These Selfish Vows

These Selfish Vows
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50681989.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter - Fandom
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley, Kingsley
Shacklebolt, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy,
Narcissa Black Malfoy, Charlie Weasley, Bellatrix Black Lestrange,
Blaise Zabini, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Theodore Nott
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Dark, Imprisonment, Azkaban, Slow Burn, BAMF
Hermione Granger, Slow Burn Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Inferi
(Harry Potter), Plot Twists, Horcruxes, Death Eater Draco Malfoy,
Occlumency (Harry Potter), Legilimency (Harry Potter), Legilimens
Draco Malfoy, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy & Blaise
Zabini Friendship, Sad with a Happy Ending, Dark Magic, Enemies to
Lovers, Eventual Smut, Loss of Virginity, I Made Myself Cry,
Unbreakable Vow (Harry Potter), Mind connection, Second Wizarding
War with Voldemort (Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Voldemort
Wins, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Unreliable Narrator, Pain but
make it poetic, I will pay for your therapy bills, Angst with a Happy
Ending, Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, POV Multiple, Action &
Romance, Found Family, Necromancy, Dark Hermione Granger,
Faustian Bargain, War epic
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Dissonant Lifetimes
Collections: ItsDramioneTime, The Dramione Collection, Dramione Fics That Live
In My Head Rent Free, BEST of the BEST dramione, bonding magic,
just right: hauntingly beautiful truths, just healing: a million ways to
mend a shattered soul; broken mind; rended heart
Stats: Published: 2023-10-08 Completed: 2024-06-08 Words: 285,072
Chapters: 88/88
These Selfish Vows
by HeavenlyDew
Summary
Captured and imprisoned in Azkaban, Hermione makes a dangerous bargain with a Death
Eater in the cell next door:
She will answer one question a day and never lie.
However, where Hermione asks about the war, the Death Eater asks her harmless personal
questions, almost as if he's trying to understand her. As if he cares. Of course, all is not as it
seems, and Hermione remains compromised by that bargain even after she escapes.
Determined to learn the truth, she joins the Order's Special Force: an elite unit tasked with
hunting down Voldemort's favorite soldier . . . one with the damning ability to resurrect the
dead.
But not until Hermione uncovers her own history does she finally accept the answer she may
have known all along.
The only person to capture her mind and heart fights on the opposite side of the war.
Draco Malfoy.
Notes
*This work is complete*
A very dark war epic with heartbreak and heavy action that explores the consequences of the
Deathly Hallows. Prepare for escalating romance and plot twists that will force you to rethink
the whole story, leading to an eventual happy ending with hints of bitterness. Inspired by the
masterpieces that are Manacled, Secrets & Masks, ACOTAR, and Doctor Faustus, with just a
sprinkle of Anakin a la Star Wars. Themed around the songs "A Soulmate Who Wasn't Meant
to Be" by Jess Benko and "The Pool" by Stephen Sanchez.
Author’s Note: Several early chapters of this story feature a different love interest for
Hermione, so the burn is slow. However, this is Dramione endgame, and I solemnly swear
that there will be quite the payoff. In terms of smut scenes, I do not use fade to black, but do
take a more poetic approach to descriptions. Finally, be warned that Hermione is an
unreliable narrator throughout for reasons that will eventually become clear. Her emotions
and actions may seem illogical at times, but this story asks you lean into that discomfort.
Series Note: These Selfish Vows is the first part of my Dissonant Lifetimes series, which
explores Draco and Hermione finding their way back to each other across three loosely
related reincarnations. Parts II and III are currently being written in parallel, with the former
being a post-war romance, while the latter is a Durmstrang spin on an eighth year story.
Every part is designed to be read individually, or together with the others for added depth,
and in any order.
You can find me on Instagram.
Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy the journey.
Translation into Italiano available: These Selfish Vows by Rose_tortora16

Translation into Português brasileiro available: These Selfish Vows | Tradução by moonletterss
Translation into Русский available: Эти эгоистичные клятвы / These Selfish Vows by
HeavenlyDew by electric_soul
The Boy Who Died. The Girl Who Hid.
A thousand thank yous to the talented emmilliaart for this beautiful cover.
***
Where art thou, Faustus?
Wretch, what hast thou done?
***
May 2, 2004
Tenby, Wales
The sound of waves tumbling toward the shore woke Hermione from sleep. Her lids felt heavy
as she opened red-rimmed eyes and struggled to adjust to the darkness. Shadows cast from
the water danced across a vaulted bedroom ceiling. And, for a moment, she was transported
back two years.
But these waves were not the ones she knew. Not the raging swells crashing against the
impenetrable three-sided Azkaban walls. This room was nothing like her damp prison cell.
And when Hermione rolled onto her side, her eyes did not fall on the kind lover she once
expected, but instead on the cruel enemy she needed and hated.
The man she loved.
He sighed, and even the harshest lines around his mouth softened. He was so beautiful.
Though it could rouse him, Hermione brushed the silver hair from his face. Watching him as
she always did. Reading and rereading his scars like her favorite fairytales. Finding more
peace in him than she ever did a book.
And, for a moment, she imagined what life would be without the war. Or if she had agreed to
run away with him that morning.
But no, now she did not have to imagine—it would have been just like today. And if this was
all they had, it was enough.
Hermione smiled through her tears.
It was not enough.
She knew that he was hiding something. In spite of his promise never to lie, their entire
reality was built on half-truths. There were still too many secrets concealed within his heart.
Suddenly his eyes shot open, pulling her into a sea of stormy gray. He pivoted, violently
turning her beneath him. Pinning her to the satin sheets. Crushing her chest against his until
she gasped for relief. One hand gripped her bare shoulder, while his other snaked paralyzing
fingers up her throat.
She ran nails down his back. Carving trails of blood into his pale flesh even as the twin curse
marks on her palms stung with the burning friction.
Then his cold, silken, harsh, irresistible voice whispered to her. Reawakening her mind and
tearing through her soul.
"Do you want to go back to sleep, little jailbird?"
"No, Malfoy. I don't."
He lifted her chin, locking her in a dark and punishing kiss.
"Good answer."
***
Two Years Earlier
May 2, 2002
Glen Lochy, Scotland
"Get him out, Granger!" Mad-Eye Moody roared, magical eye swiveling down from the hills
above to fix on Hermione hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak. "The snake isn't here! Get to
Potter and retreat now."
At the command, Hermione Granger sprang from where she knelt beside the corpse of a
fallen member of the Order of the Phoenix. As she turned to run toward the center of the
valley, she pointed her vine wood wand through the slit of the cloak toward the body, and
whispered the spell that had become a wartime prayer for the dead.
"Incendio."
The ground behind Hermione burst into flames as she ran, but the battlefield was already
such a whirlwind of chaos and blood, that no one noticed the fire. And no one noticed
Hermione as she hurtled through the madness beneath the shimmering gray fabric of Harry
Potter's Invisibility Cloak.
She tore through the valley like silver lightning. With every frantic leap, she shot a hex or
curse toward the jeering mask of a Death Eater. Cast a blue shielding charm in front of a
struggling Order fighter. Burned every corpse she stumbled over, leaving a trail of fire to
prevent the fallen from transforming into something far deadlier than a Death Eater.
While she ran, Hermione saw firsthand how severely the Order miscalculated. Voldemort did
not bring Nagini. No, instead he arrived with far more Death Eaters than they anticipated, or
even knew he had, this far into the Second Wizarding War. Everywhere she looked, his
followers fought and overwhelmed crimson-robed resistance fighters. A blur of color and
curses sprayed through the pulsing throng like brilliant gunfire, tearing through the Order's
Infantry before they could even react.
The farther into the center of the battlefield she moved, the wetter the grass carpeting the
valley became, until the ground grew so slick with blood that she struggled to even stay
upright.
Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging them even more than the smoke.
Deafening cries of rage pounded her ears like a relentless battle drum.
But Hermione pushed on—running closer and closer to Harry. She could see his familiar
mess of black hair even at this distance.
Harry did not see her or even know to look. Moody was the only one who knew she was at
the battle at all—the only one who could see her through his enchanted eye. Even Ron
Weasley did not have clearance to know about the Council's last-minute decision to allow
Hermione to join the fight.
Since the failed Battle of Hogwarts four years ago, the Order's leader Kingsley Shacklebolt
refused to risk one of his best strategists on the front lines. Desperate to be part of Harry's
final stand, Hermione agreed to wear the cloak. However, as far as anyone else knew, she was
still hidden safely at Headquarters, and not in the line of fire.
For Hermione, throwing curses at Death Eaters and cremating the dead was her secondary
objective. Her real purpose was to forcibly withdraw Harry in the event that Voldemort
appeared without Nagini—retreat until they could use him to attempt to lure out the elusive
Horcrux again. Even if Harry resisted, she had to force him under the cloak with her and get
him to a Portkey hidden at the far end of the valley.
Suddenly, a cruel, high-pitched laugh stabbed the charred air, and Hermione's eyes rose in
horror to see the pale skull, and flat, snake-like nostrils of Voldemort approaching Harry.
She was almost to them. So close that she could see the red in Voldemort's serpentine eyes.
Could make out Harry's thin face twisted in a shout of rage.
But just as she opened her mouth and pointed her wand through the cloak, a ripple of pain
shot through both legs, and she tumbled forward onto the damp grass, snapping her wand on
impact.
Blood was seeping out of her ankles from deep slices to both tendons, staining the ground
beneath her, soaking into the silvery cloak tangled around her, when she heard it.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A broken cry tore through her soul as she saw the life leave Harry's body.
Voldemort's laughter pierced the night as he raised a bare foot to Harry's head, and ground a
blackened heel into his skull.
They were so close. Only yards away from where she lay, still wrapped in the damn cloak.
"Potter. The Chosen One. Dead, dead at last. The battle is won, and the Boy Who Lived is
finished—"
Hermione's screams mixed with the taunts and roars erupting all around her.
White-hot pain stabbed her heart like a knife, and shoes pressed into her back and neck as
Death Eaters swarmed around their Dark Lord.
Darkness crept around the edges of her vision, pulling her toward unconsciousness. She
barely registered the pain anymore as she began to follow her friend beyond the veil.
"HARRY, NO!"
Hermione lifted her eyes in horror to see Ron, blood pouring from the empty socket where
his right arm should have been, roar and run straight for Voldemort.
"Ron, you idiot," she cried weakly, reaching out to drag her useless legs the remaining
distance. But her desperate crawl was far too slow to stop his reckless charge.
"Avada Kedavra!"
With another cruel flash of green, Hermione lost both her best friends within a single minute.
***
The next few events were like barely audible, dissonant music playing in the background.
Heard, but not understood through the ringing in her ears. The ache in her head.
"Filthy little blood traitor thought he actually stood a chance against the Dark Lord?"
Bellatrix Lestrange cackled madly as her wand danced slices around Ron's corpse, grin
widening with each slash.
"What have I told you about being wasteful?" Voldemort hissed, not even looking toward her,
eyes still fixed on Harry as his foot pressed dirt into his lightning bolt scar.
"I would have preferred the set undamaged when he arrives."
"Your forgiveness, Dark Lord," Bellatrix cooed as she stepped away from Ron's body,
already destroyed beyond recognition. "I forget myself around Mudblood-loving worms."
She spat the last word into the blood on Ron's chest and moved to bow before her master.
"IT IS FINISHED," Voldemort shrieked as he pinned the Elder Wand to his neck to amplify
his voice, turning to face a growing mass of kneeling Death Eaters.
"Harry Potter is DEAD. He was slaughtered as he tried to run away. As he abandoned his
friends to save his own pathetic life."
Voldemort smiled wickedly as the lies fell over the violent battle still raging beyond.
"And the rest of you are next."
But with the promise, Voldemort did not rejoin the fight. Instead, he turned and walked away.
Death Eaters dropped their wands and fell into step behind him.
Bellatrix, however, rose and flicked her wand to lift Harry's corpse in a wordless Wingardium
Leviosa. Before Harry was raised more than a few inches, her hand, wand still clutched
within, fell to the ground—sliced clean off at the wrist.
"LEAVE THE BODY!" Voldemort screeched as Bellatrix screamed out in agony, cradling her
bleeding, severed forearm.
"I want it turned. A parting gift for the rest of Potter's precious Order."
Another Death Eater grabbed the writhing Bellatrix by her black hair, yanking her into the
withdrawing lines of black-cloaked figures moving past the boundaries of the Order's anti-
apparition charms. Moving away from Hermione, still tangled beneath the cloak.
She dragged her half-numb body to them at last, draping herself over Harry's limp form, and
stretching a hand toward Ron's unrecognizable remains mere steps away.
They were gone. Beyond the veil and out of reach. But as Hermione felt her lower half
growing colder from the blood still flowing out of her, she accepted that she would not be far
behind.
"I'll see you soon," she whispered as she cupped one hand around Harry's icy cheek. Her
other gently brushed dirt off his lightning bolt scar, barely visible in the waning moonlight.
He had collected so many gashes over the years, until his iconic scar was almost lost amongst
them. But Hermione knew where to look.
Something had gone catastrophically wrong. The Order had gambled that Voldemort would
bring Nagini into battle, unwilling to part with his Horcrux, and equally consumed with
killing Harry himself. But as loud cracks split the air like lightning, signaling that Voldemort
and his army of followers finally disapparated from the bleeding valley, Hermione knew that
the Order miscalculated. She miscalculated, and it cost her everything.
This was no victory. This was no Death Eater's retreat.
The battle was over because Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was dead.
Except it wasn't.
***
Hermione was on the verge of unconsciousness, slumped over Harry's body and still wrapped
in the Invisibility Cloak, when she was jarred awake by a familiar voice.
"Ginny, we need to go to the Portkeys! NOW."
She registered someone pleading nearby.
"I CAN'T FIND HIM! I CAN'T FIND HARRY ANYWHERE!" Ginny Weasley screamed.
"He's dead. You heard what Voldemort said—you saw the Death Eaters leave. There's no
point."
"I know, damn it," Ginny cursed, "But we need to take his body or it will be turned. We can't
leave yet."
CRACK
The sound split the air like lightning in the distance. The air instantly became unbearably
cold. The sky darkened. The warm May season descended into dead winter.
"Get out now!" someone screamed.
"HE—HE'S HERE!" another voice shrieked.
Ginny's cries grew fainter as heavy footsteps carried her away, and Hermione used the last of
her strength to look up toward the source of the crack—the origin of the encroaching
darkness.
She saw him. The Death Eater they feared even more than Voldemort.
He stood. A lone hooded figure cloaked in darkness atop a hill overlooking the ruined
Scottish lochy. Black robes rippling in the heat from the fires still raging in the blood soaked
valley below. Surveying the remains the Dark Lord had left for his deadliest servant.
He began walking down. Long legs that could have spanned the distance quickly moved
unnaturally slowly, controlled. With every step, the air around him seemed to shudder. To
expand and contract.
Even from this distance, she could make out his distinctive Death Eater mask: a skull with a
blood-colored strip of fabric completely covering both eye sockets.
Sightless, but not blinded. Masked with his eyes shrouded in crimson.
It was clear that the approaching figure could see despite the strange blindfold. Hermione
watched him easily navigate around the carnage at his feet. When he neared the edge of the
battlefield, his leather-gloved hand reached within Death Eater robes to pull a wand from a
holster strapped tightly to his thigh. As he stalked through the grass, his wand flicked
violently toward any remaining Order members brave enough to confront him. Green light
delivering death with every stroke.
Halfway across the field, a woman jumped from beneath a pile of fallen bodies, charging the
Death Eater from behind, throwing hexes with every shout.
CRACK
With a twist of the Death Eater's wand, the earth beneath the woman's feet broke apart. A
burning chasm appeared, cleaving the valley in half.
Dozens of bony hands shot out from the split, winding around the woman's legs like
humanoid serpents. The woman's battle cries turned into shrieks of primal fear as she was
dragged beneath the surface.
The chasm continued to widen. Skeletal hands pulled anyone brave enough to confront their
summoner into dark Hellfyre.
The blindfolded Death Eater did not slow his pace. Did not look back.
If Hermione held even a shred of doubt about his identity before, it had vanished.
She had seen Voldemort's favorite soldier with her own eyes just one other time since his first
appearance at the Battle of Hogwarts four years ago. After that day, she studied him during
Council briefings and through a Pensieve on the rare occasion that an Order member escaped
to provide memories. Uncovering the Death Eater's identity in hopes of finding his weakness
became one of the Order's top priorities. But it was the Order's official position to burn
bodies and immediately disapparate from any battle where he appeared.
No one had escaped in the past year.
Even without recent memories, and even in her deteriorating state, Hermione could sense the
dark magic emanating from him, slowly seeping into her soul like a poison. But it was too
late to run, and far too late to fight. She was weak, broken, and wandless. And she could not,
would not leave Harry and Ron. They would face their end together.
Hermione dragged her eyes away from the Death Eater and used her shaking hands to pull
the Invisibility Cloak off at last. Wanting—needing—to look at her friends without even the
shimmering fabric separating them.
"I . . . I'm sorry," Hermione cried softly, flashes of dark crept around the edges of her vision.
"I was wrong . . . about everything . . . I failed you both." She struggled to even get the words
out.
"But . . . I'll stay until the end."
As Hermione heard slow footsteps come to a stop, she knew the dark figure had found his
place amidst the carnage. To earn his names.
The Dark Lord's Mouth.
The Necromancer.
A voice as cold and deadly as a Dementor's kiss commanded across the field.
"Revivesco Inferius."
The moon turned blood red and the transformation began.
Hundreds of the fallen Order members and Death Eaters were suddenly engulfed in shadows.
Hundreds of stiff hands reached out and clawed up, heaving their owners from their final
resting places toward the call of their summoner.
Hermione was pushed up as Harry began jerking violently beneath her. Shadows seeped out
of his eyes, nose, and mouth. She fell backwards as Harry heaved himself up with an ungodly
wail.
"No. Stop. Don't go."
She reached out weakly, scrambling to drag her friend back down to the ground, away from
the dark pull that even she could sense. But just as she felt her shaky grip on his torn robes
slipping, she met Harry's eyes and froze.
His eyes were not the emerald green of his mother's. It was as if death had leached out all
color, leaving behind only cold gray. The color of the moon before it turned to blood.
Harry straightened stiffly, and departed.
Suddenly Hermione was alone again, grasping at his receding back but unable to stand and
follow. Everything felt numb from the waist down as the life flowed from her like rushing
water. The ground was soft with blood—her blood. Drenched in it.
Now she was pulling her limp body to Ron, who was spread supine across the grass. Bellatrix
had left so little of him that he was almost unrecognizable save for his flaming red hair. His
face was in pieces. A mess of bruised freckles and exposed cartilage.
She rested her cheek atop his chest, breathing shallowly. Her tears spilled onto his shredded
shirt, soaking into the dried blood on the fabric, into his skin. Maybe she had loved him first,
and maybe she should have known that sooner.
"Kill them."
Upon the necromantic order, Inferi nearest any surviving Order members tore into them
without mercy.
Ripping and biting.
Mangling.
A fresh wave of screams rolled through the valley.

Hermione could hear the Death Eater's leaden footsteps approaching, but could not muster
the strength to look, let alone escape.
Her lids had become unbelievably heavy, sluggish, weighted and dark. The scarlet, smoky air
was unbearably bright, and her lungs were burning. It became impossible to breathe, so she
stopped trying.
Her eyes fell shut.
And there was no pain.
Hermione sank into Ron's chest as she began to slip away, embracing the comfort of
nothingness. She could see them both waiting for her beyond that tattered veil. She smiled
one last time.
His voice spoke again.
More Inferi rose as freshly slaughtered Order members revived to join the ranks of their own
butchers.
And at their center, the Death Eater resumed walking.
Then he was there. Towering over her and blocking out the crimson hue of the moon.
Metallic skull mask flickering in the light of dying fires.
Head tilted curiously to the side.
Red blindfold watching her.
"Hello, Mudblood."
Dementors and Other Demons
What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
***
The next few hours came in flashes. Flashes of pain and changing landscapes. Flashes of
grief. Hermione was barely aware of unyielding arms lifting her off the ground before her
vision went dark.
She was pressed against something firm—no—someone. Someone was carrying her over the
flaming grass of the valley. She felt his chest even through the thick robes. She did not feel
any heat.
Now frozen stone cooled her cheek. She struggled to peel one eye open to take in a cavernous
room. Lights flickered from thousands of candles floating in midair under a velvety black
ceiling dotted with stars—illuminating a glittering gold throne where a long table once stood.
"Since you did not finish her, you shall break her," hissed the figure seated on the throne.
A serpent slithered past her head, still pressed to the floor.
"Potter is gone. But his Mudblood knows about the rest. What they have done. What they
have destroyed. The holes where her friends hide like insects. Break her. Do whatever it
takes. But break her."
"Yes, My Lord."
***
The sound of waves crashed like claps of thunder. Wind whipped a curly strand of hair across
her face.
She was being carried again, his now familiar arms crushing her to him. As if at any second
she could drift into the ocean storming around them. The shadow of an impossibly high
fortress towered above. A bitter torrent of sickness engulfed her as she was carried through a
slit-like entrance carved into the prison's stone face.
When Hermione next woke, she found herself utterly alone. Abandoned on the hard floor of a
damp room. A crescent moon peeked through a barred window cut roughly into stone walls.
A cell.
Her cell.
She curled into herself and cried.
She mourned her parents. Obliviated and thousands of miles away. Maybe safe for now, but
not safe for long if her mind was invaded by a Legilimens.
She mourned the Order. For everyone brought down at Glen Lochy, only to rise again as
something dark and perverse.
But most of all, she mourned Harry and Ron. Her closest friends slaughtered in front of her
while she hid like a coward beneath a cloak.
While she still felt the unrelenting stabs of pain from her back and legs, the deepest wound
was in her heart. She could have ripped it out just for a moment's relief from the excruciating
pain erupting within, like a cattle brand slowly burning into her soul.
Hours passed. Or maybe weeks. Hermione barely registered cloaked Dementors drifting past
her cell bars—knowing that any misery the soulless Azkaban guards could inflict upon her
paled in comparison to the despair that she had inflicted upon herself.
She was suffocating from the guilt. More than survivor's guilt.
The guilt of her failure.
Ron and Harry placed their lives in her hands, in her brain, since the Battle of Hogwarts. No,
even before that. Ever since they ran off to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes during what was
meant to be their seventh year.
They thought she was smart. They thought she always had the answer, or could find it in a
book. After all, she discovered the Basilisk. She was quick-witted enough to disguise and
keep Harry and Ron alive when they were captured by snatchers. To devise an escape plan
and minimize casualties for the Battle of Hogwarts if things went wrong, which they had.
Horribly wrong.
The Order successfully destroyed Hufflepuff's cup and Ravenclaw's diadem, but completely
failed to predict Voldemort's new weapon: an army of bloodthirsty, nearly indestructible
Inferi summoned by an unknown Death Eater that they later learned Voldemort called his
Mouth, and the Order named the Necromancer.
They lost so many during that nightmarish battle.
Fred.
Colin.
Lupin.
Tonks.
Lavender.
But what hit the hardest was that their friends did not stay dead.
In a break in the battle, when the Order finally found time to lay out the fallen in rows around
the Great Hall, he appeared. Back then, without the peculiar cloth covering his Death Eater's
mask: an unobstructed view of the destruction that he awakened moments later with the same
two words he spoke at the valley.
The darkest of magic that dragged the fallen back across the veil to slaughter the living. To
murder their own loved ones who were grieving moments before. To murder Molly and
Arthur Weasley, Flitwick, both Patil sisters, and so many more.
If Hermione had not kept the presence of mind to guide the rest of the surviving, overrun
Order members to the kitchens—had not paired each student with a house-elf to circumvent
the castle's anti-apparition charms by side-along apparating to safety—they would have lost
everyone.
Ever since that day, Kingsley, who stepped up to lead the Order, tried to keep her off the
battlefield. Confining her to the Order's Headquarters—a network of underground tunnels
and caverns carved into the seaside cliffs near Shell Cottage.
Kingsley told her they already lost too many thinkers. He asked her, begged her, to fight the
Order's war in the strategy room, and not on the battlefield.
At first, she resisted what she saw as Kingsley's attempt to sequester and protect her above
others. But as the war dragged on, and as the blindfolded Death Eater continued to appear, it
became undeniable that the more members the Order lost, the more unwilling souls his army
gained.
The breaking point came when they lost Hagrid during a raid on one of the Order's safe
houses. As they had come to expect, the half-giant was turned almost as soon as he fell.
Within seconds of reviving, his monstrous corpse jumped to choke her in his massive hands,
while Harry struggled to pry her free. But Harry was unable, or unwilling, to use more than
halfhearted stunning spells against an Inferius that had been his beloved friend just moments
before.
Eventually, George and Angelina wrestled Hagrid off her, chaining and burning his body with
Fiendfyre until he at last stopped fighting. But the damage was already done.
While Hermione physically recovered, Harry was never the same. He would not even look at
her for months out of guilt.
From then on, Kingsley made a point to separate friends and family during battle, to avoid
the pain of having to choose to dispatch a loved one a second time with your own hands, or
be pulled across the veil by theirs.
And Hermione was pulled off the front lines.
She accepted at last that it was better to busy herself with books, maps, and Council
meetings, and let Harry and Ron focus on the rest.
All until this final battle.

They thought she was smart.
They were wrong.
***
Weeks passed, although with the Dementors it was hard to be sure. They were not always
present, as Hermione previously assumed. At least not on her cell block. But when they
appeared—faceless, gliding past her cramped cage—seconds melted into hours, and hours
could pass in seconds as she felt her mind consumed by waking nightmares and horrible
visions set against the soundtrack of Voldemort's cruel, screeching laughter.
Even without the Dementors' presence, she continued to be plagued by the hollow faces of
her loved ones.
Harry's reinvigorated corpse and colorless eyes.
Ron's bloodied face, his body so broken and mangled that he could not even revive as an
Inferius.
She also imagined what could be taking place outside the confines of the triangular walls of
Azkaban.
Her parents hunted down and tortured for the sin of being non-magic.
Kingsley, Ginny, Luna and any remnants of the Order losing the battle against Voldemort's
spreading regime.
But the voice Hermione heard most belonged to him. Voldemort's prince of darkness. His
angel of death. His Mouth. His Necromancer.
He was not just a Death Eater. He was the weapon that Voldemort used to bring Europe to its
knees, and tie a noose around the Order's neck.
In between flashes of her loved ones, she heard his harsh voice. Saw his mask. Blindfolded.
Sightless. Yet seeing her. Finding her. Even here. Calling out to her. Finding her to turn her
into an Inferius like the rest.
Her eyes becoming as dead as Harry's.
***
Food appeared regularly. Hermione remembered Voldemort's words during that strange in-
between before she was discarded in Azkaban.
"Break her."
Evidently they did not intend to break her body. The food, while plain, was edible. After
starving herself for a week, her gnawing hunger finally pushed through her stupor, and she
attempted a nibble of stale bread. A sip of water.
She even had a rudimentary chamber pot and bed, if you could call it that. Thick metal planks
slotted across a rusty frame, eaten away by the ever-present salty air creeping into her cell
from the ocean churning beneath.
No, they did not intend to break her body more than they already had. During one of her
bouts of unconsciousness before Azkaban, someone even crudely mended her mangled
ankles. Enough that she could stand, but not enough to walk.
No, breaking was never about her body.
It was about her mind. Her spirit. Her soul.
She remembered Sirius describing how he survived twelve years in Azkaban, relying on his
ability to transform into an Animagus to keep the isolation and insanity at bay.
At first, she considered trying to use wandless magic, or attempting to become an Animagus
to escape. She combed through the Hogwarts library her fourth year after learning about the
Marauders' secret forms. She understood the basics, and it was possible she could eventually
achieve her own Animagus transformation.
But to what end?
Sirius had a reason to cling to survival in Azkaban—to avenge James and Lily—to find
Pettigrew—to reunite with Harry.
She had nothing.
Voldemort said to break her. Maybe he already had.
Breaking was a mercy.
***
One day, Hermione woke to the unmistakable sound of screaming. She was not surprised.
She had cried herself out of nightmares countless times since her imprisonment.
But as another anguished yell rang out, Hermione realized that the source came from outside
her cell.
She almost fell off her slippery bed frame in shock. She had been sure that no one else was
imprisoned nearby. That her cell block was empty. The only sounds she heard as the
Dementors passed her cell were her own cries, echoes of her loved ones, and Voldemort's
cruel laugh. She never heard anyone else. Then again, she was so catatonic until that point
she barely noticed anything apart from her own misery.
It sounded like the haggard roars of someone unfamiliar with losing control. A man who tried
to bury grief his whole life, only to break down like a bursting dam.
She lay and listened to the man, but felt very little. Then, the voice spoke. The first words she
heard in months.
"It was all my fault."
The ragged, tenor voice of the man was inarguably near. Hermione dragged her legs across
the stone floor, following the memory of his voice until she reached the bars of her cell, far
too narrow to poke her head through and look around.
"I couldn't save you," the man cried out.
The voice. It was to her right. The cell to her right.
Hermione pressed her ear desperately to the clammy stone wall on that side, straining to hear
any sound. Focusing. And then she heard it. Clearer in this position.
"I can't do this anymore."
The man continued to whisper hollowly as Hermione sunk slowly against the wall. Spent.
She had not moved this much in ages, and she was exhausted.
It did not matter if she suddenly had a "neighbor." Maybe that would be worse to hear his
cries of despair and regret mingled with her own when the Dementors passed.
She tried to ignore his voice. But eventually her bleeding Gryffindor heart could not take it
anymore, and she spoke timidly:
"I… I'm here."
It was as if she broke a spell. The man's words stopped instantly at her voice. Heartbeats
passed, and then…
"You can hear me?"
Hermione sensed a desperate hope within as she heard him move closer to their adjoining cell
wall at the sound of her voice.
"Yes," she answered. And then she added, "I think I'm in the cell next to yours."
But the man did not respond after that, and Hermione wondered if the faceless guards had
taken him away. Maybe even ripped out his soul as punishment for speaking with her.
After what felt like hours of waiting, she spoke again—whispering her words into the
crevices of their shared stone wall.
"Are you still there? Did the Dementors come to take you away?"
She heard his hollow voice echo through her room.
"No, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Neither am I," Hermione sighed.
But then a sudden cold blanketed her skin.

The weak light shining through her narrow cell window vanished like an extinguished candle.
Dementor robes swirled around the bars separating her cell from the corridor beyond. She fell
backwards away from the wall, crawling to the farthest corner under the window opposite,
hands pressed tightly over her mouth.
She was already balled up when her muffled screaming started. She could not distinguish the
screams anymore. Did not know if they came from within her, or from her mother… Harry or
Ron. They all joined together in a horrible cacophony of despair.
Hermione rocked back and forth, collapsing into herself, until she felt nothing again.
Succumbing to it. Embracing it.
She was right.
Breaking was a mercy.

The Bargain
Chapter Notes
TW: Suicidal ideation.
What doctrine call you this, Che Sera Sera?
What will be, shall be?
***
She knelt on a hard floor. Cries of grief echoed around the expanse of the Great Hall. She
leaned over two beaten bodies, a man and a woman, already stiffening with death.
She reached down, and grabbed the man's hand, gently placing it around the woman's. Her
tears fell onto their joined hands. Tears shed not just for herself, but for their tiny son at
home—Teddy—heartbroken at the knowledge that he would forget his parents' faces as the
years passed.
WHAM
The doors of the Great Hall flung open with a crash, framing a solitary dark figure.
Heads turned and silence fell as the room full of mourners waited. Suddenly the air grew
heavy, the room cold, as he spoke.
A flash of movement caused her to look down again, just in time to see Lupin pull his hand
from his wife's, and reach for her throat.
***
Hermione felt her screams vibrate through her entire body as she clawed at her neck, sucking
in air. Deep scratches formed in her skin, dripping blood onto the torn collar of her shirt.
"Are you there?"
Her vision swayed, and she leaned over and was violently sick into the already grimy corner.
"Hey. Are you there?" the voice repeated.
She barely registered the question between her retches.
"Are you all right?"

Hermione propped herself up, wiping cold sweat off her forehead. After a few beats, she
collected herself enough to remember what occurred before the Dementors pulled her back
into her own personal hell… she was talking to another prisoner.
"Yes. Yes. I'm here," she stammered.
A pause, and then: "Finally had someone to talk to for the first time in years, and I thought
the Dementors came and sucked her soul out just to spite me."
Hermione's breath caught in her throat at the man's outburst. After languishing in waking
nightmares for months, this all sounded so… normal.
Before she could help herself, she squeaked, "I'm sorry?"
Silence. She rubbed the faded scar on her arm nervously.
"What are you, mental?"
"Excuse me?" she huffed, thoroughly nonplussed. "I… "
"What sane person apologizes for Dementors making them scream their head off?" the man
interrupted sardonically.
Hermione could almost picture the faceless prisoner sneering at her through the stone wall
between them.
An unexpected fire ignited within her still watery eyes. So she fired right back. "Honestly, I
preferred it when you were crying."
Silence.
Suddenly, it was all too much. All too ridiculous.
Hermione slumped back down onto the floor, feeling sick. What the hell was she doing?
What was the point in wasting her energy exchanging insults with a nameless, faceless
someone a cell away when any second the Dementors roaming the corridors really could steal
her soul with a kiss. A kiss that was a mercy if it meant she could trade her pain and loss for
emptiness. If she could forget them—her loved ones. Forget how brutally they died. Forget
how bitterly she failed them.
Before the man could say anything else, she dragged herself to the opposite side of her cell,
jammed her fingers into her ears, and engulfed herself in feeling nothing. She found herself
drifting away.
Carried off into a dark void where no words, kind or callous, could reach her.
***
The Dementors came and went, but Hermione could barely tell the difference anymore. She
did not move from where she lay curled on the floor. She did not speak. She did not do
anything. Some part of her continued to hear him talking to her every now and then. But no
part of her cared to listen. She heard nothing. She felt nothing.
And it was wonderful.
She was conscious of very little after that. Even without the Dementors pulling her in and out
of reality, time was impossible to track. The sun never penetrated the endless storm
constantly roaring outside her three-sided prison. On rare occasions, the night was clear
enough for a weak moon to shine through her cell window. But she did not care enough to
map its movements.
Hermione recognized that she was slowly dying. She could not even remember the last time
she touched the bread or water.
She recognized that she was waiting to die.
***
"Hermione, dear. What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
Gentle hands rubbed long strokes down her back. Imparting warmth and comfort with every
touch.
"It's okay. Please just tell us what's wrong, love?"
Now a second set of hands was on her head. Rougher, larger fingers combed softly through
her curls. Like they did when she was little.
"Hermione?"
She stood. Tears streamed down her face. With a whispered, "I'm sorry," she turned around to
face her parents, still seated on the edge of her childhood bed.
She raised her wand. She would start with her mother first.
"Obliviate."
And then her father.
"Obliviate."
"Your names are Monica and Wendell Wilkins."
"You live in Australia."
"You have no daughter."
***

As her parched throat started to burn, Hermione realized that she was speaking the words out
loud, into the stale air of her cell. And she was heaved violently back to reality for the first
time in a very long while.
Why did dreaming of her parents, still alive, but Obliviated, feel entirely worse than
dreaming about the dead, murdered in front of her? Why would this memory drag her back
into lucidity where no others could?
Hermione knew the answer. She always knew the answer.
Because it gave her hope.
As far as she knew, her parents were still safe across the ocean, instead of unreachable
beyond the veil. Even if her memory charm was too permanent by now to reverse, her heart
still clung to the faint hope that she could see them again.
Hope was cruel.
As she settled back down onto the cold slats of her bed, her mother's question stung her ears
once again.
"Why are you crying?"
This time, she chose to answer truthfully.
"Because I will always need you."
"Then why did you leave?"
"Because I want to protect you."
"Will you stay?"
"I'll stay."
Hermione felt the selfish promise spill out of her lips, and smiled.
***
She slept soundly that night. No dreams. No nightmares. When she next woke, she felt
different. She felt ravenous.
As she hauled herself over to the replenishing loaf of bread that had not needed replenishing
in weeks, she marveled at the feeling.
"How are you today?"
Hermione choked mid-mouthful. The voice next door. He was still here?
"You spoke with me yesterday. Why not today?" the voice asked, almost gently.
What? She spoke to him… yesterday? She dug frantically through her still foggy brain, and
choked again when she put it together. Yesterday, when she had responded to her parents, she
was really talking to him—
Oh no no no no no. An overwhelming feeling of shame clawed at Hermione's chest as she

remembered what she had said out loud the day prior. She moved back to her bed, resolving
not to talk to herself, or him, again. Resolving to wallow in her grief, and push down her
hope for anything more.
But then he spoke again, and this time she was too clear headed to block him out.
"I'll only ask you one question a day. And you'll only owe me one answer a day. How is
that?"
She narrowed her eyes at the wall between them at the ridiculous proposition. But he
continued.
"Here's my first question. What is your favorite color?"
She silently guffawed at the juvenile request. Her favorite color? Nobody had asked her that
since primary school. But his tone had not been condescending—maybe just a bit cheeky.
Before she could "answer" him by telling him to shut up, he continued.
"Oh, and you have to tell the truth."
"Or what?" She clamped her hand over her mouth. She had responded without even thinking!
"Or I'll know that you are lying," the voice said coolly.
This time, Hermione audibly guffawed. "And you'll do what? Report me to the Dementors?"
A pregnant pause. And then: "Bit too late for that, I suppose."
She rolled her eyes at the joke, and rolled her body to her other side of the bed, away from
the wall separating her from a confirmed idiot.
He seemed to read her silence, and offered, "My favorite color is blue."
Before she could respond, or even rudely choose not to, he went on.
"I know what you're thinking. A man whose favorite color is blue. What an original choice.
But I don't mean any blue. I mean blue like the sea. My family had a house by the sea, in
Tenby, and we would visit it every summer growing up. In the winter, the ocean was a
ghastly gray color. I hated it. But in the summer, the blue was spectacular. I would sit on the
sand and watch the waves for hours. The ocean went on for miles, beyond the horizon,
beyond imagination. As if you could see the curve of the earth beyond the blue—"
Hermione felt herself drifting again. Tired, and lulled by the sound of his voice.
"—And at night, you could barely pick out the sea from the sky. They were the same deep
cobalt."
Her eyes flickered shut.
"At midnight, both the ocean and the sky would reflect the stars. So that it was impossible to
see where one ended and the other began."
"Green."
Hermione spoke softly, sleep tugging at her consciousness.
"My favorite color is green."
And her dreams that night were filled with rolling green hills and midnight blue waters.
***
"Chocolate or vanilla?"
"Chocolate."
"Favorite animal?"
"Cat."
"Which Quidditch teams do you follow?"
"I don't."
As promised, he asked Hermione one question every day. And, despite her initial reluctance,
she responded. Sometimes she did not respond for several hours. Sometimes the Dementors
came before she could respond, and she was sucked back into a dark maze of painful
memories and confusing landscapes. Lost in it, and unwilling to even try to find the way out.
But when the Dementors moved on at last, and her misery ebbed just for a moment, he was
there. Pulling her back out with a question.
The questions grounded her. Kept her mind from wandering down the path of madness. Gave
her a purpose, no matter how microscopic.
But the questions were almost entirely asinine.
"Are you a night owl, or more of a morning person?"

"Morning person. Although I used to stay up late studying anyways."
"Butterbeer or pumpkin juice?"
"It depends. Obviously I'm not enough of a lush to start the morning with a Butterbeer. Then
again, I'd kill for either at the moment."
Sometimes, especially right after a Dementor attack, he would quiz her instead.
"What is the first life cycle of a Grindylow?"
"The first life cycle of a Grindylow is the larval stage, during which it is referred to as a
Grypt."
Hermione liked those types of questions best. If she closed her eyes while answering, she felt
herself transported back to Hogwarts.
Eventually, even her responses to his personal questions grew longer. And, she did not shut
down immediately after answering. Eventually, she also started asking questions herself,
prompted by a particularly exasperating back-and-forth about her favorite holiday ("Boxing
Day of course, because we finally clean up all the mess from Christmas and, historically you
know, it was the day to give gifts to the poor, although it is so commercialized nowadays").
"You get to ask me one question a day, right?" Hermione pointed out.
"Yes. And?" he replied.
"Well," she said, "then I should get to ask you one question a day. It's only fair."
He did not answer for several hours, during which Hermione begrudgingly found herself
leaning against their shared wall in anticipation.
At last, she heard him agree. "Fine. And I even promise to tell the truth." Then he offered
expectantly, "Go on then."
Hermione considered, not wanting to waste her questions as he did. Finally, she resolved to
ask the question nagging her for weeks. Might as well start off strong.
"What is your name?"

Atonement
View here the blood that trickles from mine arm,
And let it be propitious for my wish.
***
"Lucius Malfoy."
His answer was clear, firm.
Hermione's chest turned to ice, and a wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
"Mr. Malfoy?" she stuttered.
"Present," he said dryly, "but I would prefer you call me Lucius, given our current…
situation."
She could almost picture Lucius Malfoy's sarcastic gesture. Long, white-blond hair framing a
haughty smirk. Icy eyes looking down at her with disgust.
"But… but you're a Death Eater. So why are you here?" she probed cautiously.
He paused before responding, "No place I'd rather be, really."
What the hell did that mean? Hermione gripped her head between her hands, feeling the cell
walls spinning around her as her companion's identity hit her at full force. She combed
through every question he had asked, every truth she had divulged. It had been weeks, and
she had given dozens of answers to an enemy. She recalled Voldemort's instructions before
sending her to Azkaban.
"... she knows about the rest. What they have done. What they have destroyed. The holes
where her friends hide like insects."
Voldemort clearly suspected that Hermione had information about the Horcruxes and the
Order's network of safe houses. Of course he would plant a spy.
How could she have been so foolish?
But her pounding heart slowed a bit as she decided that she had never actually told Lucius
anything important. Nothing that could harm the Order. She had at least been lucid enough to
do that much.
Still, someone clearly sent Lucius here to earn her trust. To interrogate her.
Hermione paused. Then why would Lucius admit his name? She had not interacted much
with Draco's parents over the years, but had heard Lucius's voice a handful of times. In
particular, his voice was burned into her memory from her torture at Malfoy Manor five years
ago.
She had not seen him since. But from what she could recall, the voice matched. Cold and
calculating.
Except… except for the time he pulled her out of the memory of her parents by speaking
gently to her, asking her questions, and describing his childhood visits to the sea.
She could not trust a word he said, but she did believe he could be Lucius Malfoy.
Another question formed on Hermione's tongue. "Voldemort imprisoned you?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"On and off for years. But it all started on May 2nd, 1998."
Hermione recognized the date of the Battle of Hogwarts. She did not recall seeing Lucius
there, but that did not prove anything.
She pushed forward, but had barely gotten the next word past her lips when he interrupted.
"You have already asked me… five questions today. I would say that is more than generous…
Miss Granger."
Hermione's stomach turned again. So Lucius did know who she was. Of course he would, if
he was sent to interrogate her. Then again, for months she had talked to herself and screamed
the names of her loved ones, trapped in Dementor-fueled nightmares. And while her answers
to Lucius's superficial questions over the past weeks did not reveal anything about the Order,
she carelessly dropped breadcrumbs about her identity. Lucius could have figured it out.
Hermione did not sleep that night. Instead, she positioned herself in the farthest corner from
Lucius's cell, desperately clutching a flimsy metal rod pried from her bed frame, praying for
the Dementors not to appear.
But they did.
***
Bellatrix was dragging her by the hair from a dark hallway, away from Harry and Ron, a
short silver knife digging into her throat with every yank. She was thrown into the center of
an ornate drawing room. Her eyes blinked as they struggled to adjust to the light of a
glittering crystal chandelier above.
Now the knife was carving into the flesh of her arm as Bellatrix screeched questions into her
tear-stained face.
"You are a lying, filthy Mudblood!"

"... what else did you take?"
"... run through with this knife!"
Bellatrix wrapped spindly fingers firmly around her face, forcing it upwards. She refused to
look at Bellatrix, focusing instead on the hundreds of screaming Hermiones distorted in the
crystal chandelier above. And then she was writhing in agony as the blade dug into her
again. Screaming. She could feel the sharp blade of the knife slipping in her own blood.
***
Hermione jerked awake, grabbing her arm instinctively. Tracing her clammy fingers over the
letters still scarring her skin. It felt so real. As if she was back on the floor of Malfoy Manor
over five years ago being carved up by Bellatrix Lestrange.
But no. As her eyes readjusted to the dim light of her present cage, she remembered that she
was trapped somewhere much worse, next to a man she could not trust.
"Good morning, Granger," Lucius greeted, right on cue.
Hermione flinched, and asked without thinking, "Why 'Granger' now, instead of 'that
Mudblood girl'?"
His laugh was tinged with just a hint of frost.
"Is that really what you want to ask me today, Miss Granger?"
She considered. No, Lucius was right. What mattered was figuring out why he was speaking
to her at all, why he was here, and if he was telling her the truth.
"Forget it," she replied.
She unwound herself from the protective position that she had maintained the entire night,
but still kept a tight grip on her makeshift weapon. Hours passed. Neither Lucius nor
Hermione broke the silence.
Hermione normally spent her rare moments of clearheadedness between Dementor attacks
walking back through past mistakes, counting the ways she had failed Harry, Ron, and the
Order over the years. This time, however, she found herself walking back through her
memories with purpose, trying to pull forward every interaction with the Malfoy patriarch, to
discern his intentions.
Finally, she voiced her question. "How can I know that you're telling the truth?"
"You can't."
Before she could respond, Lucius sighed and continued, "But trust that I don't have a reason
to lie to you anymore."
Trust… How could she trust a Malfoy?

Draco Malfoy was an absolute arse all through their time at Hogwarts. She recalled the
memory of slapping the bullying git square in the face their third year, with a smirk that she
was glad Lucius could not see. True, Draco had not revealed her, Ron, or Harry's identities at
the Manor even though she was fairly certain he recognized them. But Harry repaid that life
debt tenfold when he pulled Draco and Goyle from the Fiendfyre that destroyed Ravenclaw's
diadem at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Hermione held even less of an impression of Narcissa Malfoy. She always gave off an air of
austere superiority. In her view, the woman's one redeeming quality was that it was clear to
anyone with eyes that Narcissa loved her family.
Lucius Malfoy… Well, he was probably the worst of the lot. He planted a Horcrux on poor
first year Ginny Weasley. He clearly abused his house-elves—an unforgivable sin in
Hermione's book. He even tried to kill them at the Department of Mysteries.
"And also, trust that I'm sorry."
His words hit Hermione like a Bludger to the face.
***
"You didn't ask me a question yesterday," Hermione offered hesitantly, still reeling from
Lucius's abrupt apology the day prior, but unable to help herself from attempting to solve the
enigma on the other side of her cell wall.
"Will you still answer, knowing what you know now, Miss Granger?" he replied.
"Yes. As long as you agree to do the same," she said, smartly. "So that means today you have
two questions, and I have one."
Lucius chuckled, the noise making him sound younger.
"Agreed."
"Go ahead then," she proffered guardedly.
"What is your middle name?" he asked.
Hermione blinked. Her mind quickly ran through a million scenarios where revealing her
middle name could hurt her, or lead Voldemort to her parents tucked away in Australia. But
she could not think of any reason not to tell the truth. After all, the Death Eater's could easily
look her up in Hogwarts records, no doubt readily available since the castle's occupation.
"Jean. My middle name is Jean."
There. She answered another one of his stupid questions. And now, she could ask the
question she thought through the night prior. But before she could get it out, Lucius spoke
again.
"Don't you want to know mine?"

"No, I don't!" Hermione retorted. "Actually, I want to know what you meant yesterday when
you said you don't have a reason to lie anymore, and why you said you're sorry."
"Technically, that counts as two questions, Miss Granger," he replied. She grimaced. But
Lucius continued.
"Nonetheless, to answer your first question, I have no reason to lie to you anymore because
the Dark Lord took everything from me when he threw me in this hellhole."
Hermione considered his words. If Lucius really was imprisoned like her, and not planted to
mislead her, then why was he here? After all, the Ministry sent him to Azkaban after his
defeat at the Department of Mysteries, only to be freed by Voldemort a year later. Why would
Voldemort save Lucius only to imprison him again?
Lucius continued. "To answer your second question, I apologized because I should have
saved you when you were captured. I was a coward. I heard you—"
Hermione gulped as Lucius paused.
"—I heard you crying out. It was clear that you were having a nightmare about what my—
about what Bellatrix did to you at the Manor. About what she carved into your skin."
"Mudblood," Hermione whispered, looking down at the faded scar still etched into her
forearm.
"Yes," he said, hearing her response despite the volume. "I—well, you didn't deserve that."
Before she could stop herself, Hermione found herself raging back.
"AND IT TOOK VOLDEMORT DISCARDING YOU LIKE TRASH TO HAVE THAT

'EPIPHANY'? REALLY? IT TOOK BEING TREATED LIKE A 'MUDBLOOD' TO SEE
THAT YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN MY KIND? TO PITY ME?"
Hermione's chest heaved at the outburst, and angry tears stung her eyes as she continued
spewing out everything she had been holding in for years.
"You—You pure-bloods cling to your precious belief that you are superior in every sense. I
promised to tell you the truth. Well, here it is: you will always think that you are better than
everyone, always put yourself first. All you care about is self-preservation. You would let the
rest of the world burn just to save yourself and your family, and I will never forgive you.
YOU ARE SELFISH."
Her words hung in the air like poison.
"I am selfish. I will always be selfish."
Lucius's tone held no hint of scorn. None of his typical coldness. Instead, he sounded…
unhappy. As if he both accepted and despised his selfishness.
As if he was ashamed of it.

Even Saviors Sin
These metaphysics of magicians
And necromantic books are heavenly
***
Dreams and nightmares continued to plague Hermione. Her torture at Malfoy Manor. Their
fight at the Department of Mysteries where Sirius died. Remus and Tonks rising to attack her
at Hogwarts. Harry and Ron's bodies strewn across the blood soaked valley of Glen Lochy.
The Necromancer walking toward her as she lay dying on that abandoned field. A constant
film of fear replayed every night, with every passage of the Dementors.
But she remained vigilant in spite of the madness clawing at her mind. She had to, knowing
that Lucius was so near. She could still not quite place him. Loyal Death Eater… reformed
prisoner… unwilling companion… Nothing seemed to fit the mystery that was Lucius
Malfoy. Nonetheless, Hermione was determined to glean any information she could from
Lucius, while revealing very little herself. So she continued to play their game.
"What happened to Narcissa and Draco?" Hermione asked.
"Narcissa and Draco are, unfortunately, just as imprisoned as I am. Although, the Dark Lord
separated us," Lucius replied, before asking Hermione another stupid trivia question.
"If one wanted to treat a doxy infestation, what potion would one use?"
"Doxycide," she replied at once, thinking of potions class with Snape.
The next day she asked, "Where is Voldemort's base?"
Lucius did not waiver as he answered, "Beneath Hogwarts. Specifically, Salazar's Chamber
of Secrets. He rarely leaves the Chamber anymore."
Hermione was taken aback at his easy confession, as if she had drugged him with
Veritaserum. Of course, she was already fairly certain that Voldemort was at Hogwarts; she
recognized that she was taken to the Great Hall before being discarded in Azkaban. But did
Lucius know that? And why go farther and name the Chamber of Secrets?
His next question came shortly after. "What became of my house-elf Dobby?"
As she always did, Hermione mulled over the question. Today, Lucius asked her something
that was more significant than the others, and that held the potential to reveal something
about the Order. After all, Dobby sacrificed himself to rescue them from Malfoy Manor
during their hunt for Horcruxes. And, Harry buried Dobby outside of Shell Cottage, barely
steps away from the Order's hidden stronghold. She resolved to answer honestly, but without
adding any details.
"He died."
"Ah," Lucius exhaled. "I'm sorry to hear that. He had been with me since I was young. I hope
he at least passed peacefully."
Hermione scowled at the Lucius Malfoy she pictured in her head. The same man who abused
Dobby for years until any scrap of decency seemed like overwhelming kindness to the poor
creature.
"He did not. Dobby was murdered and died painfully, thanks to Bellatrix. Thanks to you and
your family."
Lucius did not speak to Hermione for the rest of that day.
***
Their game continued. It became easier to tell the days apart as each asked and answered one
question per day—Lucius seemed to be able to track the time between Dementor attacks
better than Hermione.
Throughout, Lucius's mood remained consistently inconsistent. His tone, mercurial. One day,
he could sound almost remorseful, while the next, sarcastic. Some days, Lucius would only
give a non-answer, or force Hermione to choose a different question entirely. There were also
times when he spoke with such coldness and cruelty that Hermione was snapped back to
reality; reminded that she was trapped next to a Death Eater.
"How will this all end, Lucius? When every single member of the Order is dead? After all of
Europe bows down and every Muggle submits? Is that when it will finally be enough for your
Dark Lord?"
"I suppose, but I've never been in the Dark Lord's head," Lucius said, voice as icy as the
frozen stone wall between them.
She treaded carefully. She now spent any lucid periods between their daily questions
considering what to ask next. Walking through every possible scenario where her phrasing
could tell Lucius something that could harm, instead of help, the Order. She obviously
steered clear of any direct questions about Horcruxes or the Necromancer's identity, unsure if
anyone in Voldemort's circle knew about their significance to the Order and the war. It was a
risky game, speaking with Lucius, but one Hermione was unable to stop playing.
"What is Voldemort's weakness?"
"You know that I can't answer that question."
"How can the Order defeat Voldemort?"
"It can't."
Sometimes, after answering a question, Lucius would remain silent for hours. And
sometimes, Hermione could still hear him screaming at night, and the sound made her
extremely uncomfortable. She had the impression that Lucius did not mean for her to hear
him break down—hear the effects of his nightmares—and she tried not to listen. But the
sound echoed through his bars, and around the walls of her adjoining cell. Hermione tried to
tell herself that she did not care, that a man as hateful as Lucius Malfoy deserved every
misery that he suffered. She tried to convince herself that the tug on her heart at his tears was
nothing more than pity.
But as their bargain continued to paint a clearer picture of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione felt her
pity slowly reshape into something that looked more like compassion.
***
"Where were you at the Battle of Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.
"Looking for Potter," he replied.
"Where has Voldemort planted puppet leaders?"
"France, Bulgaria, Romania, Portugal, and Italy. Next are Spain and Hungary."
"Why does the Necromancer—the Dark Lord's Mouth—always appear at the end of every
battle?"
"The Dark Lord has grown more cautious, more… distrusting since the Battle of Hogwarts.
Since Severus Snape's betrayal. He rarely leaves the Chamber any more. Or not for long. So
his loyal followers serve instead."
"Who is part of Voldemort's inner circle?"
"Amycus Carrow, Elliad Macnair, Antonin Dolohov, Corbin Yaxley, Theodore Nott, and
Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange."
"None of the Malfoys are in Voldemort's inner circle?"
"None."
"What happened to your family?"
"The Dark Lord's empire became infected. When it became clear that my family was the
sickness, he cut us off like a diseased limb. To save the whole, sometimes one needs to
sacrifice the part."
She weighed the response. It sounded… rehearsed. But on the whole, Lucius's answers
remained largely upfront, if not a little vague. Lucius also continued to perplex her with his
seemingly pointless questions. Like he was trying to get to know Hermione herself, rather
than extracting secrets for Voldemort.
"Have you ever seen a Grindylow?"

"Yes. Actually I've been rescued from them twice. Once during the Triwizard Tournament,
and a second time during a raid. It's a little embarrassing, actually."
"If you had the chance to choose your Hogwarts house, would you have picked another?"
"Well, the Sorting Hat does give you a choice. Harry told me," Hermione replied, blanching
at her casual mention of Harry's name but continuing nonetheless. "Everyone always says I
should have been in Ravenclaw because I like books and studying. But no, I think I would
have chosen Gryffindor."
"It's basically a rule that every Gryffindor's favorite color has to be either red or gold. Why is
yours green?"
"It just is. And yours is blue, you Slytherin hypocrite."
"Which Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean flavor do you like best?"
"Blueberry. My least favorite is booger."
"Hah. Mine is earwax."
"Your favorite is earwax? You pure-bloods have such strange tastes."
"You know what I mean, Miss Granger."
Round and round they went. Asking and answering, until their strange routine became as
familiar to Hermione as the Hogwarts Library, and as comforting as her favorite stuffy chair
in the Gryffindor Common Room. They spoke for hours. Talked until her voice grew so
hoarse that she could only whisper, and the pain in her heart ebbed just enough to sleep.
Hermione told herself that she was only gathering enemy intelligence on the slim chance that
she was rescued.
But the truth was fuzzier.
Sometimes Hermione still woke up choking back sobs; eyes swimming in tears; head flooded
with horrible nightmares and visions.
But he was always there. Even when she tried to muffle her cries, Lucius heard her pain echo
around their prison walls. On her worst days, he cast aside any effort to ask a question, and
told her stories about summertime. Used his clear voice to paint beautiful pictures of his
favorite memories, and asked for nothing in return.
It was hard for her to separate the man she spoke to every day from the Lucius Malfoy she
knew before Azkaban. That Lucius was the vision of pure-blood arrogance—so much so that
he had even passed his prejudice on to his son. That Lucius constantly derided Arthur
Weasley for his lack of wealth. That Lucius abused slaves without the power to fight back.
But this Lucius listened to Hermione's answers to mundane questions without interruption, as
if he genuinely cared about what she thought. This Lucius pulled her out of otherwise
inescapable nightmares, with calming words and gentle stories about his childhood.
This Lucius never called her "Mudblood."
Not once.
***
One day, Hermione broached a topic that had been on her mind since Lucius first disclosed
his family's imprisonment. She recognized that the question could hurt him, but her insatiable
curiosity about the Malfoys' apparent downfall pushed her to ask in spite of that risk.
"Did you betray Voldemort?"
As his silence lengthened, she wondered if this time, she had gone too far. But she needed to
understand why Lucius was imprisoned.
"No." Lucius replied simply.
In spite of the one word response, she heard everything left unsaid. After months of speaking
with Lucius, she felt the bitterness and guilt carried through his cage into hers.
They sat in his answer until evening, when Lucius posed a question of his own.
"Can a house-elf free itself, Miss Granger?"
"No," Hermione responded. Feeling as if she was on the cusp of something. Some small
breakthrough in her understanding of the man across the wall.
"No, it can't."
***
WHAM
A blast shook Hermione out of her sleep, and flung her clear across her cell. She gasped
through the smoke clouding the air, struggling to make sense of her surroundings.
As the dust settled, she saw a person-sized hole where cell bars stood a moment before. And
a second later, she saw a person step through, her flaming red hair spotted with rubble.
"HERMIONE!"
She stared incredulously at Ginny Weasley. Standing in her Azkaban cell. Calling out to her
like a ghost.
But no, Ginny was not a ghost. No, she was here, pulling Hermione into a bone-crushing
embrace, pushing her bedraggled hair off her face to meet her eyes.
"Ginny?" she spluttered.

"Yes! Merlin, Hermione. We found you. We've been looking for a year. Moody went and put
a trace on you without telling anyone, of course. But then he went missing at the valley and
we still had to figure out your exact location, and how to get you home—" Ginny expounded,
hardly taking a breath.
"—But I can explain all the details later. We need to get you OUT. Back to Headquarters."
Hermione gaped. Unable to process that, after months of starvation, grief, and waking
nightmares, Ginny was here. Here to take her away from a nonexistence that she had since
come to accept. It did not feel real.
"Come on, Hermione. We need to go now! Before the Dementors return," Ginny ordered
again, tugging at her wrist, trying to pull her up toward the shattered cell bars.
But as pain shot through Hermione's legs, reality hit her at last. "I can't, Ginny. My ankles. I
can't walk."
"Oh!" exclaimed Ginny, easing up. "Then lean on me. We shouldn't risk more magic until we
get outside the walls, or it might summon the guards more quickly."
Ginny gently, but urgently, slung Hermione's arm around her shoulder, and the two hobbled
across the cell. As they neared the bars, Hermione suddenly remembered that Lucius was in
the cell next door. Should she ask Ginny to help break him out too?
She had since admitted to herself that she used Lucius as a crutch in much the same way
Sirius relied on his Animagus form. Used Lucius to stave off insanity and loneliness. But, did
she owe him anything in return? After all, at the end of the day, he was still vile enough for
even Voldemort to lock up.
Then his words came back to her.
"... you could barely pick out the sea from the sky. They were the same deep cobalt."
"I should have saved you."
"I'm sorry."
Hermione found herself voicing the plea before she could think. "Ginny, we need to help
him."
"Help who?" Ginny grunted, half-pulling Hermione through the cell's threshold.
"Mr. Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy. Voldemort… Voldemort put him in the cell right next to mine."
Ginny froze. Almost causing both to tumble at the sudden stop in momentum.
"Hermione, what are you saying?"
Hermione looked at Ginny's face, which had turned pale, and said, "We talked, every single
day. Spoke through the wall. He seems different. He helped me—told me information that I
can bring back to the Order. I know it sounds ridiculous. I know it doesn't make sense, but we
should help him."
Ginny's eyes closed, then opened slowly. As she resumed their push through the bars, she
spoke.
"Hermione, there is no cell next to yours."
"What?" Hermione gasped. "Of course there is. We talked."
But as Hermione felt herself being pulled out of her cell, and turned to look at the corridor
beyond, she saw… Nothing.
Only blank stone walls.
Only her own cell in the entire block.
Nothing on either side.
"They… they must have taken him somewhere last night. Changed the layout," Hermione
stammered, feeling like she could not take enough air into her lungs. Hyperventilating.
"No, Hermione," Ginny responded, too calmly, as she continued to drag Hermione through
the empty passageway. Wand arm raised ahead in defense. "I told you. We've been
monitoring Azkaban for months. There was never anyone else in this entire part of the
building. No movement besides you and the Dementors. That's how we were able to guess it
was you… that Voldemort would want to keep you away from the other prisoners."
"No. No." Her head spun at Ginny's words; at the collapse of her reality for the past year. "I
talked to him. We asked each other one question every day. And we had to tell each other the
truth. That was the rule."
Hermione felt herself rambling, losing control. She started to yell out for Lucius as they
passed foot after foot of blank prison walls.
"Mr. Malfoy! Lucius! Where are you? Where did they take you?"
She felt the tears streaming down her face.
No response.
She tried again. "Mr. Malfoy! You promised me. Remember? We made a bargain. We both
promised that we would answer one question every single day. I haven't asked my question
yet today, so you have to answer!"
"Hermione, calm down, please," Ginny pleaded, dragging her farther down the hall. "The
Dementors—they'll hear us."
But as Ginny forced a kicking Hermione onto a narrow ledge jutting out past the Azkaban
wall, she finally heard his unmistakable cold voice.
"I get to ask my question first."
Hermione froze, then nodded at his harsh demand, barely aware of Ginny positioning them to
disapparate.
She heard his question. Felt his voice. As clearly as if he was standing right next to her.
"Where am I?"
The truth hit Hermione as she voiced her revelation.
"In my head. You're in my head."
"Good girl. Now your question, Granger."
But now she was kicking Ginny off of her and screaming, "YOU PROMISED! YOU
SWORE TO ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH!"
"I always told you the truth. I still am."
"THEN WHO ARE YOU?"
As Hermione felt the crush of disapparation, his answer rang through her mind.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy."

Homecoming, But Not Home
But His dominion that exceeds in this,
Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man
* **
April 4, 2003
Cornwall, England
"... Granger."
Draco Malfoy had been talking to her, teasing her, and even comforting her for almost a year.
"Please, answer me."
It was never Lucius Malfoy, but his bully of a son. Not quite lying, but using his middle
name. A wicked half-truth.
"You need to answer me."
And worst of all, Draco Malfoy was never imprisoned with her in the first place. He
somehow invaded her mind, and made her believe he was just as tormented by grief, regret,
and Dementors.
He was still speaking to Hermione now, urging her to respond. To answer his juvenile
questions. Why wouldn't he just leave her alone?
"Miss Granger, please. You need to wake up."
The command jerked her into consciousness, and she realized that this voice did not belong
to Draco Malfoy, but rather a nervous-looking, portly wizard at the end of her bed. A man
wearing the Order's healer robes.
She blinked as she took in her surroundings, eyes struggling to adjust. She registered the
feeling of a plush bed. The mattress too soft. The lights too bright.
Seeing she was awake, the healer walked closer to stand beside her, and cast a diagnostic
spell.
"Well, how is she?" a familiar voice queried.
Hermione dazedly followed the sound until her eyes found Ginny, wringing her hands in the
corner of the tiny room.
"It's too early to say," replied the healer. "Miss Granger has been through a tremendous
amount of physical and mental stress, and a prolonged period of confinement. We should take
her reintegration slowly. Limit exposure to the outside, sun, strong smells... "
"She's not a bloody vampire," Ginny interrupted.
The healer, miffed, changed tack.
"I understand that, Miss Weasley. We have treated the damage from the imprisonment and
repaired her legs. She should be able to walk again within the next week."
Hermione twitched her ankles as the healer spoke, and found she could move them.
"Unfortunately the scarring is probably permanent. She did not respond well to Dittany, or
other treatment methods."
Ginny huffed. "What about her mind? Did you, well, does she have any brain dam..." Ginny
hedged halfway through the question. Shooting a guilty look toward Hermione. "Nevermind.
Anything else we should be worried about?"
Hermione kept her eyes pinned to her bedsheets. Feeling like a sick child, and also a bit
betrayed. Brain damage? Ginny really thought she had gone mad in Azkaban?
"We'll keep monitoring her. Give her time." The healer finished his assessment, and hurriedly
turned to leave.
As he shut the door, Ginny crossed the tight space toward Hermione; her face a picture of
uncertainty.
"I'm fine," Hermione reassured. "Thank you for getting me out."
A few muscles in Ginny's face relaxed at her words. "Of course, Hermione. After the Battle
of the Valley, after Ron and Harry..."
Ginny paused, tears forming on her lashes. "We thought we lost you too, Hermione. We
really did. We couldn't find you anywhere. Even with Moody's trace. It was like you ceased
to exist. We only found you by process of elimination. And then even when we got you back
to Headquarters, you wouldn't wake up."
She reached out to the youngest Weasley, grasping her hands. Her first contact in such a long
time. Ginny gasped, withdrawing her hands quickly, as if shocked.
"What?" asked Hermione.
"It's just, you're freezing, Hermione! Merlin you've gotten so thin. I saw your cell. So dark
and cold. And the Dementors..."
Hermione suddenly felt hollow, transported back to Azkaban. And shivered despite the
warmth of her hospital wing covers.
Ginny noticed the shift. "I'm sorry. That twitchy little healer was right. You should rest. We
have plenty of time to catch up. All the time. We'll talk later."
She nodded, not looking at Ginny. Not looking at anything until she heard the soft click of the
door. Alone again, she felt herself overcome with a strange sense of relief. After a year of
isolation, even Ginny's presence was overwhelming.
And yet, she had not been alone. Not entirely.
Trapped in Azkaban and tormented by Dementors, she lacked the mental clarity and purpose
to truly analyze her situation. It was as if every time she felt close to a breakthrough, the
Dementors appeared and destroyed her progress. But now, safe, healed, and fully conscious,
she finally indulged in breaking apart and rethinking all she experienced, all she learned.
Logically.
First, she was trapped in a cell, heard a man crying, and spoke to him. He responded,
claiming to be Lucius Malfoy.
Second, "Lucius" Malfoy talked with her every day for months, readily supplying
information about Voldemort, but never asking questions about the Order. Teasing her,
apologizing to her, comforting her.
Third, she was never speaking with Lucius Malfoy in an adjoining cell. She was always
speaking with Draco Malfoy in her head.
Fourth, she had absolutely no idea what was going on.
For a moment, Hermione considered trying to communicate with Draco. But how did she
even know it was him? Not Lucius tricking her, or someone else entirely. Now, she walked
back through Draco's responses. But only then did she admit that she knew very little about
Draco Malfoy besides the fact that he was her childhood bully. Where Draco asked her
personal questions, she asked him questions to learn about Voldemort.
The man she spoke to in Azkaban could have as easily been Draco as Lucius. Both men were
there during her torture at Malfoy Manor. Both men gave off the same coldness.
But in her heart, Hermione somehow knew that she was speaking to Draco.
Five years had passed since she last saw him and heard his voice. This Draco sounded a bit
older, but not much. And, he kept every response just vague enough to qualify as the truth. So
very Slytherin of him.
Most of all, she always felt that where Lucius was capable of true cruelty, Draco wore his
cruelty like a mask. A pale imitation of his father.
She saw the cracks in Draco's mask at Malfoy Manor. Cracks that grew the more they spoke
in Azkaban.
But in her head, she knew that she could not trust a word Draco said. And the idea of
speaking to an enemy within the Order's protection felt wrong. Like espionage.
No, Hermione would not, could not, speak to Draco Malfoy ever again.
In spite of his betrayal, she was overwhelmed by an unexpected sense of emptiness at the
thought.
***
Hermione next turned to the task of examining her body. She swung her legs off the bed and
hobbled across the room. Her ankles were stiff, but she could walk again. The sensation was
strange after a year. She crossed the few feet to a mirror propped in a corner, and took in her
reflection.
Gaunt and covered in scars. Horrible reminders of her last battle and confinement. Her large
brown eyes were like twin mirrors of that confinement, faded by the long stretches of
darkness. Her once curly mane of hair hung lankly down her back. But, she was alive. And,
Hermione mused, staring at her reflection, she was not a vampire.
Suddenly, she thought of Ginny—longing to see her, and whoever else survived the past year.
She walked to the door, turning the handle.
Locked. They locked her in. She scrambled, looking for her wand.
Nothing.
Desperate, she futilely tapped the lock with her bare hand, and whispered, "Alohomora."
Nothing.
The walls closed in. She was trapped, again. Trading one prison for another. Why would they
lock her up?
Ginny's words came floating back to her.
"What about her mind?"
Maybe Ginny thought that Azkaban left Hermione as mad as Bellatrix. Had told the healers
that she dragged Hermione out of Azkaban kicking and screaming about a Death Eater's
voice in her head.
A small part of her wondered if she was driven to psychosis. If she invented the Draco
Malfoy in her mind as some sick survival mechanism. After all, could an insane person
recognize their own insanity?
But Draco's presence felt incredibly real. His words were not the product of her insanity.
They kept her sane.
And how could she think up all the details about Voldemort that Draco divulged over the
course of an entire year? As smart and bookish as she was, she was not that creative. Harry
and Ron had taunted her endlessly for S.P.E.W., hadn't they?
At the memory of her friends, Hermione resolved to report to Kingsley, to both confirm and
hopefully use Draco's information. To finish what her friends died for a year ago.
As soon as the Order released her.
***
The next morning, Hermione woke to the sound of muffled voices spilling in from the
hallway outside. She could make out a deep, male voice. The door opened to reveal a well-
built, dark-skinned wizard with a gold earring.
"Miss Granger," greeted Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Hello," said Hermione, suddenly filled with mixed emotions. Relief that Kingsley had
survived the past year. Guilt that she had been taken captive after a battle that Kingsley
himself asked her not to join. Apprehension at her locked door and what Ginny likely told
him.
After the Ministry fell, Kingsley stepped in to lead the Order, select his Council of Advisors,
and guide them through the fallout after the Battle of Hogwarts. Kingsley was the one to see
Hermione's potential, take her under his wing, and train her as his protégé. Teach her, give
her a voice in his strategy room, and appoint her as the youngest member of the Council.
However, their relationship grew strained in the year leading up to her capture, precipitated
by Hermione's insistence that Harry's fight to draw out Voldemort and Nagini and destroy
Horcruxes outweighed the risks posed by the Dark Lord's Mouth—Voldemort's Necromancer.
"I'm glad to see you are safe, Miss Granger," Kingsley said with a hospital smile. "How are
you feeling?"
"Ummm. Better."
"And your ankles? I was told they were damaged."
"They're healing."
Kingsley nodded. Pleasantries out of the way, Hermione waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Ginny Weasley briefed me about your extraction."
There it was.
Kingsley continued. "She told me that you asked her to rescue Lucius Malfoy."
Hermione nodded, seeing no way to deny her behavior.
Kingsley went on. "And that you were speaking to Malfoy for months."
A nod.
"That you were speaking to him in your head."
Hermione covered her face as she asked, "You don't believe me, do you?"
Through the gaps in her fingers, she saw Kingsley working through his response. Always so
calculating. She could sense the Slytherin in him, and it reminded her of someone.
"I don't know that I want to believe you, Miss Granger."
Her stomach turned. Of course. She knew how it looked. She was imprisoned in Azkaban for
the better part of a year. Dementors could drive a person to insanity with much less. And
when the Order finally found her, she resisted Ginny's rescue attempts, raving hysterically
about talking to a Death Eater, who was not even there. Who was never there.
But at the same time, part of Hermione knew her truth. And a flame reignited.
"Kingsley, I know how it sounds. But I am not lying, and I am not insane," Hermione stated.
She had to be careful to avoid saying anything that would make the Order deem her unstable
if she ever wanted to get out of this hospital room.
"I admit, I don't know how Malfoy got in my head. At first, I thought he was a prisoner as
well. I only learned the truth when Ginny rescued me."
She plowed on, feeling as if she was back in the Order's strategy room instead of a sick bed.
"I cannot be certain how we spoke, but it may have been Legilimency or a spell tied to the
prison. I have not heard from Malfoy since leaving Azkaban."
Kingsley's face was unreadable as he responded, "Let's assume that you were actually
communicating with a Death Eater. How do you know that he was only speaking through
your mind, and not also invading your mind?"
This was not a report. It was an interrogation. After a year with the enemy, Kingsley did not
trust her. Plain and simple. At best, Kingsley thought Hermione was deranged. At worst, an
intelligence leak.
Compromised.
The unspoken label hung in the air between them.
But Kingsley was not finished.
"No one has seen the Malfoys in years, but Lucius Malfoy is a known Death Eater. Did you
give him any information about the Order?"
"No," Hermione responded firmly. "No, actually Malfoy told me things. Information that, if
true, could turn the tide of the war."
Kingsley raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Hermione thought back to the times in between Dementor attacks. To the times when she
clung to their game to stave off madness, but also to commit everything she learned to
memory. To report back to Kingsley. To help the Order, if given the chance. This was her
chance.
She launched into reporting each of Draco's answers. The identity of Voldemort's inner circle.
The countries he already controls, and the ones he plans to next. How Voldemort seems
weaker, and rarely leaves his base at the Chamber of Secrets. She also described the Malfoys'
fall from grace and imprisonment.
Kingsley listened, eyes never leaving Hermione's face. Studying her. His own face remained
unreadable, showing no reaction to any piece of information. Offering no clue about if the
Order could confirm or deny her claims.
So she pushed. "Again, I'll admit. We can't trust Malfoy, but we should still rule out
everything he told us. What if Malfoy really is trying to help? To destroy Voldemort as
revenge for betraying his family?"
Instead of answering her question, Kingsley asked one of his own. One she had not predicted.
"Why did you survive the battle, Miss Granger?"
"I...What?" she stammered. "I don't know..."
Kingsley glared at her.
She blanched, then admitted, "Voldemort seemed to think I knew about destroying
Horcruxes, and the Order's locations."
"Who put you in Azkaban?"
"The Necromancer."
"And then you began hearing Malfoy speak to you, in your head?"
"Yes."
Hermione was spinning at Kingsley's implication. But before she could react, he stood to
leave.
"You will begin Occlumency lessons tomorrow," he ordered.
Halfway through the door, Kingsley paused, as if deciding something. Then he turned back to
ask her one final question.
"Do you still intend to honor our vow, Miss Granger?"
"Yes."
***
Alone again. Gasping and trapped by the Order in her locked hospital cell.
Hermione's mind raced back and forth through Kingsley's examination. His suggestion that
Draco Malfoy was the Necromancer. No, not Draco. Lucius. He thought Lucius Malfoy was
Voldemort's deadliest soldier.
She had always felt that Kingsley was too preoccupied with uncovering the Necromancer's
identity. Borderline obsessed. It was a point of contention between herself and Kingsley
during the Council's strategy meetings, and another reason they drifted apart in the lead up to
the Battle of the Valley. She consistently pushed for the Order to prioritize hunting
Horcruxes. Kingsley, on the other hand, felt that the key to destroying Voldemort lay in
silencing his Mouth. Obviously, that had not changed during her year in Azkaban.
Another part of their interaction bothered her. She had never disclosed her final revelation
about Draco. Ginny, and by extension Kingsley, never heard Draco's nonverbal admission,
and still assumed that she had spoken with Lucius, rather than his son.
She tried to rationalize her choice. After all, Kingsley thought her mad, and distrusted all
Malfoys. So it did not truly matter which Malfoy she spoke to, right? Not to anyone except
her, at least.
But Hermione harbored another, more selfish reason that she chose not to tell Kingsley.
She was alone and dying.
Regardless of his motives, Draco Malfoy kept her alive.
And no desperate vow made to Kingsley a year ago would change that.
At least not yet.

