me,” Bellatrix snarled.

She shook her head. She placed her hand on her stomach. “I don’t know.”

Bellatrix was studying her again. Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I don’t know,’” she rasped, imitating Hermione’s tone.

Hermione didn’t move a muscle. She wanted to avoid being tortured again at all costs but didn’t think it was the opportune moment to withdraw her wand for a duel. She had to keep the witch guessing.

Bellatrix put on her fakest smile. “If there’s one thing I detest more than mudbloods, it’s mudbloods who forget their place.”

Remaining cautious, Hermione sat up on her forearms.

“This is my place,” she began, keeping her tone even. “You can anticipate my death all you want. But the truth is, the Dark Lord needs me. You said so yourself.”

“You only need to birth to a half-breed,” Bellatrix retorted with a snarl. “Then you’ll be dead.”

“Admit it. You can’t stand that I’m more valuable to the Dark Lord than you. And Draco is his most loyal servant—not you. He’ll keep me alive to ensure the Lord remains in power.”

Bellatrix chortled. “You don’t know what my nephew is capable of.”

“I know there’s a soul curse. I can feel the heaviness of it in this Manor,” Hermione began. “Draco will do the Dark Lord’s bidding at any cost.”

Letting out a rattling shriek, Bellatrix lunged at Hermione.

Hermione tried to kick her away with both feet, but it was useless as the demented witch was already hovering above her.

“You know nothing about Draco…the Dark Lord…a curse.” She let out a noise that was something between a cry and a laugh. “I would tear you apart limb by limb. And then I’d sew you back together only so I could torture you some more.”

Hermione’s muscles tensed of their own accord. She was anticipating another round of the Cruciatus when Bellatrix suddenly grabbed her arm. She tugged it roughly as if trying to pull it from the socket before flicking her wand.

“Perhaps you need a little sign, a permanent reminder of who you are, you filthy-blooded mongrel.”

Bellatrix cackled again before whispering the words of a curse. An orange flare appeared at the end of her wand.

Hermione clenched her teeth as she brought the wand to her skin. She thrashed, swinging her other hand wildly, letting her fingers swipe at the witch’s wiry hair. Bellatrix squawked in anger as Hermione fought back. As she was pushed down, she felt the strand of hair around her finger and stopped wrestling. She exhaled and prepared herself to be branded. She was anticipating a zapping, thinking the spark from the magic would cut into her.

Her heart nearly stopped from the shock when she felt nothing besides the end of the wand graze her skin lightly.

With an exasperated huff, Bellatrix repeated the unknown incantation once more. She dragged the wand more forcefully against Hermione’s lower arm this time. Nothing happened.

“What…what is the meaning of this?” Bellatrix questioned with a whisper, glaring at her. She didn’t seem to be requiring an answer.

Hermione glanced down just as Bellatrix dropped her arm. She looked back at the witch, pretending to be just as concerned. She always kept her arm Glamoured so no one would be privy to her motives. She didn’t fully understand the magic, but Mark was not allowing Bellatrix to carve into her skin.

She shivered then, thinking about how long ago Draco had claimed her as his. No one else had her quite like him. No one else could own her. Hermione’s heart swelled at the thought.

Hermione kept her voice soft. “The child,” she said, going back to the conversation Bellatrix wanted nothing of, “you know the baby will have your blood.”

The witch clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth sharply. Despite the obvious revulsion, Hermione couldn’t help but notice that her eyes lightened a bit. Her forehead was scrunched in denial, but it was clear that she was deep in thought.

“The only good blood is pure blood,” she said, scowling. “That half-breed creature will be no relative of mine.”

Hermione nodded. “Fair,” she said, trying her best not to show emotion. “You can’t help it.”

“What is this drivel?” Bellatrix eyed her accusatorially.

“The emptiness inside of you,” Hermione answered. She drew in a quick breath, refusing to lose her nerve. “You have a need to right your wrongs that never goes away. Your sister is dead, isn’t she?”

“Cissy is not dead,” Bellatrix corrected her through gritted teeth, her voice shaking. “She is not!”

“I meant Andromeda.”

“To my knowledge, she is alive,” she snapped. Bellatrix shrugged her shoulders theatrically. Her voice seemed more casual now. “Of course, the blood traitor lives.”

Hermione hummed. “You find some temporary relief in getting your revenge then, hurting those who took your Andromeda away from you—”

“Shut up! Shut up before I curse you again!

“But it’s maddening, isn’t it,” Hermione added. “Knowing that you can’t kill me? Knowing that you can’t even leave a scar? Knowing that the child will be in your bloodline, that this is all for the Dark Lord—“

“Cru —!”

Bellatrix had the Unforgivable on the tip of her tongue, but something within prevented her from casting it. She stood there sneering at Hermione again, most likely concocting the words that would deaden her esteem.

“Your time is fleeting, Mudblood,” she said finally..

“So I make the most of it,” Hermione retorted.

“There are ties, blood vows, and loyalties in this family that you could never begin to understand,” Bellatrix hissed.

Hermione remained silent. She didn’t disagree completely with the revelation. She wanted to know more.

Bellatrix’s eyes roamed around the empty drawing room. There would never be complete privacy in a home with listening portraits and house elves eavesdropping in the shadows. She leaned in very close, so close Hermione could smell her perfume—the essence of rosewater. 

“Draco is nothing like his father,” she said, perhaps too calmly. “He is in every way his mother’s son.”

Hermione kept her eyes focused on the piece of silver snake jewellery wrapped around Bellatrix’s neck. She didn’t want her gaze to indicate weakness. But she was very curious.

“You are emboldened,” Bellatrix continued.

Hermione knew her face was flushing, but she could not stop it. There was more than a sliver of truth in her words, but she would not admit it. 

“You have mistaken his ‘relations’ with you,” she remarked derisively. “He has his own ambitions in this War, separate from the Dark Lord’s.”

She didn’t respond yet, but let out such a tense breath that Bellatrix laughed.

“The Black family has survived for centuries due to skilled manipulation.”

“And inbreeding,” Hermione mumbled.

Bellatrix ignored her. “He pays attention to you. He gives you one glimpse into his tortured soul and you mistake that for sincerity. It’s enough to make you recalculate your entire assumption of him. You admire him.”

“Are you sure you’re not referring to your Dark Lord?” she quipped, her voice cracking. “I don’t think anything of Draco. He’s nothing more than a murderer. I suppose he could be crueller to me.” 

Bellatrix pursed her lips. “Ah, just you wait. What you don’t know will kill you.”

As she backed away, she howled with pure amusement. 

“It will kill you,” she repeated in a sing-song way, walking backwards out of the room. “ He will kill you!”

Hermione stayed on the floor until she was sure Bellatrix was gone.

Two delusional witches can play at this game was all she thought when she finally gathered her wits to stand. She winced as she took a step forward—her bones were aching from the Cruciatus.

She searched the dark perimeters of the room, wondering if the witch was waiting for her.

Feeling the coarse strand of hair wrapped around her finger though, she smiled triumphantly knowing that their spat had not been all for nothing. Bellatrix did not torture her again.

She didn’t know Narcissa, so she had no idea if Draco was like her. She just believed he was not like the Dark Lord. After all, he prided himself on always keeping his promises. He had just told her that she ‘beguiled’ him. It was no secret he had other ambitions. But what Bellatrix didn’t know was that his future was her. He would not have taught her the Death Curse and would not have encouraged her to kill off Death Eaters if he was just going to end up deceiving her…

The Death Curse.

Hermione scratched her head, recalling that she needed to visit the library. She didn’t fancy wandering the Manor any longer than necessary in case she was accosted again, but she needed those books.

Inferi and Their Infinite Uses
Astronomia Magna
The Dark History of Prognostications: Prophecies Throughout Time
Curses of the Sixteenth Century
De Meteoris
The Handbook of Forbidden Spells
Magicae Mortis: Curses for the Masses
The Power of Familial Blood in Magic

“Reducio.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder as she shrunk her selection of texts, hoping not to be seen.

The two-story Manor library was everything she envisioned in her wildest dreams. She was balancing precariously on a ladder. Her body was throbbing from the torture, so she quickly grabbed each title that piqued her worst curiosities. A library this old was bound to house books on the curses that fell into disuse or were deemed too dangerous by the Ministry or International Wizarding Confederation. She was just increasing her arsenal of curses—even if she didn’t plan on splitting her soul or enchanting dead bodies, it would only benefit her to read about this depraved magic. The nerve to study and practice the dark arts had freed her once; she knew knowledge could save her again. 

That evening, Hermione tried to eat her dinner as best she could as her insides were still hurting. The armchair was as uncomfortable as ever. She was amazed she had slept so many nights on it months ago when Draco first brought her to his room. It seemed lifetimes ago she had been so wary of both his bed and him.

“Tilly,” Hermione called, lifting a scoop of her cottage pie, “could I ask a favour of you?”

The elf was vanishing the used towels in the bathroom. “Of course, Miss Hermione. But Tilly does not know Master’s whereabouts or when he will return.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. 

While she hated Draco being gone, she’d rather he was sent on another mission to attack the rebel Order troops than tortured by Voldemort. But he never seemed troubled by his punishments. The memory of his inflamed back with the gashes made her wonder again about which curse Voldemort had inflicted and how it was connected to Narcissa.

She took another bite of the pie. Watching Tilly round the corner with a stack of fresh towels, she felt immensely grateful for once rather than guilty or enraged about her circumstances. 

“I was hoping you could bring me a cauldron. And some ingredients.”

Tilly eyed her quizzically. “The Master keeps his potion supplies in the cellar.”

Hermione nodded. “This is very top secret…er, does Bellatrix Lestrange visit the Manor often? I ran into her today. I usually don’t leave the room, as you know.”

“Lady Bellatrix sees her sister,” Tilly explained with a sad shrug. “She is here most days. Though she can not enter every room.”

“Thank Merlin for those wards,” Hermione said in understanding. “It’s probably best to brew the potion in the bathroom then. As I said, no one can know about it.”

“Master will approve of this?” The elf casually placed a hand on her hip. She was looking at Hermione with adorable scepticism.

“Why, of course! I need—he needs me to brew this potion. Draco will be very pleased that I’ve started it.”

After tapping her foot on the ground for several seconds, Tilly folded her hands together. “Alright, Miss Hermione. Tilly is only allowed in the kitchen and bedrooms. But I will bring the ingredients for you.”

Hermione smiled. “The potion is quite complicated and will take some time to brew. First, I need a jar of lacewing flies.”

Over sixteen days had passed since Tilly delivered the lacewings. The flies only had a few more days of stewing. Hermione was growing undeniably restless as Draco was still gone.

As much as she worried about him, she didn’t think he was dead. She was sure there’d be some commotion in the Manor if Godric forbid something terrible had happened. Even more, she had the inkling she’d know from the Mark. Her arm always felt slightly warmer with the magic laced underneath, so she had come to the dreaded conclusion that if he were truly gone, she’d feel nothing.

As the days dragged on, Hermione began to feel that old stirring of cabin fever once more, that same restless energy that should have bored her to tears but instead made her blood boil.

When she wasn’t checking the lacewings, she spent the hours sprawled out on the bedroom floor, paging through the dark magic books and taking notes. 

“A curse placed upon the soul is the one form of devastating magic. It is designed to erode the spirit inhabiting the body over time. There is often an element of control or a bond set by the issuer. Even in the event of the issuer’s death, the curse remains.”

Hermione wanted to research Narcissa’s curse, but the more she read, the more hopeless the situation seemed. Draco had probably already discovered as much. 

She also read up battle curses; there was a dark spell called Carpe Pugna that reminded her of a cross between a Befuddlement Draught and the Imperius Curse. It was meant to be cast discreetly on one individual on the battlefield, making him turn on a soldier from his own side. The curse would then spread insidiously throughout until everyone in the army was dead.

On this particular afternoon, Hermione looked out the window and caught sight of the first December snowflake. 

There was a popping noise and Tilly appeared near the doorway.

“Miss, I have brought you fresh leeches and Knotgrass. Is there anything else you’ll be requiring?

Hermione hadn’t expected the elf to go out of her way for her. Though Draco had given her strict orders to care for her, it seemed that Tilly liked having her around. Last week, Tilly gathered the fluxweed as it was the full moon. At this rate, she could brew the Polyjuice Potion in another few days.

 “Just the Boomslang skin and Bicorn horn. You’re the best, Tilly.” 

She looked positively chuffed. Her grin nearly extended up to her ears. 

“Tilly also has pleasing news. Master is returning this evening,” she announced, her pitch rising into a squeak.

“Oh?” Hermione looked down at her books scattered across the floor and thought about the lacewing flies soaking in the bathroom. She had positively taken over his room. Well, in her mind, it was their room.

Tilly shook her head. “His letter said he would arrive after dinner.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she replied. She chewed on her lip involuntarily. “I’ll wait up him.”

Hermione had waited and waited. She was lying on the floor, book in hand, naively thinking her reading about curses could keep her awake. There was a faint glow from the moonlight outside; the minutes surely had ticked past midnight.

She was slipping into the beginning of a dream about the War and trying to hold onto the last part of her consciousness when she was startled fully awake by the crack of Apparation.

His dark figure materialised in the middle of the room. She heard him breathing heavily and looked up to see he was still wearing his mask. It seemed he had just come from a battle.

He looked every bit the Death Eater she had fallen for. Seeing him back where he belonged (with her), Hermione felt that ping of anticipation, the pitter-pattering of her heart. Draco still didn’t speak or make a move to her. For a split second, she wondered if it even was him. But his clothing and stature told her it was.

She stood up and proceeded to step towards him cautiously, reigning in her desire to throw her arms around his neck. Perhaps he was hurting from injury.

“Take off your mask.” Her voice sounded much smaller than she intended it to.

He remained there, slightly cocking his head in the way that always caused her stomach to flip.

“Please?” She asked, this time inching nearer.

A tiny smile crept upon her face. She knew it was the result of trying to hide her giddiness. Draco wasn’t the kind to unintentionally play games with her. But she had to admit—the fact he was naturally unpredictable was part of his appeal.

It was the danger of him that had attracted her in the first place.

She stretched her hand out tentatively.

He lowered his head as if to suggest she wasn’t making a wise move.

Hermione reached for his mask anyway.

But in the instant, her fingertips grazed the cool metal, he snatched her wrist and effectively pulled her into him.

“Draco…”

His name fell so lightly from her lips; the sound of it implied she was both nervous and turned on.

With a gloved hand holding both her arms down, he backed her into the wall behind them. In the narrow space between them, she could feel the heat pulsating from off his body, remnants of curses and dark energy.

He had both palms now pressed against her ears. She was trapped by his body; it was not a stretch to admit to herself that her feelings of fear and desire were intertwined in the best and worst way.

Defiantly, she pressed her hips up into him. If he wasn’t going to let her take off his mask or let her move freely, she could tease him—she could remind him that it would always be her who held all the power.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as his bicep twitched. She rolled herself into him again, this time trying to let her thighs squeeze against him.

He groaned; the sound of it was hot and breathy.

Hermione blinked at him, uselessly trying to conceal the thrill vibrating through her.

This time, he grinded  on her. Automatically, her lower stomach churned with need. Even through his battle armor, his thick trousers, she could feel his erection. She rubbed herself into him again, feeling all hot inside at the thought he wanted her…that hardness was all for her.

Her hands were idling at her sides. She longed to let her fingers roam his body, to feel that weight of him on her and in her. But when she reached for his belt buckle, he withdrew sharply.

“Tsk, tsk.” It was his voice, that voice she loved, sultry from behind the mask. “Learn to control yourself.”

Hermione pouted. “Tell yourself that.” 

She wriggled against him once more, feeling that he wouldn’t ignore her for much longer. It must have been uncomfortable for him, the way his cock was so constrained in his pants.

She gasped as he brought his hand up to her chest. Using his thumb, he massaged the skin at the base of her neck.

He chuckled. “I will.”

“But I missed you,” she said, the words coming out needy.

She stared back at the mask before her. It should have been unsettling to not see his face, to not know if he was smirking or looking at her intensely. But there was immense freedom in the way that she trusted him completely.

The hand caressing her neck trailed lower and lower. She held her breath as his fingers then gripped the cotton fabric of her nightgown. He lifted it up only to place his palm over the top of her knee. Suddenly, he shifted their positions so that she was straddling his thigh. His fingers dug into the side of her hip as he gently rocked her forward. Hermione felt that squeezing sensation in her womb, that small crest of pleasure she knew would build and build until she gave in and the waves washed over.

It felt more than good, the rhythm of him rolling her onto his quad muscle. Just like he had told her, she also couldn’t help but think that his body was made for her. Their need for one another was primal. 

“That’s right, Granger,” he rasped. “Fuck yourself.”

She had been so caught up in the way his leg felt, firm and hitting just the right spot. Her knickers created even more friction and soon she was the one frantically thrusting on him. He didn’t mind when she desperately grasped onto his arm as it finally gave her something to clutch as she rubbed. She wanted more, wanted his mask off.

“Draco…please,” she whined. “Kiss me.”

He chuckled and instead touched the side of her neck again.

“You think because you say my name you can get anything you want,” he remarked harshly. His voice had that callous superiority to it that she found incredibly hot.

“Yes.”  She was trying to undo her smile as she felt so feral and just wanted his mouth on hers, wanted him to touch her.

“Hmm.” He hummed in disapproval. “That’s not how it works.”

Hermione let out a huff of frustration but continued to thrust on him. She would do what she had to…and she would get him back. As she rode him, she was almost thankful to not see his smug grin.

“You’re not going to have me yet. But you are going to come just like this,” he ordered.

She felt driven by his husky voice, the tone deep and commanding from under the mask. From the many weeks without seeing him, she had so many pent-up feelings inside of her. She gripped his wrist and moaned as she continued to rock her hips.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” he hissed. “You’re so warm, I can just imagine that tight little cunt fluttering—“

And that was all it took; his dirty compliments were her undoing. She was gasping for air and whimpering as she felt the undulations of her orgasm.

She hadn’t remembered closing her eyes, but when she opened them, Draco had lowered his mask.

A jagged, still-fresh scar was painted from out of the corner of his eye down to his mouth.

Hermione had not yet caught her breath, but she knew she didn’t want to react with shock. Nothing could ruin that handsome, chiselled face for her.

“Ouch,” she said faintly. She carefully raised her hand and lightly placed her fingers upon the redness.

Draco shook his head. “It’s nothing that Dittany cannot fix.”

She traced the inflamed edges, hoping he was right.

“It’s deep,” she replied. “But you’re right. It’ll fade.”

His upper lip curled as he nodded. “It’s better than a bite.”

“A bite?”

Draco nodded. “Vampires.”

Hermione threw her arms over his shoulders, forcing herself into him. She kissed his face, outlining the entirety of his scar.

“I didn’t think you’d be gone for so long,” she said with a sigh. “But I understand. You told me the Dark Lord had plans to send you away.

Draco kissed the top of her head. “The work in Romania isn’t done,” he replied. “The vampire alliances are still in the beginning stages there.”

Hermione rested her head into the crook of his shoulder. As she squeezed him, she could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat. The soft thuds lulled her into a sleepy state and she felt relieved to have him back again.

Draco must have been ruminating on Voldemort. He let out a derisive snort. “I suppose he’s being generous now, giving me time for the holidays. I think he thinks you’re already pregnant.”

“I see.”

Hermione wondered if somehow Bellatrix had assumed she was with child and informed Voldemort of the news.

She held him tighter. “But the Order will keep on. Christmas is as good as time as any to attack,” she said. “Actually, speaking of…I started the Polyjuice.”

The seconds turned to minutes and the minutes hours and then the hours days. She had enjoyed this week of peace, where Draco was only called away twice. Both times, he returned unscathed, something she was very thankful for.

She would never tell him because she had the feeling he was sensitive about his battle wounds, as they were given to him against his will in a fight for his life he didn’t ask for, but the scar from the edge of his eye down to his lip made him look sexy. She adored the way the way it curved when his face scrunched into a devilish smile.

Most days, they spent the time pouring over the books Hermione had gathered. Though they had spent lots of time snogging, to her disappointment, they had not done anything more. A minute part of her was thinking that maybe Draco had changed his mind about giving her a baby—but she brushed the nonsensical worry away. 

It was mid-December when Draco received an owl from Snape.

“It’s as I thought,” he told her after he read the letter. “Christmas Eve was just a ruse. Potter plans on breaking into Gringotts tomorrow evening.”

“Alright,” Hermione said, feeling determined that they could pull off the heist. “Are you telling Bellatrix anything?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Let her think St. Potter and friends fooled the goblins. I doubt she frequents her vault.”

The only ingredient left to add and stir was the strand of hair from Bellatrix.

“You didn’t ask me how I acquired it,” Hermione commented as she dropped the black curly strand into the cauldron.

Draco was hovering over her. He closed his eyes and then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She’s the one who Crucio’ed you,” he said, his eyes lightening up as if he had just put puzzle pieces together. “I knew it was her. I doubt Alden could and don’t think the Dark Lord would either.”

Hermione shrugged. “She can’t kill me.”

The potion water bubbled and turned several different vibrant shades, the warm hues flickering from orange to yellow, and then to gold.

Out of her side view, she could see that Draco’s fists were clenched.

 “That bitch better count her days,” he growled.

“I can tolerate it.”

Draco shook his head fiercely and touched his arm. “You shouldn’t have to. I felt what she did to you. I know you can defend yourself, but you won’t because she’s not worth it. But she can’t do that once…you know.”

Hermione turned towards him, knowing he was talking about the baby. His eyes were swirling with both dark and light and his brows were narrowed. A ripple passed through her lower stomach at his concern—he would be such a protective father.

She didn’t know why, but her only reaction was to kiss him.

“I promise I’ll stay away from her,” she said. “I just needed these books. She’s easily riled.”

Draco had a broody look about him. “If it wasn’t for my mother, I’d have killed her years ago. I keep thinking maybe there’s some cure, something familial that will undo the curse.”

Hermione put her hand on the side of his face. It wasn’t often that he was this open and vulnerable.

“Your mother is not gone,” she said adamantly. “I have no proof and I’ve tried researching the curse, but I feel she’s very much alive. You can feel her presence here. So I don’t blame you.”

His eyelashes fluttered as his gaze drifted down and away. Hermione couldn’t help but admire his face. Along with the scar, the earnestness was still there, indicating he had put his guard down. 

“I’ll kill Bellatrix if you want me to.”

Hermione kissed him on the cheek and then went back to the potion.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of what was to come,” she said softly. “But there are some enemies I need to keep close…we need to keep close.”

She stirred the contents clockwise a final time and then removed the ladle. She was aware that Draco’s eyes were burning into her.

“You don’t have to be afraid, ever. You have me.”

She swallowed the Polyjuice in one gulp; the potion tasted sweet and fizzy as it went down her throat.

Instantly, her muscles flexed of their own accord and started to shrink under her skin. Her arms and legs began to flail as her limbs and torso twisted into the shape of Bellatrix Lestrange. Lastly, she could feel the pounding pressure in her head as her hair, ears, eyes, nose, and mouth transformed.

It was deeply, deeply unsettling to be functioning in another’s physical body. She didn’t know how some witches and wizards managed to do so for an extended time. It was terrifying, the thought of accidentally getting trapped inside of someone else.

Hermione studied her hands, fascinated by what looked like dirt and blood underneath the fingernails. Though it was useless, she brushed them on the side of her corset dress.

“I’m ready,” she said to Draco from the bathroom. He had been adamant about not wanting to watch her morph into his aunt.

She stepped into the room just as he turned around.

She grinned manically at him, perhaps too perfectly, because his eyes narrowed and jaw tensed. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked casually, dropping her voice to a taunting whisper. 

He grimaced.

“Don’t like who you see?”

“You could say that,” he replied haughtily. “You looking like her makes me want to commit murder.”

Hermione giggled. “Excellent.”

“Let's get on with it,” Draco said, grumbling. “The sooner we steal the cup, the sooner I get my beautiful girl back.”

Hermione bit down hard on the inside of her lip. She felt a fuzzy warmth inside but resisted the urge to show any affection. She hoped he didn’t see her blush.

She cleared her throat. “Act natural. We have a vault to break into.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Diagon Alley were empty save for a few Death Eaters, guards stationed to watch for Harry or terrorise those who dared to wander. Walking in Bellatrix’s skin made Hermione feel both untouchable and incredibly paranoid.

She looked into dusty shop windows, curious if any part of the old Wizarding Britain remained. Having not been anywhere in society in over a year, she had no idea what the outside world was like. Even on the Horcrux hunt, she had mainly travelled in the woods or Apparated to and from the Order’s safe houses. As Draco was her only source for what was happening with the War, it was startling to see how desolate the city looked. Everything was grey and closed or boarded up. Every facet of every building looked to be touched by Dark Magic or the smog from the War. 

The only sign of life came from overhead in the form of tiny snowflakes landing on her shoulders and in her black mane. It wasn’t the kind of snow that would stick around and make life beautiful.

As they headed up the steps to the first set of burnished bronze doors, Hermione found it odd that no goblins were watching outside. Her heart pounded with dread as they entered the marble hall. Not one was seated on the stools; Hermione tried to quell the panic swirling within her as her heeled boots clicked loudly across the floor. It wasn’t characteristic for the goblins to leave their posts, to leave the bank open and vulnerable. But then again, nothing was in its right state during these times.

She looked at Draco, but he didn’t seem phased. His expression was steely with typical cold determination. They made it down a narrow corridor and approached a small door. On either side was a Death Eater, and directly in front of the door was a goblin in a red uniform with gold tassels.

“Goyle,” Draco said, nodding to the Death Eater to the left.

