Chapter Text
Current Timeline - December 2004
Bullseye.
The tip of the curved, silver blade lodged precisely into the centre of the cross which was engraved on the chipped wooden post situated in the middle of the training room.
Hermione strutted over to the post, oozing deadly arrogance and took a grip of the black handle--which was bejewelled with a ruby gem decorating the hilt—yanking it out of its placement. She strolled back to her target spot on the concrete floor, and smirked, without taking a breath, she threw the dagger over her shoulder.
Hermione spun her head, her long, tight brunette plait--located at the nape of her neck and travelling down her fighting leathers until stopping at her lower back--whipping around her body with her speed, cracking against the glossy tunic. She grinned with triumph as she spotted the dagger lodged in the same place as before, I’m just too good.
She repeated the back-and-forth practice with the dagger, hitting the target each and every time for the next ten minutes, until she sent the dagger spiralling to the doorway.
A tall, perfectly defined man with short and dark, curly locks stood in the doorway, side-eyeing the dagger, which was lodged into the wooden door frame, inches away from his olive cheek. He let out a long breath, dragging his gaze back over to Hermione who was already glaring at him, her hazel eyes sparkling with challenge as she dragged her eyes judgementally over him.
His eyes were piercing aqua, his olive-skinned jaw covered with neatly groomed black hair. He wore a muscular chest which was emboldened by a tight, black, short sleeved top, a weapon holster wrapped around his waist, stocked up with a variety of blades and two guns at either hip, black cargo trousers, and black leather combat boots.
“You must stop walking in here during my training time, Lucien, or one of these days, I will specifically lodge my dagger into those pretty eyeballs for your ignorance instead of the wood next to your big head.” Hermione drawled as she dragged her gaze back up to his.
Lucien chuckled, leaning against the door frame with his shoulder, his muscular arms now crossed over his chest; “And you must stop acting like a deer caught in the headlights when someone enters the room. I’ve walked in on you every day for the past five years, and every day without fail, this bloody dagger of yours resides here,” Lucien tapped the hilt of the blade, before pulling it out of its position, and sending it spiralling back towards Hermione without looking in her direction.
Hermione lifted her hand, accurately judging the landing position of the dagger, and the hilt secured in her palm, now fixing it back into her own weapons holster that wrapped around her ribs.
“I’d say you enjoy me walking in on you, or surely my pretty eyes would be encased in a trophy cabinet of yours by now.” Lucien theorised with a knowing raised eyebrow and a cocky, lopsided grin.
Hermione scoffed, “Your arrogance exceeds you, my friend.”
“Friend?” Lucien asked with a cock of his head as he began to advance on Hermione located in the centre of the room, “Forgive me, but do friends fuck each other, or is it acceptable because it’s a form of stamina training?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” Hermione dismissed, turning her back on him to stride over to grab her trench coat, despite her gut swirling in anticipation.
Lucien closed the gap quickly between them, and pulled her back by wrapping a hand around her throat from behind, her back secured against the warmth of his chest, his whisper against her ear sending shivers down her spine and into her core; “You sure about that, little assassin? It seemed like you cared when you were screaming my name last night.” He took his free hand, which bulged with veins, and dragged his fingers lightly along the side of her breast through her leather tunic, down across her ribs and the side of her abdomen, until he paused at her hip, taking a solid grip; “Hmm?”
Hermione shuddered under his touch and licked her bottom lip as she reached an arm up and behind her to hook around the back of his neck, pulling his face down until his lips brushed against her pulse point. She breathed out; “You’re right.”
Lucien hummed in satisfaction, pressing his lips to her neck and dragging open mouthed kisses up and down the partially sweaty skin from her training. He inhaled deeply through his nose, savouring her musky, floral scent, “Good girl.”
Hermione giggled flirtatiously, leaning her head sideways to allow him better access to her neck as she felt his fingers wander to her lower abdomen, and dip into the tight waistband of her leathers, tracing idle circles against the skin. She felt a hot slickness gather in her underwear at the touch, who could blame her? Lucien was gorgeous, annoyingly so.
She felt him grow hard against her back as he continued to smother her neck with his lips, and he pressed his hips into her, holding her in place with his hand pressing on her abdomen.