Let's Go Again
For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do
***
The Order deprived Hermione of a wand, information, and freedom. However, her
Occlumency training began in earnest.
Despite her hurt and frustration at Kingsley's treatment, she was determined to take the
lessons seriously. To earn back his trust and rejoin the Council. To fight Voldemort, instead of
cowering beneath a cloak or inside a prison.
One key to her freedom was learning how to magically shield her mind.
***
"On the count of three. One… Two... Three… Legilimens."
She was in the Great Hall. A snake carved a path on the stone floor. Voldemort's voice cut
through the air. "Break her. Do whatever it takes. But break her."... "Yes, my Lord."
She was gasping for air, unable to breath as enormous hands crushed into her throat. Harry
screamed.
She was running through dark corridors, room after room, each stranger than the last,
Dolohov's unhinged roars growing louder, closer.
She was staring down at Ron's broken body, unrecognizable, save for his flaming red hair
stained with blood.
"How're you doing, Hermione?"
A freckled, good-natured face topped with a familiar mess of ginger locks filled her vision.
She sat up, shaking her head, trying to reorient herself.
"I'm fine, Charlie," Hermione replied. Let's go again."
But as she moved to stand and resume her defensive posture, Charlie Weasley's normally
broad smile suddenly broke. "Hermione, you're bleeding."
A moment later, Charlie's hand reached down, wiping away a trail of blood from Hermione's
nose.
"You don't need to push yourself so hard. It's only been a few months. There's no rush."
She bit back the urge to disagree. To point out that every extra day she took to master
Occlumency was another day exiled from the strategy room. Another day without any
purpose.
But as she studied the genuine concern etched across Charlie's face, she relented.
"Have it your way. Five minutes, then we go again."
Charlie laughed at Hermione's attempt to compromise, moving to plop down beside her.
"And here I thought Hungarian Horntails were stubborn."
"Do you miss them?" Hermione asked, noticing a large, shiny burn scar on his left arm. "The
dragons?"
"All the time. Mum would always harp on me about not coming home enough. But I couldn't
drag myself away from them. Dad understood though. Growing up he used to catch me trying
to turn our owl Errol into a dragon. I didn't have a wand, but I did have Spellotape."
Charlie grinned mischievously at the memory, briefly resembling his twin brothers. "But I
miss a lot of things more than dragons."
Hermione did not need to ask what Charlie meant. She missed them too.
Instead, as Charlie went on to describe his research in Romania, Hermione twirled her wand
in her hands, thinking. It was not actually her wand. The Order generously, and temporarily,
loaned her a cedar wand just for Occlumency lessons. It was mostly a formality. Mastering
Occlumency required mental fortitude, not a physical weapon.
Mastering Occlumency also required a good teacher and willing student. Charlie and
Hermione were a good match. At first, Hermione was surprised when Ginny named her older
brother as her instructor. Until then, Hermione held the biased view that skilled Occlumens
tended to be more furtive, secretive-type wizards and witches. More like Snape. Charlie was
the polar opposite of her former potions professor. Stocky, muscular, and friendly. An open
book.
Of course, Hermione really should not have been that surprised. For the past five years,
Charlie served as one of the Order's most reliable, and one of the few remaining, Scouts.
Hermione may have devised missions, but Charlie carried them out. Unlike Hermione, he
was frequently sent straight into Death Eater-controlled areas. If his mission failed and he
was captured, he needed every tool available to resist interrogation. The fact that Charlie had
not been captured and forced to use his master-level shielding was a windfall, but could not
be taken for granted.
"Okay, Hermione. Five minutes are up, if you're feeling better."
Hermione nodded and resumed her defensive stance.
"Remember. You need to clear your mind, and release all emotion."
She focused, but it went against her very nature not to overthink.
"It might help to visualize something as a way to compartmentalize your thoughts," Charlie
repeated patiently… and for the hundredth time that week.
"I understand the concept in the abstract," Hermione said exasperatedly,"but when it comes to
practical application, I'm no good. Worse than flying a broom."
"Then how about after you master Occlumency, we tackle flying next?" Charlie joked. "But
seriously. It's okay. It just takes time. Plus, there's really not one right way to shield.
Everyone eventually comes up with their own method. Again, mine is visualizing a dragon
pen, divided up into dozens of different sections. Obviously, yours would be something more
personal to you."
Hermione concentrated. Trying once again to reshape her mind into an object. Maybe a
bookshelf? But she saw books as wonderful gateways to knowledge, not heavily-guarded
safes for locking away secrets. She would have to come up with something else. And fast.
"One… Two… Three… Legilimens."
***
As the weeks passed, Hermione began to feel increasingly suffocated by the Order. Yes, she
was healed, fed, and trained. But apart from her daily Occlumency lessons with Charlie, she
was locked in her room, with only visits from Ginny. No one else was allowed to speak with
her, and no one told her anything about the war.
She was left with little to do besides practice Occluding and overthink. The two did not mix.
Hermione had not heard Draco Malfoy's voice since leaving the three-sided prison. The basic
shielding she picked up from months of Occlumency lessons at least offered that much
protection. But her progress was otherwise at a standstill. She could not clear her mind. It felt
as if the harder she tried, the worse she became.
And in the dark, painful memories still tore easily through her mental shields.
She meditated for hours before sleeping, but woke up gasping from nightmares, convinced
that she was back in her damp cell. Convinced that Voldemort finally sent the Dementors to
take her soul. She would scramble in the dark, crushing one shaking hand across her mouth,
while the other searched for the flimsy makeshift blade she used to cling to while she slept.
On the worst nights, she fought the reflex to drop her shields and call out to Draco.
She started sleeping with a lamp on, when she slept at all. It was easier to reorient in the light.
But even if she could not see the Dementors, she could still feel them. She was always cold.
Kissed or not, she had not escaped Azkaban entirely whole. The Dementors stole something
from her. Scraped the marrow from her bones, and replaced it with lead.
Seeing no way to help the Order, or herself, within the claustrophobic confines of her new
cell, Hermione resolved that she would take matters into her own hands.
***
Tap tap tap
Hermione was just tying off the end of her braid when she heard Charlie's voice through the
door.
"Morning, Hermione. You decent?"
"Yes, yes. Come in," said Hermione, adding, "And no need to always ask that."
Charlie's broad frame poked through the door, as if he was visually confirming that Hermione
was indeed "decent."
"Trust me. I didn't used to ask. But after the third Bat-Bogey Hex to the face, you start to pick
up… habits."
"Ginny?" Hermione guessed, recognizing her friend's hex of choice.
"I knew you were smart," Charlie said, smiling at her. "And nice hair. Looks good up like
that."
Hermione finished winding her plait into a tight bun around her hair stick, and moved to join
him still leaning against the door. They began walking down the sandstone hallway to their
training room.
"You pick up a lot of habits with so many siblings. I think part of the reason I understood
shielding so fast was that I self-learned to block out the family racket back before I could
even spell 'Occlumency.' Though, back then I would get this daft expression on my face when
I did it. Fred and George called it 'Stupefy Face.' And Ginny's way to snap me out of it was,
you guessed it, also a Bat-Bogey to the face."
Now Hermione was laughing. Maybe for the first time in more than a year, asking, "How did
Ginny even manage that growing up, underage I mean?"
"Yeah well wouldn't you and the Ministry like to know?" Charlie said, shrugging and holding
open the door to the small practice room where they spent every morning the past months.
"You said you went abroad for the dragons, but I think you may have just been trying to get
out of hexing range," Hermione quipped.
Charlie grinned and handed Hermione her lender wand. "Speaking of hexes, I want to try
something else for today's lesson. Shake things up a bit."
Instead of standing directly in front of Hermione, Charlie stepped back to the far side of the
padded practice room.
"Sometimes, you may be lucky enough to have more than just your mind to fight off a
Legilimens. We should practice that: using magic to stop them before, or even during, an
invasion."
Charlie leaned forward to take his offensive position. Hermione did the same.
"This time, try to keep me out by using a spell. And if I get in, use both your shield and your
wand to kick me back out."
Charlie raised his wand. "Ready?"
Hermione ran through a few fighting spells before nodding. "Ready."
"On the count of three. One… Two… Three."
"Legilimens!"
"Levicorpus!"
For a split second, Hermione felt Charlie's now familiar presence thrust into her mind, but it
quickly receded as he was hoisted into the air.
"Impressive," Charlie said, red strands of hair covering all but an approving smile as he hung
upside down from his ankles.
"Thanks." Hermione released the spell, and Charlie fell gently onto the padding beneath him.
"Let's go ahead and try again," Charlie directed, "but this time only cast a spell after I've
started to enter a memory. Push me out."
They both reset. As Hermione tried to empty herself of all emotions, she felt Charlie's brown
eyes meet hers.
"One… Two… Three... Legilimens."
***
"We need to run!"
"I can't leave him!"
She was dragging Dennis away from his brother, away from the savage feast within the Great
Hall.
"We have to get out. Get to the kitchens! House-elves can help us," Hermione yelled to the
crowd of swarming Order members around her.
"GET EVERYONE TO THE KITCHENS!"
"FOLLOW ME!" George's voice rang out, ahead. "It's just down below!"
They were running.
Stumbling.
Escaping.
Just as she reached the flight of stairs leading beneath the Great Hall, Hermione tripped on
something, and lost hold of Dennis.
"KEEP GOING," she yelled to the still sobbing boy. He obeyed, carried forward by the rush
of people descending the steps.
As Hermione moved to follow, she spotted a clump of jet black hair hovering next to her foot.
She reached down. Afraid to confirm what she suspected. Afraid...
"PROTEGO MAXIMA!"
Hermione felt herself forced back onto the cushioned floor of the training room, the now-
familiar pain tearing through her chest with the memory.
As she righted herself, she saw Charlie laying face-down on the far corner of the room, and
staggered over to him, chest still heaving.
A pulse.
He was fine. Just knocked out by her unnecessarily strong attempt to push him out.
But right as Hermione was about to revive him, she paused. She would not get a better
chance. So she pulled out her hair pin, and let her plait fall loose.
A moment later, she was holding two identical cedar wood wands. She used the original to
cast a Rennervate spell on Charlie, before stowing it in her pocket.
"Argh," Charlie grunted, sitting up and looking at her. "So you're brilliant and dangerous."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, offering a hand to help him back up. "I forgot I wasn't still
fighting at the castle, and went a little overboard."
But there was no anger in his sun-tanned face as he stared at Hermione.
"You were remembering the Battle of Hogwarts weren't you?"
"Yes," she confirmed, looking away.
"I didn't see you there until we were all down in the kitchens and starting to disapparate,"
Charlie reminisced. "But you were brilliant. You saved us all, Hermione. I hope you know
that. You even saved Harry."
She continued to look away. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. I didn't save him when it
mattered most. I was the one under the cloak this time. When he needed me. When they all
needed me."
There. She told him. Laid herself bare.
Charlie never asked why Hermione needed to learn to Occlude, and they both avoided talking
about the battle that led to her capture. No doubt Charlie knew everything from his sister, but
he never brought it up.
"Hermione, you may be smart, but right now you're being incredibly stupid," Charlie said,
firmly. She felt his friendly, warm hand on her back.
"When Kingsley asked me to train you, he took me off all scouting. Said this was more
important. You are more important. To him. To the Order. To all of us."
Charlie moved his palm from her back to rest on her shaking hands with the words.
"That hasn't changed. We are still here, and they would want us to keep trying. Keep fighting.
You're doing all you can. "
Charlie released his grip and turned. "C'mon Hermione. I think we've both had enough today.
I'll take you back and we can start fresh tomorrow."
She followed Charlie down the roughly carved tunnels, still feeling unsettled.
He was wrong. She was not doing enough. Not doing all she could to fix her mistakes.
Still following the Order's suffocating rules.
Always playing by the rules.
So when they were back in her hospital room, and she reached into her pocket to give Charlie
the cedar wand, she made a choice.
And defied one.

The Pure-Blood, The Prisoner
Chapter Notes
TW: Suicidal ideation.
He that is grounded in astrology,
Enriched with tongues, well seen in minerals
Hath all the principles magic doth require
***
"Alohomora."
This time, Hermione heard the door of her hospital room unlock with the tap of her wand.
She cast a disillusionment charm on herself before stepping into the deserted, dimly-lit hall.
In spite of her deception, it felt wonderful and powerful to have her magic back. Freely
available outside of the confines of her lessons. On a whim, she flicked her wand to conjure a
dozen tiny yellow birds, and watched them flit silently around the sandstone corridor.
She followed the birds down the familiar windowless passageway underneath Shell Cottage,
and refocused. As satisfying as it was to indulge in having magic again, that was not why she
stole the wand.
As Hermione snuck through the dark tunnels of the Order's stronghold, she felt a twinge of
loneliness. She did more than her fair share of midnight sleuthing at Hogwarts, but rarely
alone. Ron and Harry were there with her, sometimes all three squeezing under Harry's
Invisibility Cloak. As they all grew taller, it became harder to avoid a stray ankle or arm from
popping out and making one of the ghosts scream. Ron especially could barely fit those last
few years.
Hermione could have used the cloak at the moment. But she could have used her friends
more.
No one would tell her what became of the cloak after the Battle of the Valley. For all she
knew, it still lay right where she had discarded it in her rush to Harry. No one would tell her
what happened to Harry and Ron's bodies either.
As Hermione continued to edge through the empty passageway, she heard voices and stilled,
listening.
"They're planning something big. Jones told me," an unfamiliar voice said.
"Finally. We've barely done anything since You-Know-Who killed 'The Chosen One.' I'm
tired of us all hiding down here like Nifflers."
"You only joined two months ago, and you're still too scared to say 'Voldemort'," chided the
first voice. "Not bloody likely that the Council will let you do anything more than guard duty.
Necromancer would take you out like that."
Hermione heard the sound of fingers snapping.
"I don't need to convince the Council," the second man shot back. "Just Shacklebolt."
"Yeah like that's any easier."
Hermione risked a peek into the hall as she heard the guards' footsteps recede, thinking.
So the Order had done very little in the past year. She doubted that these new recruits held the
security clearance to know about Horcruxes, but they would at least be aware if the Order
made moves. They also confirmed that Kingsley had an even tighter hold on the Council than
before. Again, not surprising given that they had lost so many over the last few years, Harry
and Ron were dead, and she was also fairly sure that Moody was still missing in action.
Hermione was still mulling over the information when she arrived at the Order's small library
two floors down. She tapped the handle and slid inside, making sure to relock the door
behind her. Turning, she breathed in the comforting, dusty scent of the room, stuffed to the
brim with books.
When the Order carved out the ground beneath Bill and Fleur's cottage to use as a base,
Hermione had been the one to push to include this library. If she was not in meetings, she was
almost always here, pouring over charts and books. Even then she rarely went above ground.
George started calling the cramped library "Hermione's Room," and the name stuck.
Hermione ran her fingers along a row of leathery spines, easily locating what she was looking
for since the library was so small. As she pulled out every book available on ancient
wizarding families, she bit back a feeling of guilt, recalling that this section was taken
entirely from Kingsley's personal collection.
Hermione knew Kingsley would not approve of what she was doing, but she was sure that
researching pure-blood families was critical to understanding the Necromancer. While she
did not trust intelligence extracted from a Death Eater, it was all she had to work with at the
moment. She should at least confirm its potential accuracy with the resources the Order had
available. She had no indication that Kingsley was willing to trust, use, or even consider her
report. But he was clearly still determined to expose the Necromancer. If Hermione wanted to
regain Kingsley's trust, she had to deliver what he wanted most.
So she had spent much of the past few months since her confrontation with the Order's leader
thinking through every answer Malfoy gave that could implicate the Necromancer.
A summoner with the dark power to kill and turn hundreds with a single curse was almost
certainly a Death Eater that Voldemort kept as close to him as possible. Maybe Voldemort
even taught the Necromancer how to control Inferi in the first place. The most logical place
to start was researching the family histories of members of Voldemort's inner circle: all pure-
bloods. She would start there—with the names burned into her memory.
The first title Hermione chose was The Pure-Blood Directory. She only ever skimmed the
book before, passing it off as blood purity propaganda. But she recalled that other wizarding
history books said this was the first text to name the "Sacred Twenty-Eight"—the magical
families still deemed truly pure-blood by the 1930s. She also knew that even at the time of its
publication, the book sparked controversy. Critics accused its anonymous author of using the
list to push their own agenda, as the list appeared to purposefully exclude families with pro-
Muggle ideals. But since Hermione viewed the entire concept of blood supremacy as pure
nonsense, she forced down her disgust, and opened the first yellowed page to read.
"This humble writer's solitary purpose in compiling the account herein is to record the names
and histories of England's oldest and purest magical houses. For we cannot continue to
guard our sacred traditions if we do not remember the fastidiousness of our forefathers. It is
indisputable and fortuitous that the families named herein have proudly preserved the
heritage and blood of their ancestors for centuries…"
Hermione grimaced as she skipped the rest of the preface to turn to the twenty-eight names
listed on the next page. She recognized many of them. Of course, Shacklebolt was listed—
one of his pure-blood "forefathers" was probably turning in his grave with the knowledge that
a descendent donated his collection to lead a group opposing pure-blood supremacy.
Hermione also ruled out other names, knowing that they only had only wizards and witches
that would never serve Voldemort: Abbott, Longbottom, Ollivander, Prewett, Weasley.
She then crossed off the names of bloodlines that she believed ended with no direct male
heirs: Black, Crouch, Gaunt, Rosier.
After reading through the list several times, she was left with eighteen names.
Avery
Bulstrode
Burke
Carrow
Fawley
Flint
Greengrass
Lestrange
Macmillan
Malfoy
Nott
Parkinson
Rowle
Selwyn
Shafiq
Slughorn
Travers
Yaxley
Many of these families included Death Eaters, while Malfoy even named some as members
of Voldemort's inner circle. Hermione decided to start with the latter, since she suspected that
they had the highest likelihood of having some connection to the Mouth of the Dark Lord.
Hermione also added "Malfoy" to her shortlist. Despite Draco's claim that no one in his
family was part of the inner circle, Kingsley clearly, and reasonably, suspected a Malfoy was
the Necromancer.
Hermione was more conflicted. While she felt betrayed after learning that Draco had misled
her about his identity and position, his deception could be harmless, at least to the Order.
But if Draco was the Necromancer, and manipulated her as part of a sick strategy to destroy
the Order, then she really was compromised. Hermione tried not to go down that path. The
idea that she let a mass murderer inside of her head, inside of her heart, for a year made her
feel used. Dirty.
But she needed to learn the truth, regardless of Kingsley and her own feelings.
Regardless of the consequences.
***
Hermione fell into a new routine. She spent the mornings practicing Occlumency with
Charlie. While she continued to excel in repelling his invasions using spells, she still
struggled to force him out with just her mind.
In the daytime, Ginny visited her, eventually bringing Luna and Neville, who Hermione was
enormously relieved to see survived the past year. In between visits, she meditated, practiced
her still rusty spell work, and poured over research from the night before.
At night, she disillusioned herself and snuck down to the library.
Hermione's research, unfortunately, was proving as frustrating as her Occlumency lessons.

She worked her way halfway down the shortlist, with little to show for it. In addition to
reading each Death Eater's family history in The Pure-Blood Directory, she cross referenced
other atrocious books from Kingsley's collection: The Magical Are the Mighty. Honor Our
Ancestors. Blood Purity: A History.
The only thing she took away from her efforts was an even firmer conviction that blood
supremacy was dangerous, but not unprecedented, hogwash.
Growing up as a Muggle, Hermione learned about the consequences of building a movement

based on prejudice: she learned about World War II and a similarly bigoted regime. Reading
book after book filled with barely disguised prejudice dating back through the centuries
confirmed that the Muggle and wizarding worlds suffered from the same disease.
Moreover, the effects of Voldemort's second rise increasingly seeped into the non-magical
world. There were too many unexplained, unnatural disasters to chalk up to mere
coincidence. Worse yet, Voldemort reached the Muggle Prime Minister faster than the Order.
Shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts, Kingsley and Hestia Jones found out that the Prime
Minister attended several meetings with Pius Thicknesse, Minister for Magic controlled by
Voldemort's Imperius Curse. Within forty-eight hours, the Ministry officially designated the
Order of the Phoenix a terrorist organization in both Muggle and magical England. No
member of the Order returned to work for the Ministry after that. They were all forced into
the shadows. Being caught meant either imprisonment and interrogation, or immediate
execution.
An unexpected side effect was that the broader community learned about the Order—their
names and faces were plastered up and down Diagon Alley. Those with half a brain and any
reason to fight against Voldemort's puppet regimes connected the dots, and reached out. The
Order grew exponentially. Muggle-borns especially flocked to the resistance to avoid
persecution by the Registration Commission.
At first, money and supplies were major issues—after all, working legitimate jobs was
impossible for "terrorists." Fortunately, wealthy members like Kingsley tapped into their
entire family fortunes to fund the resistance. Gringotts and its Goblins were neutral to all
parties. And eventually, the Order began receiving foreign assistance and financing from
governments standing against Voldemort's growing regime. MACUSA in particular was one
of their largest backers.
For those next five years, the Order continued to wage an invisible war that became more
public every day.
***
She was staring longingly at a small stone bowl of water resting on the ground beside her
bed. Her head was pounding, begging her to reach out for the bowl. To drink.
For days, she would wrap shaking fingers around the stone and raise it to her lips, only to
put the untouched water down a moment later.
It was better this way. If she drank, then she had to feel again. And if she had to feel, then she
would feel the Dementors.
Any physical suffering was worth the price to feel nothing.
So she drank in the feeling of emptiness like water.
"Nooooo! GET OUT."
Now she was screaming, brandishing an improvised prison knife that was not there to ward
off Azkaban guards that were not there.
A moment later she felt strong arms around her, and she collapsed into Charlie, sobbing.
"Hey, it's okay Hermione. It's okay," Charlie murmured into her hair.
"You're safe now, not in Azkaban. They can't get you anymore. Never again. I promise."
"It... it's not the Dementors," Hermione sobbed. "They... weren't... what scared me the most."
"Then what was it?" Charlie probed, gently.
"I was scared of myself… I was so tired. It… I stopped feeling anything. After a while, I
wanted to stop existing. I wanted them to take my soul."
Hermione shook with the words she just confessed into Charlie's shirt collar.
They both sat on the floor for a while after that, sharing a bar of chocolate that Charlie
summoned for Hermione's inner Dementors. Eventually he spoke.
"I know that was painful. But you did it. Shielded, and pushed me out with just your mind."
Hermione was floored. "I did? I thought you released me yourself..."
"No. And you didn't use a charm of hex to physically do it this time either," Charlie
explained. Then asked, "So how did you do it?"
Hermione tried to stop shaking and thought. "Azkaban, was the only place where I stopped
thinking. The Dementors tortured me to the point where I stopped feeling anything. I wanted
to feel nothing until..."
She caught herself. For some reason still unwilling to talk to Charlie about the person who
finally pulled her mind out of the darkness.
Charlie caught the pause, but let it go, saying, "I can't imagine how hard it was to be trapped
in Azkaban for that long, and to get to that point. But you're safe now, Hermione. And maybe
you even just found a way to use what you went through. To use Azkaban."
Hermione blinked, confused, so he explained.
"You can try to use that fortress—that sense of nothingness—to trap your memories in and
keep everyone else out. To imprison your thoughts. To Occlude."
Considering his words, Hermione closed her eyes and cleared her mind.
An island surrounded by the churning sea, guarded by an unrelenting storm. An impossibly

high triangular tower, only accessible by a thin slit set into its face. An endless maze of dark
corridors and winding passageways. A cell, unreachable and isolated.
A prisoner. Hidden, alone, and full of secrets.
***
A week later, Hermione could Occlude on command. She never exactly "cleared her mind."
No. She forcefully imprisoned every dangerous thought deep within the fortress in her mind.
Locked every shred of covert information about herself and the Order in her dark Azkaban
cell, and threw away the key.
But at night, as she began to lock her mind inside that familiar cell and fade into the
emptiness of sleep, sometimes she would feel another person locked in with her.
A comforting, terrifying voice reminding her that she was never truly alone.
That she still was not alone.

Sweet Bitterness
Ay, we must die an everlasting death
***
"If this war ever ends and you get out of Azkaban, where is the first place you would go?"
"I'm not answering that question," she snarled.
"I'm not trying to hunt you down or anything. If your precious Order wins the war, I doubt I
would still be alive to find you," he shot back, voice tense.
Hermione did not respond right away, and instead rubbed the scars on her ankles. Lately,
Lucius's daily requests had been getting more and more intrusive, and her suspicions were
growing in turn. Explaining about her coffee preferences or favorite brand of trainers was
one thing, but giving him details about her future was another. Not that she truly expected a
future outside these walls.
Finally, she spoke hollowly, "I want to walk again, so I would go to a healer."
"Ah. Right."
"I can guess where you would go, Lucius."
"Straight to hell?" he goaded.
"No," Hermione replied smartly, not taking the bait. "No, I think you would go to your house
in Tenby. To the sea."
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
***
"What happened to Harry and Ron?"
Neville frowned at her from across the Wizard chess board between them. "What do you
mean?"
"Their bodies," Hermione probed cautiously. "What happened to them after the battle?"
"I'm sorry, Hermione, but you know I can't tell you that."
She sighed. Luna and Ginny dodged the same question earlier that week.
"I just need to know that Voldemort didn't take them."
Neville reached his hand down to move a rook, not looking at her.
"Never mind," Hermione apologized. "I won't make you tell me anything you aren't supposed
to. I shouldn't have asked. I know the Order still thinks I'm… a risk"
Neville did not meet her eyes, speaking his next words into the chess board.
"I don't think you're crazy, Hermione."
"I know," Hermione replied gratefully, thinking of Neville's parents in their own hospital
room a few doors down—physically safe, but forever trapped in a child-like state after being
tortured by Death Eaters. Damaged, empty shells of their former selves, unable to recognize
their own son.
"I'm glad you're still here," Hermione told him. I know I wasn't the only one that suffered the
year after Harry and Ron died. And you've visited me most out of everyone."
Neville finally met her eyes, his own wavering.
"I'll figure out some way for you to see them."
***
Neville was good for his word. The next morning, Charlie marched Hermione past their
practice room, and toward a spiral staircase that led up to Shell Cottage.
"How did Neville manage it?" Hermione asked.
"He told Kingsley that he's been visiting you for months, and you never once gave him a
reason to think you would hurt the Order," Charlie explained.
"Then Longbottom went and dragged me into it. Made me explain that I'd been reading your
mind for months too and haven't seen anything concerning. Plus, I told Kingsley that you've
basically mastered Occlumency at this point. Hermione Granger, the bloody walking mental
fortress."
Charlie sent a cheeky grin back to Hermione a few steps below him.
"Also told him that I would keep an eye on you myself. Make sure Voldemort didn't steal you
back the second we got outside."
"Well thanks to you both," Hermione said, speeding to catch up with Charlie.
When they reached the top of the staircase, Charlie took out his wand to cast a series of
nullifying charms over what looked more like the entrance to a Gringotts vault than an exit.
He pushed open the door, holding his wand out ahead. The room was tiny and covered by a
fine layer of dust. After Hermione stepped into the room, Charlie closed the door behind
them, which now resembled a battered pantry. Spiderwebs stretched between toppled chairs
and a small chandelier topped with grubby candle stubs still resting in their sockets.
"Expecto Patronum," Charlie whispered, and Hermione caught a glimpse of a small, silvery
dragon before it flew straight through the pebbled cottage wall.
"I know the whole place is still under Bill's Fidelius Charm, but I like to be careful," Charlie
explained, watching his Patronus circling the yard through a shattered window.
"What type of dragon is that?" Hermione asked.
"Peruvian Vipertooth."
Hermione thought back to Care of Magical Creatures. "That's the… smallest and fastest
breed, right?"
"Yep," Charlie replied. "But one of the deadliest. It's not all about size."
As if hearing the compliment, the glowing silver Vipertooth flew back into the room and
through the tip of Charlie's wand.
"All clear. C'mon, Hermione," Charlie said, holding the front door open for her.
Hermione was hit with an overwhelming sense of loss as she stepped out into the bright
sunlight, cascading across the grassy plateau. She had not seen the sun in almost eighteen
months. Had not felt warm that entire time. Was not even sure if she could anymore.
Charlie took her hand and started guiding them through the overgrown hedges flanking the
threshold.
The cottage was set atop a cliff overlooking a blue-gray ocean. Even in its deceptively
abandoned state, it was still lovely. Embedded with seashells whitewashed by the cool, salty
wind. A beautiful and lonely cottage hiding hundreds of living, breathing secrets deep within.
"They're this way," Charlie explained, pulling Hermione gently through the rusty gate. "In the
garden."
She followed Charlie, half-blinded by the sun, until he stopped in front of three large white
stones set between bushes. Hermione lowered to her knees in front of the stones, suddenly
feeling very heavy.
"I'll give you a moment."
Hermione listened to Charlie's steps fade as she read.
Here lies Dobby, a free elf
Ronald Bilius Weasley, beloved friend and son
Harry James Potter, brave through the end
She always expected danger. They risked their lives together for years. Ever since the two
idiots charged headfirst into a girl's bathroom to rescue her from a cave troll while the rest of
the school ran away.
Their lives since that point felt almost episodic. Every year they would return to Hogwarts,
uncover some new mystery, and escape death again. And again. And again. And again. They
were invincible. Until they weren't.
Hermione sank down onto the graves, and fell apart.
***
At some point, Charlie returned and knelt in the spongy grass beside her.
"I thought you might want these," he said, holding out bunches of brightly-colored
wildflowers.
"Thank you."
"I should tell you something else," Charlie continued, reaching to help Hermione spread the
stems.
"Harry's grave is empty. We never found his body."
"Voldemort took it?"
"Yes."
"Thank you for telling me," Hermione said, her voice hollow.
An hour later, Hermione and Charlie sat on the windswept grass watching the ebb and flow
of the sea. The salt from countless tears still stained her face and mixed with the briny ocean
air, but she felt lighter after seeing the graves. After saying goodbye.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "It's selfish of me to have dragged you up here. You lost Ron too.
You lost..."
"Half my family," Charlie finished. "And we haven't even won the war yet."
Hermione watched him crush a blade of grass between his burn-scarred fingers, before he
spoke again.
"Trust me, I've gone through all the stages. Anger at the Death Eaters that took them from
me. Denial that they are really gone. Guilt that I wasted years in Romania away from them
that I can't get back."
Charlie took a deep breath.
"I lied to you, Hermione. I don't think of a dragon pen when I Occlude. I think of the Burrow.
I imagine it once the war ends and they're all gone. Once I'm truly alone. I think of how
empty it feels."
Comforting words weren't nearly enough for this grief. Instead, Hermione dropped her head
against Charlie's broad shoulder. And finally felt warm.
***
They stayed on the cliffside for the rest of the afternoon. Looking out into the open sky,
soaking in the sunlight, relishing the cold, salty air on their faces. It was not until nearly
twilight that they reluctantly began their hike to the cottage.
"So what now?" asked Hermione.
"We go back down to base?" Charlie responded, confused at her question.
"No, I mean what do we do now that I'm… what did you call me… a 'walking mental
fortress'?"
"Ah," said Charlie, laughing. "I guess that's up to you. There's nothing left I can teach you
about Occlumency."
Hermione spoke before she could think.
"Then teach me to fly."
Charlie looked down at her, taken aback. But Hermione pressed on.
"You said that after I master Occlumency, we would tackle flying. So teach me to fly. I
should learn."
"Hah," snorted Charlie. "Only if you promise me that once you learn, you won't fly away."
"Teach me first," Hermione responded with a smile, "Then you'll see."
***
She sat cross-legged on the floor of the library, surrounded by books—a position she had
maintained for hours as she poured over every book the Order had on pure-bloods.
That night, she finally reached the end of both her shortlist and the entire list of names in the
Sacred Twenty-Eight, but found nothing.
Unsure of where to look next, and farther from identifying the Necromancer than ever, she
resorted to reading through her jumble of handwritten notes, trying to find any pattern within
the mess. Her impressions looked like the scribblings of a madwoman.
Pure-Bloods almost always marry within Sacred Twenty-Eight. Used to preserve bloodlines,
property, and legacy assets tied to lines.
Rodolphus Lestrange is the brother of Rabastan Lestrange, sons of Reinhard Lestrange.

Married to Bellatrix Lestrange, sister to Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks, daughters of
Cygnus Black III
Last Macnair line had only brothers Walden and Elliad. Walden was a Ministry executioner;
died. Brother???
Amycus and Alecto Carrow are siblings. Fought in the first war. Abandoned Voldemort after
fall. Rejoined during the second war; appointed to Hogwarts.
Theodore Nott son of Cantankerus Nott. Father assumed to have authored book "Sacred
Twenty-Eight."
Yaxley related to the Black and Flint families. Distantly related to Gamp, Burke, Bulstrode,
Longbottom, Weasley, and Crouch lines.
Studying the Malfoy family proved interesting, but equally frustrating.
Lucius Malfoy I—believed to have been unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Elizabeth I.
Historians claim Queen's subsequent opposition to marriage was due to a jinx placed upon
her by Malfoy.
Malfoys became wealthiest family in wizarding Britain. Own multiple companies, including
Malfoy Apothecary.
Descendant Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxas, husband of Narcissa Malfoy née Black. Only
child is Draco Lucius Malfoy, most direct living male heir of both Malfoy and Black lines.
Hermione shoved her notes into a pile, defeated. She was no closer to connecting any of these
families to the Necromancer than when she started.
She was still lost in thought as she walked through the deserted tunnels back to her room.
Concentrating so hard that she walked straight into the solid chest of the person standing
outside of her hospital room door.
Hermione stumbled backwards, and looked up to meet Kingsley's dark eyes.
"Miss Granger. Out for a midnight stroll, I see."
Hermione gulped. She had completely forgotten to disillusion herself before leaving the
library. But before she could explain herself, Kingsley turned sharply and began striding
down the corridor, gesturing her to follow.
Neither spoke until they stepped into the cave-like room that was Kingsley's office. The room
more closely resembled an ornate nest, its walls bedecked in rich purple and deep blue
patterned tapestries. A roughly-cut slab of black granite sat atop a thick Persian rug in the
middle of the room, like a massive egg resting at the nest's center.
"Please have a seat," Kingsley said, taking his own place behind the desk.
Even once she was seated, Kingsley continued to silently watch Hermione, elbows resting on
the stone surface. Hermione shuffled nervously. She had spent countless hours in the familiar,
flashy study prior to her capture, learning under Kingsley's careful mentorship, and
eventually forming her own ideas and plans.
The room looked the same, but they had changed. There was an abject distance wider than
the granite obelisk separating them.
Eventually, he spoke.
"I have been receiving regular reports about your progress from Charlie Weasley and your
friends."
"Yes. I've practiced Occlumency every day," Hermione responded, adding, "And thank you
for letting me see Ginny, Neville, and Luna. And for letting me visit the graves."
Kingsley nodded, then asked firmly, "Would you like to tell me what you were doing in the
Order's library this evening, and every evening?"
"You knew?"
Hermione's heart sank. She had been planning to tell Kingsley eventually… but only after she
found enough about the Necromancer to justify disobeying the Order; for disobeying his
orders.
"I was trying to learn more about the Necromancer by looking into the history of pure-blood
families, especially the members of Voldemort's inner circle," Hermione confessed, then
added, "and the Malfoys."
Kingsley's inky eyes bored into hers—pupils fully dilated. "And did you find anything?"
"No. Not yet. I still don't know who the Necromancer is, or if… I was speaking with him in
Azkaban."
"I'm not surprised. I personally reviewed all the Order's texts on pure-bloods and blood
supremacy years ago."
"Then why did you let me sneak out and do the same?" Hermione asked.
Kingsley considered before answering,"I wanted to see what you learned. And more
importantly, what you would do with that knowledge."
There it was again. Kingsley's lack of trust in his former protégé. More pronounced to her
and the entire Order than a Dark Mark hanging in the sky.
But Hermione had enough. She had to fix this. To fix them.
"Kingsley, the last time I sat in this exact chair, in this exact room, I made you a promise."
Kingsley did not answer. Instead he stood and crossed to the far side of his office, to look into
the stone bowl set into the wall, his face illuminated by the light of a Pensieve within.
Hermione begged, "l remember that promise, Kingsley. I remember my Unbreakable Vow.
What it means. What it cost me. But do you?"
Kingsley spoke without turning, his head still bent down toward the Pensieve.
"I do. And I have regretted it every day since I asked you to make it."
Now Hermione was sobbing. Her heart silently begging Kingsley to turn and look at her as
she cried, "If you remember, then how could you still not trust me? I'm still here. The very
fact that I'm still here is proof enough that I have not, and will never, betray the Order."
No response.
So Hermione stood and shouted, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'VE
GIVEN YOU AND THE ORDER EVERYTHING!"
She stormed across the room to Kingsley, yelling, "I PAID FOR MY MISTAKE. FOR A
WHOLE YEAR I PAID THE PRICE IN AZKABAN. AND IF I BREAK OUR VOW, I
WILL PAY AN EVEN HIGHER PRICE."
Chest heaving, Hermione finally looked down to see what Kingsley was so intent on
watching.
Within the stone bowl of the Pensieve she saw a younger version of herself, silently pleading
with a younger version of the man beside her. Yelling words she could not hear, but would
never forget, because they were tied to her very life.
Suddenly, a drop hit the smooth surface, leaving a cascade of silvery ripples.
Hermione looked up, and saw another tear fall from Kingsley's eye.
Flying, Falling
Chapter Notes
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. Hope you enjoy.
His waxen wings did mount above his reach
***
Hermione Granger was wrong.
She was actually far worse at flying than she ever was at Occlumency. And Charlie would not
let her forget it.
Week 1
"Why are you standing like that? It's a broomstick, not a Thestral. HAH! Feet closer
together."
"I'd rather be riding a Thestral," Hermione snapped, "Sorry if I trust living creatures more
than cleaning supplies."
They were back on the grassy cliffs outside of Shell Cottage, leaning into wind so fierce that
it already tore a few twigs off the end of Hermione's broom.
"And why can't we do this anywhere else? I'm going to blow right off the edge into the
ocean," she added with a grumble.
Charlie laughed and knelt beneath her to adjust her stance. Hermione's eyes drifted down to
watch him, noting that his windswept red hair and fitted crimson riding leathers, cut off at the
shoulders to expose his burn-scarred arm, created the impression that he just stepped off the
back of a dragon instead of a broomstick.
"Wouldn't you rather fall into water instead of the ground?" he asked reasonably.
Hermione growled, "I'd rather not fall at all, actually."
Charlie moved to tighten the straps on her knee-high riding boots, before responding, "I
promise when you fall, I'll catch you."
"WHEN?" asked Hermione, insulted. "I think you mean IF."

Charlie just stood and smiled. "I know what I said. Now c'mon, Hermione. Remember, you
were the one who begged me to teach you to fly."
Week 2
After Hermione improved her riding posture, Charlie worked on getting her more
comfortable with speed. First, he demonstrated how to zip close to the ground, feet grazing
the blades of grass covering the plateau, body tilted forward into the wind instead of stick
straight. He had her run drills up and down the plain, slowly gaining speed with each lap,
shouting instructions every time she passed him.
But he had the audacity to roll on the ground, laughing, when he saw her idea of "going fast."
"I've seen butterflies go faster than you, Hermione. If you're going to fly that slowly, then just
walk."
"I don't even remember why I asked you to teach me to fly anymore," Hermione yelled back
—her voice easily reaching Charlie since she only made it thirty feet down the field.
"Apparition and Floo powder are just better in every way."
Charlie propped himself back up, grinning ear-to-ear. "If I can still hear you, that means
you're not going at full speed. And anyways, you may not always be able to use those 'better'
ways to travel. Might not have a wand or fireplace handy."
Hermione started to zip back toward Charlie as he added, "Plus you look way better on a
broom than spinning in a circle or covered in soot."
Hermione proceeded to crash headfirst into her teacher.
Week 3
The third week was the worst. After tackling speed, they moved on to height.
"Absolutely not!" yelled Hermione.
They were standing, shoulder to shoulder, on the edge of the cliff, blue-gray waves gently
rolling in to crash against the rocks below.
"The wind is the calmest it's been all month. It's now or never."
"Then never!"
Charlie let out an exaggerated sigh, and stepped even closer until their arms touched. So
close that Hermione could feel his smooth burn scar against her skin. "How about we make a
deal? If you do what I want and fly off this cliff, I'll do whatever you want?"
Hermione put on a show of consideration, before inching away from him and saying, "Yeah,
no."
Charlie closed the distance again, this time leaning down until his deep hazel eyes found
hers.
"Then how about, if you fly off this cliff, I won't tell Kingsley that you stole your
Occlumency wand?"
Hermione caught her breath, stepping away again. "What… no I did not… How did you
figure it out?"
"You think I can't tell the difference between a transfigured stick and a wand? Of course I
knew."
Hermione looked at Charlie's riding boots instead of his face, as she said, "Please don't tell
Kingsley. He's barely starting to trust me again."
Charlie sighed. "It's a joke, Hermione. I'm sure you had a good reason for taking it. That's
why I never said anything back then. And I still won't now."
But with the promise, he grabbed her hand tightly, tugged them even closer to the cliffside,
and said, "Next time, just don't knock me out to do it."
Then he pulled them both over the edge.
They were flying, soaring through the cold October air, cutting a path right over the
shimmering sea, salty air tickling their faces.
At first, Hermione flew straight forward, barely above the waves, focusing on maintaining
her balance and height, and trying to ignore Charlie swooping above and below her as nimbly
as his Peruvian Vipertooth Patronus. But as the minutes passed, and she stayed upright, she
grew more confident and started to copy Charlie's more advanced movements.
Soon, she was speeding right behind, tailing him. He would bank left, and she would follow.
He would dip, dragging the toes of his riding boots to carve a trail through the seafoam, and
she would try the same.
It was fun, following Charlie. He seemed to know exactly where to go next. His broad,
stocky frame tunneled a path through the strong wind, so that the closer to him she kept, the
easier it was to fly.
It made her feel alive.
***
"Told you I'd catch you."
They were laying on their sides, back on the green carpeted cliffside, chests heaving from
equal parts adrenaline and laughter. After an hour of maneuvers, Hermione had tried to
mimic Charlie's vertical spiral and dropped right off her broom toward the waves crashing
below. Charlie indeed swooped down and swept her into his arms like a fallen Quaffle.
After they recovered her bedraggled broom from the craggy beach below the cliff, Charlie
flew them both back up on his broom until they lost their balance and tumbled onto the
grassy bluff, laughing.
"You're the one who dragged me off the cliff in the first place," Hermione gasped between
snorts. "I still can't believe you did that. Wait until I tell Ginny!"
"No!" shouted Charlie, rolling over to his other side to face Hermione, "You can't tell her. I
don't think my nose can take it."
"What?" Hermione asked, studying Charlie's sun-tanned, freckled face in amused confusion.
"There's a reason they always say Bill is the good-looking one," Charlie grinned, pointing at
his slightly bent nose. "You can only have so many bats flying out of your nostrils before the
damage becomes permanent."
Hermione reached out her hand toward his face, asking, "Do you want me to try to fix it? I
know some healing spells."
Charlie caught her fingers before they reached his nose, but instead of letting them go, he
wrapped her hand tightly in his, and let their entwined hands fall softly into the grass between
them.
"No need. I think you've fixed enough."
***
They walked back like that—one hand joined—while the other held onto a broomstick.
Neither spoke on the way back, until they reached the base of the spiral staircase under Shell
Cottage. Charlie had just opened his mouth to say something when they both heard a dreamy
voice call out.
"Hello, Hermione! Hello, Charlie! Nice brooms. Were you practicing high-speed
Occlumency today?"
They turned.
Luna and Ginny were standing at the end of an adjoining corridor. While Luna's face was
painted with a vague, friendly smile, Ginny wore a smirk.
Ginny spoke before either could answer. "No, I'd say they were up to something else."
"We were practicing flying," Hermione said sheepishly, freeing her hand from Charlie's and
stepping toward her friends. "I fell and Charlie saved me, and then we were just… well… he
just wanted to make sure I was okay."
Ginny's smirk grew as she yelled an order over Hermione's shoulder. "Go find something else
to do, second-oldest brother, we're taking her with us for a chat."
As Ginny pulled her down the tunnel, Luna skipping behind, Hermione mused that she was
getting a little tired of being dragged around by Weasleys that day.
Ginny yanked Hermione through the carved passageways, down flights of stairs, between
groups of confused Order members. At one point, Hermione was sure she heard Neville and
Seamus Finnigan call out to them, but Ginny did not slow their pace until they reached
Hermione's room. Earlier that week, Kingsley finally returned her freedom of movement and
her old room, so she was happily out of the hospital wing.
But the redhead did not speak until the door was shut and all three witches perched on
Hermione's narrow cot.
"So… now will you tell us what is really going on between you and Charlie?" Ginny asked at
last.
Hermione did not meet Ginny's prying eyes, instead she bought time to gather her thoughts
by looking everywhere else. The space was a bit larger than her hospital room, but stuffed to
the brim with books. George liked to call it "Hermione's Backup Library," and the name also
fit. She, Luna, and Ginny opted to sit on the cot pushed into a corner out of necessity because
Hermione could not fit a chair, or even a free spot of floor, amidst the stacks.
Finally, Hermione responded in a small voice, "I don't know."
"It's okay not to know," Luna reassured her, "There are so many things I don't, but that just
makes the exploration so much more magical, don't you think?"
Ginny, however, pushed harder. "Do you fancy him?"
Hermione put her hand in her jacket pocket, and anxiously gripped her stolen cedar wand as
she thought.
With Charlie, she felt safe. For the past five years, that feeling of security was something that
she barely recognized. In Azkaban, even with Draco's companionship, Hermione almost
always felt unsafe. Comforted, but not comfortable. Confused, and teetering on the edge of
something dangerous.
But more than that, Charlie reminded her of Ron.
Aside from some childish feelings of interest throughout the years, and Ron's obvious
jealousy about her Yule Ball date with Viktor Krum, there had been little more than deep
friendship between them. They shared a desperate kiss in the Chamber of Secrets during the
Battle of Hogwarts, but there had never been another. They changed after that. Their world
changed. The war continued, and romance was the farthest thing from Hermione's mind. Ron
may have made attempts to rekindle her feelings. A hand squeeze here and there. Flowers in
her room. But she ignored them. Hermione and most of the Order knew the harsh reality of
their situation. Love was a weakness. A weapon that the Necromancer could use in battle.
She learned that when Lupin and Hagrid tried to kill her; when Harry could not bring himself
to put loved ones down. Had ended his relationship with Ginny for that very reason.
No, after that, Hermione did not even entertain the idea of more than friendship with Ron.
And even then she tried to maintain some distance. It grew easier, as she mostly kept to
Headquarters, and Harry and Ron went out on missions, joined fights.
But something changed within Hermione after seeing Harry and Ron die in front of her; after
being isolated in a prison for so long with only a voice in her head, Hermione yearned for a
physical presence. For consistency, warmth, and maybe even a little joy.
"He fancies you, Hermione," Ginny stated matter-of-factly, interrupting her train of thought.
"He has for months."
"I've seen it too..." said Luna dreamily. "He begged Kingsley to take you up to the cottage to
see Harry and Ron's graves, and as soon as you came back, begged Kingsley to let him teach
you to fly."
"What?" stammered Hermione, "I thought Neville was the one who asked about the graves..."
"Charlie asked. The rest of us just piped in. Kingsley listens more to Charlie, you see. Since
he's older and more experienced."
Ginny bit back a smirk. "So you fancy older boys, then?"
Hermione looked pointedly away, until Ginny spoke again, her tone serious.
"He's good for you, Hermione."
Suddenly, Hermione felt herself fighting to hold back tears. Overwhelmed by everything. But
eventually, she put her inner turmoil into words.
"I don't think I deserve good anymore."
***
They were tied together and marched up to wrought-iron gates at the end of a country lane.
Desolate, except for a ghostly white peacock picking at the lawn beyond.
"We've got Potter! We've captured Harry Potter," Greyback roared.
The gates swung open, scraping along the gravel path with a long creak. They were dragged
toward the face of a handsome manor house, flanked by neatly-trimmed rows of dark green
hedges. Their grunts and the snatchers' rough jeers were softened by the splash of an unseen
fountain.
"Bring them in… My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holiday. If that is Harry Potter, he
will know."
They were flung into an ornate drawing room. Rows of moving portraits hung on deep purple
walls flickered from the light of a marble fireplace set against the wall.
"They say they've got Harry Potter. Draco, come here."

Her eyes fell on him as he rose from one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. She saw
that he looked different. Older. Taller. White-blond hair casually falling over one side of his
sharp face rather than slicked back. For a heart beat, his piercing, icy gray eyes met hers,
before he turned to Harry.
"Well, Draco? Is it Harry Potter?
"I can't be sure."
"Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?"
"I don't know."
Cruel voices continued to argue and bicker, until, "Take these prisoners down to the cellar…
except for the Mudblood."
Bellatrix dragged her by the hair into the center of the room, and threw her roughly onto her
back. Her eyes blinked as they struggled to adjust to the light of a glittering crystal
chandelier above. Then the knife began carving into the flesh of her arm as Bellatrix
screeched questions into her tear-stained face.
"You are a lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! What else did you take? What else have you
got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"
She screamed and writhed so violently against the hard floor that bruises formed on her
shoulders and head. But she refused to look at Bellatrix, focusing instead on the hundreds of
screaming Hermiones distorted in the crystal chandelier above.
"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"
Her body erupted in pain at the curse. A stabbing pain that radiated through every nerve.
Reverberated through every bone. And as soon as the pain started to recede, she felt the tip of
the blade digging back into her skin, torturously tracing cuts into her arm; the agony more
excruciating with every crude letter.
M...U...D...B...L...O...O...D
Bellatrix forced her face away from the chandelier, pinning the side of her head into the
ground as she shot another Cruciatus Curse through her body.
But at this angle, she saw him again.
He knelt on the floor in front of her; his gray eyes pierced hers as savagely as the knife
digging into her skin.
His mouth formed word after word she could not hear over her cries of agony.
***
"I should have saved you… I'm selfish. I'll always be selfish. You deserve more. I'm so sorry."
A searing pain rippled through Hermione's entire body; remnants of torture carved into her
soul as permanently as the letters on her arm.
But as Hermione felt the tide of the dream recede, she realized that she heard Draco's words
at last. This time, she understood the words he spoke that were rendered incomprehensible
that day, smothered by her screams. Words that she could never quite make out in her
nightmares of Malfoy Manor… until now.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione."
And now that she knew his words at last, they continued to ring through her mind. She felt so
empty at the thought that these echoes of his voice were all she had left of him.
Hermione sat up, and cried out, "Draco! Draco, answer me!"
She did not try to pull her Occlumency shields up. She continued to shout for Draco Malfoy.
She knew he was there. Had felt him lurking in the Azkaban in her mind. Speaking the words
that she could not understand five years ago.
"Draco, I know you're there!"
But he was gone, and now she heard and felt… nothing. As if his words were a poison and
hers the cure. She needed to hear him again. Not just to prove that she was sane, but to prove
that she was not alone.
How could she move on and find happiness when there was such emptiness within her soul?
How could she spend half a year pretending that he did not exist, that he was her enemy,
when he was the only person who bore the burden of her darkest moments, her sickest
thoughts?
He was not her savior. He was not her salvation. He did not rescue her from that prison.
No. Draco locked himself in with her.
But then she left.
And he was gone.

The Elf and the Red Cloth
Alas, poor slave! See how poverty jesteth in his nakedness! The villain is bare and out of
service, and so hungry
***
"What is your greatest regret?"
His words carried across the room to where she stood looking out the barred window,
watching the churning waves beyond, the ocean caught in a perpetual storm—a natural
prison trapping her as surely as the iron bars.
"I think my answer is obvious. I failed the Order. It's the reason I'm here," she responded.
But then she turned away from the water to pose her question, still refusing to ask a Death
Eater anything personal.
"What is Voldemort's greatest regret?"
She decided that Lucius was likely looking through the window in his neighboring cell,
watching the same raging tempest. Because when he finally named his former master's
greatest regret, she felt the storm raging within him.
"I am."
***
Hermione was still shaking as the weak October sun rose through her enchanted underground
window. But where anguish had plagued her during the night, now there was purpose.
She could not find peace until she found the truth. If Draco was the Necromancer, she had to
know first. And if Draco was as trapped and imprisoned as he claimed, then she had to free
him.
Despite her renewed resolve, Hermione was still no closer to understanding Draco Malfoy or
the Necromancer. Draco spent a year learning everything about her, but she did not do the
same. All she knew about Draco was that he was cruel, and then comforting. That he served
Voldemort, but was imprisoned. That he allowed his father to abuse their house-elf Dobby,
and mourned when he died.
Wait.
Hermione jumped off her bed and ran over to the crumpled remnants of her months of
researching pure-blood families, tearing through sheet after sheet until she found it.
The answer was there all along.

Pure-Bloods almost always marry within Sacred Twenty-Eight. Used to preserve... property
... tied to their lines.
… Bellatrix Lestrange, sister to Narcissa Malfoy… daughters of Cygnus Black III
Descendant Lucius Malfoy… husband of Narcissa Malfoy née Black. Only child is Draco
Lucius Malfoy, most direct living male heir of both Malfoy and Black lines.
After Harry died without an heir, any property left to him by Sirius tied to the Black
bloodline reverted to the most direct living male heir with Black blood. Draco Malfoy, son of
Narcissa Black, was that heir.
House-elves are treated as property.
Pure-bloods bind property to their bloodlines.
Kreacher is bound to the Black line.
Draco Malfoy owns Kreacher.
Kreacher always liked Draco. That was clear after Harry had him secretly tail Draco at
Hogwarts during their Sixth Year. Hermione recalled Harry's frustration as he described
Kreacher singing Draco's praises instead of secrets, telling him that he would rather serve
"Miss Cissy" and the "Malfoy boy" instead of Harry Potter. Even if Kreacher did not belong
to Draco through some backward pure-blood inheritance rules, he could have gone to the
Malfoys by choice.
Kreacher may know what happened to Draco Malfoy. How she could destroy him, or how
she could save him. Hermione was not sure that Kreacher would tell her anything, but she
had to try. The poor elf warmed to her during their stay at the House of Black—eventually, he
even cooked for them. And once, he saluted Hermione.
Kreacher could be the key.
Hermione waited until midnight to leave. Once she was certain that only the Order's night
patrol prowled the corridors, she dressed all in black, disillusioned herself, and quietly exited
her room, repaired broomstick in hand. Tonight, she was far more careful than any other. She
did not summon any charmed birds, and kept her eyes firmly on the dark passageway ahead.
This was no research trip to the library. To find the truth, she had to leave the Order.
This time, Kingsley would unquestionably know that she left. She was sure that once they
recovered her from Azkaban, Kingsley placed a new trace on her to replace the one that
failed when Moody went missing in action. If she used her wand outside Headquarters, the
Order would know.
She only had one chance. She had to unmask both the Necromancer and Draco Malfoy. And
if it turned out to be the same person under the red blindfold, she would not hesitate to fulfill
her Unbreakable Vow to Kingsley.
She would kill him.

***
Shell Cottage looked even lonelier under the golden harvest moon. The grassy plains
surrounding the cottage were stained brown under the moonlight. A howling wind blew
straight into the house through its broken windows. The sheer sides of the surrounding cliffs
jutted straight out into pure blackness. Hermione pulled her jacket tighter against the biting
cold, and mounted her broom. She hoped that the less she used her wand, the longer she
could avoid tripping Kingsley's magical trace. Without the option of apparating, she opted to
fly. To put Charlie's weeks of lessons to use.
But this time, she jumped off the edge herself. She dove headfirst into the blackness beyond
the Order's sanctuary. Her eyes strained to find the dark surface of the ocean. Once she found
it, she flew directly above, feet almost scraping the shadowy waves, body leaned forward to
gain speed. It was the freest she felt in years.
Hermione flew like that for hours, until her body was so frozen that it became as stiff as the
broomstick beneath her. Until she knew that she could easily tumble into the sea, this time
without Charlie to catch her. Only then did she bank to the east and ascend, pointing the front
of her broom toward the faint sparkling lights of a seaside town.
She soared over the edge of the cliff and glided right through the small town, noticing that the
square was bedecked in gaudy skeletons and thick cotton cobwebs. She suddenly
remembered that it was Halloween, and pictured Muggle children walking through the streets
that night, carrying colorful plastic buckets full of sweets, blissfully unaware of the danger
right on their doorstep.
She spotted a clearing in the forest beyond, and finally began her descent.
As soon as Hermione landed, she drew her cedar wand and walked in a wide circle around
the clearing, casting a series of protection charms. She knew that as soon as the first spell left
her lips, the Order would realize that she left, but she would not risk anyone but Kreacher
finding her; would not risk Muggles or Death Eaters discovering them. She had to be fast.
Charms cast, Hermione stood in the center of the leaf-strewn clearing, and spoke the house-
elf's name into the chill night air.
"Kreacher."
Nothing. So she spoke again, more loudly.
"Kreacher!"
When that failed to summon the elf, Hermione tried something else.
"Kreacher! I need to speak with you about the Malfoys! Please, I want to help Draco
Malfoy!"
CRACK
He was there. Slinking out of the shadows, entirely naked except for a snowy white towel
tied around his middle like a loincloth. He looked much the same as when Hermione last saw
him. He still wore Regulus Black's garish locket around his bony neck. But she was glad to
see that he looked healthy—the silvery, wispy hair coming out of his wrinkly head brushed
and clean—his large eyes clear.
When Kreacher was ten steps in front of her, he stopped, gave her a jerky bow, and spoke.
"The Mudblood Girl… the… Miss called Kreacher?"
"Yes," said Hermione, relief running through her at his words. Not only had Kreacher come,
but he seemed willing to speak with her—had even called her that name and corrected
himself.
"Yes, thank you so much for coming, Kreacher. It has been a long time since we last spoke. I
hope you are doing well."
Kreacher gave a shallow nod, but did not speak. Instead, he muttered under his breath and
gripped the locket hanging around his neck like a rosary.
Hermione pressed on. "As I said, I called you here to talk about the Malfoy family. I would
like to ask you some questions. To help them."
Kreacher nodded again, then added with a croak, "Kreacher will answer. But Kreacher should
tell Miss that he has not seen the Malfoy family in many years."
Hermione's heart sank. "Where have you been then?"
"Hogwarts Kitchens."
"Why?" asked Hermione, nonplussed. If Kreacher was not bound to any house, it was strange
that he would end up at the very castle that served as Voldemort's stronghold.
"Kreacher has been there since Master Malfoy left him almost four years ago. Kreacher has
not been seeing Master Malfoy since Voldemort took him."
"You mean Draco Malfoy?" Hermione clarified. She would not be caught in this trap twice.
"Yes. Master Draco," Kreacher confirmed, voice shaking. "Kreacher is thinking that Master
Draco needs help."
"I want to help him," Hermione reassured the house-elf. "I promise I want to help Draco. But
I need you to answer some questions first. Can you do that?"
Kreacher nodded again. Relieved, Hermione launched into the series of questions she
practiced during the entire length of her long flight.
"Who is the Necromancer—the Dark Lord's Mouth?"
"Kreacher does not know."

Hermione considered, then asked, "Can you tell me anything about the Necromancer?"
Kreacher began wringing his towel in his hands, as he replied, "Has never seen the Mouth,
but Kreacher hears other kitchen elves talk. Says the Mouth is dangerous. Says the Dark Lord
made him with blood magic."
"Okay," continued Hermione, "since Voldemort created the Necromancer, does he control
him? Is he under the Imperius Curse?"
"No," croaked the house-elf, meeting Hermione's eyes, fear etched in his own. "Kreacher is
hearing elves and Death Eaters saying that no one controls the Mouth. He is too powerful. He
grows stronger, and the Dark Lord weaker."
Although she still did not know the Necromancer's identity, Kreacher just gave Hermione a
key piece of information—one that she suspected since Draco told her that Voldemort rarely
left Hogwarts anymore.
Voldemort did not control the Necromancer.
Voldemort feared the Necromancer.
But even if the dark summoner was not completely subservient to his own creator anymore,
he was certainly not on the Order's side either. Even after Voldemort left a battle, the
Necromancer arrived to slaughter the desperate and dying, and then raise them from the dead
to kill anyone left that tried to fight.
No, the Necromancer was a deadly, unknown factor in the war.
Hermione wanted to continue asking about the Necromancer, but she knew that she was
running out of time. Any second, the Order could find her, or Death Eaters could descend and
break through her protective charms. She had to move on to asking about the Malfoys. Had to
figure out if she could make the connection between the Necromancer and that evasive
family that Kreacher could not.
"Thank you, Kreacher. Now please tell me what happened to the Malfoys at the Battle of
Hogwarts? If you last saw Draco four years ago, you still must have seen him since that
day."
Kreacher started shaking with tearless sobs. Hermione resisted the urge to hold him, knowing
that he resented her touch.
"Miss Cissy… at the battle, Miss Cissy is betraying the Dark Lord."
Hermione froze at Kreacher's statement, shocked. Draco never explained that Narcissa
Malfoy turned against Voldemort, instead only giving a vague answer about the "House of
Malfoy" becoming "infected," and Voldemort cutting it off "like a diseased limb." So,
Narcissa, the austere matriarch of the Malfoy family, double-crossed her Dark Lord at the
Battle of Hogwarts… the betrayal explained why her entire family fell out with Voldemort
after that day. But there was still so much left unexplained.
Kreacher continued, "Then the Dark Lord is taking Miss Cissy and Master Lucius to
Azkaban. And Master Draco… Master Draco is promising to serve the Dark Lord. To serve
to protect his parents."
The pieces were finally starting to fall into place. To complete the puzzle within Hermione's
mind. But she had to keep pushing. She was so close.
"Then what happened after that, Kreacher? Are Lucius and Narcissa still alive?"
But now Kreacher was fighting off real tears, shaking. "Master Draco tried to rescue them
from the Dark Lord. To escape."
Hermione moved to kneel in front of Kreacher. He flinched slightly when she gently lay her
hand on his bony shoulder, but did not draw back. So she spoke.
"What happened next, Kreacher? Did they escape?"
"NO! Dark Lord caught them. Dark Lord takes Master Draco away. To Prison."
"And what happened to Lucius and Narcissa?"
"DEAD. THEY IS BOTH DEAD!" Kreacher wailed the words into the night air, and
Hermione looked around frantically to confirm they were still alone before asking her next
question.
"Did Voldemort kill Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"
"NO," cried Kreacher.
"Then who killed them?"
Kreacher shuddered violently at her question, but Hermione asked again. This was it. This
was the final piece to understanding if Draco was the Necromancer, or stood against him.
"Kreacher, who killed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"
When Kreacher finally answered, his voice was desperate.
"The Mouth."
Coldness or Warmth
Now would I have a book where I might see
All characters and planets of the heavens, that I might
Know their motions and dispositions
***
The Necromancer—the Mouth—killed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
Draco tried to save his parents. He would never kill them.
Draco Malfoy was not the Necromancer.
Hermione repeated the revelations to herself after she said goodbye to Kreacher and prepared
to disapparate, no longer concerned with avoiding Kingsley's already tripped trace on her
magic.
But as she was about to turn in place, she felt her protective charms break all at once, and the
forest became abnormally quiet. A trembling silence that told her to flee, yet begged her to
stay. She spun around, eyes darting frantically around the dark trees on all sides. Someone
had come. Someone was here.
"Lumos."
Hermione fumbled to find the source of her unease. She pointed her glowing cedar wand at
the clearing, circling, searching for any sign of movement. The crunch of a heavy footstep on
the dry leaves carpeting the forest made her jump.
"Kreacher?" Hermione asked shakily, hoping the house-elf had just returned. "Are you still
here?"
Instead, a cold voice rang out into the night air at the exact same moment that it echoed deep
within her mind.
"I hope I'm not interrupting, Granger."
His voice.
A voice that she never expected, but felt so familiar. Burned into her soul after hearing him
every day for a year. A voice that some deep part of her soul needed to hear again after so
long.
Her eyes found him—standing at the opposite end of the misty clearing, black dress shirt
unbuttoned down to his collarbone, showing only a sliver of pale skin. Dark fitted trousers
and pointed shoes that melted into the shadows of the forest floor. A fine, black suit that
faded into the darkness of the forest behind him.
Only his white-blond hair broke through the night, combed carelessly to the side, as it had
been at Malfoy Manor. He was still lean, but taller and broader than five years ago. His pale
face was refined, aristocratic. Wholly devoid of any remnants of adolescence or softness.
A lord of the night emerging from the shadows.
Hermione stared, eyes wide as she tried to reconcile the Draco Malfoy in her memories with
the man that stood before her. He was finally here with her, not locked behind the walls of her
mind or haze of her nightmares. The man that kept her sane in her darkest moments had
found her right after she learned about his own. Something within her chest grew taut, like a
coiled steel thread pulling her forward.
But before she could speak, his gray eyes suddenly turned feral.
Deadly.
His footsteps sounded from across the clearing. Circling her.
A shadowy predator stalking its prey.
"You should never have come," his lips mouthed in a whisper so low that she only heard it in
her head.
Now she did not know whether to run toward him, or far away and never look back. Whether
she even had the choice. Then his eyes locked on hers, and held her. Too late. Paralyzed, she
felt her cedar wand drop from her hand and land softly on the leaves below.
The light vanished.
Without warning, he surged forward with freakish speed. Then he was there. Thrusting her
against the tree, trapping her between his body and the rough trunk, splintering bark digging
painfully into her back.
He used one powerful hand to force her face up to look at him, while the other slowly wound
up her throat like a snake. Icy fingers that delivered venom with every touch.
Hermione's entire body froze as he pressed against her, arms dangled limply at her sides. As
his grip tightened, she gasped out, "I thought… Voldemort… took you… You… were…
imprisoned…"
"Not anymore," Draco snarled, his voice dripping with disdain. "You know nothing."
Hermione met his gray eyes, and found them as unyielding as iron.
"You promised… You promised to always tell me the truth…" She choked out.
At her words, he took his hand off her chin and hammered it into the trunk above her head,
crushing the bark between his fingertips. Shards of wood fell into her hair, as he leaned
further into her. So close that his cold whisper numbed her forehead, freezing every thought
racing within.
"I never lied."
"Then let me help you," she begged, voice cracking.
Suddenly, Draco drew his head back and looked at her once again, as if he was trying to
memorize every line and curve on her face. Then his light eyes darkened as they pierced into
her, pupils swelling.
Both of his hands wrapped around her throat, fingers laced with the promise of violence.
Blackness began to creep around the edges of Hermione's vision as she reached out her hand.
His face moved closer again, and she felt his icy cheek press against hers as he whispered
huskily in her ear.
"Go back to your Weasel and stay away from me."
Then as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.
The forest filled with sound once again. Shadows receded. Hermione slid to the ground, and
everything faded to black.
***
Hermione did not rise until hours later. Not until an unusually harsh autumn sun penetrated
the forest clearing and stung her face. She sat up with a jolt, disoriented, but knowing that she
had to leave immediately; was missing for too long. She staggered to retrieve her wand from
where she dropped it the night before, and apparated several miles away from the perimeter
of Shell Cottage to ensure that she was not followed by Death Eaters. Her cloudy brain
continued to walk through that night as her feet stumbled through the slender trees of the
nearby Cornwall woodlands, broomstick still clutched in one shaking hand.
Initially, Kreacher's knowledge gave Hermione an overwhelming feeling of relief. With his
truths, she confirmed that her mind was never compromised by the Necromancer or Draco
himself. It made sense for Draco to use Legilimency to slip her information about the
Necromancer—his parents' murderer. Maybe he hoped that she would be rescued and could
pass his secrets onto the Order. To destroy Voldemort and his Mouth. To avenge his parents.
But then Draco himself appeared. So strange, and so cold. He told her that he never lied, but
he attacked her.
High-pitched cries pulled Hermione out of her trance, and she looked up to see a small family
of seabirds perched on the branches of an elm tree: two large and one younger bird sitting,
pressed together in a row. Hermione watched the creatures, heart pounding, then continued
her trek through the woods.
The Necromancer killed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
Draco tried to save his parents. He would never kill them.
Draco Malfoy could not be the Necromancer.
Something was wrong. In spite of Kreacher's information, something was missing: a key that
only Draco himself could provide. And yet, he refused her help. Draco did not betray
Voldemort after his parents' murder. He had told her as much in Azkaban. And as far as she
knew, he never lied to her. Sometimes he used half-truths, but he always told the truth in his
own twisted way.
Hermione could with a clear conscience save him without betraying the Order. He was not
the Necromancer and not a spy. He was a prisoner and a slave. The answer was there all
along. A house-elf cannot free itself. She had to save Draco Malfoy.
But Draco Malfoy did not want to be saved.
An hour later, Hermione emerged from the trees and reached the outer limits of Bill
Weasley's Fidelius Charm and the Order's other protection spells. As soon as she passed
through the watery film marking the invisible boundary, she felt the point of a wand press
firmly against her temple.
"DO NOT MOVE!"
Hermione froze at the command. Her eyes flicked up to see a black-haired woman, cheeks
flushed from the cold air. Hestia Jones, Captain of the Order's military forces. Movement past
Hestia's shoulder confirmed that the Captain was not alone—had likely brought a contingent
of guards as backup.
"Let her speak," another deep voice directed. Out of her peripheral vision, Hermione
recognized Kingsley's dark form materialize next to Hestia.
"She should have the chance to explain herself. Explain why she left the Order in the dead of
night and cast protection charms a hundred miles away," Kingsley said; his words generous,
but his tone brutal.
Hermione gulped, not moving, and said, "I will explain everything, but only to Kingsley. No
one else."
"WHY?" Hestia demanded. "Tell me why I shouldn't just arrest you right now? Tell me why
we shouldn't expect your DEATH EATER FRIENDS to come out of those trees and start
attacking the Order using all the secrets YOU spilled?"
"THAT'S ENOUGH," commanded Kingsley. "Bind Miss Granger's hands and escort her to
my office. I will deal with her."
Hermione could not help but notice Kingsley's emphasis. "Deal" with her? Did he intend to
kill her over this? She planned to explain everything to Kingsley, but would only trust him
with such crucial information; did not trust the dozens of soldiers flanking their captain. If
word ever got back to Voldemort, he would kill both Draco and Kreacher.
Hestia huffed, but removed her wand from Hermione's head, took her broom, and tied her
hands together using a snarled Incarcerus spell. As the Captain marched her toward Shell
Cottage, Hermione saw that she was indeed surrounded by at least forty armed Order
members, and… Charlie.
His hazel eyes met hers for a moment, and then he looked away as she was pushed past him
through the crowd. Even in that split second, Hermione felt his sadness, disappointment.
He taught her to fly, and she used him to fly away.
***
This time when Hermione entered Kingsley's tapestried office, she did not sit. Instead, she
walked right past his dark granite desk to the Pensieve in the far corner.
"Take my memories," Hermione urged. "It will be better than explaining, and you will
understand everything."
Kingsley studied her intently, then strode to join her at the stone basin. He held out his wand
and offered it to Hermione, who took its handle and pulled silver threads of her memories
from her right temple. She then carefully dipped the wand in the mirror-like surface of the
bowl.
Hermione was transported back to Azkaban, but now with Kingsley by her side. They
watched a broken version of herself wake up in the damp, dark cell. They watched the
Dementors pass by her room again and again, watched her scream and cry for weeks from
unrelenting nightmares.
Then one day, Hermione sat up and started speaking to herself, and then to the stone wall.
The current Hermione saw Kingsley recognize the moment. However, they next saw her other
self completely fall apart; start to refuse food and water; start to die. Her heart broke when
she saw this version of herself crying out to her Muggle parents. And then, she started calling
out to the wall again. Days passed quickly in the memory. They watched Hermione continue
to speak to Malfoy, eventually learning his name, asking him only questions about Voldemort
and the Necromancer, and only giving silly personal responses herself. They watched her
begin to eat, drink, and live again.
Finally, they arrived at the day that Ginny burst into Hermione's cage. They saw her come
apart as she realized Lucius was not in Azkaban. Then, they heard her yell a desperate
question into the storm churning outside the prison: "WHO ARE YOU?"
The memory crumbled around them and they were pulled back into Kingsley's cave-like
office.
Hermione turned to Kingsley, eyes wide. "He answered my question that day," she explained.
"In my head. It was Draco Malfoy, not his father. I never told you. It was always Draco in
my head."
Kingsley's stare was as brutal as his next words.
"Then why are you telling me the truth now, Miss Granger? Adding one more lie to your long
list of deceptions does nothing except make your betrayal more concrete."
Hermione flinched, but continued. "Because, you have to know that I spoke to Draco Malfoy
to understand what I will show you next. Where I went last night, and what I learned. How I
am still honoring our Vow."
Kingsley grimaced, but allowed her to pull them into her next memory. They stood side-by-
side in the dark forest clearing watching the wizened house-elf answer her questions about
the Dark Lord's Mouth, and the fall of the Malfoys. Then, they watched Draco himself appear
and brutally pin Hermione against a tree. She shivered during the entire length of the next
memory, as if she could still feel his cold hands wrapped around her neck.
When they returned, they finally sat, separated by the black expanse of Kingsley's massive
stone desk, but not by any of Hermione's secrets. Not anymore.
"The man I spoke to for a year is not the Necromancer," Hermione explained. "Draco Malfoy
tried to save his parents, but Voldemort caught them, and imprisoned Draco. Then the
Necromancer killed Lucius and Narcissa. Draco spoke to me to avenge them, not to destroy
the Order. Draco needs our help. The Necromancer is getting stronger, so powerful that even
Voldemort fears him. Voldemort's regime is crumbling from within. This is our chance,
Kingsley."
"So you want us to… conspire with Draco Malfoy to take down the Necromancer and
Voldemort?" Kingsley asked, face unreadable.
"I… well yes, something like that..." Hermione ended, lamely.
"Even if Draco Malfoy made it clear that he does not want the Order's assistance, and tried to
kill you?"
"Yes," Hermione replied, voice low. "And I'm still here."
Kingsley's dark eyebrows rose, but the rest of his face remained unreadable as he responded,
"How do you know that Draco Malfoy is not lying?"
Hermione paused, then replied, "I've asked myself that ever since he first vowed to always
tell the truth in Azkaban. Sometimes he misled me, or omitted something important.
Sometimes he even refused to answer. But he never lied, at least from what I can verify."
Kingsley's brow furrowed as Hermione continued, "But you saw my memories—every

question—and I can tell you every detail of information he gave to me about Voldemort and
the Necromancer for almost a year. You know what I do not. You know everything that the
Order knows. Probably more than anyone in this war. So you should decide if anything that
Draco Malfoy told me is a lie."
Minutes passed as Kingsley's eyes traced the white veins streaking across his marble desk.
Hermione found herself bouncing her legs nervously while she waited.
At last, Kingsley looked up and voiced his judgment.
"You will rejoin the Council, and then we will deliberate."
***
Later that morning, Hermione walked alone back through the now-bustling hallways of the
Order's stronghold—a sanctuary that Hestia, Kingsley, and an entire squad of Hestia's guards
thought that she hand delivered to Voldemort just hours before. She was relieved that
Kingsley apparently trusted her enough again to allow her access to the Council—his
personally-selected cabinet of advisors—but she was still shaken up from the ordeal. From
seeing Draco Malfoy. So she kept her eyes on the packed dirt ground and shuffled quickly
through the crowds watching her.
As Hermione turned into the hallway leading to her room, however, she found him waiting,
standing at the far end.
Charlie.
Their eyes locked, and Hermione saw an emptiness within Charlie's expression that she did
not recognize; had never seen in him before. He did not say anything, but slowly walked to
her, closing the gap.
Then he embraced her, both powerful arms holding her against his warm chest. She sighed,
tension flooding out of her at his touch, and began to cry as he spoke into the curls of her
hair.
"I was so worried, Hermione."
"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you," she sobbed.
"It's fine. I'm just relieved you came back to me, to all of us," Charlie said roughly, squeezing
her even tighter with every word. As if he was trying to convey his relief as much with his
body as his voice.
They stood, tangled together in the corridor, for what could have been seconds or hours. Lost
in each other, neither willing to be the first to break away. Hermione felt the heat pouring out
of him, and she took every drop into her soul, bled him dry of it. The only place she knew
warmth was in his arms.
Eventually, Hermione spoke again, her words muffled by the front of his shirt. "I'm sorry, but
I can't tell you anything. Not yet."
Charlie suddenly straightened, grabbing her shoulders with both hands and looking deep into
her eyes. Not quite Legilimency, but still searching for something.
"I just need to know one thing," he asked at last. "Did you go to him?"
Hermione did not need to ask who Charlie meant. Malfoy. The man in her head who he spent
months teaching her to resist.
"No, I didn't," she replied honestly.
Immediately, the gentleness flooded back into Charlie's eyes.
"That's all I needed to know."
Exhausted from flying all night, Hermione let Charlie lead her to her room. He settled on the
far end of her narrow bed, leaned his shoulder against the headboard, and lightly guided her
head to rest on his warm lap. He was still stroking her wind-tangled hair when her eyes fell
on the cedar wand and tattered broom set on top of the dresser across the room. Someone,
probably Charlie, returned them during her time in Kingsley's office.
The more Hermione stared at them, the worse she felt. They were painful reminders of the
ways she used Charlie. Deceived Charlie. And yet, he was still here. Teaching, protecting,
and holding her.
Ginny's words echoed in her mind as she began to fall asleep, as his soft lips brushed her
forehead.
"He's good for you."