Hermione pursed her lips, unsure if this Death Eater was Gregory or maybe the father.

The goblin bowed in greeting, and when he tilted his head to address them, Hermione noticed his beady pupils grow wide.

“Er, is there a problem with your vault, Madam?”

Hermione gave the goblin a hard stare. She tilted her neck just so in a way to show she was casually offended.

“No, no problem.”

The goblin brought his long fingers to his chin. “You were here just a moment ago, so I thought I’d ask.”

It felt like someone had replaced her blood with ice water. Bellatrix herself or, more likely, someone from the Order disguised as Bellatrix already gained access to the vault.

“I was,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, “and now I have returned with my nephew. Take us to my vault.”

The goblin looked to Goyle and the unknown Death Eater on his right. They both shrugged.

Hermione crossed her arms and let out an exasperated sigh. “Well? I don’t have all day.”

She watched as the goblin’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. It was hard to decipher his specific sentiments, though she sensed he was not taking his vault duties very seriously. Regardless of who seized it or if there were any agreements, the fact that Voldemort and the Death Eaters took over Gringotts had dampened his enthusiasm.

“Right this way, Madam Lestrange…Draco Malfoy.”

They travelled in the mine cart along the jagged tracks at a voracious speed, dipping below the rocky ledges and narrowly avoiding the sharp stalagmites which hung above their heads like suspended knives. The further they descended, the more treacherous the rails became. 

“Your vault, Madam.”

The car came to an abrupt halt. Hermione gripped the side with two hands, attempting to act composed when the journey had actually made her quite nauseous. She didn’t have a vault, only a small account with Gringotts. She had ventured once with Harry to his vault but didn’t remember the ride being so brutal.

“Hmph,” she murmured as her ‘thanks.’ She climbed out of the cart and smoothed the ruffled lace of her dress.

Hermione turned to eye Draco, who nodded at her. They hadn’t had a chance to converse, but their body language said it all. With their wands drawn, they were ready to fight and take the Horcrux by any violent means.

The goblin hobbled over to the vault, not bothering to give them a second look. He inserted one long fingernail into the keyhole and unlocked it. Several clicks later, a labyrinth pattern revealed itself on the door.

He stepped back to usher them forward.

“Good day.” He grumbled before climbing back into the cart.

Hermione approached the entrance and felt a cool blast of air; the atmosphere before her was icy and magnetic. She could practically hear the dark objects inside beckoning her. With Draco at her side, Hermione entered the vault fearlessly, feeling a strange sense of belonging as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She was fascinated by the organised chaos, her curiosity growing as she observed row upon row of dark artefacts. There was what looked like a beating heart with hair preserved in a jar, a bloodstained pack of cards, vials of blood and iridescent elixirs, a Pensieve surrounded by a purple fog, various floating scrolls, a black quill, a book she recognised as a version of Magick Moste Evile , and a box with what looked to be an ordinary red apple.

But what truly captured her attention were the shelves of dark jewellery and gemstones. There was a striking ruby ring, the shade intensified by what looked like real blood inside the stone and a black crystal choker that, upon closer inspection, contained a miniature human skull.

Unable to control the impulse, she reached for a necklace with the gold chain and onyx snake centrepiece. She didn’t know what the magic was, but she instantly felt warmth in her palm as she held the charm, as if she was supposed to find it.

She hesitated as she imagined Bellatrix. It doesn’t belong to you, Mudblood .

Ignoring the imaginary threat, Hermione studied the necklace. Up close, she could see that the snake’s body consisted of thousands of tiny black jewels, each glittering even though there was no light source. She couldn’t explain why but knew she had to have it.

She looked back to Draco, thinking he might tell her to put it back. But when she turned to him, she noticed a peculiar look about him. His irises were darkening, and he had just the faintest trace of an encouraging smile. His facial scar, which looked iridescent on his pale face in the darkness, made him even more alluring.

“Go on,” he coaxed her. He ran a hand through his hair as he gazed at her.“Take it. You know you want it.”

Her chest expanded with giddiness as she grinned back at him. It would be too weird for her and beyond awful for him if she were to kiss him while Polyjuiced.

Hermione grabbed the chain and tossed it over her head, feeling a surprising warmth from the charm as it settled against her throat. She still didn’t know why she had felt drawn to it, but the guilt from desiring the necklace was now replaced with inexplicable comfort. Perhaps it encouraged her to run with this dangerous side of herself, the one who had no limit when it came to playing with dark magic.

They continued further into the vault when the ground beneath them suddenly began to shake. A loud crash and a flash of magic accompanied some shouting.

“Accio Cup!”

Hermione knew that voice—Harry.

A shriek then travelled the length of the vault; its high pitch reverberated off the walls.

“Accio Horcrux!”

“Which one is it? Harry, help!”

Draco rushed ahead, and she followed him, holding up her wand in pursuit. As they raced through the narrow aisle of the vault, Hermione caught sight of the source of the commotion.

A tower, made entirely of replicated Hufflepuff Cups, was starting to collapse.

“Protego! ”

Draco cast the Shield Charm, but not before grabbing her hand. They charged forward, the path clear before them as thousands of cups bounced off the translucent cover overhead.

“Finite.”

They emerged from the rubble, standing face to face with Harry and another Bellatrix, presumably Ginny. Hermione couldn’t help but scowl, knowing it was because of her that she even learned to brew the Polyjuice.

Draco lowered his wand, a tactic Hermione noticed he often used to catch his enemies off guard.

“Give it here, Potter.”

Harry gripped the Cup protectively. “I don’t think I will.”

“Then keep your precious souvenir and turn your pathetic self in already.”

Draco’s eyes had that teasing, deadly glint to them. Nothing rattled him. The more tense a situation grew, the icier his tone became.

Harry was breathing hard, and his eyes darted to the far corners of the room, perhaps assessing the best way out. When his focus returned to her, she wondered if he was thinking about disarming her for the Elder Wand. If that were his thought, she’d welcome it; Harry didn’t stand a chance against her and Draco again.

“I won’t turn myself in until I know Riddle can die,” he said through gritted teeth. 

Maybe stealing the Horcrux was enough of a mission for him.

Draco looked amused. “You're sorely mistaken if you think the Dark Lord marks the end of this.” 

Harry blinked, undoubtedly trying to process the words. In that heartbeat, Draco aimed his wand.

“Crucio! ”

The Cup flew out of Harry’s hands the instant his body convulsed from the abusive spell.

“Accio! ”

“Accio Cup! ”

Hermione and Ginny summoned the Cup at the same time. 

With her wand still drawn, she watched as the it hovered in midair, caught in some tangled magical vortex where it could not sense direction.

“Accio Horcux!”

“Accio Hufflepuff’s Cup!”

The Horcrux was not going to cooperate.

Propelled by intuition, Hermione dove for the Cup and felt a brief jolt of satisfaction and searing pain as her knees scraped the ground. She was relieved when her fingers clasped the gold goblet, which vibrated with cold, dark energy. But the victory was short-lived as another hand grabbed at the stem.

Ginny grunted as she tried to pry the Cup out of her grasp.

Reacting instinctively once more, Hermione kicked her in the stomach with the pointed toe of her boot and then rolled, securing the Cup underneath her. Behind her, Hermione could hear that Ginny was gasping, no doubt clutching her middle. But in the next moment, she threw herself onto Hermione’s back, forcing her further down onto the hard stone surface of the vault.

“Get off me!”

Hermione could feel the bruises forming on her lower back as Ginny used all of her might to press down on her.

“Give me the Cup.”

Hermione remained still. When she felt fingertips at her sides, she used all her bodily strength to flip over.

“I said, ‘Get off of me.’”

With a shriek of frustration, Ginny launched herself once more at Hermione. 

“Give me the Cup, you Death Eater whore!”

As Ginny swiped at the Horcrux, Hermione laughed; the gleeful sound echoed into the cavernous vault. The insult didn’t quite hit coming from a Bellatrix clone. Still, the words only confirmed that there was no world in which she would go easy on her. With Ginny pinning her down, Hermione couldn’t aim her wand, so she shifted her shoulder just enough to tuck the Cup under her arm. She raised a hand to the face thrashing in front of her, and after flexing her sharp nails, she scratched as deep as she could into the leathery Bellatrix skin. 

Ginny cried out, touching her cheek. She appeared as if she were going to back away, but then reached out to slap Hermione across the jaw.

It was one of those instances where time froze; the two Bellatrixes screamed at one another, Ginny out of vexation and Hermione out of unhinged wickedness. 

Meanwhile, vibrations of explosive magic were knocking over shelves of dark objects, causing glass jars and vials to fall and shatter upon the ground. It appeared Harry had recovered enough to aim a hex at Draco. They were locked in a duel, and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand as thick trails of smoke circled the air and coloured lights ricocheted off the ends of the vault.

Hermione managed to scoot back enough to lift her wand, which must have triggered Ginny to get back onto her feet.

“Fancy a Crucio?” she asked in a taunting voice from the ground, resting upon one arm. “Or would you prefer to tackle me again so I can claw your eyes out properly this time?”

Ginny stood there huffing, and as she rolled her shoulders, the black coils of hair falling down her back began to lighten, turning into loose copper ringlets. Feeling the transformation, she looked down at her fists with big eyes, watching as her skin expanded like rising dough and then morphed back into the shape and texture of her actual hands.

In her state of surprise, Ginny raised her wand.

“Accio Cup!”

“Crucio .”

“Cru—”

Ginny had decidedly taken a risk in trying again to call for the Horcrux, but the Cup still did not obey the Summoning Charm. She tried then, too late, to cast the torture spell upon Hermione. Caught in the red tendrils of the curse herself, she stumbled back and fell to the ground.

Making sure the Cup was still by her side, Hermione let the wave of the Cruciatus drag her to her feet.  With a slight twist of her wrist, she aimed the curse, forcing the trajectory of magic to lift Ginny’s body into the air. With another subtle swish, she slammed her back onto the ground.

Ginny cried out; Hermione was sure she had already broken her wand hand. But the more she set the sparks to her opponent, causing her body to writhe as if electrocuted, the less Hermione even noted the curse's effects. This Unforgivable had become something of second nature to her now, something she could cast too easily, subconsciously.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

Someone else had arrived. 

She could not see who it was as the explosive magic drove her back. Despite the unknown guest, she was still set on maintaining the Cruciatus, not wanting to grant Ginny the opportunity to defend herself. 

But as Hermione fought to hold onto the curse and the Cup, another blast beyond the initial Bombarda occurred.  This time, orange flames twisted ferociously through the vault like fiery ribbons. The hot streaks collided in the air with the magic from the Cruciatus, resulting in an additional explosion which tossed Hermione violently like a rag doll. 

She was flying in slow motion; she couldn’t avoid the flames which burned her side, but at least her arms and legs folded inward as if her muscles knew to brace for an impact. As she landed with a thud against a wall, she cried out not from the pain but from the realisation she had lost the Cup.

She inched forward in a vain attempt to see if it had landed nearby but hissed as she didn’t feel the cup but a pressure and pool of wetness below. The top of her thigh was exposed and bloody, ripped to the bone from the explosion. Blood was gushing out of her wound, and at the same time, something that felt like bubbles rippled beneath her skin. Suddenly, Bellatrix’s likeness started to fade, and the strands of her hair became heavier as her curls reclaimed her head.  

The effects from Polyjuice never lasted long, but her injury with the presence of her blood must have sped up the process. Drawing a quick breath, Hermione attempted to push herself up, thinking she could support herself on her good leg.

But she slumped back down, wincing as the edges of her eyes filled with tears from the pain. Her back was throbbing—she was sure there was a contusion or a fracture on her spine. She looked down at her leg, knowing that she had to do something about the bleeding.

More screams and shouts were echoing all around the vault. Hermione wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the ground was pulsating as if a troll or a giant was stepping upon it, attempting to create an earthquake.

“Diffindo.”

She cut off a strip of her Bellatrix gown for a makeshift tourniquet. The material wouldn’t be thick enough, but it would have to do. She felt hurried to rejoin the fight—any healing work would also have to wait. She bit down on her lip as she struggled to tie the lace around her leg.

“Let me.”

Hermione heard Draco first before she saw him; the calmness of his voice was enough to turn her into a puddle, even while in pain. His hair was askew, covering his brows as he knelt before her and gingerly placed her arms at her sides. He whispered the words to a healing spell, a familiar one she had seen used quite often on the battlefields but never performed herself. While the laceration looked cleaner, it did not exactly shrink. A steady stream of blood continued to gush.

She whimpered as he lifted her thigh up and over his knee and took control of her shaking leg, expertly wrapping the black fabric around her wound. Though his hands were soaked in her blood, he did not recoil; his touch was not soft but as careful as could be considering the pain she was in.

He didn’t ask if she could stand, probably because he already knew the answer. Instead, he hoisted her up by throwing her arm over his neck so that she could put all of her body weight upon him.

 “The Cup,” Hermione heard herself saying as he pulled her along. “You can go, and I’ll find my way out. I can walk—”

But she nearly collapsed as she attempted to move her arm away. In response, he gripped her waist even tighter and increased his pace so that she knew she was not a burden. 

“Where…?”

Hermione trailed off, her mouth dropping at the sight before her. The entrance to the vault had been reduced to rubble, and in the centre of the chamber was a majestic, pale ghost of a creature. The flames that had forced her to the wall had nothing to do with magic but belonged to this dragon. A winding chain, presumably attached to the rocks below, kept the dragon in place. It was flailing against the metal, breathing fire and thrashing to generate momentum with its wings to break free. Its opalescent skin made it look like a phantom against the dark background of the tunnels.

She had read stories of the Ukrainian Ironbelly at Gringotts; she was mystified and horrified by how the goblins could contain and control such a creature. From the current look of things, the chain holding the dragon down was rusted and about to snap. Looking into the dragon’s pearly, heavy eyes, she saw loneliness and so much bitter, relatable rage.

“Go! Take the Horcrux!”

Harry was yelling at a figure straddling the Ironbelly. As they moved closer, she saw who it was…Charlie Weasley. 

While uselessly testing whether she could apply more pressure to her injured leg, Hermione kept an eye on Harry. He appeared frazzled and skittish, apparently torn between bolting for the dragon and glancing behind him. 

She turned ever so slightly to see what he was looking at near the pile of debris by what had been the door. Ginny was kneeling, and magical cords fastened her wrists and ankles together. Part of her dress had been severed and inserted into her mouth as a gag.

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger when he noticed Hermione.  He scowled at her, seeing as she clung to Draco, and then his gaze shifted to her wand.

“Expelli—”

“Crucio.”

Draco had also been anticipating that he would disarm her in her vulnerable state. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” Draco asked dully, tossing his head back. He ended the curse as soon as Harry fell to the ground.

“No,” he said, wincing as he pushed himself back up. “I’m going to die anyway, so I beg of you—kill me instead of her.” 

Harry turned to Ginny, whose muffled sobs were the only pleas she could make. His forlorn face said, ‘I’m doing everything I can.’

Draco twirled his wand over in a bored manner, drawing Harry’s attention to his blood-stained hands. He turned to Hermione then, and her heart thumped erratically as he found her with those crystalline eyes that reminded her of the beautiful snowflakes that had clung to her hair earlier. Nudging his face against hers, he brushed his nose across her cheek in the most intimate fashion, which made her skin flush pink, not from embarrassment but from the raw emotion churning inside her. It was such a tender act, one that contrasted with his murderous nature.

As he kissed the top of her head, the tension in her muscles dissolved. Hermione no longer needed to feign strength before her enemies when she had him to protect her.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Draco mumbled the curse lazily in jest without bothering to look up at Harry. His attention was still focused on her as he breathed against her hair, took in her scent, and kissed her head again. They were the only two that existed in the world.

His hand trailed to her hip, to a spot just above her injury; his fingers lightly strummed her skin as he continued to nestle into her. “My girl,” he whispered so only she could hear. “I’ll make it better. I’ll fix you.” 

Hermione’s lips parted reflexively. She was dazed from the fuzzy feeling he gave her, the feeling that blanketed her with so much comfort. He was the only one who could fix her. Living only for his tender affection, she closed her eyes, completely caught up in the feels he gave her, his reassuring touch, and the sensation of his lips upon her forehead.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Harry was standing there shaking with undeniable fury. 

Draco continued his caressing, not acknowledging the fact Harry had spoken. 

Harry stepped forward, aggressively clearing his throat. “Kill me. You can have the Cup. Ginny gets to go,” he demanded.

She heard Draco’s aggrieved sigh as he finally looked up. “Unlike you, Potter, I have learned to accept my Prophecy,” he quipped. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry said, gulping. “Take me as a prisoner then, and spare her.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re not mine to kill, and I’ll take you prisoner whenever I please, as I don’t negotiate with cowardly fuckwits. You’d never admit it, but you wouldn’t even be in this position had you trusted Granger.”

“That’s not—”

“She would have killed me a long time ago.” 

Draco was smirking, clearly enjoying how he became unnerved by the truth.

She could tell Harry was putting great effort into maintaining his composure. He flexed his fingers, folding his hands into fists and took a deep breath. “The Hermione I know would never fall for you in any scenario. She would still do the right thing. She would never allow herself to be deceived, to—”

“The Hermione you know is dead!” she spat, tugging Draco’s cloak as she needed something to clench. “She died when you and the Order discarded me. You don’t get to pretend you know me or my heart.”

“This has nothing to do with your heart. Do you even have one? Merlin, look at what you’ve become, Hermione! And him,” Harry continued, exasperated and gesturing to Draco, “just how many of our friends has he killed? He’ll keep you around long enough to fulfil that bloody prophecy to secure his position as the next Dark Lord. Snape told me as much. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be so gullible to throw your life away for someone who only wants you dead.”

“You’re wrong,” Hermione rasped, her voice quivering as the words caught in her throat. Her tone came out more desperate than she intended it to. “This has everything to do with my heart, who I am, and who I lo—,” she stopped, suddenly conscious of Draco and his heart beating next to hers, his warmth radiating through to her as she leaned on him. The words were bold but came to her so naturally. She cut herself off mid-spiel, realising Draco deserved to hear the declaration from her sincerely rather than in a rambling defence to Harry. 

“You don’t love him,” Harry insisted, accenting the word she had dodged. “You couldn’t say it before, and you can’t say it now. And you’re fooling yourself if you think he loves you. He doesn’t even know what love is. Love doesn’t exist inside evil like Malfoy, Riddle, Bellatrix, and all those Death Eaters you aspire to be like. Those who torture and murder don’t know what it means to love.” 

As if on cue, the Ironbelly dragon roared.

“Harry! Grab her, and we’ll go!”

Charlie was frantically trying to keep the dragon from breaking its chain while also trying not to lose his grip on the Cup. 

The moment Harry turned his back, Draco jutted forward to cast a spell at Ginny. He mumbled something unintelligible and then, with one slick turn of his wrist, performed a hex that sent her bound body rolling across the rocks. He released the spell suddenly, leaving her dangling at the cliff's edge. 

Harry had already started running to her.

“Keep the Cup, Potter…and the bitch.”

Draco flicked his wand again as Harry reached her, sending another shock wave that knocked Ginny’s body over the ledge.

Harry cried out as he managed to grab Ginny’s foot. Meanwhile, the dragon was snorting and starting to buck, irritated by the pull of the chains.

Raising a shaky hand, Harry slowly directed his wand, levitating Ginny over towards the dragon.

“Hurry!”

The Ironbelly thrashed, spitting more angry fireballs as Charlie tapped his wand to crack the chain.

“Harry, jump!”

After releasing a pained roar, the dragon stretched its neck and began flapping its wings. Without the chains, its full wingspan touched the ledge, giving Harry just a split second to run across the scaly surface and hurdle himself upon the creature's back.

A gust of hot air rushed through the vault as the dragon left captivity at last. It ascended higher and higher, destroying more vaults and demolishing the cart tracks and tunnels in its path. Eventually, the Ironbelly soared so freely that it crashed through the uppermost rock layer, leaving crumbling rocks and small fires below in its wake. 

Next to her, Draco was staring off into the cavernous space. He was silent, though she thought she saw his lips move. In any case, his pensive look gave her a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. They had failed the mission, but more than that, she wondered if she had failed him in front of Harry. Harry’s righteous claims about love made her livid. 

“Draco, I—”

He shook his head, not wanting to hear it. 

“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out anyway as she couldn’t bear how deflated she felt.

He was saying something she couldn’t make out. When he turned to her, she saw that his face was still contemplative, but his eyes had a peculiar glow to them. 

“By Crucio’ing the Weaselette, you weakened her for me,” he said matter-of-factly. 

He was thinking about the mission, not about Harry’s accusations. 

“But the Cup,” she lamented. “They’re going to destroy it. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed in the way that made him look dangerous. “It fucking matters—we’re getting the fucking Cup.”

Hermione observed him as he continued to gaze into the pitch-blackness before them. Oddly enough, with the dragon gone, the vaults seemed too deserted, the air too cold, and the mood too ominous. She assumed it would be only mere minutes before the goblins or Death Eater guards arrived, but then again, the mine tracks were destroyed. 

She trusted that he knew a way out.

Hermione saw him lift his wand. He wasn't looking at her when he spoke: 

“You will do everything I say.”

Chapter Text

Draco’s voice resounded through the void of the vaults like he was speaking to a spectral instead of her. He waved his wand over his hands, casting a spell to cleanse them.

Hermione knew there was no time for him to hash out his plan with her. She was so down on herself for getting injured that she didn’t dare interrogate him on the logistics. That wasn’t how they usually operated anyway; in every battle, their secret weapons were always their instincts and trust in one another. 

“My leg. If I could just…” She drew in a breath as Draco stepped to the side, putting space between them to assess her condition. 

His expression remained severe as he studied her.  “I need to Transfigure this,” he said, pulling on the sleeve of her dress.

Hermione didn’t think she could move without her leg giving out. Draco held the back of her arm with one hand as he raised his wand and began the incantation. The shredded Victorian lace of her gown and black pointy boots swirled around her until they both blurred. She looked down to see that she was barefoot and wearing a simple cream-coloured slip. 

He nodded at her with approval, lifting his wand once more so it touched her temple. As he whispered the words to the Warming Charm, her skin began to vibrate as heat formed from within. 

“Your wand,” he said, pointing to her hand.

Hermione looked at him, her face wrought in confusion. 

He repeated himself with more insistence. “Granger. I promise you—”

“It’s alright.” She thrust her wand into his palm and watched as he tucked it into his cloak. 

“I’ll be needing the necklace as well.”

Again, she didn’t question him. She winced once more as she braced herself at the knees, attempting to lift her arm from off him.

Draco shook his head, thinking better of it. “I’ll do it.” 

“Be careful that it doesn’t—”

But it was too late. He reached too quickly, grabbing the chain before she could finish her warning. As he pulled it over her head, the snake charm caught in her hair. 

 “Fuck,” he swore, his tone low and reprimanding. “If we lose this mission…”

She felt so temporarily useless; she was still as he untangled the chain and reapplied her grip on him just enough to try standing on her own again. She swore under her breath when she felt the stab of pain.

After a never-ending minute, Draco worked the necklace out of her mane. 

He touched a stray curl. “Your bushy head will be to blame.” His voice remained clipped, but his eyes were light and unaccusing. 

“Accio Black Arrow."

A handcrafted, Gothic-looking broomstick came flying out from the vault. It hovered in the air before them as if enticing them. 

Draco raised his wand and then sighed, lowering it again. He pulled on her elbow, guiding her to the handle.

“Could be cursed,” he warned. “Here, I’ll help you. Don’t let go.” 

His hands lifted her over the stick.

Hermione balanced on the broom with great effort; it was a struggle to grip the handle and not put too much pressure on her lower back. Just when she thought she might topple over, Draco’s strong arms closed around her.

She bit her lip and scooted back to him as he kicked his foot, guiding the Black Arrow into the air. As they took off, her stomach lurched with the thrill of being weightless as they soared.

“What happens if it's cursed?” she found herself asking as she looked down, seeing the vaults and cliffs get smaller and smaller. They sped upwards to the wreckage, to the hole revealing the cloudy sky created by the Ironbelly. Without the dragon's fire, she imagined the air around them was frigid and wondered if most of the heat she felt was coming from the Warming Charm or Draco.

He chuckled. “We fall to our deaths.”

She looked down at the rows of brick houses and chimneys, aware of how high they were the first time. From this high up, everything looked fake, the buildings reminding her of those from a train set.

 “We’re not chasing the Ironbelly, are we?” She thought she knew his answer but wanted to be sure.

Draco inched closer. He wasn’t just holding onto her from behind but embracing her. His breath tickled her earlobe as he spoke.

“Merlin no, Granger. Despite what it looks like, I don’t have a suicide mission for us. Secondly, we don’t chase after Potter. We’re not pathetic and desperate fucks like those in the Order. We don’t chase—we capture or make them come to us.”

She hummed in understanding, using everything in her power to keep her face from breaking out into a pleased grin. She didn’t know if by “we” he meant Death Eaters in general, but her heart pounded at the notion that he meant the two of them.

If the air was icy, she didn’t know it. As they soared through the winter sky, she realised the snow from earlier had let up, making everything sort of plain-looking. It was one of those December days where the backdrop wasn’t merely overcast but pure white. She expected the orange ball of the setting sun would reveal itself behind a rooftop any minute. 

They had already passed the outline of Diagon Alley below and were now beginning a descent, skimming the tops of evergreen tree tops in a dense forest. 

Every muscle in Hermione’s body tensed with stress as soon as she saw the destination. They were arriving at Lestrange Manor. She immediately understood the reasons for Draco’s precautions, though she felt powerless without her wand. Just seeing the ivy growing over the stone exterior brought her flashbacks of when she had tried to escape before. It felt like returning to a nightmare.