Hermione breathed out, before grinning mischievously. With her arm remained hooked around the back of his neck, she added force to his neck and bent her legs, using her core strength to yank him over her shoulder, his back colliding with the concrete below. As he let out a bellowed groan, the air knocking out of his lungs, Hermione was straddling his chest with the sharp edge of her dagger pressed against the base of his neck, a sadistic grin on her lips; “You should lead with your head, not your dick, friend.”
Lucien’s adam’s apple bobbed against the blade as a breathless chuckle rumbled from his chest; “I love it when you are cruel to me.”
Hermione sighed, frustrated and humoured by his endless obnoxiousness, relieving her blade from his neck and resting atop his chest; “Why are you here, Lucien? I still had thirty minutes of training to complete.”
Lucien cleared his throat, the air now returning to his lungs, looking up at her with a blue gaze full of adoration; “Karl wishes to see you, in his office.”
“What could he possibly want, now? I only returned yesterday evening from completing a mission.” Hermione frowned, slipping her dagger back into her holster before crossing her arms over her chest.
Lucien shrugged, “No idea. He didn’t say much to me.”
“Very well.” Hermione resigned, lifting herself up from straddling Lucien, and stepping over his body, leaning over to grab her coat from the bench, “Remind me to take some holiday, if it’s not another mission.”
“Your wish is my command, mi’lady.” Lucien mocked admiringly, lifting himself up from the floor and stretching his back, linking his hands at the bottom of his back and pushing his arms away from his body, letting out a satisfied moan.
Hermione smiled at him, shaking her head at his mockery, as she swung her trench coat over her shoulders, sliding her arms in and tightening the belt at the mid-section of her torso. She strutted towards the exit, embodying femme fatale, calling back; “Catch ya later, handsome.”
***
The halls of the Muggle Defence League compound were quiet this time of a morning, 6am to be exact, the echo of Hermione’s boots the only indication of life as she ascended the winding staircases and through the narrow hallways.
Hermione had hoped for an early rise to allow her to train without distraction. Training had been her form of meditation for thirteen long years. She was brought to the compound—a towering, cement building with little to no windows despite its mass, barbed wired fences wrapping around the estate—a little over thirteen years ago, as a 12-year-old girl.
Hermione had no recollection as to her childhood before that day, she didn’t know who her family were, who her friends were, she only knew of her identity as a highly skilled, practically invincible assassin. There was a persistent ache in her stomach, like something was missing, but no matter how much she had researched about her life prior to the compound, she had found no answers.
She wondered whether she had memory loss caused by a traumatic brain injury, given the strict, brutal training regime that the Muggle Defence League had. She had been beaten up more times than she could count until the point of unconsciousness when she had misjudged her steps, miscalculated her fighting strategies and relucted to kill her opponent. She had only been a child, who probably had loved a lot, she thought, yet now she couldn’t even describe love if her life depended on it.
All she knew now was two things; one, she was exceptionally gifted at killing people, and two, she hated magic. Wizardry and Witchcraft needed to be purged from the earth. Witches and wizards were a threat to muggle society, and subsequently a threat to her, and she would gladly send every single one of those wicked, demonic souls to the depths of hell, no matter if they had family and friends who cared about them or not. Hermione didn’t have people who cared about her, or she they, and she was doing perfectly fine.
Feelings are for pussies.
Hermione took a steady breath, rolling her shoulders before she raised her fist and knocked on the solid, oak door. She turned the circular door knob at the invitation, “enter”, and walked with her shoulders straight--chin up--her legs moving in a particular rhythm as though she were walking amongst a war band, until she reached the hem of the grey, patterned rug and stilled, her head dipping succinctly, training her gaze on the patterns below.
“You sent for me, my liege.” Hermione said, folding her hands behind her back.
“I assume Lucien still has his eyeballs?” Karl asked, settling the file he was overlooking on the desk and fixing his eyes on the assassin in front of him.
“Luckily for him.” Hermione mused, unable to supress the grin that tugged at her lips.
Karl laughed, leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the arms as he assessed Hermione; “Very lucky, indeed.”