The Necromancer
Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts
***
She clutched the cold metal rod to her chest as she fought back tears; choked back desperate,
painful sobs. She was imprisoned, isolated, and everything hurt. The only weapon she had to
fight off the Dementors was a makeshift knife wrenched from her bed. And the only tool she
had to stave off madness was a disgraced Death Eater across a cell wall.
"It's alright, Granger. The guards are gone now. I'm here."
She did not respond, could not form words, between the shaking. She felt her mind fading.
Wilting a bit more with every waking nightmare.
"What abilities does a Hand of Glory offer its holder?" he asked softly.
"I can't... remember."
"It opens any lock and gives light only to the holder."
Hermione did not respond, so he tried again.
"Well, can you tell me the other name for the Great Lake at Hogwarts?"
"No."
"It's the Black Lake. Okay, let me think of a different question."
"Why do you even talk to me?" she screamed, head spinning. "I'm your enemy! They threw
me in here because I tried to end people like you. Just go away and leave me alone."
"I wish I could."
***
When Hermione walked into the Council room the next morning, she was confronted with
the harsh reality of her imprisonment and subsequent exile once again. She had not joined a
strategy meeting in a year and half, but time did not stop for her or the Order. So much had
changed.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Ishida Ren, and Aberforth Dumbledore were already
seated in high-backed chairs. But Alastor Mad-Eye Moody's chair stood conspicuously
empty. As Hermione crossed to take her own place opposite Kingsley, she was aware of
Hestia and Ren staring daggers into her back.
Despite those differences, the room itself looked the same. An almost perfect sphere, carved
sandstone walls painted a deep blue-green. Glowing yellow orbs ran along the sides of the
walls, barely giving off any light but giving the room a feeling of being deep beneath the
ocean. A dark oak table took up almost the entirety of the room—a massive ring of wood
curved to match the space. The table always made Hermione think of childhood stories of
King Arthur, except this round table was host to a panel of the Order's most brilliant wizards
and witches, instead of armored knights.
"I asked Miss Granger to join us," said Kingsley, sensing the hostility chilling the air, "to
provide an intelligence report regarding the Necromancer's identity and connection to
Voldemort."
Hermione steeled herself and stood. But as soon as she opened her mouth, Hestia interrupted
with a snarl.
"Why should we trust a girl who ran off in the middle of the night to see the enemy?
Probably to give them information that she promised while they brainwashed her in Azkaban.
She should still be tied to a hospital bed, not back in the strategy room."
Ren, a tan wizard perhaps ten years Hestia's senior, raised dark eyebrows and narrowed his
already cat-like eyes at Hermione, saying, "I agree with Jones. Granger cannot be trusted.
Regardless of her alleged proficiency at Occlumency, actions speak louder than words. And
her actions are indefensible."
Hermione reminded herself that no one but Kingsley knew about her Unbreakable Vow, so
understandably distrusted her. Kingsley merely raised his chin to Hermione at the
accusations, a gesture that Hermione took to mean that it was up to her to make her case. To
earn back their trust.
So she took a deep breath and spoke. "I will not apologize to the Council for my capture. I
was imprisoned against my will for almost a year. The fact that I talked to Malfoy during that
time does not make me a traitor, or a spy."
Aberforth cleared his throat, and everyone turned to face the elderly wizard. Hermione took
in his wiry gray hair and full beard, even longer than she remembered. Out of all the Council
members, Aberforth tended to speak the least, so the entire room stilled to listen. His familiar
piercing, brilliant blue eyes met hers as he said, "Miss Granger has a fair point. We should
not penalize an unwilling prisoner for the circumstances of their imprisonment."
"We should if that 'unwilling prisoner' was the very reason that the Battle of the Valley failed
—the reason we lost over a hundred fighters!" Hestia shouted.
"ENOUGH," announced Kingsley. Hestia fell silent. "We will give Miss Granger the chance
to explain herself, before we pass judgment," he continued. "That is an order."
Hermione collected herself, and then lifted her gaze to meet every member of the Council,
eyes fierce. "I have never turned my back on this war. I used my year in Azkaban to learn
about Voldemort, and yesterday I obtained key information about the Necromancer as well."
Without the Pensieve, Hermione relied on her words. She walked the Council through her
strange bargain with Lucius Malfoy, every question and answer about Voldemort, and his
reveal regarding his true identity. She explained her months of furtive research on pure-
bloods, and the idea to talk to Kreacher. She described their encounter, including Voldemort's
apparent inability to fully control the dark summoner of his own creation, and the
Necromancer's execution of Lucius and Narcissa after Draco failed to rescue them. She ended
with her deduction that Draco would never kill the very parents he tried to save, and was
therefore not the Necromancer.
As Hermione started to sit, Kingsley spoke, "You are not finished. Tell them everything."
She froze, caught. She was still processing her recent, disturbing encounter with Draco, and
had convinced herself that it was not crucial to her report. But at Kingsley's command, she
stood tall again, and described Draco's behavior—how he brutally forced her against the tree
and rejected her offer to help.
When Hermione retook her seat, she felt as if she had just endured a Dementor attack.
Drained of all energy. The Council continued to argue about her report, credibility, and
loyalty. But she could barely hear them. Instead, she stared at a glowing orb on the wall
behind Kingsley until her eyes lost focus.
She remained like that until Kingsley rose from his seat and summoned a life-sized projection
on the center of the round table.
The Necromancer stood, raised above them, turning slowly. The angel of death, cloaked in
shadows, dripping darkness. The blood-colored blindfold wrapped tightly around his Death
Eater's mask pointed down at Hermione as it had during the battle. One gloved hand relaxed
then tightened, as the other violently flicked curses at an unseen target.
Even though her head told her that this was not the real Necromancer, she still felt the dark
magic flowing out of his statuesque form, dripping onto the round table like poison.
Spreading through the room and into her bones like a contagion.
No one else seemed as affected. They continued to debate.
"Let's start with what we actually know," Hestia said, shooting another scowl at Hermione.
"The Necromancer, otherwise known as the Mouth of the Dark Lord, first appeared at the
Battle of Hogwarts. He seems to be male, and part of the younger generation of Death Eaters
based on his voice and stature. Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy are still the most likely
suspects, regardless of the ramblings of a house-elf."
Ren picked up where Hestia left off. "The Necromancer never summons the same Inferius
twice—the corpse only revives for the battle where it fell. It is possible he could have armies
of Inferi hidden, ready to wipe us out. The Mouth can use a single spell to execute anyone in
his path. To end a battle. Yet he almost always arrives at the end of a battle—the moment
Voldemort and all other Death Eaters leave. Why?"
Hermione jumped in before anyone else could object. "Because Voldemort wants to hide his
identity even from other Death Eaters."
Four sets of eyebrows raised at Hermione, so she continued. "If Voldemort is afraid of losing
power to the Necromancer, wouldn't he want to avoid anyone else knowing who he is? To
prevent his own followers from choosing to serve a new, more powerful master?"
Aberforth cleared his throat again, and posed his own question. "But how do we know that
the Necromancer is a single person, Miss Granger? If Voldemort created one dark summoner,
as you say, then what would stop him from creating another? Or even a dozen?"
"Yes," agreed Ren. "We are not even sure if the Necromancer who appeared at Hogwarts is
the same as the one today. He has grown more savage over the years. Slaying hundreds where
you used to only kill dozens. Summoning chasms of Hellfyre filled with lost souls. In just the
past year, he appeared at every single one of our missions without fail… destroyed safe
houses… razed Muggle villages to the ground… "
"And, apparently, he even executes treasonous Death Eaters himself," Hestia added with a
sneer, still glaring at Hermione.
Kingsley stood, and all eyes turned toward him.
"This Council is not omniscient in the war. That said, at this point we cannot disprove any
information that Draco Malfoy disclosed. At the very least, his intelligence on Voldemort is
plausible. However, to kill the Necromancer, we need to know more. We must understand the
source of his power over Inferi as much as his identity," Kingsley asserted firmly.
He waved his wand and the Necromancer was replaced by a great black lake, so vast that it
filled the entire table. A misty greenish light shone from an island in the middle of the lake,
reflected in the still water around its base. Suddenly, the lake was no longer mirror-smooth.
Wrinkled white heads and hands rose from the dark water. Men, women, and children
emerged, their eyes sunken and sightless. An army of dead rising from the blackness.
"Potter reported that he and Albus Dumbledore were attacked by Inferi when they went to
destroy Slytherin's locket. Before that, Inferi were not seen since the First Wizarding War,"
said Kingsley, staring intently at the pale corpses still clawing out of the dark lake.
"But those Inferi were different," Hermione countered. "Harry said that they feared ordinary
fire, and their eyes were black, not colorless. The Necromancer's Inferi are not affected when
he uses Hellfyre, and we can only destroy them with Fiendfyre. Something changed at the
Battle of Hogwarts. Kreacher told me about blood magic. It's possible that the Necromancer
uses a different spell, or a different source of power entirely."
The Council went round and round the table for hours. They had more information, but still
no idea how to use it. If anything, they only had more questions. Hermione felt herself
growing increasingly frustrated. She also noted that no one even mentioned destroying
Nagini—Voldemort's final Horcrux. Like Kingsley, they all seemed entirely fixated on the
Necromancer.
At last, Kingsley vanished the dark lake and spoke. "We must now turn to discussing our
final order of business. Captain Jones, please report."
Hestia stood, and with a wave of her wand, a dark, overgrown graveyard appeared above the
table. A small, pearly church and large yew tree appeared beyond the tombstones.
"We have reason to believe that Alastor Moody is being held hostage in Little Hangleton—
the Riddle's graveyard," Hestia outlined. "We picked up signs of Moody's magical trace a
fortnight ago. I am currently assembling my Special Force unit to commence a search and
rescue operation. We will be prepared to attack within the month."
"Good," said Kingsley. "But Captain Jones, you will not lead that operation yourself. We
cannot risk one member of the Council to rescue another."
Hestia grimaced at the directive, pushing, "Even if our Scouts suspect that Potter's corpse is
also at the graveyard? You know that our researchers suspect Voldemort may use him again
for a dark ritual. Maybe even to transform the body into a new Necromancer."
Hermione's heart rocketed through her chest at the possibilities.
Kingsley shook his head firmly. "No. You will send your Second-in-Command in your
place."
***
Hermione ran out of the strategy room as soon as the Council session ended, but she was not
the first to leave.
"Hestia!" she yelled out to the black-haired witch as she was about to round a corner.
Hestia turned, scowling when her eyes fell on Hermione standing at the end of the hall. She
kept walking away, so Hermione sped up to join the witch.
"Hestia, I need to ask you something."
"No." Hestia replied shortly.
Unfazed, Hermione continued. "Hestia. I need to be a part of that mission to recover Moody
and Harry."
"No."
"I have to bring them both back. I need to be there."
The witch finally stopped, and suddenly even her short stature did not dim the command and
power she exuded as she squared her shoulders and turned to face Hermione, fully stepping
into her position as commander of the Order's armies.
"Let's make this clear, Granger. I do not care what Kingsley or the rest of the Council think. I
know that you are the reason that the Order used Potter's reckless plan over Kingsley's
strategy—the strategy that our Council voted for. You are the only reason that Potter died that
day. And I will never trust you."
With the declaration, Hestia Jones walked away, leaving Hermione to crumble under the
weight of a truth she spent every moment trying to forget.
Snow Globe
Here’s fire. Come, Faustus, set it on
***
"Move it, Death Eater."
Hermione stumbled as someone pushed her roughly from behind. The soup on her tray
sloshed onto the floor.
"Damn it, McLaggen!" Ginny shouted at a receding back, its owner laughing as he wound
through the crowds in the Order's dining commons.
"I honestly don't know why they let that blond prat in the Order," Ginny grumbled.
"Everyone knows he could care less about Voldemort."
"Leave it alone," Hermione said, casting a cleaning charm to mop up the mess. "I'm used to
people doing that by now."
Since leaving the hospital ward, she was yelled at almost daily, and became largely numb to
it. But after her very public arrest in front of dozens of Order guards, rumors spread and the
harassment escalated. Hestia and Cormac McLaggen were not the only ones who saw
Hermione as a borderline traitor. Many blamed her for the Order's loss at the Battle of the
Valley, and were suspicious of the fact that she was the only one to come back, especially
after a year in Azkaban and half a year in the hospital wing.
Hermione and Ginny joined Luna, Seamus, and Neville at a cramped square table without
another incident. Hermione picked at the remnants of her soup as Ginny continued to
complain about McLaggen joining the Order. Sandy-haired Seamus spoke brightly, "I heard
McLaggen is a half-and-half like me. His mom's a Muggle-born, but he doesn't like to tell
anyone. She's here too." Seamus pointed toward the far end of the packed hall. Hermione
followed his hand and saw McLaggen sitting next to a middle-aged woman with the same
wiry yellow hair.
"I just can't believe you went on a date with him back at Hogwarts, Hermione," Ginny
remarked as she cut into a roast potato. "He's probably still just mad that you rejected him
every time he tried to snog you at Slughorn's party."
Hermione choked on her soup at the memory. "Yes, well he truly was a handsy pig."
"Though you don't seem to mind when a certain ex-dragon tamer gets handsy," Ginny teased,
making Neville choke. "And speaking of the devil…"
Right on cue, Charlie slid onto the tight bench next to Hermione, wrapping his arm around
her waist.
"Hello," Hermione said breathily, blushing as Ginny and Luna giggled.
"Evening," Charlie greeted, placing another bowl of soup on Hermione's tray with his free
hand and a warm smile.
"Dawwww," Ginny cooed, pointing at them and elbowing Neville, who was blushing even
redder than Hermione.
Hermione glared at both of them.
"Actually, I heard that McLaggen is just pressed he didn't get picked for the Scouts or Special
Forces," Seamus chirped. "Still stuck in the Infantry with me and Ginny."
Hermione found herself grudgingly relating to McLaggen's situation. She was still set on
joining the Little Hangleton mission, but had no idea how to persuade Hestia. Even the
Council did not have clearance to know more than vague outlines about the captain's elite
force.
"I don't know why anyone would want to join in the first place," Neville added nervously.
"They use Unforgivables."
"They have to. They do things even us Scouts won't. Extraction, torture, assassination,"
explained Charlie tersely. "Hestia's dirty work."
"How can the Order approve of using Unforgivable Curses at all?" Neville asked. Luna
nodded her head in agreement. "If we torture and kill, how are we better than them? How are
we any better than the Death Eaters?"
Ginny set her glass down so hard that the rickety table shook. "Maybe we're not. You're in the
hospital wing all day, Neville. Healing. The rest of us are out there. Fighting. Barely avoiding
killing curses and praying that Voldemort doesn't show up. That the Necromancer doesn't
show up right after. And if he does, do you really think a Protego is going to be worth a
damn?"
Ginny leaned forward, her voice firm. "We had the luxury of taking the moral high ground
when we weren't losing people by the hundreds. When my parents, Fred, Ron, and Harry
were still alive. That is not our reality now. Even us non-Special Force fighters aren't
punished anymore for defending ourselves by any means necessary."
"Well what do you think, Hermione?" asked Neville, desperately.
This was not a new conversation amongst the group, or the Order as a whole. But this time,
Hermione surprised herself with her response.
"I think that you understand the consequences of dark magic on victims more than most,
Neville." Hermione paused to look around the dining commons—to take in all the new faces,
to fail to find so many that she would never see again. Faces that were alive and still fighting
in the Battle of the Valley, then dragged down to Hell and back again by dark magic.
She continued, "But Ginny is right. If we try to win this war with clean hands, one day we'll
wake up to find that someone willing to use every weapon available sliced them off at the
wrist."
"You're starting to sound like Grindelwald, Hermione," Neville accused softly. "Using dark
magic 'for the greater good.'"
Charlie stepped in. "No one is saying that they want to use dark magic, Neville. It will always
be a last resort. Everyone knows that using dark magic changes you. Those stains don't come
out. That's the reason why Hestia's Special Force is volunteer only, even though they barely
let anyone in. She needs to know you are willing to give up a piece of your soul to save
others. I'm not saying I agree. I don't. But I do understand."
"It's just not right," Neville said, face downcast. "And I don't think Harry would…"
"What is his problem?" Ginny interrupted, jerking her head between Hermione and Charlie's
shoulders. "He won't stop looking at you, Hermione."
Hermione turned, and her eyes immediately locked with an ebony-skinned man watching her
as he lounged on the edge of a table a few rows back, his feet perched on the top of a chair.
Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the attractive high cheekbones and slanting dark eyes of
Blaise Zabini. But his hair was longer than she remembered at Hogwarts, intricately braided
and tied back; his Slytherin robes replaced with a gray tunic and black trousers.
"Used to call me 'blood-traitor' all the time at Hogwarts," Ginny fumed. "I probably Bat-
Bogey Hexed him even more than Charlie. I'd like to know who let him in. I guess we are
really that desperate if we're letting Slytherins sign up now."
"Kingsley is a Slytherin," Neville said, "and so are Ishida Ren and… "
"Okay I get it, Longbottom," Ginny retorted, giving Neville a light punch on the shoulder.
"Not ALL Slytherins are evil. But Zabini used to hang around Malfoy and his gang of
prepubescent Death Eaters."
Hermione blanched at Ginny's sudden mention of Draco Malfoy, then reminded herself that
no one but the Council knew about his unclear position in both the war and her own mind.
Luna's next words pulled Hermione back into the conversation.
"Oh, I don't know if it means anything that Blaise was friends with Draco. He wasn't so bad.
He would visit me every day I was at Malfoy Manor," Luna mused. "Eventually, he even
stopped laughing at me when I explained how many Nargle nests I found in his cellar."
Hermione felt Charlie's hand tighten around her waist, and she turned back again to see that
Blaise was still watching her, the ghost of an amused smirk dancing across his lips.
Then, he winked.
That night, Hermione's nightmares were filled with murky visions of Blaise Zabini. He stood
in the foreground of her mind, wearing the same dark eyes and haughty smile, but his clothes
and the landscapes behind him shifted.
Green and black Slytherin robes engulfed by a cascade of steam, the unmistakable blaring
whistle of the Hogwarts Express.
A simple gray tunic and black trousers, barely visible in the silent, dimly-lit carved tunnels
underneath Shell Cottage.
Flowing Death Eater robes, the sleeve lifted to expose a jet black Dark Mark prominent even
against his ebony skin, Voldemort's high-pitched laugh echoing off the walls of a massive
room underneath a sea of stars and floating candles.
***
Tap tap tap
Hermione opened her door to Charlie's sun-freckled face and usual morning query.
"You decent?"
"Always," replied Hermione with a small laugh, "But why are you here so early? We finished
Occlumency months ago."
Charlie stepped closer to lean against the doorframe above Hermione at the same time that he
pulled his arm out from behind his back, broomstick in hand.
"We're actually going to practice something else today."
Hermione crossed her arms but did not back away. "I don't think I need more flying lessons
either, but thank you." She still felt oddly guilty about how their lessons ended with her
flying off to see Kreacher… and then… whatever that was with Malfoy.
Charlie jerked his head toward Hermione's own broomstick shoved haphazardly in the
corner.
"I saw the state of your broom after you came back from flying by yourself the other day.
You clearly still have a lot to learn about how to care for your belongings."
Hermione blushed.
"Alright then."
She let Charlie lead them through the familiar route up to the surface, broomsticks in hand.
They emerged from Shell Cottage to a seaside plateau blanketed by a layer of snow. Only a
few days had passed since Hermione was last outside, but in that time the season had
evidently turned.
"Cornwall doesn't normally get cold enough to snow," marveled Hermione as they walked
through the frosted grass.
"That's why I had to show you," Charlie replied playfully. "And now is the part where you
close your eyes."
As soon as she obliged, Charlie swept her up in his arms, and carried her through the chill
salty air. Several minutes later, a cold liquid washed over her, followed by sudden warmth.
She opened her eyes as Charlie gently lowered her onto a pile of fuzzy blankets set in the
middle of the snow-coated meadow. A woven basket sat beside her, while a small blue flame
burned in a clear jar near their feet. They were enveloped by a nearly transparent film, like a
shimmery bubble separating them from the elements.
"What's the occasion?" asked Hermione, wide-eyed as she took in the cozy setup. "How did
you have time to do this, since you're back on scouting duty?"
"You'd be surprised how much spare time I have without squeezing in flying lessons on the
side," Charlie said as he poured them two cups of tea from a thermos. "Think of this as a
celebration for you mastering Occlumency and at least basic level flight. You deserve it."
He handed Hermione a steaming metal cup, and clinked his against hers with a grin. "Cheers,
Hermione. To even better things yet to come."
"Cheers."
Hermione stared into the cup warming her hands, feeling pleasantly flustered. No one had
ever gone so out of their way to make her feel… she was not exactly sure how she felt. But
maybe Luna was right—it was okay not to know.
They stayed like that for hours, cocooned within the charmed bubble, eating tiny sandwiches
from the picnic basket, and trading stories. Hermione laughed when Charlie recounted how
Fred and George tricked Percy into thinking his Patronus was a garden gnome for an entire
year. Charlie lost it when Hermione told him how the day prior, Ginny jinxed Cormac
McLaggen's shoelaces so that whenever he walked past Hermione, they tied to the other and
he fell flat on his face.
Eventually, Charlie stood and offered Hermione his outstretched hand. "C'mon. I wasn't lying
when I said I would take you flying today. You haven't lived until you've been flying in the
snow."
She took his hand, and soon they were tumbling through the winter wonderland, hurtling
through fluffy snow banks, and dodging icicles.
Snow dusted Hermione's thick hair like powdered sugar as she followed Charlie between
frozen trees, up icy slopes. As she always did, she flew close behind him, letting him carve
their path, and leaning into the wind tunnel he left in his wake.
This time when Charlie spiraled up into the white sky, Hermione stayed mounted as she
twisted along the same trail. And when Charlie suddenly leapt off his broom mid-flight to
land in a pile of soft snow, she jumped as well, nearly falling on top of him. For a long while
after that, they were happy just to lay on their backs in the snow, catch their breath, and
laugh.
They did not return to their shelter until frost stung their noses and the sky began to darken.
Hermione's head rested on Charlie's shoulder as they sat and watched the mid-November sun
crawl below the choppy ocean waves, tucked together beneath the same blanket.
"What are you thinking about right now?" Charlie asked in a voice as warm as their
surroundings.
"I'm thinking about what I should force you to teach me now that I've learned flying. But I'm
not sure what else you have to offer. Maybe dragon keeping?" Hermione joked, hand on her
chin as she pretended to consider.
A dimple formed in one of Charlie's cheeks as he smiled. "You say the word and I'll bring the
dragons."
"Now tell me what you're thinking," she said.
Instead of answering right away, Charlie looked up. Hermione followed his gaze and saw
snowflakes starting to collect on the top of their transparent shelter. Then he spoke.
"Almost ten years ago, my folks finally dragged me back home. Of course, it took Quidditch
World Cup tickets to convince me. I came home only to see that the Burrow grew again. I
remember walking into the kitchen and seeing Ron and Ginny sitting with a bushy-haired
new addition. Harry showed up a bit after that, and I knew that my mum took you both into
the family."
"I remember that visit," Hermione smiled, warmed by the memory. "I always detested
Quidditch, but watching the Cup with everyone made it worthwhile. At least until the Dark
Mark appeared. You, Bill, and Mr. Weasley all ran off to help the Ministry without even a
second thought about the danger."
"And yet," Charlie said, eyes looking down at her protectively as he withdrew his arm from
beneath the blanket to wrap around her waist, "You're the one who always seems to find
danger—that day and now."
The snow outside was beginning to flurry when Hermione responded, suddenly incredibly
lonely.
"I don't have a choice. Just like watching Quidditch, taking risks made sense next to Harry
and Ron. But they're gone, and I'm alone in the stands trying to finish what we started
together."
Now the snow began to fall in thick tufts on all sides of the shelter, so that it was as if the pair
sat within a stunning reverse snow globe.
"That's where you're wrong again, Hermione," Charlie said, cupping his hand under her chin
and guiding her face toward his.
"You were never alone, and you still aren't. All you need to do is ask."
Hermione reached up to softly trace her fingers along the long burn scars running down his
arm and hands. The intensifying snow storm turned the air surrounding their bubble pure
white.
She knew then what Charlie made her feel.
Warm, safe, and sheltered from the dark storm raging outside their tiny haven of normalcy.
"I don't want to be alone anymore," she whispered.
Charlie's eyes burned as he pulled her close, and tamed her beating heart within his practiced
hands.
As he leaned down, and captured her lips with his own.
The kiss was unhurried, unbelievably tender. He used one hand to stroke long lines down her
back, while the other held her cheek.
As his mouth pressed further into hers, he guided her closer. So close that she could feel his
heartbeat. Her heart began to race, gaining speed with his. Matching his pace.
She could feel his warm chest even through their riding leathers. His strong arm moved from
her back to curl around her waist. Her head began to buzz as their kisses gained momentum.
Her lips parted, inviting him further.
Time seemed to stop inside their warm shelter, caccooning them from the frozen tundra
beyond. And every part of her body softened as his lips moved to her jaw, ear, and down her
neck. Trailing a slow path of tingling warmth that she felt through her core.
He was a flame of warmth and life. One that she never expected to feel again. Did not know
if she could. But now that she had it in her hand, she seized the sensation. Unwilling to let it
go. Desperate for more. When it was still not enough, she held on tighter and melted from his
heat.
And this time, she let herself fall off the edge, knowing that he would be the first to catch her.
That with him, falling never felt so safe.

The Vow
Chapter Notes
Here it is! The Unbreakable Vow.
Thank you for the continued support and comments.
Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest,
Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them.
***
"Good morning, Luna," greeted Hermione as she moved to sit with the slim, yellow-haired
witch already tucking into breakfast in the Order's commons.
"Hello," Luna replied whimsically, looking around. "Charlie not with you today?"
"No. He's out on a mission for at least the next few weeks."
Although Charlie could not tell her any details, she knew from Hestia's latest Council report
that the Order sent him to join Bill and Fleur in Spain based on Draco's information. To plant
the seeds for maintaining control of Madrid.
The two settled down to eat in relative silence. In all their years as friends, Hermione had
rarely spent time with only Luna. They were normally surrounded by others. It was not that
Hermione did not like the dreamy witch—they just had very little in common. Their brains
tended to flow in opposite directions.
Eventually Luna asked, "How are your Council meetings going?"
"They're incredibly frustrating," Hermione admitted.
She had yet to convince Hestia to allow her to join the team set to extract Moody. Meanwhile,
the Council spent almost every session picking apart the same intelligence about the
Necromancer instead of Voldemort or his final Horcrux. There was another attack on one of
the Order's safe houses that week, and it seemed as if they were losing ground with every
incident and every pointless meeting. But Hermione could not tell Luna any of that,
especially in the crowded dining room. So she changed the subject.
"How is your research going? Has the team made any progress on… the Soul Project?"
Hermione spoke the last few words quietly, leaning forward.
As it turned out, Luna's nearly unhinged creativity ended up being an asset to the Order—she
joined the research unit, currently investigating Horcruxes—an increasingly difficult task.
Voldemort learned that the Order destroyed most of his Horcruxes at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Since then, he ferociously guarded Nagini. The only time he left her side or his Hogwarts
stronghold in recent years was during the Battle of the Valley when he briefly appeared to kill
Harry.
"Oh you know," mumbled Luna, her tone suddenly low and unusually serious, "we still don't
know why Harry died with that piece of Voldemort. I don't know if we ever will without
studying his body."
The two witches sat in silence again. Barely eating. Both lost in thought, and maybe on the
same frustrating wavelength at last.
Hermione's mind wandered to their last conversation about Blaise and Draco.
"Luna, can I ask about what happened at Malfoy Manor? You said before that Draco Malfoy
talked to you."
Luna considered, twirling a finger around one of her orange Dirigible Plum earrings.
"Well, he wasn't there the whole time, you know. He was at Hogwarts except for the
Christmas and Easter breaks. But he acted differently than when we were at school."
"Different how?" Hermione asked.
"At first, he acted the same. Called me names, said I deserved to be a hostage because of
what my father wrote about Voldemort. But I would hear him talking to his parents at night
outside the cellar. People tend to forget I'm around and have good hearing," Luna added.
"I heard Draco ask about getting me out, making it look like I escaped. His father said the
Dark Lord would kill them all and me if he tried anything. So he didn't. But Draco visited me
every day he was home, and he even made Mr. Ollivander healing potions when he got so
sick that I thought he was going to die."
Draco's words on Halloween night rang in Hermione's head as Luna spoke.
"You know nothing."
Draco was right. She did not understand what he hid behind his cruel mask. Like Luna, she
escaped from her prison and never expected to meet Draco again. Especially not on the same
side of their war. Then Kreacher's admissions upended that foregone conclusion, and for a
moment, she thought that maybe, just maybe, they had been working toward the same end all
along.
But Draco crushed that hope as quickly as he thrust her against that tree. As violently as he
wrapped his cold hands around her throat.
Yet she was still here. Unsettled, but safe. And away from him.
He never offered to run away with Luna. The Order, not Draco Malfoy, freed Hermione from
Azkaban. The only people Draco rescued were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but then they
were captured and murdered by the Necromancer.
Hermione suddenly stood, her chair scraping so hard on the floor that heads turned to look at
her.
"I have to go, Luna. I'll see you later."
She rushed out of the dining commons, ignoring heckling from a table of Hestia's guards, not
even looking back when McLaggen fell onto his face as she ran past him.
She climbed the spiral staircase up to Shell Cottage two steps at a time, and emerged into the
biting, briny air of the seaside plateau. The snow dusting the ground had since melted into
hard ice, and she struggled to stay upright as she slid across the slick field. A group of off-
duty Order members was ice skating in front of the cottage, so Hermione ran the opposite
direction, up a slippery hill until she was almost at the border of the Fidelius Charm.
Only then did she stop, heart pounding, chest heaving from the climb. Only then did she
close her eyes and unlock the prison in her mind, blasting down the stone wall separating her
from his voice.
As he did that night, she shouted her words both into the piercing wind and within their
joined minds.
"Draco! I know you're here!"
The wind whipped the tears off her cheeks as quickly as they fell.
"I know you are always here. That you never left!"
Her voice grew hoarse, so she sank to her knees and cried her next words into her hands
instead of the wind. But she felt them reach him in the dark cage they shared, hidden away
from the rest of the world.
"I don't know why you're still here, or what you want. Maybe you don't either. But you do not
need to protect me."
And she swore she heard his cold laugh echoing across the cell within her soul.
***
"Expecto Patronum," Hermione whispered.
Her silvery otter materialized on the packed earth in front of her, and she knelt to give it
instructions.
"Find Hestia Jones. Tell her to follow you for an emergency Council meeting. Do not speak
to anyone else."
The otter briefly stood at attention, then scampered down the deserted corridor. Hermione
rose and leaned against the sandstone wall next to Kingsley's empty office, waiting.
Hestia did not appear for over an hour. Hermione was about to recall her Patronus and leave
when the black-haired witch strode into the passageway, eyes dark.
"I know you're lying again, Granger. Midnight Council meeting my ass."
She stormed right up to Hermione until they were so close that Hermione felt Hestia's hot
breath on her chin. Eyes blazing. Despite her shorter stature, the captain dominated
Hermione.
"TALK or I'll haul you straight to Kingsley. Or better yet, detain you myself and forget to tell
him."
Hermione stood straight, this time refusing to shrink in the face of Hestia's threats.
"I know you hate me because of what happened with Harry. So I need to show you why we
chose his plan instead of Kingsley's."
Hestia just cursed and turned to walk away. "Shove it, Granger."
"Please," Hermione called out, abandoning any attempt to conceal her desperation. "You're
right that everything was my fault. But you don't know the full story. I want to change that
tonight."
Hestia paused halfway down the hall, muscular back still to Hermione as she growled back,
"You want something from me. To join the Hangleton recovery, right?"
"Yes." Hermione replied cautiously, "And I want you to break the trace Kingsley put on me.
He would never let me go if he knew."
"HAH," Hestia snarled. But she strode back and stood next to Hermione in front of
Kingsley's locked office door. "Show me."
Relief flooded through Hermione as she spoke the password that she hoped Kingsley had not
changed from two years before.
"It is not fair to ask of others what you are not willing to do yourself."
The lock clicked, and Hestia pushed past Hermione into the room—completely dark save for
the faint light cast by the Pensieve set into the wall opposite.
"I'm going to show you three memories," Hermione explained, walking to the stone bowl.
"So please don't ask me any questions until you have seen them all."
Hestia scowled as she watched Hermione pull three threads from her temple, place two into
glass vials, and dip the last into the surface of the Pensieve.
***
April 10, 2002
Kingsley, Moody, Hestia, Ren, Aberforth, and Hermione sat around the round oak table in the
Council's cave-like strategy room, their high-backed chairs turned slightly to face a wizard
with messy jet-black hair speaking off to one side; his glasses tinted yellow from the glowing
orbs surrounding his slight frame.
"It's been four years since Hogwarts and I'm not any closer to destroying Voldemort's last
Horcruxes. All I've done is hide. I need to do this."
"Mr. Potter," Kingsley said, staring at Harry with great concern, "desperation leads to
mistakes, and your proposal is desperate. The Order cannot afford to lose you because of
personal feelings of guilt."
"I CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE ANYONE ELSE," Harry yelled. "Every day someone dies for
me, gives up their life because I failed. I'm done with the Council deciding that my life is
worth more than another's just because of a prophecy."
Moody's magical eye spun around to fix on Harry as he growled, "That prophecy means you
are a Horcrux, Potter. One that Voldemort never meant to create, does not know exists, yet
wants to destroy himself. You are the only leverage we have left over him. To risk you before
we find and kill the snake is reckless."
"Reckless is exactly what we're doing now. Throwing people at Voldemort with no chance of
actually killing him," pleaded Harry, walking to stand beside Hermione. "My plan will at
least give us a shot at taking down Nagini and finally ending this."
Hestia stood and flicked her wand to project a Wizard chess board above the massive table.
"Let's talk about your so-called 'plan' again, Potter." Hestia jabbed her wand at the board
and the white king moved forward.
"Your BRILLIANT IDEA is to just show up, announce yourself, and bet on Voldemort coming
with the snake?" Hestia accused, pounding the table with her clenched fist. With another stab
of her wand, the black king and queen moved toward the white.
"What other way can we get to Nagini?" countered Harry. "We haven't seen her since the
Battle of Hogwarts. You know that Voldemort won't show himself until he sees me, and he
won't leave Nagini behind alone and unprotected. If he knows I'm there, he'll come with
Nagini. And as soon as he… as soon as he kills me he'll be distracted. That will leave an
opening for the Order to destroy Nagini. I know it sounds simple, but there's no other way."
The white king crumbled before the black.

Harry flinched but continued. "And once we're both gone, the Order can finally kill
Voldemort."
"I agree that Voldemort will not join a battle unless you appear," Kingsley responded firmly,
"but there is no guarantee that Voldemort will bring Nagini even if he comes to kill you."
Now Kingsley moved his ivory-handled wand toward the table, resetting the board, but
without the black queen.
Harry turned to look down at Hermione beside him, and asked exasperatedly, "What do you
think about all of this?"
"I… I agree with Kingsley as well. I'm sorry, Harry, but he's right that Nagini may not be
there. And we're not even sure if you'll survive Voldemort destroying your Horcrux. It's all too
soon and too dangerous."
Harry ran his hands through his already rumpled hair, and spun to meet every Council
member in the eyes. "Well we have to do something!"
When Harry met Kingsley's eyes, the older man steepled his fingers and said in a low voice,
"There is a way."
Suddenly, a wide, green valley sprung from the center of the chess board. A flat plain
surrounded on all sides by rolling hills.
"We will choose a location where we can control entry and exit at all times, both through our
strongest anti-apparition and disapparition charms and the landscape itself. We will avoid
risking all leadership during battle, sending only Moody given his known friendship with you
as your former teacher. But it will otherwise appear to be the Order's last stand. You will be
visible to all as the Death Eaters enter from the hills above. They will be sure to report your
presence to Voldemort."
With a jab of Kingsley's wand, Harry's white king appeared like a shining beacon at the
center of the valley.
"Voldemort will arrive, and the Order will have time to confirm that he has Nagini as he
descends."
The black king and queen moved down the cascading slopes toward the white king.
"Voldemort will be at his most distracted and vulnerable immediately after killing you. We
will strike then—end the snake and then Voldemort. The Necromancer normally arrives after
all other Death Eaters leave. He will be easily visible to all in the valley below from that high
vantage point. The Order will retreat to the opposite side of the valley and evacuate via
portkeys as he descends."
Kingsley's voice was immeasurably calm as he moved his wand to push all white pieces off
the map.
Harry rubbed at the scar on his forehead as he replied, "This seems too easy, Kingsley.
Something isn't right. There's something you're leaving out."
Instead of speaking, Kingsley narrowed his eyes at the board. With a flick of his wand,
Harry's white king melted into a smaller piece topped with a sphere—a pawn.
Harry's eyes grew wide behind his round glasses. "You can't mean… NO!!"
"The Order will use a double to draw in Voldemort," Kingsley confirmed evenly. "When he
kills the fake, we will strike Nagini. You will come into battle if and only if we slay the snake.
Otherwise, you will stay back and we will attempt to retreat."
Harry slammed both hands into the table so hard even the projection blurred, raging, "You
want to have someone pretend to be me, using what, Polyjuice Potion? Force someone to be
murdered in my place?"
"The double will be a volunteer. They will know the risks and the value of their sacrifice."
"NO!" shouted Harry again. "No one else dies for me."
Kingsley turned away from Harry, his tone final.
"That is the Order's decision, not yours, Mr. Potter. The Council will now vote. You are
excused. Both from here, and the battle."
May 1, 2002
Harry paced up and down Hermione's cramped room. Stumbling over piles of books and
papers, and cursing. Eyes pointed downward. Not looking at either Ron or Hermione perched
nervously on the cot pushed against the wall.
"I'm leaving tonight. Before the battle," Harry stated brokenly.
"What are you saying?" Hermione begged, "You can't seriously think about leaving the Order
after everything."
"Give me three hours, then tell the Council so they call off the battle tomorrow," continued
Harry, voice flat. "No one else dies for me. I should have fought harder to stop all of this
earlier. But it ends tonight."
Ron stood. "Then we'll come with you. Both of us." Hermione nodded as Ron went on. "Like
it used to be. Hell, we'll take the fight to Voldemort and find Nagini together. Yeah?"
"No!" Harry snapped as he took his round glasses off to press a hand between his eyes. "This
is my fight to finish." He sank to the floor. "I've been ready to face him alone for years. I was
going to Voldemort during the ceasefire at Hogwarts. To die. But I couldn't even do that right.
Next thing I knew I woke up back with the Order instead of in the Forbidden Forest. Still
alive, and still a damn Horcrux."
Hermione crossed the minefield of books to place a hand gently on Harry's shaking back
while he continued speaking into his palms.
"I'm the reason this war didn't end four years ago. The reason you lost your parents, Ron.
The reason your parents still don't remember you, Hermione. The reason Hagrid died. The
reason everyone died. It's only right that I should die too."
"No, Harry," Hermione soothed. "That's just not true. You've saved so many, and given us all
a reason to fight. You didn't choose to be a Horcrux."
"But I can choose to stop being a Horcrux," Harry interrupted, pushing Hermione off. "If I
wasn't still alive, none of them would have died. If I wasn't still hiding, Voldemort would
never have hunted down the Dursleys after Hogwarts. Death Eaters would have had no
reason to look for the safe house where the Order hid them. Dolohov would never have
slaughtered Dedalus and tortured and killed the only family I have left just to find me."
Now Harry was yelling, "I know how they treated me! How they hated me! But they were
right to hate me. They probably always knew I would get them killed, just like my parents and
everyone else!"
Harry stood again, suddenly calm. Decided. Not looking at either Ron or Hermione.
"I'm going. Alone."
But just as he was about to cross the threshold, Hermione grabbed his arm and spoke.
"No, Harry. I'll talk to Kingsley again. I'll change his mind. Trust me."
May 2, 2002
Hermione paced across the thick Persian rug in Kingsley's nest-like office while he watched
her warily from behind his massive desk.
"It's killing him, Kingsley. Eating him alive. At this rate, the guilt will kill Harry before
Voldemort does."
"I meant what I said to the Council," Kingsley replied evenly. "Potter's emotions will destroy
us. I will not let that happen. The battle will move forward tonight with the double, and
without Potter."
Hermione stopped in front of the desk, clenching her fists on the dark granite as she yelled,
"Do you really think Harry will stand by and let another person die instead of him? Wearing
his face? And how can you even ask someone to give up their life as a 'strategic distraction?'
People are not chess pieces, Kingsley! If your plan works, it won't come without a cost. It
doesn't matter if we win the battle if we lose our souls in the process."
Kingsley watched white sand run slowly through an hourglass on his desk as he asked in a
low voice, "What would you have me do, Miss Granger? Overrule the Council's decision and
risk us all based on Potter's personal feelings of guilt? Based on your pity for your friend?"
Hermione leaned forward into the desk, begging, "Then I'll go too. I'll keep an eye on Harry
—if things look too dangerous or Nagini isn't there, I'll get him out. He'll listen to me."
"You are a member of the Council. As I said, we cannot risk… "
"Then I'll disillusion myself! Or, I don't know… wear Harry's Invisibility Cloak! I'll take it
and go without anyone even knowing if I have to. Please, Kingsley. This is the only way that
the Order won't lose him. Harry needs to finish this, and I'll be there to make sure he can, or
get us out if he cannot. The Order still needs Harry."
Kingsley's eyes narrowed at the hourglass as he spoke dispassionately, "Let's not pretend,
Miss Granger. You did not come to me out of loyalty to the Order. No, you came to me out of
your love for a friend."
Kingsley stood, flinging his next words into Hermione's tear-stained face.
"You know that Potter's recklessness will destroy him and everything we have worked for. Yet
you ask me to risk us all because he is too weak to allow another to take his place, and you
are too weak to stand aside. You let your emotions outweigh reason and logic. I taught you
better than this. For years I taught you better. Taught you that if you do not put your personal
attachments aside for a greater purpose, you have already lost."
"I told you!" pleaded Hermione, "I'll go with Harry and get us out if Nagini isn't there. I
promise I will. I know you don't trust Harry. But don't you trust me to put the Order first?"
Kingsley suddenly leaned forward, grabbed the hourglass, and heaved it into the wall. It
smashed in a brilliant shower of sand and glass.
"No, I do not!" Kingsley exploded. "You are compromised by your attachments to Potter.
Compromised and ready to throw your life away with his. I have no faith that when the time
comes, you will not continue to put your selfish feelings over reason! Over destroying
Voldemort!"
"Please," gasped Hermione, "I'll do anything. Please."
Kingsley spun, and walked to the far side of the room, pressing his palms against the wall
and hunching over to glare at the glittering remains of the shattered hourglass beneath.
"I'll do anything," Hermione repeated, with a shuddering breath. "Just let him go tonight. Let
him be there."
Kingsley knelt to pick up the pieces of the hourglass by hand, not even bothering with his
wand. He did not speak for a long time, but when he did, his voice was level again,
completely emotionless.
"You have made your choice, Miss Granger. But you will not choose for the Order. You can
change your mind and walk out that door right now. But if you insist on this path of self-
destruction, then you will accept the consequences."
"I'll do anything," whispered Hermione.

"You will make an Unbreakable Vow," replied Kingsley, voice as sharp as the splintered glass
beneath him.
Hermione's eyes grew wide as Kingsley continued coldly.
"You will promise that when you step on that battlefield tonight, and for as long as you live,
you will never again put your own attachments above the Order. Never again choose your
own selfish desires above the purpose that Harry Potter himself lost sight of out of weakness
and guilt. You will swear to finish what Potter cannot if he fails."
"Yes."
Kingsley walked across the room, dark eyes blazing. When he reached Hermione, still bent
over the granite desk, he extended his hand. Hermione rose, steeling herself, and grasped
Kingsley's hand with her own shaking palm.
She spoke.
"I, Hermione Jean Granger, vow to finish what Harry James Potter was chosen to do if he
cannot."
A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from Kingsley's ebony wand and wound its way
around their joined hands like a red-hot wire.
"I vow that I will never betray the Order."
A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first.
"And I vow that, in the end, I will always choose destroying Voldemort above my personal
attachments, affections, and desires. Above all else."
A third tongue of flame bound itself thickly around their clasped hands like a chain, like a
fiery snake.
Kingsley dropped Hermione's hand with a snarl.
"You made your choice. Now get out."

Kind Heart, Cruel Heart
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates;
I'll have them read me strange philosophy,
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings
***
"You're a fucking idiot," said Hestia, turning to glare at Hermione as soon as they exited her
memory. But the Captain eyes no longer held the same deep-seated distrust as before. Instead,
they were filled with something that looked closer to pity.
Hermione met her gaze, not trying to hide the remorse within her own eyes.
"You are right to hate me, Hestia. And you are right that I'm the reason Kingsley overruled
the Council and risked Harry instead of using someone else. But no one can hate me more
than I hate myself. And because of it, for as long as I live, my soul is bound to the Order."
Hermione looked toward the empty granite desk in the center of the room as she continued.
"Yes, I was captured. And yes I talked to Malfoy. But I came back. Kingsley made me swear
to never betray the Order. The fact that I am still standing here is indisputable proof that I
never have. And that same Vow guarantees that I never will."
Hestia huffed, moving to sit behind Kingsley's desk herself and tapping her fingers on the
dark stone surface.
"All you proved is that the Order can trust you to make reckless decisions. Why would I let
you anywhere near a fight?"
"Because I can try to convince Draco Malfoy to help us. To tell us what he knows about
Moody and Little Hangleton. What he knows about Harry's body."
The black-haired witch rolled her eyes, seeing through the uncertainty lacing Hermione's
offer. The desperation behind her words.
"Go ahead and try Granger. But you've made enough empty promises to last a lifetime."
Hestia stood and walked back to Hermione still standing by the Pensieve.
"Fine. As punishment for getting Potter killed and Mad-Eye taken in the first place, I'll
consider sending you back into active combat. I'll even think of something to tell Kingsley to
explain your absence. But you have to train with my unit. I won't have you killing any more
of us."
Hestia extended her hand. "Go on then."
Hermione bit back the urge to gawk as she reached out to grasp Hestia's. But as soon as she
did, the other woman recoiled.
"No! I don't want to shake on it like bloody Kingsley. Give me your wand. I'll break the trace
I put on it."
"You put the trace on me, not Kingsley?"
"Of course I did. I didn't even trust you with it for Occlumency. And for good reason,
considering you used it to run away."
Hestia grabbed the outstretched cedar wand, and raised her own above it. A black worm-like
trail of smoke rose out from the tip of Hermione's wand, and faded into the air. She handed it
back with a grunt.
"You'll start training with my Second-in-Command and the rest of the unit tomorrow. But if
you ever give any of us a reason to doubt you, we'll end you before the Vow even gets the
chance."
With the threat, Hestia stalked out of the room. Hermione trailed her down the corridor
beyond. Their footsteps echoed through the still-empty tunnels. As they walked, Hestia threw
a question behind her.
"Why did you do it, Granger? Make the Vow?"
Hermione answered right away.
"Kingsley was right when he said I was selfish. I told him all I wanted was to destroy
Voldemort, but he saw right through me. The truth is that I couldn't stand to lose Harry and
the Order that night. So I bet that I could save both and lost everything."
***
The ice outside of Shell Cottage the day prior was gone, melted into a slick mud that stuck to
Hermione's boots as she trudged across the field separating her from the invisible boundary
of the Fidelius Charm. As soon as she pulled one foot from the slush, her other sank down
further, so that it took her twice as long to cross the distance. With each step, Hermione
looked back toward the cottage—afraid that this time she would be caught even before
leaving the Order. That despite Hestia removing the trace, someone would run out and haul
her back.
As she struggled through the mud, her mind conjured a million reasons to turn around. To
descend back into the oppressing safety of the Headquarter tunnels and barricade herself in a
stuffy room until her reason returned.
But her legs kept moving forward, even as the earth itself sucked her down. As soon as
Hestia lifted the trace, she gave in to her impulse to see him again, regardless of the fallout.
Hermione resorted to using her hands to claw up the same slippery slope that had been hard
ice the day before. But the ground at the top of the hill was firmer, and she ran the remaining
thirty feet across the boundary line. As soon as she passed through the Fidelius Charm, she
spun to disapparate.
When the world righted itself again, she was back in the clearing where she last saw him.
Wetness hit her cheeks and she realized it was raining. She stumbled to the nearest group of
trees, shielding her head with mud-caked hands. Out of the downpour, she knelt on the damp
leaves, and began to pull apart the iron bars within her mind. As she tore her cell apart brick
by brick, she called out to him again.
"You were wrong when you said I know nothing. I made a selfish vow to save Harry, only for
him to die because of it. I failed myself and the Order, and every day I have to live with that
guilt."
She felt him there, concealed deep within their cage. She needed to dig him out, so she
continued.
"I don't blame you for choosing to become a Death Eater to save your parents. Voldemort
killed my loved ones in front of me because I failed. Just as the Necromancer killed your
parents when you tried to get them out."
Hermione's voice broke as she spoke through the storm, "We can help each other. I am not
your enemy. I understand you better than you think. I AM YOU. So please, just tell me…"
A loud, echoing crack broke through the sleepy forest like gunfire. Frightened swarms of
birds flew out from the treetops on all sides.
She squinted through the rain across the clearing. A harsh male voice emerged from the
shadows.
"You should leave now."
This time, Hermione stood and walked toward him, wand by her side, speaking steadily
through the torrent.
"Not until you answer my question. That's our deal, remember?"
She could barely see him in the weak afternoon light filtering through the dripping branches.
Could just make out white-blond hair, this time slicked back from the rain. His hollow cheeks
and cold gray eyes.
But then she froze as he stepped out of the darkness.
He wore long black robes, trailing on the mossy ground. Black leather stretched tightly
around the muscles of his forearm, while his hands were concealed beneath gloves. A dark
shirt spiraled with intricate silver threads, fitted trousers, and pointed dragon leather shoes
barely showed beneath the heavy fabric of his robes. One gloved hand held a hawthorn wand,
while the other gripped a shining Death Eater mask.
He took another step forward into the light, and Hermione stumbled backward.
He was covered in blood.
Thick crimson splashed across his sleeves. Congealed on his shoes. Pooled around the
bottom of his dark robes as the rain soaked into him. She could not see where the blood came
from, but he was drenched in it. He left behind a red footprint with every step toward her.
Hermione's mind raced… she had expected Draco to look the same as before. The same black
suit. Not… this. One fact penetrated her consciousness like a dart.
"You're still a Death Eater?" she asked quietly.
"I have always been a Death Eater, Granger."
"Even after what Voldemort did to your parents? What the Necromancer… "
"Yes."
Her frozen mind suddenly cleared, and she raised her wand.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!"
He kept moving toward her, now only ten feet away, so she yelled again.
"Malfoy, if you're being controlled, I'll break it!"
At her words, his cold eyes sparked with an unfamiliar madness. His mouth lifted in a twisted
smile.
"I'm not."
Without warning, Draco pointed his wand in front of him and pivoted, coiling his entire body
like a cloaked serpent.
Sinister dark flames shot out from his wand, enveloping the entire clearing in black fire. A
flame so hot that the edges blazed a brilliant blue. He completed the hellish circle, and the
black flames flared even above the treeline, burning up the rain as it fell into the boiling air.
The forest around the edges of the nightmarish ring exploded in a violent downpour of fiery
splintered branches.
Hermione screamed and curled forward onto the ground, pulling her knees to her chest and
casting a shielding charm above her head. Even through the eruption trapping her at the
center of the black ring of fire, she heard his heavy, damp footsteps drawing closer.
Then he rushed forward, seizing her raised wrist in his unyielding gloved hand before she
could even cast a spell. He forced both arms to her sides, pulled her against him, and turned
them violently into cool darkness.
Everything went black, and she was pressed from all directions as iron bands tightened
around her chest. He redoubled his grip on her. She could not breathe. Could not hear as her
eardrums pushed deeper into her skull.
All at once the pressure released, and they landed roughly on the planks of a wooden floor.
Light flickered from a marble fireplace, set against deep purple walls. Hermione blinked as
her eyes adjusted to a crystal chandelier above.
Horror began to flood through her right as Draco rolled over onto her, knees pressing against
the sides of her hips, firm hands pinning her arms above her as Bellatrix had. In the same
place. In the same drawing room.
She felt his wet gloved hand yank her right sleeve up, exposing her fading curse of a scar. He
slowly moved the leather on his long thumb across each jagged letter, following the path of
his aunt's blade.
MUDBLOOD
Hermione looked up at his face in confusion, and saw that with each stroke, Draco's crazed
expression grew colder. His eyes, more hollow. A few strands of rain slicked blond hair fell
down in front of his pale face.
Her mind raced. He brought her to Malfoy Manor, covered in blood. Nothing made sense.
"Why are you doing this, Malfoy?" she begged with a shudder.
His gaze snapped back to her, and she saw the red veins that streaked across the whites of his
eyes like spider webs. Like he had not known rest for weeks. Maybe years.
He moved his fingers off her scar and back to her wrist, pushing her hands even more firmly
into the wood above as he slid his knees down the floor and slowly lowered himself onto her.
As his rain and blood soaked black robes pooled around them. As his chest pressed painfully
into hers until she gasped for air, and cried out.
"Why... Why were you ever kind to me? Why did you ever speak with me in Azkaban?"
She felt his cold lips against her ear, but they did not move as his voice echoed within her
head.
"This is what happens when you open yourself up to me. You thought you escaped, yet here
you are again. Trapped under the enemy. Tortured. I was weak then, but not anymore."
His lips withdrew and he raised his head again. He wrapped his leather-covered fingers
around her forehead and temples, pinning her head to the floorboard. His red-gray eyes
locked onto her as he hissed.
"Legilimens."
Hermione writhed on the floor as Draco pierced into her mind as violently as Bellatrix's
knife. She felt him step through the narrow slit of her mental prison, and enter the labyrinth
within. He stormed through her maze of dark passageways, hidden corners, staircases that led
to nowhere.
When he turned into the first block, cells exploded as he passed. Rock and iron that she
worked months to secure ravaged without a thought. The memories she so painstakingly
secreted away spilled onto the stone floor beneath his feet.
But he did not stop. He kept pressing forward through the destruction.
Finally, he stilled in front of a room with its bars already pried open—the memories within
still vulnerable after so recently freeing them for the Pensieve. He wrenched the bent iron
farther apart and forced himself inside. And for the second time that day, Hermione relived
the trauma of her desperate promise sealed in the fiery chains of an Unbreakable Vow.
But unlike Hestia who had only watched her actions through a Pensieve, Draco experienced
the memory through her mind. Heard all of her weak, greedy thoughts. Felt every shameful
emotion as she felt them. An unbearable violation of her darkest moments.
As soon as the painful memory ended, Draco withdrew from her mind as sharply as he
entered, leaving her reeling on the floor, panting.
His voice cut through the ringing in her ears like a dagger.
"I thought you were supposed to be smart."
"Now… now you understand… I made a foolish mistake and I need to avenge them, like
you," she gasped.
Draco laughed cruelly as he suddenly stood and threw the black robes off his broad
shoulders.
He turned slowly before her, eyes cold, one palm lowered in front of him, inviting her to look
at the spotless, undamaged clothes beneath.
"None of it is my blood, Granger."
He walked to the opposite end of the ornate room, and lowered himself into one of the
velveted armchairs set in front of the fireplace. The same chair she saw him waiting in as she
was dragged into his house five years ago.
He leaned casually against the back, crossed one leg, and rested his angular cheek on a
gloved hand. A high-born spectator watching as Hermione wrestled with his words. As she
struggled to lift herself off the ground before him. He smirked down at her, and continued
haughtily.
"You call yourself selfish because you were wrong. But you never staked your life on a vow
only for the people you love. No. Before and after your promise, you tied your soul to a
greater purpose than that. You still do, and we both know that the vow is just a pretense."
He leaned forward, snarling, "I am not you, Granger. I told you that from the beginning. I saw
the only people I love slaughtered in front of me. But I didn't turn and fight. No, I knelt in
their blood, bowed down, and submitted. That is true selfishness."
Hermione heaved herself up to face him, and cried out, "You don't need to do this anymore.
You saved me in Azkaban. You gave me so much to tell the Order. Come back with me and I
can protect you. I can save you!"
Draco's cold laugh echoed through the room at her words.
"You can never save me. And you know that I am not your savior, Granger. We both saw you
vow to take on Potter's burden when he died. The truth is that I am the betrayal you swore
never to commit. If you have to end the Dark Lord, then you have to end me."
He stood sharply and walked to her—spanning the distance between them with three
powerful strides. He wrenched the glove off his long, pale hand, and knelt to clasp her cheek.
His touch was almost tender, but her entire body grew numb at the contact.
"This emptiness you still feel is because of me. I heard you, and let you rot in Azkaban just
like I did in this very room. I could have saved you. I did not."
"Then why don't you just kill me now?"
His bloodshot gray eyes darkened.
"So that's what you fucking want from me? That's the reason you keep begging for me to hear
you? Praying for a Death Eater to find you? TO KILL YOU?"
He laughed as he wrapped his arms around her like vices, flinging her against him like a limp
doll, turning them into the crushing blackness once again.
"I think one day I will."

Journey to the Depths
Go, and return an old Franciscan friar;
That holy shape becomes a devil best.
***
Hermione searched desperately for her wand amidst the fallen leaves, and cast a spell to
illuminate the now dark forest pressing its shadows against her from all sides. The black
flames had extinguished, leaving behind only charred, wet ashes.
He was gone.
Something glinted beside her, and she looked down to see the metal Death Eater mask.
Discarded as he apparated her to Malfoy Manor.
She dug it out from beneath wet scraps of seared bark—remnants of the trees he destroyed
with a single curse—and held it between trembling hands. The pits of the skull-like eye
sockets were as empty as his eyes, revealing only the forest floor beneath.
For months she defended Draco's past and justified his present. Both to the Order and to
herself. Convinced that they did not still stand on opposite sides of the war. That he would
want to betray Voldemort after his years of forced servitude and imprisonment. That he
would need to destroy the Necromancer after he executed his parents.
"I knelt in their blood, bowed down, and submitted."
He was always a Death Eater. He never hid that part of himself. She was just too blind to see
the truth. Not until Draco stole her away, forced her down, and entered her mind in a way he
never had before, in Azkaban or after. Laid waste to the walls shielding her deepest thoughts
and memories. Saw her vow, and laughed at it. Then heard her pleas to bring him back to the
Order, and laughed at her.
Hestia was right. It was a fool's errand to go to Draco and ask for help. Ask for redemption
for them both. He had no interest in saving anything or anyone, least of all her.
"I am selfish. I will always be selfish."
Hermione felt like a blindfold had finally been ripped from her eyes, so that she could no
longer fail to see a reality that made her colder and emptier than her prison cell ever did.
Draco Malfoy was her enemy.
Whatever he had become was not redeemable. It did not matter if he kept her sane in
Azkaban. And it mattered even less that he claimed to always tell her the truth. It did not
even change anything that he chose to delay killing her as some sort of sick game.
From the beginning, Kingsley, Hestia, and the entire Order saw what she would not. They
knew that Draco had his claws in her since his very first question. Poisoned her mind with
every answer.
But no longer. She could not speak or go to him again without betraying the Order. She had
to give him up or forfeit her life to the Unbreakable Vow.
She stood, feeling as hard and cold as the metal of the Death Eater mask within her hands.
She saw flecks of wet blood around the edges that she had not noticed before.
Not his blood.
She held out one hand, igniting a dazzling red flame within that even the pounding rain could
not put out. She held the mask above the fire until it melted, twisted into something
unrecognizable.
She looked one last time at his ruined mask, then dropped it on the ground and turned to go
back to the Order.
***
The sky was still black when Hermione apparated into the woodlands behind the cottage. But
by the time she hiked back to the boundary line, the morning sun already broke through the
water beyond the sea cliff.
Nobody confronted Hermione as she crossed through the Fidelius Charm. No swarms of
armed Order guards positioned to fight her, and no captain stood ready to arrest her for
treason. It appeared that Hestia indeed removed the trace, and her absence went unnoticed.
The knowledge should have filled Hermione with relief. But the energy she used to sever ties
with Draco left her feeling bone-tired. And the hole in her mind that he used to fill swallowed
every other emotion.
As Hermione descended the twisting staircase and noticed people already traversing the
hallways on their way to morning duties, she remembered that it was only a few hours until
she had to report for her first training with Hestia's Special Force. But she had no clue where
to go. No one knew where Hestia kept her secret unit, and she forgot to ask in her reckless
rush to leave and see Draco.
Unsure of what else to do, she followed the traffic and ended up in front of the dining
commons. The large room was still uncrowded since it was so early. The normal clamor
during the mealtime rush was replaced by soft chatter and the scrape of utensils. The mis-
matched chairs and tables scattered around the packed dirt floor still stood half-empty.
Hermione preferred eating during off-hours and avoiding the crowds—the more people, the
more she tended to be harassed. Sometimes, she still chose to eat during normal hours to sit
with Charlie and her friends. But at the moment, after what just happened, she was eager to
be alone.
As she picked at her morning oats, she looked at the faces around the room. Fortunately, no
McLaggens or Zabinis to accost or wink at her this morning. Without anyone to talk to, she
distracted herself by running through everything she knew about the Special Force.
The elite group was highly confidential and highly selective. Only Hestia knew its
membership, and hand-picked her fighters from… well, Hermione was not even sure where
they came from. All she did know was that McLaggen, fortunately, did not make the cut. She
did not know where the group lived, ate, or worked. The Council commissioned key
assignments like the Little Hangleton mission, but Hestia largely had free reign to use the
Force as she saw fit. As long as she showed results, the Council gave her carte blanche.
Most recently, the Special Force infiltrated Italy and assassinated the Muggle President,
Magical Prime Minister, and their entire cabinets. Apparently, none were controlled by the
Imperius Curse. All bent the knee to the Dark Lord willingly, eager to serve the regime
steadily gaining ground across Europe. But Hermione wondered how far Hestia actually went
to verify that willingness before executing them in cold blood. Neville and Charlie were not
the only ones in the Order with misgivings about the group's purpose and methods.
Hermione decided that she would find out more about the Special Force soon enough. If she
could find it at all.
Still uncertain where to go, she resigned to return to her room to get cleaned up and wait for
instructions.
She was halfway there when she collided with someone standing in the middle of one of the
narrower passageways. Hermione mumbled an apology without even looking up. She tried to
keep walking, but a hand yanked her back by her sleeve.
"Hey!" she barked as the hand spun her around in one smooth motion.
Her eyes widened as she took in the dark, angular features of Blaise Zabini. Today, he wore a
matching tan Muggle t-shirt and joggers, topped by his normal smug expression. His long
braids fell loosely around his face, framing wide-set, sloped eyes.
"I don't know what manners they teach Mudbloods, but where I grew up, you apologize to a
person's face, not shoes." Blaise jeered, still gripping her shirtsleeve.
Hermione's jaw fell open at the slur. Someone called her "Death Eater" or "Prison Girl"
almost daily, but no one in the Order ever called her "Mudblood." It basically went against
everything their cause believed in to insult a person's non-magical heritage.
"Excuse me?!" she spluttered, jerking to free herself from Blaise's tight hold.
He did not release her as he taunted, "You heard what I said, Hermione Granger. What I did
not hear you do is beg for my forgiveness. Go on then."
Ginny was right. Who in their right mind would sign off on Blaise joining the Order?
Hermione was reminded of her dream of Blaise proudly baring his Dark Mark before
Voldemort. Maybe he really was a Death Eater who could barely keep his cover. Doing a
poor job of hiding in plain sight.
Hermione looked straight into his dark brown eyes as she shot back, "What are you even
doing here anyways?"
"Standing. Breathing. Being run over by bushy-haired Mudbloods… "
"No! I mean what are you doing in the Order?" Hermione huffed, adding, "It just doesn't
seem like you… I'm just not sure why you're interested in being here."
"Ah," replied Blaise. Finally releasing her sleeve with a dramatic flick of his hand.
"Right. Technically, I'm in Sanitation."
"What?"
"SAN-I-TA-TION, Granger," Blaise said, articulating every syllable, eyes roguish.

"Sanitation means I clean up the Order's messes. Messes means… "
"Okay, okay I get it," she interrupted.
"Hey, I don't know," Blaise responded, smirking as he raised both palms to her in mock
defense. "Word is that you got a lot denser since Hogwarts. Had to be sure you understood."
"Is that why you were staring at me all through dinner the other day?" Hermione asked, face
burning. "Because now people are gossiping that I'm brain damaged or something?"
Blaise considered then said, "Full of it aren't you? How do you know I was looking at you?
Maybe I fancy Loony whatever her last name is. Or the Weasley girl."
"Fancy Ginny?" Hermione argued. "I don't believe that at all. You were cruel to her at school.
Bullied her and called her names constantly. How could you ever like her?"
Blaise's smile did not reach his dark eyes as he spoke.
"The heart wants what it can't have, Granger. You should know that better than anyone."
"What the hell does that mean?" she shouted at Blaise's back, but he was already walking
down the hall.
Going to do something that she very much doubted involved cleaning.
***
Hermione was still fuming when she slammed her way into her cluttered room. As she started
shedding mud-caked clothes, she resolved to bring up the issue of Blaise's loyalty during her
next Council meeting.
She glanced around, looking for anything appropriate to wear to military training, but came
up short. All she really owned were old Muggle clothes from growing up, and robes that she
wore during her Council duties. Neither seemed right for her new assignment.
Finally, she settled on wearing the crimson riding leathers Charlie gave her for their flying
lessons. As she pulled on the fitted fabric, she thought of him. Hoped that he was safe in
Madrid with Bill and Fleur. There were no Scout reports to the Council lately, but no news
was generally a good thing. And Bill's Fidelius Charm still worked, so he was almost
certainly alive.
She missed seeing Charlie every day, practicing Occlumency and then flying. He was the one
bright spot in seven months of recovery, near-isolation, and harassment. Being with him was
painless when little else was anymore. Every time they were together, she understood a bit
more why he did so well in his former life as a dragon trainer. He made her feel calm,
watched over, and safe.
But, Hermione guessed that he would not approve of her taking part in the Hangleton mission
if he knew. Charlie made it clear how he felt about the Special Force and its questionable
tactics. Part of her was glad that he was away scouting so he did not suspect her involvement
in the group.
She stepped over a leaning tower of papers to tame her wild hair in the mirror.
Her reflection shocked her. There were dried brown streaks of blood coating her forehead and
temples. Disturbing reminders of where Draco touched her with gloved hands as he tore
through her memories. She grabbed a cloth and rubbed at the marks, but they only faded to
light red stains. Eventually, she gave up. Maybe they would just give her new team the
impression that she was battle tested.
Her hair was as bushy as Blaise insinuated. Tangled from her trek in the mud and rain. She
ran her fingers through the mess and twisted thick strands into a plait.
The rest of her face looked fine, if not tired. She gained some weight and muscle back from
eating regularly and her hours outside flying. But there was a permanent gauntness to her
cheeks from months of malnutrition in Azkaban. Her once warm brown eyes were still faded.
Charlie told her the pale brown was pretty, reminding him of birch trees. To Hermione,
however, they were too different. No longer eyes inherited from her parents, but instead
discolored shells manufactured by Dementors.
"Hello!"
Hermione turned from the mirror when she heard the friendly soprano voice float in through
her cracked door.
A strawberry blond head poked through the gap, looking at Hermione with a charming
smile.
"Hestia sent me. Are you ready for training?"

"Yes. Um, do I need to bring anything besides my wand?" Hermione asked.
The woman stepped inside, and Hermione took in her lean frame, cropped hair, and round,
friendly face.
"Just yourself," replied the woman cheerily. "If you're ready, then let's go. We're already late
as it is."
Hermione followed as the witch power walked through hallway after hallway, feeling like a
kite pulled by a string.
As they sped along, she asked, "Sorry, I didn't get your name?"
"Pangolin!" replied the woman, not turning back. "And I already know your name. But just
so you're aware, members of the Knife don't use our given names."
Hermione was confused by the entire exchange. "So Pangolin isn't your real name?"
"No way," sang the woman. "What sort of parents would name their kid after a weird, scaly
little beast like that? Although I'm the one who chose my code name, so I guess I can't
complain." Pangolin's full laughter rang through the tunnel as she continued to lead
Hermione lower into the base.
"What is 'the Knife'?" Hermione asked.
"It's what we call our unit. The Special Force unit."
"Why?"
"You'll find out soon enough," said Pangolin cryptically.
Hermione continued to follow Pangolin down staircase after staircase, becoming more
confused by the minute. She had no clue where they were going; had never been this deep
before. But she figured there must be some practice room hidden far beneath the surface that
only the Special Force… the Knife… used. And she guessed that this strangely cheerful
woman was Hestia's Second-in-Command chosen to lead the operation. She mused that
maybe Neville wouldn't be so opposed to dark magic if he met Pangolin.
At last, they reached a dead end so deep that Hermione's ears popped from the pressure
change. Pangolin guided her to a door at the far side of the hallway, whispered something
against the handle, and walked inside. They emerged into a tight room, empty except for a
brownstone fire pit at its center. A small bowl of glittering green powder sat next to its base.
"The Order has a Floo network?" marveled Hermione, gaping.
"I wouldn't exactly call a single access point a 'network,' but yes," Pangolin replied. "No one
but the Knife can use it though. So I'm not surprised you didn't know."
She handed Hermione a folded slip of paper, ordering, "Read this."

Hermione obeyed, seeing what she immediately recognized as an address, likely written by
the Fidelius Charm's Secret Keeper.
Brie Flats
Solter Lane, Kilcot GL19
1NH England
Pangolin linked arms with Hermione, and dragged her toward the fire pit. Once there, she
threw a handful of powder into the center, dropped in the slip of paper, and spoke clearly into
the emerald green fire.
"Brie Flats."
She then proceeded to shove Hermione forward into the blazing green flames. Hermione was
suddenly hit by a warm breeze and the feeling that she was being sucked down a giant drain.
The sensation was strange after not using Floo travel for so long.
She arrived at the connected fireplace, and stepped out into an enormous wooden structure.
The sun peeking through cracks in the planks above told her that she was above ground. Piles
of straw and tools were scattered around the dirt floor. A barn.
Definitely the opposite of the twisting underground maze of Headquarters.
A moment later, she was knocked forward as Pangolin exited the fireplace behind her.
"Whoops!" the woman exclaimed, righting herself and then Hermione. "Well, we'd better go.
Lynx doesn't like it when we hold up the squad."
"Who is Lynx?" probed Hermione as she tailed the strawberry blond witch again. They ran
out of the airy barn into a flat, dusty farm yard scattered with rusted equipment. She saw
several other rickety white buildings in the distance. Ahead, a weather-worn tractor lay tipped
over on its side.
"He's the Second-in-Command," Pangolin clarified, jogging backwards ahead of her. "Great
guy. You'll love him."
"You're not the Second?"
"Oh no, not me. I'm actually the newest recruit. I guess the second-newest recruit now that
you're here." The witch laughed as she led Hermione into an abnormally tall and dense wheat
field.
As they continued forward, she could make out three figures standing amidst the swaying
yellow stalks.
A young woman with waist-length black hair, long legs, and a tight frown.
A stocky, heavily muscled man with a thick, scraggly beard.

And Blaise Zabini.
Hermione gulped at the confirmation that the dark-eyed man was definitely not a sanitation
worker.
Blaise lifted two fingers in the air in greeting as they approached, a knowing smile already
plastered across his face.
"Sorry, Lynx!" Pangolin said as she ran right up to Blaise. "We won't be late again."
"It's fine," Blaise reassured coolly, locking eyes with Hermione as he spoke.
"At least you know how to apologize."