His boots touched the ground before her toes did. They had landed just beyond the gravel path behind a willow tree, not too far from the front steps.

As she anticipated, his hands curled under her forearms, pulling her quickly to her feet. The Black Arrow zoomed away by its own volition, appearing to land around the back of the house.

Draco assessed the grounds and drew his wand. 

“Incarcerous.” 

He placed the usual magical restraints around her wrists. Seeing as she didn’t react, he linked his arm under hers.

“Let’s get this over with,” he insisted. 

She looked back at him and noticed that his cheeks were burned red from the wind and cold and that his eyes looked teary, though she knew he was not emotional. 

“There’s just one thing,” he said, still staring at her.

Hermione felt the softness of his hair first upon the side of her face as he angled himself toward her. Without any core strength at the moment, she was thankful for how her body seemed to fit him like a puzzle piece as she fell into him.

He pressed against her face, his lips touching gently upon her own, and she heard a low murmur of satisfaction as his mouth began to move. He was kissing her, drawing out the heat from her body through the little sparks that existed between them.

Draco paused, breaking their kiss to mumble something indistinguishable, and his voice was swallowed by her mouth as she pulled him down this time. 

Hermione imagined it was the meeting of fire and ice as her warmth surrounded him. He ended the kiss, but not before lingering, nipping at her top lip with his teeth. She felt an inkling of desire inside her despite her pain.

When he finally let her go, he looked from the chains back to her face again. She could still feel the spark of the kiss, the ghost of his lips on hers. It was something meant to last, something to ease the dread of what was to come.

“Those goblins are useless.”

Bellatrix was pacing in the foyer, throwing hexes aimlessly, cursing in a fit.

Draco was sitting on a bench with one leg crossed over the other. Beside him on the floor, Hermione was kneeling like some kind of pet. 

“This is all your fault, Mudblood—your meddling friends hunting the gifts of the Dark Lord. You taught them to hunt.”

She aimed her wand and sent a jolt of fiery magic at Hermione. 

Hermione flinched to avoid the blast, but it was impossible. She bit down on the inside of her cheek as the hex hit her like a lightning bolt. 

Whimpering, she fell forward onto her hands. Her leg was throbbing, and she was certain that the skin had been split open again. The tears that dotted her eyes stung; as strong as she felt inside, she couldn’t control how much pain she was in. She hated the fact she could not have more tolerance.

“Salazar fucking Slytherin,” Draco snapped. “She didn’t steal your Cup.”

Bellatrix was heaving as she sneered down at Hermione. 

“Shall I inform the Dark Lord you care about her well-being? You are too soft with her, Draco. The Mudlood has never learned her place. It’s as if nothing can break her—”

“I live to break her. Can’t you see? She’s already injured.”

His voice had that same edge as when he spoke to Harry. He was at once bored and perturbed. 

Bellatrix looked unconvinced. She was muttering to herself and threw her hands down in frustration. “Did Severus expect this theft?”

“He warned me, but I can’t be everywhere,” Draco said, exasperated. “I can’t be fighting in Romania, fucking her,” Hermione felt the pull of the chains, “and protecting your Horcrux.”

Bellatrix wailed in frustration. “This is not my fault,” she said, seething. 

“Hmm.” 

Hermione was sure that if she stole a glance, Draco was sitting there unbothered, revelling in Bellatrix’s unravelling.

“Well, what are we going to do about it?”

Her voice was softer, but not in a way that sounded any less grating but revealed a whiny desperation. Meanwhile, her black eyes shifted to and from the door to Death Eater Hall.

Draco scoffed. “I took care of it.”

“You did?” Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. She stopped her frantic pacing. “How?”

“You’ll see,” he said scathingly. “I'm cleaning up your mess. I managed to arrive at Gringotts in the knick of time.”

“It’s not my mess! The Cup was secured. Now, the Dark Lord will question my loyalty after I’ve given everything to him. Everything!”

Bringing both of his hands to his head, Draco grumbled. He looked up at her incredulously. “And that shocks you?”

“He will think of me as incompetent, unwilling to take precautions to ensure the Horcrux goes untouched,” she huffed.

“That sounds like his problem. You might want to visit your vault, by the way. It’s no longer locked; there’s no longer a door.”

“Argh!” She resumed her manic strides, this time muttering under her breath. “I’m such a fool to trust those lowdown goblins, those barmy Death Eaters too weak for battle!”

“I don’t know why you insist on going mental when I said ‘I took care of it.’”

She brushed him off. “This will be another victory for you, Draco, another sign of your devotion—”

“I won’t cross you to elevate myself,” Draco cut in. His voice was hushed, but every word was accented. “It’s a pity you’ve forgotten that. And it’s a damn shame you still don’t realise that everything I do in this War is for her.”

Bellatrix stopped dead in her tracks. She rubbed her hands over the front of her dress, lost in contemplation.

“Listen to me,” Draco continued, his voice growing quieter as the doors to Death Eater Hall opened, “The Cup is being returned. You accompanied me to Gringotts, and we took care of it. Ginny Weasley is under the Imperius. She should be here any moment.”

Bellatrix was about to speak when Voldemort's rattling voice struck from the end of the corridor.

“The Wards,” he hissed,” shuffling into view in his long black robe with Nagaini slithering by his side. “I have sent my guards to the gate. We have an intruder,” he said, snickering. “Ah, Draco. How lovely it is for you to visit with your Mudblood.”

He held out a withered arm, pointing to her. Her eyes drifted up to his corpse-like serpent features, shuddering as he sneered at her with those decayed teeth.

“My Lord.” Draco rose from the bench, nodding. His eyes flashed as he turned to Bellatrix. “Bellatrix and I have just returned from Gringotts. Was the news of the break-in in her vault not reported to you? You should have heard from Goyle or Ackley by now.

The jovial expression on his face suddenly dimmed. “Bellatrix,” he bellowed, his tone darkening, “What was taken from your vault? There is no possible way Potter or his minions could have entered, not with the goblin security and our own personal guards—”

“There is no need for alarm, my Lord. Draco and I arrived in time. The perpetrator has arrived.” Bellatrix bowed her head reverently. Her demeanour had become as intimidating as an evil queen's. Her emotions were regulated, and she was no longer a child stomping her feet.

Before Voldemort could question her, the doors to the manor swung open.

Ginny Weasley was placed in Incarcerous chains with five or six Death Eaters surrounding her. She was still wearing her Bellatrix gown, though she looked much more dishevelled. Her hair was a matted mess, and from what Hermione could see, she had what looked to be claw marks, dirt, and cuts on her face and hands. Her eyes were not her own. They were almost like that of a vulture, giving her the appearance of being flighty and startled.

She was gripping the Cup fiercely, searching the foyer in a trance.

“Aha!” Bellatrix raised her chin, evidently delighted that Draco had made good on his word. 

Voldemort was seething. “Potter’s girlfriend…to what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Ginny limped across the foyer, seemingly unaware she was in chains or in mortal peril. 

She stopped when she reached Bellatrix. As controlled by strings, she glanced at the Cup in her hands. A vacant yet proud smile emerged on her face. 

She turned then, robotically trudging towards Draco.

The Death Eaters accompanied her on either side shook their heads in confusion.

“Bring the Cup here! That treasure does not belong to you—to think it is in your greedy, grubby hands!” Bellatrix had resumed her stomping, the sight of Ginny enraging her.

“Silence! Lower your wand.” 

Voldemort held up one hand. If Hermione didn’t know any better, his brows seemed to be wrinkled with concern. He was focused on Ginny, watching her carry the cup like a newborn.

Suddenly, Ginny stopped right in front of Hermione. Not quite looking her in the eye, she stretched out her arms, handing the Cup to Hermione.

As her fingers closed around the stem, she looked to Draco. His face was masked with that cruel gaze; he didn’t give her any indication of what to do. 

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself to her feet. holding the Cup out in front of her. 

She didn’t think she could bear to be Crucioed. With a whimper, she managed to hobble several steps, not towards Bellatrix but Voldemort.

She didn’t say anything, certain that if she were to open her mouth, she would cry.

Voldemort’s eyes lit up with amusement. He could see that she was in anguish, struggling to balance. She presented the Cup to him, and he grinned at her manically.

“Draco,” he drawled. “Well done. I see you have trained the Mudblood.”

As soon as Voldemort yanked the Cup from her grasp, Hermione collapsed to the floor. She was desperately trying to conceal her sobs, to not draw any more attention to herself. She prayed that Draco would take her back to the manor; the only thing that could ease the pain would be some kind of Sleeping Draught.

Voldemort held the Cup up triumphantly. 

“Take the Weasley girl to Death Eater Hall,” he said, grimacing at Ginny. Her eyes looked completely vacant now. “A punishment is in order.”

She saw Nagini as the Death Eaters forced Ginny to the Hall.

“Bellatrix…I trust that you can guard this Cup with your life while we make other arrangements. I must interrogate the goblins and Death Eaters responsible for this mishap. Draco, I insist you join me when you have a moment.” He pushed the Cup into Bellatrix’s open hands.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Hermione felt a tug from the magical chains.

“Get up.”

She had been fine for a moment, stabilising herself with the feel of the cool marble floor against her hands. 

When Draco pulled the chain back, she had no choice but to move. She whined, feeling her wound gush as she sat up. Spots of her blood dotted the floor. As she looked down, a circle of red was spreading on her silk slip.

“Disgusting,” he said with a sigh. “Now, look what you did.” 

His words, she thought, were directed to Bellatrix.

Voldemort laughed heartily. He glided to Draco and moved a bony hand upon his shoulder. “Good work again. I do hope you bring the Mudblood around more often. This was quite the entertainment.” His dark eyes moved to her, studying her. “I expect there will be news of a pregnancy soon? It's been too long.”

“You can guarantee it, my Lord.”  

He nodded. “I will be in the Hall.” He turned, motioning for Nagini to follow.

When it became obvious that Voldemort was out of sight, Draco reached down to Hermione. Picking her up with a huff, he brought her hand to his forearm so she could lean on him. 

She winced again as he started to drag her to the corridor. 

“What do you want?” Bellatrix’s voice rang out across the foyer. 

Draco turned, scowling as he looked back her. She looked apprehensive for a reason Hermione could not quite discern.

He scoffed, realising the question. “I don’t want anything, or rather, I don’t need anything from you. I manage to get whatever I want if you haven’t noticed. If I hadn’t relied on myself all these years, I’d be dead by now.”

“But if there was something I could do, a way I could repay you?” Bellatrix’s voice held none of the panic from earlier. “Surely, without you, I’d be facing the Dark Lord’s rightful wrath for leaving the Cup vulnerable.” She was inspecting her fingernails, trying her best to look and sound casual.

“Fine,” he replied, pulling Hermione once more with, “do me one favour.” 

“What is it?” Bellatrix’s face suddenly looked more hopeful, the signs of her temper tantrum having faded. “I’ll do it. I'll do anything.”

“Stop fucking torturing the Mudblood and leave that to me,” he said with a grumble. “Thanks to you, I’ve gotten her blood on me. I’m calling the Healer.”

Bellatrix looked quizzical. “That is all?”

“That is everything,” he mumbled darkly. 

As they were already halfway down the corridor, Hermione didn’t know if Bellatrix had heard him.

Draco turned the corner into the parlour, the darkened sitting room with velvet sofas and lounge chairs she had been to once before. The stale odor of cigars was still lingering, and upon the wooden floor were what appeared to be large translucent tarps.

“Snakeskin,” Draco commented with disdain. 

He looked at the chaise after checking it for cleanliness. 

“Finite."

He released her from her chains to gingerly placed her on the cushion and then moved to the adjacent cabinet. Quill in hand, he opened drawer upon drawer before finding a piece of parchment. 

As Draco scrawled his note, a loud bang came from outside the parlour walls.  A familiar female cry sounded like an alarm—Ginny.

He looked up, sighed, and went back to the parchment.

 “I’d take us back to the manor if he didn’t want me in the Hall,” he said through gritted teeth. “You need to see the Healer now anyway.”

“Are you leaving me?”

Hermione asked the question, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. She was shaking, reaching that place where her pain had its own heartbeat.

“I shouldn't be gone for more than a few minutes. Those bumbling fools guarding the vaults will likely be paying the price by the time I arrive. ”

Draco stepped out of the room with the scroll and then returned, closing the door behind them.

There was more screaming coming from the Hall, and from the pitch of Voldemort’s unhinged laughter, she was sure that Ginny was being Crucioed.

Hermione stretched out on the chair, rotating from her side to her back so there was less pressure on her bloodied thigh.

Draco strode towards the chaise and lowered himself onto one knee before her. The tint of purple under his eyes made him look exhausted, even older.

He pressed a hand to the ridge of her hip, his thumb working into the muscle.

“My girl,” he said, the faint scar by his mouth accenting his frown. He continued to massage her, but also brought one hand to her face to wipe away the wetness by her eyes.

“Talk to me,” she begged. “Make me think about something else.” She tried to concentrate on the fact that it was all over with now. It was true hell for her, not only her pain but the way he had to keep up appearances.

“When I said I’d fix you, I don’t just mean bringing the Healer to you. You know that, don’t you?” 

Draco’s eyes roamed over her, his attention travelling from her face down to her abdomen. He wasn’t just staring at her wound but regarding her as if she were on an altar. The flicker in his gaze hinted at a deep protectiveness and reverence. It would have been startling, perhaps scary even, to have a man look at her that way had she not desired him just as much.

She wasn’t entirely sure of anything except that she wouldn’t mind him taking care of her.

Draco let his head fall into her lap. 

“I brought you to the point of no return,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve turned you inside out, corrupted you, body and soul. But I know you better than your old friends claimed to. I know you better than anyone. You’ve always had those demons inside of you waiting to break free.”

Her mind drifted to Harry and his speech about love and evil. “I don’t feel any remorse. Should I?”

“In this fucking War? No,” he said adamantly. He looked up at her, eyes glittering. “But when you undoubtedly have nightmares, when the shadows of your past are chasing you, I’ll be here for you. If you ever think yourself unworthy of anything good this terrible world has to offer, I’ll be at your side, reassuring you that you fought in the only way you could for the only thing that matters:” With his fingers, she was sure he was tracing the word ‘us.’

The touch followed by his words caused her stomach to flip and her heart to pound against her chest. She knew that he could feel her body quiver with her quickening pulse and the blood rushing through her; he always knew how to make her come alive.

Hermione put her hand on the back of his neck, letting her fingers twirl the strands of his silky hair.

“I didn’t mean to stop myself before when I was talking to Harry,” she said. “I worry I didn’t stand up for you or my convictions. ‘Suspense on the quicksands of ambivalence is our life's whole nemesis.’ That’s from one of Slyvia Plath’s poems.”

“Oh, Granger,” he said, tossing his head back. A tell-tale smirk was forming. “We don’t need to have that kind of relationship.”

 She was positive her heart had stopped functioning. “Er, we don’t?”

Draco looked up at her dreamily, and her face went white as a sheet. Despite his words, she felt paralyzed with doubt. What kind of relationship did they have? Did they not have a relationship?

“No,” he began, his face devilish as he pressed his lips to her stomach and then looked up at her. “I don’t need you quoting muggle authors. I thought we agreed on this months ago.”

“I don’t recall that.” She grinned with relief, thinking she must be delirious from her injury. She patted his head affectionately. “What do you think of this? ‘One man's devil is another's god.’”

He made a tsking noise, offended. “I meant we don’t need that kind of pressure between us, second-guessing what was or should have been said. I don’t give a fuck what Harry thinks about us. You’re going to have my baby—and you're worried that I don’t know how you feel about me?”

Hermione blushed; her body felt inexplicably lighter, tingly hearing him talk about a baby to her alone. He was right; not everything that meant something had to be put into words or a thesis. But it was her nature to make declarations and be defensive. She hadn’t known any other way her whole life.

“Do you cast the Imperius often?” she asked, her eyes darting to the wall. She was unsure if the torture was still ensuing in the Hall. Everything was quiet.

“Look at you changing the subject.”

He had caught her, but she was truly curious as the Unforgivable was one in her arsenal that she had not yet used. She had read case studies about it and gathered that the circumstances had to be just right for it to work. It was only effective during an unsuspecting moment.

“You’re teasing me, so yes, I changed the subject.”

He scoffed at her. “I’m not teasing you. You wanted me to talk to you, to ease your pain. So I’m telling you now…when you’re healed, we’re going to make that baby. I’m going to fuck you multiple times a day in multiple different positions. Don’t even bother wearing any knickers—in fact, don’t even bother leaving my bed. By the time I’m through with you, you won’t remember what it’s like to not have my cock inside of you.” 

“Oh,” she murmured, feeling utterly speechless. If her cheeks were tinged pink before, they were flushed crimson now, but she didn’t care. 

“I knew you’d like that.” He exhaled against her stomach, the feel of his breath giving her goosebumps. 

“I do,” she managed to squeak, imagining him keeping her in his bed all day.

“But to answer your question about the Imperious, it's not practical in the midst of battle. There are other quicker spells to manipulate behaviour. It must be cast secretively. But I mostly don’t use it often because it’s draining. The curse overwhelms you with someone else’s mental state. You can imagine, after a time, how all-consuming that can be.”

“That sounds awful.” She shook her head, thinking back to the vaults and Draco’s meditative state, his silence that she had mistaken for disappointment.

“It’s a bitch right now,” he added.

“Literally.”

He looked at her with smiling eyes.

She felt guarded and unsettled being back at Lestrange Manor, but less so with Draco’s head in her lap. 

She was so relaxed that her eyelashes fluttered, and her lids were nearly closed when she felt something cold glide over her feet. The body, smooth yet scaley, was undulating at the end of the cushion.

“Uh, Draco,” she whispered, grabbing his cloak.

Nagini had slithered up over the side of the chaise and was now winding her sinewy self over the two of them.

Shaking with trepidation, Hermione held her breath, hearing the snake hiss as she coiled around them. The snake did not appear ready to attack; she had not raced to them violently but rather snuck up upon them and invaded their space rather cunningly. Hermione had witnessed how the snake had eaten her victims before. The attacks were swift, and there was no hesitation as Nagini swallowed bodies whole. 

She wondered if Voldemort had returned or if he had not taken his pet with him.

Beneath the snake, Hermione could feel Draco breathing heavily against her. He was holding her in a death grip, maybe to warn Nagini that they were a package deal. She would not be able to devour them both at once. 

“She must have smelled your blood,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

But Nagini had remained still as well. She had wrapped around them in the most unthreatening way. It was odd—she didn’t seem like she was trying to suffocate them, and she had not made any sudden movements to strike. It was gentle.

After a moment, the snake began to uncoil herself, but she was still writhing over them, twisting around to face Hermione.

Hermione didn’t want to look her in the eyes. Nagini had not hurt them so far, so she was afraid, perhaps of the thought that the snake could read her mind: Voldemort’s closest companion—of course, she must die .

There was a knock at the door, and then Healer Alden entered the parlour.

“How can I—oh,” she said, her voice quaking upon seeing Nagini. “I’m sorry. I can’t assist with this. I do know a magizoologist. I can see if he—”

“No,” Draco rasped, his breath laboured. “Wait.”

Hermione’s eyes were still locked on the snake’s body. She swallowed nervously, her own limbs tensing even though Nagini seemed to be unfurling.

Draco gave the snake a firm nudge. It wasn’t terribly forceful, but Hermione still held her breath.

As if understanding, Nagini slipped off the chaise. At the same time, Draco pushed off her, rising to his knees with a grunt. Hermione’s skin felt damp and sticky after so much body heat. Her wound was throbbing.

Draco smoothed his hair and held out one arm, glaring at how it was stained with blood.

“That wasn’t why I called you.” He rolled his eyes at Alden, who looked at him, baffled. “I don’t know what that was.”

“What is the matter?”

“There’s been an incident. She’s bleeding.”

The Healer hovered over Hermione, her wand raised in preparation for the examination spell. 

“This wasn’t from the snake?” she asked, her eyes searching around the room for Nagini.

“For the last time, no,” Draco responded tersely. “I will not be discussing how she acquired these injuries. I had business to attend to and brought her here.”

Alden pursed her lips. She looked as if she were about to say something but changed her mind. Instead, with a flick of her wrist, she waved her wand over Hermione, casting the diagnostic. 

“I will apply a salve to the main wound on her leg so it doesn’t get infected. I will work to repair the tissue—the skin will be as good as new. As for the other bruises, I will send a blood potion. Dittany is becoming scarce now, but I’m sure the Dark Lord would approve its use for her, given the circumstances.”

Draco looked at her quizzically. “How often does the Dittany need to be applied?”

“Twice a day to speed up the process.”

He nodded and then gestured to the door. “I’ll leave you to do your healing. Don’t leave this room with her. Don’t leave until I come back.”

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Alden still had the scan displayed, the lines like lasers projected over Hermione.

“Yes?”

“There’s no pregnancy if you were wondering.”

Draco shot her a murderous look as if to say that should be obvious and sauntered to the door.

Hermione covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, but she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Healer Alden had worked silently but efficiently. 

Hermione chose to avoid eye contact with her. Besides a few basic questions regarding her pain, Alden did not attempt any small talk. She was grateful for that, feeling a sort of tension in the air between them, the vibe greater than just awkwardness. She was sure that Alden had suspected that Draco had physically abused her. She didn’t know how she felt about that but then remembered it didn’t matter. Alden also probably thought she was being raped.

By the time Draco had returned, Hermione was sitting up, confident that while she needed to rest her leg, she could put weight on it and stand once more.

“Send any potions and the Dittany to my house elves,” he instructed. 

Hermione spied Draco, who was leaning against the door with his arms crossed. Despite his callous expression, she could see his eyes brightening as he took her in. 

Alden nodded. “I will.” She looked back at Hermione; her face was unreadable but her voice had that typical false assurance. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.” Draco stepped to the side, allowing her to pass, and she was gone.

Just as Hermione wondered if he would take her back to his manor, Draco held out one finger, beckoning her in a ‘come hither’ motion.

Her mouth quirked into a smile as she rose from the chaise. She stood for a minute, carefully flexing her muscles and then made her way over to him, feeling elated to be no longer be staggering in pain.

He pulled her to his chest, placing one hand around the back of her neck. His eyes had that glow again as he looked down at her.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he murmured before angling his head so he could kiss her. “Bellatrix has the Cup—it’s staying here. We’ll have to make another plan to… you know.” 

She felt herself unable to stop smiling against his lips. The kiss was sloppy, and they both gasped for breath, pulling back to grin at one another.

Draco kept one hand on the small of her back. “I hate and love these on you,” he said, he licking his lip. “If I had my way, I’d chain you to me forever.”

He placed the Incarcerous on her and then opened the parlour door.

If there had been a fight earlier, there was no sign of it anywhere on the premises. Not a portrait or statue was out of place; no vases had shattered, and not a single petal had fallen from the black roses that adorned the corridor.

As they passed Death Eater Hall, Hermione recognised Voldemort's hoarse voice and the incoherent ramblings of a female. The cackling told her it was Bellatrix. From what she could gather, they were discussing the Cup.

Draco paused outside the Hall and turned to Hermione. He shook his head slowly with a warning, indicating they would not be venturing in there.

He continued then, walking a few paces ahead of her. 

“There’s something I need to do,” he whispered.

From his direction, she knew he was headed to the dungeon. 

As they approached the door leading to the prison below, Draco was greeted by two Death Eaters emerging from the staircase.

“The Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione recognised the voice as both of them removed their masks.

“Where have you been? How are you?”

Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini both greeted him with claps to his back.

She watched as Draco nodded to them, his eyes narrowed on the prison below.

“I’m fine.” Draco shrugged. “Nearly died retrieving a fucking cup and was almost smothered by a life-size snake, but I’m fine.”

 “You’re a good man,” Blaise remarked. 

His words were followed by a chuckle from Theo. “I sure do hope you meant Nagini.”

Bringing one hand to his chin,  Blaise looked at him seriously. “I thought you were in Romania.”

“I was,” Draco clarified.

At the same time, both their eyes drifted to Hermione.

Theo was staring at her, mesmerised. She could see the questions swirling behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he began mischievously, his smile widening to reveal his dimples, “How’s it going with that girl?”

He was clearly speaking to Draco, who lowered his head.

Blaise smirked. “I’m sure everything is splendid for him. Let’s go.”

“No,” Theo interjected. “I want to know.”

Draco gave him a death glare. “What girl?” 

Blaise smacked Theo’s arm.

Theo looked at him, confused. “We had about eight Firewhiskeys, but I won’t forget: ‘There’s this witch that’s smart…and pretty? No, beautiful! She’s got these eyes that just…and this hair, wow—’”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, Theodore,” Draco cut in harshly. He started down the staircase. “Never in a million years would I ever speak about a witch that like that.”

“A Pureblood witch, you mean,” Blaise said, clearing his throat. He eyed Draco knowingly. “We should go.”

“You should,” Draco replied, helping Hermione down the steps. 

Theo chortled. “Wait…do I see the ‘wow’ kind of hair?”

“Shut up before he hexes your bollocks off.” Blaise pushed Theo up the steps.

Draco looked up at them. “I’ll be hexing the both of you.”

Hermione was beaming internally; she had never considered the possibility of Draco speaking about her like that to anyone, let alone Death Eaters, to the few he apparently trusted. She remembered how Blaise and Theo had checked on her before when she was locked in the same dungeon.

“Ignore them." Mumbling under his breath, he guided her through the narrow passageway in the prison.

Hermione found herself looking in every cell. Though she only looked for a split second, she flinched upon seeing the first glimpse of red hair—Ron. She wondered if his face had grown more expressive since he was mute; his brows looked permanently altered, and their slanted angle made his face look like it was going to explode. She knew he couldn’t speak, but there was so much hatred, a death wish, in the way he glared at her.