He sat back up straight, humour now non-existent on his expression or in his tone; “Enough about Lucien. I know you’ve only just got back from a mission that took over a month to complete, but this cannot wait any longer, Agent. Take a look at this,” he continued with a push of the file--he had discarded on the desk-- towards Hermione.
Hermione lifted her gaze at the soft, quick sound of paper against polished wood, and paced over to the desk, hands still behind her back, until she swiped the file into her hands. She unlatched the paper clip holding the file together on the top right corner, holding it in between her fingers as she licked the pad of her thumb to grip the nimble paper and opening.
“The Malfoy Family? Again?” Hermione asked, as she scanned over the case file of Lucius Malfoy, deceased stamped diagonally over his photo; long, silver hair shoulder length, piercing grey eyes. Last time she had saw him, he was begging for mercy, as she hacked at his throat with her ruby dagger.
Flashback - Hermione - October 2002
“Miss Granger, Hermione, you don’t understand.” Lucius begged on his knees, blood pouring out of his nose from the connection of Hermione’s knee to the long, hooked bone.
“Ah, you know my name, Lucius. How sweet.” Hermione purred, her gaze cold as she looked down upon him with pure disdain etched into her golden features; “What don’t I understand?”
“Everyone in Wizarding Britain knows your name, who you are. If only you knew who you truly are, who you were.” He looked up at her, his gaze determined yet pleading.
“Touching, Lucius, I must say,” Hermione cooed, throwing her dagger into the air in a spin, the hilt landed directly into her palm as it descended, gripping it with precision and pointing the sharp, glinting tip down towards his ivory, chiselled face, “Except, I know who I am. I’m Hermione Granger, Head Assassin of the Muggle Defence League, and I am here to send you and your kind to the fiery depths of hell.” Hermione didn’t allow him to respond, lunging forward, her dagger penetrating the centre of his throat, the now crimson tip appearing through the back of his neck.
Lucius tried to speak through the blood that gargled in his throat and spluttered and spilled out of his mouth, and Hermione hissed through bare teeth as she applied pressure to the hilt, dragging him closer to her face by the blade lodged in his throat; “I will find your wife, and your son, and I’ll send them on their way to you, very soon, don’t you worry.”
The whites of Lucius’ eyes turned bloodshot, as the life slipped from him, his hands trying to reach out and grip her legs to defend himself, blood continuing to spill from his mouth, covering the leather arm of Hermione’s jacket, and dripping onto the black marble floor below, a puddle quickly developing and seeping under Hermione’s boots.
Hermione wiggled the dagger in his neck, left to right, hacking mercilessly at the bones, tendons and muscle, until the silver head rolled off his shoulders and landed in the pool of blood at her feet.
Hermione stilled, breathing deeply as if she was pleasured by the kill, and then wiping the blade clean against the leather on her thigh, returning it to the holster wrapped around her ribs. She then reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a neatly folded black bag, opening it up and kneeling to grab the pink strands of hair, dumping Lucius’ head inside and tying the bag strings tightly.
Hermione cheered as her attention was drawn to the gleam from the corner of her eye, a chunky, silver ring located on the middle finger of the blueing hand. She tugged the ring from the finger before rigor mortis set in and tossed it in her palm; “A family heirloom,” Hermione observed, as her gaze trained on the ‘M’ engraved at the centre.
“I’ll be keeping this. Could probably pick up some decent money for it.” Hermione mumbled to herself, tucking the ring into her back pocket before she reached up to pull her flowing hood over her plaited, brunette curls. She inhaled, looking over at the bloody scene, before she left, trapsing crimson foot prints through the extremely clean hallways, the cursed portraits heckling her and spitting supposedly derogatory insults as she passed.
She exited through the front porch of Malfoy Manor, descended the stairs and moving quickly and precisely over the gravelled drive, through the gates. She didn’t stop until she returned to her hide out, that she had occupied for two months.
Current Timeline - December 2004
“Agent, are you listening?” Karl demanded, snapping his fingers, snapping Hermione back into the present.
Hermione nodded her head rapidly, “Apologies, my liege. I’m listening.”