Dark Forces
Chapter Summary
I hope you enjoy this training arc--the story will be getting darker from here on out.
I charge thee to return, and change thy shape;
Thou art too ugly to attend on me
***
She was sitting with her back leaned against the slick wall, ignoring the dampness of the
stones to hear his voice more clearly.
"What is your favorite flower?"
Hermione guffawed, throwing her hands over her mouth to stifle her snorts. She tried to stay
alert, waited for the day when he asked something designed to entrap her. But his questions
became simpler and more personal every time.
"Roses," she gasped.
"The Manor has a rose garden. Though I doubt anyone has kept it up."
"Where does the Necromancer's power come from?"
"That's not a fair question, Granger, and you know it. Ask something else."
***
Blaise summoned five sets of folding chairs and gestured for everyone to sit. Hermione
lowered herself onto the edge of the flimsy seat, glancing around the group nervously.
Everyone except her wore skin-tight black bodysuits, gloves, and heavy combat boots. They
also all had a strange, dark, scarf-like cloth draped around their necks. The black-haired
woman noticed Hermione staring at it, and pulled the back over the top of her head and the
front of her nose, shrouding everything but her piercing green eyes.
"We'll go around and do introductions," Blaise said casually. "Which happy camper wants to
go first?"
The black-haired woman pulled her hood back down and spoke. "I'm called Spider."
"Wolf," grunted the large bearded man seated to her left. The chair kept creaking under his
weight so that Hermione worried that the plastic would crack at any moment.
"You already know I'm Lynx, and the hyper one over there is Pangolin," Blaise finished,
crossing his lean arms. "We obviously don't use our real names for security reasons. So don't
go using my name either, especially during a mission. Got it?"
Hermione nodded cautiously.
"Now you choose a name and we can get on with it," ordered Blaise. "And if you don't pick
in thirty seconds we're just going with 'Bushy.'"
Hermione instantly thought of the tiny yellow birds she liked to summon when given the
chance.
"Goldfinch, I'll be Goldfinch," she stated firmly.
"Fine, whatever," Blaise dismissed, picking a speck of dirt off his sleeve as he continued, "I
have no idea why you're here, Goldfinch. The Captain only told me last night that you forced
your way on our ragtag team of deviants. What I do know is that you are dead weight.
Useless to me and to the Knife."
Blaise tilted his chair onto the back two legs. "The rest of this squad has trained together for
the better part of a year. You have… " he counted on his fingers, "... sixteen days to cut it. If,
at the end of that time, I decide that you're still slowing us down, then I cut you."
Hermione's eyes narrowed as Blaise leaned forward again, resting a hand lazily on one of his
sharp cheekbones, not even looking at her as he spoke.
"We're sending two squads to Little Hangleton. Second Squad will extract Mad-Eye. First
Squad, led by yours truly, will recover Potter's body."
Blaise's lofty gaze finally fell on Hermione as he asked, "Any questions, Bird Girl?"
Hermione scoffed, but asked, "So what now?"
This time, the dark-haired woman answered, her voice deep.
"We turn you into a weapon."
"So dramatic, Spider. But alright then, let's go." Blaise jumped off his camping chair. As soon
as he did, the other three squad members leapt up just as quickly. Blaise vanished all five
chairs in a flash, and Hermione dropped roughly onto the straw-covered ground.
"Oh, one more thing." Blaise removed a pure white wand from a holster on his bicep, and
flicked it toward Hermione. She was struck with a sudden jolt of tingling heat. She looked
down, and saw that Blaise transformed her riding leathers into the same fitted, black bodysuit
as the rest of the squad. She ran her fingers along the hood around her neck, reluctantly
impressed.
"We'll start by grouping up," Blaise commanded. "You're coming with me, Goldfinch. The
rest of you go practice your homework in the shed."
Hermione followed Blaise deeper into the field. As they walked, she noticed the predatory
way that he edged through the tall grass. Long braids swaying behind like a tail. He never
stood quite straight, always leaning into each motion, arms and legs bent into each long
stride. A wildcat stalking a kill. She understood why he chose his code name, Lynx.
"What happens in the shed?" Hermione ventured, curious where the other three squad
members went.
"Something fun," Blaise replied smartly.
"Then what are we doing?"
"Something Unforgivable."
***
They stood on opposite ends of the wheat field, wands raised between the honey-colored
shafts. Hermione shifted her weight nervously. She understood in theory that she would be
expected to use Unforgivable Curses as part of the Special Force. But now that she was here,
cedar wand pointed toward Blaise's smug face, she wavered. In truth, she knew very little
about dark magic. She only sat through non-practical lectures with Moody during fourth year.
But at the memory of her missing teacher, she rediscovered her resolve.
Blaise's arrogant voice carried across the field to her, interrupting her thoughts.
"Feel free to use the deadliest curse you can think of, including Avada."
"What?" Hermione asked. "You really want me to start off by trying to kill you?"
"This isn't Dumbledork's Army," Blaise taunted. "Potter probably ate shit trying to disarm a
killing curse. If you want to survive, you'll have to do better than that."
Hermione scowled at Blaise's vile jabs. Fine. She would try to use an Unforgivable. She
quickly settled on the Imperius Curse, reasoning that it was the least damaging of the three.
"Crucio!"
Hermione fell forward, screaming in agony, twisting in the straw. Her heart felt like it was
being torn open, violently stitched together, and then ripped apart again. The pain pierced
every bone. Radiated through every nerve. Her mind brought her back to the drawing room
floor of Malfoy Manor, and the scar on her arm flared in red-hot agony.
Eventually, the pain began to recede. She still lay curled on the ground, panting, as she
hissed, "What was that? You attacked before I even said I was ready!"
Blaise rolled his sloped eyes. "And your point is? You really think a Death Eater will count
down to killing you? That the Dark Lord's Mouth will think twice before sicking corpses on
you? Before Italy, our squad was three times this size. Unlike you, they didn't hesitate. Didn't
stand there, thinking through a list of curses during a mission. But they died just the same.
This isn't a game, Mudblood. And if it is, then you need to cheat."
Blaise stalked toward her, nostrils flaring.
"Scouts are the Order's eyes. The Infantry, the feet."
He stood above her, watching coldly as she spasmed on the ground.
"And we're the fucking knife that stabs you in the back."
***
Hours later, the crop field surrounding them was little more than a charred pit after Blaise
decided to throw fire hexes into the mix. She was fast enough to dodge most of his spells, and
the fact that she saw deadly flashes of green several times made her faster.
But she could not land a single curse on the Second-in-Command, even without hesitating.
He would weave through the tall stalks and strike before she even knew where to point her
wand. And once the wheat was burned beyond usefulness, he crawled through the ashes,
black bodysuit disillusioned and barely visible against the scorched earth.
At one point, she spun around only to find him beneath her. Too late. All of a sudden, sharp
pain sliced through her leg and she fell, screaming.
She hunched over, holding her ankle. Trying to staunch the bleeding from a wide cut
precisely on her already scarred tendon. Fumbling to find her wand to heal herself.
"Imperio."
Hermione's head went numb. A tickling sensation began to course through, like an itch on her
brain that she could not scratch. She felt her hands pull away from the wound and fall limply
on her sides. Her back jerked, and she sat up and stretched out her injured leg, letting blood
flow freely into the earth.
Her hand seized up. She reached out again toward her ankle and dug two fingers right into
her own exposed flesh. Her mind screamed with the slow, excruciating pain, but her mouth
did not move as her fingernails continued to widen the bleeding gash, gouging out skin and
tissue.
"Enough."
Her hand withdrew as the cloudiness within her head began to dissipate. She rolled over onto
her side, crippled with the already traumatic injury that she was forced to mangle even
more.
Something fell next to her, and she looked over shakily to see that Blaise had dropped her
wand in the dirt beside her ruined ankle.
"Fix yourself and get up."
The next few hours followed the same tortuous pattern. Hermione unwillingly went on the
defensive, jumped to avoid his curses, ran to put distance between them, and sometimes even
hid within the tall wheat deeper into the field to catch her breath and when her still weakened
ankle threatened to give out.
He found her every single time.
Before she could even see him, she was down. Writhing in the dirt and grass, hit with the
Cruciatus Curse or another equally painful hex. And every time, he ended by placing her
under the control of his Imperius Curse, compelling her to further mutilate her wounds with
her own hands.
Blaise grew even deadlier as night fell. His dark face, hair, and bodysuit melted into the
shadows until he was invisible even without disillusionment. By the time the last rays of
November sunlight dipped below the horizon, Hermione knew that she was hopelessly
outmatched. Little more than his prey.
The only things she picked up from that first lesson were dozens of wicked bruises and still-
bleeding gashes. Her clothes were so torn that she saw as much skin as fabric.
Strangely, the longer Blaise hunted her, the quieter he became. He continued to throw curses,
but did not make a smug comment or cruel joke for hours. By the time they stopped fighting
and he walked her back through the field toward a set of distant structures, he did not speak
at all.
Blaise led her to one of the larger buildings. A whitewashed wooden farmhouse. They
stepped up onto a creaky front porch cluttered with rickety, peeling rocking chairs. When
they reached the screen door, he pulled it open, shoved her inside without a word, and left.
"Goldfinch!"
Pangolin ran up gleefully as Hermione stumbled through the threshold.
"Oh! Wow. Lynx really did a number on you," she observed, looking Hermione up and down.
"Don't worry. It gets better. Or at least you get better."
She guided Hermione to a small sitting room off the foyer and sat her down on a tartan
loveseat.
As the strawberry blond began to cast healing spells over her, Hermione asked, "Are we not
going back to Headquarters tonight?"
"Not tonight. We usually only go back every few days. Even less right before a mission."
"What is this place?"
"This whole farm is a safe house, but technically this building is one of our barracks. Fossa is
the Secret Keeper. You haven't met him since he's on Second Squad. I think this used to be
his family's land before the war. Fossa's squad is at another safe house right now. Lynx is
Secret Keeper for that one."
Pangolin pulled out a tiny vial of Dittany and began to treat her ankle.
"And before you ask, Lynx is with Wolf in the smaller building next door, so you don't need
to worry about him sneaking up on you in the middle of the night to finish the job." She
winked.
The long-legged other female member of their squad stepped into the room. "Dinner is
ready."
"Thanks a bunch, Spider." Pangolin answered.
The three witches moved to sit around a cozy breakfast nook tucked into a corner of a tidy
kitchen. While Spider ladled out stew into bowls, Hermione noticed that neither she nor
Pangolin still wore their uniforms. Spider herself looked much less sinister dressed in an
apron, jeans, and jumper. Pangolin wore patterned overalls and a plaid shirt, really leaning
into the farm look. Unlike Hermione, both witches were also completely clean—not a speck
of blood or dirt anywhere.
"What were you doing in the shed all day?" Hermione asked again.
Spider's smooth face remained unreadable, but Pangolin tittered, "A bit of everything, really.
Sewing, knife skills, that sort of thing."
After dinner and a much-needed bath, Pangolin showed her into the primary bedroom
upstairs. A dozen cots lined the walls on all four sides of the room. Spider was already asleep
in one, and Hermione noticed Pangolin's wand resting on top of another. But the rest were
empty.
"I heard you lost a lot of people in Italy," Hermione whispered, moving to sit on one of the
many vacant beds and changing into a set of pajamas set on top of the duvet.
"Yes. But we took five times as many lives as we lost," said Pangolin proudly, slipping into
her covers and extinguishing the lights with a snap of her fingers.
"No. We killed six times as many."
At the sound of a deep voice, Hermione turned her head toward Spider—apparently still
awake but facing the wall.
"Right. She likes to count," giggled Pangolin.
As Hermione lay awake in her cot, staring up at the shadowy vaulted ceiling, she tried to
shake the feeling that the Order was treading a fine line between losing the war, and losing
itself.
Black Flame
I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight.
***
Five Years Earlier
December 5, 1998
Ballyallia Lake, Ireland
"See? Everything is fine, mate," George said, clapping a freckled hand on Harry's back as
they walked through the fog hanging over a dark wetland.
Angelina gestured toward a shack far across the water, barely visible through the mist. Lights
flickered in a shabby window. "Marlin's Fidelius Charm still works. I'm sure the whole group
is just sitting down for dinner."
"I know what I saw in my vision," Harry mumbled, rubbing his scar. "Voldemort told Dolohov
to attack a safe house hidden in a swamp. This has to be it."
"We should split up just in case. Harry, why don't you, George, and Angelina go ahead, and
Hagrid, Dennis and I will keep an eye on things closer to the barrier?" suggested Hermione.
Harry tensed, but nodded. Hermione watched the three disappear in the dense fog, and
turned to her companions.
"Don' yeh worry, Hermione," soothed Hagrid. "That dark summoner feller won't show up like
las' time."
The half-giant reached down to rest a massive palm on her head, making her sink a few
inches into the soft ground.
"Where? What summoner?" Dennis asked, sandy hair flopping as he spun nervously around.
Hermione looked pityingly at the lanky youth, still too young to even use magic without a
trace. She guessed that George and Angelina only let Dennis join the trip because they saw it
as a false alarm.
"Hagrid is talking about the Death Eater who controls the dead. The one we first saw back in
May," she explained. "The one the Order has been calling the Necromancer."
"Oh!" the boy exclaimed. "You mean the Mouth of the Dark Lord?"
"The Mouth?" Hermione echoed, confused. This was the first time she heard the strange
name used for the dark summoner.
"Yeah, Seamus told me he heard Death Eaters call him that during the raid that he escaped
last week, I guess because he uses his mouth to raise the dead," Dennis explained with a shy
shrug.
GAHHHH
A loud wail tore through the air.
Hermione whirled to look back toward the distant shack, but it had vanished in the heavy
fog.
"Stand back-to-back!" she ordered, and Hagrid and Dennis moved to obey.
"I see summat over there!" yelled Hagrid, pointing toward the edge of the Fidelius boundary
line.
Dozens of dark cloaked figures began to emerge from the fog. The light of their outstretched
wands cut through the mist and reflected off silver skull masks. Death Eaters.
As soon as Hermione saw them, she raised her wand and shot red sparks straight into the sky.
But the film hanging over the wetlands was so dense that the light disappeared almost
immediately.
"They won't see it in the fog! Take Dennis an' run to the shack to warn 'em!" shouted Hagrid.
"I'll hold 'em off!"
Hermione grabbed Dennis by his hood and yanked him into the mist, sprinting toward the
direction of the shack. Visibility grew worse the farther they ran. She could feel the rising
water beneath her and hear sounds of frogs croaking. But she could not see past her nose. It
felt like stumbling through the clouds.
Hermione swapped her grip on Dennis's hood to his hand, urging him forward. "It's just this
way, come on!"
She heard the gangly youth panting, struggling to stay upright through the reeds pulling at
their legs. Several times he fell, and Hermione had to rely on only her hands to feel around
for him beneath the murky surface. The next time he tumbled, she went down as well, and
they both slipped under the water. When Hermione pulled them up again and tried to get her
bearings, she realized that they were turned around. Lost.
Dennis's grip suddenly tightened, and he yelped. Hermione felt his hand clawing at hers, and
redoubled her grip. But his fingers began to unweave from hers. Then he was gone in a
splash.
"Dennis!" Hermione called desperately, straining her eyes to see any sign of him. She could
not even make out her own hands as she dug through the reeds, searching. After a moment,
her fingers locked onto something wet and soft, and she yanked Dennis up by his hood. He
gasped and choked as she raised him back into the humid air.
"Some… something got me by my… legs. Watch… out."

As soon as he voiced the warning, Hermione felt dozens of slimy hands wrap around her
calves, and a second later the air turned to liquid as she was violently heaved underwater.
She could see more clearly beneath the surface—see a swarm of small, horned beasts pulling
them through the green weeds. Grindylows.
"Relashio!" Hermione mouthed, pointing her wand toward the webbed hands locked onto her
legs. But only a trail of bubbles burst from her lips, and she choked on water. As the water
demons continued hauling her farther deeper beneath the water, she caught a flash of sandy
hair to her side, and turned to see Dennis dragged by his own escort of Grindylows. His eyes
were closed, but his mouth hung open, taking in water. Hermione tried to reach out to grab
onto him. Shake him back into consciousness.
As soon as the water demons realized what she was doing, they bared their pointed fangs and
bit into her arms and legs. She involuntarily gasped from the pain, sucking in water instead
of air.
Blackness crept around her peripherals. Her lungs burned from only water and no oxygen.
Her fading mind flashed back to the Great Lake. Viktor Krum saving her from a watery grave
of Merpeople and Grindylows. An end that finally caught up to her today.
She was attempting one last blurry look up at the surface, straining her arms to the light,
when a gloved hand locked onto hers.
She woke up coughing on the reedy bank of a small island surrounded by fog. The sound of
footsteps made her fling her head back toward the murky water. She saw a man wearing long
black robes emerging from the marsh. His hood and back were to her as he dragged
something from the water.
Not Krum.
A leaner, taller figure wrapped in a dark cloak, billowing around him in the water like a
shroud. She caught sight of a wand in one gloved hand. A black sleeve patterned with silvery
spirals.
Then he turned, and she saw a skull mask.
Hermione grabbed the wand laying beside her and scrambled away from the bank.
"LET HIM GO NOW!" she shouted, recognizing Dennis's wet, sandy hair beneath the Death
Eater's grip.
The Death Eater just continued to drag Dennis up the slope. Once they were both out of the
water, he heaved the youth onto the spongy ground, and his shadowy eye sockets faced her
again.
"REDUCTO!" yelled Hermione. A blast of bright blue light shot out of her wand tip straight
toward the Death Eater's heart.
He noiselessly jerked three gloved fingers in front of his black chest, and her curse vanished
before making contact. Hermione was about to send a second spell toward him when she fell
forward onto the ground. Her wand slipped from her grasp as she was pulled backwards by
slimy hands. Dozens of green webbed fingers emerged from the marsh on all sides. Clawing
at the ground. Slicing through the air. Dragging her down into the dark water.
The Death Eater charged forward, but when he was only steps away from Hermione's
outstretched hand, he suddenly pivoted in place, turning in a wide circle.
"Protego Diabolica!"
Black flames burst from his wand, following the curvature of his movement. Carving a hellish
ring of black-blue fire around the entire island.
Hermione's ankles were freed as the surrounding water demons were violently incinerated by
the fiery circle. The scent of charred flesh filled the blistering air.
As soon as she was free, she pulled a knife from her belt, stood, and threw it straight into the
Death Eater's chest. He did not flinch, but angled his mask curiously at the handle lodged in
his flesh, then slowly pulled it out.
Hermione was just about to launch another knife at the Death Eater when an unmasked,
vicious-looking man materialized behind him, beyond the ring of black fire.
In spite of the searing heat, Hermione's entire body grew cold as she recognized the lupine
eyes, matted gray mane, and long yellow nails of Fenrir Greyback.
"HA! Looks like someone else likes to play with his food before finishing the job," Greyback
said to the masked Death Eater. "Never would have expected that from you, but killing
changes people, doesn't it? Even hardens the ones born with less of a spine than their useless
fathers."
The masked Death Eater did not respond, but continued to watch Hermione as she swung the
handle of her blade between him and Greyback, unsure who to attack first.
The werewolf followed his gaze.
Suddenly, his yellow eyes widened in recognition and he raised his already blood-stained
claws.
"Hey, that's Potter's Mudblood!" Greyback snarled.
He walked closer to the flames, pointed teeth bared as he growled, "I've been looking for
something young and tender to sink my teeth into, and she'll more than do."
Greyback strode forward hungrily as he shouted an order at the masked Death Eater. "Lower
your flames right now. I prefer them soft. Easier to bite."
When the masked Death Eater still failed to react, the werewolf roared, "THAT BINT'S
MINE. I OWE HER FOR HOGWARTS!"
He charged and the masked Death Eater raised his wand. The black flames spread out,
consuming the werewolf in a tower of fire. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the sticky
air.
Two blackened, dismembered arms fell at Hermione's feet.
She looked up at the Death Eater, eyes wide in confusion. "What did you just do?"
"Take the kid and disapparate now," he commanded, voice harsh.
A second later, he walked straight through the ring of fire and melted into the dense fog. With
a whoosh, the black flames extinguished.
"Wha… what happened?" croaked Dennis, propping himself up and blinking.
Before Hermione could reply, an intense BANG broke through the wetland, and the ground
beneath them shook.
"I'll explain later!" she shouted, running forward to retrieve her wand and yanking Dennis
onto his feet and back through the shallow water. "We need to find the others."
They ran, trying to keep their footing as the ground continued to rumble. They emerged from
the mist, and whirled around to get their bearings. Hermione's heart sank as she saw
Hagrid's hulking form in the distance instead of the safe house. The half-giant was throwing
massive boulders to ward off a swarm of charging Death Eaters. The earth shook with every
crash.
She was just pulling Dennis into the fog to backtrack when she heard voices speaking
urgently nearby.
"Dolohov, the Dark Lord says to leave immediately. His Mouth will come and turn the rest."
"How would you know, runt? And where is Greyback? He went after you when you ran off."
Hermione risked a peek beyond the fog line, and saw the long, twisted face of Antonin
Dolohov arguing with a masked Death Eater twenty feet away.
The masked Death Eater responded in a hoarse voice, "Greyback must have found a group of
terrorists trying to escape. I came across all of their bodies when I was searching for
survivors. There weren't any. The Order killed Greyback, so let's go."
Now a third Death Eater emerged from the fog and stalked over to the other two. His face
was concealed beneath a hood. He had a lean stature, with a voice pitched slightly higher
than the others.
"He’s telling the truth. I saw the resistance take out Greyback but didn't intervene because it
seemed like the werewolf had it handled. And you know how he feels about us getting in the
middle of his fights."
Dolohov's green eyes flashed between the younger-sounding Death Eaters, searching for
something within their masked faces. He did not seem to trust either one, but they held their
ground.
"FINE," barked Dolohov. "If that's true, then Greyback's corpse will return the favor soon
enough. But if I find out either of you lied, I'll feed you both to his pack myself."
The voices faded. Once they heard the cracks of disapparition. Hermione and Dennis leapt
out of the fog and bolted toward Hagrid.
"Hermione!"
She turned and saw the dark skin and long black hair of Angelina running beside her.
"Everyone in the house was already dead," Angelina explained breathlessly, face tight.
"Probably for at least a week."
A second later, George and Harry appeared on her other side. The group drew closer to
Hagrid, and all sped up when they realized that he was lying on the ground, not moving.
CRACK
The humid air suddenly grew even heavier. A strange red hue spread down from the cloud
cover hanging above and throughout the fog, so that it felt as if they were trapped within the
crimson smoke of a Remembrall.
As she ran, Hermione looked over her shoulder toward the noise behind.
A dark figure stood in front of a wall of red mist. Even from a distance, she could make out a
black cloak trailing him in the shadowy water. His head rose and she saw an unfamiliar flash
of red fabric on top of a Death Eater mask, covering his eyes.
A voice as cruel as a new knife cut through the air.
Then he began to move slowly through the marsh. As he walked, white arms and hands broke
through the surface before him, clawing pale, waterlogged bodies forward with unholy wails.
A deadly procession of beastly and humanoid water demons leading their master to his next
victims.
"HAGRID NO!!!"
Suddenly Hermione could not breathe as she felt unbelievable pressure around her throat.
She was lifted into the air by her neck.
Choked by stiff, monstrous hands.
"STUPEFY!" Harry roared, "STUPEFY! HAGRID, STOP! STUPEFY!"

She closed her eyes as she felt the bones in her neck splintering.
***
Hermione's entire body was numb when she woke up. As if her neck had cracked and left her
paralyzed. But as she twitched her legs and reached up to touch the clammy skin on her
throat, her mind cleared and she remembered that she was not trapped in giant Inferius hands,
but safe in a rickety farmhouse cot.
As soon as the numbness ebbed, a searing stab of white-hot pain shot through her chest, as if
her body echoed the injury from the knife she lodged in the masked Death Eater that day. She
clutched desperately at the fabric of her nightshirt, trying not to scream out and wake Spider
and Pangolin. Struggling to clear the agonizing memory.
She tried to avoid thinking of this particular trauma. It was one of the memories she
suppressed in the deepest recesses of the Azkaban within her mind. She lost consciousness
shortly after Hagrid began choking her, but George later explained that he and Angelina
wrestled her loose after they chained the half-giant to the ground, immolated him with
Fiendfyre, and apparated back to Shell Cottage only seconds before the Necromancer reached
them. After the attack, she was in a coma for months, and a neck brace for even longer.
But the permanent injury lay with Harry. He never again looked Hermione directly in the eye
after failing to free her from Hagrid. After being unwilling to destroy the body of one friend
to save the life of another. The guilt ate at him like a cancer.
However, now that the memory resurfaced, she considered it again, almost four years later.
Her head felt as thick and foggy as the marsh as she tried to make sense of that night. But she
could not rationalize the illogical.
A Death Eater saved her from water demons. Brutally killed Fenrir Greyback in a ring of
black flames. Lied to Dolohov to protect her.
Despite her best efforts, Hermione's mind raced to another Death Eater.
One that did not save her from Azkaban. Violently terrorized her with the same ring of black
flames. Swore that he never lied.
Though she did not realize it until tonight, Draco Malfoy may have saved her years ago.
But he was not her savior anymore.
Hermione closed her eyes to drift back to sleep, and decided that it was about time she
learned how to save herself.
Beware the Spider Bite
I will teach thee to turn thyself to any thing, to a dog,
or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or anything.
***
"Lynx is not here, so I will work with you instead," Spider explained as she led Hermione
into the drafty barn. While she walked, her smooth hair fell over her slim shoulders like a
black veil.
Hermione frowned into it, then sped up to walk alongside the woman instead. Part of her new
resolve to stop following people around like a Quick-Quotes Quill.
"Where did he go?" Hermione asked breathlessly as she struggled to keep up with the
woman's much longer strides.
Spider considered. "His other assignment."
"When will he be back?"
"I do not know. At least several days."
Hermione tried not to let her frustration show. She could sense that Spider was done talking
about Blaise's sudden departure. Spider led them deeper into the barn and past the out-of-
place fireplace at its center, and pointed a slender finger toward the far back corner.
"That is the only apparition point in the whole safe house. I am taking you somewhere more
suitable for our training."
A minute later, they emerged in front of an ancient-looking forest. Gnarled roots as big as
trunks twisted above the moss-covered ground. Crooked branches veined out in every
direction, blocking out the sunlight.
As they walked into the trees, Hermione felt relieved that she was with Spider instead of
Blaise. She could imagine his dark body slinking through the forest floor, concealing himself
in the underbrush and striking before she even raised her wand. Her nerves and ankle still
twinged from yesterday's hunt.
Spider's deep voice broke through her thoughts.
"First, you will work on accuracy. Second, you will learn to hate."
"Excuse me?" Hermione responded, perplexed. "What do you mean by 'learn to 'hate'?"
Spider did not answer. Hermione decided that Blaise was right: the woman was a bit
dramatic.
The forest grew darker the deeper in they went. After a full hour of walking, they finally
stopped beneath the largest tree Hermione had ever seen. So massive that the top disappeared
past the canopy. Almost no light reached them now. She could barely make out anything
besides Spider's bright green eyes.
A shot of yellow light broke through the darkness, briefly illuminating Spider's raised wand.
"Hit the target."
"Hit what target?"
She followed the dark outline of Spider's long finger back toward the giant tree and up to a
barely visible smoking gouge halfway up its trunk.
She closed one eye and aimed her cedar wand toward the spot.
"Reducto!"
A new smoking hole appeared just below the first.
Spider nodded in approval. "Again, but with the killing curse."
Hermione took a slow, deep breath, pointed her wand, and spoke the deadly words for the
first time.
"Avada Kedavra."
A shot of green burst through the forest, and Hermione released her held breath.
"Too weak," criticized the other woman, eyes narrowed at the new gash carved deeply into
the wood between the other two. "And inconsistent."
They practiced using only the killing curse for hours. As Hermione's aim improved, Spider
moved her farther back and made her shoot from different angles. Time was hard to measure
in the dark forest, but she could tell that they had been at it for a long time by the sheer
number of scars riddling the massive tree.
Spider only let her rest when she hit the first mark ten times in a row. They sat on the spiny
bark of a fallen log, not talking. Uncomfortable with the silence, Hermione finally spoke.
"I thought that I would feel different after using dark magic for the first time. But I don't.
Maybe just a little tired, but nothing strange."
Spider's shadowy face held no emotion as she listened to Hermione. Instead, she continued to
stare at the large tree. Eventually, she responded.
"Saying the words does not mean you used dark magic. You killed nothing today."
The woman slowly stood, and began walking ahead toward the ancient tree, wand raised.
"Avada Kedavra."
A shot of green light burst through the air and struck the trunk exactly on target. Bark blasted
apart in an explosion of green lighting. Then an evil-looking gloom spread out from the point
of impact, dispersing blackness through the wood like spilt ink.
Every part of the tree that the gloom touched began to crumble and decay, eaten away by the
poison of Spider's deadly curse. Soon, the sound of wood snapping echoed throughout the
forest as the entire trunk began to splinter apart. The tree tilted forward in a cacophony of
deafening cracks.
Spider pulled Hermione up by her forearm, and deftly moved them twenty feet to the right as
the trunk crashed down beside them. A cloud of leaves and dust filled the air. When it settled,
the blue night sky showed through a hole in the tree cover where branches and leaves hung
seconds before.
"If you want to kill, then you have to mean it."
They did not return to the farmhouse that night. Instead, Spider summoned a small tent,
firepit, and supplies to camp on top of the wreckage, among the trees.
As they sat around a fire for dinner, Hermione tried not to show how intimidated she felt in
the woman's quiet presence. Her physical damage from a full day of training with Spider
paled in comparison to being hunted down and tortured by Blaise, but she still felt wholly
unsettled. She broke the silence again with another question.
"Does all dark magic have different degrees of strength?"
"Dark magic is no different than any other type of spellwork. The measure of strength is
proportional to the caster's power. However, dark power must come from another source."
"Hate?" ventured Hermione, remembering Spider's words that morning.
"That is the most basic source."
"What are the others?" she asked.
"Pain, desperation, madness."
"And what do you feel when you cast the killing curse?"
This time, Spider paused for a long time before answering.
"Betrayal."
They did not speak for the rest of the evening. Without Pangolin's bright chatter, there was
little to say. But as they lay in the flimsy shelter of their tent, and Spider turned away to face
the canvas to sleep, Hermione asked her one last question
"Have you ever heard of a curse to summon black flames?"
"Never."
***
"Humans are not rooted to the earth like trees. Today you will practice accuracy on a moving
target: me."
They walked even deeper into the forest, miles away from their campsite and the sunlight
streaming in from the gaps in the trees. Only once they were so deep that even Spider's green
eyes could not break the darkness did they stop.
"Use the Cruciatus Curse on me," Spider instructed, voice barely audible.
Then she pulled up the hood around her neck and was gone. Faded into the blackness.
Hermione lifted her own hood above her hair and nose, and circled slowly, straining her eyes
and ears for any sign of movement. She heard a crunch to her left, and whirled around as she
yelled.
"Crucio!"
A blast of red illuminated the musty air, and she caught a flash of cloth disappearing behind a
tree, avoiding her spell. She raced after the movement, but Spider was as agile as she was
fast, sliding under branches and scaling roots and trees almost noiselessly. The woman never
fought back, but easily avoided every curse, zig zagging through the forest at an unrelenting
pace.
Evening fell, and Hermione realized that Spider used the chase to lead them on a circuitous
route back to their campsite. That night, she did not ask the quiet woman any questions, too
frustrated and exhausted to even form thoughts.
The third day, Hermione finally landed a Cruciatus Curse on Spider's shoulder as she leapt
between two trees. The woman turned her fall into a smooth roll, and dark hair streamed out
of her hood.
But she was up a second later, without a sound let alone a cry of pain. Hermione landed five
more curses after that, gradually learning to predict Spider's rapid, darting movements.
Learning to hold her wand steady while sprinting.
At no point did Spider react to her curse as expected. As if Hermione only hit her with a
weak stunning spell instead of an Unforgivable. Eventually, the chase led them back to the
all-consuming blackness of the cavernous forest. Hermione heard a low voice call out from
the shadows.
"You do not want to hurt me, Goldfinch."
"I… yes, I don't want to hurt you. We're on the same side." Hermione admitted into the
darkness.
"If you truly knew me, you would want to hurt me," the voice responded, suddenly cold.
"You would hate me."
Hermione heard a branch snap and shot another blast of red toward the sound. A lock of
smooth black hair vanished behind a mossy trunk and Spider's voice followed in its wake.
"It took years, but eventually we found his family hiding in a dirty shack on a rock in the
middle of the ocean. When we broke in, they were cowering together in the corner like
roaches. Their faces were wet from crying and they were sitting in their own filth."
"What do you mean?" Hermione huffed, still pursuing Spider. She could see the faint outline
of her dark back now. Her wand reached out toward the movement—she was so close.
"We killed the wizard first, Dedalus. He was a pitiful sight—even worse than the Muggles.
Not deserving of a wand let alone the title of half-blood. Dolohov cut off his greasy head in
front of the Muggles and threw it at them. That part was amusing. We all laughed when the
boy became sick all over his parents. So weak. Then the man tried to shield the woman and
boy behind him, pushing them all against the wall and protecting them with his flabby arms.
As if his fat body would stop us. As if he could do a damn thing to stop what was coming."
Hermione's entire body grew numb even as she continued to jump over rocks and fallen trees
to pursue the woman's ghostly form.
"What are you saying? How do you know about them?" she pleaded.
"I took the woman," Spider drawled. "And I did it slowly. No magic, just like her. I dragged
her out of the shack by her ridiculously long neck. She cried and cried. Called out for her
useless husband. Her pig of a son. Even cried for her dead Mudblood sister. She struggled
and screamed until I split her blond head open on the rocks."
"Stop it!" Now Hermione was shrieking, running even faster, and trying to block out the evil
words even as she rushed toward them.
"The woman stopped moving then, but she was still breathing. So I cut her chest open and
pulled her apart with my hands. Piece by piece. Five wet, fleshy petals, just like a red flower.
Like a petunia."
"You're lying!"
They emerged into the bright sunlight pouring over their camp. Spider stopped and turned
back. Green eyes sparkling madly in the light. Smile crazed. Her voice lost all flatness, and
dripped with venom.
"My name is Renée Dolohov. The Dark Lord already has his Mouth, so I begged to be his
Teeth. I asked the Dark Lord to join the group sent to hunt down Potter's family. My father
was so proud of me that day, maybe for the second time in my life."
Spider reached down long gloved fingers to draw up the sleeve of her black bodysuit.
To expose the skull and serpent branded on the pale skin on her forearm, as she hissed.
"The first time was the day I took this Mark."
"CRUCIO!"
Hermione was drowning in red. The red blood Antonin Dolohov spilled as he beheaded an
Order member. The red flesh of Petunia Dursley as his daughter ripped her apart. Her red-hot
hate for the vile spider writhing in agony at her feet.
The red light of her unrelenting, guttural curses.
"CRUCIO! CRUCIO!"
Spider's screaming was irresistible. Every cry, a hit of an overpowering new stimulant.
"CRUCIO!"
She was addicted to the sound. High on the knowledge that the woman's pain would not stop
until she wanted it to. Would not end until her insatiable hunger was sated.
"THAT IS ENOUGH!"
A large hand wrapped around Hermione's wand, jerking it away. The other clamped firmly
onto her outstretched wrist.
Spider's body stilled beneath her, and did not move again. Hermione's bloodshot eyes rose to
register Wolf's broad, bearded face, twisted in fury. He released his hold on her wrist with a
snarl, and went to kneel next to the dark-haired woman.
Hermione fell to her own knees onto the leaves behind them, pupils enlarged, eyes wide at
the sight of the pain she inflicted. At the possibility that she would have kept going until there
was no human left to crucify. But even as she watched Wolf trying to revive Spider, she felt
the corners of her mouth lift.
Dark magic was nothing like the emptiness and death she expected.
It was an intoxicating aliveness.
And she was drunk on the feeling.

The Knife. The Shield.
Chapter Summary
Back from vacation, and planning to post more regularly again. Thank you for the
continued comments and support!
Know that your words have one me at the last
To practice magic and concealed arts
***
"Don't you get tired of eating the same thing every day?"
"It's fine. I'm sure it's harder on you, Lucius. I can't imagine how you feel eating stale bread
for every meal given your expensive tastes."
"I can try to ask the guards for something else."
"Don't worry about it."
Hermione considered, then asked him the question she decided on the night before.
"Why did you take the Dark Mark?"
She heard him exhale even through the stone wall separating them.
"I could say that I was young and did it to save my family. But even then I knew better. I
always had a choice."
"Do you regret it?"
"Ask me tomorrow."
***
"Heard you did quite a number on my squad when I was gone. What do they say… when the
cat's away, the mice will Crucio each other all day?"
Blaise's infuriating smirk filled Hermione's vision as he stood in front of her in the charred
wheat field. She had not seen Spider since the day before. Pangolin told her she was resting,
but Wolf cornered her in the farmhouse that night and yelled that Spider's heart stopped
because of the pain. That if he showed up any later, it would have been impossible to bring
her back.
"What did you imagine when you were cursing the life out of her?" Blaise asked, voice far
too casual for his question.
Hermione refused to answer. Refused to describe how she thought of the woman's long
fingers tearing into Petunia Dursley. How she imagined her deep voice begging Voldemort to
hunt down Harry's only blood family. How she poured that red-hot hatred into every bit of
dark magic that she blasted into Spider's writhing body.
So instead, she shot another question back.
"Spider was a Death Eater?"
"Spider is a Death Eater," Blaise corrected. "You don't stop being one just because you decide
to serve the Order."
"And is that where you were for the past three days? With Voldemort? Still being a Death
Eater?"
"I was cleaning up after the Order. Like the good little Gryffindor I am."
"You're a Slytherin," Hermione grunted, moving to take her place across the field.
"And is that a dealbreaker, Mudblood? I'm asking for a friend."
Hermione huffed, incensed. "If this is about Ginny again, I still don't see it. If you're so
interested in her, why didn't you just ask her out during school?"
Blaise's wicked smile stretched to his high cheekbones.
"Oh I enjoy the long game. Thin the herd, if you know what I mean. She was always sniffing
after Potter at Hogwarts. But that's not a problem anymore now is it?"
"Confringo!"
Blaise jumped lithely out of the way of Hermione's burst of fire, pulled out his wand, and
charged her, dark eyes flashing.
"Come on, Mudblood! I thought you learned something from torturing our spidery friend!"
"Crucio!"
"Imperio!"
They shouted their curses at the same time, but Blaise dodged her red blast at the last second,
while Hermione took his blue light straight to the head. The too familiar numbness filled her
mind. The itch she could not scratch. Her hands jerked. She removed the knife strapped to
her thigh and pointed it toward her heart.
"After yesterday, I have a theory that you don't actually have a heart anymore," Blaise jeered.
"So this shouldn't kill you."
Hermione felt her brain shut down as the tip of the blade pierced her chest. All that existed in
her mind was the pain of the steel slowly penetrating her skin, muscle, and tissue.
Then at once, her deadened mind filled with Spider's face as she carved Petunia Dursley's
chest, tore into her flesh, and peeled her apart. There was no Blaise, and there was no
Imperius Curse. There was only Renée Dolohov, now proudly digging the knife into
Hermione's flesh. The hate she felt toward the vile bug of a woman swallowed the itch in her
mind in a flood of red heat. Her hands loosened around the hilt of the knife, stopped their
path toward her heart, and began to shake violently. The only thought that filled Hermione's
consciousness was how she wanted to use the blade to cut Spider instead. Slice off every long
limb, and crush her under the weight of her hatred.
"Imperio!" Blaise repeated, seeing Hermione's hands start to pry the knife from her chest.
The prickly numbness raked at her mind again, and the knife resumed its journey, chiseling a
hole toward her heart.
"Enough."
Hermione's hands dropped at the command, and she fell on her side, breathing shallowly.
Blaise leaned over her, looking at the handle of the blade still lodged above her breast in
amusement.
"Guess you still have a heart, but you also have terrible aim. I'm going to ask Pangolin to
teach you a bit more about human anatomy."
They continued their deadly game for the rest of the week. Hermione was faster after hours of
chasing Spider through the dark forest. And, she was more vicious after her first taste of dark
magic. No longer only on the defensive, she tore through the brush and across the scorched
earth, throwing all three Unforgiveables at Blaise's feline form. Even the killing curse was no
longer off the table. She channeled the red-hot rage she felt for the she-Death Eater toward
the closest target: Blaise Fucking Zabini.
But unlike Spider, Blaise fought back. If Hermione was brutal, then he was sadistic. And he
did not just rely on magic. She quickly learned that he preferred physical weapons for an
initial blow. One morning, he showed up with so many wicked blades strapped to his body
that it hurt her eyes just to look at him. He would distract her with a blast of fire or even the
killing curse, slide under her with a knife in each hand, and slice her ankles. Like she was a
stalk of wheat ready for harvest. When he brought her to her knees, he would Imperius her,
and she would butcher herself with his torture of choice.
As the cycle of pain went on, Hermione began to suspect that Blaise was not just training her
how to fight his physical attacks. That for all the time he spent honing her body, he spent
equal effort sharpening her mind. She noticed that his most heinous taunts would come right
before or during an Imperius Curse. As if he was trying to rile her up as much as possible.
His methods, while cruel, worked.
At first, Hermione tried to use Occlumency to fight the Imperius Curse, but quickly learned
that the two are exact opposites. Clearing her mind and imprisoning her thoughts did nothing
when her mind was already numb. Instead, she tore through the numbness with a flood of
intense emotion. He would call her a Mudblood, mock Harry and Ron, and say that her
Muggle parents were probably already dead, like the Dursleys. Her fury would consume the
mental paralysis. Her hands would draw back from mangling her open wounds, or pull out
the knife carving into her flesh.
Her ability to resist the curse was strongest when he baited her for torturing Spider. She
would feel the intoxicating high of hate that fueled her Cruciatus Curse, and use it to attack
Blaise's Imperius Curse. Dark magic to fight dark magic. Rage to overwhelm his chokehold
on her mind.
Charlie taught her to resist invasion.
Spider incited her to embrace cruelty.
Blaise forced her to retake control.
***
Blaise jeered as he stood above Hermione, writhing under her own Cruciatus Curse reflected
back at her by his shielding charm. In spite of her improved agility, accuracy, and resistance,
she had yet to land a single hit on him.
"See, your problem, Goldfish," he sneered, "is that you lack creativity. Even at Hogwarts you
answered every question by reciting the textbook. You're so damn predictable."
"As soon as I get you under my control and make you cut off your own tongue, you'll see
how creative I can be," Hermione hissed from the ground.
"That's exactly what I'm saying. Now you're just threatening to copy me. Dark magic is more
than imitation, and more than the Unforgivables. Until you learn that, you will never touch
me, and I will never let you near a fight."
As much as she hated to admit it, Blaise was right. Up to that point, she relied on the basic,
regulation training that all Order members received. She had sharpened her skills over the
past week. But when it came to strategy, she was still playing it by the book. Blaise, on the
other hand, had an arsenal of sinister spells at his disposal, and threw them at Hermione with
as much cunning and precision as his blades. She took to carrying Dittany after he hexed all
the skin to fall off on her left arm. Another time he removed his glove and grazed her cheek
with a fingernail as he darted past. Ash and maggots began to spill out of her flesh at the
point of contact, as though she decayed at his touch.
Hermione had to find her own brand of savagery.
"Suppuratio!"
She was hit with his curse and on the ground again, cradling her leg covered in pulsing
yellow boils, when she saw him emerge from the stalks, wand raised, sneering at her.
"Imperio!"
Her hands jerked, moved away from her leg, and wrapped around the handle of the knife
strapped to her thigh.
Forty feet.
She moved the knife to the nearest boil, and began to lance it, slicing the top and letting pus
and blood flow down her leg.
Thirty feet.
Her knife, still sticky with infection, moved to cut into the next boil.
Twenty feet.
Halfway down her leg, Hermione focused on finding the wellspring of fury within her, and
let it swallow Blaise's control over her mind.
She abruptly dropped the knife, grabbed her wand, and stood up. Blaise's amused eyes grew
wide in surprise as he watched her pivot in a wide circle and yell.
An explosion of black flames burst through the air, following the curved path of her
outstretched wand. The same deadly path that she saw Draco Malfoy carve.
Blaise jumped to the side to avoid the pulsating tendrils of fire whipping out behind him,
forcing him toward Hermione. She completed the hellish ring of black flames, completely
trapping him within a firestorm of dark magic. With another jerk of her wand, the flames shot
up so high that the sunlight streaming into the field clouded with smoke.
This was nothing like the red-hot stimulant of her Cruciatus Curse. This was a dark, cold
fury. Goosebumps crawled across her skin, and her entire body prickled with pins and
needles. She could feel everything. Every hair on her head, and every insect her black flames
consumed on their circular path of destruction. Every sensation magnified a hundred fold.
"Impressive trap," said Blaise, holding a hand next to the fiery ring and flinching from the
heat. "Only problem is that you're caught in here with me."
He turned, drew two knives, and rushed toward Hermione standing at the center.
Hermione shouted again.
She coiled her body like a snake. Black flames shot out from her wand again, carving a
smaller, tighter ring of fire within the first. Two concentric circles of death with Hermione at
their apex and Blaise trapped in between.
Blaise swerved to avoid the newly summoned flames encircling his target. Barely able to stop
his momentum. He straightened, eyes wild.
"Now THIS is more like it, Mudblood! Finally something original."
Hermione lifted both palms and pushed them away from her. In response, the inner ring
began to expand and surge outward, forcing Blaise toward the outer flames. Caught between
two equally deadly walls of fire.
Suddenly Blaise's eyes grew stony, his voice, calm.
"But it's risky to use dark magic you don't understand."
Then he stepped straight forward into the black flames.
And passed through.
Hermione felt the flames engulf his body at the same exact moment that her head filled with
an overpowering thought. As if the curse itself spoke to her.
Not your enemy.
A second later he was there, unharmed, pinning her to the charred ground within both fiery
rings. Holding a knife to her throat with his unburnt hand.
"How?" she asked. The blade nicked her throat at the question.
Blaise smirked down at her, digging his knee into her stomach.
"The black flames are not offensive. They are protective. Protego Diabolica—the 'Devil's
Shield'—kills the caster's enemies while leaving their allies. A very difficult dark charm, but
only useful to incinerate anyone who means to harm you."
She coughed as the side of his knife dug deeper into her neck, and hissed.
"This… feels like harm to me."
"Were you even listening?" sneered Blaise. But he finally withdrew the knife and stood. "I
told you Protego Diabolica is not an offensive weapon. It doesn't matter if you think I'm the
enemy and want to kill me. If it did, I'm sure I'd already be a handsome pile of ash. No, all
that matters are my intentions toward the caster. Toward you."
Hermione coughed on the ground, the ash from her fire clogging her lungs. But Blaise
continued.
"A few tiny cuts to your throat are nothing more than love bites, as far as the charm is
concerned. If I truly wanted you dead, I would have saved your neck for last."
His eyes glinted as Hermione wiped away the blood, dubious.
They sat within the dwindling flames of the inner ring as night began to fall. Hermione was
not sure how to nullify the enchantment, having never heard Draco speak the counter spell.
So she told Blaise she would just wait it out and make sure it did not spread toward the
farmhouse. Surprisingly, he chose to stay as well.
"Have you used Diabolica before?" she asked.
"No."
"But you've seen it before?"
"Obviously," he scoffed. "But the power it requires and consumes is enormous. Avada can
kill a single person at a time. Diabolica can kill hundreds of enemies at the same time. I've
only seen one person use it."
Hermione considered, then responded firmly, "Draco."
Blaise laughed. "You've surprised me twice today, Granger."
"Then give me a reward," Hermione countered. "We both know you're a Death Eater, so tell
me why you joined the Order."
He chewed on a straw of wheat, weighing her demand.
"My father is a Muggle. No magic at all."
"You're not pure-blood? But your mother…"
"Quite the blood traitor, eh? She should have known better than to fall for him, but she was
young. Stupid. She had me, then went and married six other pure-blood wizards to muddy the
waters. But as soon as one of them started to suspect the truth—ask too many questions—she
would dispose of them without a second thought."
Hermione felt like Blaise had knocked her onto her head again. She was not sure what truth
she expected from the jeering, dark-eyed man that had hunted and tortured her for the last
week, and tyrannized blood-traitors and Muggle-borns for even longer. He was full of it all
through Hogwarts. Anyone with eyes could see that he thought he was better than anyone,
especially Muggles. That he chose to follow Voldemort and become a Death Eater was the
obvious path. Wildly predictable. But this…
"How long have you known that your father is a Muggle?"
"I've always known. My mother hid it from the rest of the world, but not from me."
"Where is your father now?" she asked, head spinning.

"I won't tell you that."
"So becoming a Death Eater, going to the Order, turning spy. You did this all for him?"
Hermione said, voice steady but heart racing. "To protect him?"
Blaise reached out his ebony hand, and held it into the dying black flames.
"I did this all for me."
***
It was past midnight by the time the fire went out and Hermione walked back into the
farmhouse. She passed the dark kitchen, too exhausted to even think of eating. Blaise was
right. Diabolica used more energy than she had ever expended in a single spell. And the
longer the black flames burned, the more her reserves dwindled.
She dragged herself up the creaky stairs and was edging toward the bunkroom when she saw
light spilling out of a cracked door halfway down the hall. All week that door remained
closed. She suspected that Spider lay within, recovering, but did not care enough to confirm.
If anything, Hermione knew that seeing those bright green eyes again would end in her
clawing them right out.
But as she slipped past the open door, she caught a flash of a man's wide back within and
stopped. Wolf was inside, leaning over Spider as she lay in a cot. She watched as he kissed
the woman's pale forehead so softly that she wanted to vomit at the tenderness.
Disgusted, she walked away without looking back. Just as she was turning the bunkroom
door handle, a rough voice echoed down the now pitch black corridor.
"Outside. Now."
Hermione sighed, but turned around and followed the shadow of Wolf's large back down the
hallway and through the front porch. Only once they were fifty feet away from the house did
he speak.
"If you use this mission as another chance to attack her, I'll kill you."
"Get in line," Hermione fumed. "Every day someone new threatens to lock me up or kill me.
You don't scare me."
She spun and stormed back toward the farmhouse, adding, "What I do not understand is how
she sank her fangs into you, Wolf. If you knew who she is and what she has done, you would
have let her stay dead."
"YOU ARE THE ONE THAT DOES NOT KNOW WHO SHE IS AND WHAT SHE HAS
DONE!" he roared.
Hermione froze and looked back into Wolf's broad, seething face.
"THEN TELL ME!" she fired back. "I'm as sick of people saying I don't know anything as I
am of them threatening to kill me!"
Wolf stalked up to her, stopping when his face was mere inches away. So close she could feel
the heat and fury radiating off of him. But she kept her ground as she continued speaking,
spitting the words right into his face.
"I know every bloody detail about Renée Dolohov. Her father. How she took the Dark Mark
and slaughtered four innocent people in cold blood. How could Hestia, how any of you, let a
demon like her volunteer to join the Order?"
"Renée never volunteered to join the Order. She volunteered for Potter to execute her."
"What?" Hermione whispered, taking a step back from Wolf.
Wolf stepped forward again. "The same night she killed his family, she turned her back on
her own father and went to the Order. Hestia found her first, and she confessed everything.
What she did, and where to find their bodies. Then, she asked Hestia to take her to Potter so
he could execute her himself. Hestia told Renée that she did not deserve such an easy death.
Not yet, at least. She forced Renée to join the Knife and pay for the four lives she took a
hundred fold. Only then is she allowed to die."
"You can't… why would she do that? She was so proud. She enjoyed killing them. So why
would she turn herself in?"
"Every single one of us here has done things that damned us to Hell. None of us have a soul
left to salvage anymore."
Wolf grabbed her arm, dragged her to the front door, and pulled it open so hard it came right
off the hinges, snarling "But we all have our reasons for being here. So get back into the
damn house and ask her yourself."
He left. Left her standing in front of the shattered frame. Unable to walk through the door.
Stunned by his words. Paralyzed by her own ignorance.
They were right. All of them.
She knew nothing.

Crossed Lines
The reward of sin is death: that's hard.
***
"Describe how it feels to take the Dark Mark."
She waited for Lucius's response, listening for his familiar voice through their shared cell
wall, resting her head against the cold metal of her bed. He took so long to reply that she
began to trace a finger down Bellatrix's crooked letters on her forearm. Thinking of the black
skull and snake burned into his skin.
Finally he spoke.
"It feels like a manacle chaining me to the Dark Lord. A shackle that I will never be strong
enough to break."
"But Death Eaters have left Voldemort before. Changed sides. Joined the Order. Professor
Snape betrayed Voldemort for over a decade and he had the Mark," she replied, brown
eyebrows that he could not see raised at the wall between them.
"Snape's dead, Granger."
***
Hermione did not go to Renée that night. Instead, she lay awake on her cot, listening to
Pangolin's soft breathing and staring at the ceiling. She tried to Occlude and lock up every
confusing thought and emotion. But it was no use.
Even before Hogwarts, everyone called her a know-it-all. She was never ashamed of it,
embracing the insult as a point of pride. Being the girl who knew more than anyone was part
of her identity. But maybe that was just another piece of herself that she lost during the long
war. Now she was the woman who knew so little that she could not tell enemy from ally, and
relied on dark magic to find the truth.
She did not sleep at all, but closed her eyes and sat in the quiet emptiness of the Azkaban cell
within her mind. Only when she sensed something move above her did she open her eyes to
take in a smiling round face.
"I knew you were awake. But you can't get out of what Lynx and I have planned for you
today," Pangolin said brightly.
She marched Hermione down through the farmhouse, noting that they would skip breakfast
"as a precaution." As they walked through the dusty yard littered with discarded farming
tools, Pangolin paused to pick up a heavily rusted spade.
She guided them past the barn. They stopped in front of a building that Hermione had never
seen before despite having walked the entirety of the property over the past ten days. As if it
spawned out of thin air.
It was not so much a building as a small, squat, gardening hut. She doubted more than a few
people could squeeze inside its shabby frame. The cracked windows running along the sides
were haphazardly boarded up with nails sticking out of the wood in every direction.
"This is the shed, right?" guessed Hermione.
"Quite the eyesore, innit?" laughed Pangolin, wrenching open a crooked wooden door with a
grunt. "After you."
They stepped inside. The building was enormous. Someone obviously magically
disillusioned and expanded the squat shack, so that it could have fit both the barn and
farmhouse within its four walls. It was also not only one room as Hermione assumed. Rows
of doors, and even what looked like a hatch for a basement, lined the interior. The entire
space was immaculately clean and brightly lit. All sterile concrete walls and floors under
artificial lights. Far closer to a large bunker than a shed.
Pangolin interrupted her ogling by handing her a long pair of brown rubber gloves, pulling on
her own all the way past her elbows. Hermione began to feel nauseous just looking at them.
"Put these on. Then we'll go straight ahead to the backroom."
They walked toward a steel door at the far end of the building.
"Welcome," greeted Blaise with a nasty grin as the two gloved witches entered the backroom.
Hermione noticed that while he wore the Knife's black bodysuit, he did not have rubber
gloves.
"Like I said before, Goldfinch, you should learn more about the human body. Sometimes we
need information on the field. And sometimes, we get a little more time to play. Either way,
our lovely Pangolin here has a special talent for extracting secrets and other things."
He stepped to the side, and Hermione saw a grayish lumpy shape hanging by a chain behind
him.
A dismembered human torso.
Pangolin spent the entire morning teaching her "knife skills" using slicing charms, a table-full
of blades, the rusty spade, and the cadaver. The cheery witch showed her how to find the
kidneys, liver, intestines, and heart, and then demonstrated how to remove them, slowly.
Painfully. The entire time, Pangolin smiled, as if they were practicing transfiguration instead
of torture. Meanwhile, Blaise mostly kept to a couch that he summoned in the corner.
Between sleeping, he would shout instructions and obscenities. The entire ordeal was
horrifically nauseating.
In the afternoon, Blaise finally rose and took Hermione back to the crop field to practice
combat. She was not sure which type of training was worse.
The next few days followed the same routine. A full schedule of mutilating the dead with
Pangolin, and then fighting to stay alive against Blaise. Pangolin moved her onto full bodies
by day three, so they could "focus on the extremities."
Hermione did everything she asked without question.
Blaise continued to force Hermione to resist the Imperius Curse using her now directionless,
yet still red-hot, fury. She did not use Diabolica again—there was no point until she fought a
"true enemy." But every time Blaise brought her down, she added another weapon to her
growing arsenal of dark hexes and charms.
Wolf and Pangolin eventually joined their field practice. While incredibly skilled, neither
came close to approaching Blaise's inhuman speed and savagery. Hermione improved rapidly
against more evenly matched opponents, and had them on the ground as often as she fell
herself. The high she felt when she had them under her dark magic was intoxicating and
increasingly familiar. Addictive.
Charlie was right. Dark magic left permanent stains. What he did not understand was that the
dirtier her hands became, the easier it became to use them to do the unforgivable. She no
longer had to wonder what she would not do to assuage her guilt. If she would refuse to shred
her soul with torture to find Moody and Harry. The line she would not cross to fulfill her
Vow.
There was no line anymore.
***
Hermione did not see Spider until the day before the mission. That morning, she stumbled
into the tidy kitchen to find the dark-haired woman already seated alone at the breakfast
table. At first, Hermione considered backing out. But she resolved to clear the air before
Little Hangleton. So she steeled herself and took the chair across from Spider.
Before she could speak, the other woman's deep voice broke the silence.
"I did not mean for Wolf to show up when he did. I did not want him to find us."
Hermione folded her hands in her lap and looked right into her glistening green eyes as she
responded neutrally.
"Because you want to die, right? And you chose me to kill you since Harry is gone?"
"I meant it when I told you my father was only proud of the darkest parts of me. I thought
that's all I could be, but I was wrong."
"And it took you skinning a woman to death to realize that?" Hermione shot back.
"I am not like you, Goldfinch. I am weak. My father made me into a weapon, but after I used
it on them, I only wanted to turn it on myself."
Hermione snarled at the quiet woman across the table. She did not even know why she was
angry. She tortured Spider to the point that the woman's heart stopped. And Blaise carved her
up daily for the past two weeks. But this was past the point of logic. And, she recognized, this
was more than just about Spider.
"I wanted to die too," Hermione hissed. "You may have killed Harry's family, but I killed him.
And now I have to live with that."
She stood to leave, appetite gone. As she walked back out of the kitchen, she hurled one last
dagger at the woman slouched over the table and at herself.
"Hestia was right about us both. You're as useless to Harry dead as I was in the Council
room."
***
She walked alongside Blaise through the dust covered farmyard. As they passed the barn, the
squat form of the shed materialized before them, looking even shabbier in the fading light of
the afternoon sun.
"I am going with you to Little Hangleton tomorrow, right?" asked Hermione as they moved
through the door into the cavernous concrete bunker beyond. "I won't slow you down. Not
anymore. I've done everything you and the others have asked."
Blaise just gave her a mean shrug and held up a knife between two fingers. It glinted under
the blinding artificial lights.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Killer. Two more things I need from you before I let you
out of your cage."
Blaise stopped them at the end of the building in front of the closed steel door to the
backroom, and used his other hand to pull his pure white wand from its holster.
"Hold your palm out, face up," he ordered.
Blaise switched his knife grip from his fingers to his hand, and used the blade to slice two
intersecting lines on her left palm. Any skin that his knife touched peeled back and shriveled,
as though cauterized.
"X marks the spot," he said, voice venomous. Then he dipped his wand into the blood
pooling at the center. An excruciating burning sensation flooded into her palm at the touch,
like his wand was filled with acid. It continued to sting even after Blaise withdrew the now
red tip and sealed the wound.
"Is this blood magic?" she asked, flexing her painful fist.
"Yes. And before you start feeling all dark and edgy, we all have one." He pulled off his left
glove and showed her the two fading red lines crossing his palm. He replaced the glove and
continued, voice unusually serious.
"Like I said, we lost people in Italy. But they are all nice and dead. We are not foot soldiers or
your Council of old biddies. Voldemort doesn't know most of us are still alive, let alone with
the Order. You've seen too much. So this time if you're captured, you terminate."
Blaise grabbed her wrist and pushed her palm against her mouth in demonstration.
"If they take you, hold your hand here and bite. It will release the poison. If you are tied up or
Imperiused, I still expect you to free yourself and end it. By now you should be able to at
least do that much."
"I'll do it," Hermione insisted.
Suddenly, a man's muffled scream tore through the air, and she looked toward the still-closed
door to the backroom. Her heart pounded, but she stood her ground. She felt Blaise watching
her. Judging her.
"I told you, I'll do anything," she repeated.
A second, ear-splitting scream of pure terror came from inside the room, echoing around the
sterile concrete walls and floor of the enormous chamber. She did not flinch.
Blaise's briefly stony face twisted into a smirk again as he pushed open the heavy door and
stood aside.
"So pull up your hood and show me."
Hermione walked through, face covered.
***
Hours later, Hermione, Blaise, and Pangolin stepped out of the brownstone fire pit deep
beneath Shell Cottage. Spider was not allowed inside the Order's base, and Wolf chose to stay
with her at the farm.
"I'm going to speak with the Captain. Meet back here in three hours," Blaise said with a
yawn, transfiguring his bodysuit into a gray tunic and trousers as he walked out, not
bothering to look back.
"See ya, Goldfinch," whispered Pangolin, running after him.
Hermione looked down at her blood-drenched bodysuit, still dripping onto the dirt floor.
Then she transformed it back into her crimson riding leathers before walking out.
The narrow passageways felt even more suffocating after a fortnight of open air. Or maybe,
she had outgrown them and the claustrophobic safety they offered. The dank, stale air did
nothing to cool the red heat coursing through every vein like liquid fire. The carved walls
could not contain the hit of ecstasy pouring out of her like electricity. And the darkness barely
concealed the jerking of her fingers; the scarlet streaks veining across her eyes; the aliveness
that she felt after completing her final test.
Walking back up through the tight Headquarter tunnels felt like slowly waking up from a
dream. Everything her bloodshot eyes fell on beneath the dim lights did not look real. Not
quite solid. And while her feet guided her on the familiar path back to her room, her mind
remained somewhere else entirely. Somewhere distant and euphoric.
She barely noticed the shadowy figure standing at her door, even as he called out her name.
"Hermione."
It was not until he grabbed her by both shoulders as she was turning the handle that she stared
at him through enlarged pupils.
"Hey, Hermione, it's me. What's wrong?"
Charlie. She looked curiously into his concerned hazel eyes before speaking.
"Nothing."
He continued to hold her, studying her face, faint smile, and unblinking eyes.
"I got back from Madrid yesterday and couldn't find you anywhere. No one would tell me
where you were. I didn't know what to think, Hermione."
She could feel the warmth radiating off him into her, even through the tight fabric of her
riding leathers. It merged with the blistering heat covering every inch of her skin. Scalding.
Overpowering.
She drove both of her hands into Charlie's chest, and pushed him firmly against the door.
He grunted, but she kept pressing into his heat. Her burning lips reached to find the muscles
on his neck and taste his skin. To consume him.
He groaned and grabbed her waist, pulling her even closer to his strong body. She writhed
against him as she continued to devour every bit of skin she could find. When it was not
enough, she tore at his shirt. Releasing his heat with her teeth and hands.
He lifted and turned her around, so that now she was pressed against the rough wood of the
door. Her back arched into it, and her legs wrapped around his waist. Then his warm lips
plunged into hers, deeply and desperately.
As she opened her mouth and bit his tongue, she reached one hand behind her to push down
on the door handle, and they fell into her darkened room. Charlie softened their landing by
wrapping his scarred arm around her back, and swinging her above him. They tumbled onto
the piles of books and papers covering the floor, but Hermione did not stop. She could feel
everything. The roughness of his skin. The throbbing hardness of his body. His heart beat
pumping life into her aching core. Every sensation irresistibly heightened.
She straddled his hips, feasting on his chest and abdomen. Savoring every soft kiss and hard
bite. He groaned again, and she lost control. She needed him. All of him. He was a fever, and
she needed to burn out.
She took his hands and guided them to her moving hips as she pushed even further into him,
coiling her palms and fingers around the outside of his smooth burn scars.
Suddenly, he flinched and sat up. Eyes wide.
He grabbed her left hand and jerked it under the dim light spilling in from the hall beyond.
Straining to see something. He stood, pulling her firmly by her hand until he had it under the
light. Until he could clearly see the puckered, red lines of the new scars cutting across her
palm.
"No!" he shouted, dropping her hand as if it scalded him.
"What did you do, Hermione?"
She did not respond, but continued to stare at him, uncomprehending. He reached down to
grab her wrist again, and held it to her face.
"I know what this is! I know what it means. I've recovered enough of their dead bodies to
know who has these curse marks and why. SO TELL ME WHY YOU HAVE ONE!?"
The words formed on her lips before her head even caught up.
"It means nothing."
"Like hell it means nothing! Did Kingsley make you join Hestia's Force as some sort of
punishment?"
"Kingsley does not know."
He continued to search her eyes, anguish etched across his broad face. Minutes passed as they
stood, not moving or speaking. The longer they stayed frozen in time, the more she sensed
the coldness streaming back into her head, sending ice down her neck and spine. She
shivered and stepped back.
"Can't you tell me anything?" Charlie asked, voice soft. "Just tell me I'm wrong, and you're
not one of them."
"I am one of them."
At her words, the curse mark on her palm spasmed with a shot of acrid pain. She pulled her
wrist out of Charlie's warm hand, and walked back to the door without meeting his pleading
eyes again.
"I won't be here in the morning, so don't look for me. I'm sorry."
She shut the door, and turned the lock.

Truths and Graveyards
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself,
And men in armor shall appear to thee,
Ready to execute what thou desir's
***
"What is that called?" the boy asked, pointing his small, pale finger at the vibrant blue waves
rolling in toward the sandy shoreline. "It's not the normal ocean color."
The woman gently brushed a lock of light hair out of his face as she answered.
"I would say that shade is cerulean. Lovely, isn't it dear?"
The boy's angular face twisted as his mouth struggled to form the difficult word.
"Cer… rule… lun… cer… Say it again!" he demanded.
The woman's clear laughter broke the salty air, and she leaned down to rest her chin on the
top of the boy's head.
"On second thought, today the color of the ocean is much closer to cobalt. What do you
think?"
"Coba…cobalt." The boy smiled widely. "Yes, definitely cobalt."
***
Hermione sat up, bloodshot eyes drenched in tears, choking back sobs. This was not one of
her normal dreams. Even in the darkness of her underground bedroom, the deep blue of the
sea filled her head and spilled out through her eyes. A shade that she had never seen before,
at a place that she had never been before. But she clung to the image even as the deep blue
waves began to recede from her mind.
She had never seen a color so tragically beautiful.
She glanced toward the window carved into her bedroom wall, charmed to reflect the
landscape outside of Shell Cottage. The ocean beyond the Cornwall sea cliff was still dark,
but even in full daylight, it was never tinged more than a pale blue.
Fully awake, Hermione stood, wiped her face, and began to dress. After days in the near-total
darkness of the ancient forest hunting Spider, her eyes easily adjusted to low light. She did
not bother to illuminate the room, effortlessly navigating piles of books as she prepared to
leave. She dressed in her black boots, gloves, and fitted bodysuit, strapping large knife
holsters to the top of both thighs. She considered, then added a belt, spreading a dozen small
daggers between its slots. She opted for a narrower holster on her left bicep, so she could
quickly extract the cedar wand with her right hand.
As she stood in front of the shadowy mirror, struggling to fit her long plait into the black
hood, she paused. She lowered the cloth and pulled out one of the serrated blades. With one
rough slice, she cut the braid in half. Thick brown curls spilled out, falling just above her
shoulders. Satisfied, she rewound them into a shorter plait, and pulled up her hood to leave.
Before Hermione stepped through the door, she disillusioned herself. Even at this early hour,
she did not want anyone in the Order to see her in full uniform. Did not want him to see her
like this. She sprinted through the passageways, and descended into the depths in a flash. So
fast that she practically burst into the fire pit room at the dead end deep beneath the earth,
making Blaise raise his dark eyebrows at her even through the concealment charm.
"Take it down a notch, Killer."
Hermione could see the outlines of his smirk beneath the black fabric covering most of his
face. She moved to stand beside him, noticing that he was strapped with even more hardware
than her, including a curved sickle on his back. He also carried two wands—his normal white
ivory, and another pure black wand in a holster on his hip.
"You're one to talk," she mumbled. "You look like a mobile armory."
His eyes gleamed wickedly, but before he could respond, Pangolin tramped into the room,
hood still down, smiling brightly.
"Whoops, late again!"
Hermione looked the strawberry blond up and down, and felt a bit less underprepared when
she only spotted two medium-length blades strapped across the witch's chest.
Three handfuls of Floo powder later, they strode into the dark barn, still hours away from
sunrise. More than a dozen obscured figures moved within the shadows near the apparition
point, but Hermione recognized Spider's bright green eyes next to Wolf's rugged form. Blaise
drifted toward a stocky figure that emerged from the crowd, and they clasped hands in
greeting.
"Lynx."
"Fossa."
The leader of the Second Squad removed his hood, revealing a shaved head and gold-flecked
brown eyes. After exchanging a few whispered words with Blaise, he looked toward
Hermione still standing by the fireplace. He walked toward her, gloved hand extended.
"Nice to finally meet you, Goldfinch. Call me Fossa. Lynx hasn't shut up about you since you
joined."
"Pleasure," she intoned, then rolled her eyes at the Second-in-Command as he winked at her
over Fossa's shoulder.
They turned to face the group, and Blaise cleared his throat, finally serious.
"Both squad leaders briefed you separately, but I will give the entire force a final outline.
Mad-Eye Moody's trace is still active, leading us to believe that he is alive. Our Scouts
pinpointed his trace to an underground crypt on the Northeast section of the graveyard. We do
not know the exact location of Potter's body, but we confirmed Inferius signatures throughout
the area. Given Voldemort's history of using Potter for blood magic in the same graveyard,
recovery is equally important. My First Squad will apparate into Little Hangleton first to set
up a perimeter. Once we have secured the area, Fossa's Second Squad will join and move
directly to Mad-Eye. My squad will then branch out from our perimeter in all four directions
and search for Potter."
Fossa stepped forward as he added, "It is almost certain that we are walking into a trap.
Regardless, we will complete both objectives. You belong to the Knife. You do not withdraw
until you reach your target. And if they take you, you take your own life."
Blaise jerked his shrouded head toward Hermione and his other three squad members.
"You have your orders. Move out."
Pangolin, Wolf, and Spider moved toward the apparition point. But before Blaise joined
them, he handed something small and shiny to Fossa.
"I have the other. I'll give you the all clear to head to the Crypt. As soon as you extract Mad-
Eye, use the coin to signal once so my squad knows. If you need backup, signal twice."
Fossa raised his hood and nodded, clamping Blaise firmly on the back. Blaise turned to
Hermione, still watching him curiously.
"Let's go."
They appeared in a dark and overgrown graveyard bordered by a stone wall. Behind them
stood the faint curves of densely packed rooftops—a small village. The black shape of a
church was visible ahead, and a run-down cottage stood to their right. A hill rose above them
to their left, and the outline of an old manor crested the hillside.
The other three members of their squad were already removing wands and blades as Blaise
and Hermione approached. Blaise reached a hand over his shoulder and pulled out his long,
hooked sickle, gripping it firmly as he spoke in a low voice.
"We'll split up. Spider, you head straight North toward the church, while Pangolin covers the
Muggle town the opposite direction. Wolf will go East to the groundskeeper's building.
Goldfinch and I will take the Riddle House to the West."
He took out his ivory wand. "Send red sparks up if you run into Death Eaters. If I don't see
any sparks thirty minutes from now, I will assume that we successfully secured the perimeter
and signal Second Squad to begin Mad-Eye's extraction. At that point, our objective also
becomes search and recovery. Find Potter, or at least find out where he isn't."
No one spoke as they broke formation to head toward their assignments. Hermione drew her
wand and a short knife, and walked westward next to Blaise.
"Watch our backs," he commanded.
She turned her head to obey, but only saw Wolf’s burly shadow disappear behind a yew tree.
The entire area was eerily quiet. Thick grass carpeting the ground softened their footsteps so
that they moved noiselessly between rows of shadowy marble headstones and over the low
wall separating the cemetery from the hill beyond.
The abandoned house came into sharper focus as they approached the top of the hill. Some of
its windows were boarded, patches of missing tile covered its roof, and ivy spread unchecked
over its face. Crumbling stonework and pillars suggested that it was once a fine-looking
manor, but now it looked damp, derelict, and unoccupied.
Blaise used hand signals to steer them away from the main entrance. They inched beneath the
shattered windows rimming the exterior toward a side entrance almost completely hidden
behind a wall of vines.
When they reached the door, he used his sickle to cut through the vines and entered first. A
minute later, he reappeared and motioned for her to join. They entered what looked like a
large sitting room. She felt a cold draft hit the exposed slit of skin around her eyes and looked
up to find that most of the ceiling was missing—blown apart by some unknown force.
Blaise stepped close to whisper into the cloth covering her ear, and she peeled her eyes away
from the moonlit sky.
"We're running short on time. You take the bottom floor, and I'll go upstairs."
She lowered her head in acknowledgement and turned away, but Blaise caught her by the
sleeve and leaned in to speak again.
"And this time don't go playing the hero. You're shit at it."
He released her and set out toward a dark staircase on the opposite end of the damp room.
Hermione stole through the rooms lining each side of the long corridor spanning the length of
the house. She cast a red X over the door of each room she cleared, invisible to all except her.
But she found nothing more interesting than overturned furniture and rotted mattresses, and
nothing living besides insects and vines creeping in through broken windows.
Blaise was already leaning against an overturned piano, picking at his fingernails with a knife
tip, when Hermione re-entered the sitting room.
"No Death Eaters and no signs of Harry," she reported.
"Time’s almost up and no sparks," Blaise responded, jerking his head up toward the sky
visible through the hole in the ceiling. He removed the coin from his pocket and tapped it
once. The metallic surface flashed red in response. Within seconds, the distant cracks of
apparition split the air like firecrackers.
"What now?" whispered Hermione.
Blaise started walking back toward the side door. "Manor is a wash, so we see if the others
found anything interesting."
Right before he reached the door, Blaise hissed and clutched his left forearm as if in pain. He
yanked his sleeve up, exposing the Dark Mark on his ebony skin. It was jet black—darker
than she had ever seen.
"Fuck."
He swore and ran back to the center of the room to check the sky.
A misty green skull hung in the air, staining the air an unnatural emerald hue. As they stared,
a cloudy serpent slithered out of the skull’s mouth, like a horrific green tongue.
"Someone cast Morsemorde… '' Hermione murmured, watching the green snake sliding
through the air even as she extracted large blades from both thighs. She winced as the
poisoned cross on her left palm throbbed against the handle of her knife.
"They’re coming. Get ready," ordered Blaise, voice low.
He pulled his sleeve back down, and swapped his ivory wand for the solid black one strapped
to his hip. They positioned their backs to each other and waited.
All at once, dense clouds of smoke filled the damp air and dozens of shadowy black robed
figures began to rotate into the room. Their skull masks glinted green under the Dark Mark
hanging still in the sky.
Blaise attacked before the Death Eaters even finished materializing. He dashed forward and
pounced on the closest robed figure, beheading him with the hooked sickle. While the body
slumped to the floor, he leapt toward a second Death Eater, swinging the curved blade
through his neck at the same time his black wand shot a killing curse at a third.
Hermione went low, sliding underneath the smoke screen and slicing ankles with both hands.
When four sets of knees sank to the rotted floor, she jerked her cedar wand toward the fallen
Death Eaters to bring them under her control.
"Imperio!"
"End the others," she directed, and felt their unwilling minds surrender to her authority.
She rose, and launched herself at another man, striking him with a boiling hex to the face and
a knife to the stomach.
"Confingo!"
Hermione dropped her blade as her entire left side caught fire, blasted by a Death Eater's
explosive spell. She tore off her flaming glove and conjured a pool of water, rolling across
the wet floor and retrieving her knife in one smooth motion. As she vaulted her knife straight
into the man's chest, the hook of Blaise's sickle pierced his back.
They streaked through the smoke like dark lightning. Hermione sliced and cursed as quickly
as she could think, felling almost as many enemies as her companion.
"Spread out now!" shouted a Death Eater seconds before Blaise sprinted up and slit his
throat.
The remaining cloaked figures split apart in every direction. Hermione whipped around and
saw Blaise pursue a group up the shadowy staircase. She was still wrestling a female Death
Eater to the ground, deciding if she should follow him, when she heard a vaguely familiar
voice break through the racket.
"I know where he is, so come find out."
She spun just in time to see a robe withdraw through a door at the far side of the room. She
slammed her current target's head against the floorboards, rose, and charged after the voice,
weaving through dark corridors. Eventually, she slid into a dining room. A long table, split
apart at its center, filled almost the entire space.
"Over here, love."
His voice bounced off the darkened walls, but she caught a flash of movement across the
room. A shot of deadly green filled her vision and she ducked. The wall behind her exploded
in a shower of wood and dust. She narrowed her eyes at the source, and saw the Death Eater
seated at the head of the broken table.
She pulled three of the shorter daggers from her belt, and used a swipe of her wand to turn
their blades pure black. She took a step forward, and launched a dagger toward the seated
figure. He easily dodged, but moved directly into the path of a second dagger. He fell
backwards out of the chair, writhing on the ground and clawing at the handle.
Hermione approached, leaned over the Death Eater, and wrenched off the skull mask.
She coldly surveyed the narrowed eyes and tawny hair of Adrian Pucey. His face distorted in
a fresh wave of pain as his hands continued to slip around the embedded knife.
"The paralysis will become permanent as the venom moves to your heart," she explained
flatly. "Tell me what you know about Harry Potter’s corpse and I’ll remove it."
Pucey spat on the floorboard in response, so she flashed the third black dagger above her
former schoolmate's contorted face.
"Tell me what you know NOW and I won’t stick you with another."
"Resist…ance… Bitch," Pucey hissed, retching on the ground.
Hermione knelt, pulled up his black shirt, and began to slowly drive the dagger into the skin
above his liver.
"Arghhhh!"
She pushed harder, and felt the tip of the blade cut through the first layer of muscle.
"NOT…. Potter… not here."
"Where is he?" she asked calmly, continuing to press down.
"Don’t know… Necromancer… took…"
"Then where is the Necromancer?"
"Coming…"
"Who is the Necromancer?"
"D… D… don’t…"
Just as she felt the dagger pierce the softer flesh of his organ, a voice called out behind and
Hermione turned to see Blaise dart into the room.
"We need to go right now!" he shouted over Pucey’s screams.
"Not yet," she insisted. "I'm not done yet."
Something flashed past her shoulder and Pucey’s head thudded to the floor. She looked down
to see a knife implanted between his eyes.
"He doesn’t know anything," Blaise snarled, "Potter's body is not here. We move out now.
That’s an order."
Hermione growled but stood to listen, following Blaise out through a shattered window onto
the grass beyond. A weak sun slowly rose across the graveyard. They sprinted down the
slope as Blaise spoke.
"Fossa signaled twice. His squad needs help. I’ll go down to the Crypt while you bring the
others. Start with Spider since she is closest."
Hermione nodded, and Blaise banked left toward a large marble obelisk at the center of the
cemetery.
The spire of the white chapel shone like a beacon in the budding sunlight. She ran straight for
it, not stopping to look down as she navigated between unfamiliar mangled bodies strewn
across the bloody grass.
Her ears picked up the sound of voices shouting as she neared the church. She slowed and
peered through a crack between the double doors.
Spider was launching herself between wooden pews, sending a barrage of curses toward an
older, unmasked Death Eater with a pale, twisted face and dark hair.
Antonin Dolohov.
Their fighting styles were nearly identical. Both used the same unnaturally fast, darting
movements. Her eyes could barely keep up with their incredible speed and violence.
Continuous bursts of deadly green light shot from both wands like Roman candles, blowing
apart benches and windows with the explosive force of their attacks.
As Hermione moved to join the fight, she stumbled over something large at her feet. Her eyes
grew wide as she recognized Wolf's broad face.
Hood askew, gaze vacant, not breathing.
She quickly knelt and pressed her head to his cold chest.
No heartbeat.
Dolohov roared, "I told the Dark Lord you are MINE. That I'd end you myself!"
Spider rolled low as the wall behind her burst apart, and shrieked, "I'LL KILL YOU FOR
WHAT YOU DID TO HIM!"
"And why do you care?" Dolohov laughed madly as he shot another curse straight for his
daughter's head. "I'd rather see you dead than whore yourself out to vermin."
"Avada Kedavra!"
Spider dodged and screamed as she rocketed toward her father.
An explosion of green light emerged from her raised wand, but Dolohov pivoted at the last
instant and his own wand sliced the air.
THUMP
Spider hit the floor hard and did not move.
"NO!" Hermione screamed, running toward the woman's prone form. Her beautiful dark hair
splayed around her head like a crown. Blood gushed from her severed leg, cut off above the
knee.
Dolohov laughed again, and Hermione heard him approach from behind as she knelt
alongside Spider.
"You sound familiar, little dove."