Draco halted.

They had reached a haunted Ginny Weasley, who was staring into nothingness from behind the bars.

 “Finite.” 

After releasing the Imperius on her, Draco pulled Hermione in front of him to wrap his arms around her from behind. 

Her heart skipped a beat as he withdrew her wand from his cloak. As her fingers gripped the familiar vine wood, she suddenly felt in control again. She stood there, analysing Ginny, who looked like she suddenly recalled a bad dream. 

Draco then placed the black snake chain around her neck. The pendant vibrated with malevolent energy and ancient magic, chilling her skin but giving her a dark sense of empowerment.

Ginny looked on the verge of tears. She was holding onto one arm at the elbow; upon closer inspection, her arm hung too loosely, as if someone had pulled it out of the socket.

“Why didn’t Harry come with you?”

It was a simple question, though Hermione felt it had taken everything within her to force the words out. She hadn’t witnessed what had happened when Ginny arrived at the gates, but she didn’t understand why Harry would not have been with her. Why didn’t Harry accompany her to Lestrange Manor? 

Hermione had a hard time believing Ginny was a pawn when Harry had bargained for her life earlier. 

She also felt certain that Draco would have followed her.

“Where am I?” Ginny was shaking now behind the bars, wiping blood from off her chin.

Hermione felt Draco’s hands close around her waist, squeezing her as he leaned down to breathe against her neck.

“Why isn’t he here?” 

Her question was more forceful now. She knew it didn’t make any difference, but she could feel her temperature elevating, her blood rushing through her veins with satisfaction. 

“Where is he?” Hermione repeated. 

“I don’t know,” Ginny rasped. Her eyes grew wide with developing horror as she perhaps had visions of Bellatrix and the battle in the foyer. “The Cup…I had the Cup. I had the Sword. I don’t remember what happened. Maybe Harry was here—he was with me, I think.”

“He wasn’t.” Draco’s voice was cold and direct.

“He should have followed you,” Hermione smirked, feeling Draco’s lips upon her neck, sucking upon her pulse point. “Now you’re here, alone and suffering, with nothing to do but to count the days until your death...his death.”

Ginny screamed, rattling the bars. “I'n counting the days until Harry kills Tom Riddle! You don’t know anything, not when you’ve mistaken abuse for affection, rape for love, cruelty for bravery—”

“Claudere Vocem.”

Ginny gasped, open-mouthed, as the curse took effect; wispy black trails like black ink surrounded her lips and began to dive into her skin, darting up and looping back into her like an enchanted threading needle.

She whimpered, bringing her fingers to her face in horror when she realised the magic was sewing her mouth shut.

“He should have fought for you,” Hermione said, her voice distant and detached as she lowered her wand. 

She turned then, feeling Draco’s grip on her forearm.

He kissed her hard before tearing her away from the cell.

Chapter Text

Hermione soaked in the clawfoot tub that evening, letting the good and the bad of the day dissolve into the hot water. She was back in Malfoy Manor, specifically in Draco’s quarters, which very much felt like home by now. But it was also the only place she could be, so perhaps home was just being with him. 

Despite her injury, she had emerged victorious in her own right. Although Hufflepuff’s Cup would still need to be destroyed, she was glad that the Order had failed. Every fight was important in the war, as every close call and deadly attack revealed who was truly in power. Hermione assumed that Harry didn’t even know of her intention to destroy the Horcrux. But she was sure now that even if he were, it would not matter to him. She smiled as she imagined Ginny running away in her Imperius trance from a safehouse, much to the others’ chagrin, and returning to the Cup to Voldemort. 

As for herself, Hermione was aware she was nothing to Voldemort but a prisoner, one like so many others to be discarded after serving her purpose. But what if she could show him something else? What if he knew her ruthless side? He might not accept her or ultimately decide to spare her, but would he be willing to use her more to his advantage? 

Moreover, if Bellatrix were to honour Draco’s request and never hurt her again, Hermione wondered if she could, at the very least, get her to see that she was undervalued. After all, she was a mad and dark witch, and as Hermione was coming to learn, dark witches could only stay in the shadows of those holding them back for so long. 

The only element truly on her side, besides Draco, was time.

Maybe it was the black serpentine jewel hanging below her neck, but Hermione knew she would never be satisfied with barely making it out of the War alive. Just as she knew Draco would never give up his power for anyone, she felt a need to not only reclaim her name and prove herself as a Muggle-born but also to show that she was someone to be feared. 

Being spurned by both sides, she wasn’t looking for peace.

With that thought at the forefront of her mind, Hermione stepped out of the tub. A fantasy of revenge swirled through her visions as she reached for the towel. Glancing at her naked side profile in the mirror, she saw her lower half was decorated with purple bruises, which didn’t look half as terrible as the rust-coloured scab on her leg. Though Alden had closed the wound by fusing the broken skin, the injury was still fresh. But despite its ugliness, she felt strong. As Draco intended, she had regained every pound of strength back since being with him. She knew he was attracted to her body like this, thick with curves and muscles.

She stared at herself then, thinking about what it would be like to see her body change again once she became pregnant. While she couldn’t predict what that might feel like, she imagined that her skin would stretch…maybe her muscles might look softer. But she would have no choice but to embrace those changes. She felt a chill run through her as she covered her breasts with the towel. There was something very powerful in knowing that they were intentionally going to create this new life together, as foretold by the Prophecy.

Hermione grabbed the bottle Tilly had left out near the sink and, after pulling the stopper out, applied three drops of the essence of Dittany to her leg. Her skin sizzled before a greenish cloud appeared. When it cleared, the bruises had diminished, and an additional layer of new skin appeared over the gash. 

After scrunching her curls until they were damp, she slipped into her long nightgown and made her way into the bedroom.

Draco looked to be asleep. 

The lamp on his nightstand was dimly lit, and at his side was a book on dark magic, the same one that she had been reading the other day. With his eyes shut and mouth relaxed, he looked serene. An odd sort of familial instinct took over her as she crawled onto the bed and settled in next to him. Her heart leapt at the realisation this was something she wanted to do for the rest of her life.

His lashes fluttered when she rested her head upon his shoulder. “You smell good.”

His voice was sleepy as he reached for his wand, casting a spell to extinguish the light.

“I smell clean,” she answered, pressing her nose into his shirt, knowing her hair smelled like lavender shampoo. 

She could feel his fingertips lightly brushing her neck, moving her hair out of the way. He adjusted himself to put an arm around her.

Draco was still on the edge of sleep, his words drifting over to her softly. “It’s more than that. It’s a scent that’s all you, but it's familiar…like I’ve known it my whole life even though I haven’t.”

Pulling her back by her hair, he kissed her firmly upon her lips.

“Hmm.” She hummed against him, knowing what he meant. Her heart was beating contentedly as she considered how all her senses were attuned to him, too. They had made their own little world, their own timeline where their past and the present war didn’t matter; they would sleep in each other’s arms with the reassurance that no matter the threats they faced, they had each other to wake up to every morning. They were fighting for something guaranteed in this unpredictable life.

Draco was gone then, lost to what Hermione hoped were dreams as beautiful as he looked. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she knew that as she closed her eyes and snuggled into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comfort of him, she would dream of him too.

He kissed her good morning as if she were the life force that stirred the sun from its slumber. 

As he leaned over her, Draco had one hand twisting her hair again, putting himself into power over her as he directed her to kiss him. His mouth moved against hers intently, and with every nip and bite, Hermione felt that spark igniting deep within her, that surge of longing overtaking her. He hardly left her lips to let her breathe, and when he did, and she gasped for air, he was on her again, knowingly taking her breath away and leaving her with an erratic heartbeat.

She hadn’t been with him like this in so long. They had been intimate, and they had made each other come, but she remembered what it was like to have him inside of her. Thankfully, enough time had passed since that time; she was relieved to feel that he wasn’t holding back as he was kissing her. She wanted every bit of roughness—their relationship was too chemical, too rooted in physical desire for the sex to be anything else but passionate.

As if he had read her mind, Draco pulled away, but placed both his hands on her arms, pinning her into place on the bed. His cheeks were already flushed, and his pupils were dilated as if he had just consumed some kind of psychoactive drug. He ran his tongue along his lips as he looked down at her hungrily.

“This is the most gentle I will be with you,” he warned. His fingertips skimmed the top of her nightgown and then inched up to her neck, giving her goosebumps along the way. He gripped her chin, and she could see his eyes flicker down to her body; she was breathing quickly, her chest already heaving from the anticipation. “I meant it when I said I was going to fuck you until you have my baby in you. Your body belongs to me, and I’m going to take you whenever I want.”

His words caused her to squirm beneath him. She thought she should respond or at least nod her head, but his hold on her was too firm. But it didn’t matter, because surely he knew how much she wanted him.

Her eyes, glassy and lust-filled, must have widened, causing him to smirk.

Draco lowered his head to her so that his fringe tickled her nose. His breath was cool against her skin as he whispered. “Do you understand? You’re going to take every inch of me. I’m going to fill you up, and you’re going to keep my come in you. I don’t want to see it dripping down your leg; you’re going to keep it in you until—”

Fighting against his hold, she managed to press her mouth to his, to at once shut him up and answer him by shoving her tongue into his mouth. She heard a slight feral sound escape from his throat as his lips punished hers again. His hands clamped down on her wrists and he was still hovering above her; the morning slant of light gave his hair gold highlight, making his face look wrongly angelic. 

She looked up at the curve of his smile, heightened by his fading scar, and knew that he wanted to ravage her. But his eyes told a different story, the grey still holding something back. 

Hermione eyed him as she grasped at the hem of her nightgown, attempting to bunch it up to her waist.

He smiled devilishly upon seeing her thrash below and he suddenly lifted her up along with him, bringing them both to their knees. His mouth was on her once more, kissing her frantically as his hands worked to pull the gown over her head. She felt exposed then, as his tongue traced the inside of her mouth and his fingers drifted to the band of her knickers.

She wanted to say something—something about feeling better or being healed so that he wouldn’t stare at her bruises or fear that he was hurting her. But she found herself unable to speak as his hands squeezed her breasts. He took one of her nipples between his thumb and index finger, twisting and pulling at it until it hardened. He repeated the action to the other one while his other hand continued circling her knickers.

“I can already tell,” he rasped, cupping her below, “you’re so wet for me.” 

Hermione drew in a breath as he lowered himself and pressed his mouth to the fabric over her soaking-wet middle. She tugged at his hair, and he kissed her once, and then again, before pulling her knickers down. She shivered, feeling the cool air before she felt the softness of his lips.

She gripped the edges of the sheets as he sucked. His tongue travelled every inch of her and swiped at her clit. Watching him lap at her, Hermione found herself starting to shake, that tightly wound string deep within her beginning to unwind. Ever so lightly, his tongue flicked at her opening before it entered her and then retreated again before it entered her even deeper. She could hear how wet and obscene it sounded as he licked, but she didn’t care.

Before she knew it, Hermione was bucking up against his face, her hands pulling his hair, steadying herself with the wild movements of his hips. But she pushed him away, knowing there was something more she wanted. She needed that closeness, the feeling that everything in the universe felt right because they were one.

“Draco, I don’t want,” she gasped, right on the edge. “I want you—”

“I know.”

His voice was breathy as he backed away, and then he worked his way up her body, his mouth spending extra time on the crevice of her neck before meeting her lips. She could taste herself on him as his tongue gently coaxed her mouth open, kissing her slow and deep. It was her favourite kind of kiss from him, one foretelling that he would give himself to her fully.

In one quick motion, Draco’s hand was on hers and together, they both pulled lowered his pyjama shorts. He was free then; his erection pressed against her stomach as he guided her down to the mattress.

Hermione was on her back until he grasped her waist, effectively flipping her around so that he could lay down behind her.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

 She could feel the heat coming off his chest.

She bit her lip seductively as his arm covered her and his body aligned to hers, the tip of his cock poking through to her. Draco groaned in return when she reached back to him. As she palmed him, she craned her neck back to gaze into his lusty eyes. His cloudy grey pools swirled behind her with a look of desire she had never seen before. He was a magnificent sight to behold: his blonde hair was mussed and damp already and his pale torso with the Sectumsempra scars was already slick with sweat and illuminated by the morning sun.

“No, I mean ‘fuck them,’” he said, as she continued to stroke, feeling him throb in her hands.

She gasped with laughter and from the shot of pleasure as she angled him into her. Draco dipped his head and placed kisses all over her neck, his fingers still traipsing across her chest. He had just about pressed into her entrance when his mouth found her ear.

“Fuck all of them,” Draco rasped, exhaling against her. He kissed her earlobe. “I just want you. I just want us in this world.”

Hermione whimpered as she felt the snap of his hips.  She only wanted him too, and she knew what he meant: the only thing that mattered was what they had together. It was arousing, this dark power that came from being together. She was so close already to coming and was now desperate to feel him fully inside, but Draco was only entering her a few inches or so before pulling back out and then doing it all again.

 “Oh God, Draco.”

He sank into her a little more, but when she pushed back to him, he pulled away. 

“Just feel.”  

Draco continued to tease, placing the head of his cock just into her opening. Hermione arched her hips desperately to meet him. The feeling was maddening. She wanted to be content in taking it slow, but her patience was being tried. Like their relationship, and all the ways it was secret and forbidden, it wasn’t enough.

She turned back to him, positioning one leg over his so that he would have no choice, opening herself up with the new angle and bringing her lips to his. Hermione was feverish and greedy, and as she kissed him imploringly, she felt his tongue push into her mouth; at the same time, he surged into her. She let out a gasp as he finally filled her. 

“I said I’d take care of you.” His voice was gravelly, and he groaned as he began to thrust into her earnestly. 

Words could scarcely capture the sensation; it felt as if their bodies were made for each other, destined to always be one. Their eyes were locked on one another.

“Fuck,” he panted. “You feel amazing.”

Her body reacted instinctively from the praise to meet him thrust for thrust. He had already driven her to the edge with his punishing teasing; it wouldn’t be long before she exploded.

“Hermione...”

She gasped in response, loving the way he moaned her name in the moment, so much so, that she started to feel the beginnings of that string of tension vibrating, ready to snap. Draco increased his pace, and she felt even more turned on, realising their bodies were a mess as their slick skin smacked together.

This was perfect—this was what she had needed for so long, and it was all she would ever want.

“Draco, I think—” 

Hermione tilted her head back to him, wanting to be kissed as she felt herself coming undone. Draco was still thrusting vigorously into her, fully reaching the spot she needed him to. 

“So good,” he breathed against her neck. “I can feel you clenching.” He lowered his hand between her legs and started to work his thumb against her clit. It was this combination then; the drag of his cock in and out, the way he was entering her so deeply she could see it push against her lower abdomen, and the flick of his fingers causing the knot inside of her to unravel.

“Kiss me—”

His lips were on hers, his mouth swallowing what would have been her cry as her body unleashed wave after wave of pleasure. His mouth was the only thing tethering her to the earth as she shook from the overwhelming vibrations, the feeling of leaving her body. She couldn’t even kiss him back, but she knew that he understood. 

When Hermione regained some sense of being returning to herself, gasping and trying to catch her breath, she noticed Draco had halted his movements. He had just watched her orgasm with a look of what seemed to be…fascination. He kissed her reverently upon her head and then her lips again. She could feel his heart beating against her; he was trembling and needed to finish.

“Hermione,” his voice was breathy against the side of her neck. “It would be wrong not to tell you.”

“What?”

She felt her heart spasm with nervousness and then she winced, feeling overstimulated as he thrust once more into her.

His face was flushed with exertion and little droplets of sweat dotted his brow. But despite his words which had alarmed her, she could see his eyes were clear, almost sparkling. The closer she stared into them, the more she realised they were again like mirrors again, reflecting her own face, pink cheeks and swollen lips included, back to her. It was startling to know that as she was looking at him, she was really looking into herself.

Was he scared, too? 

It overwhelmed her to accept that they were so interconnected and so much more than their bodies. More than blood and bone. Physically, they were conjoined, but their spirits were intertwined so thoroughly that she was sure their minds were the same and their hearts were beating as one. Without Draco, she would never have embraced the darkest parts of herself. Perhaps long ago, they were nothing but stardust in a void together; they were two wayward souls meant to find each other in every iteration of life.

“It would be wrong not to tell you as I put a baby in you,” he said again, beginning to rock into her steadily, his eyes fastened on her. “I’m so lost for you. I promise you, I’ll be devoted to you. I’ll do what it takes to keep you safe and protect you, and our child—”

He was panting, his words fading as he thrust harder and faster towards his own release. Hermione kissed him this time, closing her eyes for only a minute. She loved the sounds he made as he started to lose it; she could feel his movements grow unsteady, so she raised her hips up to allow him to go deeper.

They made eye contact once more as Draco groaned and came inside her.

His body twitched for several seconds after his release and he was breathing heavily, but he still managed to kiss her lips, her jaw, and then her neck. He didn’t pull out of her yet, but he stayed there with his arm draped over her body protectively.

His fingers caressed her belly.  Their bodies were sticky and spent; as she rested upon his other arm, she relished in the comfort of his small touches and the slowing of her own heart rate. The feel of his body cradling hers brought her joy, a feeling of rightness in the world she never would have imagined existed.

“My girl,” Draco whispered as he held her.

She didn’t know if he had seen the single tear run down her cheek. But he must have because his finger brushed it away.

“It’s okay. You’re mine.”

Hermione blushed, thinking to apologise as it didn’t make sense to cry. She was just feeling too much, feeling everything in the afterglow too intensely. She turned back to him with a sheepish smile on her face, but she didn’t say anything.

His eyes were watery too.

She kissed Draco instead, feeling it must have been the worst kiss ever because she couldn’t stop crying. But he didn’t seem to mind, and instead, pulled her in closer to him as he slipped out of her. 

Hermione knew at that moment that she would love him forever. And as his lips pressed into her with passion and force, she knew she was his. She belonged to him, and he would never let her go. 

For the first time, he didn’t cast the contraception spell.

Over the next two weeks leading up to the  Christmas holiday, Draco was gone most of the daytime, spending long hours either fighting in nearby battles or strategising with Voldemort at Lestrange Manor. Hermione longed to be by his side, finding herself growing restless from not casting any curses. But she knew Draco wanted her to heal first, never mind he needed to take care of the more urgent matter at hand.

If the time allowed, he would escape his Death Eater duties briefly just after noon. Hermione, having finished her lunch, was usually either reading or taking notes from the manor books. As much as she was accustomed to the popping effect that occurred when someone Apparated, she didn’t think she would ever get used to the fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she heard the sound and watched him spontaneously materialise before her in his Death Eater robes in the bedroom, knowing he had probably just Avaded someone and had only left because he needed to fuck her. From the second he arrived, she smelled the cold outdoors of the winter battlefield on him, the scent of pine and sometimes firewood, and could sense the icy vibrations of dark magic that radiated off his aura.

He would grab her wrist first, pulling her up to him, and then his hand would always hold her jaw before it moved lower to caress the spot that made her skin prickle, the crevice at the base of her neck. She would smile coyly into those demon eyes, knowing he was observing her every reaction but unable to notice any of his expression as his face was concealed by the silver mask. She knew it was a game of control between them but she liked it; he understood how desperately she wanted to be kissed, but he purposefully kept his mask on, reminding her that he was only there for one thing.

He would drag her then over to the edge of the bed or sometimes direct her against the wall, angling her into position to be taken from behind by pressing his fingertips across her back. She would hear the unbuckling of his belt and the unzipping of his trousers and then the feeling of his hands lifting up the end of her nightgown. Of course, she hoped he was pleased that she did as he asked and went without knickers. She would wait then on bated breath, feeling the coolness of the air between her legs as she was exposed, knowing that he was stroking himself, getting ready to enter her. 

And though she should have been used to it by now, it was always unexpected when Draco pulled her hair back as he lined himself up to her entrance. Hermione had come to crave this feeling of being at his mercy, finding it both freeing and arousing to be fully used by him, to know he was fulfilling his threats of fucking her with abandon and whenever he wanted not only because he knew she could handle it, but because he knew she wanted him to. Each afternoon that had passed, he pounded into her so roughly that she swore she could feel him releasing a myriad of pent-up emotions, everything from anger to frustration to guilt and fear as well grief, but most of all she sensed passion and the kind of reckless release that can only occur along with complete and utter trust. 

“If I only had you around to fuck,” he whispered one day through his mask. The talking caught her off guard as usually, he was silent during these frenzied afternoon sessions except for the occasional mumbling of her name. “I could have fucked you instead of killing people—I could have taken it all out on you instead of—”

“You would never have survived,” Hermione insisted, her voice muffled as she was pressed into the sheets. “But more than that, you do it so well. We both do. Don’t stop, Draco. Don’t ever stop.”

He moaned, snapping his hips so hard that their skin smacked together and the bed started to shake. She was feeling overwhelmed by an abrupt climax approaching herself, realising that she had been encouraging him not only with his killing, but with the fucking.

When his movements began to grow shaky and his breaths turned into pants, she knew he was close. She decided to do her part to drive him crazy, pushing him to his limit by closing her muscles around him. 

“Fuck…Hermione. You’re going to make me come—”

He groaned this time, so she did it again, squeezing him with her walls. She’d only smile, hearing him become breathless as he worked himself up to engage in one last round of intense thrusting. He was hitting a place so deep that she gasped, feeling that tight band of tension inside her break.

Draco must have felt her coming because all of a sudden he leaned forward, his cold metal mask touching her shoulder as his hands held her hips in place as he emptied every last drop of himself inside of her.

It was after he finished, and only then, that she felt his lips brush her skin. He lifted up his mask to press small kisses along her shoulder and then down her upper back. The gentleness he displayed after railing her made her shiver. She was always left feeling that she had healed him in some way.

But as soon as Hermione attempted to turn around, he was gone as he usually was, Disapparating back to the battlegrounds. 

She released a huff of disappointment, knowing she would have to endure several hours of loneliness before he’d return for dinner. She could wait though. It was during the nights when she would get her way with him and force him to take things slow. 

There were two more days until Christmas, and that evening after he returned late from what must have been a never-ending battle, Hermione refused to leave Draco’s side. She usually fretted a little over his safety but had nothing else to occupy her mind during this particularly long afternoon stretch. Her worrying invaded every corner of her mind; she couldn’t fathom learning something had happened to him just as she discovered she was pregnant. 

She sat on his lap in the armchair then as they ate their dinner; they fed each other bites of the roast and potatoes. This playfulness made her heart feel like it was going to burst, seeing him so unguarded around her, smiling freely. They discussed some serious topics, like the possibility of using Fiendfyre to destroy the Horcrux, but found themselves too tired and too caught up in one another to devise any solid plans. Instead, they kept the dinner conversation light, swapping stories about their favourite childhood Christmas gifts. Hermione liked to think that if she could see herself in the moment, she would look exactly the same as him, cheeks bright pink and eyes glowing with genuine happiness.

When they were ready for dessert, it only felt appropriate to continue what she had started. Hermione wiggled her hips and moved her legs to straddle him and then reached for a strawberry from the top of a small cake. 

She grinned, lifting the strawberry up to his mouth. 

“I’m so fucking addicted to you.” His gaze was alluring as he waited for her to feed it to him. “I don’t even like strawberries, but I like this, and I love—”

She pushed the strawberry into his mouth, holding it there and feeling as if her nerve endings were lit by a spark. Seeing his lips closed down on it made her insides twist with emerging desire. It was impossible not to bite her own lip in anticipation as she watched him suck; he then swiped his tongue quite erotically at her fingers before he devoured the fruit.

After he swallowed, she leaned forward, first tracing her tongue along his lower lip before fully bringing her mouth to his for a kiss.

Hermione forgot all about the cake then as they began making out. She was enjoying the sweetness in his mouth almost as much as she was enjoying grinding herself on him, feeling her heart race as she knew she was making him hard. She still wasn’t wearing any knickers and knew for a fact that her arousal had already left a spot on his trousers.

“You don’t like strawberries?” she asked, pulling back to smirk at him, fidgeting to unclasp his belt buckle. 

He released a breath as she tugged the zipper down and reached her hand inside.

Draco kissed her again as she started to stroke him. 

His expression changed then to something distant like he was either overcome with pleasure or trying to recall a memory. “No, not really. My mother did though. I’m not sure why Tilly and the other elves insist on serving them.”

Hermione was about to ask him more, when all of a sudden, Tilly appeared by the side of the armchair.

“You have finished dinner? Is there anything else Tilly can bring Master Draco and his Miss—oh! Tilly is very sorry and is closing her eyes now.”

Startled, Hermione already made a move to scoot off Draco’s lap, but he grabbed hold of her arms and kept her in place. 

“Tilly, what did I tell you?” Draco sighed as he pulled Hermione closer, using her body to cover himself. “You only need to vanish the food. I requested privacy. I thought you’d remember.”

The elf was still much too close and was speaking now with both hands covering her face.

“Master said he would call for Tilly if he needed her and he did. Tilly has missed Miss Hermione greatly, so Tilly jumped at the chance to vanish the dishes—”

“It was a mistake,” Draco cut in. “I wasn’t calling for you.”

Hermione also moved her hand over her mouth. She wanted to laugh but felt very touched that Tilly wanted to see her.

“I’ve missed you too, Tilly!” she exclaimed, scowling at Draco who had tossed his head back in annoyance. 

Tilly nodded enthusiastically. “Master said he is very, very busy with the Miss.” She paused as if hoping that was right. 

“We’re busy making a baby.” Draco smirked then as he looked at Hermione. He leaned down, rubbing his nose against her in a sign of affection. 