Karl, the grey haired and red cheeked, suited and booted CEO observed her momentarily before continuing; “Yes, the Malfoy Family, again,” Karl spat the family name, “You successfully killed Lucius Malfoy two years ago. But you are aware that there has been no intel on his wife, Nar-cis—whatever the fuck her goddamn name is, or the boy, Draco since two months prior to Lucius’ death. Our radar has been cold ever since.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Hermione snapped, irritated that she hadn’t yet followed through on her promise to Lucius to join him with his family soon.
“Until yesterday. One of our newer recruits swore, so help him God if he’s lying, that he saw the bitch wife leaving Hogsmeade two days ago. I need you to follow this lead, and put an end to them, Agent. The boy, if he lives, is now of age--25, the same age as you--to inherit the Malfoy fortune and sit as Head of the Family. We cannot and will not allow The Malfoy’s to regain their standing in society, both wizarding or muggle. They are the most powerful wizarding family in Britain, and arguably across the continents. We need to stamp. them. out,” Karl shouted with determination, slamming his hand on the table with every word, “I fear what will become of our world and our way of living, if the vermin return to power.”
“Who is this new recruit, you speak of?” Hermione asked, frowning. She wasn’t aware that the Muggle Defence League had been recently recruiting, and usually she knew everything, she was Head Assassin, for crying out loud! Although, she had been gone for a month, she considered.
“Richard! Bring him in.” Karl commanded with a beckoning motion towards another door in the office, opposite the one Hermione had entered, which lead to the interrogation rooms.
Hermione’s head shot towards the door as it opened, throwing a faux smile to the stocky man, Richard—who was Karl’s personal bodyguard-- as he entered, his steps heavy and thudding on the tiles, mirroring Hermione’s smile and dipping of his head in sign of respect towards her.
As he stepped to the side, his ridiculously wide torso no longer keeping Hermione’s harsh glare blocked, an exceedingly tall, taller than Lucien, lean—muscley, yet not disproportionately like Richard-- man entered.
Hermione dragged her gaze over him, assessing his calibre to be an assassin. The man had black hair, which was combed and gelled back, a few stray strands across his forehead, his eyes were bright emerald with lengthy black lashes, and his complexion was ivory, a bold contradiction from his dark features.
She checked out his physique, which she could make out perfectly from his precisely fitted clothing; a black short sleeve top, which allowed her to make out a dragon tattoo sleeve, the head of the dragon resting along his wrist bone, alongside a silver chained bracelet. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
Hermione moved her gaze lower, surprised to find that the new recruit wasn’t wearing company compliant trousers; instead of cargos, the man wore precisely tailored, black suit trousers, clearly ironed to perfection that were secured at the waist, with a simple, black belt with a large silver buckle. And on his feet, sat combat leather boots. I would’ve recommended polished, suit shoes to match the aesthetic but that is none of my business.
She dragged her gaze back up, flicking her eyes over his face, and her lip curled up in distaste; “I don’t know how new you are, but surely you know that your trousers aren’t appropriate and that silver bracelet? I’ll rip it off, if you don’t remove it yourself. Didn’t you do any training as to what is expected of you? If you were trained by me, I would’ve beat the shit out of you for your ignorance, and your arrogance.”
The man’s green eyes sparkled at her ferocity, almost as if he was taken aback, and yet enjoying the show, enjoying the rise out of her.
Hermione stared him down, challenge glinting in her hazel eyes, before she rolled them and turned back to face Karl, “I don’t like him.”
“Unfortunately, the execution of the Malfoy’s is more important, than your personal wants and desires, Agent. That is why Damon will be joining you on your mission.” Karl dismissed.
“Damon,” Hermione spat, “And why is, Damon, required on the mission? I am more than capable of finding and killing the posh boy myself.”
“I don’t doubt your capabilities, Agent,” Karl stated with a raised brow, “however, Damon is the only one to have seen any movements of the leftover Malfoy’s for years. So tell me, do you have any intel on the location of the surviving Malfoy’s or are you any further in eradicating them?”
Hermione begrudgingly shook her head, her hands tightening on the casefile.
“I thought so. Thus, you need Damon’s help.” Karl stated plainly, in a tone that meant it’s not up for discussion.