Without turning her head, without looking back, Hermione whipped her wand over her
shoulder and hissed.
"Crucio!"
Red-hot fire coursed through her body as she turned around to watch him fall. As her wand
continued to shoot unrelenting pain into the Death Eater's spasming body.
She rose, walked to him, and spoke a second time—aiming the curse right at his heart.
"Crucio."
This raging high had a direction. A purpose that made it feel even more intoxicating. An
overpowering delirium of dark magic.
She could feel his vile red heart. Could see it stop beating as red veins streaked across her
eyes.
By the time Hermione heard footsteps at the door, Dolohov ceased jerking and lay
completely still.
"Spider!"
She turned and saw Pangolin cry out as she rushed to the fallen woman, scrambling to stop
the bleeding.
Blaise bent over Wolf and closed his eyelids with two gloved fingertips as he spoke.
"Get Spider out—straight to Headquarters. Fossa is probably dead, so the farm is

compromised. Goldfinch and I will handle the rest."
Pangolin finished using her hood to tie a rough tourniquet on the bleeding woman's thigh, and
heaved her up.
Before turning to disapparate, she spoke. Tone unusually heavy.
"Just be sure to come back. Both of you."
With a CRACK, they were gone.
"We need to move," Blaise said as he strode to join Hermione. "Death Eaters will have heard
them disapparate."
Hermione's bloodshot eyes were still fixed on Dolohov's unmoving body as she responded.
"Did you find the Second Squad?"
"I'll tell you later. Not now. We have to… "
Blaise's words broke off as he flinched and gripped the Dark Mark on his forearm.
"There are more coming."
Less than a second later, a fresh wave of smoke filled the church.
Cloaked, masked figures materialized on all sides. Three times as many as before.
Completely surrounding them.
A torrent of multicolored, lethal lights flew at them from all directions. Both shot curses and
raised shields with incredible speed, but there were too many enemies. With every spell, they
lost ground and were forced closer to the wall. Cornered.
Hermione reached out and yanked Blaise next to her.
She released a deep breath, held her wand before them, and turned.
Black flames ripped out of her outstretched wand and formed a wide, fiery arch around them
—blowing apart wooden benches and walls on its burning path of destruction.
She completed the protective black ring, and flared the dark, pulsating fire outward. The
Death Eaters nearest screamed, and she felt her flames devour them in a rush of heat and
adrenaline.
Her already red-veined eyes grew redder.
But they kept coming. Faster than her flames could consume them.
She raised a flexed hand. A tower of black fire shot up and engulfed a Death Eater that tried
to vault over the flaming ring. His ashes showered down on the church like gray snow.
"It appears you stole something from me."
Hermione froze as the words rang through her mind.
As a tall, cloaked form of a Death Eater appeared outside of the fiery ring. Dark robes
billowing from the scorching heat. Skull mask darkened by the black flames dancing before
him.
He walked forward and violently cleaved the air with his wand.
"Sectumsempra!"
Hermione spun around to see Blaise stumble next to her. There was blood everywhere. It
spurted from beneath the cloth shrouding his face and deep wounds tearing open the ebony
skin on his chest. As though he had been slashed with an invisible sword.
He staggered backward, and collapsed onto the floor with a crash. The sickle and wand fell
from his limp hands into the blood pooling around his body.
Without hesitating, Hermione turned back and lifted both palms to push a pillar of fire right
toward the approaching Death Eater.
Her enemy.
Her enemy who stepped into the black flames, passed through the devil's shield meant to kill
all enemies, and emerged from the other side of her dark fire unharmed.
Not your enemy.
Hermione pivoted again.
A fresh burst of black flames erupted from her wand, carving a second ring of fire within the
first—so tight that the flames licked Blaise’s prostrated arms and legs. After completing the
circle, she fell to her knees beside him, weak after using so much dark magic.
But the Death Eater did not falter. He continued walking straight forward, black robes
dragging through the blood spreading before him.
He crossed into her second protective ring, and the flames surged up, enveloping him in a
blue-black pillar of darkness.
Not your enemy.
She could feel her demonic fire release him again, as if he was the caster, and she was the one
ensnared by his curse.
Then he was there, towering over her. So close that she could see his cold gray eyes glint
beneath his Death Eater mask. Hear his cruel voice call out to her within their joined minds.
"Hello, Granger."
And she answered, even as her throat stung from the burning air. Even as his familiar arms
bound her to him, turning and dragging them into the crushing darkness.
"Draco."
Chapter End Notes
And with this, we've now entered what I call the 'Draco Era'. Thank you for sticking
with me up through this point as I built out the Charlie romance and broader story. And
thank you for the comments and kudos, which are always appreciated.
We're only partway done, with plenty more to come.

Vulnera Sanentur
Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience,
Shall make all nations to canonize us.
***
They fell through the inescapable blackness. Draco held her so tightly that she struggled to
breathe, suffocated by his savage embrace as much as the apparition. She sensed another
presence with them, but it faded when they violently slammed into the ground.
Hermione rolled across a thick carpet and hit the back of her head against something hard.
Her vision blurred, but she did not wait for the world to right itself before flinging her palm
to her face and opening her mouth to bite.
As she felt her teeth break skin, a strong hand grabbed her wrist and tore it away from her
mouth. Then she was lifted and thrown onto something soft.
Her head cleared as Draco's white-blond hair brushed against her cheek. His eyes pierced her
as he pinned her to the mattress. His firm hands felt like shackles as he forced her wrists
against the wood of the headboard.
She felt the poison drip out of her palm as his lips brushed her ear.
"If you die, he dies."
Draco used his icy cheek to turn her head down.
She saw Blaise lying at the foot of the massive four poster bed. He did not move, but his
blood continued to soak into the rug beneath him, staining the exquisite pattern bright red.
"Why did you take us?" Hermione choked out as she watched the blood spread from the
carpet to the stone floor beyond. "Where are we?"
Draco released her unmarked right hand and turned her face back to look at him.
"Still so greedy for answers. I took you because you were in the way. And figure out where
you are yourself."
He tightened his grip on her left hand, squeezing the last drops of venom onto the sheets. She
gasped in pain as he spoke again.
"I'm leaving. Heal Zabini. He's already lost too much blood. If you try to follow me, he’ll
splinch and die."
Draco freed both wrists at last and stood beside the bed. She sat up, heart racing, and watched
him press the Death Eater mask back to his face, concealing everything but his gray eyes.
He disapparated before she could respond.
As soon as he was gone, Hermione launched herself to the end of the massive four poster and
dropped onto the ground beside Blaise. His normally rich skin was wan; bloodless.
She dug her finger into his neck and barely felt a pulse. She pulled out a knife and began to
slice the fabric back from his face and chest, exposing the deep gashes Draco’s curse had
made—still leaking blood onto the already drenched rug. She tried to dig through her
memory for any spell to stop the bleeding, but these wounds were beyond her limited healing
abilities.
She poured her small vial of Dittany over the deepest cuts. They reopened almost
immediately. After casting basic blood replenishing and bandaging charms, she rose and
rushed to open every drawer and cabinet in the ornate room, but found nothing.
She ran to the door at the opposite end of the bedroom and stepped into a long, richly
decorated corridor. Every inch of the cream-colored, wainscoted walls was intricately carved,
and accented with gold trim. As she tore through the empty house, pale-faced portraits lining
the walls moved to watch her, eyes wary.
She searched room after room, but could not find anything to stabilize Blaise. The house also
seemed completely unoccupied. Aside from the portraits, she did not see any signs of house-
elves or humans.
Desperate, she flew down one of the twin marble staircases curving down to a grand
entrance, and her eyes locked on a familiar face.
She ran to a large portrait of a woman with blue eyes, long blonde hair, and an arrogant smile
posed in front of a window overlooking the water. A striking painting of the lady of the
Manor, watching over her household even in death.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione gasped, leaning against a pillar. "Please tell me where you keep
your healing potions."
The woman did not respond or even look at Hermione, and instead turned away to face the
brushed blue waves.
"Please, Narcissa," she begged. "My friend is dying. I need your help."
The painted woman continued to silently look away.
Hermione exhaled slowly before she tried again.
"I won’t pretend to know the full story, but I do understand that your family was forced to
make incredibly unfair choices."
Hermione stepped forward so that she was only inches away from the portrait’s thin
canvassed back, and continued.
"I think your son saved me, even though he won't admit it. But now someone else is paying
the price for my life. Please show me how to save him."
Narcissa still did not speak. Instead, she straightened her already perfect posture, stepped
right out of the frame, and disappeared.
Hermione was about to give up and search the bottom level herself, when she saw a streak of
long blond hair appear in another large portrait of an even more austere-looking, older
woman.
She followed Narcissa as she moved between countless frames, until they reached a large set
of wooden doors.
When Hermione turned to thank her, the painted matriarch was already gone.
She pulled the doors open, and her shocked eyes fell upon a room of bookshelves stretching
up to a domed ceiling bedecked with an intricate Italian fresco. Dark wooden tables and
chairs dotted the interior, and the candles lining the paneled walls were already lit, as if
inviting her to enter.
Hermione did not stop to marvel at the library, but ran in and began scanning spines and
pulling out books. Searching for anything on advanced healing. Then she saw it—a tome
protruding from a row of books otherwise flush to the shelf.
She grabbed it and hastily read the title on the leather bound cover.
Dark Rituals and Rights
Not a healing book.
She was just sliding the tome back onto the shelf when a piece of paper slipped from the
bottom. She took the book back in both hands, and flipped to the marked page, eyes scanning
desperately.
Chapter VII - Gellert Grindelwald and Necromancy of the Soul Reader
Grindelwald was famously the master of an undead female Qilin, a rare part-dragon part-
horse creature with precognitive abilities as well as the capacity to look at a human soul and
judge purity of heart. For this reason, Qilins were utilized in the ancient tradition of selecting
the next Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. During the
ceremony, the Qilin only bowed before the worthiest candidate.
Grindelwald’s Qilin was born in the Tianzi Mountains in Kweilin, China in 1932, and
discovered by renowned Magizooligist Newt Scamander. After its birth, Grindelwald acolyte
slayed the mother and took the beast to Nurmengard. Grindelwald killed the Qilin in order to
observe visions using its blood. The wizard then charmed it back to life and healed its fatal
wounds so that it appeared alive. Reanimated and whole, the Qilin was compelled to bow
before Grindelwald in front of the Supreme Mugwump election in Bhutan, allowing
Grindelwald to falsely claim purity of heart.
Hermione now looked at the small sheet of paper tucked between the pages, reading lines of
neat handwriting.
Necromancy revived but did not physically heal the beast. Grindelwald used the
incantation Vulnera Sanentur. Same spell as Severus. Move wand over the injury and
repeat three times. First to restore blood, second to clear, and third to close wounds.
The next lines were written in a strange, foreign language that Hermione did not recognize,
but appeared to be the spell itself. She clenched the slip of paper in her fist and ran out of the
library, retracing her frantic path through the quiet manor.
Blaise's pulse was even weaker; his bandages soaked in fresh blood. She removed the
dressings and pulled out the handwritten note. As she carefully swept her wand over the deep
wounds on his face and chest, she recited the incantation.
The words were satin on her tongue. Lilting, melodious notes that poured from her lips onto
Blaise's mutilated flesh like honey. The flow of blood finally seemed to ease. Color returned
to his face. She wiped a streak of blood from a long cut that ran from his eye down his neck
as she repeated the sweet-sounding spell. She recited the song a third time, and the wounds
seemed to knit themselves back together, melting the deep gashes into pitted scars.
Blaise's breathing steadied. Hermione pressed her head to his heavily scarred chest and
sighed when she heard a stronger heartbeat. She stood and raised her wand to gently lift him
off the floor onto the center of the massive bed.
Only after checking his heartbeat another time did she sink to her knees on the floor beside
the four poster, utterly spent. Her exhaustion from using Diabolica paled in comparison to
how she felt now. As if every ounce of magic that she poured into healing Blaise's wounds
came from some unreplenishable storehouse within her soul.
Her brain screamed that she should stay awake.
Barricade the door.
Summon the Order.
Not leave herself vulnerable in a Death Eater’s house.
But as her eyes closed and her cheek fell to the bloody floor, she accepted that if Draco
Malfoy truly wanted to find her, there was nothing she could do to keep him away.
***
"Seasons change. Autumn ends even if you want it to last forever."
The woman used delicate fingers to turn the boy’s unsmiling face, directing his gaze toward
the rows of colorful rooftops capped in snow across a stormy gray cove.
Then she spoke again.
"Thankfully, winter is as beautiful as it is inevitable."
The boy jerked his head away to turn back toward the open ocean, grumbling.
"But winter is cold and makes the water look like dead worms. It should be cobalt all the
time. Now it's the color of my eyes and I hate it."
At the declaration, he stood and walked toward the incoming tide, dragging his pale feet to
carve two small trenches through the snow dusted sand.
"Gray is a stunning color, dear. My favorite color."
He kicked a pile of sand. "You’re just saying that because they’re like father’s eyes. And this
morning you told the dress shop lady your favorite color is blue. You're not telling the truth."
The woman strode through the sand to kneel before the boy, capturing his eyes with her own.
"We lie to the rest of the world, Draco, but never to the ones who matter."
The boy considered.
"I don't understand."
"Someday you will."
***
When Hermione woke, her cheek was pressed to something silky instead of the carpeted
ground. Her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight. She turned her head and saw its rays
streaming in through a frosted window onto her ivory bedspread.
A noise on the other side of the bed made her sit up.
She saw Draco.
Draped across a velvet chaise in the opposite corner of the bedroom. Arms crossed in front of
him, gray eyes closed. Head resting against the upholstered cushion.
He was not in his Death Eater robes or even his dark suit. Instead, he wore a plain, black
dress shirt and trousers. His white-blond hair was perfectly slicked back like in their school
days, but the top few buttons of his rumpled shirt were undone. He looked far younger, and
uncharacteristically relaxed.
As Hermione watched him, his head jerked and his mouth moved, even as his eyes stayed
shut. She could not read his silent lips, but recognized that he was still caught in a dream.
Then he exhaled, and even the hard angles in his face seemed to soften.
She slid silently up along the cushioned headrest, and noticed her wand laying on a round
nightstand beside the bed. She reached out to grab it, eyes still fixed on Draco. He did not
move.
She looked around her airy, surprisingly simple surroundings. Because she did not recognize
this particular room from her furious search through the Manor, she guessed that they were
on the lower floor in one of the unexplored wings.
After glancing at Draco one more time to confirm that he was still asleep, she decided to risk
slipping out to find Blaise. But when she lifted the sheets and saw a white robe instead of her
black bodysuit, she cursed; furious at the prospect that Draco did something to her while she
was unconscious.
"You were filthy and covered in blood."
Hermione whipped her head toward him, awake and watching her from the chaise in the
corner.
"None of it was my blood, Malfoy," she shot back without thinking.
His mouth tensed and he glared at her.
"How did you heal Zabini?"
"I found a spell."
Draco raised his light eyebrows as he asked, "What spell? Why didn’t you just ask the house-
elves or portraits to bring you a healing potion?"
Hermione huffed, exasperated. "I did, but your mother's portrait led me to the book with a
note on Vulnera Sanentur. It worked, so why does it matter?"
"It matters because I found you collapsed on the floor, half-dead from bleeding yourself dry
to heal fucking Zabini."
"I wouldn't have had to if you didn't carve him up like a Hippogriff."
To his credit, Draco did not flinch before he responded, voice laced with venom.
"Just don't, Granger. Don't risk yourself for someone who would never do the same. You'll
only end up dead."
Hermione growled as she stood in her thin robe.
"And why do you care if I kill myself from poison or saving Zabini? I don't even understand
why you brought me here."
She strode to the door, voice hard.

"The last time we spoke, you made it clear that you want nothing to do with me. Just let me
go."
She was about to step out of the room when his hand slammed into the wood paneling above
her head with a BANG, shutting the door so hard that the walls shook.
Hermione did not look at his blue-veined fist still clenched against the door; refused to give
him the satisfaction. Instead, she stared daggers into the knotted wood in front of her. Not
moving. Seething.
"You don't scare me. So stop trying."
She could feel his rapid, cold breath on her neck, but for some reason, he chose to speak
within her mind instead of the room.
"I get to ask my question first, Granger."
She turned slowly, looked up to meet his penetrating gaze, and bared her teeth as she snarled,
"I already spent a year answering your questions, Lucius Malfoy. And unlike you, I told the
truth."
"I always told you the truth."
"Half-truths are as false as lies. You knew it then, and you know it now."
She stepped forward and up onto her toes, so that she spat her next words right into his face.
"But you don't owe me the truth. Regardless of what you say, you crossed through my devil's
shield, and proved that you are not my enemy."
They were so close that she could see the red veins of dark magic shooting through his gray
eyes, but she persisted.
"The truth is that you are nothing to me, Malfoy. I do not owe you my safety. I do not owe
you anything. So let me go."
His eyes darkened, swallowing any redness in a sea of black. He unclenched his fist, but still
pressed his open palm against the door beside her head.
"I get to ask my question first," he repeated coolly.
"Fine! Ask."
"Why were you at the graveyard?"
She weighed her response, still unwilling to tell him anything meaningful.
"To find Harry and serve the Order."
His eyes bore into her, as if they could see through the lies.
"And going on a suicide mission to find a corpse is your idea of serving the Order? Are you
really that set on becoming a fucking martyr?"
"I don’t expect you to understand. Not everyone is as selfish as you."
Now he stepped into her. So close that she pressed her back against the door to maintain any
separation.
"You could stand to learn something from me about self-preservation."
"Is self-preservation whatever this is? Taking us away in the middle of a fight? Nearly killing
Blaise to get us out? You’re lying again, and I’m done."
Hermione hissed and used both hands to grab Draco's wrist. The curse mark on her left palm
radiated with pain from the contact, but she ignored it as she wrenched his hand off the wood.
This time he let her, and she thrust the door open so hard that he had to step out of the way to
avoid impact.
She ran into the wide hallway beyond, looking around to get her bearings.
His voice echoed off the stone walls around her.
"Potter and Weasley are dead, and nothing you do will ever bring them back."
She did not respond, but heard his sharp voice follow her down the corridor.
"No one can enter or leave the Manor except me."
"You can't keep me here."
"Both of you are too weak to disapparate."
"And whose fault is that?" she shot back.
But even as she spoke, the hall began to spin. She fell against the hard stone wall and slid to
the floor, suddenly lightheaded. As she slumped on the ground and tried to slow her
breathing, she fought back tears of frustration that she refused to shed in front of him.
"I’m fine. I’m taking Zabini and leaving right now. I don’t need you."
"Maybe you don't, but I guarantee that he will splinch."
She tried to stand and stumbled again. Head reeling, she sank back to her knees, defeated.
As she blinked at the white marble floor, trying to get her vision to focus, she heard his
ringing footsteps come to a stop right behind her. She looked up, eyes wild.
Draco stood, watching her in the waning light.

As he stared, his pale features, twisted in anger, relaxed into an expressionless mask again.
But now a few strands of hair fell loosely in front of his cold eyes.
Awake, he looked so much older. So different. The harsh angles of boyhood sculpted and
defined by time. No longer the face of her school bully, and not the face of Lucius Malfoy.
But she had no idea what to think of him anymore. Maybe he was not her enemy, but she
understood him even less now than before. All she was certain of, as she knelt on the floor
before him, was her own vulnerability.
"What do you want from me, Draco?" she whispered, voice broken.
His face remained unreadable as he extended a hand.
"Take it and get up. I understand the cost of using Vulnera Sanentur better than you. I’ll show
you the grounds and you can clear your head."
She balked, but he continued to stand there, hand outstretched. Eventually, she sighed and
used the stone wall to pull herself back onto her feet.
"The door to your right," he ordered.
They emerged from the house and into the fading sunlight, following a winding path through
tall hedges. The entire time, Draco walked a few steps behind her, watching. Besides voicing
a few directions, he did not speak.
But when she lost her balance on the wet gravel path leading into the garden, he was there.
One solid hand on her back, steadying her before she could fall. She flinched at the firm
gentleness of his touch. At the concern his hand betrayed in such a small movement.
For all their months speaking in Azkaban, and all the comfort his words carried into her cold
cell, his touch never brought her anything but pain and confusion. Compassion was the last
thing that she expected from Draco Malfoy.
He guided her to a stone bench surrounded by rose bushes, stripped bare by the December
frost. A three-tiered fountain lay empty at the center of the circular courtyard, and a thin layer
of ice glazed the hedges surrounding the garden.
She perched on the cold seat while he continued to stride through the barren rows.
"The gardens are better in the summer. Everything dies off by the winter," he drawled as he
ran his hands along the frozen branches.
Suddenly she thought of the unfamiliar seaside town in her dreams. The striking blue water,
and the stormy gray waves.
"You told me once that you would visit the sea every summer. That your family had a house
in Tenby. Did you ever go there in the winter?"
He did not answer, but continued to walk through the sparse garden, long fingers linked
behind his back, so she tried another question.
"Have you always disliked the winter?"
"Yes."
She considered, then recited the words from her strange vision.
"Well, I think winter is as beautiful as it is inevitable."
Draco stopped at once, and looked back at her, gray eyes alert. Searching for something.
"How do you know…"
He paused mid-sentence and shook his head. "Forget it."
Hermione stood, and walked down the row of bushes next to Draco's, following parallel
paths.
"Now is the part where you answer my questions. And this time you tell the entire truth," she
said, head spinning but voice steady.
"I've been answering your questions."
"Not the important ones."
She watched him run his fingers along a frozen vine. He picked at a gnarled thorn before he
put both hands behind his back again and continued walking.
"Ask me, Granger."
"Where is Harry?"
"Potter's body is gone, so stop searching."
"Did the Order rescue Mad-Eye Moody?"
"No."
"Then where do we find Moody?"
"He is at the Lestrange Château in Grenoble, France. But the Dark Lord moves him often,
just like the snake."
She nodded her head, speechless. Overcome with a sense of familiarity. At how natural this
all felt—asking and answering—as if they were separated by her damp prison wall again
instead of a row of dead roses.
"Why did you speak to me in Azkaban?" she asked.
Draco did not respond for so long that she thought he would refuse to answer. And when he
finally did, his voice was as cold and raw as the wasteland he called a garden.
"You were a distraction."
"And what am I now?"
He stopped, and turned to meet her eyes. Staring at her with such intensity that she could
almost catch a hint of glacial blue within the sea of gray. A color so faint that she wondered if
he even knew it was there.
Then he took one hand out from behind his back and reached between the rows to touch her
cheek, flushed red by the cold. But when he was an inch away from her skin, he paused, and
his outstretched fingers wavered.
She blinked, and watched his hand move past her eyes to capture a loose lock of her hair
instead as he whispered without words.
"Now you are someone I can’t get out of my head."
"Come with me, Draco," she asked again, voice soft. "You wouldn't be the first to change
sides. Join the Order and come back with me."
He twirled the curl between his long fingers, staring at the empty rose bushes instead of her
pained face.
Then he let go and stepped back as a bitter smile formed on his lips.
"Never."
Good
What a devil ail you two?
***
They did not speak again until they were back inside the Manor.
"I'll stay in the room upstairs with Blaise."
Draco did not reply, but walked Hermione silently back to the base of the double staircases
leading up to the second floor.
As she ascended the marble steps, she heard his voice call out.
"I have to leave again."
She kept walking and did not respond.
When she crept back into the bedroom, Blaise was still unconscious, and still painted in dried
blood.
Exhausted, she sat on the end of the four poster bed and leaned her head against the wood
frame.
Her mind began to drift, but she tried not to let it wander toward Draco—locking away any
thoughts of what he did to Blaise, emotions about his continued refusal to join the Order, and
suspicions about where he was now. She shut her eyes and the cell within her mind, and felt
nothing.
"Granger."
Her eyes fluttered open, but the room was pitch black.
"Granger, what happened?"
"Blaise?" she mumbled, sitting up off the end of the mattress, and feeling around for her
wand to light the darkened room. "How do you feel?"
"Like death," he whispered. "I don’t have my wands, give me yours."
She finally found it, cast a quick Lumos, and passed it to him as she explained, "We were
surrounded. Draco passed through my black flames and took us to Malfoy Manor. He left, but
we can’t disapparate on the grounds and in your condition. I'll think of a way to get us out
once you've recovered."
"So Malfoy did this to me?" asked Blaise, dark eyes wide as looked under his bandages and
took in the deep wounds ravaging his chest.
"Yes."
"Fucking asshole," Blaise cursed. He used Hermione's cedar wand to cast a diagnostic spell
over himself, and frowned as he read the blinking lights. "I'll kill him for this."
"I’ll heal you again before we leave," she reassured, "But I’m not sure if anything will fix the
scarring."
As Hermione spoke, she squeezed her eyes and gripped the bedpost to try to stop the room
from spinning. Blaise caught the movement, and cast a diagnostic spell over her.
"And what the hell did Malfoy do to you? You shouldn’t even be conscious right now."
She just shook her head.
Blaise sighed and took the gold coin out of his pocket, wincing as his bandages shifted from
the small movement.
The coin was dull—no flashing signal.
"We’re leaving right now," he decided.
"You lost too much blood, Blaise. You’ll splinch."
Blaise stumbled off the bed and jerked her to her feet.
"Not yet," she insisted. "It’s not safe."
"Now."
She let him drag her through the dark hallway, and into the cavernous grand entrance beyond.
But as they descended the marble staircase, Blaise's legs gave out. He fell onto the steps, and
dark braids spilled out of his torn hood.
"I'll take you back to the room and heal you again," Hermione pleaded as Blaise struggled to
use the railing to pull himself up. "You know you won't survive the jump like this."
"No. We need to get past the estate boundary and apparate back to Headquarters. If they find
us here, we all die, Malfoy included. So we leave now."
"If who finds us? The Order or Voldemort?" she asked, reaching to take back her wand.
But Blaise jerked it away as he continued to make a line toward the enormous front doors.
"Does it matter?"
"You know something," she accused. "Why did Malfoy attack you? Where did you go when I
was fighting Dolohov?"
"Just drop it, Mudblood. The longer we stay, the worse it will be for us," he snarled.
As soon as they made it onto the gravel driveway, Blaise slipped again, and Hermione saw
fresh blood stain his bandages.
"I'll apparate us back home," Hermione said reluctantly. She hauled him up to lean against
her, and slung his arm over her shoulder. "But you owe me for this."
Blaise was barely conscious by the time they passed through the wrought-iron gates marking
the Manor's boundary. She secured him as firmly in her arms as she could manage, and
turned to disapparate. The familiar black tightness consumed them. She struggled to keep
Blaise's body against her as she felt him pulled away by the swirling void.
She barely had him in her hands when they fell onto the grass in the thin woodlands outside
of Shell Cottage. Blaise did not move. Hermione rushed to remove the bandages, and saw
that almost all of his wounds reopened. Blood pooled on his carved-up chest and dripped
onto the dead leaves on the forest floor.
She summoned every last ounce of strength, and repeated the only spell that could save his
life, even as she felt hers slipping away.
***
Her vision flooded with bright red. After a few minutes of blinking, she recognized Ginny’s
flaming hair spilling over the side of the bed next to her.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione turned to see an elderly witch wearing Order healer robes standing on her other
side.
"What happened?" Hermione asked, head still heavy with sleep. She looked around the
familiar, brightly lit room full of beds, all occupied.
"You were sedated. You need to stay calm or I won't hesitate to put you under again."
"Where is Blaise Zabini?"
The healer just waved her hand dismissively and moved onto the next patient. "Focus on
resting, not questions."
She sighed and slipped back under the covers.
"You're awake."
Hermione froze at the sound of his voice.
When she turned her head, she saw Charlie framed by the hospital wing doorway. His rich
brown eyes ran over her as she propped herself up in the bed. When he continued to hang
back, she realized that, this time, he was waiting for her to make the first move.
She held his gaze, and then inclined her head toward the spot of empty sheet next to her,
inviting him to sit. He understood, but pulled over a chair between her and Ginny's beds
instead.
"I owe you an apology," she said calmly. "A lot happened, and I wasn't in control that night."
He took a deep breath and leaned his head on one hand. She could see the tension in his face,
but when he spoke, he matched the evenness of her tone.
"Can you at least tell me what changed?"
"It's not that simple, Charlie."
"And neither am I. If you explain, I'll understand. But I need to know what happened to you."
He leaned forward and put his head between both hands as he continued.
"I was only in Spain for a few weeks, but it's like I came back to a different person. I didn't
even get the chance to tell you about Ginny that night. Do you even care anymore?"
"Of course I do. Why is she here?" asked Hermione, turning to look at the redhead not
moving in the bed next to her. "I haven't seen her or Seamus since they went to Scotland."
"Well, she's one of the only surviving members from their entire unit," Charlie said, voice
low. "If you can call being unresponsive for going on three weeks 'surviving.' The Council
officially named it the Stirling Campaign, but it was a massacre. As if the Death Eaters knew
exactly where we would be and when. They evacuated most of the surrounding Muggle
towns, but Seamus didn't make it."
An unbearable heaviness settled over Hermione like a crushing weighted blanket at Charlie's
words. At Seamus's death—another name to add to her list of loved ones to grieve.
She looked more closely at the broken bodies filling the packed room, then down at her
bandaged left hand before she responded.
"Will Ginny be okay?"
"I don’t know, Hermione. Will you? Neville said you were in rough shape when the healers
found you unconscious outside the hospital wing last night. They don’t know how you got
here. I only saw that you were back when I came to visit Ginny."
"Don't worry about me. You have enough to worry about without any distractions."
Charlie lifted his face out of his palms to stare at her, eyes tired.
"Is that what you think you are to me, Hermione? A distraction?"
His eyes softened and he reached out a hand to brush her cheek. She leaned into the
gentleness of his touch.
"I'm not good enough for you," she whispered, even as she closed her eyes and was flooded
with his familiar warmth.
"Don't say that."
But she continued, voice shattered, heart in pieces.
"There are promises I've made, things I have to do, that will always take me away from you.
That hasn't changed. This is who I am, and you deserve more than I can ever give."
His hand stilled, but continued to hold her cheek. She felt heat on her skin and she opened her
eyes to see his face right before her.
"I'm the one who gets to decide what I deserve, Hermione."
***
It took days, but after finally convincing the healers to discharge her, Hermione went directly
to Hestia's office.
"I need to speak to Captain Jones," she explained to a very unimpressed secretary seated in
the waiting room.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked the middle-aged wizard, wiping his spectacles and not
even looking at Hermione.
"Tell her Hermione Granger is here. She'll want to see me."
"No appointment, no Captain."
Hermione was deciding if she should just knock the wizard out and force her way into the
office, when the dark-haired Captain herself strode into the waiting area.
"Follow me, Granger" Hestia ordered, and continued to the passageway beyond.
As they walked, Hestia spoke firmly.
"You will report to the Council, not me."
"Okay," Hermione agreed, "But… "
"I had to explain why you've been absent from Headquarters for three weeks, so I told
Kingsley that you were on the ground at a safe house advising my Special Force. This is our
first Council meeting since the recovery mission. He does not know that you joined a squad,
and you will not tell him."
Hermione sped up to match pace with the shorter woman's powerful strides.
"Hestia, I need to know what happened to Blaise and Spider."
The woman narrowed her already fierce eyes as she responded.

"They're alive. That's all you need to know."
They reached the circular door leading to the Council room, and Hestia stepped in without
another word. Hermione followed her into the blue-green sandstone cave, and walked around
the circular oak table to take her place across from Kingsley.
Moody's seat was empty.
Hestia remained standing, and twisted her wand to project an image of the overgrown
graveyard as she spoke flatly.
"It goes without saying that the Little Hangleton operation was unsuccessful. We did not
extract Mad-Eye Moody or find Harry Potter's corpse. We also took heavy losses."
With another wave of her wand, a group of four red lights began moving through the
graveyard before splitting apart. Hermione noticed that there was no light to signal her
presence.
"First Squad canvassed the broader area. Once the perimeter was secure, Second Squad
moved toward the underground structure at the center of the cemetery—what we've been
calling the Crypt."
A new set of fifteen red lights descended into an underground maze of tunnels.
"We lost contact shortly after they entered the Crypt. Though our Scouts later recovered
several bodies above ground with the Necromancer's Inferius signatures, the rest of Second
Squad is still missing and presumed dead."
All red lights beneath the ground went out.
Now she broadened the map so that the Muggle town, church, groundskeeper's cottage, and
Riddle House appeared at the edges.
"First Squad moved to separate locations around the graveyard to look for Potter. At the same
moment we lost communication with the group set to extract Moody, multiple waves of
Death Eaters confronted all four members of First Squad. One fighter was killed in battle,
and another is permanently out of commission. They did not recover Potter."
Hestia took her seat. Ishida Ren coughed, and ran a tanned hand through his dark hair as he
spoke.
"Safe to say the mission was a complete failure, Jones?"
Hestia rolled her eyes and did not answer.
"The entire setup was clearly Voldemort's trap," Aberforth mumbled. "A ploy to take back
ground after our wins in Italy and Spain."
"And to capture and interrogate the missing Order fighters," added Ren. "Who knows what
secrets they're spilling now… even Headquarters could… "
Hestia growled, interrupting Ren. "They won't get anything out of my Force."
"You don't know that. The Death Eaters… "
"No one goes onto the field until they can resist the Imperius Curse. And they have ways to
prevent interrogation with Veritaserum or anything else," Hestia hissed, interrupting Ren
again.
Hermione did not speak, but felt herself getting angrier as she looked down at her hands
folded in her lap. As if she could see through the bandages to the disfigured, still painful
cross mark hidden beneath.
"Well, obviously we're dealing with a spy or some sort of information leak if you add this
mission to the growing list of failures you've racked up lately, Jones," Ren shot back. "First
Stirling, where you lost half our active Infantry in a single night, and now this planned Death
Eater assault at Little Hangleton. Someone within the Order turned traitor, and I vote we take
a closer look at your Special Force first—they can't be trusted."
Aberforth nodded in agreement, and even Kingsley raised a dark eyebrow in consideration.
Hermione stood before she could think, and all heads turned toward her.
"Hestia's right. No one in the Force would voluntarily tell Death Eaters anything about the
Order. I was with them for weeks leading up to the mission, and we can trust them. They are
on the front lines risking more than anyone else to fight Voldemort."
She unwrapped the bandages around her left palm as she ignored Hestia's eyes drilling into
her, and continued speaking.
"And they would never give up anything involuntarily either."
She raised her hand around the round table to display the red X and teeth imprints scarring
her palm.
"This cross is embedded with a fatal poison. Even if Voldemort or the Necromancer captured
the Second Squad, they would be dead before they could betray us."
Hestia snarled and pulled Hermione back down to sit. "You really need to shut up now,
Granger."
But it was too late. Kingsley, silent until that point, cleared his throat, and spoke in his deep
voice.
"Why do you have that mark, Miss Granger?"
Hermione did not waver as she lied.
"I forced my way onto the mission at the last minute. Hestia did not know, and her Second-
in-Command believed that I joined under her orders. During the mission, I extracted
intelligence about Harry, Moody, and the Horcrux."
Kingsley's black pupils expanded, and he stood.
"You disobeyed this Council's decision and joined the front line, risking everything if you
were recaptured?"
"No," Hermione countered. "I disobeyed your decision, Kingsley. And I did not risk
anything. That is why I took the cross, and why I did not hesitate to use it when necessary."
"It looks like you did try to use it," pointed out Ren, eyes flashing. "So show us the bite
marks on your palm again and explain why you are still alive."
"I… " now Hermione paused, unsure of what to reveal about Blaise and Draco. But Hestia
spoke instead.
"Granger and my Second were taken by an unknown Death Eater at the end of the battle.
However, my Second reported that they were able to escape and return to the Order. Per
protocol, Granger attempted to use the mark as soon as she was captured, but my Second
stopped her once they realized they could break out without interrogation."
Hermione's head spun at the inaccurate report, confused about if Hestia or Blaise altered the
details about Draco.
"And you trust your Second-in-Command?" asked Aberforth, interrupting her thoughts. But
when she looked up, she saw the older man's piercing blue eyes on Hestia.
"I do."
Kingsley, however, glared at Hermione as he asked harshly, "Is that really what happened,
Miss Granger?"
"No. Hestia’s Second was not conscious the entire time. In the interim, I spoke with the
Death Eater that took us—with Draco Malfoy," she admitted. "I understand what that means,
but he gave me key information about the mission. He told me that Voldemort moves Moody
and the Horcrux, and... "
"Silence!" ordered Kingsley, and Hermione’s stomach dropped as she moved to retake her
seat. "I do not understand how you are still alive given your commitment to me."
"But I did not tell Malfoy anything about… "
"Draco Malfoy is a known Death Eater and almost certainly the Necromancer. Almost
certainly the deadliest soldier in Voldemort's army. The fact that you were already
compromised by him in the past and still refuse to see reality is even more damning."
Kingsley banished the map of the graveyard with a slash of his ebony wand, and kept
speaking, voice callous.
"It is clear that even if you intend to honor your promise to me, you are perfectly willing to
do so by risking yourself. By risking us all. That kind of negligent reasoning has no place on
this Council."
"Moody is at the Lestrange estate in Grenoble and the Horcrux is… "
"GET HER OUT NOW," Kingsley thundered, cutting Hermione off again. Refusing to
listen.
Hestia stood and yanked Hermione out of her chair toward the door. As soon as they were
alone in the passageway beyond, the woman threw her roughly onto the ground.
"I’m sorry, Hestia," she grunted. "I don’t know what Blaise reported, but I had to tell the
Council about my involvement and Malfoy. If the Knife attempts to rescue Harry or Moody
again, we need to know everything, regardless of the source."
"And regardless of the price?" Hestia barked. "Go ahead and continue to self-destruct,
Granger, but don’t think for one second I’ll let you take me and mine down with you."
Hestia turned to leave. Hermione shouted behind her.
"I know that you gave Spider a second chance, even when she didn’t want it herself. I
deserve it even less, but please give me a chance as well."
She continued walking, so Hermione persisted.
"I understand why you don’t trust Malfoy, but every single piece of information that he gave
us proved true. And this time he told me that Harry is gone. It is pointless for the Order to
search for his body anymore if Voldemort can’t use it. Malfoy also told me about the
Horcrux, but we need to act fast."
She sped up to walk alongside Hestia.
"Let me stay with the Knife. Let me help you find Moody and Nagini. I don’t have anywhere
else to go, and you know why I need to do this."
Hestia finally stopped, and grabbed Hermione's left wrist.
"Next time, finish the damn job."
She dropped the scarred hand and walked away. But before turning the corner, she growled
behind her.
"Find Zabini. He’ll take you to our new safe house."
***
"You decent, Hermione?"
"Yes, come in," she answered.
Charlie stepped into her room, and made his way across the clutter to sit on the bed while she
finished taming her curls in front of the mirror.
"You cut your hair," he commented. "When did you manage that?"
Hermione just shook her head, not wanting to tell him that she sliced it shorter right before
the mission to fit into her uniform.
"Don't worry about it. Thanks for waiting. Let's go."
Charlie did not press her on the subject, but navigated back through the book stacks into the
corridor beyond. He took her hand, and her scarred palm flared from the friction of his
touch.
As they walked toward the hospital wing, Charlie updated her on everything she missed
during her weeks with the Knife.
Their healers were overrun with injured fighters, and recruitment trickled to a standstill after
the Order's well-known defeat in Scotland. Voldemort publicly declared his sovereignty over
France, and Muggle refugees flooded to the few remaining resistance-controlled countries in
droves. The Necromancer continued to appear at the end of every battle, killing by the
hundreds. Yet the bodies he turned had begun to disappear, leading many to speculate that he
was amassing an army of Inferi. Bill and Fleur stayed in Madrid, and George took Charlie's
place when he was called back to Headquarters.
"Why were you called back?" she asked.
"I put in a request to transfer to the Infantry, and it just came through. They're the backbone
of the Order, and right now they need me more than the Scouts."
"Did you ask to move because of what happened to Ginny?"
Charlie gently squeezed her hand as he responded.
"That, and because scouting took me away too often. What's left of the Infantry is based here,
so this way I'll be around more, with you."
Hermione's chest tightened as he squeezed her hand again.
"I won't be here very much anymore," she confessed softly. "The Force trains at safe houses,
not Headquarters."
He stopped, then pulled her into a small alcove off the corridor, away from prying eyes. He
took her by both shoulders as he spoke urgently.
"I thought you left. How are you still one of them after falling out with the Council? You told
me that Kingsley practically threw you out of the room."
"He did. I'm not on the Council anymore. But Hestia and Kingsley don't exactly see eye-to-
eye. She is the one who let me join the Force, and she let me stay on."
Charlie's face broke at her words, and he bent forward to rest his head on her shoulder.
"I still don't understand why you have to do any of this, Hermione. Tell me why you can't just
stay here with me and fight the war off the field anymore. I need you to tell me what I'm
missing."
Hermione felt her own heart cry out at his desperate pleas. She never planned to tell Charlie
about her Vow. Never wanted to reveal the black stain on her soul. A deep part of her was
convinced that it would mean the end of whatever they had together if he knew the entire
truth.
But Charlie was right. She owed it to him. He deserved to know how little of herself there
was left to give.
"I'm the reason your brother died for nothing. I'm the reason Voldemort killed Harry. The
reason we failed at the Battle of the Valley. A year in Azkaban was far less than I deserved."
Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him, and continued.
"The Council voted for another strategy—one where we would try to destroy Voldemort's
Horcrux Nagini while he was distracted killing a duplicate of Harry. I was not supposed to be
at the battle, and neither was Harry. It was not worth the risk. But I convinced Kingsley to
change the plan at the eleventh hour, and we joined the fight."
She turned her left hand face up and removed the bandages, tracing a finger along the
stinging scars bisecting her palm.
"This mark means nothing compared to what I promised Kingsley that day. I made an
Unbreakable Vow to finish what Harry was chosen to do if he could not. To never betray the
Order. I vowed to always put destroying Voldemort above everything. Above my own
attachments, affections, and desires."
She watched a tear roll down Charlie's sun-spotted cheek as the implications of her final
promise sank into him. But she kept speaking, voice hollow.
"I was wrong. Harry died, and my life is still tied to that Vow. As long as this war goes on, I
will never put you first."
"And what if I don't care?" he asked, holding her so tightly against his strong chest that she
had to use everything within her not to melt into his heat. "I meant what I said before. I don't
need you to put me first."
"I care because you do deserve more," she whispered. She pulled herself slowly out of his
arms, heart breaking with every step away from him.
"You're acting like we're not fighting the same war, Hermione. I can help you, and we can go
back to how we were."
But even as Charlie asked her to stay, she saw the conflict rippling through his face; the pain
clouding his warm eyes. Could not fail to see how learning about her Vow tore him apart
even more than finding her poisoned mark.
And she hated herself for it. For what she did to him.
He was the flame she had no right to burn out; the goodness she had no right to keep. So she
drove in the final knife.
"Even if we win the war, there is no going back for me, Charlie. I've hurt people in ways you
could never understand. It goes beyond being a different person. I'm not the right person."
As she backed out of the alcove, she met his hazel eyes again.
"Thank you for teaching me to protect myself, and to fly."

From Wine Cellars to Prison Cells
Chapter Summary
As we go through this next arc and beyond, a reminder that Hermione is an unreliable
narrator for reasons that will eventually become clear. Her actions may seem illogical at
times, but this story asks you lean into that discomfort.
HeavenlyDew <3
This word "damnation" terrifies not him,
For he confounds hell in Elysium
***
Charlie did not follow Hermione to the hospital wing, so she sat at Ginny's bedside by
herself, entirely alone. She poured every regret into her unconscious friend. Whispered
everything left unsaid to his younger sister instead. Because she did not want to hurt him
more, and because Ginny was unreachable, locked far away in another type of torment.
"Are you okay, Hermione? Why are you crying?"
Her red-rimmed eyes registered Neville's kind, round face staring down at her in concern. He
pulled a handkerchief out of his light blue healer robes and passed it to her.
"Ginny will get better, I'm sure of it," he reassured. "But I'm glad you're visiting her. We were
all worried about you too."
Hermione felt even worse at Neville's assumption that her tears were only for Ginny. So she
wiped her face and stood to leave.
"Thanks, Neville," she muttered, and moved through the tight rows of cots toward the door.
He trailed her, still babbling. "After what happened to Seamus, everyone was afraid you
wouldn't come back either. But now that you're here, we want to have some sort of memorial
service. Luna is planning it, but we should wait until Ginny wakes up. Let me know if you
have any ideas."
Hermione stopped and closed her eyes. Trying to hold herself together.
Now Neville seemed to pick up on her silence, but spoke quietly again. "If… if you ever
want to talk, or need anything, just let me know."
"Please just tell me where to find a dark-haired woman hospitalized for a missing leg," she
asked through gritted teeth.
"Oh… " Neville mumbled, confused. "Yes, umm. Well, we're not exactly supposed to share
anything about her, actually."
Hermione nodded and crossed into the corridor.
"Wait!"
She turned and saw that Neville followed her out.
He lowered his voice as he whispered, "She's in the room directly below, one floor down. But
it's guarded. Only healers can go in and out."
"I appreciate it, Neville."
She followed the directions straight to a room below, and found a familiar face standing
outside.
"Goldfinch!"
Hermione stiffened as Pangolin rushed forward to hug her. The woman's spiky strawberry
blond hair tickled her neck, and Hermione moved away as she spoke.
"I came to see Spider. Please let me through."
"Of course," Pangolin agreed right away, and stepped out of the doorway to allow Hermione
to pass.
"I'd like to speak to you after as well, if that's alright?" Hermione asked.
"Same answer as before," smiled Pangolin, and added, "I'm glad to see you made it back."
Spider was looking away when Hermione entered the room. The bedcovers were drawn over
the woman's lower body.
She summoned a chair beside the bed and sat. Neither spoke for a long time. But eventually,
Spider's bright green eyes landed on Hermione's worn down face, and narrowed.
"What happened to you?" she asked in her usual deep voice.
"A lot," Hermione confessed. "But most recently a break up."
Spider considered. "I suppose we have that in common."
Hermione's heart sank as she responded, "I'm sorry about losing Wolf. I know he meant a lot
to you."
"He did, but he always thought far too highly of me, all things considered. And it cost him his
life."
"I killed Dolohov," Hermione replied unapologetically. "For what he did to Wolf, and to
you."
Spider nodded, and pulled back the sheet covering her, exposing her thigh—wrapped in tight
bandages and still severed above the knee.
"My father used dark magic to do it, so it cannot be healed. I cannot be fixed, and I did not
finish my pledge to the Captain."
Spider pulled the sheet over herself again, and sat up straight, emerald eyes swimming in
tears.
"You will finish it for me, Goldfinch."
"I will," Hermione promised. And finally understood the broken woman at last.
***
Pangolin was still standing guard when she emerged from the hospital room. The witch raised
her eyebrows expectantly as Hermione gently closed the door.
"Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?" asked Hermione, nonplussed.
"To finish what Spider started. The walls are really thin, so I heard everything," she laughed,
"And just so you know, Spider wasn't even halfway through the four-hundred Death Eater
lives she promised the Captain. You have your work cut out for you."
Hermione rolled her eyes and fought back a reluctant smile, as she replied, "I'm ready, but I'm
not sure where to go."
"Well that's the easy part." Pangolin grabbed her hand, shoved a slip of paper inside, and
pushed her down the hall. "Lynx left you a love letter. Read it, and go do the damn thing."
Hermione read the slanting writing on the note as she descended the passageways to the
Force's Floo access point.
Via Crocetta 149, Loc Ulignaio
San Gimaigno, Toscana Italia
Use the Portkey, not fire
She squinted at the last line, realizing that this safe house must not be accessible by the Floo
network. So she lit her wand as she entered the dark fire pit room, and searched for any
ordinary-looking object. Combed the dirt floor for anything that could possibly be the
Portkey.
Her hand brushed against something sharp, and she seized it as soon as she felt herself pulled
out of the room by an irresistible force. Like a hook behind her navel jerking her through a
howl of wind and swirling colors. Her fingers clamped onto the object as she was pulled
magnetically onward and then—
Her boots slid onto the solid ground even as the world continued to spin, but she kept her
balance. Her eyes adjusted to the golden light of sunset falling across vibrant green hills.
Rows of wooden trellises draped in vines ran up and down the rolling landscape, spreading
out as far as she could see.
As she marveled at the lush countryside, still slightly humid despite the lateness of the
season, a figure emerged from behind the nearest grapevines and called out.
"Welcome to Italy, Mudblood."
"Zabini."
Hermione glanced down to the bread knife still clutched in her hand—apparently a long
distance international Portkey. Then she looked back up toward Blaise, slinking toward her,
backlit by the declining sunlight. When he was close, her eyes widened at the wicked scar—
stretching from his right eye across his high cheekbone and down the ebony skin of his neck
—disappearing beneath the black cloth of his hood.
He noticed her staring and danced his gloved fingers across his smug face.
"Looks nice, right? Bet Malfoy didn't think he could make me even prettier."
"I doubt he cared whether you lived or died."
"Exactly why I always fucking hated that pasty ferret," Blaise reflected, taking the dull blade
from Hermione's hand and throwing it into a vine-covered wooden post.
"So now you're apparently a half-blood Gryffindor… who fancies Ginny Weasley… and
hates one of your Slytherin friends?"
"Like hell I said I like Weasley, and Draco Malfoy was never my friend."
Hermione rolled her eyes, unconvinced, but changed the subject.
"So where are we? I'm guessing this is another safe house?"
"As safe as anywhere is nowadays, which doesn't say much," he answered. "My family owns
the house and vineyard, but I don't come back often. Second Squad used it after we took the
country back from the Death Eaters."
"But they're dead. All of them."
"Right. Hestia preferred to have Fossa and I train at the other's safe house—spread us out.
Since that's not possible anymore, I'm back home."
As he spoke, Hermione's gaze wandered across the gradually descending terraces and grape
stems still studded with fruit. Watched the sun dip beyond the horizon, painting the hills a
deep olive green. It was as if the seasons did not exist in Blaise's vineyard. As if the Portkey
transported her to a place that winter did not dare touch.
When she continued to survey the vineyard and not respond, Blaise flashed his scar as he
positioned himself directly in front of her, blocking the view.
"Like what you see, Granger?" Blaise asked with a devilish grin.
"All I see is that losing so much blood didn't change your disgusting personality," she
grumbled. "And thanks a bunch by the way for dumping me in front of the hospital wing and
running off after I saved your life."
"I'm shit at healing. And excuse me if I didn't want Charlie Weasley to get the wrong idea if
he saw you unconscious in my arms, after all I… "
"Okay I get it," Hermione hissed, cutting Blaise off. "But now that I am here, we should work
on a plan to find the Horcrux as quickly as possible. We always thought that Voldemort keeps
Nagini with him at all times, but Malfoy told me that Voldemort changes her location. Right
now Moody is in Grenoble at one of the Lestrange's estates. Since we don't have any other
leads, I think France is also our best bet for finding the snake."
Blaise clicked his tongue as he tied his long braids back behind his head.
"Barely survive one mission and now you're giving me orders. What makes you think I don't
have better things to do? Like rebuilding my squad, for example. Plus, everyone knows that
France fell years ago. It isn't just a puppet regime—the French practically worship
Voldemort."
"You owe me, Blaise. I got you out of the Manor. That was our deal."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I need this," Hermione urged. "I won't hold you back."
Blaise's eyes flashed, but he just walked to the wooden trellis to unstick the kitchen knife.
Hermione snorted, incensed. "Fine. If you won't go with me, I'll go myself."
"I never said I'm not going."
Blaise pointed the bread knife past Hermione's shoulder, away from the vineyard, and she
turned around.
Intricately carved masonry lined a path through an orchard toward an earthy stone building.
A fine Italian villa flanked by rows of trees, branches heavy with lemons.
"Dimora di Zabini," he said proudly as they walked toward the charming country house.
"Vado a fare una siesta. I'll introduce you to the new member of our squad after. Pangolin
isn't due back here for a few days, so we can't make any moves until then anyways."
"I don't need a break. Introduce me now and we can start coming up with a plan."
"Your Italian sucks ass. I said I am going to take a siesta. I'm tired, so do whatever you want
in the meantime."
Without another word, he strode through the curved front door and disappeared up a spiral
staircase. Hermione dogged him through a colorful tiled hallway. He pointed her toward a
closed door, and disappeared into another without a backwards glance.
"Cranky old man needs a nap," she grumbled.
Blaise stuck his middle finger into the hall in response.
She backtracked to the closed door Blaise pointed her toward earlier. Just like the farmhouse,
this room was lined with a half dozen cots. Women's robes and spare black uniforms were
neatly folded on the beds, but the air in the room was stale. As if no one had entered for days.
Hermione thought of Fossa's fifteen squad members that failed to return from Little
Hangleton, and her veins turned icy.
Unable to sit still, Hermione withdrew from the bunkroom and climbed back down the stairs.
She was still wandering the grounds, looking for a place to practice her spellwork, when she
spotted a dark figure sprinting through the vineyard. She drew her lit wand, peering through
the dusky night.
As the figure approached, Hermione saw their athletic build and dark skin. Marveled at how
they tore between the rows with incredible speed. So fast that she thought of a chaser
speeding down the pitch, and shouted out in surprise.
"Angelina!"
"Hey there," replied Angelina Johnson with a small smile. "It's been a while, Hermione."
After exchanging a tight hug, Angelina summoned a blanket and the two witches sat between
the rows of vines.
"I thought your whole family left for America years ago," admitted Hermione, still stunned.
"My parents and younger sister did, but I stayed behind and joined the Knife. It was easier
that way—I don't exactly want to advertise what I'm doing. I'm sure you know why."
"I do."
As they talked, Hermione could not help but notice that Angelina's long hair was gone,
shaved almost to her scalp. And her once smooth, rich skin was riddled with pitted scars. But
the entire effect was striking. She looked attractively battle-hardened. Like a Valkyrie.
Hermione was not the only one staring.

"You're different," Angelina remarked, eying her.
"Yes well, I didn't get much sun or food for a while," she mumbled, turning away her
lightened brown eyes, embarrassed.
"No, you look beautiful. Strong." She reached out to grab one of Hermione's growing arm
muscles and squeezed. "Not just a bookworm anymore. And your face is stunning. So
mature. Those cheekbones!"
Both laughed at the normalcy of their conversation, but soon grew serious.
"I'm assuming you're the new member of the squad?" Hermione asked.
"Of the squad, yes. But I've worked with Blaise for a while. My code name is Impala."
"Mine is Goldfinch," Hermione offered, "After the songbirds I like to charm."
"I remember that weird habit of yours," Angelina replied with a smile. "Wish you would have
kept it out of the school dorms though. Sometimes I woke up with one stuck in my hair."
"I'll break the habit. But why did you join this squad?"
"I had my own unit in Scotland—but then… well you know. Our numbers dropped so low
across the entire Force that we started moving people around; consolidating squads. The
Captain told me about what we learned from the graveyard mission, and I said I want in."
Angelina leaned forward as she continued fiercely.
"The Necromancer is slaughtering us. The Death Eaters are picking away at us like vultures.
It's time we find the last Horcrux and end this war."
The next few days followed a similar pattern of rest and training. Despite Hermione's
eagerness to immediately Portkey to France, she was forced to admit that no one was ready.
Her stamina was still low after using Diabolica and Vulnera Sanentur back-to-back. Blaise
acted fully recovered from Draco's curse. But when he let his guard down between sparring
sessions, she caught the sheer exhaustion hidden behind the haughtiness. And even after
Pangolin arrived at the safe house, they had to devise a strategy that would not end with
losing half the squad.
Hermione began jogging with Angelina every evening, steadily improving her endurance.
They sprinted through the rows of grapevines and across the hillside. In between heavy
breaths, they talked about everything. At both Hogwarts and Headquarters, she saw Angelina
in her same social circles, but never before counted her as a close friend. She still could not
quite place her running partner. But there was mutual respect shared between members of the
Knife. An understanding of their collective choice to only exist in the shadows.
They had free rein of almost the entire property. All except a strange wooden building on the
other side of the vineyard. As they jogged past one night, leaving a wide distance between
their path and the long, rectangular structure, Angelina explained its purpose.
"Blaise told me it's his family's distillery. Muggles from the surrounding countryside still
work there, turning the grapes harvested from the fields into wine. He doesn't want them to
know we're here, so we should all keep away. Especially during the daytime."
But as they skirted past the shadowy building, Hermione swore that she saw a small light
flicker from behind a curtained window.
During another one of their night runs, Hermione posed a question gnawing at her mind.
"Are you a Death Eater?"
Angelina stopped in her tracks, resting both hands on her knees as she steadied her breath.
"No, I'm not. Why?"
"The Knife seems to attract ex-Death Eaters or double agents."
"It's useful to have a Dark Mark on your squad—they have information on Voldemort and
know when he sends his followers," Angelina explained, jogging in place.
"Do you trust Blaise?"
The woman's dark eyes narrowed at Hermione's question. "You don't trust him?"
"I do." Hermione insisted, but paused before she continued. "It's just that he vanishes for days
at a time. Then he disappeared during our graveyard mission and the Necromancer showed
up to kill Fossa's…"
"What?" Angelina interrupted, eyes wide. "You think Blaise is the Necromancer?"
"No. Not really. But I do think that he knows something."
"Listen, Hermione. I'm sorry, but before I joined Blaise's squad, the Captain filled me in
about your… history with Draco Malfoy. I'm sure you have your reasons, but convincing
yourself that Malfoy is not the Necromancer—is not a mass murderer—doesn't help anyone,
especially yourself."
"Did Hestia also tell you that the Necromancer executed Malfoy's entire family?" Hermione
snapped back, suddenly angry. "Did she explain why Malfoy would kill the only people he
loved? I'm guessing she conveniently forgot those little details."
Angelina sighed. As she turned to resume running up the terraced slope, she yelled back over
her shoulder.
"Drop it! Just focus on our mission and let the Council figure out the rest."
But Hermione did not listen.
***
That night, she stole out of the bunk room and down the stairs to one of the quiet wine cellars
built into the ground beneath the villa. She sat on the cool earth floor, leaned against the
curved side of an overturned barrel, and steadied her breathing.
Then she entered the prison within her head.
There was no Italy, and there was no Order. There was only the mental labyrinth of her own
design. She walked through the maze of hidden passageways, and staircases that led to
nowhere. Past the cloaked Dementors still plaguing her soul. Slid between the iron bars of
her cage, and sat with her back against the icy Azkaban wall.
She shivered from the imaginary, yet incredibly tangible, cold that shot through her spine.
After she stilled her shaking, she called out to him.
"One question a day, Malfoy. That's the deal."
Nothing.
She closed her eyes and pressed her ear to the stone of their shared cell wall as she shouted
again.
"I even promise to tell the truth!"
Silence.
She focused, and, for the first time, tried to speak as he did. Call out using not her mouth, but
instead the secret voice that came from deep within her soul.
"You can ask your question first, Draco."
And then she saw him, waiting in her mind's eye.
Standing in the dark corridor beyond her solitary cell. This time wearing his immaculate
black suit, light hair slicked back. Looking both perfectly out of place, and exactly where he
was meant to be.
His silver eyes found her. Saw her watching him from behind a row of iron bars.
He stepped forward and used his bare hands to wrench apart the metal rods separating them,
bending them as easily as he had when he unleashed her darkest memories at Malfoy Manor.
Then he strode into her sunless room, sat on the slats of her metal prison bed, and crossed his
arms before him.
He surveyed her warily but did not speak. Waiting.
She lifted her face off the stone wall to look up at him, stunned.
"You came?"
"I never left. You did."
"But I tried before, and you always refused to speak to me. Not unless we were physically
together."
"Maybe you just aren't very good at listening, Granger," he said with a disparaging smile.
"How did you learn this kind of Legilimency?"
Draco uncrossed his arms and moved toward the base of the bed. Leaning over Hermione—
still seated on the damp floor next to his leather shoes.
"I know that is not the question you came here to ask."
Hermione shivered again, and all at once the vision began to soften and dissolve. She
concentrated, willing herself to return to the triangular prison in her mind, and Draco's
angular features came back into clearer focus.
"You're right, but I said that you can ask your question first, so go ahead," she offered, rising
to her feet before him.
He stood in response and closed the distance between them in one firm stride. Then he
reached out and took a lock of her hair between the porcelain skin of his fingers—just as he
did at the Manor—winding the curl as he spoke.
"Where is your body right now?"
She swore that she could sense his touch. The gentle pull of his hands against the hair on her
scalp. His icy breath on her temple. It all felt so real.
"With the Order."
"Half-truths are as false as lies," he scolded, twisting the strand more tightly between his
fingers. "I thought we established that the last time we met, right before you slipped away
from me."
She hesitated, then admitted, "I'm in Italy."
"Good girl," he purred, releasing her curl. "Your turn."
"Have you ever hurt someone you cared about?"
Draco stepped even closer and Hermione froze. He ran the smooth back of his hand across
her cheek, along her jaw, and down her neck.
She felt him pause, then wrap his cold fingers softly around her throat, caressing her skin like
a coiling snake.
"Yes, Granger. Many times."

She lifted a trembling hand and ran her thumb across his hand, still hooked around her neck,
as she whispered.
"So have I."
Draco opened his mouth to speak, but another, shrill voice cut through the air.
"Goldfinch? Are you down there?"
Hermione heard the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs leading up to the villa.
Her vision blurred as the prison cell within her mind began to shake apart and collapse. She
felt Draco's fingers loosen as his face fragmented in front of her.
But before his gray eyes faded into the shadows of the dark wine cellar, she called out to him
again.
"I'll come back tomorrow."

In the Middle
Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute,
And try the uttermost magic can perform.
***
Suddenly Hermione was alone again, grasping at Harry's receding back but unable to stand
and follow. Everything felt numb from the waist down as the life flowed from her like rushing
water. The ground was soft with blood—her blood. Drenched in it.
She rested her cheek atop his chest, breathing shallowly. Her tears spilled onto his shredded
shirt, soaking into the dried blood on the fabric, into his skin. Maybe she had loved him first,
and maybe she should have known that sooner.
"Kill them."
Upon the necromantic order, Inferi nearest any surviving Order members tore into them
without mercy.
Ripping and biting.
Mangling.
A fresh wave of screams rolled through the valley.
Hermione could hear the Death Eater's leaden footsteps approaching, but could not muster
the strength to look, let alone escape.
Her lids had become unbelievably heavy, sluggish, weighted and dark. The scarlet, smoky air
was unbearably bright, and her lungs were burning. It became impossible to breathe, so she
stopped trying.
Her eyes fell shut.
nothingness. She could see them both waiting for her beyond that tattered veil. She smiled
one last time.
His voice spoke again.

More Inferi rose as freshly slaughtered Order members revived to join the ranks of their own
butchers.
And at their center, the Death Eater resumed walking.
Then he was there. Towering over her and blocking out the crimson hue of the moon. Metallic
skull mask flickering in the light of dying fires.
Head tilted curiously to the side.
Red blindfold watching her.
"Hello, Mudblood."
***
Hermione curled into herself as the nightmare shot streaks of ice and white-hot pain through
her body. She shook her head, trying to forget the sight of Harry's emerald green eyes losing
all color. The feeling of Ron's stiff chest against her cheek. The image of the Necromancer
taking her to Azkaban—a cage where she did not find redemption, but did find someone
else.
"Goldfinch?"
The sun hit Hermione's skin and she opened her eyes to see Pangolin's round face lying on
the cot next to hers.
"What's wrong?" the witch whispered, face unusually serious. "You've been acting strange
ever since I dug you out of the wine cellar last week."
Hermione just shook her head and rolled on her other side to face the wall.
Pangolin sat up, blue eyes wide as she spoke urgently. "I used to have panic attacks too.
Especially when I first joined. Doing what we do is a lot to process, so I would find a quiet
place alone and break down where nobody could see me. Lynx pulled me out of it, but it took
time."
"Thanks, but I'm fine."
"If you sit alone in a basement every night, you are clearly not fine. Don't isolate yourself like
I did. It doesn't have to be me, but you should find someone to go to if you have dark
thoughts."
Hermione did not answer as she stared at the wall. Did not even bother to clear her mind or
relock her innermost cell. Instead, she distracted herself by thinking of her next question;
anticipating his next answer.
And wondering if she could have gone to Draco all along.

***
Angelina had the foresight to train with former St. Mungo's healers before joining the Knife,
and Blaise fully recovered after a week of her skilled treatments. Time passed quickly as they
followed a demanding schedule of combat practice, strategy briefings, and healing lessons—a
new addition ordered by Blaise and led by Angelina.
During one of her sessions with Hermione and Pangolin, Angelina broached the topic of their
squad leader's injury.
"I saw Lynx's scars—only the worst kinds of dark magic can cause that much damage. I don't
understand how he survived."
"Goldfinch healed him," Pangolin chimed in, carrying a large cauldron and setting it on the
table before Hermione. "Turns out she's as brilliant at healing as fighting."
Angelina turned to Hermione. "How did you heal him?"
Hermione chose not to respond as she measured out ingredients for a batch of Wiggenweld
potion.
So Angelina pushed.
"According to the Captain, you admitted that Malfoy took both of you that day. I assume
Malfoy tried to kill Lynx, and forced you to drain your own life trying to treat him. Is that
what happened?"
"Malfoy said he took us because we were in the way," Hermione said guardedly. "And he
didn't force me to do anything. I don't even think he knew how seriously he hurt Lynx. After
all, Harry used the same curse on him at Hogwarts, and he survived because of Professor
Snape."
Angelina raised her dark eyebrows, skeptical. "Then you used a potion to heal Lynx?"
"No. Actually, I found an incantation in Malfoy's library. Grindelwald created it as part of a

ritual to heal a reanimated creature."
"What? Grindelwald healed the dead?"
"That's what the book said."
Angelina's eyes widened, and she vanished Hermione's cauldron with a flick of her wand.
With another flick, a dismembered cadaver appeared on the steel table in its place. Deep
dissection wounds, courtesy of Pangolin, marred the stiff torso.
"Use the spell now," Angelina demanded, voice hard.
Hermione considered refusing, but she was also curious about Vulnera Sanentur. So she tried
to recall the strange, song-like words, and moved her cedar wand above the flesh.
As before, sweet, soothing notes fell onto the battered torso like a healing tonic. The third
time that she repeated the song, organs regrew beneath the incisions, arms and legs began to
emerge from the amputation wounds, and a wrinkled, hairless head sprouted from the severed
neck. Finally, an invisible sewing needle stitched the corpse's gray skin back together, leaving
it smooth.
To the naked eye, the body appeared undamaged, whole.
Yet there was no life within its flesh.
Hermione sank to her knees in exhaustion, and Pangolin rushed over to steady her.
Something hit the floor beside them, and she looked down to see Angelina's wand rolling
away.
"I've never seen a spell do that before," the dark-eyed witch whispered, arms dangling limply
at her sides in shock.
"It doesn't matter," Hermione said weakly. "It's still dead, and not even moving. The book
was right. This is different from necromancy. I healed the corpse, but I did not bring it back
to life."
"It makes sense that Malfoy would have a book on necromancy in his house."
"I just told you, it's not necromancy."
"HE is the Necromancer. Nothing else makes sense," Angelina repeated as Pangolin lifted
Hermione off the ground and tried to force a Pepper-up Potion into her hand.
"There are a million other explanations," protested Hermione, pushing the vial away. "I'm
sure he was trying to use the spell to heal Inferi that the Necromancer already turned, like his
parents."
"And I'm sure that Malfoy killed his parents because they were in his way. Just like you and
the rest of the Order are every single day."
"Malfoy was never like that, at Little Hangleton, or before. You were there, Impala—five
years ago at the swamp—the safe house raid where Hagrid died. Malfoy helped me that
night. He is the Death Eater who pulled me from the Grindylows and killed Greyback. He
saved me, and he saved Dennis."
Now Angelina shook with gut-wrenching laughter.
"Dennis Creevey? You think Malfoy saved Dennis? Bullshit. You haven't been on the front
lines for years. Draco Malfoy—the Necromancer—the Dark Lord's fucking Mouth—and his
Death Eater friends didn't just butcher the Order at Stirling. No, they genocided an entire
Muggle village in cold blood. The elderly. Children. It didn't matter. And do you know why?
Because they were in the way."
"That's enough. Just leave her alone, Impala," begged Pangolin.

But Angelina shoved past her to meet Hermione's eyes.
"I don't care what you think happened five years ago, because I know what happened three
weeks ago. Dennis died in Scotland, Goldfinch. I saw your darling war criminal MURDER
that same kid, then revive him to slaughter us."
"You don't know that!"
"WHY ARE YOU STILL DEFENDING MALFOY?"
"Because," spat Hermione, eyes burning, "I know how it feels to lose everything and have the
world call you the villain!"
Angelina's face held nothing but disdain as she snarled, "I thought you were smart. The
brightest witch of our age. But all I see is a damn fool."
***
After their fight, Hermione did not join any more of Angelina's healing lessons or nighttime
runs. However, she continued with her other training, regaining her strength, and then some.
Practicing with all three squad mates amidst the grape-covered trellises of the vineyard.
And every single night, once she was sure that the others were asleep, Hermione disillusioned
herself and found a quiet place around the villa to talk to him.
Pangolin was not the only one who noticed Hermione's strange new habit—Angelina was
convinced that she had gone mad. Blaise, however, did not seem to care.
Hermione never explained herself, and barely tried to conceal where she went. They all kept
their secrets after all—she still did not know Pangolin's real name or what Blaise hid beneath
his arrogant mask.
Draco was her secret.
No one heard her speak with him since she never spoke out loud; never used her voice. No
one saw him since, as far as anyone knew, he existed only in her head.
If this was madness, then she would readily give up her sanity to not lose him again.
There was only one problem.
He still drove her batshit crazy.
When she arrived that night, Draco was already in the cell. Back toward her. Staring out the
small barred window to the rough ocean beyond.
Draco obviously knew that she was there, but refused to turn around. So she leaned against
the opposite wall, waited, and watched. Noticing for the first time that their years apart
changed his frame as much as his face.
He was always tall. But now he towered over her. While his build was still lean, she could
see the toned muscles in his back and arms through his white evening shirt. And even in the
dim light, she could tell that his once slim shoulders grew wider since their school days.
Eventually, he spoke—interrupting her thoughts even as she continued to watch him, and he
continued to watch the waves.
"Azkaban was never impossible to leave. The girl I knew at Hogwarts would have never
given up so easily. So why didn't you ever try to escape?"
"Is that your question for today, or am I allowed to lie?" she retorted, choosing to give him a
hard time in hopes of breaking through his brooding and getting him to turn around.
"That would be a pointless thing to lie about now. And I can always tell when you're lying,"
he replied coldly.
"And I know when you're lying as well."
"I never lied to you, Granger."
Hermione snorted, and shot back, "Today, you answer my question first."
He did not face her or respond, but tilted his blond head, listening.
"Why did you use your middle name? What was the point of making me believe that you were
your father?"
He sniffed dismissively, so she continued.
"Until Ginny brought me back to the Order, I believed you were Lucius. I thought you were in
the cell next to mine. And you planned it that way. You even changed the way you spoke and
your voice. You always chose your words so carefully and you still do. Only ever saying just
barely enough to qualify as the truth. So go ahead and tell yourself that you never lie, Malfoy,
but that does not make the way you treated me any kinder—at Hogwarts or in Azkaban.
Because from where I'm standing, misleading me for almost a year was incredibly cruel."
When he still refused to respond, she walked next to him to peer out through the window.
Curious about what enraptured his attention. But there was nothing beyond the bars except
the churning water. So instead she glared at the hard angles of his face, until he spoke at last.
"I never said I was kind. I only said I never lied, and I didn't. You just don't listen, Jean
Granger."
"How do you know my middle name?" she asked, stepping back.
He looked down at her, eyes the same color as the stormy sea. No hint of blue visible in the
shadowy cell. A thin smile pulled at his lips.
"Because you fucking told me. Right before I asked if you wanted to know my middle name.
It's not my fault that you were too stupid to figure it out."
She guffawed. Draco's looks may have changed, but he was as infuriating as ever. He always
knew exactly how to make her angry.
"So it was all a game to you, Malfoy?"
"Maybe it still is."
Hermione was suddenly overcome with the irresistible urge to slap the spiteful smile off
Draco's face.
Again.
But she bit back her anger and clenched her fist, shoving past him to leave the cell.
He grabbed her by both shoulders and spun her around.
"You don't go until you answer my question."
"Or what?" she hissed. "We're over a thousand miles apart. You can't keep me here."
"Answer me. You were in Azkaban for a year. Even my aunt and uncle escaped. Why didn't
you at least try to get out?"
"I did get out. The Order found me and… "
"That is not the same."
She fought his hands, but he did not release his tight grip.
"I did try to leave. For weeks I tried to escape. But every time Lucius… every time YOU
spoke to me, you brought me back."
His pale face tensed as he responded.
"I never brought you back."
"Figure it out yourself, idiot."
She stomped on his foot and he let her go, cursing at her back as she fled the cell.
***
Before going to him the next night, Hermione worked off her temper by flying. She lost track
of time speeding between the rows of grapevines and over the rolling hills, and arrived far
later than normal. So late that she found Draco already asleep on the bare prison bed.
She edged over and sat on the floor beside him, leaning against the metal frame. Savoring the
cool iron after hours of heated exertion. Studying him.
His face looked so much younger like this. His sharp features, more graceful. When he slept,
she could not see the blood vessels lacing his eyes; the hard lines pulling at the edges of his
mouth.
His black nightshirt was crinkled from the metal slats. Sleek hair, mussed. He had yet to wear
the same clothes twice. When she looked down at herself and saw crimson riding leathers,
she realized that they must appear in the same clothing as their physical bodies.
Meanwhile, everything that she felt in the cell echoed in her real body. The sound of the
crashing waves; the dampness of the stone walls; Draco's cold touch. She did not know how
he could fall asleep within her mind. Could not rationalize how she felt his hands on her
throat and shoulders. Failed to understand how this type of Legilimency worked at all. And,
much to her annoyance, Draco still refused to explain anything.
So she watched him sleep, and considered invading his mind.
Draco's eyes snapped open, as if reading her thoughts.
"Good morning, Granger."
She was struck with a sudden sense of deja vu.
"I asked you once why you stopped calling me Mudblood," but you never answered. Tell me
now," she demanded.
He continued to laze on the bed, but draped a hand over the side. She felt his long fingers
brush against the leather on her arm. She flinched at the contact.
"Do you want me to call you Mudblood again?" he asked with a yawn.
"Blaise does. Probably more than he uses my actual name," goaded Hermione.
"Now you're comparing me to Zabini? In case you missed it, just now I was sleeping on your
bed, not passed out bleeding all over the floor."
As Draco taunted, he ran a smooth fingernail along the top of her exposed spine, slowly
tracing the curvature of her bone.
She shivered and twisted away.
"And why are you always touching me?"
"Because I can," he sneered. "Or can't I? Would your Weasel get suspicious? If the older one
is as much of an idiot as his younger brother, I don't think he'll notice. Or maybe you're
worried about Blaise Pretty-Boy Zabini?"
Hermione did not even bother to ask how Draco knew about Charlie as she snapped, "I'm not
worried about anyone at the moment, so back off."
"You're with Zabini in Italy right now, aren't you? Getting ready for your next suicide mission
to kill me and save the Order?"
She turned her head over her shoulder to glare daggers at him.
"You may not be my enemy, Malfoy. But you are not my ally either. I won't tell you that, so ask
me something else."
He yawned again, stretching both arms over his head, then sat up on the bedframe and leaned
over her. His pale face split in an evil grin.
"Just so I'm clear—you want me to call you Mudblood again, like you hate?"
He ran a hand through his blond hair, tangling it even more, as he continued.
"And you don't want me to touch you anymore, since you hate me?"
She held his gaze. "I told you what I wanted all along. I asked you to come back with me.
You're the one who said you would never join the Order."
Now Draco tipped his face over hers, so close that several strands of his blond hair fell before
her eyes.
Hovering less than an inch away. Sharing the same salty air.
Just barely… not touching her.
Before she pulled away, she felt his exhaled words tickle her nose.
"Maybe you just never asked the right question, Hermione."