Meanwhile, the elf’s floppy ears turned red. She stood on her toes, bouncing up and down either with excitement or mortification. 

“We are busy right now,” Hermione added. “But come see me in the late afternoons when Draco is away. I’ll be needing you soon, Tilly, when I am pregnant.”

“Not that soon.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’m liking this privacy.”

“Soon,” Hermione repeated, glaring up at him. 

The elf did a little curtsy, bowing her head.

“Tilly will stay away until the baby is made.”

With the snap of her fingers, she vanished the dinner plates, but left the dessert, and then finally disappeared herself. 

Alone once more, Draco grabbed Hermione’s hips and pulled her nightgown above her waist. He placed his hands upon her bare thighs and then she felt his touch move lower, his fingers squeezing her bum.

“Where were we?” 

With a seductive grin, Hermione leaned forward to kiss him and then reached down, feeling his hardness pressing against her stomach. In no time, she was lifting herself up to guide his cock into her. 

Draco’s cheeks were already flushed, his eyes filled with possessiveness and need.

“You and your bleeding heart for house elves,” he drawled. He smacked her arse before he gripped her waist firmly, battling with her and trying to slow her movements as she started to ride him. “I should punish you. You’re going to sit here and think about what you’ve done.”

Hermione laughed at him, but the sound of it warped into a moan as she realised his grip was strong—he was keeping her still, holding her hips in place as his cock rested inside of her. He refused to let her move up and down. 

“I can’t help it,” she whined. “Please.”

She chewed on her lip in a show of nervousness though she was very turned on. She didn’t know if he could feel it, but her cunt was aching, throbbing with need. 

“But you can help it,” Draco replied tersely. “I don’t think you understood me when I said ‘I’m addicted to you.’”

Hermione smiled, but she blushed, seeing he was absolutely serious. “I might need some…clarification.”

Draco was staring at her; his expression was more than a little threatening. Still, she found those harsh angles of his cheekbones and perfectly formed lips alluring. He was so beautiful in the moment and probably didn’t know it. Not to mention, she was overwhelmed by feeling so full. The only thing on her mind was friction.

“You first.”

He moved a hand in between her legs and she gasped, feeling his fingers skirt by her clit.

“I’m lonely,” Hermione explained breathlessly. She tried to hide her smile, feeling a little mischievous at the fact she was trying to make him feel guilty. “Tilly can keep me company. If my fighting days are over, I might as well settle down here in the manor. She’s so sweet and innocent, as are all elves.”

“Your Death Eater days are far from over,” Draco rasped. He pulled her up then by her hips, thrusting up once into her. “They’re not over until I say so. We have lots of work to do, and I need you. I will guard you with my life until you can’t fight at your best or it’s too uncomfortable.”

Hermione beamed up at him. She tried to rock her hips, but he shook his head in admonishment. 

“I fucking want you like this forever,” Draco said, his voice low in his throat. “I need you wet for me and ready at any time for my cock. I don’t care when you’re pregnant—in fact, I’ll just want you even more.”

A moan escaped her lips as she realised he was still not letting her move.

“I’m addicted to you. It’s too late, too late to go back to how things were.”

She whimpered in agreement, feeling that in the last few weeks, they had crossed a line, one that needed to be crossed for so long now. There was no more hesitancy or fear; every orgasm she had belonged to him and every explosive interaction between them was deliberate. Though the idea of parenthood still felt foreign, Hermione was certain that Draco would not abandon her, that he wanted this baby with her just like he wanted her now and always. She could live like this, at the beck and call of a man that desired her so fiercely.

“Eat.”

Hermione was surprised to see him feeding her a piece of the cake, strawberry and all. She devoured the dessert without question. Somehow, even though she ate the cake, she was left feeling more hungry, more unsatisfied when really she needed to feel the slide of his cock within her.

“It is too late. I want you so badly, Draco. I need you.” 

She was pleading with him now, her hands reaching back to pull on the strands of the back of his hair.

Draco kissed her finally. His lips pressed upon hers gently at first, almost too lightly. She was eagerly kissing him back then, trying to convey through the kiss how much he meant to her. The growing intensity of the kiss made her stomach flip; without any movement, she felt the warmness from him inside of her, feeling connected to him on a level like never before. 

Finally, he relaxed his hard grip on her. He jerked his hips a few times until Hermione got the idea and started to take over. She was gasping for air, rolling herself up and down over his length. 

“Fuck.”

Draco was eying her intently, his face displaying every hit of pleasure she was giving him. He started to pump into her, and then they were meeting each other thrust for thrust.

“I have so much more I want to do with you,” he rasped. “So many things I want to try.”

Hermione was feverish. She was listening to him, but more focused on seeking the pleasure he had been denying her. Every word from him seemed like it came from a fever dream.

“I want you every night like this, keeping me warm while I eat dinner.”

“I want to fuck you so hard, knowing you have my baby in you.”

“I want to fuck you while you’re out on the battlefield. I want my cock in you while you cast Avada Kedavra.”

It was a fever dream.

Hermione was moving up and down, riding him with the intention of getting her own release. His words of course made her weak; there was that jolt of electricity deep in her belly that made her feel like she never wanted this to end.

“Draco…”

She could barely mutter his name coherently before collapsing onto his chest, gasping at the deeper angle of their union.

“Just stay still.”

He was panting as he took control of her waist and began to fuck her deliberately. 

“You’re so good—so good for me.”

Maybe it was his whispered words against her ear or the fact that his cock was driving so deep into her, she swore she could feel it up against the outside of her abdomen, but Hermione felt her body begin to shake, her climax taking her by surprise. 

It was too much then—the way he fit inside her so perfectly, the way he didn’t stop thrusting, even when he could see her coming undone.

His lips were on her then, and they were both moaning. She was feeling the excessive vibrations all over; her body didn’t feel grounded, but somehow, she was still attuned to the fact that he was coming too. She was all tingly, yet still aware of his breathy pants against her face and the feel of him releasing inside of her.

Every time he came, she was in awe of him.

Of course, Hermione had found Draco attractive for quite some time now. But she was sure, as her body finally stopped shaking, that he must have felt that same sense of wonder in seeing her reach her peak. 

There was something incredibly romantic in their intimacy, in the fact that they were both letting go of every reservation to let themselves feel each other completely.

She didn’t know if she should tell him, but she liked the way he held onto her after they both finished, the way he was exhausted but still pressed kisses to her shoulder or side of her head, to wherever he could just to show that he worshipped her.

Draco had never used the words yet. Why hadn't he?  But even still, Hermione was thoroughly convinced by his tender actions that he loved her. 

He was in love with her.

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t feel like Christmas.”

Draco pressed a kiss to her belly. He was positioned between her legs, and they were both naked again, twisted in the sheets. 

Over the last few days, Hermione had lost track of the number of times she found herself writhing from his touch, panting below him or collapsing back onto his chest because he had taken her over the edge, either with his fingers, his tongue, or with the way he knew exactly how to drive into her, to go harder and give her exactly what she needed. 

“It does to me,” Draco said, giving her a wry smile before kissing her once more. His hands gripped her thighs and held them open to him as he moved lower, kissing her again before dragging his tongue down between her legs. 

“I just mean,” Hermione started, feeling her heart speed up at the pleasurable feel of his mouth against her opening, “I don’t have anything to give you, I don’t…”

Her voice faded away as she lost herself to the sensations of his tongue darting into her, of his fingers beginning to strum over her clit.

Of course, no holiday had been like it was in a long time, since the War started. She didn’t need to explain any of that because Draco already knew. She wondered if he had spent every Christmas alone since his father was killed and Narcissa was placed under the curse.

“But you do have something to give me,” he murmured, speaking low so that his breath electrified her skin. 

Hermione looked down to see him grinning wickedly, his lips shiny. She smiled down at him, feeling warmth in her cheeks not because she was shy, but because she felt such lightness in her heart, a feeling that everything was right in her world. She didn’t know if he was hinting about giving him a baby or an orgasm, but whatever it was, she lived for the devilish look in his eyes, the way he didn’t care that his hair was mussed up or that his obsession with her was written all over his face. 

She rested her head back upon the pillow, unable to say anything more as she felt him slip two and then three curled fingers inside of her. She missed the simple years of glittering lights, the singing of carols, the displays behind frosted shop windows, and the days when she had loyal friends, but he was right. Every touch, every kiss, and every time their bodies joined was magic; there was no better gift she could give him than herself fully into him and the moment.

“That’s my girl,” Draco whispered encouragingly. 

As he brought his mouth down on her, he continued to pump his fingers in and out. Hermione grabbed onto his hair and used the grasp to centre herself, and then for leverage as she bucked her hips up against his face. 

She could feel that knot of energy deep in her lower stomach, that ball of tension about to unravel. 

“Draco…I want you.”

He gave her one final kiss above her slit before moving up her body, his hands caressing her skin and feeling her breasts. She didn’t know if it was herself or him that loved it more, the fact her walls were already fluttering the instant he sank down into her.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

He was breathing heavily, only beginning to move and lift himself up to push back into her when she felt herself come undone. Maybe it was the feel of her cunt squeezing him, accompanied by the manner in which her mouth fell open or the way her eyelashes flickered, but Draco was attuned to her every reaction, pausing to watch her gasp and writhe with reverence, never taking his eyes off her as she came.

Hermione was breathless, overcome by weightlessness, her spirit having left her body. When she finally thought she could form coherent words, she pulled Draco down to her, cupping his head between her hands.

“I…I love,” she began, suddenly nervous though she did not know why. She was transfixed by his face up close, by the beauty of his angular cheekbones and perfect jawline. He stared back at her, right into her soul, with those daring eyes, so cold yet mesmerising. 

“Happy Christmas,” she found herself saying, her lips curving into an innocent smile. 

Draco exhaled against her and then kissed her on the mouth. Gently, he moved her arms down to her sides and then hoisted himself up so that he could look down at the place where their bodies were connected. 

“Keep your eyes on me.” His own eyes drifted back to her. His voice was husky and his expression was filled with lust but also with certain curiosity.

Hermione’s teeth closed over her bottom lip as he rocked into her. As loose and relaxed as her muscles were from her climax, her nerves were overstimulated. Still, she wanted him to finish, wanted him to know that he could have her like this whenever he wanted.

Draco leaned down; he groaned as she repositioned herself to wrap her legs around him which allowed him to hit a deeper angle within her. He settled his head right next to hers and his lips travelled to the side of her neck as he increased his pace, steadily thrusting in and out of her. 

“I fucking love, I love…” He didn’t finish the phrase either. He was losing himself in the rhythm, in the heat from her cunt, frantically snapping his hips.

“Tell me what you love,” he demanded, not forgetting she said it first, his words hot and heavy in her ear. 

Hermione smiled, liking the effect she had on him, the way her body gave her so much power. She liked when he was so far gone for her.

“Come, Draco,” she murmured, pushing her hips up to meet him. “Come inside me and I’ll tell you.”

His movements grew unsteady, and before she could say anything else, he was panting against her and she could feel him coming in spurts.

Hermione turned to kiss his jaw, seeking out his mouth the way he always did after she came.

They were locked in a deep kiss, hearts beating rapidly and bodies still intertwined and sticking together from the sweat. 

“Us,” she said, answering him after finally pulling away from the kiss.

“Draco…what is all of this?”

Hermione had gone back to sleep for no more than an hour, and when she awoke, the bedroom was scattered with gifts of all sizes, the boxes wrapped with reflective green paper. Even more, Tilly was there, using magic to string white lights above the doorway. A small tree, already decorated, was placed in the corner.

“Ignore it,” Draco said, taking a slug of pumpkin juice. He was sitting in the armchair, smirking at her. “These gifts aren't for you.”

“Unless Tilly is mistaken, these gifts are all for the Miss.” The elf turned to beam at her.

Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She couldn’t suppress her giddiness, overcome with the tingly feeling inside of her. There were so many presents, she couldn’t even count them. Her heart was beating excitedly with the knowledge that this wasn’t something Draco planned last minute. 

“Thank you, Tilly,” she said, doing her best pretend glare at him. Tilly nodded and then vanished. Hermione turned back to Draco. “I don’t know who else they would be for, considering I’m the only witch who shares your bed.”

Draco was still eying her from his chair. He must have showered earlier that morning because his hair was slicked back and slightly damp. He was dressed casually in a white button-down shirt and black trousers. 

She could tell from his formal posture, the way he crossed one leg over the other, and his serious expression, with one brow raised, that he was enjoying teasing her. 

“That may be true,” he admitted, his mouth quirking into more of a grin. “But did you ever consider that maybe I am trying to win another’s affection?”

Hermione tossed her hair back. “I haven’t, to be honest,” she replied, pursing her lips. “If you are trying to woo another witch, then I would be very scared if I were you.”

Draco bit his lip. “Did you just threaten me?”

She shrugged, hiding a laugh, as he raised a finger, beckoning her to him. 

“Threaten me more.”

“I can’t,” Hermione announced, stretching her arms as she moved from the bed. “I need to shower.”

“You need to come here.” 

Draco was waiting for her, enticing her with the breakfast tray.

It was impossible to ignore him and his sly smile as he held out a pastry to her. She was hungry from all of their lovemaking, and she couldn’t deny him, not when he was being so flirtatious and offering her breakfast, showing off his muscular forearms with those rolled sleeves. 

“Never forget that you are mine,” he said as she took her usual place, straddling his lap. He tore off a piece of the cranberry scone and brought it to her lips. “Everything is for you.”

Hermione shivered as he lifted up her nightgown and trailed his fingers along the curve of her back. 

“It’s lovely,” she replied, genuinely.

Truly, she felt it was too much but she would never tell him that; she couldn’t bring herself to do so anyway because his actions made her feel so wanted, so adored. There was still the part of her that wished she had something to give him in return, to make their relationship feel balanced. But she never had a love like this, so intense and all-consuming…a love that no one else would understand or accept. She never had anyone dote on her or buy her lavish gifts. 

“Some gifts you can’t open today.” Draco’s gaze flickered to the stacked boxes on the floor and then a tiny glittering package on his desk. “That small one is locked with magic. It will open when it’s time…some months from now.” 

“Oh,” she remarked. Her insides suddenly felt very fuzzy. 

Months from this moment—the time was nearly impossible to imagine, but she knew it had something to do with the baby…with her.

Hermione was usually very good at picking up on Draco’s emotions, but as to the mystery box, he was giving nothing away. She couldn’t be sure, but his eyes seemed a bit swirly, almost glazed as if he really didn’t want her to pry and needed this to be a secret. If it was the gift she was thinking of, there really wasn’t any warmth or any spark in his eye that confirmed it.

“What about those gifts?” she asked, wondering if his expression might be different.

Draco shook his head. “Again, just trust me. You don’t need them now, but you’ll appreciate them when the time comes.” 

“I have no choice but to trust you,” Hermione sighed. “You know I’m impatient.” 

He leaned forward, exhaling against her cheek. “Despite what you might think about yourself, I think you have a great deal of self-control considering your circumstances. But I don’t want us to lie to ourselves. This next year is going to be very difficult.” 

“I know.” Hermione looked down to where she felt Draco’s touch, his hand caressing her lower abdomen. “But no one’s going to ruin this—ruin us.” 

“Everything will be as it is meant to be, according to the Prophecy.” Draco pulled away, but his eyes found hers again. This time, they were a mix of silver and smokey grey, shining with something that looked like hope, but with a glint that suggested darkness. “Let them think this is only vengeance.” 

“Let them,” she said in agreement, raising an eyebrow. 

 His hand reached for the back of her neck and as she looked down at him, seeing his soft lips, and his chiselled face, she felt the goosebumps rise along her skin. This was her counterpart, her other half, the one whose child she might be carrying at this very moment. There was not only magic in their connection, in this warped relationship born out of the need for revenge, but so much power...power that only existed alongside love. 

“I know you because you’re like me,” he began, wrapping the coils of her hair around his fingers. “These next few months, you’re going to get restless. You’re going to want to murder everyone in your path when you won't be able to.”

Hermione smirked. She couldn’t say anything because she knew he had a point. To protect the baby, she would have to stand back—she would have to willingly stay out of the way, which wasn’t like her at all. 

“The gifts will keep you occupied because your fight isn’t over,” Draco explained, gesturing to the larger boxes. “And if anyone hurts you—Death Eaters or the Order—let me slay them for you. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I’ll torture them however you want; I’ll use whatever weapon or curse you pick to destroy them. I’ll burn them alive with a slow-spreading flame or cut their chests open and bring you their still-beating hearts. You only need to tell me what you want, Hermione.”

She was smiling like a mad woman, on the verge of both laughter and tears and a small amount of fear, feeling her heartbeat from the pure exhilaration of his murderous promises. She adored hearing her name fall from his lips like it was a prayer, a sign of his utter devotion to her well-being. There was nothing like being in love with a dangerous man…her beloved Death Eater.

The presents Hermione opened that morning made her entire body fill with warmth. Draco had given her only the finest quality robes, dresses, and shoes. There were soft, stretchy dresses with adjustable ties in the back that she knew were intended for her pregnancy. But her favourites were the gowns, one of dark green silk in particular and another of delicate black lace. She wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing clothing so elegant even a year ago, but she admired the cut and fabrics and couldn’t wait to try them on. To her, these dresses represented something so much more than wealth or an old-fashioned pure-blood style; they represented a kind of newness and worthiness for her, a turn in her life. It seemed silly, but the dresses were a symbol of hope for her—she was going to live in this Manor and she was going to be his lady.

They spent the days after Christmas curled up in bed, drinking tea, reading books on deadly curses, kissing, undressing one another, and talking once more of old family traditions and of the future, of a world without the War that didn’t exist yet but was hopefully on the horizon. It was a romantic notion that they could get everything they wanted by way of the Death Curse. Neither of them had any lofty visions to change things necessarily. They weren’t particularly interested in politics or treaties as much as they were in gaining agency and control over their lives. Draco was certain though that once the Order was gone and Voldemort had perished, that anyone left behind in the War would be falling at their feet, particularly Hermione’s. He still had that vision of her on a pedestal, of him by her side as she ruled over the war-ravished land like a queen.

“That’s the Dark Lord’s mistake,” Draco commented airily, rising from the bed and making his way to his wardrobe. “It doesn’t matter how dire a picture he paints of the Order’s rule or how much fear he can instil in his followers. It was easy for him to become powerful once he created the Horcruxes. But he never went about earning the physical and emotional devotion of another. That is his fatal error.”

Hermione’s mouth quirked into a smile as she watched Draco slip into his Death Eater gear.

“But what about Bellatrix?” she asked, looking at him as she pondered. “You don’t think she’d do anything for him?”

Draco scowled. “I don’t think she’s devoted to him as much as she loves the attention. She loves to torture, she loves to please him…but I don’t think she lives  for him.”

She nodded, having come to similar thoughts herself trying. She also thought Bellatrix loved the power, which had to be the only logical explanation for why she didn’t seem to care so much about the death of her husband or even about Narcissa. She would be the kind to froth over anyone in power.

Draco pulled his mask over his head. He stepped toward Hermione who was sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked up at him, seeing the outline of his muscles and feeling drawn to the dead-eyed expression of the skeletal eyes on the mask. “You understand then,” he said, voice gruff, “I will pretend to be loyal to him until his dying breath.”

She reached out and grabbed his hands. If she wanted to live, if she wanted both of them to have their life together someday, then Draco couldn’t give away his true plans or intentions. He couldn’t give Voldemort a reason to doubt him. 

“I understand,” she said quietly, squeezing his fingers.

He didn’t let go yet. “You better get dressed. I’m calling for you.”

All around her, the snow was cascading down, covering the hillside and the trees in the distance. Hermione’s hair and black wool cloak were dotted with tiny snowflakes. She felt like she was in a snow globe; it had been a long time since she had come out into the snow during the War, especially with such deadly purpose. To ward off the biting wind, she had dressed in layers for her Death Eater ensemble and cast a Warming Charm in her boots. She was glad to be on a mission with Draco. For so long now, fighting with him meant fighting for herself and there was nothing else she’d rather be doing.

The Dark Mark on her forearm was vibrating, laced with magic that still intrigued her to this day. Looking back, the fact he had given her his Mark that early when they had been together, even if it was for her own protection, was incredibly bold. She wasn’t sure if she understood the inner workings of it or just how connected they were, but for his purpose in calling her battle, it was extremely useful. She also knew there was some mechanism that allowed him to sense her.

She spotted him by his mask in the field just up ahead. His wand was raised high, eliciting red sparks of the Cruciatus spell. Before him, there were three Order soldiers: one he was torturing and two others issuing offensive spells which did nothing.

Although Draco had thankfully not had to report to Voldemort or go to Romania during Christmas, he had been given intel that the Order had recruited even more help from France and was planning an attack at Lestrange Manor after the holidays By placing Ginny under the Imperius a few weeks ago, Draco had also intentionally alerted the Order to Voldemort’s presence at the home. Even if Harry and the others had not followed Ginny into the manor, they were at least privy now to this location—which is what Draco wanted (“Let Potter and the Dark Lord face each other already.”). He was supposed to be waiting on an official directive but was told to inspect the nearby forests in case anyone from the Order was camping out to stake out Lestrange Manor. As it turned out, Draco apparently discovered the Order’s volunteer troop.

“Bombarda Maxima!” 

A swirl of orange flames controlled by an invisible wave collided with the red of the Cruciatus. Draco stumbled backwards, avoiding the blast and the scorched ground.

Reacting in the moment, Hermione grabbed his forearm to steady him. He thrashed at her touch, but when he saw it was her, he pulled her into him. He raised his mask and then reached for hers. 

“They’re all yours,” he said, his breath visible in the cold. His hand clasped her chin and directed her lips to his. They kissed in the frosty air, and she was taken aback by the heat from his mouth. As they broke apart, she grinned at the little snowflakes which had fallen onto his lashes. His eyes were the same shade as the dreary winter landscape, but there was a brightness emerging as he gazed at her. As Draco had been outside for quite sometime before her, she wanted to think it was their kiss that made his cheeks turn pink. She stood up on her toes to kiss him again. This time, his hand pressed down on her neck and she let out a small whimper. Though her heart was pumping wildly from his touch, she had not let her guard down completely. She was very aware of the voices.

“Qui est cette fille?”

“Je ne l'ai jamais vue.”

“C'est la traîtresse, la fille de la Prophétie.”

“Hermione Granger?”

“Elle est sous un sortilège.”

Draco broke away first. She noticed his eyes light up at the mention of her name. Pulling his mask back down, he laughed.

“You're the girl from the Prophecy,” he whispered, leaning in to lower her mask over her face. “One says you're a traitor and the other says you're under the Imperius.”

Hermione sighed in exasperation, feeling out of breath from the kiss and the cold.

She spun around to face the men who had spoken. All three of them had their wands raised. They each glanced at one another in confusion, as if not sure what to expect from her. 

“It’s me,” she remarked plainly, advancing towards them. “I’m not a traitor.” 

She wasn’t afraid as she took another giant step because she could feel that Draco was right behind her.

They had their wands raised. “Nous pouvons vous emmener chez Potter.” One of them nodded to her, scrunching his forehead questionly. 

Hermione laughed this time; the sound of it rang out harsh and threatening over the snowy field. She didn’t know what they had said about Harry, but she didn’t care. 

“Lucky for you, I’m also not Imperiused,” she remarked derisively. 

She thought the men could translate her words. They shifted uneasily, still dumbfounded by her appearance as a Death Eater, perhaps thinking that she wasn’t truly capable of attacking them.

She stood there motionless, letting the tension cut through the air—someone was going to have to make a move. Hermione had not drawn her wand, but she was stalking the men’s movements like a hawk. The moment one of them fidgeted or dared to strike, she would go in for the kill.

It was at that second that her eyes narrowed in on something in the distance—there were other soldiers racing up the hill. She had barely pointed her wand; the curse was already coming out of her mouth.

“Avada Kedavra! ” 

The blast of green light shook the earth below. The trail of wispy, angry magic hit the man nearest to her, the one who had asked about Harry.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Draco had moved beside her and as the other two soldiers aimed their wands to retaliate, he flicked his wrist effortlessly, sending another strong wave of emerald light.

“Ready?” 

Draco grabbed her hand, and together, they ran headfirst into the rebel path up ahead. 

Hermione’s heart pounded. As he pulled her forward, she twisted around to aim at the one trailing behind them.

“Avada Kedavra!” 

Her voice wailed through the wind along with the curse and after watching the body collapse into the snow, she turned, seeing that there were several more Order recruits to fight. 

“Avada Kedavra! ” 

...

The more they issued the Killing Curse, the harder the snow seemed to fall. It was blinding at times; the sky was filled with glittering white specks amidst the backdrop of green lightning flashes. 

Like they had become accustomed to doing, Draco and Hermione charged forward hand in hand, sending out Death Curses and dodging the opposing sparks. It was getting harder to see, and if they weren’t slipping and sliding over clumps of the accumulating snow, then they were trying not to trip over corpses. 

Hermione didn’t know if anyone attacked quite like they did. They didn’t stop moving which made them difficult targets and rapid, unpredictable threats. They were light on their feet and flexible with enough core strength to turn and aim the deadly magic whenever the slightest movement or sparks entered their peripheral visions. 

It was a style of intimate partner fighting that perhaps no one had come across before. It was too reckless to be done alone.

“Avada Kedavra! ”

“Avada Kedavra.”

“Avada Kedavra!”

…

The peril of the moment, the feeling of teetering on the edge of death herself while sending others to their graves, sent a thrill to the very centre of Hermione’s black heart.