Hermione snarled, and whipped her head towards Damon again, her gaze cold as ice; “Fine. You can come, if you can keep up- “
“I will keep up.” Damon retorted, his voice deep, and oozing sensual confidence as he tucked his hands into his suit trouser pockets, leaning back against the wall, that stopped Hermione in her tracks.
Hermione gulped through her dry mouth, her eyes hardening into slits, “Starting from now, if I hear that whiny voice again without my initiation, I will cut out your tongue, understand?”
“Whiny?” Damon scoffed.
Before Damon could react, Hermione was at his throat, with her dagger pressed against his Adam’s apple, speckles of blood painting the ivory as she broke the skin, “you are pushing your luck, pretty boy.”
A smirk grew slowly on Damon’s lips, and he cocked his head slowly, causing her blade to begin serrating his skin, he didn’t even attempt to shove the blade away; “You think I’m pretty?”
“Yes. Pretty fucking stupid. Do you even know who I am?” Hermione growled, applying more pressure to his neck, causing his eyes to squint, a sign that it was painful, despite his arrogance.
“I do. Very well.” Damon croaked out, the blade nearing the arteries.
“Agent, that’s enough! Damon, stop antagonising her.” Karl bellowed, ripping both of their stares from each other, towards him.
Hermione huffed, yanking her knife away, crimson now leaking out, down the skin, and onto his black shirt; “Stupid, and lucky.”
She returned to her spot in the centre of the room, before Karl’s desk, tucking her weapon back in her holster with ease and her hands resting behind her back again.
Karl began with his passionate ideology as he stood up from his seat, walked around his desk and perched himself on the edge, ankles crossed over the other, and his arms crossing over his chest, his eyes flitting between Hermione and Damon. “Listen, we are all on the same team here. Each of us want this earth purged of wizards, witches, and all magical creatures. So, can we put aside these pathetic character assassinations, and focus on actual assassinations, putting our training to it’s appropriate use.”
Hermione dipped her head in agreement, despite her jaw rippling as her teeth ground out the frustration of being in Damon’s presence. He viscerally irked her, although she didn’t have any logical, rational explanation for it. She had no idea how she was going to put up with him, for potentially months. She could use him for target practice as her form of meditation if he pissed her off enough, and she believed that it really wouldn’t take that much effort from him to get on her last fucking nerve.
She fixated her side glance on Damon, watching him dip his head in agreement, mirroring her. She always kept an eye on her enemies, and for some reason, he felt like an enemy, even though they were on the same team.
As though he could sense her gaze on him, Damon mirrored her again, his side eye fixing on her, and Hermione could make out that goddamned smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth once more.
She felt like she could blow fire, and yet the flames were doused by Karl who cleared the silence; “Very well. You leave tomorrow morning, at dawn. You are dismissed.”
Hermione pulled herself up, her spine straight, her chin raised high, having to force herself to break her stare from Damon, her upper lip curled in distaste. She hadn’t backed out of their silent fight for dominance, she just had better things to do with her time, before she was partnered up with him for god knows how fucking long.
She detected a humoured sigh of triumph from the insufferable man side along from her, clearly thinking he had won the battle. That was okay, let him bask in his triumph, while I win the war.
Hermione raised her hand to her head, in a salute motion; “DEFEND. CONQUER. DEATH TO MAGIC.”
“DEFEND. CONQUER. DEATH TO MAGIC.” Karl and Richard echoed instantly, saluting.
She again side glanced Damon, her other eye trained on Karl ahead of her--who seemed to also be waiting for Damon--she hadn’t heard his chant yet.
“DEFEND. CONQUER. DEATH TO MAGIC.” Damon shouted, his salute more exaggerated, and less precise—less robotic—than the others.
Hermione rolled her eyes; god, he really was dramatic, had he been spending time with Lucien?
She swiftly exited the office with a hum, not bothering to acknowledge Damon again.
She needed to get out of these leathers and shower, feeling as though she were boiling alive as the tight material stifled and trapped the heat of her anger, the embers fuelled by Damon still alight in her gut.
And she needed to find Lucien, so he could rail her until she forgot Damon’s fucking face, his fucking smirk, and hopefully her own name.