A New Bargain
Chapter Notes
Having thee ever to attend on me,
To give me whatsoever I shall ask,
To tell me whatsoever I demand,
***
"I always mark the non-dominant hand, but that's not an option for you anymore, now is it?"
"No, though my old mark still stings as much as it did when it was filled with poison."
"What a concept: blood magic meant to kill you hurts."
Blaise held Hermione's right palm as they stood in the middle of the vineyard, hidden
amongst the trellises and grapevines—away from Pangolin and Angelina, who still did not
know that Hermione needed a new poisoned scar.
"Just do it," she sighed, using the sleeve of her other arm to wipe a bead of sweat from her
brow—warm from the unnaturally balmy December day. "I need my wand hand to heal in
time for the mission tomorrow."
Blaise's eyes darkened as he withdrew his knife and ivory wand, and exposed the smooth skin
of her palm.
"Why do you carry two wands?" she asked, remembering the pure black wand that Blaise
used as soon as the Dark Mark appeared.
He dragged the blade across the length of her palm, slicing a deep line from her index finger
to her wrist. The skin on his first cut was still curling back on itself as he carved a second
slice from the base of her pinky to her thumb, completing the scarlet X.
"Wands are as recognizable as faces. You need two when you're playing both sides."
"Will I ever see your second face?"
"You're looking at it right now."
Then, just as in the shed, Blaise dipped the tip of his white wand into the blood gathering at
the center of her palm. A flood of acid shot into her cursed wound.
"Which wand is your true match?" gasped Hermione.

She clenched her teeth as the toxin dispersed agonizing pain beneath her skin. Her hand
spasmed within his tight hold.
"Depends on the day."
Blaise ran his blood-stained wand over her right palm, and the fresh incision aged into a
puckered, red scar. Twin to the now useless cross bisecting her other hand.
She tried to pull away, but Blaise did not release her wrist. Gripping harder as he spoke.
"From now on, Goldfinch, spend your energy thinking more about the mission and less about
me. You're running out of hands, and we're running out of people. No more fuck ups."
"Little Hangleton was doomed from the start. Someone clearly planted Moody's trace in the
graveyard, and we all fell for it. Harry was never there at all—there was no one to find. At
least we left with information from Malfoy."
Blaise leaned forward. "Grenoble is probably just one more of the Dark Lord's lovely traps.
So this time, remember what to do if your favorite Death Eater shows up."
"Don't say that."
"An entire squad is dead, or worse. And you only made it back because Malfoy took you
away to play house."
"He saved you too."
"And I'm SO damn grateful for that," Blaise mocked. The long scar running across his face
contorted as he spoke. "Maybe if he came and swept us all away earlier, we could have been
ripped to shreds together. I'm sure Wolf and Spider would have loved bleeding out in each
other's arms."
Blaise squeezed her hand again, making her jerk from the pain, then finally released.
"I'm leaving Italy. I'll be back in time for our Christmas present to the Lestranges."
As he turned to leave, he flicked something shiny toward her. Hermione caught it in her
stinging palm, and looked up, confused.
"I have the other," Blaise explained, waving an identical coin behind his receding back.
"Signal twice if anything fun happens while I'm gone."
As soon as Hermione heard the crack of disapparition, she ran across the trellises toward the
long building at the opposite end of the vineyard. Before attempting to enter, she changed out
of her black uniform and into a beige linen blouse and a flowing skirt, hoping to blend in
with the locals working within the distillery.
But the structure looked and sounded abandoned, even in the bright daylight.
She skirted around the exterior. Every heavy door was secured; every window, shut and
curtained. Nothing she tried opened the locks or loosened the hinges. And the longer she
stayed near the building, the more she was overwhelmed by a feeling that she had somewhere
else to be—an impulse to leave and never return—a pressure to forget any misgivings about
Blaise, and stand down.
Eventually, she gave in and returned to the villa.
The sun was just setting when she decided that she could not wait, and descended into the
wine cellar to see Draco.
The ever-present storm outside her cell raged more furiously than ever before, slamming
hurricane-force winds into the outer wall. Rain flew in through the small window, bathing the
stone floor. Soaking her thin linen clothing in seconds.
The entire room shook as Hermione searched for Draco amidst the intruding rainstorm.
Then she saw him. Standing in his Death Eater robes in the passageway beyond the bars, as
far from the sleet and turmoil as possible. White-blond hair dripping from the rain. No mask.
Gaze, glacial.
This time she went to him, easily sliding out of her cell between the slippery iron rungs.
"WHY IS THE STORM SO STRONG TONIGHT?" she shouted, wringing water out of her
hair onto the wet ground.
"This is your mind, Granger. Ask yourself that question."
She blinked, then closed her eyes and focused.
Gradually, the howling winds eased and the ground steadied.
"Care to explain your dramatic entrance?" Draco demanded, voice flat as he vanished the
water soaking his black robes with a swipe of his leather gloved hand.
Hermione walked to stand before him, almost losing her balance on the slick floor.
"I won't ask you to join the Order again, but I need your help."
"So now we move from questions to requests… " His cold eyes glinted as he considered.
"What makes you think I would ever help you?"
"Don't act like this would be the first time."
Draco picked an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder as he spoke in a lazy drawl.
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"You got me out of Hangleton when Blaise and I were ambushed. Disapparated me away
from almost a hundred Death Eaters and took me to the Manor," Hermione shot back.
"You are confusing yourself again, Granger. Like I said before, Weasel and Potty are dead,
and you're mad if you think I'm some kind of shitty replacement. I took you away from the
Order when I brought you to the Manor. And maybe I never intended to let you leave."
"And like I said before. You don't frighten me, so stop trying. But if you won't help me, then
just say so, Malfoy."
Draco's eyes glinted. "I haven't quite made up my mind yet. But if I do decide to waste my
time doing something for you, then you have to do something I want in return."
"I can't promise that. You saw my Unbreakable Vow."
Draco leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed.
"Then I swear to never make you do anything that breaks your Vow... if you swear to do
anything I ask without question."
"Why is everything a bargain for you Slytherins?" she hissed. "Quid pro quo. Eye for an eye.
You're always coming up with rules and scheming, and I'm tired of it."
"You came to me begging for help, Granger. I don't give anything freely. If you don't like it,
then go."
Fuming, Hermione turned to leave. Opened her physical eyes, and saw Draco crumble before
her. But as the earthy cellar walls began to materialize in his place, she hesitated. Torn.
Just like the Battle of the Valley, this mission was on her shoulders. She could not risk others
recklessly again. Not without an edge. Not without securing her own hidden weapon.
"I'll do it," she cried out, even before Draco's pale face fully formed in front of hers again.
"But you give me what I want first. I won't give you anything until then."
A vicious smile curled his lips.
"Ladies first it is."
He leaned forward.
"So what do you want from me, Granger?"
"From eleven until midnight tomorrow, keep Voldemort and as many Death Eaters as you can
away from the Lestrange Château."
"No."
Hermione stepped back, eyes wide.
"But you promised to help me."
Draco pushed himself off the wall, standing at full height.

"Moody will not be there by tomorrow, and I never agreed to help anyone but you."
"But you said… "
"I will go with you tonight. Just you. Leave the others."
She closed her eyes, calculating. "Is Nagini… is Voldemort's snake there as well?"
"Not anymore."
"Then where is she?"
"One question a day, Granger. Remember?"
Now Hermione weighed his offer; reconsidered the risks. She refused to make the same
mistake twice. Voldemort lived and the war continued because she sent Harry to his death for
only a slim chance at killing Nagini. It was even more reckless to risk her entire squad with
no chance of finding that same Horcrux. Especially in a country known as Voldemort's
greatest foreign stronghold.
Yet she also refused to abandon Moody. Not just because of her guilt, but because he was a
stalwart of the Council. The Order was dying, and they needed him now more than ever.
There was little she would not do if, this time, she could deliver Moody without casualties.
So when Hermione spoke, her voice was as firm as her resolve.
"After we rescue Moody, I promise to give you anything you want in return. Just save him."
"It's a deal."
Draco's gray eyes flashed as he continued. "But we only stand a chance at finding Moody if
we do it my way. If I say jump, you jump. If I say run, you fucking run."
"Fine."
The intricate silver threading on his black tunic and arms glinted as he stepped toward her.
She froze, but did not draw back, as Draco slowly raised his hands toward her temples and
skated gloved fingers along her scalp.
"Then meet me in the woods outside the Lestrange estate in an hour. Bring no one," he
ordered.
All at once, he seized her windswept curls between both leathery fists, wrenching her by the
hair and forcing her head against the brick wall.
"One more thing," whispered Draco.
With a cruel, painstaking slowness, he crushed his body against hers. Inch by inch. Stealing
the breath straight from her lungs with every forward push.
She was still gasping for relief from the unbelievable pressure, when his lips caressed her
neck.
"When I touch you tonight, try not to show how much you hate me."
***
As Hermione climbed the steps leading out of the wine cellar, she could not ignore how
rapidly her heart pounded or her unease about this new, desperate bargain with the man inside
her head. So instead she concentrated on figuring out how to get to France unnoticed.
Fortunately, Angelina was still on her evening jog for at least another hour. And Hermione
did not run into Pangolin as she made her way across the villa to the women's bunkroom. Of
course they would notice her absence eventually, but if everything went as planned, she
would be back with Moody before Blaise returned.
She locked the door after her, and stripped out of the Muggle outfit. As she slid her black
bodysuit over her skin, her brain ran to weapons. She originally planned to bring even more
to Grenoble than her last mission—had practiced with new tools for weeks for that very
reason. But she suspected that whatever Draco had in store for her tonight required a sharper
mind than blade.
So instead, she only holtered a single short knife on her right thigh and her cedar wand on her
left. With equal parts doubt and guilt, she slid Blaise's gold signal coin into the bottom of her
knife holster. Then, she tucked her braided hair into the black hood, refreshed her
disillusionment charm, and sidled back into the hallway beyond.
She made a beeline straight for Blaise's vacant bedroom. Once inside, she locked the door,
strode into his massive walk-in closet, and began flinging open drawers, searching.
From their strategy meetings, Hermione knew that Blaise had the long-distance Portkeys the
squad would use to travel to and from France. When she could not find anything, she pulled
on her gloves and raised her wand.
"Accio Portkeys."
Two tiny brown objects flew toward her, and she was careful to catch them only with her
outstretched gloved hand. She looked at her palm and recognized a pair of wine corks,
turning them over to find that one read "Italian Made," while the other "French Made."
She carefully slipped the former into the bottom of her empty wand holster, and removed her
glove to touch the other to her bare skin.
At once, an invisible hook ripped Hermione from the closet, through the villa walls, and past
the hilled terraces of grapevines beyond. Her eyes struggled to catalog the rapidly changing
landscapes as she was hauled through the lush countrysides, jumbled towns, and flashing
cities. She fought against the swirling winds to press her free hand against the unused Portkey
and coin trying to free themselves from her holsters.
But she kept her balance as the ground beneath her combat boots slid into place and stilled.
As soon as the world steadied, she raised her wand to the now-magicless cork in her open
palm, and set it ablaze. She used the flames to illuminate her new surroundings, registering a
thick copse of trees covered in ivy. No one in sight. So she called out to him noiselessly.
"I'm here."
As soon as the words shot through her mind, Draco emerged from the shadows of the dark
forest before her. Blond hair perfectly combed back. Stormy eyes blazing.
Hermione's face twisted in confusion as her gaze swept over his body.
He was outfitted in a dazzling five-piece suit. His chest was swathed in a crisp, white dress
shirt with gold buttons underneath a black silk cumberbund, velvet jacket, and lapel. Slim,
fitted trousers covered his long legs, tapering to pointed snakeskin shoes. As he strode to her,
he adjusted a glossy bow tie around his neck.
The entire dark ensemble looked similar to a Muggle tuxedo except that the hem of his suit
jacket was cut lower than expected, more like wizard dress robes. She took a second look,
and noticed the velvet fabric of a fine black overcloak draped across one arm.
"What the hell are you wearing?" she asked, glancing between her skintight combat uniform
and his elaborate evening attire. "We're going to war, not the opera."
"Not quite right, Granger."
He offered Hermione his hand.
She wavered, heart pounding. Then, she extinguished the flame in her open palm and reached
out to take it.
Draco's hand felt as cold and real here as it did within her cell. Every hard bone and soft
curve familiar after weeks of tracing the skin on her cheek, neck, and back.
Then his long fingers laced with hers, and she was pulled into strong arms as he pivoted them
in place.
Crushing darkness pressed against them from all sides. Draco held her even closer as tight
bands strapped against her chest, and she struggled to take in air. Swirling shadows distorted
the edges of vision, but his gray eyes locked onto hers as he pulled them through the dark
vacuum of apparition.
Only seconds later, the pressure released and they tumbled onto a thick carpet. Draco's arm
cradled her neck as her eyes adjusted to soft lights. She turned her head and registered the
beautiful, but impersonal, decor of an upscale… hotel room.
She shot up and backed away, extracting her wand and knife in one fluid motion. Pointing
them both at Draco, smirking up at her from where he still lay on the rug.
Blaise and Angelina were right. Going to him was a mistake.

"Take me to Moody NOW!" she cried.
He was still smiling cruelly as he slowly jerked his head back toward the low profile of a bed
behind him. She followed the movement and saw a swath of dark cloth draped across the end
of the white sheets.
"You agreed to do this my way, Granger."
"No! Apparate us back to the woods right now. I should have known better than to think you
would help me. Of course you wouldn't actually change. This was a mistake. "
Draco's smirk disappeared and he stood. The air grew heavy, and even the lights seemed to
flicker and dim as his mood shifted.
"Put on the damn clothes, or I'll put them on for you."
Before she even blinked, he was in front of her. Ripping the weapons from her hands,
yanking her toward a marble ensuite bathroom, and throwing the black fabric in behind.
Hermione was still protesting as he slammed the door in her face.
Immediately after confirming that the handle was locked, she pulled the wine cork from her
thigh holster. She was just about to touch the Portkey to her skin, when she took another look
at the bathroom floor and reached down to pick up the black fabric instead.
A closer look revealed that it was not the lacy négligée she expected, but instead a sumptuous
silk evening gown. Finer than anything she owned during or before the war. As she moved
the cloth through her hands, she noted that the buttery velvet accenting the hem and draping
sleeves perfectly complemented Draco's velvet lapel.
A belated sort of realization dawned on her, and she began to remove her bodysuit and
weapon holsters. She pulled the smooth fabric over her body, marveling at the sensation.
When she spun around and found a train stretching the entire width of the bathroom, she had
no idea how she mistook the black dress robes for anything as skimpy as lingerie. But then
she moved to look at herself in the glittering floor length mirror next to the vanity, and
changed her mind again.
The gown was cut both indecently low and high. A plunging V-shaped neckline stopped right
above her navel, barely covering her breasts. A long slit ran up almost the entirety of her right
leg, exposing her thigh.
If the periwinkle Yule Ball gown turned her into a grown woman, this velvet work of art
transformed her into a dark goddess.
Hermione was still sputtering at her scandalous reflection when she heard his voice float in
from the open ensuite door.
She turned to see Draco eying her loftily from where he leaned against the doorframe.
"If you walked into the Château wearing anything less than that, they would have executed or
thrown you back in Azkaban in a heartbeat."
He stepped into the room and handed her a pair of opera gloves. "And this time, I might not
be so willing to speak with you."
"I don't understand why I can't just conceal myself and find Moody unnoticed."
Draco bent one leg and knelt before her—reaching out and guiding her scarred ankle into a
black stiletto.
"You are concealing yourself," he said scornfully.
"You know that's not what I meant."
Now he folded back the silk slit along her leg and grazed his fingers along her skin. She
shivered then hissed until she saw that he was expertly tying the knife and wand holsters to
her left thigh. He returned the weapons to their slots, cascaded the black fabric back over her
leg, and rose to his feet.
"There are multiple forms of deception, Granger. And not all of them require disillusionment
or an Invisibility Cloak."
As Draco spoke, he flung the heavy velvet overcloak across her bare shoulders.
She stared into his gray eyes, considering, then spoke hesitantly.
"They'll still know it's me. I've had a bounty on my head since Hogwarts. My name and face
are plastered on terrorist lists and papers all over Europe, especially here in France."
He grasped her jaw and turned her head back toward the mirror.
"No one has seen you in two years. Most, even longer. They won't recognize you."
She stared at her reflection. There was some truth to Draco’s claim. If you looked closely, she
was still Hermione, especially when she let her hair run wild. But her lighter eyes, hollow
cheeks, and prominent cheekbones made her almost unrecognizable.
Almost.
Even though she had not attempted a glamor charm in years, she dug through her memory,
pulled out her wand, and brushed it across her face. Her eyelashes grew heavy with mascara,
and a thin layer of something glossy coated her skin and lips. She looked at her reflection,
satisfied. Black liner made her eyes appear even larger and more distinctive, only to be
outshone by her striking red lips.
But as she was undoing her plait and twisting her hair into a tight bun, she felt Draco's hands
sweep over hers, locking them in place.
"Leave it down," he whispered, voice low.

Hermione looked at him warily out of the corner of her eye, then dropped her hands, letting
the freed curls fall loosely over her velvet-cloaked shoulders.
Finished, she stared up at Draco, still looking offensively perfect in his silk tuxedo. Residing
in the elegant fabric with the effortlessness only achievable by an aristocrat.
Flawless, except…
Hermione stood on her toes to straighten his bow tie, fully aware of his breath against her
temple.
"Take me to Moody," she repeated, and stepped into his tuxedoed chest. "I've done everything
you asked."
Draco gave her a sinful smile as he coiled one arm around her waist, and draped the long
train of her gown over his other.
This time, Hermione did not resist as he dragged her back through the blackness of
apparition, leaning into the smooth fabric on his firm chest. Did not fight his possessive
embrace, his touch.
Draco was wrong—she did not hate him. Not exactly. It was far more complicated than that.
On her worst days in Azkaban, his questions brought her a dangerous type of relief. They
kept her mind sharp as she tried to stay one step ahead of Lucius Malfoy's deceptions. They
gave her a purpose as she tore apart his cryptic answers for anything she could use against her
enemies. And, strangest of all, they reawakened her Dementor-ravaged soul.
Draco's words continued to play much the same role in the cell within her mind. But now his
presence—his body—elevated the danger. His violent touch cut through the constant tempest
of guilt and regret storming through her thoughts. When his fingers wrapped around her
throat, they felt even more demanding and poisonous than the Unbreakable Vow plaguing her
heart.
He was not a distraction.
No. Draco was an upheaval.
At the same time, Hermione recognized that Draco used his caress as a form of control. At
Hogwarts, he relied on his father's wealth, his own cruel words, to bully her and everyone
else that he judged beneath him. Today, he chained her to him with riddles and risky bargains.
Dominated her with his cold hands as much as his words.
Maybe it was a deadly game.
But without the Council's trust, Draco was the only source of information and edge that she
had left in the war.
So Hermione decided to play.

Chapter End Notes
Welcome to the Dark Ball Arc :)

Vive Le Sauveur des Ténèbres
Now will I make all the maidens in our
parish dance at my pleasure, stark naked, before me; and so
by that means I shall see more than e'er I felt or saw yet.
***
They landed smoothly in the dark forest. During their time away, the weather turned colder
and now a light layer of ice crusted the mossy ground.
Hermione did not immediately back out of Draco's arms. And he continued to hold her
against his suited chest as he whispered in her ear.
"Let's make one thing clear. If you give me any reason to regret bringing you, even the
smallest hint that you plan to run off and act the fool, pull any stunts with those marks on
your hands, I won't hesitate to end all of this."
Hermione pulled her ear away from his lips, brown eyes narrowed.
"Unlike you Death Eaters, I've been in hiding for years. I've seen The Prophet— the crowds
laying down their wands before Voldemort in Paris. You're probably a god here as well.
Meanwhile, if I so much as walked outside that hotel room just now, the staff would have
killed me on the spot. I know how to keep my cover."
"That's what you probably told yourself, right? When you were spilling all your secrets to me
in Azkaban?"
"I didn't spill anything. And I can protect myself now. I know how to Occlude."
"If that were true, Granger, then I wouldn't always be pleasuring you in your head."
She scoffed and twisted away, but Draco yanked her even closer, and spoke again.
"Tonight, you are not the fucking golden girl. You are mine, and you will act like it."
She shivered as he continued, "Keep your mental walls up for everyone but me. Make me
believe that there is no place you'd rather be than in my arms, and the rest of them will fall
for your lie as well."
"I understand," Hermione said, voice suddenly as unsteady as her heartbeat. "I already told
you that I would follow your lead tonight. And when the time comes, I promise to put on a
show."
"Then prove it. Right now," he challenged.

She panicked at Draco's sudden demand, and averted her eyes. Staring instead into the cloth
of his dress shirt.
"I… "
Viktor had always been the one to initiate any physical contact. And just as she let Charlie
carve their flight path, she let him take the lead in their relationship… all except for the night
that he caught her coming back from the Knife, bursting with dark magic.
But the red-eyed woman in the tunnels that heated night was not here in this forest. Was not
her.
"I don't… I can't… with you… "
Draco's arms tensed around her as she continued to stand completely rigid; pressed to his
chest, but frozen in place. A stream of air hit her forehead as he exhaled slowly.
"Don't follow me."
Then he released her without another word and walked away.
Hermione's heart dropped as she watched his back disappear into the dense trees.
Before she could think, she ran after him, stumbling as her train and velvet overcloak dragged
over the forest floor.
"Imperius me!" she yelled at his shadowy, receding form. "It will make it easier on both of us
if I'm under your control tonight."
He did not respond, so Hermione shouted again.
"I know how to resist the curse! I can break free myself when the time is right—when we
find Moody."
Draco snorted and continued to walk away.
Hermione tried to trail him, but her long overcloak caught on a gnarled root. She tumbled
onto the ground. Cursing, she ripped the heavy fabric off her shoulders and pursued him
again.
He stood in the center of a dark clearing, facing away, one shoe already rotated to
disapparate.
Abandoning all caution, Hermione ran and threw herself against his back.
Draco stiffened at her embrace, so she took charge. Standing on the points of her heels to
reach his neck. Grazing her red lips along the porcelain skin between his collar and jaw.
A wave of triumph rolled through her when he jerked under her tongue. She continued to
taste his neck, stroking long lines down every sinewy muscle, while she pulled the elbow-
length gloves off her arms and dropped them on the forest floor.
Then, she pushed both hands underneath the silk fabric of his shirt and ran her fingers along
the ridges of his spine. Each dip and rise. Across his smooth skin.
He twitched again when she peppered soft bites under the angular bone of his jaw.
It was strange—having him beneath her hands. Against her lips. Under her teeth. Knowing
that she could make him react like this to her touch.
It felt powerful.
She bit down violently at the same moment that she pressed her nails into the base of his neck
—raking them down his back so hard that they broke skin.
Draco hissed, turning and forcing her backward onto the ground.
She cried out from the impact of landing on the spongy forest floor, and again when he
slowly lowered himself onto her.
He tangled his long fingers through her hair. Tugging at her loose curls. Scraping his nails
along her tingling scalp.
Then he clenched both fists and bit roughly into the goosebumped flesh on her neck.
His teeth stayed on her throat while his cold hands roamed down her waist and legs. One
caressed her skin while the other slowly inched the velvet-lined slit of her dress farther and
farther up her thigh.
She shivered.
At first, her hands reached out to stop him; her mouth formed a protest.
But when his punitive bites turned to unimaginably tender kisses down her neck, every tight
muscle in her body seemed to unwind… and she let out the smallest sigh.
Draco laughed.
He was still laughing cruelly as he rolled onto the moss-covered ground.
"I suppose that's acceptable… barely."
When Hermione opened her eyes, she saw his shadowy outline looming above her. It was
almost pitch black in the clearing, but not dark enough to miss the spiteful smile curling his
lips.
Control. The word pierced Hermione's thoughts as she propped herself up on the damp forest
floor and struggled to untangle herself from the ridiculously long gown. She glared fixedly at
the ground, trying to hide the deep blush staining her cheeks and neck. Trying to ignore the
ache still pulsing through her body.
Then something hard landed on her lap. A lustrous gold costume mask.
Flustered, she looked up at Draco, eyes wide.
"Put that on. We're almost there," he ordered, voice filled with cold amusement.
Unsure of what else to do, she picked up the mask and used a sticking charm to secure it to
her reddened cheeks.
But when she realized that only her eyes were visible from the nose up, her face grew hot
with anger.
"You never told me that I would wear a mask! What was the point of going to a hotel and
putting me in this absurd outfit?" she accused.
"It's a Christmas Eve masquerade," he snapped, fixing a midnight blue mask over the top half
of his own face. "You were wearing an Order uniform. You had to get changed either way.
And if we get separated at any point, now you can apparate back to that suite—the hotel is
right in town, and safer than here."
"Why not just wait until the party is over? Why find Moody now?
"Rodolphus and Bellatrix plan to show their captive off during the ball, then execute him in
front of the guests. Their idea of capping off the evening."
"But you only said that Moody wouldn't be here tomorrow. You never said he'd be dead. The
Necromancer took him almost two years ago. Why would Voldemort kill him now?"
"We finally got everything that we needed out of our freak show of a former professor. The
only purpose he serves now is as an example."
Draco leaned over and yanked her roughly to her feet. She teetered on her thin stilettos.
"And if you want any shot at keeping him alive, then we need to go now."
"Maybe I should Imperius you," she mumbled under her breath, still fuming. "You're not
exactly the picture of romance either."
In response, Draco dragged Hermione through the dense underbrush by her wrist as she
staggered to keep up.
They emerged onto a dark, sprawling lawn. Draco stopped them, and adjusted his tuxedo—
tucking his shirt back into his belt and straightening his collar.
Picking up on his cue, Hermione fixed her train and rubbed a finger around the edges of her
mouth, hoping that she removed any smudged lip stain. Unfortunately, her gloves and
overcloak were gone: discarded deep within the woods.
Despite her best efforts to keep still, she shuddered as the frigid December air hit any skin
left uncovered by the sinful evening gown.
She stopped shivering a second later when Draco placed his own tuxedo jacket around her
shoulders. But he still wore a mean smile even as he offered her the crook of his shirtsleeve.
She took it, grumbled her thanks, and they walked toward the glittering lights across the
lawn.
They approached a wide stone road lit by torches. A seemingly endless line of Thestral-
drawn carriages wound up the center. Hermione, who had never been able to see the magical
horses before the war, balked at their grotesque, skeletal forms.
Draco pressed forward. Guiding them on foot until the outline of a palatial ivory mansion
took shape at the end of the long driveway. Stone columns surrounded a circular facade.
Framed windows stretched from the ground up several floors to a domed ceiling.
But Hermione barely saw the Lestrange Château.
Instead, she stared at the sky above it.
An enormous skull made of emerald stars hung in the night air. A serpent continuously
slithered from its mouth, down its base, and back into an eye socket—a horrible repetition.
The Dark Mark reflected off the clouds and falling snow, staining the entire sky a sickly
green hue.
As they neared the Château, Draco wrapped his arm around Hermione's waist, pulling her
closer. She stifled her urge to pull away and reluctantly rested her head against his shoulder.
They walked between the open front gates, and through a crowd of finely dressed wizards
and witches gathered at the end of the circular driveway. Soft chatter filled the frosty air, and
Hermione tried to ignore how vulnerable she felt in her evening gown, with only a single
knife and wand hidden on her thigh.
When they crossed under the arched doorway leading to a grand reception hall, Draco steered
them toward a shadowy corner and looked deeply into her eyes.
"Talk as little as possible so they don't recognize your voice. And if you have anything to tell
me tonight, speak mind-to-mind. I will do the same."
Hermione was about to respond when she saw two men approach from behind Draco's back.
She rose to her toes and nipped him on the ear. He hissed and grabbed her hips, pushing her
roughly against a stone pillar.
Then a familiar voice called out.
"Draco, you bastard! Been looking for you everywhere."
Draco stiffened and spoke dryly without turning.
"Fuck off, Nott. Go find someone else to bother. I'm busy."
"I can see that. And now we finally know what…or who … has been keeping you from
joining our fun."
Hermione looked past Draco's shoulder and recognized the deep-set, downturned eyes and
auburn hair of Theodore Nott. Gregory Goyle tailed him, appearing even more beastly than at
Hogwarts; his stout frame recognizable despite his red party mask.
Hermione's chest grew tight—Nott was a confirmed member of Voldemort's inner circle. If
he or Goyle recognized her from Hogwarts…
"She's a real looker. Where you been hiding her, Draco?"
Goyle leered at Hermione from where he stood behind the taller Death Eater. She glared at
both of them through her gold mask.
"At least introduce us to the lovely lady," Nott mewled. "Then we'll let you get back to
snogging her."
Draco did not respond, so he continued.
"OR, I'm sure Bella wouldn't mind her favorite nephew sneaking off to use one of the rooms
upstairs, if you had something else in mind. Of course, if you let your eyes off of her during
the party, I might be tempted to give her a tour of the mansion myself."
All of a sudden, Hermione felt a cold hand slide up her thigh. Draco stopped halfway, and
slowly pulled her knife from its holster.
"Don't. They're just goading you. We don't want to draw any more attention to us, so just
leave it alone," she insisted.
"You think I don't know that?"
He exhaled and returned the knife to its slot. Then he turned, positioning his body between
their former classmates and Hermione so that she was barely visible behind his back.
"Look too long at her and you're dead, Theo. And Goyle—actually, you're so damn ugly I'm
not worried. Stare all you want."
"The thing I like most about you, Draco, is how lovely you are to your friends. So what do
you say? Join us in Paris tonight for old time's sake? I promise you'll enjoy what I have
planned. My little Yuletide surprise for the gang, straight from Espagne."
Theo peered around Draco and smirked at Hermione. "If you want, you can even bring her."
"Who is she, Draco?" grunted Goyle—beady eyes still fixed on Hermione.
"She's mine. That's all that matters," Draco said coolly. "And I expect that later tonight we'll
be far too busy doing something even my aunt won't like to make it to Paris."
He reclaimed his tuxedo jacket from Hermione's shoulders, slipped his arm around her waist
again, and steered them past Theo and Goyle, still rubbernecking.
"New Years then!" Theo yelled after them. "Pansy is always bothering me about you. Asking
why you never show your handsome face at the Revue anymore. You haven't been in ages.
And we'll have even more toys to play with soon."
They weaved through the growing throng of masked socialites, each dressed more lavishly
than the last. Hermione tried to keep anyone from stepping on her long train as they moved
toward a set of open double doors leading to the ballroom.
"You could have picked something more practical. I have no idea how I'm supposed to walk
in this thing, let alone break Moody out. Also, what happens in Paris?"
"You didn't exactly give me a lot of warning, Granger. If you want to strip and find Moody
naked, be my guest. And if you're so curious about Paris, go back and ask Theo yourself."
"Asshole."
But even as she cursed him in her mind, she pressed her cheek against his chest and used her
fingers to twirl the silver signet ring around his pinky.
They were carried into a spacious great hall. Rows of alabaster pillars lined the rectangular
room. An inky, elevated dance floor was already filled with couples gracefully swaying to the
music of an invisible orchestra. Flowing black banners embossed with gold letters reading
"Vive Le Sauveur des Ténèbres" and "Vive Le Embouchure" hung above a stage placed at the
opposite end of the ballroom.
"Long Live the…the… "
"Dark Savior," Draco translated, following Hermione's narrowed eyes to the banners. "It's
what they call the Dark Lord here in France."
"And what about the other?"
"Long Live the Mouth."
"They worship him as well?"
Suddenly, the dimly lit ballroom turned a ghastly emerald green. Hermione looked up and
saw that the domed ceiling was enchanted to show the night sky. As she watched, thick
clouds moved past the dome, fully unveiling the Dark Mark that still hung in the air above
the mansion. Everything in the large room took on the same green hue, until another plume of
clouds drifted over the skull and serpent.
Hermione forced down an intense feeling of unease as she spoke. "We should split up. I'll
take the upstairs while you keep an eye on the crowd. It will be easiest to find him when
everyone is still here in the ballroom."
Draco switched his hold on her waist to her hand.
"You could spend years in this house looking for Moody and never find him. Rodolphus is the
only one who can access the room where he is imprisoned."
"So then how do we… "
"Draco! You came!"
Hermione's blood turned cold and forearm prickled as the ear-piercing voice rang out behind
her back.
"Do not turn around and do not speak a word."
Right after giving the nonverbal warning, Draco released Hermione's hand and walked
forward to embrace Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Happy Christmas, Aunt Bella."
Despite his command, Hermione could not stop herself from tilting her head and watching
them out of the corner of her masked eye. Even out of her peripherals, she saw the vile
woman's mass of wild black curls and heavily hooded eyelids shining from beneath her
vibrant green mask. The feverish, fanatical glow that seemed to leak out of her pale skin.
"You look dazzling, dear. So much like your mother. Cissy and your father would have been
so proud to see the family back together for the holidays. So proud to see you here. And the
Dark Savior blesses his servants who show commitment to his family values."
All at once, Bellatrix's gaunt face appeared before Hermione.
"You never said you were coming, Draco, let alone with a date. Introduce us at once."
"Don't waste your time. She's foreign and doesn't speak proper English," Draco drawled,
voice dripping in boredom.
"Well I'm sure she at least has the brains to tell me her name," Bellatrix hissed at Draco.
Then she turned back to Hermione and cooed, "What is your name, pet? You do look
familiar."
Bellatrix reached up a shimmering hand to touch her cheek. Hermione froze as a sharp pain
shot through her skull and the letters carved into her forearm burned with a phantom pain.
Her gaze moved to Bellatrix's strange hand, and she saw that it was coated in silver metal—
bright as the moonlight—restored after being cut off at the wrist by Voldemort at the Battle of
the Valley.
"She is a Legilimens. Do not look into her eyes."
Hermione hurried to raise her prison walls, reinforce her iron bars, and avoid Bellatrix's black
pupils. But the crazed woman jerked Hermione's face forward to recapture her gaze.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" Bellatrix repeated loudly, clenching Hermione's face so tightly
that she whimpered from the pain.
"Jean… "
"And what is your full name, Miss Jean?"
Another mass of clouds passed beyond the domed ceiling, and the entire ballroom was
stained emerald once again.
A truly evil smile lit Bellatrix's green face as she snatched at Hermione's mask.
Draco materialized between them.
He seized his aunt's silver wrist firmly, but continued to speak casually, as if utterly tired of
their conversation.
"Don't even bother. The girl is so dull that I expect you won't be seeing her again. In fact, we
were just leaving. The Dark Lord gave me a message for your husband, so just tell me where
he is and I'll find him on the way out."
"Oh, I don't know," said Bellatrix with an exaggerated sigh. She shook Draco's hand off her
own, and waved it lazily around the packed room. "I'm sure Rodolphus is out there
somewhere. He'll at least make an appearance for our grand finale."
"Then excuse us."
As Draco took Hermione's hand to lead her away, Bellatrix's shrill voice called out.
"Lovely to meet you, Jean, but I expect a proper introduction next time."
Hermione's heart was still racing as they swerved through the dense crowd toward the middle
of the massive hall. As they walked, she kept her eyes pinned to the ground, staring at a sea
of formal shoes and heels.
But her ears picked up too many familiar voices, and she bit back the urge to disillusion
herself and melt into the green-tinged shadows.
Any second she expected a Death Eater to recognize her; call out her name. Summon
Voldemort or his Mouth to interrogate and throw her away. As she walked, she unconsciously
tensed her right hand—taking comfort in the pain radiating from her cursed palm. Tonight
was a mistake, but if they took her again, she would at least be dead by tomorrow.
Hermione was just about to call off the entire reckless plan when Draco stopped. She looked
up and recognized that they were right at the edge of the raised dance floor. Forgoing the
stairs, he lifted her directly onto the shiny ebony surface, then stepped up and led them to the
center.
It was far emptier at this level—only a dozen couples still danced to the slow pulse of a
Viennese waltz. And, elevated on the platform, it was much easier to make out faces within
the crowd below.
"What now?" Hermione asked, checking that her mask was still pressed to her face and
whirling around to survey the crowd.
"We look for Rodolphus."
"Here?"
When she turned back, Draco was kneeling on the ground, hawthorn wand pointed toward
her legs.
"What are you… "
Her heavy dress robes lightened as the long train began to twist and recede. Within seconds,
the velvet hem floated around her ankles instead of the floor.
Draco rose and adjusted his mask. Then he bent slightly forward, inclined his head, and
offered Hermione his hand.
He did not speak. But his piercing eyes bore into her, willing her to take it.
She ached to refuse. Curse Draco for parading her around like a bloody show horse. Hold a
poisoned knife to his throat and force him to reveal his plan. Tear down the entire mansion of
devil worshipers, drinking and laughing while the rest of the world festered and burned.
Instead, she took his hand.
And they danced under the emerald stars.

The Hand of Glory
I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live
***
They danced to what may have been one song, or dozens. Time became immeasurable as
Draco spun her through the green glow diffused by the Château's domed sky.
As much as she hated to admit it, he was an expert lead—guiding her effortlessly through a
waltz, quickstep, and foxtrot. And, while not a dancer by any means, Hermione's parents
forced her nose out of books just long enough to take ballroom lessons in the summers. The
steps quickly returned to her as they moved across the darkened floor.
While they danced, Hermione tried to focus only on her mission. Willing herself to hear the
sound of Moody's wooden leg scraping across the marble; the tingle of his electric blue eye
on her back. And she scanned the masked face of every dark-haired wizard in the crowd
beneath them, searching for the thin profile of Rodolphus Lestrange.
But with every passing minute, it became increasingly harder to hear anything through the
ringing in her ears. Focus on anything besides Draco's tight hold around her waist and the
pounding in her chest. Forget the sensation of his lips on her neck in the dark forest. Look at
anything except his stormy gray eyes.
Not feel anything for him.
There was guilt. Of course there was guilt. Charlie was still a recent memory. His kindness,
his warm touch, were still imprinted on her Vow-burdened soul. It did not matter that she
only took Draco's hand to fulfill that Vow. And it mattered even less that she would never put
Draco first.
None of it mattered when being in his arms like this felt like a betrayal.
Hermione withdrew her hand as a tear rolled down her mask. Without a word, she backed out
of Draco's grasp, and ran away. Tore across the varnished floor, down the steps, and into the
mass of people below.
Partially-hidden faces turned to stare as she darted through the crowd. Voices cursed and
jeered as she stumbled in her heels.
But the only thought filling her head was that she had to get far away. Get out of this damn
dress, and find another way to save Moody that did not mean being with him.
WHAM
Half-blinded by tears, Hermione ran straight into a man's solid chest.

"WATCH IT!"
She fell backwards from the impact and landed on the hard marble stone. The twin curse
marks on both hands flared in venomous agony as she skidded her palms across the floor to
stop her momentum. Almost immediately, she was swallowed by the crowd; pushed beneath
a wave of legs and knees.
"WHO THE HELL HIT ME?" an angry voice hissed, and she followed the sound to a
masked, ebony-skinned man scanning the crowds to her left.
"Just forget it, Zabini. Probably someone's idea of a joke. Anyways, you'll never find them in
this mess."
"I FUCKING hate when people don't apologize."
"You and your apologies. And what would you do if you found them right now? Avada them
on stage in front of an audience? Force them to slit their own throat like Scotland? It's a
Christmas party, not a Muggle hunt."
"Shut it, Nott, or I'll bloody well shut it for you!"
Hermione's eyes rose in horror as she recognized Blaise's attractive dark eyes and high
cheekbones beneath a white mask. His long braids were intricately tied back, cascading over
a black suit and shirt, no tie, unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
… his completely smooth chest, with no scars.
Not a single Sectumsempra scar anywhere along his neck, or face—long, jagged marks that
she knew for a fact were still there just that morning.
There was also no trace of his trademark arrogance. No haughtiness. Only unhinged,
malignant anger.
"Let it go, Zabini. It's almost time."
She was still staring, frozen on the ground but hidden by the crowd, when Blaise shoved a
gawking wizard to the floor, swore ferociously at Nott, and stalked away.
A flood of conflict burst through Hermione as she saw him leave. She should follow him,
right? Or maybe wait until he was alone and signal him using the coin still tucked into the
base of her knife holster? She did not need Draco anymore if Blaise was here and also
undercover. They could get Moody out together.
But something held her back. Kept her frozen in place even after she rose to her feet.
It was not just the lack of scars. It was the absence of anything else. She sensed it now as she
watched Blaise's familiar dark braids swing and disappear into the crowd—felt his raw
brutality.
Hermione was still rooted in place when a hand grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her
around.
Draco's face flashed between anger, irritation, then anger again as he growled in her head.
"What the hell was that, Granger? Despised touching me that much? Or just changed your
mind again and decided to make a scene?"
"You could have at least warned me about Blaise. I'm sure you knew that we were supposed
to find Moody together. None of us were supposed to be in France until tomorrow."
"And yet here you both are, at the same party."
"Tell me what you know. Tell me what Blaise is to Voldemort."
Draco just jerked his head, and Hermione followed the movement toward the high stage at
the back of the ballroom.
A man with sunken cheeks and jet black hair walked onto the platform, turning to stand
between the black banners drifting in an invisible breeze. He pinned a long redwood wand to
his throat and spread his arms toward the crowd in greeting as Bellatrix strode proudly to the
stage to stand beside him.
"BIENVENUE AND WELCOME!"
Hermione's throat constricted as she realized that it was too late—Rodolphus was about to
execute his captive—her target—in front of an entire audience of Death Eaters.
Bellatrix inched her silver hand along her husband's shoulder as he continued.
"Bella and I are honored to have you all join us tonight. The holidays are for family, and there
is no worthier family than those who see our Father's truth. Blood is thicker than water, but
PURITY runs deepest of all."
Bellatrix turned away from the crowd to swing her wand.
BANG
A massive wooden structure crashed onto the stage before her. A wicked blade stretched from
one post to the other, with a curve at its gleaming base: an enormous guillotine.
The Lestrange's congregation of masked witches and wizards went wild, shouting and
cheering in a frenzy of bloodlust and hedonism.
"Of course, there are still some who refuse to see the truth. So we have a wonderful gift for
you all later tonight. A communion to the Dark Savior's dominion over this blessed country.
A sacrament where the Savior's Mouth shall purify the blood of the weakest, most diseased
heart of the Order of the Phoenix."
Rodolphus ran an ashen hand through his dark hair before he continued, "But first, a
celebration."
Then he removed the wand from his neck, and used it to point across the ballroom.
The arched doors swung open.
Hermione turned with the crowd to see a beautiful young woman with golden hair and a long,
airy figure float into the room.
The guests jeered and parted before her like a black cloaked sea as she walked confidently
through their center. Onlookers whistled, hissed, and shouted obscenities. One witch ran up
and poured a drink right on top of the young woman's head.
Most of the men, however, simply watched her pass, faces wild. Using their eyes to consume
her flimsy white dress and her body. Hungry.
As the stunning woman drew closer, Hermione saw an odd metal contraption disfiguring the
lower half of her otherwise fair face. Only her clear blue eyes and straight nose were fully
visible. But when the woman walked directly before her, Hermione had two horrible
realizations.
First, the woman was padlocked in a steel muzzle.
Second, she knew her.
Hermione had not seen Gabrielle since Bill and Fleur's wedding, when she was still a girl.
She must be eighteen or nineteen by now. But there was no mistaking the part-Veela witch for
anyone else. Not when she looked so much like Fleur—safe in Spain, but hundreds of miles
too far to save her younger sister.
"Why is she here?" Hermione pleaded urgently, turning to stare into Draco's unreadable eyes.
Draco jerked his head toward the stage as he answered.
"She's a war prize."
Bellatrix grabbed Gabrielle by her wrist and forced her up the stairs to join Rodolphus on the
platform. The younger witch stumbled, but regained her footing and stared ahead, eyes
fierce.
"She's so young," Hermione choked. "What will they do to her?"
Before Draco could answer, Rodolphus's magically-amplified voice echoed through the
cavernous room again.
"Mademoiselle Gabrielle Delacour—purest gem of the Order and a fitting reward for the man
of the hour. Our defender of Scotland, and the newest member of the Dark Savior's Cabinet
of Advisors: Commander Zabini!"
All heads turned.
Blaise emerged from the crowd, only fifty feet behind Hermione and Draco, and casually
raised his hand in acknowledgement. But the entire time, he stared at Gabrielle with such a
vile, predatory smile that Hermione half expected him to charge, leap up, and devour her
right on stage.
Bellatrix stepped forward and brandished her wand over the crowd below.
"And what better way to celebrate than a toast to our Dark Savior?"
Hermione flinched as she suddenly felt a slippery glass of champagne materialize in her
hand.
"Blaise is part of Voldemort's inner circle?"
"Someone had to replace Dolohov," Draco replied flatly, and prematurely tipped his own
champagne flute against his lips—ignoring a dirty look from an elderly wizard.
"What did Blaise do in Scotland that was so important to Voldemort?"
"Zabini did what he does best—spill filthy blood all over the floor."
"We need to save Gabrielle."
"I never agreed to help anyone but Moody and you," Draco repeated, tone harsh.
"Then help me save her."
"No."
Rodolphus stepped forward and lifted his glass toward the crowd.
"VIVE LE SAUVEUR DES TÉNÈBRES!"
The masked guests on all sides raised green-tinged hands to echo Rodolphus in a toast.
Hermione did not drink, and instead watched Draco as he vanished his already empty glass,
then reached into his jacket.
"VIVE LE EMBOUCHURE!"
Draco's gray eyes locked on Rodolphus, still shouting from the stage, as he slowly extracted a
small burlap sack from his inner pocket.
"LIBERTÉ! POUVOIR! PURETÉ!"
Draco's eyes flashed. In one fluid motion, he threw the open bag into the emerald air, pointed
his wand, and hissed.
"Geminio!"
A cloud of shimmering black powder fell over the cheering crowd.
Anything the fine powder landed on instantly disappeared into an impenetrable jet black fog.
So dense that it seemed to suck all surrounding light into its void.
Any person caught within the darkness screamed and tried to run out. But everything their
soot-covered skin touched took on the same deep blackness; infinitely duplicating the
powder. Spreading the cloud with every jostled elbow, every knocked knee.
Hermione's eyes lost all function as the air around her turned pitch black. She saw nothing—
not even her own hands. She grabbed and lit her wand, but no light cut through the gloom.
She reached out in front of her, trying to find anything solid. But she only felt panicked
bodies push past her, floundering in the darkness.
Amidst the uproar, she heard Draco voice the counterspell.
"Finite Incantatum."
But by then the entire ballroom was enveloped in complete darkness. As if the entire
cavernous chamber was pulled down to the deepest depths of the ocean; the emptiest vacuum
of space.
Then Draco's firm arms wrapped around her and his voice rippled in her head.
"Stay close and do not let go."
Draco deftly moved Hermione to stand directly in front of him, and guided her hand to
something leathery. As soon as she touched it, the darkness vanished and she could see
again.
She spun her head around, trying to get her bearings.
Screaming, disoriented wizards and witches continued to stumble on all sides, still blinded by
the smokescreen. She looked down and saw Draco's own fingers entwined with hers, both
wrapped around a shriveled, blackened hand. A flickering candle, stuck between the
shrunken fingers, dropped wax onto its wooden base.
"The Hand of Glory," Hermione whispered, recognizing the preserved appendage from their
sixth year. "Opens any door and provides light only to the holder."
Draco nodded as he used the dark artifact to guide them through the frenzied, sightless
crowd, making a straight line toward the stage.
"The resistance is here!" shouted a panicked voice.
"LET THEM FUCKING COME!!!" roared another.
CRACK
CRACK
CRACK
The loud pops of disapparation burst through the dark air like firecrackers. Masked guests
celebrating moments earlier dropped their glasses, abandoned their partners, and pivoted in
place to leave.
But for every Voldemort sympathizer that fled, another pressed a Death Eater mask to their
face and their wand to the Dark Mark under their sleeve. Many even started blindly firing
spells into the frenzied crowd. Not seeing or caring who they hit. Cursing Order fighters that
did not exist.
"There is absolutely no way we can reach Rodolphus in this chaos," Hermione accused,
jerking her head as a flash of green shot past her ear, and moving Draco out of the line of
another. "We can't even move. You should have waited until Rodolphus brought Moody out to
pull this stunt."
"Rodolphus would have killed Moody on the spot. To lose the Dark Lord's captive to the
Order would seal his own death sentence. So we follow him to the hidden room, and get to
Moody first."
But they only made it ten feet before Draco grabbed and pushed Hermione behind his back.
Everything went dark again as she lost hold of the withered hand.
Draco whispered words that she could not quite make out.
"NOOOOO!!!"
A chorus of fresh screams tore through the darkness.
Blood-curdling cries of anguish that stabbed the black air like the shrieks of a hundred
invisible wraiths. Hermione pressed her palms over her ears when the wails reached an
unnatural pitch. It felt as if her eardrums would burst.
Then the screaming ceased all at once, replaced by a chorus of heavy thuds.
A moment later, she was back in front of Draco. Encircled by his arms. Fingers laced
between his and the Hand of Glory's.
The black fog cleared from her vision and she gasped.
The floor before them was completely covered in bodies.
A clear path to the stage paved with finely dressed wizards and witches, laying on the marble
and not moving. Dresses and suits flung haphazardly over their prostrated frames. Arms and
legs bent at unnatural angles from the sudden impact.
Lifeless.
But nothing compared to their faces—distorted and frozen in screams of pure terror. Glassy
eyes wide. Twisted mouths hanging open. Unhinged jaws locked in place.
As they ran, Hermione tried to block out the sickening crunch of bones beneath her shoes.
The acrid smell of human excrement and death. Reminded herself who they were idolizing
minutes before.
Did not look down at their grotesque faces.
Did not meet Draco's eyes.
Instead, she forced down her nausea and scanned the remaining crowd. There were still
hundreds of people on either side. Some staggered through the darkness and tripped over the
path of fallen bodies. Others crawled on their hands and knees, searching the ground for
dropped wands. And the entire time, bloodthirsty Death Eaters continued to run through their
midst, killing blindly.
"He's moving," Draco said, gaze pointed forward.
Hermione looked ahead and saw Rodolphus stumble past the guillotine to the back of the
stage, then use his hands to feel for something on the wall.
She extended her wand, closed one eye, and aimed.
"Damnum Intestinorum!"
Hermione's vision flashed red as her dark hex violently punctured Rodolphus's abdomen. He
lurched and fell to the floor, coughing blood across the stage.
But a second later, he was up again—one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth, while his other
traced a strange shape on the stone wall. A shadowy hole appeared, and he hobbled into a
narrow tunnel beyond.
They were so close—running up the steps leading to the stage—when a muffled cry shot
through the air.
Hermione's head whipped back toward the source of the sound.
Bellatrix was laughing madly as she dragged a screaming Gabrielle through the chaos below.
The younger witch sobbed through her muzzle, flailed, and clawed at the dark air. But she
could not break free of Bellatrix's violent grip—could not even budge the silver hand cuffed
around her ankle.
And Blaise was nowhere in sight.
"You find Moody. I'll free Gabrielle!" Hermione ordered, using her free hand to transfigure
the skirt of her gown into bottoms and flatten her heels. But when she released her other hand
to pull out a knife and pursue the young witch, the cloud of darkness closed in again.
"Leave her!" Draco said sharply, pulling Hermione back into the light and continuing their
charge across the stage.
When they finally reached the opening of Rodolphus's hidden tunnel, Draco stooped to enter.
But Hermione resisted, pulling them away from the shadowy entrance.
"You find Moody. Give me the Hand of Glory so that I can go back for Gabrielle," she urged.
"I said no. You agreed to do this my way."
"I know what I promised. But there is no plan that ends with me going into this tunnel and
turning my back on Gabrielle. She needs my help. I won't leave without her."
"This is your only chance to save Moody and still get out," Draco warned, voice hard. "You
should know better after throwing your life away with Potter and Weasley. There is no
scenario that ends with you saving everyone. This only ends with you dying in the process."
Hermione looked back to Gabrielle again. Now a dozen Death Eaters were swarming her—
drawn to the part-Veela even in the darkness. One brutish man caught the young witch by her
flimsy white dress, and tried to yank her away from Bellatrix. As they fought each other,
another man grabbed Gabrielle by her golden hair and dragged her into the crowd like a limp
doll.
The next words fell from Hermione's lips before she could stop them. Before she even
remembered to say them only in her head.
"I still won't choose. I will save them both, even if you refuse to help me."
But as she stepped back, Draco's arms locked around her, and she finally met his vermillion
eyes. Bloodshot and veined with so much death that she saw infinitely more red than gray.
They stood there for a heartbeat. Eyes locked. Fingers tangled together over the ancient hand.
Hidden in an oasis of light against a backdrop of darkness.
Then Draco pushed her down.
Forced her into the claustrophobic tunnel alone.
And sealed the door.

Secret Tunnel, Secret Room
Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy,
That make men foolish that do trust them most.
***
"Happy Christmas, Granger."
Hermione sat up in shock at Lucius's words. The Battle of the Valley was back in May…
meaning she had been a prisoner for seven months.
Time was nearly impossible to measure in Azkaban. The clouds outside her window blocked
out all sunlight; the moon rarely broke through the storm at night. And whenever her faceless
guards passed, seconds seemed like days, and days could pass in seconds as they sucked her
into an indefinite cycle of nightmares.
But Lucius seemed better at tracking time, at least as far as she could tell. He greeted her
every morning, and asked a question by the evening. If he said it was December twenty-fifth,
then she had no reason to doubt that he was telling the truth.
Hermione pressed her ear against their shared wall to ask her question. But, as usual, he
voiced his first.
"What do you want for Christmas?"
"I don't want anything from you," Hermione replied at once.
"What if I distract the guards so you can escape?"
"And how the hell would you distract a Dementor? Give it a kiss under the mistletoe?"
Now Lucius laughed. Truly laughed. And while Hermione had never heard him laugh before,
it sounded so familiar.
"You're in a disturbingly good mood. Shouldn't you be saving your energy for Boxing Day? I
remember some drivel about Christmas being too 'self-indulgent.' Did you change your
mind? Or maybe you lied before when I asked for your favorite holiday.'"
"I did NOT lie. There's nothing more excessive than a whole celebration dedicated to rich
food, too much wine, and useless presents. Everyone forgets themselves for an entire season.
I much prefer Boxing Day—you sort out the chaos, and the world returns to normal."
He laughed again.
"Two things I took away from that ridiculous answer, Granger."

She leaned forward in annoyed anticipation.
"First, Boxing Day is not actually your favorite holiday, so stop deluding yourself."
Before she could snap back, he continued.
"Second, there is nothing wrong with forgetting yourself for one day. You should try it
sometime."
***
Hermione pounded her fists against the sealed tunnel door, furious and disoriented. But after
seeing the faint outline of her hands, she realized that this darkness was of the normal, not
magical, variety. She quickly lit her wand and registered a tight labyrinth of tunnels. So
narrow that it looked as if it was carved for moles instead of humans.
She was still considering blasting through the solid wall and storming back into the ballroom
when Draco's voice rang out in her mind.
"Follow Rodolphus and find Moody, then meet back at the hotel. Maison d'Aubusson
Grenoble, Suite 403. I will bring Delacour."
"You could have said that before shoving me in here, idiot," Hermione snarled.
But a sour smile twisted her mouth when she heard his echoing laugh.
She ducked forward and crawled until the tunnel split apart into more than a dozen shafts—
each more cramped-looking than the last. Unsure of which to choose, she brightened her
outstretched wand.
Then she saw it—a brilliant red handprint at the farthest entrance to her right—Rodolphus's
painful reaction to her dark hex. She moved into that shaft and followed his crimson trail,
using his bloodstains like breadcrumbs to quickly navigate each turn and crossroad.
The sound of distant cries reached her ears as she moved through the labyrinth. The packed
earth ceiling shook dust on her hair. She guessed that the tunnels lay somewhere deep
beneath the ballroom, and suppressed any dark thoughts about what Draco was doing
overhead. But she soon picked up another noise—a man's heavy breathing—and increased
her pace.
Eventually, the Death Eater's handprints led Hermione up a winding ramp and to a dead end.
There were faint specks of red on the solid brick wall, so she used her hand to carve the same
pattern.
A short door formed out of the bricks.
Hermione disillusioned herself and edged through, wand raised.
Beyond lay a dimly-lit corridor carved with intricate paneling. The entire length of the wing
was decorated with expensive paintings, heavy curtains, and white marble busts spaced
between a long row of doors. She stood and ran to pull open the first one with a smudged
brass knob.
Bars lined all four walls—wicked spiked metal smeared with brown streaks. The entire room
smelled of human waste and unwashed linen, and looked cruelly out of place in the gaudy
French mansion. But it was completely empty.
Hermione rushed to open each door in the expansive hallway, only to find that every vacant
room—every cage—was worse than the last. Whitewashed bones lay in a corner of the third
room, while torn women's lingerie lay in the next. One particularly narrow room was covered
in so much blood that Hermione could not bear to take more than a hasty peek inside before
moving on.
Her stomach grew tighter with every door, and the taste of acid burned her mouth. But she
continued down the wing until she noticed light spilling through a crack of the last room, its
door ajar.
A small boy lay asleep in a heavily rusted wrought-iron bed. The entire room was
dilapidated. All peeling wallpaper and sparse, cheap furniture. A dirty glass tank with a
sickly-looking chameleon sat on the floor in the corner.
Not seeing Moody within the shabby room, Hermione stared curiously at the boy. He was
young. She could not see much from where she stood. His untidy jet black hair, hollow face,
and scrawny hands barely poked out of his threadbare covers. Yet what little she could see
seemed familiar. So familiar that she felt herself pulled toward him. Drawn forward like a
powerful magnet.
Before Hermione knew it, she was inside the room. Opening her mouth to call out to a friend
who she knew was dead.
"Harry?"
The boy's small face tensed, but he did not wake.
Hermione's head pounded as her eyes struggled to make sense of the impossible. Harry was
gone. And yet here was a boy who looked incredibly similar to the eleven-year-old wizard
that she met on the Hogwarts Express.
She crossed to the bed, reached out, and gently brushed the boy's hair off of his forehead.
No lightning bolt scar.
Then the boy's lids fluttered open, and Hermione's heart dropped as she stared into his dark
eyes—not even a hint of emerald green.
"I'm so sorry for waking you," she apologized, drawing her hand back. "I mistook you for
someone else. You should go back to sleep."
But when Hermione moved to stand, the boy's hand shot out of his bed and latched
desperately onto her wrist.
"Don't leave me," he coughed weakly.
"I'm sorry. I can't stay," she apologized.
She was just pulling her hand away when she saw a flash of something shiny, and froze.
The boy's arm was bound by a black shackle. Crude, dark metal that dug into his thin forearm
like a bear trap, leaving the pale skin around it inflamed and crusted with dried blood.
"Please, Miss," he begged again. "Please help me."
"The people that live in this house kidnapped you, right? People in skull masks took you
from your family and locked you in here?"
The boy's eyes grew wide, but he shook his head in denial.
Confused, Hermione studied him again, reevaluating his too-familiar dark features. His jet
black eyes and hair—ashen skin—gaunt cheeks—and was hit with an even more heinous
suspicion.
"You're related to the Lestranges, aren't you? They're your family?"
"Yes," the boy whispered, coughing weakly.
Hermione's veins grew even colder. There was no limit to Bellatrix and Rodolphus's cruelty.
Torturing Moody for years—trafficking and killing war prisoners like cattle—were expected
sins. But imprisoning their own family, maybe even their own child, was truly evil.
"Why did they do this to you?" she asked, tone delicate but eyes blazing.
The boy cradled his manacled arm as he spoke in a voice so small that Hermione's ears
strained to hear every whispered word.
"My father cursed me years ago. But he doesn't want people to know what's wrong. I can't go
outside in case anyone sees me." His hands trembled as he reached out to Hermione and
continued, "If you heal me, if you make me strong again, he will finally let me leave. If you
help me, I can be free."
"First we should get you out," she decided.
But as Hermione tried to lift the boy, the rough metal on his cuff dug into his arm and he
screamed out in pain.
"I'm sorry!" she cried.
After trying, and failing, to find any lock, she searched around the bed furiously. But there
was nothing connected to the black shackle. There was not even a rope or chain linked to the
bed frame.
Hermione desperately scanned the room for anything useful, but found nothing. Not a single
tonic or potion. Nothing living except the sick boy and even more sickly-looking chameleon.
He started sobbing. "Just heal me, Miss. He'll only let me out if I'm strong. Make me better.
Please."
Hermione knew that she should continue searching for Rodolphus. That the longer she
delayed, the more likely it was that he would reach the hidden room first and execute Moody.
Draco was right—if she tried to save everyone, she would end up killing them all.
But she could no more abandon this sick child than Gabrielle.
After shooting another anxious look back over her shoulder to confirm that the corridor was
still empty, Hermione knelt beside the bed and began casting every single basic healing spell
in her memory; every new charm learned from Angelina.
The boy did not stop coughing. If anything, his face grew paler, his voice weaker.
When he started spitting blood onto the white sheets, Hermione decided that she just had to
use Vulnera Sanentur, and accept its consequences.
As her mouth formed the familiar, soothing melody of the healing incantation, and her wand
traced a path across the boy's small frame, her eyes stayed locked on the door. But no Death
Eater entered. By her third recitation, the boy's pained expression finally eased and color
returned to his wan skin.
Darkness crept around the edges of Hermione's vision, but she blinked it away—forced it
back—knowing that to succumb to exhaustion here would mean death. Not just for herself,
but for her former teacher. So she steadied herself on the wrought-iron bed, and stood to
leave.
The boy grabbed onto her arm again.
"NO!" he begged, choking back another fit of coughing. "It's not enough. My father's blood
curse—it's still there in my insides. I can feel it. It still hurts. As long as it's there, he will
never let me out. Please heal me again."
"I can't," Hermione apologized softly. "That's all I have left to give. I need to leave now and
find someone else. But I'll send help soon."
She gently pried the boy's bony fingers off her arm, resolved that this time, she would leave.
…until she saw his tiny red handprint on her skin.
After wiping the fresh trail of blood from his mouth, Hermione knelt beside him again.
Drained, but determined. Telling herself that leaving the child with half a curse and lost hope
was crueler than not helping him at all.
Hermione's hands and voice shook uncontrollably as her song-like spell fell over the boy's
body for a sixth time. Weak from reciting the incantation that was a cure to the child, and a
succubus to her soul.
As soon as the last silken word left her lips, she slumped against the bed and collapsed to the
ground.
She lay there for a long time—one cheek pressed to the grainy floor—vision fading.
Watching the chameleon through the dirty glass of its tank. Listening to the boy crying out
with relief.
"It's almost gone. The Order's curse. I can barely feel it anymore."
"Who cursed you?" Hermione asked weakly.
"My father," the boy answered, voice eager.
Hermione was blinking slowly, willing her eyes to focus, still staring at the chameleon as she
responded.
"But you just said that the Order cursed you."
"No I didn't."
Then the chameleon turned its head, and Hermione dimly noticed that it had two differently
colored eyes—one a normal green, and the other a vivid electric blue.
Her eyes widened at the strange creature, then moved down to the red handprint on her arm,
as the boy spoke again.
"If you heal me one last time, my Father will be so proud and finally set me free."
Hermione's hands still trembled as she used the iron bed post to heave herself off the floor.
They were steady when she took the knife from her thigh and slit the boy's throat.
***
Rodolphus Lestrange clutched his bloodstained palms to the long slice along his neck,
stretching from one ear to the other like a red smile. Writhing on the mattress in pain as both
his soul and dark illusion faded.
As his face matured. As the black shackle on his forearm melted into an inky Dark Mark.
And as the entire room around him shook and transformed.
The rusty bed frame doubled in size.
Bars sprung up across all four peeling walls.
The chameleon shifted into a scar-riddled man with grizzly hair and a missing leg.
Hermione dropped her knife and stumbled to Moody—lying in the corner where the sickly
reptile was moments before. She turned his face toward her, and saw that while his blue
magical eye was open, it did not track. Panicked, she jammed her ear against his chest,
listening. She only remembered to breathe again after hearing his steady heartbeat.
Her head still spun as she crossed back to the dark-haired Death Eater. His already ashen skin
was colorless again, and he was making a wretched rattling noise. He had since given up
trying to use his sticky hands to keep the blood from pouring out of his throat, and they lay
limply at his sides.
There was no empathy, no twinge of guilt, within Hermione as she stood and watched the
man's dying breaths. If anything, there was only raw fury that she came so close to losing her
life from such a wicked deception.
She did not understand the lie—why Rodolphus chose to trick her into healing his wounds
instead of immediately killing Moody. Maybe Bellatrix recognized her in the ballroom.
Perhaps, like her, Rodolphus gave into the temptation to risk it all: to gift his Dark Lord—his
Father—two Order prisoners instead of one. She would likely never know the truth, and did
not particularly care to find out.
"Almost got me there," Hermione whispered while she pried the redwood wand from
Rodolphus's stiff hand.
As soon as she did, an overpowering surge of heat shot into her from the long orange handle.
A fanatic rush of adrenaline that coursed through her arm and down her spine. As if the
bloodstained wand clutched in her fist was a barely-tamed animal, roaring to be set free.
Without another thought, Hermione pointed the redwood wand at Rodolphus.
"Pestis Incendium!"
An inferno ripped out, engulfing the rotted bed in a tower of sparks and ruby flames.
Hermione's eyes flared the same brilliant shade as she watched the funeral pyre.
She had always loved summoning multicolored fires; used to carry them around in jars
during winter trips to the Great Lake. Her friends made fun of her proclivity, even as they
warmed their hands over the tiny flames.
This was anything but a natural progression.
The Fiendfyre continued to erupt from her outstretched wand. And once the Death Eater was
little but ash, the flames spread outward. Hermione used the cedar wand in her other hand to
lift Moody's limp body over the cursed fireline and out of the room.
Hermione continued to hold Moody high in the air as she strode into the corridor. At the same
time, she aimed the redwood wand behind her back—leaving a trail of flames in her wake.
Burning every single one of the vile Death Eater's paintings, statues, and cages as she tore
through his gaudy prison.
Exposed to the air, the Fiendfyre surged higher; burned hotter. Mutated.
It barreled through the corridor as if alive, sentient, intent upon violent destruction. And the
more it consumed, the more it took shape, forming into a pack of fiery beasts. Flaming
serpents, chimeras, and lions rose and fell and rose again, charging through the house in a
frenzy of deadly heat.
Hermione strode through the entire top level. Both wands raised. Carving a path of scorched
earth destruction. She did not stop until she reached a wide terrace overlooking the estate.
Panicked guests still poured from the reception hall onto the front lawn—yelling and rubbing
the darkness from their soot-covered faces. Thick smoke from the smoldering Château filled
the air, turning the snow gray. Smothering the skull and snake hanging in the sky.
Instead of disapparating right away, Hermione walked to the edge of the terrace and watched
the crowd below swarm like black-robed ants. Smiling at the fallout of Draco's chaos.
Inhaling the falling ash from her Fiendfyre like a stimulant.
Only when the stone beneath her feet began to vibrate and shake did she finally close her
eyes, and call out to him.
"I have Moody. I'll see you soon."
She heard the amusement in Draco's laugh.
But felt the competitiveness in his response.
"Full marks, if you weren't so late."