Though any time in battle presented the chance of death, there was no doubt she felt invincible because of Draco’s firm grip on her hand. He wouldn’t let her fall. If at any moment she was too close to a spell, he would shield her. If someone tried aiming for her, he would thrust himself forward to aim his wand to kill them before the light even reached her. 

Everything was terrifying and exhilarating; just as her chest started to ache from running through the whipping winds, they stopped.

There were no more explosions or shouts of curses or cries of pain. The blanket of snow made everything more silent.

His hand was still gripping hers when Hermione pulled her mask off. It felt refreshing to breathe in the frigid air even though her lungs ached with exhaustion. 

This time, she reached up to lift off Dracos’ mask. With his breathing strained and his forehead shiny with sweat, she felt that clench of desire for him down below. His hair, too, was askew in that sexy way that she liked. 

He looked out to the empty battlegrounds, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement or last-minute threat. When nothing else presented itself besides the shriek of the winter wind, he turned to her. “You did it, Hermione.”

She let out a sound, sort of a half-laugh and half-snort. As she raised her head to look up at him though, it was apparent that he was serious. He wasn’t making some mean joke or insinuating that he had done most of the work. He was just giving her the credit when they had taken down these Order soldiers together.

Hermione nodded. She chewed on the inside of her lip because there was something else in his eyes, a look that she didn’t want to see…sympathy. 

“Thanks,” she replied, knowing that he could hear the distance in her tone. 

As she looked across the field and watched the flakes continue to fall, she smiled despite this new heaviness pressing down on her. It was…the unknown. 

She dropped his hand and instead found herself touching her flat abdomen. Following this deadly fight, it was hard to think about the changes to come for them but even more, for her. Draco had of course been preparing for this time, maybe even longer mentally than she had as he had done everything in his power to delay the inevitable. With his Christmas gifts too, he seemed to anticipate the apprehension she might face in the months ahead. 

It wasn’t a given she would be tucked away while pregnant, safe in his room for the next half-year. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that this fight marked some kind of ending.

“You said my Death Eater days are far from over.” Her voice came out small in the icy expanse of the field.

Draco pressed his hand to hers upon her stomach. “Hmm,” he began, stroking her fingers and then pulling her hand up to his lips. “I say a lot of things when my cock is buried in you.” He kissed her knuckles, and then she pulled her hand away. 

“Hey,” he said, “look at me.” 

Hermione looked at him, not sure what to think. She wasn’t mad, more feeling down, and she understood his reasonings and the truth that she knew he only wanted her and the baby to be safe. But she couldn’t help that there was still that need, maybe it was the hold of Dark Magic on her, to be the fighter everyone assumed she wasn’t. 

“I told you,” Draco explained, his eyes shifting down to her belly, “you’re not done fighting and I mean it. You always have to be prepared to fight. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the other thing I want to do…fuck you while you cast an Avada.” 

“You should have done it today,” Hermione replied, sighing. “If this was going to be my last time—” 

“In this weather?” he cut in. “Don’t think of it like that. You need to be ready to defend yourself at a moment’s notice. But certain fights are just…not good enough for you. Not worth it.”

Hermione felt a smile breaking through her pout. “You’re so complimentary,” she quipped. When she saw him roll his eyes, she shook her head. “You’re telling me what I want to hear.”

Draco looked at her earnestly. “I’m telling you the truth. As much as we both love this, there will be no need to waste your time racing through a field killing a bunch of dumb fucks when you could be preparing for a much bigger battle—you’ll see. I’m making sure you’re equipped.”

She remembered gifts he left for her to open. He was right, but she just had so many mixed emotions which was natural. “I’m just on a high from the Killing Curse. Besides, I don’t know how I’ll feel in a few weeks if I'll have morning sickness or…” Hermione bit her lip, realising she needed to research more about pregnancy. 

“I know I’m right.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a satisfied smirk. “You’re not done killing, killer.”

Hermione returned his same facial expression, feeling lightness settle over her once more. 

He reached his hand out again to touch her stomach. She watched as his eyes grew wide. He circled a thumb over her shirt, tracing a line down from her belly button, observing her with disbelief. “Do you think there’s a baby growing in here?”

His phrasing made her chuckle. “I don’t know,” she answered, wiping a stray snowflake off her brow. “I’d be surprised if there wasn’t. There’s probably something brewing, though very, very small.”

Draco nodded. As his gaze drifted up her face, she caught a glimpse of fascination in his eyes. He looked like wanted to say more, but instead, he kissed the top of her head. 

“Let’s get out of the cold.”

“I don’t know about this.”

Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror, using her wand to magically pull her long hair into a stylish updo. She had already applied makeup from a kit Draco had gifted her; her eyes were lined black and her lips were tinged with a shade of maroon.

It was the eve of the New Year and Draco had informed her that morning that Voldemort had unfortunately requested her presence during the night’s Death Eater ball.

Any time that Hermione had been to Lestrange Manor, she had always looked the part of a captive by no choice of her own, wearing either her nightgown or other torn clothing. Tonight though, it had been Draco’s idea for her to arrive not only kempt but wearing a formal party dress.

She had settled on the black lace gown, feeling that as sleek as it was with the delicate sheer sleeves and square neckline, it was still somewhat conservative; she hoped the dark style would allow her to blend in with the Death Eater crowd in all black.

As Hermione pulled two strands of her hair down to hang loose by her face, she turned to Draco who had one hand pressed upon the frame of the bathroom door. 

“I’m not wearing any jewellery, but I look too good to be a prisoner.”

Draco tsked. She could see his eyes drinking her in, and clearly, he was very pleased with the ensemble. 

“You look exactly like how I want you to look,” he responded, raising an eyebrow. “My prisoner. I want everyone to take a second look at you. It may not make any difference if they are dead set on your death—”

Hermione grimaced. 

Draco shook his head and continued. “But let them see you as the witch that you truly are. ”

She was unconvinced. “But you’re not—you’re not supposed to care for my well-being,” she reminded him. 

He nodded. “No. But I am expected to house you, to feed you, to care enough for you to bear a child with you. If anyone thinks that I’m fucking a girl who’s dirty all the time or wearing nothing more than a tattered rag, then they’re mental. This is a celebratory event to usher in the New Year and the new ‘supposed’ reign of Voldemort and the Death Eaters—I want everyone to see and know how I keep you now . Maybe I drugged you—maybe I”—he paused and lowered his voice into something coarse, “ ‘forced the Mudblood to wear this dress after placing a pillow over her mouth and pulling her knickers to the side,’ and —” 

“I get it,” she interjected, turning from the mirror to frown at him. “Even looking like this, I don’t think it will be hard for me to display discomfort and disdain in front of any of those Death Eaters. But your friends, Blaise and Theo, know about me and you, or at least, I think they do.”

Draco sighed. “They noticed I have an unhealthy preoccupation with you. They’re not the ones you should worry about.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “You should give them more credit. At least you can trust them.”  She gave his arm a gentle pat as she walked out of the bathroom towards the wardrobe in search of a pair of shoes.

“Should I bring my wand?” she asked, changing the subject and looking quizzically at her wand she left on the desk as she slipped on a pair of silver heels, another Christmas gift.

Draco turned, nodding in approval at her appearance he looked at her again. “No, leave it here,” he began. “I know you feel lost without it, but I don’t plan for us to be there long. I don’t want to be.”

“Midnight,” Hermione responded gloomily. “If it’s some type of New Year’s gala, you can’t leave before then. I don’t see why I can’t take my wand. I can hide it.”

Draco chewed on his lip. “I’ll let you decide. I don’t know what Voldemort has in store for you. Obviously, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you by my side.”

He looked as indecisive as Hermione felt. On one hand, she needed the security of her wand—truth be told, she was feeling bolder than ever around the Death Eaters. Perhaps it was the fact she might be pregnant now; it was too soon to know and she didn’t feel any other sign than an inkling in her gut. Bellatrix seemed to promise Draco she wouldn’t torture her anymore. No one was supposed to harm her as she was Draco’s captive carrying his child, the one to fulfil the Prophecy. But there was a risk in bringing her wand considering she had possession over the Elder Wand. While there was always the chance she could be disarmed while fighting, if someone were to check her dress tonight for hidden objects or disarm her just to see if she were hiding a wand…that could be very bad. 

“I want to have my wand,” Hermione said firmly after thinking it over. “I’ll tuck it in my corset. I hope there won't be a reason for me to use it, but I won’t stand for anyone casually throwing a Cruciatus my way or otherwise trying to physically injure me when…” She looked down at her stomach, still not quite sure they had conceived a child. “Even you.”

Draco looked frozen for a moment. His eyes looked fierce, flashing with emotion.

“Understood,” he said, voice on the verge of cracking. 

He stepped towards her, and though he had seemed to enjoy watching this transformation, her dressing in the black gown and glittery heels, she now noticed his eyes were wrought with tension. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she felt his fingers press into the soft spot at the base of her neck. “I need you to act with discernment tonight. Believe me…I’m so tired of this act. The fact I’ve hurt you still haunts me. But you need to trust me. We will have our time…our revenge, our freedom, and our life together. We will be in control.” 

“I believe you.” Hermione leaned into him, feeling his lips upon her forehead. “But I can only take so much. Would it be such a bad thing if a few Death Eaters ended up dead tonight?” 

“It wouldn’t.” Draco kissed her again. “But it’s a party. There will be lots of Death Eaters assigned as guards inside and out because of the Order staking out the nearby forests. If I knew the Dark Lord wanted you there earlier, I could have planned something violently fun for us to do tonight. But if you get caught for having your wand—I think the Dark Lord would punish me and send you away, especially if it’s discovered that you’re finally pregnant.”

She pulled away to look up into his swirling eyes. She had never seen them quite as heavy as they were now. 

“I can’t explain everything to you because I don’t know how things will play out yet,” he continued, blinking at her. “But I know the time will inevitably come when you will do something rash. I may hurt you again and I mean, really hurt you, more than I ever have before. But you have to trust that I always know what I’m doing and whatever I’m doing, it’s always for us.”

Hermione wanted to question him more, but she realised that despite the realness of the Prophecy now, he was onto something. Neither of them had the foresight to know exactly how the War would end or how they would take down Voldemort, especially after having the baby. They could only continue on their path—letting Voldemort think he was victorious all the while secretly decimating his troops and destroying his last Horcruxes. Meanwhile, the Order’s demise seemed less of a question and more of a certainty. 

“Whatever you do,” she said, barely able to get the words out, “just don’t hurt our child.” She shuddered at the thought.

“I would never.” Draco shook his head. “Don’t even think that. You heard me threaten Alden.”

“All right.” Hermione swallowed. Suddenly, her throat felt very dry. “I’ll leave my wand here.”

“Don’t change your mind because of me.” He looked back to the desk. “Are you sure?”

She smirked. “No.”

Chapter Text

The double doors to Death Eater Hall creaked open, revealing the shadowy space that had been transformed into a grand ballroom for New Year’s Eve. The hall was lit by a thousand flickering black candle flames, their glow highlighting dried roses and evergreen branches that hung from the walls. 

To Hermione, it was beautiful.

Voldemort stood in the centre of the hall, conversing with the attendees, his Death Eaters, their guests, and visitors from Bulgaria and Romania. The orchestra was already playing a waltz; the softness of the violin strings contrasted with the grotesqueness of Voldemort’s grin. The crowd in the hall was bigger than normal; many, like Draco, arrived in their Death Eater masks and garb while others dressed for the occasion in high-fashion wizarding jackets, dress robes, or glittering gowns in the case of the witches. On the dance floor, Death Eaters and their dates glided across the floor, unaware of anything else in the world except moving in time to the music. 

But amid the elegance, Hermione felt unease. For the first time at Lestrange Manor, not only was she dressed up, but Draco had decided not to place the Incarcerous chains on her. 

"Stay close," he murmured, pulling off his mask as they entered. His voice was low enough for only her to hear, his lips barely moving.

Hermione nodded, though she couldn't quite quell the nervous flutter of her heart. Like she was actually his date and not some vessel to be used because of the Prophecy, she clung to his arm, letting him lead the way into the party. 

Of course, there were many stares and questionable glances the moment they arrived which was late; it was already quarter to eleven. Immediately, Death Eaters who had imbibed too much began mistaking her for someone else, obviously seeing she looked stunning in her dress with its black lace clinging to her like a second skin.

“Ah, Malfoy has finally found himself a woman—wait, who is that?”  

“Look at the couple! Who—”

“And who is this fine witch on your arm, may I ask?” 

“Merlin’s beard! Who is that beauty?”

There were several Death Eaters gathered around, mostly older unknown ones but one unmasked that she recognised as Vincent Crabbe, who started to point and whisper.

Over to the side, she could hear the deadpan voice of Theodore Nott. “Oh wow. Whoever could that be?” 

Normally, Hermione would have smiled and blushed under such attention, but her face turned white as a sheet as she was sure that harsh insults and slurs were only seconds away.

She was fully prepared for Draco to remind everyone that she was ‘The Mudblood’ when suddenly he directed her away after mouthing a short ‘good evening,’ striding off arrogantly as if speaking to them was not worth his time.

Hermione was relieved until she realised that they were heading to Voldemort. 

“This will be quick,” he whispered. “Don’t say a word.”

Clad in a long black robe embroidered with golden threads, the Dark Lord’s presence was equally commanding and suffocating. Nagini was slithering just beyond him near the drink table, but strangely, the snake did not seem to be interested in their arrival at all, unlike the last time they were in the parlour.

Voldemort’s eyes, beady as ever, assessed Hermione as they approached.

“Draco, you’ve arrived,” he said, his voice chilling but smooth as silk. It seemed he chose to disregard her for the time being. "What a pleasure it is to have you here, my most loyal servant.”

Draco nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it, my Lord.” 

“I must commend you on your recent feat of single-handedly destroying the Order’s troop in New Forest this week. I received word from Severus that these rebels were preparing to aid in an attack on the manor—thanks to your quick arrival, we are here celebrating tonight instead of engaging in battle.” 

“Anything for you, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s smile displayed his rotten, yellowed teeth. “I am most grateful for your service. I know I can count on you to squash the Order’s plans before their attacks can even materialise. Without a doubt, you are my most lethal soldier—there must have been fifty men, no?”

“I believe so, but I did not stay around to count the bodies.” Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione watched Draco flash a proud smile at Voldemort who was clearly impressed.

Hermione put all her mental efforts into not reacting, though she was thinking back to how she and Draco had taken down the men together in the falling snow. She had killed some fifty men…

Voldemort’s eyes drifted to her once more. “I take it I will have some news from you soon, Draco, regarding the Prophecy.” His expression hardened as he observed her. 

Draco hummed in confirmation. “You have my word, my Lord. There will be an announcement about a child in January. I just need the Healer to confirm it.”

For a minute, Voldemort looked at him triumphantly. He then stepped so close to her that she could smell his putrid breath. His eyes narrowed in dark curiosity as he studied her body. “She is striking—your Mudblood all cleaned up. And she is no longer in chains. I take it you have Imperiused her?”

Draco let out a cold, amused laugh. He turned to Hermione, and for a minute, it was like she didn’t know him. “Better,” he said, looking right at her with a cruel grin.“I have her trained. Through an initial binding spell combined with extensive mind games and physical…manipulation, I’ve moulded her to be exactly what I want. She couldn’t even run from me if she wanted to.”

Voldemort’s gaze remained curious. “I take it you punish her well,” he replied, chuckling. 

“I have, but I no longer need to. Isn’t that right, Mudblood?” Draco’s eyes were light, flickering at her. His tone was mocking as he continued, speaking with far too much ease. “But truly she has no way of escaping me. If she does find a way, it’ll be impossible because once she figures out exactly what I’ve done to her, her spirit will be too broken to carry on.”

The words made Hermione’s stomach flip, so much so that she looked away from him. Her eyes settled on the hem of her dress, which covered the cold stone floor. Draco was very skilled when it came to playing her captor, so skilled that his words always made her shiver with discomfort, enough to the point where she always felt a sickening doubt about him in the recesses of her mind. If she was wrong about him…well, she wasn’t. But this sick feeling was only normal, she thought.

How many times did he tell her to trust him?

He loved her. He loved her. 

Voldemort laughed, but the sound was drowned out by the music and chatter from the ballroom. Hermione looked up to see Draco smirking.

“I’m fascinated to hear more about your methods of controlling her. But it is time for my speech. With how lovely the Mudblood looks tonight, it is only fitting that she be displayed properly.” Voldemort gestured toward a corner of the room, where there were at least a dozen, narrow individual cages filled with prisoners that did not look anywhere as well-groomed or dressed as she did. 

Draco bowed his head. “I will see to it that she is secure, my Lord.” 

“Very well. After my speech, I insist you speak with Travers. He wants to introduce you to his niece, Thalia.”

Draco nodded once more before guiding Hermione in the direction of the cages. 

She didn’t know what had changed or if some Death Eaters in the crowd had watched their interaction with Voldemort, but suddenly, they were all jeering at her, recalling who she was as they passed by. A few of them called her Mudblood, while some of the women shot her looks of revulsion. 

Heat stemming from fury and embarrassment flared in her cheeks. “Did you know about this?” she whispered scathingly to Draco. “About the cage? Because if you did, and you didn’t tell me—” 

“Of course not,” Draco replied shortly, teeth clenched. “I don’t even want to be here.” Although he looked more relaxed than when they first arrived, she could see a seriousness swirling in his eyes, as if he was deep in thought. 

“I should have brought my wand.” Hermione was regretting the choice she made an hour ago, thinking that by playing it safe, she wouldn’t really be safe. 

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Draco turned to her, giving her a warning look.

As they approached the single empty cage, the one right in the middle, Hermione scanned the row of prisoners. To one side, naturally, was Ron, in the worst shape she had ever seen him. She almost felt sorry for him; he was looking dishevelled and gaunt and his eyes, now hollowed, were no longer heavy with anger, but completely void of life...of the will to live. In the other cage, Ginny appeared the complete opposite. She stood defiantly with both hands on the bars. Her mouth, still sewn shut from the magic Hermione had cast, prevented her from shouting, but it was easy to tell from her shaking limbs that she was furious or maybe hoping for the Order’s arrival.

The cages all contained Death Eater prisoners, foreigners who had challenged Voldemort, Muggleborns, Order spies and fighters and anyone loyal to Harry who had been caught. Hermione winced as she watched Bellatrix and other Death Eaters shoot hexes at them while sipping their drinks as if these prisoners were creatures in a menagerie to be taunted, part of the evening’s festivities. 

It seemed that Draco hesitated for only a moment once it was time to open the iron door, which was enchanted with a serpent-shaped lock. He looked around him; most of the Death Eaters and guests were waiting eagerly to see him close her in the cage. 

“Just get in,” he said, though his voice was neither firm nor brutal, more unenthused. He forcefully tugged on her arm, but only to feign roughness as his mouth descended upon her ear. “I won’t take my eyes off you,” he whispered. 

Hermione crossed one arm over the other. Feeling resigned, she stepped into the enclosure, finding the space particularly cruel as it did not leave any room for her to move or to sit down. But perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. She could brace herself for the hour of heckling. If anyone did try to hurt her, though, she could only look to Draco, hoping he would intervene.

She hated this. She needed her wand. And surely, he knew it. After all, he was the one who encouraged her vengeful side and her lust for violence.

“Colloportus .” With a swish of his wand, Draco locked the cage door. He stepped back, glaring before sharing a laugh with the onlookers who either whistled or cheered in the distance.

Hermione’s face flushed red, and this time, she felt resentment bubbling at Draco for leaving her so suddenly—she was positive he was going to stay around or whisper something else to reassure her.

“Welcome, my loyal followers.” 

He had hurried for a reason; the music die,d and the candle lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the hall. Voldemort had amplified his voice to echo out over the crowd. His speech was about to begin.

As all the Death Eaters turned to face him, Hermione watched as Draco straightened his posture. He was positioned towards Voldemort, but at an angle that allowed him to fix his gaze on her. Hermione watched as a butler offered him a flute of champagne.

"My pure-blooded brethren, and those who have come to witness the dawn of a new era: tonight, we stand on the precipice of greatness. For far too long, our magical world has been ruled by the weak, by Mudbloods and sympathetic half-breeds, by those such as these prisoners before you who would allow the very fabric of our society to rot and decay. But no longer."

He paused, letting his words sink in.

"Tonight, we step into the light of a new year, a year where power will be reclaimed by those who deserve it—by the pure, by the strong—by those who carry magical blood in their veins. This new reign is confirmed, not only by our fight and the dedication of you, my Death Eaters but also by two prophecies which foretell of my reign to come. Under my rule, all of Wizarding Britain and those who dare to join us will no longer be plagued by pitiful attempts at equality. We will shape the future. We will purge the weak, and we will build a government where the worthy rule, where the Order is crushed beneath our feet, and where those who foolishly stand against us are swiftly erased."

A dark grin twisted on his face.

"This night shall not be a premature celebration as we have much work to do. But let us join together and welcome to the future that is to come. Tonight marks the first step into a new year and new reign, one in which I will lead, and you will follow—each of you with the honour of serving me. For I will be the one to decide who rises, who falls, and who remains."

His raspy voice hardened.

"Make no mistake: the end is not only coming for Harry Potter but all those who have stood against us for too long. The Mudbloods, the Muggle-lovers, and the weak-willed who continue to defy the natural order of our world, forgetting that magic is might. Their time is over. Now, join me for a toast.”

Voldemort raised his cup into the air. There were drunken shouts and murmurs of excited agreement as all the Death Eaters followed suit, lifting up their glasses.

"To our victory. To the rise of the true wizards. To the new reign!"

The room fell silent and then a chorus of fervent applause erupted, all eyes and masks centred on their Dark Lord.

As Hermione gripped the cold bars of the cage, her own eyes were focused on Draco who had taken a sip of his champagne. She couldn’t help but think that he had toasted to her. He was staring at her determinedly and rather longingly, maybe trying to tell her to disregard Voldemort’s words and to think about them. Her beating heart felt constricted in her chest.

Voldemort’s voice again sounded throughout the hall, this time ordering his followers to resume the party. A flourish of his hand indicated the start of the next dance.

Hermione’s stomach twisted into a knot; she noticed two Death Eaters eying her in the distance, whispering and winking to one another, but she ignored them, keeping her focus on Draco. She was sure he was aware of everything happening around her. 

Her only option was to watch the party then like a trapped animal. After a while, the murmurs of the crowd and the strains of music felt distant like she was listening to everything underwater or from another room. She was too consumed with observing these witches attempting to get Draco’s attention. They offered him coy smiles, but he quickly dismissed them. Jaw tightening, his gaze shifted from them back to her and over to Voldemort who was approaching.

With a sickly smile on his face, Voldemort brought over a Death Eater to Draco who introduced him to a shapely raven-haired witch in a frilly navy blue gown. Hermione’s body instinctively stiffened. This must have been Travers and his niece, Thalia. The group spent some time sharing laughs, seemingly making small talk as they sipped their drinks. Eventually, Voldemort pulled Travers to the side, guiding him into another circle of Death Eaters.

Draco was left alone with Thalia, who appeared very interested in him. Hermione could tell by the way she leaned in and touched the sleeve of his cloak every so often. The more she giggled and flirted with him, the more tense Hermione grew. She knew he didn’t care about her, but being in the cage was already testing her patience. She was doing everything in her power to not become irrationally angry. 

As for Draco, she could see that he wasn’t necessarily returning Thalia’s affections. But he didn’t grow cold as she expected. Instead, he smiled at her words nodded politely and even added to the discussion. From time to time, his calculating eyes wandered back over to her, and then over to Voldemort and Travers, who were both eying the exchange from afar with delight.

The scene was nauseating. But it was when the orchestra music slowed that Hermione gripped the cage bars so fiercely she saw every vein pop in her hand. Thalia brazenly grasped Draco by his forearm and led him out to the dance floor. As she watched Draco place his hand upon the small of her back and Thalia smiled as she reached for his shoulder, she wanted to scream.

It’s just a dance, she told herself. This is just an act for him. She knew her gaze must have been livid because when Draco finally made eye contact with her again, his eyes darkened. She wanted to think his gaze looked heavy and apologetic. However, Thalia seemed to command his attention once more and even had the nerve to follow his sight line and chuckle as she looked back at the cages. As they danced, she moved in closer to him, keeping him occupied with conversation.

Hermione bit down on her lip hard, attempting to suppress the desire to lure a Death Eater over to her and steal his wand. However, she had to remind herself to stay calm; if she committed some crazy act, she might risk being separated from him or getting tortured. She did not know if she was pregnant, but it made her nauseous to think about being Crucioed and the torture hurting or killing the fetus. Perhaps she needed this as practice; she needed to treat this as a lesson on reigning in her rage.

“He likes her, don’t you think?”

Hearing a familiar voice, she whipped her head and her narrowed eyes landed on Theo. He grinned at her as he leaned casually against the side of the cage. He reminded her of a puppy dog with those soft brown, sleepy-looking eyes. He was one of the more casually dressed Death Eaters; the top few buttons of his black shirt were undone.

“If you think this is bad, just wait until midnight. You know she’s going to—.” He stopped and mimed an exaggerated kissing face. He took a slug of his drink and then swirled the cubes around aimlessly, sighing in disappointment when he realised it was empty.

“Give me your wand.” Hermione scowled at him. 

Theo laughed heartily. “I’m just messing with you. And no…I won’t do that. I sort of value my life.”

“Then go talk to Draco. Distract him.” She brought her hand up to her mouth and began to chew on her nail. Thalia now had her chin resting on his shoulder. “She is planning to kiss him, isn’t she?”

“Probably.” Theo sighed. “Actually, I was thinking of leaving before the clock strikes twelve. Blaise already dipped with his date. Lucky bastard.” 

Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled. “I can’t watch her kiss him…I just can’t do it,” she said with exasperation. “I’ll murder her. I’m going to fucking kill her.” 

“Easy there. I can tell you spend entirely too much time with Draco. You are drenched—drenched in Dark Magic that is. I can sense it; it’s dripping off you. Do you want me to get you a drink?”

“I can’t have a drink,” she replied automatically, her hands squeezing the bars. “I want you to go over there, or I want you to get me out of here before midnight.”

“I can’t get you out.” Theo raised one eyebrow thoughtfully. “Would it help if I kissed you through the bars?”

Hermione smiled for practically the first time that evening. “No,” she replied breathily. “Truthfully, it would help more if you kissed him.”

He licked his lip in serious consideration. “There’s a lot I won’t do for this dangerous liaison you two have. I’m constantly reminding Draco of that. As I said, I value my life. But I don’t see any real consequences if I just laid one on him.” He shrugged. “Thalia will be shocked.” 

“That’s perfect.” Hermione’s eyes lit up as she continued. “I don’t know if you’ll do it, but thank you for taking my mind off her. By the way, can you really sense Dark Magic on me?”

She had become so desensitised to the cold electric sensation herself, so used to feeling it coming off Draco in waves the past year that she forgot that was even a thing. Though, being in a room filled with Death Eaters, she guessed that wasn’t anything that would stand out.

Theo held up his empty glass. “I’m a man of my word.” He nodded to the glowing countdown on the back wall. “Fifteen more minutes. I’m refilling my drink. And yes…you must have cast about a million Avadas recently. That, or had sex with someone who did. Watch yourself.”

Hermione had to control her facial expression as Theo walked away. She wanted to smile again but was now privy to a few nearby Death Eaters looking at her suspiciously. Two of them were the ones who had winked at each other earlier. 

It was as if the crowd had felt the countdown to midnight looming; the volume of the chatter intensified but the orchestra continued to play. Guests were refilling their drinks in preparation for a toast. 

“Oi, if it isn't Malfoy’s Mudblood. I bet he uses her like the whore she is, and blimey, she’s still a proper stunner.”

The two unknown, grimy-looking Death Eaters had now approached the cage. They were both older in age too, one taller with missing teeth and the other short and ruddy-faced. 

Hermione glared at them. “Leave me alone.”

“Do you blame him? In that dress, she’s got all the right bits, mate. Do you think she’s knocked up yet?” The short one inserted his chubby hand through the bars. Hermione scooted as far back as she could, but by flexing his hands, his fingers managed to reach the top of her dress. 

They both laughed when he trailed his finger across her dress on her breast, circling where the nipple would be. 

Hermione grimaced. “Get your filthy fingers off me.” She brought her other arm down over his wrist, hitting him as hard as she could.

Her protest and fight back only made them chuckle and wink at one another again. Clearly, both men were drunk, but she couldn’t help but think they had been planning this since they saw her, thinking she was fair game on display. 

“Don’t play hard to get with us, Mudblood. We saw you flirting with young Mr Nott. We know you must like getting fucked by Death Eaters.” The tall one reached his hand through the cage now too; his arm was so bony, that he had no trouble grasping the side of her dress. She jerked away when she felt his hands skim her hip. 

“What’s wrong?” he rasped. “We just want to play with you…We’ve been thinking about you all night, pretty Mudblood.” His hand now reached to the apex of her thighs, but Hermione kept her legs locked. Desperately, she tried to make contact again with Draco or even Theo, but the men were blocking her view.

Just then, several explosions sounded up above—Hermione jumped, at first fearing that there was an attack or that someone had crashed through the window on a broom. 

But once the crowd whooped in surprise, she looked up to see several green and yellow fireworks up above exploding high into the ceiling near the arches. 

She glanced at the clock. There were still two minutes to midnight.

Another enchanted firework went off; this one multiplied into several smaller bursts, one even creating the image of the serpent and skull. Cheers and applause echoed nearly as loudly as the booming fireworks.

“Avada Kedavra.”  

“Avada Kedavra.”

Hermione had barely processed that the men were no longer grabbing at her. Both of their bodies were slumped over on the ground—their eyes were wide and their mouths were still open as they had just been talking. 

Before her, Draco was holding his wand, breathing heavily; his brows were slanted down but she could see those pale eyes blazing with wrath.

“What happened to Stupifying them? I thought we were going to stun them.” Theo was standing just behind him. 

 As Draco gazed upon the deceased Death Eaters, he swore furiously under his breath. “Fucking pieces of shit.” He started to stomp on the shorter one, using the heel of his dragon hide boot to kick the man’s body away from the doorway of the cage. “Fucking degenerates. No one. Fucking. Touches. Her.” He released a strangled noise, something like an animalistic growl and an angry groan as he kicked the other one, this time digging his sharp toe into the tall man’s eye until blood started to squirt.

“Uh, Draco…they’re dead and the fireworks just stopped. Thought you should know.”

Theo looked around, an overly calm demeanour and a fake smile plastered on his face. “Nothing to see here,” he added, waving to no one in the distance.

Draco, shaking, turned to him. “Thanks,” he huffed. He stood there another few seconds, catching his breath. He then ran a hand through his hair, wiped his nose, and held up his wand again. 

“Alohomora.”

The door to the cage unlocked. Hermione’s pulse escalated as she looked at him in the aftermath of his act. He looked…absolutely gorgeous. He was still trembling, unable to control his rage, but was staring at her so intensely, his entire being radiated fierce protection. She wanted to throw her arms around him.

“Let’s go.” He held out his arm to her and as Hermione latched onto it and stepped over the Death Eater bodies, she felt Draco pull her in extra close to him. 

Relief settled over her, and she looked back curiously to the cages. While there were some Death Eaters milling about, a few shaking their heads in confusion and mumbling something about ‘Malfoy’s temper,’ most of the crowd was still focused on their dancing and drinks. They were glancing at the countdown in anticipation of the New Year, completely oblivious to the murders that had occurred. 

Hermione couldn’t help but notice that Ginny was watching her. She of course had witnessed the whole ordeal along with Ron. Their unblinking eyes were both on her, but it was impossible to tell exactly what they were thinking. 

As they headed to the doors, Thalia appeared out of the crowd. Her dark, searching eyes looked ecstatic. She looked back to Travers, who was still standing next to Voldemort as if to say I found him. “Draco! Where did you go?” She asked, her voice light and playful.“Oh…I’m sorry.” Her expression dimmed as she took in Hermione on his arm. Thalia seemed to be observing her up close, almost sort of miffed at her sophisticated appearance. 

Draco shook his head. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I have to leave now.”

“I understand.” Thalia smiled. She reached out and grabbed his free hand, closing her fingers around his wrist. “Perhaps the next time I see you, we can enjoy our time together when you’re not having to…” her voice trailed off and she sneered at Hermione, “tend to the Mudblood. It’s such a shame to see her here tonight, ruining our evening. It must be such a burden for you to even look upon her,” shuddered, “never mind having to have intimate relations with her. I feel so badly for you.”

“A real burden, indeed.” Theo clapped Draco upon the back, the action so strong Thalia dropped his hand. 

Draco laughed softly. “Goodnight, Thalia.”

Thalia did not move away. She gasped with excitement, along with the rest of the crowd. Everyone was holding their glasses and flutes high in the air, turning to look back at an enchantment on the air, magic spelling out a countdown. 

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“You’ll never make it to the gates now—” Theo murmured, his arm on Draco. “Better brace yourself.”

Hermione could feel Draco start to pull back anyway, but at that moment, with five seconds left, Thalia turned around, her eyes widening with interest. 

Hermione looked at Theo, who did not look at her to give himself away, but she could see the workings of a mischievous grin taking over. 

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One—Happy New Year!”

More fireworks exploded up by the rafters, but Hermione barely noticed as she watched Thalia lean in to kiss Draco, only to be blocked by Theo next to him, who grabbed his chin. 

“Theo—what the Hell—” Draco sounded exasperated, but also let out a chuckle, trying to move his head. Theo would not be deterred, however. He held onto his face, determined to give him an actual on-the-mouth kiss. “Stop moving—“

Hermione pursed her lips to hide her smile. It all unfolded in slow motion.

She didn’t know if she was more amused by how fervently Theo went in for the kiss, keeping his mouth on Draco when they finally kissed, or how quickly the hopeful look vanished from Thalia’s face. Her expression was frozen with a mixture of shock and confusion. In the chaos of this midnight moment, with all the other surrounding Death Eaters either kissing or toasting, Hermione reached her foot out and kicked Thalia hard across the ankle. 

“Ow!” She cried, seething. She glared at Hermione. “You little bitch!”

Thalia hissed and hobbled on one foot, clearly trying to get Draco to notice, who was busy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“She just—she kicked me!” Thalia stared at Hermione, her eyes narrowing viciously.

But Draco was grinning, still perplexed by Theo. “What the fuck?” 

Theo shrugged. “That was just to say ‘I love you. Happy New Year, mate.’”

Thalia was still huffing, clearly agitated from the lack of attention.

“Did you see that? She kicked me.”

Draco turned, a look of great annoyance on his face. He nudged Hermione, and a look of disdain replaced the levity on his face. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” he said coldly. His gaze focused back on Thalia. “My apologies.”

“This did not go at all how I planned,” she whined.

It looked like he was about to say something, when all of a sudden, Thalia pushed forward and kissed him just on the top of his mouth.

Hermione was right there to witness the desperate attempt—as livid as she was and wanting to kick her again, her heart soared when she saw that Draco did not react. He didn’t even try to kiss her back. 

“Oh, fuck me.” Theo had his head in his hands. When he looked up, sighing, he gave her a quick sympathetic look. 

Hermione wanted to react; she wanted to hug Theo for trying, and for what it was worth, his action had definitely dulled Thalia’s attempt at a romantic New Year’s kiss. 

“Happy New Year, Draco.” Thalia quirked her lips, apparently not willing to accept any other scenario other than the one in which he desired her. 

“Happy New Year.” Draco nodded to her. His voice though was still cold, distant sounding. Hermione could hear what seemed to be exhaustion in his tone. 

He turned away sharply then, so fast that Hermione nearly lost her footing.

Theo was trailing behind them. “So what’s next?” He asked, nearly stepping on Draco’s heels. “You two are so much fun.”

“This is the part where you leave,” Draco replied, voice low. “Your service, though greatly appreciated, is no longer needed.”

Hermione forced her eyes to the floor. She wished to smile at Theo, but her heart was a wreck, beating unevenly, wrought with mixed emotions. She was pleased the night had not been worse, but at the same time, found it difficult to stay back, to be subservient to Draco who was not only her equal, but her other half. Here, in Voldemort’s world where she was as good as dirt, nothing was real. She clasped Draco’s arm, publicly as the object of his disgust and secretively as his prized possession, his lover and partner in crime. In the same hour, he had killed and beat two men for her and yet, looked at her like she was nothing.

Back in their room, Hermione undressed in silence. She had always loved the feeling of removing her make-up and taking off a tight dress to lounge in a soft shirt and joggers at the end of a night. She was glad that Draco was not the type to push her to talk. She supposed that neither was the kind to wallow as they already knew and expected the world to be the way it was around them. 

They settled into bed in the darkness, and Hermione shivered when he did not reach for her. 

She wasn’t mad at Draco. She understood why he had to be cruel around Voldemort. She understood he had no choice but to put her in the cage. She understood why he had to entertain Thalia. But still, she was human…a girl who would never apologise for feeling every emotion tenfold. Not to mention, she was also a witch capable of very Dark Magic, of doing very bad things.

“You know,” Hermione said quietly, shifting her head on the pillow so that she could see Draco’s outline in the dark, “It just crossed my mind. I would have no idea if any time you left, you were actually kissing somebody else.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to her, shining in the darkness. “You’re right. You wouldn’t.”

She didn’t say anything, but of course, she was seething. 

“You wouldn’t know, so I would tell you,” he explained, matter-of-factly. “The Dark Lord thinks he is rewarding me by trying to find me a wife. I think because it has taken so long for…you know, me to impregnate you, perhaps he still doubts it will even happen. He’s asking a lot of me by asking me to ruin my bloodline.”

Hermione swallowed. She knew what he meant, but of course, it stung.

“So you haven’t kissed anyone else all these months?” Hermione questioned him, trying to squash the ridiculous need for reassurance. “Because if you have or if you do, I want to know. I don’t care if it’s fake.”

“Only you,” he replied, his mouth curving into a smirk. “I would tell you.” He rolled over then, facing her. His eyes were again glittering in the darkness. “I’d want to know too if I were you, so I could kill them.”

Hermione smiled against her better wishes. She reached out and trailed her fingers over Draco’s upper lip, over the exact spot where Thalia planted the kiss. Scowling at him in the dark, she tried to rub the kiss off him. “Only Theo was supposed to kiss you,” she said, sighing. 

Draco was still smiling, and she felt her heart suddenly dissolving for him, feeling all warm inside because of the dimples on his cheeks. She didn’t know how a man could look like that—handsome and deadly, carved out of marble, but also so gentle and innocent.

“If I’m being honest, you scare me, sometimes,” she whispered, moving her hand away. Hermione knew how to listen to her gut; she liked to think she not only had the skill and the smarts to fight and survive but also the instinct and ability to judge others accordingly.

“Only sometimes?” He asked, his expression hardly changing, though he raised a brow. “How so?”

Hermione released a tense breath. “The things you told your Dark Lord about me,” she whispered. She was surprised to hear the fear in her own words. Her voice was much smaller, much shakier than she intended it to be. 

Draco’s gaze was unrelenting. His eyes were clear and unmoved by her admission. She couldn’t tell exactly if he was pleased, confused, or disappointed. His face was a mask. 

“Good,” was all he said. 

Suddenly, he stretched his arm out and gripped the side of her face. He pulled her closer to him, into his embrace. Before she could react, his lips, those lips which had been sullied by another, were on her, kissing her passionately. 

She was kissing him back, forgetting all about Thalia and the New Year, about the fact even Theo’s lips had been on him. The worry eating away at her heart was soothed as his tongue traced along her bottom lip and then darted into her mouth. She was mimicking his every move then, kissing him back with the same needy energy, the energy to quell any lingering doubts.

“You scare me too,” he said quietly, giving her a dark smile as he broke the kiss. 

Hermione breathed out an exasperated chuckle. She liked the way he nudged his nose against her, the sweetness between them in this moment that was theirs and theirs alone. Her moment. Her Draco . 

“You promised,” Hermione said, her voice faint as her lips brushed upon his neck. She kissed him. Her hand trailed down his neck, skimming over the taught muscles she could feel beneath his skintight black shirt. “You said you would. Anything I want.”

“What is it?” Draco’s hands were in her hair now. He was pulling roughly on the back of her head, guiding her lower as she moved to lower the waistband of his trousers. 

Hermione settled her hand right over his bulge. She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with love and madness.

Draco was breathing heavily. His eyes were glazed, totally lost for her. 

“Bring me Thalia’s heart in a box.” Her tone contained nothing to suggest it was a hope or a wish. It was a demand.

Chapter Text

The first chill of January seeped through the walls of Malfoy Manor. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed in Draco’s room, her place of refuge and captivity. Her hands rested protectively over her stomach, and her mind swirled with anticipation and uncertainty.

She thought of Draco and how he had unleashed something inside her, that fire that she hadn’t been able to set without him. She had unapologetically burned down her old life, fully embracing her terrible side, the one unafraid to cast the Killing Curse, the one who cared only for her own survival, her own desires. She glanced down at her hands and saw the faint tremor that came with the weight of all she had done. How many Avada Kedavras could a soul endure before it was irrevocably corrupted? 

The corruption didn’t scare her though.

The only thing that scared Hermione was how much she needed Draco. She loved him fiercely, irrationally, and with the part of her that still had the capacity for tenderness. But loving him was so terrifying. It was strange; before him, she never knew fear. But due to her own choices, her world had become small. He was her world, and she couldn’t bear to lose him or have him turn on her. She was now vulnerable in ways she had never thought she would be. Of course, she felt his love in his touch, in the way he shielded her from the worst of Voldemort’s wrath, but a fearful, weak voice inside her whispered that love could just as easily turn to ash. If she lost him, she would lose herself entirely. 

Hermione lay back against the bed, her fingers splaying again over her middle. The thought of a baby growing inside her filled her with a tingly sensation. Maybe the child would be something precious, a light threading its way through her own darkness and the War that surrounded her. 

The faint pop of Apparition shattered her reverie, and her head snapped toward the sound. Draco appeared in the room, his silhouette outlined by his Death Eater mask. His shoulders sagged, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead as though he had just emerged from another winter storm. The edges of his cloak were tattered, and as he removed his mask, his pale skin bore the grime of battle. He looked utterly spent, the weight of his mission etched into the tight lines of his face.

“You’re back,” Hermione said softly, rising to her feet. Her voice trembled, betraying the relief that surged through her chest.

Draco crossed the room, pulling her into his arms without a word. His embrace was tight, almost desperate, and she felt the subtle tremble in his hands as they pressed against her.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, pulling back just enough to scan his face. His grey eyes were clouded, their usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.

“No,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Just tired.”

She cupped his face, her thumb brushing against the faint smudge of blood on his jawline. The sight of it sent a shiver through her, but she pushed it aside, tilting her head up to press a kiss to his lips. He responded slowly at first, but then his hands tightened around her waist, and he pulled her in closer as he kissed her like he wanted to consume her.

Hermione thought of telling him then, of whispering that she was actually carrying his child. But the words caught in her throat. She hadn’t gotten her period yet, but it wasn’t enough proof. And something about his weary expression told her it wasn’t the right moment.

Instead, she settled for resting her forehead against his, her fingers threading through that mussed hair she loved. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Draco exhaled a shaky breath, his hands sliding down to her hips. “I miss you being out there, with me.” His voice sounded exhausted though his eyes still held that gleam of admiration. “It’s something to behold—watching you fight. Watching you end them without hesitation.”

A devious, crooked smile tugged at his lips, the kind that sent a shiver down her spine. "But don’t you worry? I’m going to bring you something you’ll like," he murmured, his tone dark with promise. “Something you deserve.”

She kissed him again, harder this time, as though the press of her lips could convey the secret swirling with her. She was sure they would find out the news soon enough with Healer Alden. Tonight, she needed him to hold her, to remind her that amid the War that always threatened to tear them apart, they would forever cling to each other. 

The following day passed in an eerie haze. Draco had left before dawn, summoned spontaneously to a nearby battle. Hermione stayed in bed, her body draped in one of Draco’s shirts. He had tossed it over her as he dressed; she liked how the fabric carried his comforting scent, a scent of cedarwood.

As it was still dark, her eyelids grew heavy. The world around her blurred, and she surrendered to sleep, slipping into a dreamscape that felt both alien and achingly familiar.

She was in a manor, but it was not the Malfoy Manor she knew. This version was like a castle, darker even, with spires that pierced a dark and stormy sky. Hermione stood in some great hall, its vastness filled with shadows and the flicker of torchlight. Death Eaters knelt before her, their masked faces tilted downward in subservience.

Her voice, commanding and cold, echoed through the chamber as she issued orders. "You will sweep through the villages. Leave no survivors. Burn everything."

The Death Eaters bowed and dispersed, their black cloaks swirling like ink spilt on parchment. Hermione turned, and her gaze fell upon the small bundle in her arms. A baby, wrapped in silken blankets, nestled against her chest. She couldn’t discern whether it was a boy or a girl, but the child’s presence filled her with a fierce protectiveness. The baby gurgled softly, its tiny hand grasping the edge of her black lace dress.

Hermione felt powerful, untouchable. Yet, as the dream shifted, an icy dread began to seep into her bones. The walls of the castle seemed to close in, and the baby began to cry. The cries of the child grew louder, more desperate. Hermione’s grip tightened, but the child began to fade, its form dissolving into shadows that slithered through her fingers.

She woke with a start, her chest heaving as she clutched her stomach. Everything came to her in flashes, the imagery of the castle and the Death Eaters vivid and unshakable. She sat up, her fingers shaky as they traced her still-flat belly. Her unconscious self had created it; this dream was a fusion of the future she longed for and her fear.

Draco arrived back that evening, much later than Hermione expected. She was in her usual chair, taking the last few bites of her cottage pie.

She set her plate down as he approached her, his cloak billowing slightly before settling around his lean frame. He took off his mask and then leaned down, pressing his hands to the sides of her chair, trapping her. His eyes met hers, dangerous with that alluring intensity.

“My girl,” he said, a smirk curling his lips as he crossed the room. Without waiting, he kissed her lips and then the top of her head. “Are you ready?”

Hermione sat up straight, her curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

Draco reached into his pocket and withdrew a box. It was black, its surface smooth and gleaming. He extended it toward her, his smirk deepening into something darker, more wicked.

Hermione hesitated before taking the box, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid. The scent of iron hit her first, sharp and metallic. Inside lay something grotesque and bloody—a heart, still faintly twitching, its rubbery surface glistening in the dim light.

She gasped, her stomach churning even as a strange thrill coursed through her veins. “Is this…?”

Draco’s voice was a low drawl, filled with dark amusement. “Thalia’s heart. She thought she could lay a claim to me, that her birthright, her father’s connection to the Dark Lord meant something. But she’s nothing now." He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Keep making me do the worst for you, Hermione. Because I will.”

Her lips parted in a stunned smile and then she laughed—a wild, unrestrained sound that echoed off the walls. Her emotions churned, chaotic and unbridled, her hormones leaving her teetering between exhilaration and madness.  She couldn’t help it. As she looked down at the heart, a deep, primal satisfaction settled over her. 

Thalia would never touch Draco again and that fact alone was enough to make her ecstatic. She knew this wouldn't be the end though. There would be some other threat, some other Death Eater's daughter that Voldemort would find for Draco.

“How did you manage?” She asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

He took the box from her and closed it. “We were meeting for dinner,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let’s just say she startled me in the alley when she arrived.”

Hermione nodded, still feeling bubbly. But as she stared at the black box, she started to wonder. “You, er, you won’t get in trouble for this, will you?”

He leaned down to kiss her again, slow and deliberate, grounding her in the moment. When he pulled back, he answered her. “For you, the trouble is worth it. I made sure Travers was hit by a stray Killing Curse in the battle today.” He shrugged then as if he wasn’t worried. “Her family back home will eventually realise she’s missing. They should never have trusted her with Travers who made a deal with the Dark Lord to give her to me.”

“Right.” Hermione found herself smiling at his twisted logic. 

“Not to mention,” he continued, his voice low, “she should have known better. She should have known better than to date a killer.” He reached up to wrap a stray curl around his finger.

As Draco played with her hair, she studied his expression; it was laced with smugness. She was getting goosebumps thinking about how he had acted so brutally…all for her. 

“Thalia should have known,” she said in agreement. “I say that, though I didn’t know what I was getting myself into with you.”

“Oh, Hermione...” He let out a dark chuckle. “I think you knew very well.” His grey eyes searched hers, and then he looked down at his hands, which held the heart. “I’ll bury it,” he said, decidedly. “Out in the back gardens. I’ll have the elves plant a tree over it in the Spring. That way, as it grows, you’ll never forget.”

Hermione looked to the window. It was pitch black of course. “Forget?” She questioned, her voice cracking.

Draco straightened, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “You’ll never forget everything we overcame…the way I killed for you so we could be together.”

The January days stretched on, bleak as ever. Snow blanketed the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The grey clouds overhead seemed endless. Hermione spent most of her days alone in Draco’s room, wrapped in layers of blankets.

She often found herself by the window, staring out at the sprawling, frozen gardens, dreaming of Spring and the tree that would be planted. It was too early for her to be this restless, she thought, too soon for the cabin fever Draco warned her about to set in. Her muscles still carried old soreness from months of battles and the slight chill from Dark Magic. Meanwhile, her mind was preoccupied with questions she couldn’t yet answer. Was she pregnant? What would happen to her once Voldemort found out? Once the baby was born? 

Part of her needed for her and Draco to devise a grand plan, meticulously organised in its details and execution, that would guarantee their rise into power among whoever was left after the War, after the demise of both Harry and Voldemort. The Order, still weak and outnumbered, found enough support to stay active, especially as Harry himself stayed alive. And of course, Voldemort still made all the rules. His influence was spreading too, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as it could bring about a final battle, the long-awaited confrontation to end it all. But there was of course the little issue that Hermine was nothing in the Death Eater’s eyes. She knew the day she and Draco would come into power, it would be by force. She would undo everyone’s assumptions about her…

Hermione was a planner through and through, but she knew War required waiting, acting in the moment more often than not.

According to Draco, Voldemort had an offensive strategy to start off the new year, which was to have too many battles in too many places at once. The Death Eaters were trying to spread the Order thin, keeping everyone constantly moving, and constantly fighting.  Draco was supposed to go off on another campaign like had been on, recruiting Death Eaters in Romania but he was needed closer to home to manage the chaos.

He came and went throughout the days, always returning with a dark mood that he tried to mask. Hermione watched him closely, studying the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. He didn’t speak much about the battles he’d fought, and she didn’t press him. She knew about the blood he spilt on both sides, and she saw the stress of it under his eyes. At night, when he finally collapsed beside her, she would hold him, running her fingers through the back of his hair as if trying to soothe him.

The days felt long without him. Alone in the room, Hermione drifted through idle thoughts and muted anxieties. She’d started to notice a faint ache in her lower abdomen, a dull, persistent sensation that made her wonder if her body was trying to tell her something. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but an awareness of something different. She still hadn’t gotten her period, and the waiting—for confirmation, for certainty—was beginning to fray her nerves.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed one afternoon, staring blankly and lost in her mind, when Tilly appeared with a soft pop. The house-elf, as always, was a bundle of perkiness and orderliness, her large, round eyes darting about the room as if expecting to find something out of place.

“Miss Hermione,” Tilly said, her voice full of eagerness. “Does Miss need anything? A tray of tea, perhaps? Or fresh linens?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. She’d grown fond of Tilly in her time here. The elf had a simple kindness about her that she liked, a loyalty that she couldn’t help but trust. Taking a deep breath, she decided to broach the subject that had been weighing on her mind.

“Tilly,” she began softly, her voice uncertain, “I think I’m pregnant.”

The elf’s eyes grew impossibly wider, her hands flying to her mouth in a gasp. “Oh, Miss Hermione! That is wonderful news! Tilly remembers that the Master and Miss was making a baby!” she exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over. “A baby! A little Master or Mistress for Tilly to serve! Oh, Tilly will help Miss with everything—the nursery, the clothes, the—”

“Thank you,” Hermione interrupted gently, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not certain yet. The Healer will have to confirm it. But I’m pretty sure. I’ve been feeling different. My stomach sort of hurts. And I’m late. Really late.”

Tilly nodded vigorously, her ears flapping with the motion. “Tilly understands, Miss. But Tilly thinks this is very good news. Very good indeed.”

Hermione’s smile faded, her gaze dropping to her hands. She hesitated, then asked in a small voice, “Tilly…if something bad were to happen, to me…would you protect the child?”

The elf’s expression shifted, her giddiness giving way to solemnity. She stepped closer, her expression earnest. “Tilly would do her best, Miss. But Tilly cannot make an oath. Not until Miss is married to Master Draco. That is the rule.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She had forgotten about the ancient magic that bound house elves to their masters. The realisation left a bitter taste in her mouth. “You once told me,” she murmured, “that Draco would never marry me because I don’t have the right blood.”

Tilly’s ears drooped slightly, and she looked down at her feet. “Yes, Miss. Tilly did say that. But Tilly hopes she is wrong. Tilly hopes Master will find a way.”

Hermione studied the elf for a long moment, her chest tightening. “So do I, Tilly,” she said softly. “So do I.”

The elf gave her a hopeful smile and then disappeared with a snap, leaving Hermione alone once more. A few minutes later, she returned with a steaming cup of peppermint tea.

“This tea will make the Miss feel better.”

Hermione accepted it gratefully. She didn’t know if Tilly was assuming she had early pregnancy sickness or just sickness over her thoughts about her worthiness for marriage. She cradled the cup in her hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. The tea had a calming effect, easing the ache in her stomach and quieting her restless thoughts.

The setting sun allowed for faint shadows to be cast across the room as Draco sat at the edge of the bed, magically healing some of the day’s battle wounds he had acquired. Hermione watched him as he worked carefully, hissing in pain every so often, the tension in his shoulders palpable.

He hadn’t touched her yet since returning from his latest fight; his injuries needed to be dealt with first.

“Voldemort is ordering me to go away.” His voice was distant, sort of resigned-sounding. “I have to leave tonight.”

Hermione straightened. “Where?”

“Moldova.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, waiting for him to explain. He had told her a while ago that this was coming. 

Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “The Dark Lord effectively has his alliances with dark wizards in Romania now. There are new Death Eaters—some spies who’ve embedded themselves among the Order’s foreign ranks. He wants me to help recruit more in Moldova, strengthen the numbers.”

A cold, heavy silence settled between them. Hermione’s fingers curled into the sheets, her heartbeat drumming against her ribs.

“How long will you be gone?” she asked finally.

“I don’t know.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “It’s not a mission that I can end quickly. We recruit a lot of the Death Eaters by force.”

Of course, Voldemort didn’t like uncertainty, and he didn’t like waiting. The more Death Eaters he had at his disposal, the more certain he was that the Order would give up…Harry would turn himself in.

Draco’s gaze shifted toward her, his silver eyes haunted-looking. “He’s also…curious.”

Hermione’s heart skipped, and a cold knot tightened in her stomach, though she knew. “Curious?”

Draco hesitated, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck, his usual composure unravelling as he struggled to find the words. “About you. About the pregnancy.”

A strange feeling came over her. She wanted to believe she wasn’t pregnant, that her cycle was just off and that those stomach cramps meant nothing at all. Draco’s words struck her with the force of a curse—Voldemort’s interest was a threat.

The coldness in her veins deepened.

“Nothing can be known for sure until Alden confirms it,” she whispered.

“Of course.” Draco’s eyes darkened even further, his features tightening. He looked like a man at war with himself. He continued, sighing. “He will take it as the ultimate sign of victory for him. He might make me publicly humiliate you.”

The words stung, but it wasn’t just the pain of them that gripped her. It was the depth of agony in Draoc’s voice, the way he was already dreading what sick display Voldemort would demand. Hermione’s mind raced, torn between the urgency of the threat and the growing weight of the life they were creating together.

Her breath faltered as she thought about the future—if she was truly with child, then that child was theirs. Not Voldemort’s. Not anyone’s. Hers. And Draco’s. This baby would be more than just a Prophecy fulfilled.

She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest, the truth slipping out before she could stop it. “I am. I know it. I haven’t had my period since November. I have cramps sometimes though,” she explained, touching her lower abdomen. 

Draco froze. The air thickened around them. His breath hitched, and his hands tightened into fists at his sides, the action betraying his calm facade. For a long moment, he said nothing. His facial features, usually cold and sharp, softened, at first with disbelief and then awe and fear. “He can’t make me do that—I won’t…”

Then, as though driven by an instinct he could not control, Draco surged forward, his hands reaching out for her. He tangled his fingers in her curls, pulling her into him, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss so fierce it felt like an explosion. 

His lips were soft but demanding, moving over her with desperation like he thought he could lose her at any moment. His hands slid from her hair to her neck, tracing her skin, memorising her. His touch was possessive, urgent—he was claiming her while establishing himself in the reality of what they had created together. 

Hermione kissed him back just as hard, losing herself in him and the sense of relief; it was overwhelming for him too. They had intended for this to happen, but the realness of it was hard to comprehend. 

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and shaky, Draco pressed his forehead to hers, his voice crackling, hoarse with emotion. “I never thought I’d be a father,” he confessed, the vulnerability in his tone making his words even more profound. “I never wanted to be. I never thought I’d be good enough for it. And I still don’t know if I will be…I don’t know if I’ll be good enough for you.”

“You are,” she insisted, her own voice raspy. “You will be.”

His hand moved to her stomach. “All I can think about is what we’re making. What we’re creating. A life. Ours.” His voice dipped lower, a possessiveness creeping in as he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin. 

He pulled back, eyes intense, almost feverish. “No one will take this from us.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of that familiar fear and longing flooding her heart. His obsession was overwhelming, but it was beautiful. It was love. It was wonder. It was the terrifyingly beautiful realisation that, despite everything they’d faced and everything they stood to lose, they had something of their own now—something pure in the midst of their descent, something that belonged to them.

Draco took a shaky breath, his own emotions still settling. “I will protect you. Both of you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

His words settled over her like a blanket, warm and comforting, temporarily pushing away all the danger that loomed ahead. He didn’t know if he would be a good father, but Hermione could feel the intensity behind his words. She didn’t think his promise would be hollow. Draco would be the best he could be for her…for the baby. 

“I can’t leave you for long. I’ll come back to see you.” He stroked her arm, right in the place where his mark was. “I’ll feel if you’re in danger. Tilly will let me know, too. You can trust the elves, as well as Theo and Blaise.

He kissed her reverently one last time and then pressed his forehead to hers. “Open one of your gifts tomorrow,” he murmured. “Distract yourself.”

The morning was quiet without him. Hermione sat curled up in the chair, her untouched breakfast in front of her. She had finished her tea and toast but had been too nauseous to touch the eggs.

She traced her fingers over the wrapping of one of Draco's gifts before deciding to open it. Except for the small box, she was sure the gifts were books. She could tell by the shapes, by the way they were stacked, and by the weight of them.

She opened the package on the bottom, the heaviest feeling one.

Hermione was right—it was a book, bound in deep emerald leather, its pages yellowed with time. The Convergence of Life and Magic. The scent of aged parchment filled her lungs as she turned to the first page. 

The first chapter she turned to described a lost tradition of powerful sorceresses who had, in their pregnancies, become conduits of unimaginable power. Hermione’s eyes scanned the page, absorbing the knowledge.

It spoke of how, in ancient times, during the period of their pregnancy, queens and sorceresses could summon magic like no other. Their wombs, not merely vessels of life but of arcane potential, became centres of dark, heightened magic. These women, in particular, could amplify spells of destruction, control, and manipulation to levels that defied even the greatest of wizards’ abilities. Their bodies became vessels of power, their very blood infused with potent magical energy that rippled through their veins like a storm.

The chapter then featured Queen Isolt of Vineshield, a distant relative of Morgana le Fay—a descendant not only of the ancient magical line but also of the mortal Tudor queen, Elizabeth I. The blending of her magical and royal bloodline was said to have created a being capable of shaping not just magical power, but the very course of history.

During her pregnancy, Isolt was said to have swayed entire armies with her magic, turning the tides of a war that had been thought lost. The page detailed how she would summon dark, ethereal manifestations—dragons made of smoke, serpents of fire, spirits that could crawl out of shadows and rip the souls from the living. It was a time of bloodshed, but it was also one of her most powerful moments. Her alliances—sealed by blood, magic, and the weight of her unborn child—reshaped the future of the magical world. She was feared and revered in equal measure.

However, the power came at a steep price. The book warned that if a sorceress became caught in battle too late into her pregnancy—during the final months—her magic could turn on her. Too much power, left unchecked, could destroy both mother and child. Many had died before they could even give birth, torn apart by their own magic in the heat of conflict. There were accounts of entire armies collapsing, not from curses, but from the sheer overflow of magic that these women inadvertently released. Once their child neared the final stages of gestation, the risk became unbearable.

Hermione’s fingers hesitated over the words, her mind dealing with conflicting emotions. The power, the potential to reshape everything...and yet, the risk. Could she find herself tempted into magic this dangerous?

Her gaze shifted to the section that followed—the second kind of magic—far darker still. It spoke of a different kind of magic used in pregnancy, one less about amplification and more about domination. That, too, would be a dangerous path.

She closed the book with a snap. She hadn’t intended to let her thoughts wander so deeply to her situation as it could be related to what was described within the pages, but now, the wondering refused to leave her.

Was this what Draco wanted for her? Did the Prophecy foretell of something like this?

Was he giving her this power, this terrible gift, because he wanted her to use it— to unleash it —to further cement their place in the dark future they had chosen for themselves? Or was it more likely that he wanted her to avoid it? To steer clear of the dangers that came with wielding such unbridled force, and all the ways it might destroy everything they have.

She knew, with a creeping certainty, that Draco had long since accepted the darkness that now defined them. She had seen it in his eyes—felt it in the way he touched her, in the way he held her gaze when he spoke of their shared future. He knew she was just as far gone as he was, both of them hurtling down a path that led to the point of no return. And neither of them seemed to care. 

Still, Hermione couldn’t imagine either of them would ever want to harm their child—not ever. For all the darkness between them, their child would have to be something good, something untouched by Dark Magic.

But what would become of her if she didn’t take action, didn’t use the power at her disposal? Of them ?

She shivered as the thought crept over her, gnawing at the edges of her mind. The months ahead stretched before her like a vast, empty chasm. Draco would continue his rise, growing more ruthless with every passing day. His body count would climb—how many had already fallen at his hands? He would grow colder, sharper, and more dangerous as he carved his path through the ruined magical world.

And Hermione? She would stew in boredom. Alone, as always, waiting for the next command, the next dangerous moment to show itself. But together, they were always the most dangerous combination.

Her fingers brushed lightly over her stomach, where she knew the child was growing within her. Even with the Prophecy, there was a part of Hermione that hated for the baby to be a weapon wielded in the War. That wouldn’t be fair; the child didn’t deserve to be born into that life.

She hasn’t seen him in two weeks.

It was still dark outside when Hermione woke to the sound of frantic footsteps near the bed. Tilly stood beside her, tugging urgently at the hem of her nightgown. Her big eyes were wide with panic.

“Miss Hermione! Mistress Bellatrix, she is here! You must come now! She’s coming up—she's coming for you, Mistress!”

Her heart jolted as the elf’s words sank in. Bellatrix. She had been lying in bed, fast asleep, free from the thoughts of the future that plagued her. 

“Help me get dressed,” Hermione whispered urgently, rising to her feet, but Tilly was already moving, pulling her away from the bed, and urging her out of the room. The elf opened the door.

Hermione barely had time to gather her bearings as she stepped into the corridor. Of course, she hadn’t thought to grab her wand, but then again, she couldn’t be caught with it.

The unmistakable sound of high heels echoed down the hall, a rhythm that could only belong to one woman.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t ready for this—she never would be.

The madwoman's curly, tangled hair appeared first, framing her face like an angry storm cloud. Bellatrix stood in the hallway, eyes wide, lips pulled into a predatory grin.

"Well, well," Bellatrix’s voice was a low purr, dripping with derision. “What a disappointment to find you roaming freely again, not in the dungeon where your kind belongs.” She took a step closer, black eyes flicking up and down Hermione’s nightgown as if she were assessing her true motives. “Why are you up here, Mudblood? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to disobey Draco now that he is away.”

Hermione swallowed hard, drawing herself up to her full height, despite the knot of dread in her chest. “I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart hammered in her chest. “I can’t sleep on a cold stone floor; I need a bathroom—”

Bellatrix’s expression flickered, a flash of something like interest hidden beneath her madness. But it was enough for Hermione to catch.

“You are pregnant, then?” Bellatrix’s eyes darkened with something almost akin to satisfaction. “The Dark Lord will be pleased,” she sneered as if the announcement annoyed her. "He has given me very specific orders."

Before Hermione could respond, Bellatrix waved her wand, and Incarcerous chains wrapped around Hermione’s entire upper body, binding her in tight, unforgiving ropes of magic. Bellatrix tugged the bindings harshly, dragging her towards the staircase.

“We will travel by carriage,” Bellatrix hissed, her face twisted with derision. "We’re going to Lestrange Manor. The Dark Lord is impatient.”

The carriage rocked violently as it rumbled over the uneven, winding hills, the creaking wheels and the rhythmic tug of the horses sending waves of nausea through Hermione’s stomach. The jolts made it hard to keep her balance, and each bump seemed to reverberate in her chest, tightening her breath. She was forced into the back compartment, isolated from Bellatrix, though she could still hear her cold, mocking laughter echoing from the front. She could barely see out of the small window, the thick white fog swallowing up everything beyond the glass, turning the world outside into a hazy blur. Every twist and turn of the ride seemed to push her deeper into a disorienting haze.

"All according to plan…" Bellatrix whispered.

The words barely registered in Hermione’s mind, her thoughts spinning in the suffocating atmosphere of the cramped space.

“You’re here.” 

The carriage jolted to an abrupt halt, the sudden stop throwing Hermione forward, the chains around her wrists vibrating violently. Before she could steady herself, Bellatrix was there, yanking her roughly out of the compartment. The sharp tug of the Incarcerous spell sent a jolt of pain through her arms, the chains burning into her skin as the witch dragged her across the gravel path. The cold morning air hit her face, icy and biting, but there was no time to recover.

Hermione stumbled as Bellatrix’s grip tightened on her, forcing her up the stone stairs that led to the towering manor. The grandeur of Lestrange Manor once loomed before her, its presence dark and imposing as ever They entered through the heavy wooden door, and Hermione was yanked inside, her heart pounding faster with each step.

To her surprise, Bellatrix did not lead her to the dungeon or Death Eater as she had expected. Instead, she pulled her up the main staircase, past the lavish Black portraits and across the green marble floors. Hermione had never seen this part of the manor before, and the unfamiliarity made her stomach turn even more.

At the top of the stairs, Bellatrix dragged her into a small, sparsely furnished bedroom. The faint smell of potions lingered in the air, and standing by a small table was Healer Alden. She looked at Hermione with an unsettling calm, as though she had been expecting her. 

“Good morning,” she said, greeting her in her usual monotone voice.

 She released Hermione from the Incarcerous spell and guided her toward a metal table that was set up in the centre of the room. Though the table looked like something out of a mental institution meant for torment, Hermione released a pent-up breath.  She didn’t think Alden was going to hurt her. But Bellatrix was hovering behind, eying her like some kind of experiment.

As she crawled up onto the cold metal table, Healer Alden approached without a word. Hermione gathered that she was a timid, perhaps to-the-point woman of few expressions, her face incapable of showing anything truly human.

“Lie back,” Alden instructed, her voice clipped.

Hermione did as told, her heart rate escalating, nerves racing as she settled onto the hard table, a nervousness settling in her bones. She kept her gaze fixed on the stone ceiling, focusing on the damp, uneven cracks in the mortar above her, anything to avoid the piercing intensity of Bellatrix's hateful gaze.

Healer Alden moved to stand beside the table, her hands already going through a set of practised motions. “When was your last period?” she asked, her voice unbothered as she adjusted her wand, preparing her diagnostic spell.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breath. “End of November,” she murmured, the memory foggy in her mind. “I don’t know the exact date.” The late autumn days, death on the battlefields, the darkening skies...everything was a blur.

Alden gave a slight nod, her expression unreadable as she asked the next question. “Did you have intercourse in December?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Yes,” she said quietly. 

“When was the last time you had intercourse?” 

“I don’t know. Whenever I saw Draco last.” Hermione’s voice was terse; she was growing uncomfortable answering the questions, especially with Bellatrix in the room.

Alden nodded once more as if this information was nothing of consequence. “Have you been taking the Augendae Utero daily then?”

“Yes.” Hermione lied, as she could not remember the last time Tilly provided her the fertility potion with breakfast.

She raised her wand, and a faint, white light began to shimmer in the air above Hermione's belly. 

“Ostende Fertilitatis.”

The glow pulsed softly, a steady, rhythmic beat that seemed to echo the thumping of Hermione’s own heart.

Alden's eyes narrowed as she examined the light, her fingers twitching as she began to mutter incantations under her breath. For a moment, Hermione’s eyes shifted to Bellatrix, and she felt a terrible tension in the air. Her stomach churned.

The light above her began to flicker before becoming steady once more, pulsing faintly, almost imperceptibly. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at Alden, her chest tightening with confusion. What was that? Did she misinterpret the spell?

The mediwitch, however, didn’t look surprised. She simply nodded to herself and turned to Bellatrix, speaking with the same cold professionalism she had used throughout the examination.

“Nine weeks along. This scan confirms it. She’s due in September, the 1st to be exact.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. This was the confirmation she was waiting for, but this didn’t feel like anything she could react to, not at this time or in this place. 

“Make sure to rest, drink plenty of water, and nourish your body with wholesome foods—this will help both you and the child grow strong." With a swish of her wrist, Alden collapsed the scan. "Let’s check in again in a few weeks to make sure everything is progressing well. I will come to you; I understand Draco Malfoy is away "

Bellatrix, watching with a look of vague amusement, didn’t seem overjoyed by the news, but there was a glimmer of intrigue in her eyes nonetheless. She took a step closer to the bed, her face displaying that calculated grin again.

“How does it feel,” she rasped, her voice filled with dark glee. “Being nothing but a vessel for the Dark Lord?”

She turned sharply towards Healer Alden, her tone shifting to something demanding. “Report this news to the Dark Lord immediately. I trust you can handle that?” Her words were loaded with meaning, as though the task was both a privilege and an order that could not be refused.

Alden gave a curt nod, her expression unchanged. “Of course, Madam Lestrange.” She turned and left the room without another word, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor as she made her way out to deliver the news.

Bellatrix stood silently for a moment, her gaze lingering on Hermione with a twisted kind of interest. “You’re going to make the Dark Lord very happy, Mudblood,” she said, her voice softening with a malicious edge. 

She paused, tilting her head as if considering something. “You must be such a disappointment to Potter,” Bellatrix added in a fakely sweet tone. “Enjoy your time while you can. Because your days are numbered.”

Hermione swallowed hard, fighting the urge to respond to her. But a presence filled the room—darker, colder, suffocating. Bellatrix’s smile widened, and she didn’t even need to look to know who had arrived.

“Ah,” Bellatrix purred, eyes flicking to the doorway. “There he is.”

Lord Voldemort entered the room with Alden in his usual manner, marked by unnerving silence. His suspicious gaze swept over Bellatrix first, before settling on Hermione. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the very air thick with dark magic as his serpentine eyes locked onto Hermione’s belly.

“Bellatrix,” Voldemort’s voice was low and ominous. “Is it true?”

Bellatrix stepped aside, her expression one of adoration as she gestured towards Hermione. “The Prophecy, my Lord…it is coming to fruition. The Mudblood is pregnant.”

Voldemort turned to the Healer, his gaze unblinking. “Confirm it for me,” he ordered, his voice hard, the air around him growing colder still. "I must see it."

Alden, though composed, had a shakiness in her hand as she raised her wand and murmured the diagnostic incantation. The faint glow above Hermione’s stomach pulsed again. 

Healer Alden’s eyes flicked to the light, then to Voldemort, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “Here it is. It’s this ball of light right here.”

Voldemort stepped closer, so close to Hermione she could smell his scent of decay and could feel his robe graze her arm. “What is that? That does not look like a child.”

Alden nodded, clearly nervous. If you take a closer look,” she paused to flick her wand, casting a spell to increase the size of the scan, “you can see the head most clearly, the formation of the limbs. These ridges will eventually be hands. It is too early to determine the sex.” 

Hermione felt herself shiver as she looked at the enhanced scan. Her heart started to beat more quickly; there was already a sort of burning inside of her, this urgent sense to flee the room and protect herself and the baby.

“When is it due?” Voldemort’s tone shifted. He seemed less sceptical, more darkly curious. 

“The first of September,” Alden replied. “Of course, the child could arrive sooner or later.” 

“The sooner, the better.”

Voldemort’s eyes never left Hermione as he absorbed the news, his expression growing wicked. He gave Bellatrix a curt nod, his voice a low hiss. “Then it is done. The Order’s demise is inevitable. The mudbloood shall carry and give birth to this child. Potter can not evade me forever.”

He glanced briefly again at Bellatrix, his lips curling into a cruel, satisfied smile. “Take her, Bellatrix. Do as you wish. She is of no use to me here.”

With that, Voldemort swept from the room, leaving a chill in his wake. 

Bellatrix turned to Hermione with a deranged grin. “You’re truly going to make him proud, Mudblood,” she said, her voice dripping with delight as she took a step closer. “You are the Dark Lord’s greatest weapon!”

She didn’t wait for any kind of response from Hermione as she cast the Incarcerous spell and wrenched her from the examination table, dragging her roughly out into the corridor. The stone floors were slick with the dampness of the manor’s ancient bones, and the dim light from the sconces flickered in time with their footsteps. 

“Off to the dungeons!” Bellatrix's laugh echoed through the cold corridor and down the staircase, the cackling rattling the walls themselves. 

“You can’t keep me here!” Hermione protested, her voice trembling with more defiance than fear. She tried to pull away, but Bellatrix’s grip on the magical chains was ironclad. “I need a bed...a bathroom. “You heard Alden. I have to take care of myself.”

Bellatrix stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing in cold amusement. “You are in no position to make demands,” she sneered. “You belong to the Dark Lord now. A bed?” She scoffed, continuing to drag Hermione down the narrow corridor towards the winding staircase that led to the dungeons below. “You’ll sleep on the ground. And if you need anything else…” Bellatrix trailed off with a mocking grin. “...it will be of no concern to me.”

Hermione clenched her jaw as they descended into the dark of the prison, the stone walls pressing in on her. The dungeon’s cold air had that familiar dampness, and the distant echo of dripping water only served to heighten the sense of desolation. 

Bellatrix pushed her roughly into that same narrow cell from the last time, its bars full of rust and grim. The smell of mildew and stale air was already making her nauseous, and the space felt claustrophobic, like a tomb.

She gave a final, gleeful smile as she flicked her wand, sealing the cell door shut. "You’ll like it here," she said, the words thick with mockery. "You can make yourself...comfortable." She turned away; the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoed throughout the dungeon.

Hermione stood for a moment, fists clenched, the damp cold creeping up on her. She swallowed, trying to steady her thoughts. 

Then, her voice broke the silence. “I belong to Draco.”

Bellatrix had stopped dead in her tracks. She must have heard her. From out of the shadows, her form wandered back. When she approached the bars, her face had a contemptuous, accusing expression. “What did you say?” 

“I belong to Draco,” Hermione repeated. “He has given Alden strict orders as well. This is his child, too. He would be livid to know you’ve locked me up.”

She didn’t know if she imagined it, but Bellatrix’s face grew pale. “Fine. I will take you back tomorrow. Or when it is convenient for me.” She narrowed her eyes and the hand that held her wand began to shake violently. She wanted to cast a Crucio, but was holding back.

Hermione could have let her walk away, but she couldn’t control the words that came out next. “I’ll never speak to you again,” she started, her voice firm. “But please forgive me for trying to understand why a witch born into such power and privilege would lower herself to appease the whims of a lesser wizard who wants nothing more than to take that power from her and control her…destroy her family and own her.”

Her words floated in the air, delicate in their sound but heavy in their meaning; Bellatrix was standing there outside the cell, her chest heaving. She wasn’t finished.

“I still think you are hurt,” she continued, her voice trembling with something between pity and determination. “You are hurt from losing Andromeda, and now Narcissa. You told me before—‘there are ties, blood vows, and loyalties in this family that you could never begin to understand.’”

Bellatrix’s breath hitched again, just for a moment, and Hermione saw something flicker—something fragile—beneath the fractured madness in her eyes.