Sweet Dissonance
Chapter Notes
I have a feeling you'll like this one. It was a long time coming ;)
I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live
***
Moody was still unresponsive when Hermione hoisted him off the quaking floor of the
Château terrace. But his pulse was strong, so he should at least be stable enough to make a
short distance jump. After propping his grizzled head against her shoulder, she turned to
disapparate.
Seconds of suffocating darkness later, they tumbled onto the thick rug of the modern hotel
suite. Hermione winced, skull pounding from overusing dark magic. She did not see Draco,
but sensed everything else—the sharp fibers in the carpet—the overwhelming brightness of
the soft lights—Gabrielle's muzzled breathing from where she lay asleep on the bed.
Every sensation unbearably heightened in the afterglow of her cursed flames.
At the same time, exhaustion clawed at the rims of her reddened eyes. She had slit
Rodolphus's throat, but not before he nearly bled her dry. After trying and failing three times
to pull herself onto the bed to reach Gabrielle, it was clear that even such close range
apparition drained the rest of her already low reserves.
Hermione was on her fourth attempt to climb the bed when she was lifted by Draco's familiar
arms.
And suddenly, all that existed were his hands on her skin, the hardness of his chest against
her cheek. She could feel every part of him, down to the ridges on his fingertips, the lines on
his palms.
Every nerve in her body screamed as he carried her across the threshold, through a darkened
sitting room, and then into a smaller bedroom.
Now he was lowering her onto the sheets and pulling off her charred, transformed gown. His
touch felt like a shock of ice. A jolt of electricity.
Her breathing quickened.
But then shadows clouded her vision and the room faded.
As she tumbled toward unconsciousness, all that remained were Draco's burning eyes and his
hands caressing satin across her skin.
Hermione did not sleep for long.
Seizures tore through her that entire night—the aftershocks of flooding her exhausted body
with too much dark magic, followed by abrupt withdrawal. Unable to Occlude in her dazed
state, her head reeled as nightmares stormed through her walls like a vengeful army—laying
waste to her mental fortress as violently as she burned down the Lestrange Château.
Terrible images and sensations played at half speed set to the refrain of Voldemort's laughter.
The sight of a wizard screaming as his face slowly distorted in sheer terror. The heaviness in
her feet as she ground into bone and punctured flesh on her flight across the ballroom. The
claustrophobia of the tunnels as they pressed in on all sides. The pain in her cursed palm as
she inched a blade along a child's neck.
But through it all, Draco was there.
Both in the room and in her mind.
He held her as she rode out the shockwaves of dark magic. Cushioning her back as she
screamed and thrashed against the mattress. Untangling her neck from the twisted sheets.
Blocking her skull from hitting the headboard.
At the same time, he shielded her in the crumbling prison within her soul. Shrouding her
mind with his. Using his back to take the brunt of falling bricks. Fending off a storm of wind
and hurtling iron.
And when Hermione stumbled off the mattress and into the adjoining washroom, he was still
there.
Kneeling beside her; holding back her hair as she was violently sick. When she was too sick
to make it back to bed, he leaned against the clawfoot bathtub and pulled her into his lap.
Crushing her tightly against his chest. Locking her in a possessive embrace.
As if afraid that the visions and seizures would steal her away.
She stayed in his arms for the rest of the long night. Every now and then, she would stir, and
vaguely sense his cold palm against her neck. His cheek pressed to her own.
He was like a powerful anesthetic. Soothing her soul with frozen hands. Using touch to numb
her pain where he once used words.
Inducing her into a painless sleep.
***
"Hermione, dear. What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Rough, large hands rubbed long strokes down her back. Imparting warmth and comfort with
every touch.
"It's okay. Please just tell us what's wrong, love?"
Now a second set of hands was on her head. Gentler, smaller fingers combed softly through
her curls. Like they did when she was little.
"Hermione?"
She stood. Tears streamed down her face. With a whispered, "I'm sorry," she turned around to
face her parents, still seated on the edge of her childhood bed.
She raised her wand. She would start with her mother first.
"Obliviate."
And then her father.
"Obliviate."
"Your names are Monica and Wendell Wilkins."
"You live in Australia."
As her parched throat started to burn, Hermione realized that she was speaking the words out
loud, into the stale air of her cell. And she was heaved violently back to reality for the first
time in a very long while.
Why did dreaming of her parents, still alive, but obliviated, feel entirely worse than dreaming
about the dead, slaughtered in front of her? Why would this memory drag her back into
lucidity where no others could?
Hermione knew the answer. She always knew the answer.
Because it gave her hope.
As far as she knew, her parents were still safe across the ocean, instead of unreachable
beyond the veil. Even if her memory charm was too permanent by now to reverse, her heart
still clung to the faint hope that she could see them again.
Hope was cruel.
As she settled back down onto the cold slats of her bed, her father's question stung her ears
once again, so clear that it was as if his voice was somehow carried thousands of miles into
her prison cell.
"Why are you crying?"
This time, she chose to answer truthfully.
"Because I will always need you."
"Then why did you leave?"
"Because I want to protect you."
"Will you stay?"
"I'll stay."
Hermione felt the selfish promise spill out of her lips, and smiled.
***
The distant rings of church bells stirred Hermione from her slumber. Bright sunlight burned
into a white paneled ceiling. A chill breeze blew in from an open window. She rolled to her
side, and took in a bare mattress. No sheets. No pillows. No Draco.
Her eyelids felt incredibly heavy. Everything felt heavy as she struggled to make sense of the
night before.
She had lost control—that much was clear even through the haze. She executed Rodolphus
when it was possible to spare him, then used dark magic to burn his palace to ashes with
humans still trapped inside.
But not all of that trauma was of her own creation. Draco killed at least a hundred bystanders
with a single curse because they were in his way, then pulled her over their dead bodies like a
nightmarish footpath. And she had no idea how he extracted Gabrielle—what other horrors
he used to get the young witch out of that ballroom.
And yet, as the aftermath of her guilt and dark magic consumed her, Draco was there.
As much as he continued to deny it, Draco kept her alive in Azkaban.
On her worst nights, when the Dementors tore through her soul like paper, he was there to
piece her back together. Distracting her with a game of questions and answers. When she was
too far gone to even respond, he told her stories about summertime. Painted her colorless cell
in beautiful shades of blue. Resurrected her mind and asked for so little in return.
But what about now?
What did she owe Draco for last night? What did he want in return for killing his allies to
save hers, then holding her together, body and soul? For keeping her alive out of Azkaban…
A twinge of pain shot through Hermione's scarred palms and she lurched up against the
headboard—only then noticing that she was completely clean and wrapped in a satin robe.
She growled, furious again at the thought that Draco touched her while she slept.
But she knew that he did.
Everything about last night still felt out of focus, but she remembered his cold touch; his
possessive embrace.
His tenderness.
Draco made no sense, yet every sense. He was both the question and its answer.
As Hermione rose from the bed and staggered across the room, two dissonant thoughts rang
through her mind even louder than the church bells.
She hated him.
She needed him.
***
When Hermione opened the door to the sitting area, she still had no idea what to say to
Draco. But the only person in the elegant room was Moody—stretched across one of the
French settees, unconscious, one arm hanging loosely off the cushioned side.
She walked to him and searched her robe for her wand to cast a diagnostic spell, but found
nothing. So she settled on visually inspecting her former teacher.
As she suspected last night, Moody was a bit thin, but overall surprisingly healthy. His skin
was waxy from lack of sunlight, and his wooden leg was gone, but there were no obvious
signs of abuse. Yet he was still unresponsive—apparently, the Lestranges preferred mental
torture to physical beatings.
After repositioning Moody's head on a tufted pillow, Hermione went to the larger bedroom to
check on Gabrielle.
The beautiful witch lay asleep on top of the crisp white duvet. Golden hair cascaded around
her closed eyes; steel muzzle still locked firmly around the lower half of her face. Unlike
Moody, Gabrielle's body was riddled with cuts and bruises, and there was a hand-shaped welt
around her left ankle.
However, the injuries appeared partially-mended and aged, even though Hermione was sure
that they were the result of Bellatrix and the crowd attacking her the night prior. It looked as
if someone—almost certainly Draco—crudely healed her. But like Moody, she was
completely unresponsive. Hopefully the Order's healers would be able to revive both her and
Moody as soon as they returned to Headquarters.
Hermione was still kneeling beside the bed, running her fingers along the locked muzzle,
when her ears perked again at the peal of church bells. She followed the sound back into the
sitting room, and only then noticed a set of framed white doors—flung open to let in the
bright daylight.
Her heart pounded like a drum as she slowly crossed the room toward the balcony visible
beyond. Her mind reeled with both incredible uncertainty and the desire to see him
immediately.
Draco was there.
Lounging at a small breakfast table on a balcony overlooking a wide river. Head propped
against the stone wall and face turned away.
Hermione stood, leaning against the doorframe. Watching him as she always did. Noticing
that he changed out of the suit. Now he was wearing a black collared shirt with its sleeves
rolled up, and his slicked-back hair appeared damp, as if he recently showered.
When Draco still did not turn to face her, she stepped out onto the shallow platform.
His eyes were closed and his breathing even.
Fast asleep.
Hermione took the chair opposite, and, for a long time, was content just to stare at the
sprawling city on the opposite bank of the river. She knew that Grenoble was Death Eater-
occupied, but the entire area looked strangely normal.
The bells chimed again, and her eyes found a small chapel to the east. Congregants filed into
the building, clothed in colorful dresses and blazers. Strings of festive lights and garlands
hung off the church's eaves, swaying gently in the wind.
Hermione flinched at the sound of Draco's voice, but this time she did not look at him right
away. Did not survey his face to discern if he had just woken up, or was never truly asleep.
Instead, she stared pointedly anywhere else.
Eventually, she focused on the snow-capped mountains completely surrounding Grenoble,

recalling from her research that they were named Chartreuse, Vercors, and Belledonne…
"So you're ignoring me now," said Draco, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught him
glaring in the opposite direction.
Hermione did not know what held her back—why she did not respond. But the longer she
delayed, the angrier and more vocal Draco became… and it was oddly satisfying.
"Just tell me what happened after we separated last night. You came back covered in filth and
barely alive. Did you use Diabolica again? Sanentur? Did you try to heal Moody? What the
hell is wrong with you now?"
"Actually," Hermione replied at last, still refusing to look at Draco, "I healed Rodolphus
Lestrange."
Draco sat up straighter in his chair at her admission.
"What the actual fuck, Granger? Why do you keep trying to kill yourself healing Death
Eaters?"
"Then I slit his throat," Hermione continued evenly, staring at the church again and thinking
of the man's near-religious worship of Voldemort; the rows of filthy human cages she found
on her way to Moody.
And as she spoke, the guilt and remorse that plagued her nightmares disappeared, replaced by
grim acceptance. Rodolphus was no sick child chained to a bed. The sickness that ailed the
dark-haired fanatic was in his mind. His heart.
So she sniffed, adding, "And after that, I set his body on fire and burned down the prison
wing. With his own wand."
Suddenly, Draco leaned across the small table and forced his face before her. The red veins
streaking across his eyes were still there, though mostly faded. But he looked completely
exhausted. As if he never truly slept. Creases pulled at the corners of his mouth and under his
eyes as he glowered at her.
"You're lying to me, aren't you?" he asked coldly.
He was so close. Mere inches away. Her heart jumped. This close, she could smell the mint
on his breath; the salt on his skin; the soap and musk coming from his still-wet hair.
"That's… six questions, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione said smartly, barely biting back a grin. "I
already answered two, so I'd say that is more than generous."
Draco caught her poorly-disguised smile.
All at once, the muscles around his own mouth relaxed, and he reached out to pull at her
cheek.
Hermione smiled and leaned into his playful touch—it felt pleasant, but unfamiliar.
But she recognized the haughty tone he used in Azkaban to impersonate Lucius as he
smirked and scolded her.
"I knew you hated Christmas, Miss Granger, but I admit that I severely underestimated how
nastily you planned to treat me today."
Then he laughed and the haughtiness fell away, making him seem so much younger.
Hermione reached up and used her thumb to stroke the smooth back of his hand, still gently
clasping her cheek.
"Thank you for everything, Draco. You were right that it was impossible for me to save them
both, at least not alone. And I don't know what your uncle was to you, but I am truly sorry
that I took the life of another member of your family."
She breathed deeply, and her throat stung. "Then I came back here last night, hurt, and I used
you again. All I did was take from you, and I don't know how I will ever repay that debt."
Suddenly embarrassed, Hermione let go of Draco's hand, and glanced down. Her gaze landed
on his exposed forearm, and she saw his skull and serpent tattoo—the black ink striking
against his ivory skin.
Of course, she knew that Draco had the Dark Mark, but had never actually seen it until now,
and immediately thought of the black shackle cutting into the boy's arm.
Hermione shivered and looked away.
But Draco held her cheek harder, thrusting her face back up. She struggled to jerk out of his
grip—tried to prevent her tears from dripping down onto his hand—but he was too strong.
Then Draco slowly pressed his forehead to hers, locking her with his red-gray eyes.
And when he pulled her to him, even the brilliant sunlight dimmed.
"I never give anything freely."
Hermione's mind went numb as soon as Draco's lips brushed against hers.
Her breath caught. Then she closed her eyes as he pressed more deeply, sending a jolt of
white-hot electricity down her spine.
He felt divine.
The entire world around them faded, and it was as if they were back in the Hand of Glory's
dark cocoon. Still tangled in each other's arms on the shadowy forest floor. Had never
stopped dancing under the emerald green stars.
His mouth drove even harder into hers. Melting their lips together, while his other hand
firmly braced the back of her neck. He felt more than divine.
He felt inevitable.
Months of slow caresses—maddening brushes down her spine—bites along her throat—all
leading her to and intensifying the intimacy of his kiss.
The kiss lengthened, and he memorized the outline of her mouth even as she did the same.
She never noticed the sensual curve of his Cupid's bow. The crescent shape of his lips. Never
expected the impossible softness. Did not understand how he could be both ice and fire at the
same time.
His hand caressed her face, then drifted to the back of her head. His long fingers tangled in
her curls, tilting her face to the side. And everything felt even better at this angle. They
explored each other again, and every sensation was new, thrilling. Every fragment of her soul
shattered against his skin, under his hands.
Her lips parted slightly, and she felt his cold breath against her teeth, her tongue. And all at
once breathing became unnecessary as she drank in his air. Savored the briny flavor of the
ocean mixed with the sweetness of peppermint.
Then he broke the kiss, and whispered his request into her frozen mind.
"Stay with me, Hermione, for just one day."
After that he pulled back, leaving her with only the taste of salt and mint.
The Death Eater's Request
To do whatever Faustus shall command
***
"I can't stay."
The words spilled out of Hermione's mouth as soon as Draco's lips left hers. As soon as his
hand fell from her hair and the bright sunlight returned to the balcony, heaving her back to
reality.
And at the same moment, she was hit by a breathtaking sense of grief.
"Please don't make this any harder than it already is, Draco."
But hard was a cruel understatement.
This was impossible.
Hermione tore from the balcony, and ran back into the hotel suite. Searching for anywhere to
go. But she had no wand or Portkey. Only two very unconscious invalids.
She eventually found herself back in the larger bedroom, kneeling beside Gabrielle's bed.
Breaking down. Hating Draco for what he did to her. But mostly hating herself for what he
meant to her.
Coming to Draco was a mistake.
Not only because she could never trust him, but because she could not trust herself.
Hermione was not stupid.
A part of her—the piece that she tried to hide even from herself—already suspected that she
could mean something to Draco. They spent a year together building an unstable bond within
that lonely prison cell. And when she burst out from its crumbling walls, he stayed. When she
recreated that prison, brick-by-brick, rebuilding what they made together from her memories,
he was still there.
Waiting for her.
Waiting until she saw him.
He took her to the Manor, then admitted that she was a person he could not get out of his
head. And it was even possible that every cold touch since then—every manipulative
embrace—binding her with questions and bargains—were meant to control and manipulate
her… to choose to come back to him.
Hermione still did not know exactly what she was to Draco. She understood him so little. But
she was sure that he cared for her in some small way—in his own twisted way.
Yet meaning something to Draco was not the problem.
No. The problem was if he meant something to her.
Draco was an active Death Eater. He never hid that part of himself; only she did. As much as
she did not want to admit it, he likely went back to Little Hangleton after bringing her to the
Manor. He still refused to say or do anything that directly went against Voldemort. Yes, he
slipped her information, and helped her find two Order captives past their usefulness to his
Dark Lord. He even faked a resistance attack on a crowd of Death Eater sympathizers.
But there was a finite limit to Draco's treachery. He had yet to provide any real information
on Nagini or decisively break with Voldemort. At most, he seemed willing to delay the war,
but never end it. It was not enough when the Order was slowly dying. Cutting off a hydra's
neck meant little when two more took its place.
Charlie was safe in more ways than one. He taught and guided her. In his arms, she felt
protected. And more crucially, she always knew that she could leave those arms. That she
could survive walking away when her Unbreakable Vow made staying impossible.
But Draco was poisonous. He may not be her enemy, but he was still the enemy. He made it
clear that he would never join the Order. Regardless of her Vow, the moment that she
admitted how much Draco meant to her—how deeply he was embedded in her soul—she
would have to choose. And Hermione did not know if she would survive that choice.
Playing Draco's deadly game was a mistake.
Because she made it deadly.
She could need Draco—that was fine. She needed him to help the Order.
But anything past that was impossible.
***
It was not long before Hermione sensed Draco outside the bedroom. But she declined to look
at him, even when he spoke from the open doorway.
"I swore not to make you do anything that breaks your Vow. But I meant what I said,
Granger. I never give anything freely."
He stepped closer. "And you agreed to do what I ask in return, without question."
Hermione ran her hand along the smooth edges of Gabrielle's steel muzzle, shaken. In spite
of Draco's threatening words, she caught an almost imperceptible streak of hurt in his voice.
"I… still need to know exactly what you want, and how remaining here won't go against my
Vow," she whispered.
"I want you to stay in this hotel suite until tomorrow morning. Nothing more, nothing less."
"But it will break… "
Now Draco was there. Sitting on the carpet beside her.
She felt him hesitate, then slowly drop his head against her shoulder. His hair was still wet,
and a few light strands fell onto her robe.
He sounded so tired as he replied, "You were at the Manor for an entire day healing Zabini.
You stayed there and are still alive. That means you can do the same today."
Hermione's damp eyes widened at his words.
"That's why you took Blaise?"
She had no understanding of what existed between Draco and Blaise. Until then, she believed
that he hurt Blaise as a diversion when they were surrounded at Little Hangleton. To get them
out then distract her from using her cursed palm.
But she had never suspected that he so purposefully injured Blaise to fulfill her Vow. To
ensure that she continued to help the Order after leaving the fight.
If true, it was both kind and incredibly cold.
"You… said that you took me away from the Order," she whispered, head spinning. "It
doesn't make sense."
Draco sighed, then reached down to press his own freezing palm against hers. She flinched,
then relaxed—noticing that when he held her hand, she could no longer feel the pain radiate
from her curse scar.
"And now I'm taking you again. Holding you all hostage, so you can't go back to Italy. Just
promise not to bite yourself this time."
Draco released her hand, then reached up to lift her jaw. Frowning at her eyes—still so ruby
red that even the darkened bedroom was tinged pink.
"You need to rest. You won't survive taking both Delacour and Moody back to the Order like
this," he whispered scornfully.
Half of Hermione wanted to agree; did not know if she even had a choice at this point. One
day could not change anything, right? And she had to admit that there was truth to what
Draco said—she was probably too weak to pull both Moody and Gabrielle through a long-
distance Portkey by herself in this state.
But the other half screamed that she had to leave. That it was too risky to be near him. That
even sidestepping her Vow for a single day could result in forgetting herself.
When she still did not respond, Draco let out an even bigger sigh. "Just because I'm feeling
particularly generous given the holiday… " He leaned into her ear, and his voice dropped.
"How about if you stay, I'll give you something else?"
Hermione sat up and scrambled across the room. Away from him.
Draco looked far too amused as he laughed, "I only meant that I promise to unlock Delacour's
muzzle in the morning."
Hermione glared daggers at him from the other side of the bed—repositioning herself to
place the unconscious woman between them. "The Order can free Gabrielle when I take her
back!"
Now Draco leaned the base of his head against the tear-stained duvet, and stared at the ceiling
as he replied wistfully, "Except they probably can't. A shame, since I'm sure Delacour has
plenty of secrets to spill about the Dark Lord. Why else would they lock up her mouth?"
He stood before she could respond.
"Overthink it like you always do, but at least stay for breakfast."
Then he left the dark bedroom.
And Hermione remembered to breathe again.
***
Hermione did not follow Draco out into the living room. Instead, she remained on the other
side of Gabrielle's sick bed, eyes glued to the open door. Resolved that if she did stay, she
would sit in this exact spot until he removed the muzzle.
Eventually, she heard Draco call out to join him on the balcony.
She did not listen.
Rather, she bought more time by checking on Moody and combing the entire suite for her
wand and the Portkey, finding neither. But she did come across a jumper and jeans in the
smaller bedroom, and changed out of her robe.
It was close to noon when Hermione's growling stomach finally drove her to join Draco on
the small terrace.
The sunlight was even brighter at this hour, but the December air was chill. Hermione
cautiously took the chair opposite Draco—eyeing his wand as he lit a fire to reheat their tea
and dishes.
As they waited, Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out her cedar wand, sliding it across
the table.
"You'll need this when you leave tomorrow."

"Today," Hermione insisted as she reached to take it.
An irritated sort of smile crossed Draco's face for less than a second, but disappeared when
he placed a second, longer wand between them.
Hermione looked down at it, feeling a sharp pang of guilt when she noticed the orange handle
was stained with Rodolphus Lestrange's blood. She did not move to take it.
"What happened after we left last night?" she asked. "Did Voldemort or the Mouth ever
come? Do they still think it was an Order strike?"
"The fire burned until this morning. I won't tell you more than that."
She tensed, and responded, "Then are you sure you want to give your uncle's wand to a
confirmed terrorist?"
"It's not his anymore. It's yours."
Hermione grimaced, but took the redwood handle.
As at the Château, a sudden rush of heat and wild adrenaline shot through her hand the
moment she touched the wood. She flinched and set it back down.
Draco noticed, and raised his eyebrows.
"I react more strongly to this wand than my other," she explained, picking up the cedar
handle and feeling nothing more than a faint spark.
"How did you get that wand? I don't recognize it from Hogwarts," Draco asked, nodding at
the shorter, lighter wood weapon.
"I stole it from… from my… Occlumency teacher," Hermione ended lamely.
"If Weasley wasn't its true owner, that explains why you aren't compatible with it. That wand
was never his to begin with, and it still doesn't belong to you," he smirked.
"I understand the concept of wand allegiance," Hermione mumbled, annoyed at both Draco's
patronizing lecture and apparent knowledge of what felt like her entire history with Charlie.
She reached out again and took the redwood wand, forcing down a temporary surge of manic
heat as she slid it into her pocket.
As they ate, Hermione looked back at the city across the riverbank. The doors to the small
church were closed—apparently Christmas services were over. But now people dressed in
festive jumpers wandered the streets, bags full of wrapped presents in hand and children in
tow. Only a few stores seemed open, but there was an ice skating rink filled with families at
the center of the town square.
"Are they Muggles?" asked Hermione, eyes narrowed as she tried and failed to spot any
wizarding robes.
"Of course they are. That's Grenoble, not Hogsmeade down there."
She huffed. "Yes, I know that. But how are non-magic people acting so normally? How are
they still free in a country that Voldemort controls? Since the beginning, the French president
and ministry refused to stand against him, and now all of France openly follows Voldemort."
"Exactly," replied Draco, voice flat.
Then he proceeded to not say anything else, and just look at her instead of the city.
Hermione slammed her fork down and glowered at him across the table.
"I hate it when you respond with only a single word. If you want me to stick around for a
single minute longer, you need to give me more than that."
Draco exhaled, rubbed a finger along his temple, then obliged.
"If a government submits to the Dark Lord and takes the path of least resistance, Muggles
keep their lives, and continue like this."
He lazily waved a hand past the balcony to the city beyond.
"You have eyes. That is an obvious truth, even if the Order refuses to see it."
Hermione looked at the packed streets again, head reeling. Admittedly, she had not been in
public for years, but knew from reports and talking to others that there were entire regions of
England decimated by the war. Yet here was a city—a country—that appeared untouched.
Alive. Thriving.
"It still doesn't make sense. Voldermort and his entire regime are premised on blood quantum
and magical purity. If France is an example of what his future looks like, then shouldn't non-
magic people be enslaved?"
"That is the Order's overly simplistic way of thinking. His purpose was never to kill or
imprison every single Muggle in Europe, or anywhere else. Society would collapse. They
outnumber us a hundred to one—we are a fraction of the population. As long as all of his
servants submit and know their place, we can live in relative peace."
"But back home the Muggle-Born Registration Commission… "
"Exists here too," Draco interrupted sharply. "The difference is that there is no need to hunt
people down if you know exactly where they are at all times. Everything has an equal and
opposite reaction, Granger. Where there are no terrorists—no resistance—there is no reason
to use violence."
Hermione threw her face back and pressed both hands to her throbbing head.
Even in Azkaban, there were days where Draco's dogmatic answers pulled her back to reality
—reminded her that, regardless of their similarities, she was speaking with someone born
into an undeniably prejudiced heritage.
That reality hit even harder outside of her four cell walls. He was a pure-blood Death Eater
sworn to the Dark Lord. She was part of a movement that refused to accept the promise of
bigotry. Even before her Vow, she would never serve a master who offered a facade of peace
in exchange for overt inequality. A willing slave was still a slave.
"Then what happens after every country submits?" she challenged.
Draco did not answer.
Hermione finally turned to look at him, and again noticed the dark circles under his eyes; the
frown lines pulling at mouth. The exhaustion. Hardly the face of a man on the winning side
of a war.
She exhaled slowly, then stood to leave.
"I'm a Muggle-born. If the future you want is based on blood purity, I am tainted."
When Draco still did not respond, Hermione left the balcony and passed through the double
doors. But before crossing into the sitting room, she paused and spun around. Draco was still
turned away, so she spoke into his back.
"Voldemort doesn't control you. The Necromancer killed your parents. Everything you've told
me only proves that you have no reason to serve either of them, or did you lie to me?"
"I never lied."
Hermione clenched her fists, and stormed onto the balcony again, spitting her next words into
the side of Draco's head.
"Then after EVERYTHING that happened, how are you still a Death Eater? I know there is
something you're not telling me. Or do you actually believe this pure-blood utopia bullshit?"
Now Draco rose, towering over her. His gray eyes had since lost any hint of red, but seemed
as empty as his next words.
"You don't need to know what I believe. No one does. Because what I think does not change
anything."
"It does for me," Hermione snarled.
She yanked up the sleeve of her jumper, and forced her forearm in front of Draco's
unreadable face.
"Your aunt made sure I can never forget I'm a MUDBLOOD. You can stop calling me that
word, even dress me up and pretend for a day that I am something else. But that does not
change who I am, or the fact that I have no future in your world. And I'd sooner die than be
your dirty little secret."
Draco grabbed her wrist—gripping firmly, but saying nothing. At least not with his words.
Instead, he stared at her fiercely—as if he was trying to use his hollow eyes to tell her what
his mouth could not.
Suddenly, everything but his face dimmed. The city across the river—the balcony beneath
their feet—the sun beating down on their heads—ceased to exist. And once again, Hermione
forgot to breathe.
But it was still not enough.
"I can't stay with you, Draco. Not even for a day. I don't understand why you're doing any of
this."
She stumbled back, unable to see or feel anything but him. As if she was backing into a
vacuum. Retreating into nothing.
Draco locked onto both wrists, pinning them to her chest. Stepping into her until she was
caught between him and the cold iron railing. So close that she could feel his heart beating
against her clenched fist.
"Then ask, Granger."
His arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him until there was no choice but to stay. And
she was reminded that in his arms, her future never felt more unsafe. That the longer she
remained, the more she would crave his anesthetic touch. His frozen hands. Become numb to
how he seized her mind until nothing existed but him.
He spoke again.
"Ask me why."
And all at once, every other question seemed insignificant. Because Draco's disdain for the
Order, loyalty to his master, belief in blood purity—none of it mattered… if she did not
matter to him.
So she asked.
"You could have demanded anything for Moody. And you never had to save Gabrielle. I
know that last night was dangerous—how much it cost. But all you want in return is that I
stay here with you for one day."
As Hermione spoke, she closed her eyes and leaned into his chest—listening to his heartbeat
steadily increase.
Maybe for the last time.
"I don't understand you, Draco. I'm everything Voldemort is trying to end. It is deadly to be
near me, let alone help me. You told me before that you're selfish. That you only care about
self-preservation. So why risk yourself to help me and request so little in return?"
"I am selfish," he repeated.

Then Draco released one hand to angle her face toward his. His gray eyes found her again,
looking at her so intensely that the world faded and took on the same color. Willing her to
understand him, to find him, amidst a sea of silver.
And she finally did.
Hermione closed her eyes, stilled her thoughts, and found the prison within her head. Walked
through the narrow entrance to her soul, through the winding corridors of her mind.
There was no France. No war. No Dark Lord.
No blood supremacy.
There was only the cell where they first truly heard each other.
The place where they promised to always tell the truth.
Draco was there.
White-blond hair dripping again from the storm raging in through the barred window.
Wearing the same black shirt. Sleeve now rolled down to cover his Dark Mark.
His jaw clenched and he drew closer.
A second later, he swept her back into his crushing embrace. His chest, his heartbeat, felt as
real here as anywhere.
And this time, he spoke his entire truth into her rain-soaked hair.
"I am selfish… but now you are a part of me."
For a very long time after, she just stood. Tangled in his arms. Hidden from the cruel realities
of the outside world. Letting his words sink in, and trying not to crumble under their weight.
Hermione knew then what she meant to Draco, at least here in their cell.
Yet she refused to know whether her own eyes burned with seawater, or tears.
She needed him.
But until Draco betrayed Voldemort and joined the Order, she could never know how much.
Boxing Day
Chapter Notes
TW: Suicidal Ideation
Now, sir, you may be ashamed to burden honest men with a matter of truth
***
"What is your favorite book?"
Hermione spent much longer considering this question than most, picking off pieces of bread
and watching the loaf replenish before her eyes. It was the only magic she had left at her
fingertips, if you did not count being attacked by Dementors. Even when not hungry, she
would drop scraps on the floor just to remind herself that magic existed.
"There's a fairytale by a Muggle author named Hans Christian Anderson that my parents
used to read to me when I was young: The Little Mermaid. I always loved that story. It was
one of the reasons I learned to read earlier than most. My father got tired of the same book
every night, so I started reading it myself."
Lucius seemed to consider, causing Hermione to tense as she readied herself for a snarky
response. But when he did speak, he just sounded surprised.
"Your favorite book is a children's story? I thought you would go for something more…
complex. More challenging."
"Well, you're not completely off base," she offered. "My second favorite is A Compendium of
Hieroglyphs and Logograms."
Hermione rolled a crumb between her fingers as she thought, then said, "But you're wrong
about The Little Mermaid not being challenging. I kept going back to that story as a child
because I never understood it. Honestly, I still don't."
When Hermione did not continue speaking, he took the bait.
"Care to explain, or will you force me to ask you tomorrow?"
"Fine. I suppose you can't go read it yourself given the circumstances. The fairytale is about
a Mermaid—they're what Muggles call Merpeople—who leaves the ocean for the first time,
and falls in love with a prince…"
Lucius snorted.
Hermione grimaced, but pressed ahead. "... falls in love from a distance without even meeting
him. Then one day a storm comes, and the Mermaid rescues him from drowning. However,
the prince never realizes who saved his life. Desperate for him to recognize her, the Mermaid
makes a terrible bargain, trading her tongue to become human. But only after losing her tail
does the Mermaid learn that she will constantly live in pain. Always feel as if she is walking
on sharp knives."
"What an idiot."
"It gets worse. If the prince chooses someone else, the Mermaid will die of a broken heart.
Time passes, and he is mesmerized by the Mermaid. She dances for him, even though every
step is agony. And the prince confides in her because she is mute and can't tell his secrets. Yet
the prince never recognizes her as the woman who saved him from the storm, and leaves her
for another. After that, the only way the Mermaid can survive is by killing the prince with a
dagger. But she can't bring herself to do it. Instead, she throws herself into the ocean, and her
body turns into seafoam."
Now Hermione paused, trying to put her conflicting feelings of frustration and fascination
into words.
"The book makes it seem as if the prince failed by not falling in love with the Mermaid. But
she was the one who made all the wrong choices. She chose to leave her world, give up her
voice, and live in constant pain for no possibility of love. For a man who could never
understand her, let alone know what she sacrificed. She was a stranger who knew all his
secrets. But he couldn't even recognize her."
By the time Lucius finally responded, there was more stale bread on the ground than in her
hands.
"You're right, Granger. That story makes no sense."
***
Draco bared his soul to Hermione. And, possibly for the first time, she had no words.
Which was the cruelest response of all.
But he did not leave, even after he released her and stepped back. Instead, he studied her face,
and seemed to understand something. Then he walked to the edge of the cell, pulled apart the
iron bars, and stepped out to the corridor.
She could sense him leaning against the exterior wall, but could not see him. Could only hear
his footsteps echo around her cell; around her mind. Regressing to a time when he was only a
voice.
It was easier like this: talking to the memory of him. Speaking with his ghost.
And the words came to Hermione at last.

"I wanted to die here. In this cell, on this bed. I failed the Order and everyone I loved. Even
Azkaban didn't seem like enough of a punishment, so I decided to escape by taking my own
life."
She moved toward the cell bars. Closer to Draco, but still out of sight.
"Then you asked me a question, and I answered, thinking I was caught in a dream of my
parents. I told you I needed you, and I promised to stay."
Her voice broke. "That was twenty months ago... and we both know what exists here is
impossible anywhere else."
She pressed her back into the cold stone wall, sunk to the floor, and finished giving her truth.
"I won't leave yet. But in the end, I will not choose you. And I will never put you first."
Hermione could not see him, but knew he was still there—just on the other side of the corner.
Was sure that he heard her voice carry into the hall. Because he was always listening when
she needed him to, regardless of the distance. She was the one who had trouble hearing.
And yet, when Draco did reply, she could not fail to hear the bitter edge in his voice.
"Neither will I. At least we agree on one thing."
And there it was.
Their undeniable shared truth.
She relied on him. He cared for her. But each refused to put the other above their own
burdens and convictions. Above themself. At least not where it mattered.
Part of her marveled at how, in spite of everything, they were the same. Two sides of one
coin. So similar.
Hopelessly far apart.
So Hermione opened her eyes, and let the cell walls crumble.
This time, leaving the prison in her mind felt like waking up after twenty months of being
asleep. Every bone ached. The winter sun was too strong.
And although she was still with him on the balcony, wrapped in his firm arms—so close that
she could feel his heart beating against her cheek—Draco never seemed farther away.
"I'll stay until the morning," she said, then disentangled herself, and walked back into the
hotel suite.
She collapsed to the ground as soon as she closed the bedroom door.
***
She was still in the same slumped position when a flash of heat hit her face.
As she opened her eyes and took in the morning sun, it was clear that she fulfilled Draco's
bargain and did not break her Vow.
Hermione never felt more empty.
But she could not stay here any longer. She had to return to the Order. So she went through
the motions. Walking to the adjoining washroom to clean the tears and salt from her face.
Changing back into her Knife uniform, which she found neatly folded outside the door.
Trying not to think about who left it there.
Feeling like the living dead the entire time.
The only time she felt anything was when the redwood wand brushed her bare skin as she
slid it into its holster. The frantic rush of heat seemed even more powerful in the absence of
any other feeling.
Then Hermione finally confronted the fact that she had no idea what to expect when she
returned to Italy.
Yes, she fulfilled the mission and found Gabrielle. But not without deceiving her squad by
working with a Death Eater. She had yet to decide whether to tell them the truth, or if she
even owed them the truth. Angelina already suspected her of colluding with Draco. The
Special Force may be more lax on protocol than the rest of the Order, but this was pushing
the limits.
And then there was Blaise Zabini.
Hestia's Second-in-Command. Voldemort's Commander and member of his inner circle.
Hermione put on her gloves, reached into the bottom of her holsters, pulling out the wine
cork and gold coin, weighing one in each hand. Thinking.
Unlike Draco, Blaise never even pretended to tell her the truth. He never denied having a
second face. One that the other members of the Knife—and even Draco—seemed to
recognize.
A terrifying face.
Should she even go back to Italy at all? Or would the safer alternative be to find a way
directly back to Headquarters to speak with Hestia?
Hermione realized that she was spiraling. So she took a deep breath, then opened the
bedroom door and crossed into the sitting room.
The balcony doors were shut and only Moody occupied the room—still unresponsive on the
upholstered settee. Hermione strode to him, spine prickling the entire short distance.
This time, she used her wand to cast a diagnostic spell—the cedar, since she did not quite
trust the other. Every light blinked a healthy green, but the grizzled man did not move.
"Rennervate."
"Rennervate."
When her spells also failed to rouse Moody, Hermione admitted defeat. She was no healer.
She settled on casting a stabilization spell, then stood. But before entering the larger
bedroom, she steeled herself and went to the balcony.
He was not there.
And she did not know whether to feel relieved or hurt.
So she suppressed both, and went to Gabrielle.
The witch was the picture of Sleeping Beauty—arms gently by her side, hair fanned around
her like a golden halo. Only the metal on her face broke the illusion. Hermione knelt beside
the low bed to cast the same sequence of spells that she used on Moody, then paused and her
eyes rose.
A dismembered hand on a wooden base sat on the bedside table. The Hand of Glory. She had
not seen it since the ballroom. Its waxy candle had melted down to the stump, but it held
something else within its shriveled fingers.
A folded note.
Hermione's own hands shook as she opened the slip of paper and read Draco's neat writing.
Do not try to save everyone.
DM
The room spun. But she forced her nerves to steady as she burned the note in her open palm,
then swept its soot into the air. While she did not fully understand Draco's words, she quickly
realized the significance of the Hand—had briefly looked up the dark artifact after hearing
that he used it to attack Dumbledore. A deep pit formed in Hermione's stomach at the
memory. But she pushed it down and tried to visualize the text that she read seven years ago.
According to folklore, a Hand of Glory is created by cutting the left hand from the corpse of a
hanged man and using his fat and hair to form a candle and wick. The resulting magical
instrument provides light only to the holder, and opens any door.
There.
The answer.
Hermione lit the shortened wick, and held the Hand up to the padlock on Gabrielle's muzzle.
It was not a door, but she vaguely remembered Draco quizzing her about the artifact in
Azkaban, and he implied that it could also open any lock.
CLICK
Yes. Her stomach settled just a little as she gently pulled the metal off of Gabrielle's mouth.
Deep imprints still marred her beautiful face. Hermione's eyes narrowed at the thought of
how backwards it was to silence the young woman's voice in such a medieval way.
Then Gabrielle's eyes snapped open.
And she started screaming.
Blood curdling screams. Cries of pure terror that wracked her entire body. Shook the whole
bed. Her blue eyes were wild as she shouted so loudly that Hermione began to worry that the
sheer volume would summon the hotel staff.
"Shhhhh. It's okay, Gabrielle. I'm here. Hermione Granger, do you remember? I know your
sister."
When she would not stop crying, Hermione ran to the bathroom and brought back a glass of
water. But Gabrielle shook too hard to even take a sip, and the liquid spilled all over the bed.
She was inconsolable. And Hermione's own heart broke as her shouting descended into
weeping.
But she still had so many questions for the captured woman.
"How did they take you in the first place, Gabrielle? What were you still doing here in
France? I thought that the Order hasn't had safe houses here for years."
Eventually, Hermione began to make out barely distinguishable words within her cries.
"He… took… me..."
"Who took you?" Hermione probed gently, leaning closer and stroking the younger witch's
hair off of her face.
This time, she replied at once, voice shaking.
"Draco Malfoy."
"Oh," Hermione said with a relieved sigh, offering the glass again. No wonder Gabrielle was
so scared. Of course she would assume that Draco was part of the crush of Death Eaters that
attacked her in that dark ballroom.
"It's okay," she reassured. "Draco Malfoy rescued you from the Lestranges. You're safe now.
We got you out, and now I'll bring you back to the Order."
But instead of calming down, Gabrielle seemed even more frantic. She stumbled off the low
bed, and fell to the floor. The muzzle still resting on her lap caught on her dress, but she
threw it off as she crawled across the room to the window and yanked at the curtains.
"How… long have I been out?" she begged between sobs. "What day… what day is it?"
Hermione rushed to follow, sitting beside her and stroking the crying witch's back as she
answered.
"You were only unconscious for one day. It's December twenty-sixth. Boxing Day."
"Then it's too late! They're going to execute him!"
"Too late for what? Who are they killing?" Hermione asked, suddenly nervous.
But Gabrielle did not respond, and only continued to weep into Hermione's shoulder.
"You mean Moody, right?" Hermione guessed, connecting the dots. "Don't worry, he's
sleeping right outside the door. We also got him out before the Lestranges could hurt him."
"No."
"Then who?"
And finally Hermione heard Gabrielle whispering against her shoulder.
"Bill."
"What? No, that can't be right. I was with the Order only a few days ago. Bill's Fidelius
Charm is still active. He's alive."
At last, Gabrielle seemed to steady herself, and sat up on her knees. Blue eyes clear, but face
filled with anguish.
"After Rodolphus sealed my mouth, he kept me in meetings and had me serve him and the
others. I heard things. I heard them say that Theodore Nott took Spain last week. They found
our Scouts."
Gabrielle hunched over again, then continued hollowly, "Voldemort will execute Bill tonight,
to break his Fidelius Charm and attack Headquarters the moment he dies."
Now Hermione shot up.
Execute Bill Weasley? No wonder they sealed Gabrielle's mouth. She overheard a war-ending
plan. A devastating attack on the Order. Shell Cottage was not just a safe house—it was the
backbone of the resistance. If they lost it and the hundreds of fighters within, there would be
no Order.
They had to warn everyone.
Italy was out of the question. She had to find a faster way to send a message; try to recover
Bill; and then go straight to Headquarters. Evacuate as many people as possible.
Suddenly the note made sense.

Of course Draco knew. If he was part of a planned Death Eater attack, he had to know. But
why would he let her find out? If he intended to keep her away from Headquarters and out of
the fight, he should have just let her return to Italy without unlocking Gabrielle.
Draco knew that she would try to warn the Order. But handed her the truth anyway.
A flood of conflicting emotions tore through Hermione.
Anger that he did not tell her until the last possible minute; possibly even when it was too
late. The faintest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Draco intended to save more than
only her—to aid the resistance—or at least minimize the fallout.
But there was no time to think. They had to act. So Hermione turned back down to Gabrielle,
now collapsed into herself on the carpet. No longer crying, but barely moving. Catatonic.
"It's too far to apparate back to Headquarters or owl, and I only have a Portkey to Italy,"
Hermione explained urgently, pulling Gabrielle's face back up to stare into her dull eyes.
"Tell me where your safe houses are in France—it will be faster if we apparate there and use
a Floo connection to warn the Order to evacuate."
When Gabrielle still did not respond, Hermione pulled out her wand, and pressed it to the
witch's pale temple.
"I'm sorry, Gabrielle, but we need to hurry to stand any chance at saving Bill and the others.
If you can't speak, I'll try to use Legilimency. I need to know the locations of our closest safe
houses, so I can contact the French resistance."
But just as the spell was leaving her lips, Gabrielle finally spoke in a voice so defeated that it
was apparent to Hermione the young witch had already given up.
"I don't know. I wasn't in France when he took me."
"Then where were you?"
"Stirling. He took me when the Death Eaters attacked us last month."
Hermione froze. Stunned. Her wand fell from the witch's temple as she recoiled.
"You were in Scotland?"
"Yes," Gabrielle whispered, then closed her eyes again as she hunched over and spoke into
the floor.
"The Necromancer captured me in Stirling, then he came for me again at the Lestrange
mansion."
"No. I told you before," Hermione repeated. "Draco Malfoy is the one who saved you from
the mansion two nights ago."
"He's the one who put me there in the first place."
Hermione shot up to her feet and pressed both hands to her head. When the entire room
continued to spin, she held herself up using the curtains.
"You're confused, Gabrielle… It was pitch black in that ballroom and you were unconscious.
Bellatrix and a crowd of Death Eaters attacked. Draco rescued you from the Lestranges."
"I'm not confused. I wasn't unconscious the entire time and I heard his voice," said Gabrielle
tiredly.
"You're wrong. You don't know what you're saying!"
Hermione struggled to wrench open the window, but it was sealed shut. She clawed at the
jammed bolt, fumbling to lift the glass. To breathe.
"Hermione, I recognized him right away."
She needed air. Her lungs burned. Everything burned. She was suffocating.
"Draco Malfoy is the Necromancer."

Lies, Ferrets, and Draco Malfoy
Chapter Notes
Fair warning: this next arc will be pretty heartbreaking. I hope that you agree what
comes out the other end will be worthwhile. Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom and
sort out the hard stuff before you can move forward. These characters have quite a bit of
baggage to deal with, but what follows should feel more rewarding :)
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
And this the man that in his study sits.
***
The next few hours came in flashes. Flashes of pain and changing landscapes. Flashes of
grief. Hermione was barely aware of unyielding arms lifting her off the ground before her
vision went dark.
She was pressed against something firm—no—someone. Someone was carrying her over the
flaming grass of the valley. She felt his chest even through the thick robes. She did not feel
any heat.
Now frozen stone cooled her cheek. She struggled to peel one eye open to take in a cavernous
room. Lights flickered from thousands of candles floating in midair under a velvety black
ceiling dotted with stars—illuminating a glittering gold throne where a long table once stood.
"Since you did not finish her, you shall break her," hissed the figure seated on the throne.
A serpent slithered past her head, still pressed to the floor.
"Potter is dead. But his Mudblood knows about the rest. What they have done. What they
have destroyed. The holes where her friends hide like insects. Break her. Do whatever it
takes. But break her."
"Yes, My Lord."
The sound of waves crashed like claps of thunder. Wind whipped a curly strand of hair across
her face.
She was being carried again, his now familiar arms crushing her to him. As if at any second
she could drift into the ocean storming around them. The shadow of an impossibly high
fortress towered above.
A bitter torrent of sickness engulfed her as she was carried through a slit-like entrance
carved into the prison's stone face.
***
The Necromancer killed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
"Goldfinch!"
Draco would never kill his own parents.
"Hey, you need to tell us what happened. Please."
Draco was not the Necromancer.
"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
Except that he was.
"DAMN IT, HERMIONE. THAT'S ENOUGH! SNAP OUT OF IT!"
All of a sudden, Hermione felt hands on her shoulders, and her face was forced against
something hard. She blinked, trying to focus. But the room would not stop moving, as if she
was still being pulled across the continent by the charmed wine cork
"Don't be so rough with her, Impala! She's not well," urged another, gentler, voice that
Hermione vaguely registered as belonging to Pangolin.
"She was WELL enough to steal the Portkeys and disappear for two days!" raged Angelina,
pressing Hermione's cheek even harder against the wall.
"It's obvious where she went. She brought back Mad-Eye and Delacour."
"Yeah, and how do you think she did that? Probably ran off with… "
"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Pangolin shouted. "The fact is that she's back! And we're wasting
time. It's not enough that Headquarters is evacuating. We should warn every other safe house.
They may also be targeted today. So just leave her alone."
Hermione gasped as Angelina dug an elbow into her back, and snarled, "Then you go Floo
them, Pangolin! I'm not done here. Delacour won't tell us what happened." Angelina pressed
even harder. "So she needs to talk RIGHT NOW! "
The pressure released all at once, and Hermione swayed as Pangolin yanked Angelina away.
She turned her head and watched, dumbfounded, as the strawberry blond tackled Angelina to
the ground.
The two fought viciously, rolling across the room, struggling, until Pangolin expertly pinned
Angelina's arms under her knees and held a knife to her dark throat.
"GO AND WARN THE OTHER SHELTERS!" Pangolin ordered with such unexpected
roughness that even Hermione was jerked back to lucidity.
Angelina spat in the other witch's round face. "You don't fucking give me orders, SMITH."
"No, but I do."
All three looked up to see Blaise propped against the doorframe; face once again carved with
the long scar running from his eye down his neck.
With a snap of his gloved fingers, Pangolin’s knife vanished.
He stepped forward.
“As much as I love a good brawl, we're wasting time. Pangolin is right. We need to keep
spreading the word.” He nodded toward the two witches still staring murderously at each
other on the floor. “Both of you go now. Some of the Scottish houses still aren’t connected to
the Floo network. Impala—use the emergency Edinburgh Portkey. Pangolin will handle the
rest.”
"And you… " Now Blaise snapped his fingers at Hermione, collapsed against the wall.
"You're coming with me."
As Hermione tailed Blaise through the villa, she tried to suppress any thought of him.
She had been able to block all emotions just long enough to Portkey back to Italy and tell a
startled Pangolin to sound the alarm. But the moment that was done, her mental walls
crumbled and she found a quiet place to completely fall apart. Of course, it did not take long
for Angelina to corner her and demand answers.
But the answer was that Angelina was right. They were all right.
Draco unlocked Gabrielle's mouth and hand-delivered the missing piece himself. The reason
he spoke with her in Azkaban. The reason he cared for her, but not enough to join the Order.
The reason he still stood with his Dark Lord after his parents' murders.
Hundreds of questions and coded responses came surging back like a brutal deluge. The
hallway seemed as unsteady as her heartbeat. The colorfully tiled walls fused together, and
her eyes could barely pick out Blaise's dark braids swinging before her. All that she could see
was a swirl of vibrant greens, blues, and yellows—a rainbow of colors as intense as the
hurricane tearing through her mind.
The anger and heartbreak came as a pair. And then there was the betrayal.
Voldemort told Draco to break his captive.
So Draco imprisoned her in Azkaban.

They crossed through the front door and across the mason path. The lemon trees flanking the
driveway smelled sickly-sweet, making her stomach roil.
Draco was the only light in that dark cell. He saved her from herself. Kept her alive when she
was consumed by regret and guilt.
Draco comforted her, cared for her, and told her she was a part of him.
Now they walked down the terraced slope, and entered a row of creeping vines. Blaise
reached out to pick handfuls of grapes as he walked, casually popping them in his mouth.
Draco misled her for almost two years. Never telling her the whole truth, even after she
escaped. Invaded and manipulated her mind.
But she was not broken.
Not anymore.
Suddenly, Blaise paused in his tracks, and turned. He raised his dark eyebrows, and looked
her up and down, weighing her. Then he seemed to decide something, and drew his wand.
Hermione was faster.
She weaved to the side and aimed straight at Blaise's head.
"IMPERIO!"
He froze as soon as the curse landed. Something fell from his hand and smashed on the dirt.
Hermione did not look down, keeping her eyes locked on Blaise. Then, for the first time, she
felt his mind tied to hers. A smooth sensation linking them like a fine silk thread. She pulled,
and felt his free will bend, then submit.
She walked to him, ignoring the crunch of glass under her shoes, and pulled the redwood
wand from her other thigh holster.
"Tell me why you were already in Grenoble, and where you went as soon as the attack
started." As she spoke, she pressed the orange tip to Blaise's heart—so hard that the wood
started to bend against his taut chest.
His pupils dilated, but suddenly retracted. Hermione felt the thread connecting their minds
stretch, then snap.
Blaise smirked and the jagged mark on his cheek contorted. But he still answered.
"Same as you, I expect. To handle things myself. It was fucking reckless to risk the squad on
someone we couldn't even confirm was there."
Hermione removed her wand from his temple, unsurprised that she failed to hold Blaise for
more than a few seconds. But she tightened her grip on the longer handle, still pushed to his
heart, and hissed, "Explain everything."
Blaise peered down at the redwood wand and squinted. "That's Lestranges' wand, isn't it? I
think you're the one with some explaining to do, Killer."
"I brought back two hostages and gave the Knife information about a potential strike on Shell
Cottage. That's all any of you need to know."
Hermione jammed her wand in even harder, and a spark shot out, searing a hole in Blaise's
shirt. He did not flinch, even as the burn continued to widen, exposing the Sectumsempra
scars along his ebony chest.
"You should have warned us about the raid earlier. Or were you waiting to see who came out
on top tonight before choosing a side, Commander Zabini?"
He laughed. "Heard the speech, did you? Personally, I thought the whole guillotine thing was
a bit too on the nose."
Hermione felt both wands yanked from her hands as Blaise swept a heavy boot into her legs.
She toppled to the dirt—this time with no masked crowd between her and the brutal Second-
in-Command.
"Incarcerous!"
Then Blaise was on her. She wheezed as he braced a knee against her chest, and forced both
bound arms above her head.
"The Captain knows exactly what I am, Mudblood," he said, eyes glinting. "The one she's not
so sure about… is you."
Hermione glowered up at Blaise as he flipped her right hand palm up, took in her curse mark,
then laughed.
"Looks like this time your Death Eater boyfriend did a better job at keeping your mouth
distracted."
Hermione cursed but Blaise continued, now flashing her a simpering smile.
"You really are a hypocrite accusing me of playing both sides, Granger. We all have a reason
for doing what we do. How about I don't ask yours, if you leave mine alone?"
"I know that you were part of the raid on Stirling, so why didn't you save Gabrielle from
being taken at all? Rodolphus said you were… "
"How about you tell me where you were for the last twenty-four hours?" he interrupted. "And
for what it's worth, I didn't know about Bill Weasley and the attack on Headquarters. The
Dark Lord never tells all of us his plans. In fact, he usually feeds us different information. It
makes it easier to catch a traitor. I assume if I am called to serve tonight, I won't feel it until
immediately before the attack."
Without waiting for a response, Blaise banished the ropes. With another flick of his wand, he
summoned a wine bottle and plopped onto the grass beside Hermione—still untangling
herself. He took a swig, and pursed his dark lips. Then he shook the bottle in front of her
scowling face.
"By the way, fuck you for assaulting me and breaking the first one. It was vintage."
She looked over and saw a wet patch of red dirt and splintered glass at Blaise's feet. The sight
only made her angrier.
"This isn't the time to be drinking," she hissed, trying to grab the wine out of his hand.
"Not the time to be hiding in the basement and yelling at the wall either, but to each their
own."
Blaise handed her the bottle with a mean wink. Hermione repressed her impulse to throw it
on the ground again. Instead, she took a sip, grimacing at the sourness.
They sat there for a while, passing the wine back and forth. Not speaking. Brooding.
There were no tears anymore. Not for Draco. He deceived her, plain and simple. "Saved her"
from the very punishment he enforced. "Rescued" Gabrielle from the same people he gave
her to in the first place.
Executed his own parents…
When Hermione's head started to spin again, she jerked the bottle away from Blaise's
outstretched hand and took another deep drink. "I hate that damn ferret."
Blaise snorted.
"You already knew that Draco is the Mouth," she accused.
"What? He is? Since when?"
Hermione glared at him. Blaise sniffed and regarded her out of the corner of his eye.
"Don't act like you didn't know either, Granger. If anyone knew, it was you."
"If that's what you thought, then why didn't you ever say anything?"
"I figured you were trying to protect him, for some stupid reason. Clearly he was trying to
protect you," Blaise shot back, jerking a finger toward his scars.
"He's a demon who murdered his own parents."
Now Blaise summoned a rectangular bottle of a darker liquid, reading the label then
uncorking it with a flourish. "You want to know what I did in Scotland? I murdered people.
Just like the perfect little Death Eater that you know I am. And I'm guessing you didn't leave
France with clean hands either, Goldfinch."
Blaise shoved the flask of Firewhiskey into Hermione's hand.

"Well I didn't know the truth about Draco. He lied to me."
"You lied to yourself," Blaise retorted, voice suddenly cold.
He stood, dusted the dirt from his uniform and used his wand to repair the singed fabric.
Hermione sprang to her feet, but Blaise had already started walking down the row of trellises.
She stalked after him, staggering from the wine, but determined.
"And what the hell do you know about it?" she shouted.
"Obviously more than you."
As they moved deeper into the vineyard, Hermione realized that Blaise was headed straight
for the long wooden structure at its center—looking as strange and deserted as ever. Every
window was still tightly curtained despite the mid-morning hour. And even her unsteady eyes
could not pick out a single sign of movement around the charmed perimeter.
She sped up, yanking Blaise back by his sleeve.
"I'm guessing you're going to refuse to tell me what you're hiding in that 'distillery'?"
He shrugged her off, and spoke in an unusually even voice.
"Nothing is black or white, Mudblood. Especially in war. That building is my reason. Why I
happily did what I had to in Scotland, and for the last five years. But if you want to know
Malfoy's reason, then you're asking the wrong person."
"I know enough. I know that I want to kill him."
Blaise kept walking toward the distillery as he replied, "Well, if that's what you actually want,
then you won't have to wait long. They're going to target him tonight."
"What?"
Blaise wrenched open a narrow door. Hermione peered inside, but could only see an inky
passage. He stretched his lean arm across the frame, blocking her way as he spoke.
"It was too dangerous to fully evacuate the hospital wing. Most of the patients can't be moved
enough to make it past the anti-apparition boundary line, and they could splinch. There wasn't
time to add a new Floo connection or Portkeys. So the Council voted to use it as an
opportunity to keep the entire Infantry behind and launch a counteroffensive. If the Scouts
don’t find Weasley in time and the Fidelius Charm breaks, our entire ground force will be
ready to catch the Death Eaters off guard. Kingsley and the Captain have been working on a
strategy for months to deal with the Mouth. Tonight is their best chance to neutralize him."
As Blaise detailed the Order's plan, the humid air grew increasingly heavy. Unbearably
dense. So that Hermione felt as if she had to use twice as much effort to force air into her
lungs.
But Draco deserved this.
Everything was falling into place for a deadly trap that Draco brought on himself. The
Necromancer was sure to be at the raid since he always appeared without fail. And this time,
they knew when to strike and could attack on their own terms. They could cripple the entire
vile regime by suffocating its Mouth.
He deserved to suffer.
He imprisoned and betrayed her, then played with her heart.
And maybe there was some truth to what Blaise said. Maybe she never once asked Draco if
he was the Necromancer because she did not want to confront that unforgivable answer.
But now that she did, this stabbing pain in her chest, the ache in her head—they would end
with him.
Die with him tonight.
And if she was a part of him, then it was time to take it back.
"Why are you telling me about the counterstrike?" Hermione asked in a voice that was barely
more than an empty whisper.
Blaise gave her a knowing smile.
"Because if anyone has the right to kill that pasty ferret, it's you."
Memories | Visions
How now, sir knight! why, I had thought thou hadst been a bachelor,
but now I see thou hast a wife, that not only gives thee horns,
but makes thee wear them. Feel on thy head.
***
The boy perched on a wall overlooking the shore. His small hands shook with the bitter cold
as he sifted through a small pile of stones. When he found the flattest one, he curved his wrist,
then snapped his hand toward the churning ocean. The stone bounced twice before it was
engulfed by a wave. He sighed, then ran sandy fingers through his light hair.
"Time to go back home to the Manor, dear. It would be rude to keep the guests waiting any
longer."
The woman stepped out of an attractively simple seaside house set back from the craggy
shore. White paneling covered the exterior, leading up to a slanted roof lined with arched
dormer windows.
But the boy did not turn to face the woman or the house. Instead, he picked through the pile
of stones again as he spoke.
"This is home, and I'm not going anywhere."
The woman's blue eyes sparkled playfully as she pulled on gloves and strode back through
the doorway.
"A shame, because your father and I are leaving. If you choose not to go with us, that means
you will stay here alone, Draco."
The door thudded shut and the boy tensed at the sound. At the threat.
Then he continued to skip stones across the slate-colored water.
***
"It's time to go, Goldfinch."
Hermione opened her eyes, and looked up to see Pangolin's friendly smile breaking through
the shadows at the top of the cellar stairs. She pushed herself off the curved side of an
overturned wine barrel, and walked toward the steps.
After spending most of the daylight reforging the prison within her mind, rebuilding her
shattered Occlumency walls, she must have fallen asleep and dreamt of him. Probably the
result of no rest and too much liquor.
While troubled that her subconscious wandered back to him, Hermione was relieved that they
had not actually spoken.
She continued to reseal her thoughts and emotions as they navigated the country villa, even
as Pangolin chattered brightly, "Lynx is already outside. Impala is still in Scotland helping
her old squad, so she won't see the three of us leave. It's better that way, after what
happened."
"I appreciate what you did earlier," said Hermione. "You stood up for me without even
knowing the full story."
Pangolin's rosy cheeks dimpled. "Of course. But in return, please don't use my surname. I
understand why Impala was angry, but we all need to be more careful, especially now. I'll
admit Smith is a common name, but my folks don't know where I am, and I never want them
to find out."
"Do you ever miss them?"
"Every single day."
"If you don't mind me asking, why did you join the Knife? You said before that you were one
of the newest members."
"Well," Pangolin replied, running a hand through her spiky hair as she considered, "unlike a
lot of people, I never really had one big motivation. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
So here I am."
Hermione nodded, eyeing the witch. Like at Little Hangleton, Pangolin had two gilded blades
fastened across her chest—larger than knives, but not quite swords. She also noticed that one
was slightly longer than the other.
Pangolin followed her gaze, and explained, "They're called scimitar. These two are enchanted
and have been in my family for generations, so I prefer not to waste them in practice. They
only come out for special occasions."
"I noticed you don't use your wand very much either," commented Hermione, tightening the
straps on her weapon holsters as she walked.
"I used to, but being a part of the Knife has made me realize that magic is more than a stick
of wood. Wands are simply one way to channel what's already inside of us just waiting to
come out. So why limit yourself like that, right?"
"Right."
Dusk was falling when they emerged onto the estate grounds. Hermione could barely make
out Blaise's dark figure atop one of the tallest hills. But once they drew closer, her heart
plummeted.
In lieu of the close-fitting Knife uniform, Blaise was cloaked in flowing black robes that
faded into the shadowy ground. His thick black shirt and trousers were etched with elaborate
silver threading. A draping hood completely covered his long braids, while leather gloves
concealed his rich skin. But he was still spinning his Death Eater mask on a finger as they
approached.
"You were summoned," said Hermione darkly, phrasing it as a statement, not a question.
Blaise's face tensed as he jerked his head toward his sleeved forearm. "Meaning that the Dark
Lord still has Weasley," he finished.
"Then it's too late for Bill," Hermione murmured, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt tears
starting to form.
"So let's make it count and take down as many of them as possible. It's all we can do, and we
won't have a better shot than tonight." As she spoke, Pangolin donned her black hood and
pulled out a rusty hammer.
Hermione raised her eyebrows at the tool, then Blaise.
"Gloves off," he instructed. "The Order suspended all Portkeys directly to Headquarters. But
we have one that will take us to Fossa's safe house—which just so happens to be the only
Floo access point connected to the depths below base."
"I thought the Order deactivated that point when his farm was compromised?"
Blaise drew his ivory wand and pressed the skull mask to his face. "They did. Pangolin has
clearance to reconnect the fireplace. The farm could be swarming with Death Eaters since it
isn't far from Cornwall. I'll take care of them while you two get to the barn."
Hermione nodded grimly. Pangolin placed the hammer between them. They each held a bare
hand right above it.
"Three," said Blaise.
"Two," Pangolin whispered, continuing the countdown.
Hermione pulled up her hood and steeled her nerves.
"One."
***
They slid into the sprawling crop field—recognizable from hundreds of hours of combat
practice in spite of the fading light. Pangolin and Hermione dropped beneath the wheat, while
Blaise straightened his Death Eater mask and walked ahead, using hand signals to guide them
toward the barn.
Hermione had just spotted the faint shape of the overturned tractor marking the edge of the
farmyard when Blaise halted, and motioned for them to stay down. A second later, voices cut
through the silence.
"Who's there?
"That you, Nott?"
"No," Blaise responded harshly. "It's Zabini. I'm taking charge. Nott's group was moved to
the apparition point east of Cornwall. We'll attack from the North."
"Oh. Understood, Commander."
"How many of us are here?"
"Fifty, not including you. But we're still expecting some stragglers from Marseille. They
should arrive any minute."
Hermione saw Blaise nod, then order, "Gather everyone at the white buildings across the
field. We'll divide into groups and apparate right outside of the terrorist base as soon as the
Mark burns."
They heard dozens of feet and voices move into the field beyond. Blaise followed without
looking back. But Pangolin gave Hermione a reassuring smile from where she lay on the
ground. When the sound of the Death Eaters' footsteps died out, they rose and sprinted
toward the dark outline of the barn.
Its massive wooden doors were propped open. Pangolin entered first while Hermione
guarded the entrance. The taste of bitterness filled her mouth as she surveyed the darkening
property. Losing the farm was likely also Draco's doing. After taking her to the Manor, he
probably returned to the graveyard wearing the red shroud over his skull mask, and used
necromancy to attack Fossa's squad within the Crypt. She tightened her hold on her wand,
and took a deep breath.
A few minutes passed before Hermione heard the all clear, and edged inside.
Pangolin was kneeling at the center of the airy structure. Using her wand to do something to
the fireplace that Hermione could not see. She backed closer toward Pangolin, continuing to
monitor the door.
WHOOSH
Hermione spun around at the sound, and her eyes landed on the far corner of the barn—at
least twenty masked Death Eaters stood in a tight circle. A few fell to the straw-covered floor
as they lost hold of a boot that must be their long-range Portkey.
The Marseille unit.
"They'll see us any second," Hermione hissed to Pangolin, watching the crowd from where
they hid behind the stone fireplace. "I'll hold them off, but you need to hurry."
"No," Pangolin responded, voice low. "We kill everyone or we risk them following us
through the fireplace right into Headquarters."
Hermione's stomach turned. But she extracted the redwood wand and felt the predicted surge
of manic heat even through the fabric of her glove. She gripped the handle firmly and tried to
think of a last-minute strategy. Although fire was the simplest solution, it was too risky to use
inside the barn. The entire wooden building was basically a tinderbox. Burning it was as
likely to destroy them as the Death Eaters. She had just made up her mind when Pangolin
drew both golden blades and flashed a hand signal, whispering, "Now."
Hermione sprinted to the left while Pangolin took the right. Though outnumbered, they had
the advantage of catching the Death Eaters off guard. Hermione swept her wand across the
length of the crowd, casting a wordless charm.
"Arresto Momentum."
Hands slowed and feet stopped, even while the Death Eaters' eyes tracked the other shadowy
witch charging toward them. As if the entire unit was caught in liquid molasses. Hermione
continued to hold her powerful immobilizing charm while Pangolin flew straight through
their center, blades gleaming from the reflection of dozens of skull masks. As she ran, her
scimitars left a trail of shallow slices through robes and across stomachs.
Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the resulting chaos. The bodies of every Death Eater
carved by Pangolin's longer blade began to swell and distend, like overinflated balloons. At
the same time, anyone cut by her shorter blade wasted away, shriveling as if they had not
eaten in months.
Within a minute, half of the French unit was on the ground—brought down by the strawberry
blond's cursed wounds.
"Finite Incantatem!"
Hermione's immobilization charm broke when one of the Death Eaters moved his mouth
enough to form the counterspell and free any survivors. All at once, flashes of destructive
green and red burst through the air. Pangolin sheathed her blades and jumped to the side.
Hermione threw a shielding charm in front of her as she dashed the opposite direction and
rolled behind a low cattle trough.
"Resistance is still here!" a sharp voice shouted into the colorful air.
"SHIT! They got Fournier!"
"How many are there now?"
"Doesn't matter, call the others."
Hermione stuck her head out from behind the trough and shot a severing charm at the first
Death Eater she saw placing a wand to his Dark Mark.
Blood erupted from the line of impact, and her eyes widened.
She had only meant to cut his arm, but her spell cleaved his body nearly in half. His right side
slid to the floor, and the rest toppled after. She stared down at Rodolphus's volatile wand in
stunned horror.
A second later, another rough voice cut through her shock.
"MORSMORDRE!"
Streaks of vibrant emerald light pierced through the gaps in the ceiling as a massive skull and
serpent materialized above the barn. Hermione jumped back to her feet and ran when her ears
picked up movement on all sides. It would not be long until the rest of Blaise's unit saw the
Mark and came back. Straight toward them, and the fireplace.
Failure.
There was nothing else to do but take down as many Death Eaters as possible; prevent them
from ever joining Voldemort's army at Shell Cottage.
Hermione pulled out a knife. She dove and slid across the dusty ground, reverting to her
practiced method of slicing legs and ankles.
"Imperio!"
"Imperio!"
Three wills became one as she tugged her curse's silk threads and seized control of their
minds.
"Leave and tell the others you signaled by mistake. Then report that the rest of the Marseille
group already left for the Mudblood hunt," she directed. A cloaked witch and wizard turned
slowly and walked toward the open barn doors. The ruse would probably buy them a few
minutes at best, but Blaise might understand.
"Let them pass!" Hermione shouted at Pangolin, as she saw the other witch charge the two
retreating Death Eaters. Pangolin nodded and backtracked to attack another man.
BANG
A spell misfired and hit the sloped roof.
Hermione was racing toward a Death Eater, knife already leaving her hand, when the entire
barn was flooded in a sickly green. Dust and splinters filled the air. Any screams were
drowned out by the ear-piercing CRACKS of wood splitting. Heavy planks and beams rained
down from the rafters overhead
"WATCH OUT!"
A sudden onslaught of cold flooded Hermione's body.
Then everything went black.

***
They were resting on a blanket spread over the warm sand. Hands tangled together; listening
to the ebb and flow of the tide; faces angled toward each other instead of the bright summer
sun. The woman was slowly closing her eyes, drifting off to sleep, when the man leaned over
and lifted her jaw.
Her eyes flickered open and she smiled as she took in his devilish grin. He ran a smooth
thumb over her parted lips, then reached down and locked her in a breathtaking kiss. Every
muscle relaxed and her whole body seemed to melt into the molten ground.
He pressed harder while his other hand slithered under her back, arching her closer.
Something electric hot stirred deep within her core as she was pulled into his firm arms.
Now his mouth and hands traveled downward, and she could sense even the faintest caress of
his tongue on her throat. Feel the scrape of each and every grain of sand as his long fingers
traced teasing circles around her pounding chest.
Then his white-blond hair loosened and fell forward, tickling the skin along her neck, and her
sighs dissolved into laughs.
The man propped himself up on his elbows above the woman, glaring at her as she choked
back giggles. He yanked a curl on her head, and twisted it around his finger with a mean
smile.
"Quiet, or you'll wake her up," he scolded, pointing his chin toward the top of the blanket.
The woman stifled her laughter at once, then slid up the blanket and gently lifted a swathed
bundle, propping the infant's tiny head against her arm. Folding the fabric away from her
sleeping face.
"It's your fault you know," she said. "You promised we were just coming out here to take an
afternoon nap. I should have known better than to believe you, liar."
"I never lied."
The woman snorted, then glanced worriedly down to see if the sound was enough to shake
the child out of her slumber.
"I don't think I'm very good at this whole motherhood thing," she confessed. "It's the same as
magic—I can read a million guides, but practical application has always been the problem."
"I'm sure you'll still be better at parenting than me, just like you came first at everything in
school. That's not what I worry about the most."
The woman sat up straighter, searching the man's gray eyes, and asked, "Then what worries
you?"
He lowered his hand toward the infant, brushing a piece of wispy black hair off her warm
forehead. "I'm not looking forward to the day our child asks why she doesn't look like either
of us."
"So we tell her the truth," the woman said, and passed the sleeping bundle to the man. He
nervously held the infant against his chest as she continued. "We tell her that, regardless of
blood, we love her just the same. We tell her that she is still a part of both of us."
"And what if that isn't enough?" the man asked warily.
Instead of answering right away, the woman turned to watch the cobalt waves slowly roll into
the sandy shore. And an overwhelming feeling of peace flowed into her soul.
"It will be, because she'll remember every single time we say her name."
"Lucille Jean Malfoy," replied the man, eyes softening.
"Little Lucy," the woman smiled, leaning her head against the man's shoulder, and reaching
out to hold their daughter's cheek.
***
"Goldfinch! Can you hear me? Try to open your eyes. Lynx, you need to help. Oh hell, there's
so much blood…"
"Move her out of the way and get back to the fireplace. I'll stabilize her while you reconnect
to Headquarters. You need to Floo as soon as it's ready, then immediately seal the other end."
"She's not going to make it. Not like this."
"Pull it together, Pangolin. The Order can heal her if you get back to base. But you need to
work fast. The rest of the unit will be here any second. We saw the Dark Mark."
"I can't move her at all. She's bleeding too much."
Hermione barely heard the witch's desperate cries. Felt no pain as the blood drained from her
cracked head into the straw-covered earth.
Instead, she used every last drop of energy divining a future that could not exist, and
whispering the name of a soulmate who was not meant to be.
"Draco."
Lex Talionis
Chapter Notes
Thank you everyone for the comments. They always bring a goofy smile to my face.
We're getting deep into the Shell Cottage battle arc now. Two more chapters left in this
arc, where you'll finally be getting some answers.
There is no chief but only Belzebub;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
***
Almost as soon as her eyes opened, Hermione was out of the bed. Squinting under the harsh
glare of the hospital ward lights and refastening her wands and knives. She immediately
recognized that Pangolin was not there, but something else felt wrong.
Hermione counted her remaining weapons and did not find any missing, yet could not shake
the sense that she had forgotten something heartbreaking. Lost sight of something incredibly
important.
A brutal pain shot through her head, and her hand moved toward the source. Her fingers
brushed along a wide scar stretching across the entire base of her skull. She sucked in air
through gritted teeth until the throbbing subsided. But she was alive, and she would be
damned before she slept through the fight.
It had been almost two years since she last joined an Infantry battle, and so much had
changed. This time, she would not watch loved ones die as she hid under a cloak. And if he…
if Draco … found her first, she would drag him to hell before he could imprison or betray her
again.
So Hermione steadied herself and walked through the rows of half-filled cots.
She paused when her eyes locked on Ginny—still laying unresponsive in the exact same
position. Flaming red hair tangled around her wan face. Not moving.
CRASH
A quake shook the entire room, and beds skidded across the floor. People screamed and fell
to the ground. The sterile lights flickered and went out. Order healers ran through the mess,
casting illumination charms and helping patients back into bed.
Hermione's stomach dropped at the knowledge that the attack already started.
At the confirmation that their Secret Keeper was dead.
She knelt beside Ginny's cot, and pressed her blood-stained forehead to her friend's as she put
her emotions into words. "I'm sorry that when you wake up, your brother won't be here
anymore. He was brave, and he loved you. He should still be here. They should all still be
here."
Tears dropped from her eyes onto Ginny's thin hospital sheets, but she did not move to wipe
them. Hermione stayed like that for a short time—heads pressed together, eyes closed,
willing Ginny to understand and giving them both a moment to mourn amidst the chaos. But
when another, stronger tremor rolled through, Hermione knew that it was time to leave. So
she squeezed Ginny's limp hand, stood, and sprinted out of the hospital room.
She was already well into the corridor beyond when a voice called out.
"Hermione! Wait up."
Without stopping, she turned. And only then recognized both the pursuing man and the fact
that she forgot to pull up her hood.
Charlie matched her speed, then grabbed her wrist and pulled her to a stop. Hermione looked
up and saw the grief painted across his gentle face.
At the sight, her mind flew to a lopsided house on a hill. A tipsy staircase stuffed with
bedrooms. A snug, cluttered kitchen filled with pans and wicker baskets, but no laughter. To
the Burrow, now emptier than ever before.
Without a second thought, Hermione stepped into Charlie. Pulling him close. The hard metal
of his Infantry chestplate dug into her ribs, so she wrapped her arms around his neck.
He instantly broke down in her embrace. Shaking uncontrollably. Pouring hot tears and
anguished words into her neck.
"I abandoned him."
"That's just not true," she soothed.
"They couldn't reach him in time. I should have been there. If I hadn't left Madrid, left the
Scouts, none of this would have happened. I would have stopped Nott from catching them,
and Bill would still be alive."
Hermione ran a hand down Charlie's heaving back. "You don't know that. If anything—if you
stayed—you could have been taken as well. Ginny needs you here, so don't feel guilty for
leaving."
Now she lifted his face and held his warm brown eyes. "We had no way to know what
Voldemort was planning until it was almost too late. But we still have enough time to protect
what's left."
Charlie squared his shoulders, and regulated his breathing. Even the small effort seemed to
take another piece of something irreplaceable out of him.
Despite easily rising through the Order's ranks, Charlie was not made for war. Hermione's
gaze fell to his hands, now scarred more by humans than dragons, and her eyes hardened at
the sight.
"The Scouts couldn't find the others," Charlie replied at last. "They still have George and
Fleur."
"So we rescue them after we get through tonight. Right after we make the Death Eaters pay,"
said Hermione, grabbing Charlie by his rough hand.
Then, before he could protest or tell her to go back, she led him through the dark tunnel.
Headquarters was almost entirely empty. Only a few frantic healers and armored Order
guards still remained underground. As they tore through the winding corridors, Charlie
detailed the Council's strategy.
"The Fidelius Charm broke five hours ago. The Death Eaters came almost immediately. Most
of our anti-apparition spells were tied to Bill's protection, so those are fading as well. They'll
be gone by the morning. Right now we're in the first phase of the Captain's ground plan."
He hesitated, then continued. "Our priorities are to defend Headquarters and destroy the dead
as soon as they fall. We don't know when the Necromancer will appear this time, so we're not
giving him the chance to resurrect before we're ready."
Now they were at the base of the spiral staircase leading up to Shell Cottage. As they
ascended, Hermione felt relieved that she was able to keep up with Charlie's fast climb
despite her head injury. Relieved that she could still fight.
"What do you mean before we're ready?" she asked.
Charlie spoke without looking back. "The research unit spent the past year studying old
Pensieve memories of his earliest battles. They discovered that he relies more heavily on
reviving already present corpses than we previously thought. When he summons the undead
to battle using Hellfyre, or casts other types of dark magic, he seems drained. As if the blood
magic Voldemort used to create his abilities restricts his power. The signs are barely
noticeable, but they exist. He becomes slower. More vulnerable. That's our opening."
Hermione instantly thought back to how utterly exhausted Draco looked after their attack on
the Lestrange Château. The lines on his face. The deep circles under his eyes.
The Order's researchers could be correct. Using anything other than his necromantic powers
seemed to hurt Draco. The dark curse he spoke to kill a hundred Death Eaters in the
ballroom, while sinister, was not necromancy. And she doubted that any method he used to
find Gabrielle involved reviving the dead. He was clever enough to ensure the entire night
resembled a terrorist attack. But the next morning she saw firsthand how much Draco
suffered for that decision.
"So what will the Order do when he appears?"
They were almost to the top of the staircase before Charlie answered, "Without any nearby
dead to revive, he'll be forced to summon Inferi from elsewhere or use other magic. And we
won't stop him, regardless of the cost. Once he shows any hint of weakness, our sealing team
will contain him using immobilization charms and shields."
The heavy circular door of the exit hatch was wide open. This near, Hermione could clearly
make out the jarring sounds of screaming and dying. She tugged Charlie to a stop and
secured the cloth shrouding her face.
"Tell me the next part. I need to know everything before we go out there."
Charlie's face tensed, and he grabbed her by both shoulders, speaking urgently. "Neville sent
me a Patronus when he saw you in the hospital wing, and I disobeyed instructions to come
down. But I had to know you were alive. It feels like you're hurt every time I see you." He
tightened his grip. "You're not part of the ground forces, so why are you here?"
"Tell me how the plan ends," she repeated, holding his gaze.
When Charlie declined to respond, Hermione spoke again, voice firm. "I came back to kill
him."
For all their time together, they had never truly spoken about the man in Hermione's head—
the one who Charlie spent hundreds of hours teaching her to block. To resist. He was like an
unspoken blight on her mind. An unmentionable. Hermione never asked how much of the
truth Charlie learned from breaking through her shields during practice; was not even sure if
he knew that she had spoken with Draco, and not his father. But Charlie likely knew enough.
He drew in a deep breath, and his grip on her shoulders tightened. "I meant what I said
before. You don't have to do everything yourself, Hermione."
"Nothing you say will stop me from walking out there tonight."
The muscles in Charlie's hands seemed to loosen one at a time. But eventually he released her
shoulders. Then he moved to the side, reluctantly clearing the way to the exit hatch. He did
not meet her eyes or speak as she walked through.
They emerged onto the battlefield, and Hermione was immediately struck by the impression
that she must have been unconscious for much longer than five hours. The entire area was so
bright that it looked closer to noon than midnight. Yet there was no sun shining above the
chaos. Instead, a heavy layer of smoke hung over the entire plateau, refracting every streak of
deadly light; every curse and spell. Magically illuminating the darkness.
They walked further into the smoky air, and Hermione flinched as she took in the ruins of
Bill and Fleur's house. The whole front section and roof were missing—blown apart during
the battle. Its few remaining walls, once bedecked in beautiful whitewashed seashells, were
now riddled with holes and scorch marks.
Then the ground began to shake as massive, beastly titans lumbered across the flattened
earth, shaking the entire war zone and crushing fighters with every colossal step. Even their
thunderous screams were enough to blast attackers off their feet. Several hills opposite the
cliffside were already completely leveled.
Voldemort had sent his giants.
CRASH
Hermione fell to her knees as something large barrelled past her and the entire ground
quaked. A cloud of dust and debris blew through the ruins, and Charlie's brown eyes
disappeared along with the rest of her surroundings.
He was still nowhere in sight as Hermione weaved through the chaos, but she had to keep her
eyes down to avoid stepping on a carpet of corpses. She recoiled when she saw that every
single one was missing its head—Hestia's crude tactic to prevent Draco from reanimating the
fallen. The grass covering the plateau was drenched in so much gore that her boots sank with
each stride.
She quickly found a spot in the trenches of the Infantry's defensive line, moving to fill a
vacant position. Raising a shield in front of her face, but leaving enough of a gap to throw
curses around the sides. The fighters flanking Hermione gave her strange, confused looks
when she joined, but quickly refocused on guarding their own sections.
At first it was difficult to fight using both wands—like trying to stare in two different
directions. It felt inefficient; distracting. But eventually she fell into a pattern: using the cedar
to protect against close-range attacks, and aiming the longer redwood to send fire toward
distant Death Eaters.
It worked. They were holding the line.
"DEPLOY ONLY DEFENSIVE AND NON-FATAL SPELLS FOR THE NEXT MINUTE,
THEN RESUME!"
Hermione spun around just in time to see Hestia's recognizable silver bulldog Patronus run
down the row of Infantry, repeating the directive. A moment later, a group of Order fighters
climbed out of the trenches and ran out onto the battlefield, beheading any newly fallen
Death Eaters.
Hermione was careful to avoid hitting them, and paused using her redwood wand entirely
until they retreated back into formation.
They repeated that same cycle so many times that Hermione lost count. Bodies began to pile
high enough to form a gruesome wall, until she could barely see the battle raging beyond.
However, she knew better than to think that the Order was taking the lead—the trenches on
her sides were slowly filling with dead allies, and their line was stretching thinner and
thinner.
But the giants and Death Eaters kept coming, making it painfully clear that Voldemort was
throwing everything he could at what he intended to be the Order's last stand.
While easiest to hit, the giants were hardest to bring down. When one approached, they
demanded the attention of every wand in the immediate area, and some still broke through.
At one point, a boulder crashed right into the witch defending Hermione's right, crushing her
into the ground. Hermione did not need to further disfigure that body. Instead she just
clenched her jaw and shifted to cover the fallen woman's position.
And the entire time, Death Eaters slipped in and out of the smoke, firing lethal curses then
vanishing before their targets could strike back.
Not seeing any end in sight, Hermione began to ration her use of dark magic and
Unforgivables. Choosing instead to rely on more regulation spell work. But as the hours
passed, she felt her reserves slowly dwindle.
Eventually, she caught a flash of movement to her left, and turned to see the silver bulldog
charging behind the trenches again.
"SEALING AND STRIKE TEAMS, FALL BACK TO ASSEMBLY POINT!"
At the Captain's command, a third of the fighters lowered their wands and followed the
silvery form of the Patronus. As soon as they were gone, the remaining Infantry moved to fill
in any gaps.
Hermione considered holding her position for less than a second, before she stepped back and
sprinted after the retreating teams.
She followed them to the cliff behind the partially-demolished cottage. The landscape here
was mostly untouched, and Hermione's mind immediately flew to the past—to her flying
lessons with Charlie, recognizing the exact spot where he pulled her off the edge to sail above
the waves. But now the dark water was obscured by clouds and smoke. And parts of the
craggy bluff were starting to break apart and collapse into the ocean as the giants drew closer
to the front line.
She turned when a hand grasped her back. Charlie looked down at her, freckles barely visible
under streaks of dirt and blood. A rarely-seen hardness haunted his face.
"Everything happened so fast, and I couldn't find you. Are you hurt?" he asked, eyes fierce as
he inspected Hermione for injuries, as if she had just fallen off her broomstick again, and not
been fighting in active combat.
Hermione replied with a stiff smile. "I'm fine."
He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to reconsider, and his hand dropped from her
back.
She saw a gleam of something gold next to his head, and peered past to confirm her
suspicion.
Pangolin stood among a group of Infantry fighters, wiping blood from her dual blades. She
spotted Hermione and her face lit up. Then she walked over, saying, "I knew you were too
tough to die, but that was quite the blow to the head. Lynx was seriously worried."
"Thank you for getting me out. Where is the Second?"
"He stayed back at the farm, so he's probably out there doing what he needs to for his other
assignment." Pangolin pointed toward the battlefield.
Hermione felt Charlie watching them as they spoke, but they all knew better than to attempt
introductions. Instead, he gave Pangolin a small nod, which she returned.
A powerful voice rang out and the three turned to face Hestia, emerging from the smoke.
Short black hair slick with sweat. Shining armor stained red. Black eyes blazing.
Hermione's eyebrows rose as she noticed Ishida Ren's taller profile behind the Captain. She
seldom saw the intimidating wizard outside of the Council room. But Kingsley must have
judged the situation dire enough to risk two Order leaders.
"We have fewer left than I would have liked," Hestia snarled, taking her place at the center of
the fighters and counting. "But we still have more than enough for the next stages."
Then Hestia's eyes landed on Pangolin and Hermione, whose black Knife uniforms easily
stuck out in a sea of crimson and armor.
Hestia paused, and a few people glanced around, confused. After a beat, she spoke again.
"The Necromancer may already be out there fighting as an ordinary Death Eater. We can't
assume that he will follow the typical pattern and only use necromancy after the rest of
Voldemort's army retreats. We will split into two teams to cover more ground. My sealing
team will attempt to secure him before he makes the first move. Once contained, we will
restrain his hands and feet, then bind his mouth."
Now Hestia drew a sharp, bone-colored blade from her belt, and handed it to Ren. He gripped
it and his cat-like eyes narrowed as the Captain continued to speak. "Councilman Ishida will
lead the strike team. Since we cannot confirm if the target is a Horcrux, we will not take any
chances. The researchers created these knives out of Basilisk teeth coated in venom. As soon
as my team secures the target, the strike team will pierce his brain and heart, then burn his
body with Fiendfyre."
Without warning, Hermione doubled over as a jolt of pain shot through her chest. Like a
thorn lodged deep beneath her muscle. Her vision blurred, so she focused on feeling the solid
ground beneath her shoes. Biting back any weakness and hesitation. Any doubt.
Locking away any lingering emotions.
When she wrenched herself back upright, her eyes flashed to the surrounding crowd, spotting
dozens of the strange white weapons holstered to thighs and arms. Every fighter with one
began to move into rank behind Ren.
A second later, another explosion shook the earth, and a large chunk of the cliffside tumbled
into the black ocean behind Hestia. But she did not flinch as she raised her voice and
commanded, "The Death Eaters came here tonight to strangle the Order. Now we prove that
we still bite back. We are all that stands between Voldemort and a continent built on bigotry
and hate. WE ARE THE VANGUARD. LET'S GIVE 'EM HELL!"
Hermione and Pangolin did not join in the ensuing chorus of yells. Instead, they stood
straight as the dark-haired Captain glared at them and approached.
"Figures you two would think of a way to get here despite direct orders to stay out of the
country."
Pangolin coughed nervously, caught in Blaise's apparent lie about having permission to
access the Floo network.
Hestia snorted, "Well since you are here, both of you come with me and join my sealing
unit."
Now she looked at Hermione. "The original plan was to wait until we saw Inferius signs, but
I know that you can find him for us. We can save time and lives if you draw him out. Make
him reveal himself before the other Death Eaters have the opportunity to get out of his way."
Then the Captain turned, gesturing two fingers behind her shoulder. Leading them and the
rest of her team toward the trenches.
Pangolin gripped her golden blades and followed at once, but Hermione held back, breathing
deeply. Forcing down the stinging thorn as she watched Ren and the rest of his strike team
disappear into the thick smoke in the opposite direction. When the pain began to recede, she
rose and sprinted to catch up with Pangolin.
Just as Hermione passed the ruined cottage, a hand sprang out and moved her into the
shadows.
Charlie pulled her low and leaned close to make himself heard over another wave of titan
roars.
"I won't try to stop you this time. But if you ever need me, send a Patronus and I'll find you."
"I will," reassured Hermione, drawing her head back.
Then her eyes widened as she saw the gleaming Basilisk tooth blade strapped tightly to
Charlie's arm.
"You're part of the strike team," she said, voice breaking as another stab of pain pierced her
chest and blurred her vision.
Charlie held her gaze for a long heartbeat, hazel eyes filled with concern and warmth. But
they chilled when he stood to leave.
As he walked back into the smoke, she saw him extract the knife and palm the leather
handle.
"Don't worry, Hermione. I'll take care of it for you."

Monster
God cannot save thy soul, for he is just:
There’s none but I have interest in the same.
***
The smoke billowing from countless fires was so dense that it was impossible to tell where
the cliffside ended and the ocean began. All that Hermione could see were flashes of metallic
armor as she followed the Infantry's sealing unit toward the front line.
When they reached the trenches, Hestia brought them to a stop and raised her voice.
"Visibility is too poor at this level, so the new plan is to get to higher ground and draw the
Necromancer out. Make a straight shot for the Eastern ridge. Shields up!"
Hermione twisted her cedar wand to obey, clutching the handle before her chest to maintain
the spell's protection. Holding her other wand at the ready. The Infantry moved so fast that
she could barely focus on anything apart from her own legs just to keep from falling behind.
Screaming and bloodshed assaulted her ears, and it felt as if she was caught in a Dementor-
fueled nightmare. But she swallowed the taste of bile and kept her eyes on the line of shining
backplates directly ahead.
As they ran, several fighters were hit by curses and fell, while others were pulled into the
smoke. But the unit did not stop, and was mostly intact when they scaled the craggy hill
leading up above the battlefield.
The ridge itself was frightfully narrow—a flat stretch of grass sloping down sharply on both
sides. Like an airplane runway elevated above clouds of smoke. Tall enough to look out
across the entire seacliff plateau. As soon as they reached the top, Hestia pulled Hermione
aside and leaned close to speak.
"It won't be long before the Death Eaters follow us up here, but your attention should remain
on Malfoy. I won't signal the strike team until you confirm his identity. So stay close, and
focus on finding him."
Hermione nodded and concentrated, trying to feel his familiar presence among the hundreds
of Death Eaters and Infantry clashing on the field below. But as soon as she started to close
her eyes and clear her mind, bursts of brilliant light and panicked shouts filled the air.
Without thinking, her gaze shifted toward the source.
"They're coming!" someone yelled.
"TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!" Hestia commanded.

Death Eaters were emerging from the smoke and climbing the hill. The sealing team formed
a tight line stretching across the summit and began to fend off the advancing army. But they
were clearly outnumbered—at least three to one.
Meanwhile, a misty-eyed giantess had already reached the far side of their formation and was
swinging her goliath arms across the ridge—grabbing fighters from the edge, crushing them
in her palms, then dropping them from fatal heights.
Suddenly, Hestia pushed Hermione to the side. She widened her feet into an offensive stance,
pointed her wand high into the air, and shouted.
"FERVIDUS MAXIMA!"
A vast tidal wave of boiling water erupted from Hestia's wand and swept down the hillside. A
waterfall that carried dozens of screaming victims in its current. Any Death Eaters caught in
the swell wailed in agony as their robes melted and skin blistered with the scorching heat.
Before the first wave even crashed to the battlefield below, Hestia was summoning a second
—aiming it toward the attacking giantess. The monstrous female roared as her lower half
burned in the water. Then she toppled to the ground and disappeared completely as the smoke
mixed with thick plumes of steam.
Hestia's waves were still rolling down the front slope when Hermione caught a flash of
movement behind her.
Hermione raised her wand as she spun, and cried, "Damnum Intestinorum!"
A ray of black light shot from her redwood tip directly into the advancing Death Eater's
abdomen. The man tumbled down the soaked turf, blood still flowing out of his mouth from
the dark hex's irreparable damage. Hermione gritted her teeth, then used a slicing spell to
decapitate his body.
The corpse's head was barely off when a streak of lethal green flew right past Hermione's ear,
and she saw another group of cloaked Death Eaters emerge from the steam and begin to
summit the back face of the ridge. Within a minute, the sealing unit's tight formation was
pulled apart into a flurry of separate duels.
Hermione was rushing down into the mist, red-streaked eyes already locked on her next
target, when Hestia yanked her back. There was a deep gash on her forehead oozing blood
onto her brow, but she ignored it as she spoke hoarsely.
"Nothing we do tonight matters unless you force Malfoy to show himself. Concentrate, and
I'll protect you."
"Not yet. They're still attacking."
"I'm not asking. I'm telling you as your commanding officer."
Hermione hesitated, then met the Captain's fierce gaze.

"I understand."
This time, Hermione fought every instinct to stay alert or fight, and closed her eyes.
She had never spoken with Draco in such a deadly environment; never entered the prison in
her head except in stillness and silence. But she tried to envision her mental shields
collapsing into the black recesses of her soul as turbulently as the seacliff.
Soon the grass beneath her feet began to feel like stone. The jeering skull masks charging
toward the Infantry's line started to recede into Dementor hoods. The mist gradually reshaped
into crumbling prison walls. And, at last, her mind dropped beneath the sodden ground and
landed in her dark Azkaban cell.
She saw Draco right away.
The black hood of his Death Eater cloak was draped over his head, and he was turned toward
the window overlooking the roiling ocean. The entire room was almost pitch-black, so that
she could only make out the cloth cascading down his back and dragging on the wet floor.
She could not see his face.
"I'm here."
He did not reply, and only clenched his leather gloved fist. So she tried again, walking toward
his dark back.
"I'm here. Come find me, Draco."
He again declined to respond or even turn around, but Hermione watched him slowly open
his palm.
And only then did she see the strip of red cloth clutched in his hand.
She stumbled backward, and her gaze followed the Necromancer's red blindfold as it fluttered
down and landed on the shadowy floor.
Draco turned, and she took in his silver-laced Death Eater robes. The skull-like mask
covering his face. But even in the darkness of the cell, she could make out his light eyes
glinting beneath the sockets. And they were so clearly Draco's eyes.
But no, they were more than just Draco's eyes. They were the silver of the moon before it
turned blood red. The color of Harry's eyes after he died and they lost all hint of emerald.
They were the same gray as his Inferi's eyes.
A surge of anger tore through Hermione as violently as the winter storm raging outside the
barred window.
"You hid who you are from everyone so you could murder hundreds in cold blood. Then go
back to your mansion and pretend to be no more foul than the rest," she accused, throat
burning and head pounding with unbelievable pressure.
"And when a mask wasn't enough, you hid behind a fucking piece of fabric like a coward!"
The wind slammed against her mind and the prison walls with unprecedented force.
"No, you never lied to me, Draco. I just didn't want to believe you could be truly evil. But not
anymore, because now I recognize exactly what you are. A monster!"
Draco stepped forward and tore off his skull mask, flinging it violently across the cell. But
what lay beneath was even more menacing.
His stormy eyes were that unhinged. Demented. Overtaken by madness. His face was
contorted in pure, nightmarish rage.
Suddenly, the air grew heavier and colder as his face darkened.
"Stay away from me," he growled.
The rain turned to hail. The saltwater dripping from the ceiling hardened into jagged icicles.
The water coating the stone floor froze into glass.
Then Draco's eyes flashed crimson as he screamed in a voice as brutal as his words.
"Stay the hell away from me, MUDBLOOD!"
Hermione felt the weight of her ignorance at the sound of his voice and the madness in his
face. At her own willful blindness. Could not help but blame herself for it: for how perfectly
she avoided a grotesque truth. For how she refused to recognize him for so long.
Because it was his same cruel voice at Hogwarts, the Valley, and tonight.
It was always Draco's voice.
And this was always who he was.
Draco pushed past her. Striding out through the barred cell door.
Hermione was watching his cloaked back recede when the room exploded in a blast of
excruciating red-hot pain.
"CRUCIO!"
The plateau sky flashed between light and dark as pain radiated through her entire body. Even
the sting in her chest was drowned out as every nerve flared in fire, heat, and agony. Each
scar on her war-ravaged skin tore open and burned again. And the storm of lesser thoughts
tearing through her head died out as her consciousness was dominated by the torture of the
Cruciatus Curse.
"CRUCIO!"
Another surge of agony ripped her apart. Something hard struck her in the ribs at the same
time that a hand violently forced her back into the solid earth.
Even through the pain, she could vaguely sense that Draco remained in her mind. Could see
him leaning over her. Now the derangement in his face was mixed with distress. His lips
formed questions she could barely hear.
"Hermione. What are they doing to you? Where are you? Tell me how to find your body."
But then the sound of high-pitched laughter assaulted her eardrums.
The frozen walls within her mind collapsed. The stone floor burst apart.
And Draco's red-gray eyes vanished.
***
The prisoner sat on the edge of the rotted bed, slumped over his knees, curled in on himself.
His light hair was dirty and overgrown, falling past his chin. He rocked back and forth,
scratching at his face and screaming silently into his palms. The skin on the back of his gaunt
hands was shredded and raw. His white knuckles were ground down to the bone. Blood
seeped from the wounds, down his arms, and onto his torn clothes.
The entire room was painted with streaks of brilliant scarlet—every smooth surface and
rough crevice smeared with the prisoner's skin and flesh. As the prisoner continued to shake
into his mangled hands, rain flew in through the barred window, bathing the entire cell until
his blood coating the walls streamed in rivulets to the damp ground.
Another figure stepped out of the shadows on the far side of the cell.
He glided to the prisoner, and knelt on the hard floor, not even seeming to care as his flowing
black robes were soaked in rainwater and blood. Then he smiled his terrible smile, his red
eyes blank and pitiless. And his serpentine nostrils flared as he leaned forward to whisper
into the prisoner's ear.
"They only died because you failed. You are an infection. And the more you deny what you
were meant to do, the sicker you shall become. You are an infected limb spreading sickness
throughout a body of servants which I have so carefully, lovingly created."
Now the room echoed with the prisoner's crazed screams, but the snake-like man locked his
head in an unyielding grip, hissing into his ear again.
"Even now you need me, and you shall always need me. There is no salvation unless I will it.
Perhaps I tolerated your weakness for too long. After all, I am a forgiving master and you
showed so much promise in the beginning. I believed you to be your father's son. A lion, not a
sheep. Instead, you grew to become like your viper of a mother. But I did not forgive you to
keep you in a cage forever, weak and feeble-hearted."
Finally, the prisoner stilled, and his bloodied palms fell from his pale face to dangle loosely
by his sides. He stared straight ahead, eyes as broken as his hands.
Voldemort laughed and spoke again.
"Remember, I never killed them. You are a festering sickness, and I am your redemption. You
killed your own blood family, the ones you love most in this world, because you are diseased.
You killed them."
"I killed them," the prisoner repeated, voice heavy.
"Why did you kill them?"
"Because I was too weak to recognize the truth."
"Who killed them?"
"I killed them."
"Good, Draco. Remember that truth. But even if you forget, I will remind you tomorrow."
***
Hermione's spasms ebbed as the red-hot Cruciatus pain and terrifying vision faded.
She could feel her body again, but her mind was still adrift—caught between this reality and
a familiar dark prison cell splashed with blood.
Draco's cell.
A great sense of discordance settled over her like a fog. Blinking back tears, Hermione
wrenched open her eyes and slowly forced her sight to return.
She was sprawled on the wet grass, still atop the ridge, face turned to the side. Two cloaked,
decapitated Death Eaters were strewn across the ground to her right. Another lay crumpled
near her feet, head barely attached to his neck. She looked blearily up and registered Hestia
standing above the Death Eaters. The Basilisk knife gripped in the woman's hand was still
dripping blood onto the ground.
But something was wrong.
Hermione's eyes cleared, and she saw the gaping hole in the Captain's chest.
Then she watched, stunned, as Hestia dropped her knife and sank to her knees.
Hermione scrambled over, grabbing her wand and casting Vulnera Sanentur as rapidly as her
lips could form the silken words. Hestia's head fell against Hermione's shoulder as she
worked, and her black eyes faded. Sinewy muscles began to weave back together, but the
wound was so deep that it went clear though to her armored backplate.
By the time a thin layer of flesh started to reform, Hestia stopped breathing.
After holding trembling fingers to Hestia's stiffening neck and failing to find a pulse,
Hermione let her wand drop to the grass.
"NOOO!" Pangolin yelled.
Any Infantry not still fighting were starting to gather along the narrow ridge, trying to see the
source of the commotion, but Pangolin pushed past them to kneel beside Hestia.
"No! What happened? Let me signal Lynx. We can carry her down to the healers."
But as Pangolin spoke, her gaze fell on Hestia's lethal wound, and she released a choked sob
as the truth dawned on her.
"Who—killed—how did she die?"
"It's my fault," Hermione said at once, lowering Hestia to the ground and using her fingers to
gently close her glassy eyes. "I let my guard down and Death Eaters attacked. She was
already defending the entire unit, but she took responsibility for protecting me."
"Are you okay? You're shaking," Pangolin asked.
"I'm… fine. A Crucio. Nothing permanent."
"You're so pale. Did you try to heal the Captain?"
"I failed to heal her," Hermione whispered, unable to drag her eyes off of the massive hole,
only half-healed, disfiguring Hestia's inert chest. "She put her faith in me and now she's
dead."
Pangolin reached over and squeezed Hermione's hand as she spoke softly. "No. She believed
in you, Goldfinch. She's gone because of Voldemort, not you."
Then Pangolin released Hermione's hand and tightened her grip on her gilded blades. She
held them over Hestia's neck.
"Look away, Goldfinch," she urged, voice catching.
Hermione averted her eyes, staring down, willing herself to block out the sickening noise.
Trying to force down the overwhelming sense of anxiety at losing the leader of the Order's
entire armed forces. The remorse. The impulse to just give up feeling at all and embrace
emptiness.
But as she waited—struggling to make sense of this latest death—the grass at her feet
suddenly seemed strange.
She stared up, and saw that the thin crescent moon was darkening and turning red, staining
the night sky the same ominous color.
The temperature dropped all at once, and the already freezing mid-winter air took on an
abnormal, numbing, bone-chilling cold. An overpowering rush of ice shot through
Hermione's entire body, and this time it felt so familiar.
It felt like Draco.
"He's here," Hermione whispered, and reached to retrieve Hestia's Basilisk knife from the
ground. She grasped the leather handle tightly in her palm. Its white blade glinted red under
the moonlight.
Then she stood. Legs unsteady. Eyes searching.
Hestia's cursed water had extinguished all of the fires and cleared out the smoke. And this
high on the ridge, Hermione could see the entire plateau stretching beneath. A clear view of
the end stages of the battle. A direct line of sight to him.
And she found him at last.
Fighting on the opposite side of the flooded field below. Surrounded by dueling armies of
cloaked Death Eaters and armored Infantry.
Even from this distance, she could see his blond hair, slicked back with blood and sweat.
Face consumed by hatred. Eyes burning with rage.
Just as in the cell, he was no longer wearing the crimson shroud or his Death Eater mask. She
could even recognize the long hawthorn wand clenched in his fist.
As if Draco no longer cared if both the Death Eaters and Order knew exactly who he was.
Had dropped any attempt to hide what he could do.
But his normally sharp, decisive movements looked sluggish. Heavy. His energy still sapped
by his refusal to use necromancy at the Château.
It only took another second for the inevitable to occur.
"Ishida signaled! The strikers identified the target and requested immediate containment!" a
voice yelled.
"SEALING TEAM MOVE DOWN!" directed another.
The remaining Infantry descended the ridge. Pangolin followed them at once, but Hermione
wavered.
And soon she was entirely by herself. Not only had the Order moved all forces back down,
but the Death Eaters also ceased their efforts to climb the slope, wholly engrossed in the
battle raging below.
Hermione could not bear to join them. The earth itself seemed to suck her down. Hold her in
place on the lonely ridge. The only movement she could manage was in her eyes.
It was as if she was back above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, watching from the elevated
wooden stands. Away and apart from the match. A distant spectator. In some ways, she
understood as little now as she did during a game. Her brain registered the action and she
knew the rules. Understood the Order's plan. But watching it unfold felt incredibly isolating.
Intolerable.
And nothing made sense.
Despite that, she still watched. She could not look away as the Infantry formed a wide circle
around Draco.
At once, he pivoted, and darkness burst from his wand as he carved a massive ring of blue-
black flames, engulfing both Death Eaters and the Order. Then his mouth said words she
could only guess, and he twisted his hand violently. In response, the entire ground beneath his
feet split in half. A burning red chasm spiderwebbed across the entire plateau toward the
forest beyond.
Skeletal hands began to crawl out of the pit at the same moment that Draco stumbled and fell
to his knees.
As soon as his black flames faltered, he raised a clenched fist and unmutilated bodies across
the battlefield began to writhe and moan, clawing their way back across the veil. But the
Infantry was already there.
Charging while they drew their venomous, bone-colored blades.
Now Hermione sank down to the grass. Her hand shot to her face, and then fell to her lap.
She blinked at her damp fingers, uncomprehending, even while the tears continued to spill
from her eyes.
She was still frozen in place, slouched on the grass, when she sensed someone nearby.
Without hesitating, she whirled around, wand aimed.
A Death Eater loomed above her. Mask tilted curiously to the side. Dark eyes narrowed
beneath his shadowy skull sockets. He stepped forward, and Hermione saw the familiar ivory
wand strapped to his leg.
"Don't like what you see, Killer?" he asked flatly. "You seemed so damn sure about what you
wanted yesterday."
Blaise extended a hand, lifting Hermione back onto her feet. Then he stared at Hestia's
Basilisk knife—still clutched tightly in Hermione's trembling fist—and shook his head.
A prick of shame hit Hermione, and she wiped her tear-stained face.
"What are you doing here?" she muttered.
"Pangolin signaled as soon as the Captain… passed."
His gaze drifted down and landed on Hestia's body, and he asked, "Did she go quickly?"
"Yes."
Blaise blinked, then looked away as he handed Hermione the flashing signal coin, saying,
"Hold onto this for now. You'll need it soon."
She took the coin, discerning a strange sadness in Blaise's voice. He must have known Hestia
for years longer than she had, as the Captain's hand-selected Second-in-Command. Hestia
trusted him in a way Hermione never fully comprehended. She could not make out his
expression beneath his mask, but this death must hit hard for even someone as cryptic as
Blaise.
Another torrent of equal parts pain and grief surged through Hermione. But she forced it
down as she spoke. "Why isn't Pangolin with you?"
In response, Blaise turned to face the plateau. Hermione followed his gaze to the ruins of
Shell Cottage, and cried out.
"NO!"
A group of Death Eaters had broken through the Order's defensive line and were moving
toward the tunnel entrance. A few shadowy cloaks were already disappearing into the base
below.
Hermione's stomach dropped as she said urgently, "The hospital wing is still half-full. There's
no chance we can get them past the boundary line to disapparate."
Blaise just nodded, unperturbed, as he pulled his black wand from an inner pocket and
transfigured his Death Eater robes into his Knife uniform.
Once finished, he secured his hood and began sprinting, speaking to Hermione as she tailed
him down the hill.
"Pangolin is already inside reactivating the Knife's Floo connection. It's still a gamble to
move the wounded, especially to the farm. But every Death Eater should be part of the battle
by now and we don't have any other choice."
They reached the bottom of the slope and skirted along the nearly empty edge of the
battlefield—almost all Order members and Death Eaters had moved to the fight raging at the
southern end, away from Shell Cottage.
Blaise looked back at Hermione as they continued to run.
"But you do have a choice. You can stay here and join the execution, or follow me and
evacuate the others."
Hermione closed her eyes, even as she ran.
Her mind jolted back to the vision. Everything about it still felt painfully distorted. Not just
because of the way it happened—from being Cruciated by Death Eaters while Hestia died in
her place. No. The vision itself was agonizing.
She still had no concept of how she slipped into Draco’s mind. Into his memory, if that's
really what it was.
Yet his ghostlike face, bereft of anything but grief… the red blood drenching his prison
walls… the trauma in his hands… his broken voice… were now seared into her own
memory.
And she could no more easily block out Voldemort's poisonous words. Could not unlearn
such cruel torture. Such poisonous manipulation.
But, no. Even if true, Draco still deserved to suffer.
He deserved to die.
He deserved… he…
Suddenly, Hermione opened her eyes. She relaxed her grip on the Basilisk knife held in her
palm, and slid it into an empty holster.
Her skull and chest pounded like never before, but she furrowed her brow until the throbbing
receded.
Then she released a long breath.
"I won't stay here. I'm coming with you to save the others."
Blaise jerked his wand to slice the head clean off a rushing Death Eater, laughing darkly.
"Classic Gryffindor."
Even Sinners Save
Now, Faustus, ask what thou wilt.
***
No one remained at the circular hatch leading down to Headquarters, so Blaise and Hermione
burst through unchallenged and descended the spiral staircase.
As they ran, noxious fumes began to fill the underground air, and Hermione recognized the
beastly shapes of Fiendfyre charging through several offshooting corridors.
"They're trying to smoke us out," she coughed, and cast a Bubble-Head charm over the cloth
on her nose and mouth without slowing her pace.
Blaise dashed around a corner, but promptly backtracked and yanked Hermione to a stop,
hissing, "Death Eaters. I'll get rid of them while you take the longer route."
He risked another peek before drawing his head back and whispering, "Give the healers the
signal coin and tell them to Floo to the farm, then apparate straight to Wales. The Council set
up a temporary base in Cardiff. If they still don't know where to go, they can hold the coin to
their lips and say 'railroad.' It will guide them to my network of shelters."
"Your network?" Hermione asked, wide-eyed. "What do you mean your network of shelters?
What railroad?"
"There isn't time now and Death Eaters might overhear. Just tell the healers how to signal,"
Blaise ordered.
Before she had the chance to respond, the tunnel lights overhead flickered and went out,
rendering Blaise's dark face barely perceptible in the faint glow of distant fires. He narrowed
his eyes, then dove around the corner.
Hermione veered back and made a beeline for the closest stairway, leaping down two steps at
a time and bursting out into a narrow passage. She could hear the sounds of Blaise fighting
directly above, but the stretch ahead was deserted and she did not encounter anyone on her
way to the hospital wing.
When she arrived, the entire area was swarming with panicked blue-robed healers rushing
between rooms. Only a few Order guards remained—entirely focused on vanishing the
smoke permeating the air from the approaching fires. Hermione quickly spotted Neville's
round face across the tunnel and summoned her silvery otter as she darted to him.
She shoved the signal coin into Neville's hand as she said breathlessly, "The Death Eaters are
almost here. My Patronus will lead everyone to a hidden Floo point in the depths that
connects to our old safe house. It's been breached, but from there you can apparate to our
Welsh base."
"Hermione? What's going on?" Neville blubbered, eyes flitting between the coin still in his
palm and Hermione's shrouded face. "I don't understand. No one can be moved. They could
splinch!"
"I guarantee they will die if they stay here."
Suddenly an explosion rocked the ground, and the entire tunnel quaked. Neville fell to the
floor, and Hermione pulled him back upright as she rushed to explain how to use Blaise's
strange coin, despite still not fully understanding herself.
As soon as Neville seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation, he spread the word to the
other healers. They began to use wands to lift patients out of beds into the air and form a line
to follow the silver otter.
Hermione was in the largest sick bay, using a sticking charm to bind two elevated patients
together, when Neville tugged her aside, and pointed toward Ginny still unmoving in her
cot.
"She won't make it," Neville insisted, wringing his hands. "Floo and Portkeys might be worth
the risk, but Ginny's too weak to apparate once we get to this farm place. Not in her
condition."
Hermione bit her lip, then looked down at the pale, red-haired woman, thinking.
"I'll take Ginny myself," she decided. "Once we make it to the farm, I'll get us away on foot."
She gently squeezed Neville's shoulder and pushed him toward the door. "Focus on moving
your parents and the others to Cardiff. I'll see you soon."
Neville gave her a worried but grateful smile, and rushed out into the busy tunnel.
Thick smoke was already seeping into the room by the time Hermione saw the last of the
healers off. She watched their blue robes disappear down a stairwell, levitated patients in tow,
and turned back to Ginny. After placing an air bubble over the unconscious witch's nose,
Hermione used the cedar wand to lift her, and held the redwood straight ahead.
Despite running as fast as she could, Hermione was forced to change course several times.
Death Eaters were taking advantage of the chaos after Hestia's death to hunt down any
remaining non-fighters. She could hear their shouts as she descended deep beneath the earth.
The Fiendfyre was also impeding her progress as it spread to the lower levels. She had to
scurry out of a tunnel when she turned the corner and almost ran straight into a pack of fiery,
charging chimeras.
Hermione was about to barrel down another flight of stairs when she saw the inky outline of
a figure standing at the bottom. After securing Ginny behind her back, she raised her wand
and opened her mouth.
"Avada Kedav— "

Something metallic flew through the air and knocked the wand right out of her hand.
Hermione instantly let Ginny drop to the floor and aimed her second wand to curse again.
"Holy shit, it's me, Goldfinch," Blaise hissed from the base of the steps. "Went straight for the
killing curse. And you would have landed it too. I never should have let Spider teach you
how to shoot."
After releasing her held breath, Hermione crouched on the floor next to Ginny, inspecting her
lightly-bruised head. "You could have warned me first," she muttered. Then she stood,
suspended Ginny, and ran down to join Blaise.
They were only a few floors away from the fire pit room when his words resurfaced in
Hermione's brain.
She skidded to a stop, stomach turning.
"Spider. Where's Spider?" she asked frantically.
Blaise whirled around at once, eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? She's inactive."
"No. The Order locked her in a room right beneath the hospital wing. Do you know if she
was ever released?"
"I don't—I'm not sure. Only the Captain had reports about her after the graveyard," Blaise
answered. Then he squared his shoulders. "I'll go back and check."
"No," said Hermione, tone firm. "Take Ginny. She's safer with you. She can't apparate, so you
have to take her on foot. I don't know how to reach the shelters. And if any of the healers are
still at the farm or attacked by Death Eaters, you can protect them as well."
As Hermione spoke, she lowered her friend to the ground at Blaise's feet and released her
spell. "I'll go back for Renée. She can't walk, and I doubt anyone would have remembered or
cared enough to make sure that she evacuated."
Before he could argue, Hermione sprinted down the corridor, only looking back once she
reached the nearest staircase.
Blaise was lifting Ginny. Not bothering to use his wand, but instead carefully taking her into
his arms. As though worried that if he moved too quickly, she would break. His brow creased
as he regarded the purple bruise on her temple, then he slowly rose to carry her away.
"You're so damn predictable," he yelled back over his receding shoulder.
As she mounted the stairs, Hermione mumbled to herself.
"And you're not."
***
The long trek back to the healing ward proved even more grueling. The higher she went, the
hotter the air became until it felt like she was caught in a furnace. Running into the center of
the sun.
She swerved, changed directions, and backtracked countless times to avoid the raging flames,
but no matter where she turned, the Fiendfyre was there first.
The smoke grew so dense that her Bubble-Head charm was also failing—unable to block
enough of the fumes to preserve her oxygen supply. Without any place to refresh the charm,
she was forced to breathe increasingly toxic air.
Finally, Hermione reached a dead end—trapped between the solid earth wall and an inferno.
She could see it now: the menacing flames on the opposite end of the tunnel. Could see it
growing brighter and brighter. But then—
CRACK
CRACK
CRACK
The spatial fractures of apparition began to split the smoky air like gunfire. Echoing through
the carved labyrinth above and below. Hermione quickly realized their significance.
The Order's anti-movement charms must have failed at last. And now Death Eaters could
magically infiltrate Headquarters.
Meaning so could she.
Hermione steadied her breathing. It was too dangerous to apparate straight into Spider's room
without knowing exactly where the injured woman lay—she may inadvertently appear right
on top of her and splinch. After deciding where to appear, she pivoted to disapparate.
Only a heartbeat of constrictive darkness later, she rotated onto the ground directly in front of
Spider's sealed room. She hunched over, wheezing, and vanished her useless, gas-filled
bubble, which was now doing more harm than good.
Before entering the room, Hermione hastily scanned the shadowy passageway. It appeared
empty, and the fire seemed to have skipped this level. She pointed her wand at the locked
handle, spoke a hushed "Alohomora," and opened the door.
The room was jet-black and so obscured by smoke that even Hermione's outstretched wand
failed to cut through it. She cautiously eased inside, and whispered, "Spider," but heard and
saw nothing. So she stepped in further, using her hands to feel around the darkness.
Following her memory of the layout until she found the edge of the bed. She ran her hands
over the cot and felt only bare sheets. A sense of relief flooded through her at the
confirmation that Spider had already vacated.
She was inching along the edges of the room, verifying that Spider had not fallen
unconscious in a corner, when a hand ripped off her hood and seized her hair.
WHAM
She saw stars as she was thrown roughly to the floor. A second later, she was flung onto her
back and a heavy boot pressed into her chest, crushing her windpipe. She coughed and
blinked. But when she tried to raise her wand, something sharp dug into her throat and she
froze.
Suddenly, a fleshy, yellowed face materialized out of the smoke. The corners of the man's
mouth lifted into a nasty smile as he reached down and ripped the cloth covering Hermione's
face.
His beady eyes lit up as he spoke brutishly over his shoulder. "Told you there were still
terrorist rats slinking around these holes."
Now the man drove the side of his knife harder into her neck, and she felt the sting of her
skin being split apart.
"One scrawny girl doesn't do shit, Mulciber," another gruff male voice replied. "There should
have been hundreds of rebels holing up in these tunnels, but all we have to show for it are her
and a couple of burned-up guards. Just kill her and let's get on with it."
Another masked Death Eater emerged from the haze, twisting his wand until a small
whirlwind formed, sucking nearby smoke into its center; largely clearing the room. Hermione
did not dare raise her head, but she made out at least a dozen sets of shoes moving around the
room and now-flickering corridor beyond.
"Jugson's right," the masked man snarled. "It doesn't add up. The Order wasn't supposed to
know about tonight, but they even cleared out the civilians. Turncoat probably tipped 'em off.
The Dark Lord is going to kill us if we don't bring something back."
Mulciber lifted his foot from Hermione's chest, and leaned forward—so close that she could
pick out the stench of cigarettes on his rancid breath. She sucked in quickly, then spat in his
face.
"BITCH!" he roared, forcing Hermione onto her stomach, and wrenching both arms behind
her back so aggressively that her sleeves ripped.
Suddenly Mulciber guffawed and pulled the cloth back farther, taking in the letters on her
forearm and digging his nails in so hard that he punctured her scarred flesh.
Hermione cried out and thrashed against the floor.
"Harry Potter's Mudblood bitch," he laughed. "Now I remember this one. Remember chasing
her pretty ass at the Ministry. She knows where the rest of the rats went, and will be aching,
BEGGING to tell us after I trim her. We'll have our fun then give her to Nott. Some dirty
blood for his Revue."
"Hurry it up. I felt the Mark burn. Just take her and go. You can do whatever the hell you
want to her once we're back in Paris."
"NOT YET! This one's a runaway. And runaways don't keep both legs."
As they argued, Hermione crawled slowly toward her dropped wands, but as soon as
Mulciber noticed, he slammed her head into the ground. Black spots danced around her
vision, and she struggled to wrench her hand out from the man's tight grip. He gripped even
harder.
"What did I tell you? Already trying to escape again. Help me hold her down. I'll cut her right
now!"
Hermione was breathing shallowly, willing the darkness out of her eyes, when an explosive
CRACK jerked her back into consciousness.
Her head started spinning again when the earthquake started.
The entire room swung like a pendulum. Tilting back and forth until gravity felt nonexistent.
The packed dirt ceiling ruptured and dumped rock and dust into the air. Then the earth
pitched, and Hermione rolled into the wall as Mulciber fell down.
As soon as she was free, Hermione brought her right palm to her mouth and bared her teeth.
"Don't even think about it."
At his voice, she went rigid. Paralyzed. Cursed mark pressed to her lips, but suddenly unable
to remember how to breathe, let alone where to bite.
"What—what are you doing here?" Mulciber stammered, scrambling away from something at
the opposite end of the room. "I thought—but they attacked you. How are you still alive after
the Order—"
“Avada Kedavra.”
For an instant, the room flared bright green, followed by the sound of a body collapsing to
the floor.
At last, Hermione lifted her head.
She saw Draco's backlit profile framed by the door. He was barely visible in the glow of the
nearby fire.
But even in the semidarkness, she could tell that the tunnel behind him was devoid of any
movement. Could see shadowy cloaks of the lifeless Death Eaters prostrated at his feet.
He drew closer, and Hermione's head immediately cleared. She seized the weapon in her
thigh holster at the same moment she surged forward.
Draco did not move, did not even flinch, when Hermione lifted the Basilisk knife. Venomous
blade hovering right above his heart.
Instead, he just watched her. Wand by his side.

She could feel his air cool her temple with every slow exhale. Smell the tang of death and salt
on his skin. On his bloodied face.
She tightened her grip on the knife's leather handle. Anger and confusion were coursing
through her, and it was an effort to keep her hand steady. But the questions spilled out before
she could stop them.
"What happened during the battle? Is the Order—"
"Both sides are retreating," Draco replied steadily. He looked down at the knife. "It's
poisoned, right? Weasley must have given you that to kill me."
"Did you… did you hurt Charlie?"
"No."
A knot unwound in Hermione's stomach, then quickly reformed.
"What did Voldemort do with the people captured in Madrid?"
"I don't know. Theo took them."
Draco's gaze drifted back to her face as he spoke. An unhurried, lingering sweep from her
brow to her mouth, memorizing every line. Just having his eyes on her was unbearable.
"Tell me how long," she said, throat constricting. "I know what happened after your parents
died. Tell me how long Voldemort kept you in Azkaban."
Now his eyes found hers, and his pupils were so black and dilated that she could almost
glimpse her own reflection. But this time when he answered there was no shadow of madness
in his voice.
"Two years."
"When did you escape?"
"I never escaped. He—" Draco paused as pain overtook his expression, as if it was a great
effort to force out every syllable.
"—The Dark Lord freed me the day before he killed Potter. The day before I took you."
The room began to grow hot. The tunnel outside glowed more brightly as the Fiendfyre drew
closer. But Hermione ignored both.
"That doesn't make sense. The Necromancer… you were at every raid, every battle for years
even before the valley."
"He brought me out to… serve. Once I fulfilled my duty, I returned to Azkaban."
"Then why didn't you just run away during a battle? Why did you let him take you back
every time?" Hermione asked, eyes stinging with smoke and salt.
"Nothing good ever came from resisting."
"So he does control you. He forced you back into that room. He made you execute your
parents. He made you take me."
A deep crease appeared between Draco's brows as he said hollowly, "The Dark Lord never
put me under the Imperius Curse. But I made a choice many years ago. My freedom to
choose since has been severely limited. And after I left Azkaban, I made the worst choices."
Now Hermione was fighting back tears as his answers ripped her to shreds. Her eyes shot to
the smooth skin on the back of his hand, and she could see them—the faint scars tracing
every knuckle. She had never noticed them during her brushes along his skin. Had never even
known to look.
Then the stabbing ache returned. It seemed to stem from her palm, still wrapped about the
knife, and radiate out through her entire body. Her head throbbed, and Draco's blood-painted
walls suddenly flashed in her vision.
And she already knew those walls.
Had memorized every inch for almost a year.
"The cell you put me in that day, the same one I recreated in my mind, it was yours first."
His nod was barely perceptible, but utterly heartbreaking.
Then, with a brutal slowness, he reached up to stroke Hermione's cheek and repeated the
words he first spoke in his drawing room months ago.
"This emptiness you still feel is because of me. I heard you, and let you rot in Azkaban. I am
not your savior."
But this time, everything felt different. This time she knew that his cold touch was tender. His
words were not a dismissal or a threat.
They were an offering of his remorse.
A wellspring of fury, betrayal, and another unnamed torment tore through Hermione as she
stared into Draco's black eyes. But she could not make her hand move, or even look away.
Could no more force the knife into his heart than will her own to stop beating.
Before Hermione knew it, she was dropping the knife to the floor and pounding her fists into
Draco's chest.
He stepped back, until she had him pushed firmly against the wall. She felt him flinch, but he
still did not evade her hands as they struck him again and again, each blow weaker than the
last.
Then she sank to her knees, and he moved down with her.
The molten ground was so hot that it burned her skin. Yet nothing hurt more deeply than
Draco pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, and choking out his next words.
"I should have saved you. I'm so sorry, Hermione."
And now she was sobbing into his neck, even as the air grew heavy with smoke. Weeping as
the stone walls of her inner prison cell… his cage … eroded.
As the hardness in her heart melted and softened.
As all hate receded into the black ocean of her soul, pulled out by the tide, and carried off by
the current.
Hermione was still weeping in Draco's embrace when his arms gently slid down her back,
and fell away.
Then he collapsed to the floor and lay on his side, chest heaving.
His face tensed in a wave of pain as he began to thrash wildly. His midnight-black pupils
appeared to slide in and out of focus. A trail of dark red liquid dripped from his nose.
And a moment later, Hermione saw the pool of blood spreading across the scorching ground.
She felt its congealed warmth soaking into her clothes. She looked around furiously, and saw
that the blood was coming from somewhere behind him. A profound sense of dread shot
through her whole body. She crawled to his other side and her eyes grew wide in horror when
she saw them.
She saw the white daggers.
The Order's venomous teeth piercing his entire back. The promised death sentence that the
Infantry delivered. The punishment he deserved. Burning his skin like acid at each point of
contact. Lodged so deeply in his flesh that she could only see their six leather-bound
handles.
Hermione was still kneeling beside Draco, watching him suffering… dying... when she
unraveled.
And finally broke apart.

Return to Wiltshire
Chapter Notes
Sorry to keep everyone hanging after that rollercoaster of a last chapter. But that was not
nearly the end--can you imagine?
Hopefully this next arc will settle your nerves, at least a bit.
We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul
***
For the first time, Hermione crossed through the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor of her
own free will.
There was no snatcher to drag her up the long country lane. No Death Eater to apparate her
directly into the drawing room. And yet, it was as if she was under a spell as she walked up
the gravel path leading to the Wiltshire house.
But she moved delicately, cautiously. Every step seemed to add to Draco's pain.
He was slumped forward, one arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder; legs heavy. She had
barely been able to slow his bleeding before a firestorm of beasts appeared outside the tunnel
door. Had not even attempted to remove the Basilisk knives. The second she had him upright
and leaned against her, Fiendfyre surged into the room. She held onto him and disapparated
immediately.
As Hermione led them past what felt like miles of trimmed hedges, her eyes remained on
Draco instead of the house. He had splinched, and now there was blood seeping out of his
neck as well as his back, leaving a dark red trail on the rocks behind them. She had tried to
elevate him magically, but weightlessness released any clotting, making his blood flow freely.
After stopping to desperately recite Sanentur again, she resolved to get them inside by foot.
The entire way, she spoke to Draco. Unreasonably afraid that if he fell into unconsciousness,
he would never return.
There was little meaning to her rambling words. She was barely aware of what she was
saying. In fact, Hermione was aware of almost nothing after she saw the blades riddling his
body. Or maybe she tried not to think.
"Stay awake," she said. "I won't let you leave, not now at least."
She repeated the words like a healing incantation. As if the more she said them, the more he
would listen and choose to remain.
"I'm not finished with you yet. Leaving like this is the worst thing you could do to me, and I
won't let you hurt me anymore. You have to stay alive."
While Draco did not respond, his eyes flickered with every word. So she did not stop.
"You've stolen so much from me. I'm not ready to lose more. Leaving is too easy. Too selfish.
So you have to stay."
The sun was already crawling above the horizon by the time they made it to the Manor doors.
Draco's eyes closed the moment his cheek touched the marble tile.
Hermione turned him on his side and began to pull the knives out one by one. As soon as the
last crimson-coated tip left his skin, she moved her wand across the length of his back and
neck to cast Sanentur.
The bleeding eased. The wounds gradually closed. Even the acid burns left by the knives
faded into smooth scars. Yet she knew the toxin was still coursing through his veins. Could
see the life leaving his body with every labored breath.
There was only one cure for Basilisk venom.
Phoenix tears.
Her mind ran through her previous search of the Manor. There had been no sign of that
powerful healing material, otherwise she would have used it to treat Blaise. And this time, no
book or scribbled incantation would save Draco. She could try to search again. Maybe she
should. But nothing could force Hermione to leave his side. She was too afraid that if she left
him for even an instant, he would slip away.
So instead, she called for help.
"Can anyone hear me?" she cried desperately. "House-elves! Is anyone there? Please come
right now! He's dying!"
Her voice reverberated around the cavernous grand entrance. But no servant ran down the
twin staircases to answer. No house-elf heard her voice and appeared in response. Hermione
spun around to look at the center of the room, and her heart dropped when she saw that even
Narcissa's large framed portrait hung empty.
She continued to plead for someone, anyone. But as she did, Hermione knew the futility.
There was little chance that even a family as wealthy as the Malfoys had phoenix tears. They
were too rare. The only living phoenix in recent history was Fawkes, and he had not been
seen since Dumbledore's funeral.
When her throat grew hoarse from shouting, she grabbed her wand, crying, "Accio phoenix
tears!"
As expected, nothing came.
Instead, another seizure ravaged Draco's body. He shook so violently against the stone tiles
that Hermione moved his head to her lap just to minimize the bruising. While she was still
cradling his head, blue blood vessels began to vein across his face and neck.
She quickly recognized the symptoms of liver failure—had learned them from Pangolin's
anatomy lessons in the shed. The venom must have circulated throughout his entire
bloodstream. It would not be long until his heart stopped.
She ran a hand down his freezing cheek, flinching at the cold. Then she pulled off the outer
layer of his Death Eater robes and gently lowered him onto his back. Finally, she sliced open
his shirt.
She gasped, and her hand shot to her mouth.
His entire chest was covered in scars.
There was almost no inch of porcelain skin not decorated with gashes or disfigured flesh.
Some of the marks were easy to identify, particularly the sword-like Sectumsempra scars
carving into the muscles of his torso. But others looked more recent and sinister.
Small pock marks that resembled gunshot wounds were scattered beneath his collarbone and
across the tops of his shoulders. The entire area surrounding his left pectoral was the most
damaged.
But the worst scars were around his heart. There was a gouge to the side of his heart running
so deep that it looked as if someone had chiseled out skin and muscle to carve a tortuous path
to that vital organ. And the skin around the cavity was etched with rows of thin scratches—
unmistakable trauma left by fingernails.
Hermione's hands shook as she peeled back his shirt. She had touched the unblemished skin
on Draco's back before, but never his chest. Had never imagined this much pain lay beneath
his expensive clothing. That so many wounds were hidden beneath his thick Death Eater
robes.
Seeing the violent scars did not disgust her. No. If anything it angered her that in a world with
healers and tonics, his body remained this broken.
Nonetheless, she forced down her anger, steadied her hand, and used her wand to make a new
incision. He jerked, but Hermione continued to deepen the cut—slicing through muscle and
bone. Only stopping when she saw his beating heart.
Then she lit her wand, using it to search within the laceration. Now she made an even smaller
cut directly into his left ventricle. Blood rushed out immediately, pouring on the white stone
floor. His heartbeat became irregular.
But she persisted, using her wand to direct the flow of blood into the air over his chest,
crudely filtering it with a whispered, "Accio venom."
Evil-looking green droplets separated from the blood and floated out. She vanished the
venom, then returned the purified blood through a narrow slice in his aorta. It was a messy,
grueling process. And when his complexion began to turn pallid, she added a blood
replenishing spell as an intermediate step.
Yet Hermione had little expectation that filtration would remove all of the poison coursing
through his bloodstream, already seeping into his skin, and destroying his organs. At best, it
could only delay the inevitable. Grant her time to come up with a permanent solution… or at
least the chance to say goodbye.
She was still working furiously when a prickle ran down her spine. Without pausing, she
turned her head to look back.
Narcissa had returned to her portrait, posed in front of a wide window overlooking the water.
But the normally immaculate woman's blond hair was disheveled. She was watching
Hermione intently, blue eyes swimming with painted tears.
Their gazes met for a short while, then Hermione looked away and refocused her attention on
Draco. She continued to feel the blue eyes burning her back. It was as if the Malfoy matriarch
was still alive and standing over her shoulder. Monitoring.
She almost jumped out of her skin when Narcissa spoke, voice small.
"What happened to my son?"
Hermione's shoulders drooped at the question, and she did not turn around again as she
replied, "He was poisoned with Basilisk venom. If there is any way you can tell me where to
find phoenix tears, I can save his life. Otherwise, he won't survive much longer. I'm sorry."
When Hermione heard Narcissa's muffled sob in response, the last ounce of her hope left as
well.
Soft morning daylight was already halfway down the pillars flanking Narcissa's portrait when
the woman spoke again. Her tragic words echoed around the marble foyer.
"I am the one to blame for what became of Draco. He deserved more than this life."
Before she could help herself, Hermione glanced back and saw the anguish tearing apart
Narcissa's brush-stroked face. Her mind flew to Kreacher's answers in the dark forest clearing
so many months ago.
According to the house-elf, Narcissa betrayed Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts. But
Hermione knew nothing else.
"What do you mean you're to blame?" she asked.
Narcissa responded at once. "I deceived the Dark Lord about Harry Potter. When he
discovered the truth, he did things to Draco. Every single wound on my son's body is a
reflection of my own failure."
Then, before Hermione could reply, Narcissa threw her pale hands over her mouth, and fled
from the portrait frame. Disappearing completely.
"Wait!" Hermione called after her.
Draco jerked again, seizing up. Blood spilled from his chest and splashed across the white
marble. Hermione redirected her attention back to him, even as her head reeled. She wished
for nothing more than to speak with Harry. Ask him about Narcissa. About Draco.
And yet, Harry never wanted to talk about where he went during the ceasefire. Perhaps he did
not fully understand what happened himself.
During the Order's desperate escape from the aborted battle, Hermione had found him
unconscious outside of the Great Hall, half-covered by his Invisibility Cloak. She had carried
him down to the kitchens to side-along apparate with the elves to safety.
If Narcissa lied to Voldemort about Harry, it was possible that she was the one who left him
there. But why?
Hermione's head spun as she tried to form connections with too many missing pieces.
After another hour, Hermione realized that she had removed as much Basilisk venom as she
could with her improvised method. The last few rounds failed to remove any toxic green
droplets from Draco's bloodstream. Thankfully, some semblance of color had returned to his
face. His breathing, while still shallow, held steady.
Hermione closed the wound and let her wand drop—all adrenaline replaced by fatigue. As
she stroked the hair off of Draco's bloodied forehead, her thoughts returned to Narcissa.
Why would a Death Eater's wife betray Voldemort and risk everything? She learned from
Kreacher that Draco had sworn himself to Voldemort during the battle to protect his family.
That he had become the Mouth. But something else felt missing.
Maybe she could summon Kreacher again. At their last encounter, he only seemed to know
vague outlines of the Malfoys' story. However, if he was still working in the Hogwarts
kitchens, in enemy territory, he may know more now. At least more than Narcissa, or even
Draco himself, was willing or able to reveal.
Then another thought struck Hermione like an arrow.
She gently moved Draco's head from her lap, and stood as she shouted.
"KREACHER!"
CRACK
The house-elf appeared before Hermione in a flash, his elfish magic not bound by the rules of
human apparition.
Hermione froze.
The last time she had seen Kreacher, he looked clean. Well cared for.
But now… now his white towel was torn and smeared with dirt. His bulbous nose, covered in
barely-formed scabs. As he stood, not speaking, his bandaged fingers ran uneasily around the
chain of Regulus's garish locket.
"Who—" Hermione stuttered, taking in the disturbing sight. "Who did this to you, Kreacher?
Are you still at Hogwarts?"
The house-elf pressed his lips together, then admitted, "Dark Lord is angry at Death Eaters.
Angry that terrorists knew about the attack. Escaped. He is torturing Death Eaters, and they is
taking it out on kitchen elves." His wrinkled eyes fell on Draco, and he stepped forward,
croaking, "Master also is here… Why is Miss calling Kreacher?"
"I called you again to help me save Draco—" Hermione hesitated, reluctant to make her
request after seeing Kreacher's poor condition.
"Anything!" Kreacher blurted.
Hermione unglued her eyes from Kreacher's wringing hands. "What I planned to ask requires
you to return to the castle. But I'll think of something else, so you should just stay here at the
house. It's safer."
Fear crossed the house-elf's wizened face, but he repeated firmly, "Kreacher will do anything
to help Master Draco."
"It's okay. It's not your responsibility."
"Anything. Just say."
Hermione gritted her teeth. Draco began to spasm beneath her again. So she said hesitantly,
"If you're sure, Kreacher, then I want you to return to Hogwarts and look for something
important."
Her stomach hurt as she delivered the dangerous instructions. "I want you to find the
teardrops of a type of bird called a phoenix. Professor Dumbledore kept that bird in his office
for decades, and it's possible he collected its tears at some point. Start by asking the ghosts
who have been there the longest, and check the headmaster's study and potions closets."
Kreacher hung onto Hermione's every word as tightly as he gripped the false Horcrux around
his neck.
The sight made her think of Tom Riddle's diary. Of the way that Harry destroyed it.
She took a deep breath and continued, "Voldemort may also have a supply since he knows
about the risks of Basilisk venom. Go to the girl's lavatory on the second floor and look for a
sink engraved with a serpent. There is a dungeon hidden beneath where Voldemort resides. If
he has phoenix tears, they may be down in that chamber."
Hermione paused, then finished. "This will be very dangerous, Kreacher. If they catch you,
they will hurt you. Maybe even kill you. It's unfair of me to ask so much, and I won't fault
you for choosing not to return to the castle."
After swinging his restless gaze between Hermione and Draco, Kreacher shook his head
slowly.
With a snap of his bandaged fingers, a puff of blue smoke engulfed Draco's prone body.
When it settled, he was clean. Bloodstains gone. Dark shirt repaired.
Hermione looked hastily back up, but the house-elf had already vanished.
***
After burying her guilt at sending Kreacher to his abusers, Hermione lifted Draco into the
quiet Manor air.
She bypassed dozens of closed doors on her path through the stone corridor of the lower
wing, not opening a single one. Instead, her feet guided her back to the very bedroom that
Draco placed her in the month before.
The room was as airy and unassuming as Hermione remembered. A simple white wooden
bed and end tables. The only other furniture was a charcoal velvet chaise set in the corner.
Then the afternoon light filtering in through the window caught her eye, and she stared.
She had previously assumed that the pane was frosted. Now it was obvious that the entire
window was enchanted to reflect a distant scene. Ice still blurred the edges of the frame, but
she could make out a calm, pewter-colored ocean on the other side of the charmed glass.
The seaside bedroom looked as misplaced in the imposing countryside mansion as Moody's
cage had in the French Château. Despite that, a strange sense of comfort befell Hermione as
she lowered Draco beneath the ivory duvet and pulled up the sheets.
Thankfully, his breathing remained even. Though she could already see the blue veins
threatening to resurface beneath his pale skin. If Kreacher was unsuccessful—
Hermione blanched, and looked away.
Her gaze went to the door. She saw the broken wood still splintering its panels. And it was as
if no time had passed. As if her back was still pressed against the wood while Draco crushed
his hand above her head, slamming the door shut. Furious about her recklessness. Her
indifference toward self-preservation.
Her heart fell at the memory—at what came after. And when her mind drifted back to the
Order… to her Vow, Hermione swallowed deeply, and tried to stop thinking at all. To shut
that door entirely.
At least for the present.

So she walked to the chaise on the far side of the room—only perching on it for a split
second before rising again. A few twists of her wand later and it was positioned next to his
bed. So close that its cushioned headrest touched the bed frame.
Satisfied, she slid up the chaise, leaning her cheek against the side of the mattress. Covering
the right half of her body with the overhanging sheets.
Her eyes stayed on Draco, resting only inches away. Watching him as she always did. Using
her eyes to trace the creases on his eyelids. The straight angle of his nose. The subtle,
crescent curve of his lips.
Then her fingers inched beneath the covers, finding his cold hand. She flattened their palms
together until every fragment touched him. Until his blissful numbness seeped into her skin.
And sleep found her before she knew it.
***
Tonight the light filtering in through the roughly carved window was so dim that Hermione
could only navigate the cell using her memory. But after months, she knew it down to the
smallest detail. Every crack and line carved into the walls. The distance between each laid
brick. The not-quite square, not-quite rectangular shape of the room. They were all imprinted
on her eyes, even when closed. As permanent as the scars on her ankles. As haunting as the
guilt in her mind.
"It's terribly dark," she said, this time choosing to speak first.
He did not answer, so Hermione tried again.
"Growing up, I was frightened of the dark. My parents would leave a lamp on when I slept. It
was foolish, really. Back then, my biggest fear was getting a cavity, so there was nothing that
should have scared me about nighttime. And now… now teeth are the least of my worries,
and there never seems to be enough light."
When he still failed to reply, Hermione figured that he must be sleeping, or simply not ready
to speak. This was not the first occasion where he did not respond right away, although they
were few and far between. And he always seemed to have heard her words, speaking
eventually.
She never pried. After all, there were some Dementor-filled nights where she needed his
voice, and others where she needed silence.
So Hermione resolved to come up with an actual question for when he did choose to
respond.
However, while thinking, she drifted off to sleep.
And for once, she fell into a dream instead of a nightmare.

Everything around her looked the same in the dream, except that an effervescent, pearly haze
lit the entire cell, making it brighter than ever before. So brilliant that her eyes struggled to
adjust after months of darkness.
She looked heavenward, and saw grooves in the rocky ceiling she never noticed. Then she
turned her face to the side, and saw it.
A tall, slender bird was perched on the windowsill. Her eyes burned just staring at its
luminescent feathers. Tears started to form, but she let them roll down her cheeks, unable to
look away from the ethereal silver peacock.
The bird seemed to notice her gaze, and flew down to the floor. Once the peacock landed, it
spread its beautiful fan of eye-shaped tail feathers. And the room became even brighter.
They watched each other for an immeasurable time. But at some point, Hermione turned
away and still saw its lustrous glow even through her closed eyelids.
Every now and then, especially on the blackest nights, she would dream of the radiant bird.
And whenever she did, she slept peacefully. Hidden from the darkness.
Tucked away on a silvery island of light that even Dementors could not find.
The Patriarch
Chapter Notes
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and Happy Boxing Day to everyone else :)
I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother.
***
"Granger."
"Granger."
"Hermione."
The first thing Hermione saw when she woke were Draco's silver eyes.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her head pounded with confusion. But she held his steady gaze.
He was propped up against the pillows, pupils still slightly enlarged. His pallor was even
lighter than hours before; the blue veins streaking across his face, more prominent. But he
was awake at least.
At least for now.
"Good morning," she replied cautiously.
His mouth twitched as he slid up along the headrest.
"Not quite right," he said, nodding toward the darkening window.
Hermione rolled over to face the enchanted glass just in time to catch a last glimpse of the
sun before it dipped below the waves. A flash of green shot across the horizon. Then it was
gone.
Her bunkroom window beneath Shell Cottage was similarly spelled to show the brackish
water of the Cornwall shoreline—a way to provide Order members with the illusion of being
outside to offset their underground existence.
The memory of a room that no longer was, in a place where she could never return, drove
Hermione to a charged silence.
It did not last long.

She felt Draco's hand tighten around hers, and recalled the foolish way that she had fallen
asleep. Still on the chaise. Fingers laced together under the cold sheets.
Her face flushed, and she pulled away. Of course, Draco had other ideas—gripping harder
until she gave in and looked at him.
"Are you going to interrogate me about why I was still in the base? Lecture me about how I
should just abandon the injured? Or maybe break me, like your master ordered?" she asked
wolfishly, trying to free her hand.
But even as Hermione spat the words at Draco, she felt the fight leaving her. Felt the
emptiness that came from forcing herself to hate him after everything.
The exhaustion of their forever war.
Instead, she shifted her tired eyes from his face to chest, covered again by his silver-laced
shirt. Thinking of the battlefield of scars that lay beneath.
Her gaze softened.
Draco winced as he shifted closer to Hermione's chaise, pushed up against the bed. One hand
stayed entwined with hers. His other slipped out of the duvet.
Then he was brushing the hair off her face. Running his long fingers through her tangled
mane from root to end. Gently enough that he did not pull at her scalp.
"I have no right to demand anything from you," he said slowly. "But just the same, tell me
why I'm still here given your Vow."
Hermione's eyes fluttered shut as her weariness became overwhelming. They remained
closed even as she spoke.
"I'm not finished with you yet."
After what could have been a heartbeat or an hour, Draco's hand continued its journey
through her tresses, and he replied in a heavy voice, "I warned you not to save everyone,
including me."
"I can't get rid of the Basilisk venom without phoenix tears. I didn't actually save you. And
you don't get to tell me who to save."
Despite her harsh words, Hermione let her head fall to the duvet. Eyes closed. Feeling the
soothing pull of his fingers untangling her hair; the firmness of his lap beneath her cheek.
The momentary stillness in the center of a storm.
By the time her mouth moved again, she was teetering on the brink of sleep.
"Do you remember that fairytale I told you in Azkaban?"
"Yes," said Draco quietly. "The one about the mermaid who lost her voice. Why?"
"Well, I think I'm the prince."
He smiled. "Since you finally understand that juvenile book, you can choose a better one as
your favorite."
"I'm not even close to understanding it, or you."
Draco seemed about to reply when he grimaced—hit with a fresh wave of pain.
Hermione's eyes shot open and she sat up. After his seizure ended, she spoke in a serious
tone.
"I don't know your story, Draco. You promised to always tell me the truth, and maybe you
have. But that isn't nearly enough." She felt his grip tighten as she continued. "From now on,
I need more than the truth."
"Meaning what exactly?"
"Even if you refuse to answer right away, promise you will explain everything eventually.
Especially the answers that hurt. That eventually—"
Before Hermione finished speaking, Draco's jaw clenched and his entire body jerked. She felt
his hand spasm around hers. She watched him—her own face as tense as his grip.
A minute later, his breathing returned to normal. His expression eased.
He guided Hermione's head back to rest on his lap, caressing her hair until her eyes closed.
Using a corner of the duvet to wipe the new tears from her face. Then his hand moved from
her curls to lips, grazing his fingertips lightly along the ridges. As if he was sculpting them
from clay.
She was already half asleep when Draco leaned down and met her mouth so softly that it
could have been the memory of a kiss or a dream.
Then, before the world faded, she heard him whisper.
"I don't think I'll get an eventually, but yes."
***
Hermione woke in the middle of the night. Disoriented by her unfamiliar surroundings. But
her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Draco was resting on a pillow right at the edge of
the mattress, so close that a few strands of his hair fell over the side. Hanging right above her
chaise. Appearing almost pure white in the ocean-reflected moonlight. His mouth moved as it
tended to when he slept, shaping words she could not understand.
Then she felt his fingers tighten around hers as another seizure rolled through his body. He
did not wake, but she saw him grit his teeth from the pain. As soon as it ended, Hermione
blinked back tears, slid her hand out of the covers, and slipped out of the bedroom.
The inky limestone corridor was even lonelier at night. While the house and grounds
appeared pristine, she had never seen any movement besides the portraits. Draco mentioned
house-elves during her last time here, but she had yet to find a single human or nonhuman
servant.
As she was wandering, Hermione bumped into a shadowy credenza.
A colorful, oriental vase wobbled and fell to the hard floor before she could catch it,
shattering into thousands of unsalvageable pieces. She winced, and the blond-haired portraits
on either side tutted disapprovingly.
She knelt on the freezing ground, moving her wand to collect the shards. But a second later
they were gone. Even the pieces in her hands were missing.
After blinking in confusion, she concluded that the Manor must be spelled to watch over
itself. It explained the still-trimmed hedges; the spotless floor.
Mollified, Hermione stood and continued down the wing, treading more carefully.
But she was still engrossed in thought when she walked right past a set of familiar oak doors.
She paused, then stepped back and entered the drawing room.
It was as she remembered. Cherrywood wainscotting and rich purple wallpaper. A crystal
chandelier hung above, now dark. There were dozens of empty armchairs set around the
room, but her eyes and memories went straight to the chair before the unlit fireplace. His
chair.
She was staring at it when a haughty voice called out from behind.
"That vase was an antique dating back to my great grandfather. And certainly worth more
than anything you will ever own."
Hermione did not need to look back to know who was speaking. She vaguely recalled seeing
an empty frame in the room a few months ago, but now she knew its occupant.
The voice continued coolly, "And before you ask, no, I do not have phoenix tears. My
connections never ran quite that deep. So you had better think of something else, girl."
Hermione felt her scowl forming even while she turned.
Lucius Malfoy was resting his pointed chin on his hand. Gray eyes narrowed down at her
from where his portrait hung on the wall opposite the fireplace. His thin-lipped sneer and
shoulder length platinum hair were painted with perfect accuracy.
Suspicious, she asked, "This isn't the first time I've been here, so why talk to me now?"
Not seeming to like that question, Lucius steepled his fingers and sized her up before
replying, "I wasn't planning to speak with you tonight either, until you destroyed my
heirlooms on your rampage through my house."
"Do you even care about what happens to your son?" she said heatedly. "Or only as much as
you care about your damn vase?"
"In fairness, they are both broken because of you, Mudblood."
Hermione internally pinched herself for naively believing that she was talking to this Lucius
Malfoy for almost a year. Draco's father was insufferable. Her skin crawled just being near
this charmed afterimage of him.
"So help me fix Draco," she retorted.
Lucius scoffed, then pressed his palms against the sides of his gilded frame as he said, "In
case you failed to notice, I am not alive anymore. How am I supposed to help anyone?"
"You can start by explaining why you're not alive. Draco doesn't seem able to talk about it, so
tell me exactly how you died."
"Tragically," Lucius replied.
Hermione snorted and turned to leave.
Lucius spoke again. And this time, there was a streak of cold anger in his voice.
"If you want to know what happened to me, ask Blaise Zabini. It's entirely his fault."
"What… what do you mean?" Hermione stammered, heart jumping into her throat.
"Voldemort said that Draco was the one to execute you."
"No. It's the Zabini boy's fault Narcissa and I are dead, so he should be the one to explain
why."
Hermione's head spun with the accusation, wondering if it was even true. Draco never denied
that he—that the Necromancer—killed his parents. But here was Lucius pointing the finger at
Blaise.
She strode right up to the arrogant man's portrait, pressing the tip of her wand into its oil-
painted surface. "Tell me everything," she said fiercely.
His face filled with derision as he snarled, "It doesn't work like that. If you're brainless
enough to threaten a portrait, then there really is no hope for Draco."
"You chose to sell yourself to Voldemort for nothing. Opened the doors and welcomed him
into your own home. If there was ever hope for your family, you threw it away years ago."
They glared at each other for so long that Hermione felt her hand grow numb—she was
gripping the wand that hard. But eventually, Lucius spoke again.
"Draco keeps a potions room three doors down. There is nothing as rare as phoenix tears
inside, but perhaps you can make something to ease the pain."
As Hermione dropped her wand from Lucius's painting, she saw his expression fall. And
there was such disappointment in his eyes.
But then Lucius faced away, making it clear that their conversation was over. Soon, she could
only see the light blond brushstrokes on the back of his head.
Frustrated, but not knowing what else to do, Hermione swallowed her questions and strode to
the door.
Lucius's voice carried out into the hallway behind her.
"When you see my son, give him a message. Tell him I was wrong, and I am sorry."
Hermione stopped dead—one foot stuck in the air, and asked, "Why don't you just tell him
yourself?"
The Malfoy patriarch let out a bitter sigh.
"He hasn't said a word to Narcissa or I in years."
***
The potions room was right where Lucius said it would be, but still caught Hermione off
guard.
The room itself was unremarkable, though as elegant as the rest of the Manor. Coffered
ceilings that stretched up twelve feet. Dark cabinets stocked with more ingredients than even
Professor Snape's potions laboratory. A long, rectangular table decorated with assorted sizes
of silver cauldrons.
No, what surprised Hermione was that the room looked… used. While most of the house felt
like a museum—not a speck of dust in sight or candlestick askew—this place felt lived-in.
Several of the cauldrons still had partially-dried dregs of unknown potions crusted on their
bases. The cabinet doors were flung open, and wooden stools were strewn haphazardly
around the floor.
The sight brought Draco's interest in potions to her mind. He had always excelled in the
subject. Maybe she had just stumbled on another scrap of information about him. Although
she was clueless about what to do with it. What the hell was he brewing?
She sniffed several of the cauldrons. The scents smelled a bit familiar, but not enough to
identify. While she pulled out materials to create a batch of Wiggenweld tonic, Hermione
continued to ruminate. Fortunately, the cabinets were as fully equipped as they appeared. She
easily located Wiggentree bark, Dittany, and even Mandrake root—all organized in neatly-
labeled bottles.
Less than an hour later, she had a dozen vials of healing potion.
Before leaving, she tidied up the puzzling room. Brain still churning. Between her heated
conversation with Lucius and this latest discovery, she felt farther away from understanding
Draco than ever.
Hermione next went to the rose garden.
A morning glow was barely beginning to brighten the skyline. Even in the half-light, she
could see that the frosty bushes were still barren. Not a single bud or flower around the entire
courtyard. The fountain at its center was just as empty.
She found a dry patch of stone bench, and sat. Pressing her palms against the cold surface
until their stinging ebbed. Breathing in the icy winter air. Letting her tears freeze where they
fell. Watching the pale yellow sun steadily rise over the distant Manor gates.
Then Hermione finally allowed herself to process.
Ever since she fled Italy on what was—in hindsight—a suicide mission driven by guilt, she
only had time to react.
As soon as Moody and Gabrielle were safe, her entire world upended when Draco showed
her how much he cared. Then, just the next morning, that world shattered when she was
forced to confront a truth that she still did not want to accept. Forced to recognize a painful
aspect of Draco's identity—of their history—that was so much easier to ignore.
What followed was a whirlwind of death and grief. Without the fog of anger, she accepted
that, but-for Draco's warning, the Order would no longer exist. The battle, though
devastating, was survivable. And it was the Council's decision to remain and fight. To target
Draco.
Yet he had not saved Bill. He had not spared everyone. It was possible that he killed as many
Death Eaters as Infantry, but that only meant more blood on his hands.
That said, her own hands were far from clean. No one could call her a passive bystander in
their war. Not when she used Draco to find her friends, draining him to rescue them. Took the
life of his uncle. Handed Draco to the Order during a counterattack they planned based on his
information, then stood by as they stabbed him in the back. She may not have driven the
daggers in herself, but the suffering he endured—was still enduring—belonged to her.
And then there was her final revelation.
That for every cruelty Draco flung at her, he suffered twice over.
He lost his parents in a way too horrific to describe. For years he was enslaved and treated
like a weapon, instead of a human. When he was released, Voldemort killed Harry, Bellatrix
killed Ron, and Draco imprisoned her on his master's orders. Locked her in the same cell
where he had only a snake to whisper in his ear. Kept her alive and sane. Spoke with her
constantly. But never set her free.
Draco deceived her. He hurt her. That was true.
Draco protected her. He cared for her. That was equally true.
And maybe it was still not enough… not until she saw him dying in front of her. Because at
that moment, Hermione knew that Draco was the only person left she could not lose.
She did not hate him.
She needed him.
And now she knew how much.

Impermanence
To burn his Scriptures, slay his ministers,
And make my spirits pull his churches down.
***
Hermione did not stir from her spot in the Manor's rose garden until the entire sky was bright.
Her joints ached with the biting cold, but it felt cathartic. Purifying. Like the numbing
sensation of a healing potion shooting through her body. Or the sting of a peppermint held too
long on her tongue.
Part of her was watching for Kreacher, but the rest just needed to be alone.
There was still no sign of the house-elf. And she knew better than to summon him. She was
not sure how long Draco had left without phoenix tears, but guessed not more than a week
based on how quickly he was already deteriorating.
When she did move at last, it was only to kneel on the paved ground. She drew her wand and
summoned her otter Patronus.
The silvery animal stood at attention, awaiting instructions. Round eyes wide. Shimmery ears
perked.
"Find Charlie Weasley. Speak to no one else," Hermione stated clearly. "Tell him that Ginny
is alive and with the Special Force. If he wants to find her, Councilman Ishida may know
where they went. Theodore Nott likely took the captured Scouts to a place called the Revue
in Paris, so he should search there first. Finally, tell him I'm safe and helping the Order, but
not to look for me."
The otter gave Hermione a curt nod, then scampered off between the sparse bushes.
As soon as it was gone, Hermione took a deep breath, and cast another Patronus. She had
never summoned two at the same time, and the effort was taxing. But she pushed through it
—speaking to the second silver otter watching her vigilantly.
"Find Blaise Zabini. Speak to no one else. Tell him I'm exactly where he suspects. I'll return
once I gather enough information."
Once the second Patronus darted away, Hermione finally stood.
The Manor looked just as deserted at daybreak. Most of the portraits were napping. There
were still no servants in sight. But on her way through the house, she passed a large kitchen,
stocked with food. She fumbled her way around it until she had a pile of burnt toast. Potions
came naturally, but she was never much of a cook.
Draco was awake when Hermione entered the bedroom. When she crossed the threshold, he
tried to stand. But his breathing grew labored with the effort. Hermione rushed over.
"I made a batch of Wiggenweld," she explained. "It should help with your seizures and some
of the other symptoms. But still no phoenix tears."
"I assumed you weren't coming back," said Draco at once. And there was such disquiet in his
eyes as he studied her.
Hermione's face fell at the accusation. Though it was hardly a surprising one given their
history.
"I got a little sidetracked, but you can't get rid of me quite yet. Not until Kreacher returns."
She tried to avoid thinking about what would inevitably happen if the house-elf came back
empty handed, or not at all.
"So that's who you were talking to yesterday?" Draco asked, eyebrows raised. "Where is he
now?"
"He—" she considered, then chose not to disclose just how impossible of a task she had given
Kreacher. "I have a lead on a phoenix sighting that he's looking into."
Draco seemed unconvinced, but let it drop. He eyed the bottles and plate of charred bread.
“I see you're making yourself at home.”
As Hermione sat on the chaise to give Draco a dose of tonic, he spoke again.
"Next time, just summon another house-elf to bring it here."
Hermione frowned as she asked, "What other house-elf? The entire place seems empty.
Yesterday I called for ages, and no one came except Kreacher. Even the portraits don't like
me very much."
Draco's eyes narrowed, then he looked away. But Hermione was getting better at reading
him. She could see the wheels turning in his brain, and interrupted before he had the chance
to come up with another half-truth.
"When was the last time you actually tried calling for anyone in the Manor?"
His mouth set in a hard line, and he did not respond.
"I still remember what you promised me last night, but do you?" Hermione prodded.
He heaved a dramatic sigh, then answered tersely, "At least four years. I suppose I must have
moved the house-elves before—" now he paused.
She jumped in. "Kreacher told me you left him at Hogwarts four years ago. Is that when you
moved all of them?"
The statement seemed to disturb Draco. His brow furrowed. Movement caught her eyes, and
she saw that he was running his fingers over the tops of his knuckles.
"I'm not sure."
Now Hermione did some mental math, and surmised that Draco must have moved any elves,
including Kreacher, before trying to rescue his parents.
"Do you remember much before Azkaban?" she said, voice cautious.
"Some parts I can't seem to forget. Others are… blurry."
"You've been out for a while now. Have you really never tried to summon anyone since you
returned?"
This time Draco responded right away, a hint of a sneer curling his lips.
"That's obvious, Granger."
"Well, obviously you're feeling better if you're giving me a hard time again," Hermione shot
back, snatching the empty potions bottle out of his hand.
Draco locked onto her wrist. His grip was firmer than the night before, though not back to
full strength.
But before she knew it, Hermione was pulled onto the bed. Wedged between him and the
wooden border of the chaise. He grinned deviously down at her while he spoke.
"I think you really are trying to be the prince, Granger. Because I haven't been a gentleman
taking the bed while you slept on that thing," he jerked his head toward the lounge chair. "Of
course, I don't mind sharing," he smirked.
Now Draco shifted his arm beneath Hermione's neck, positioning his shoulder beneath her
head like a hard pillow. He rested the side of his face on his other hand—looking at her in
such a peculiar way that she could not quite decide if he was waiting for her to slap him, or
caressing her with his eyes.
She stared up with an annoyed smile. The veins along his face and neck were even more
visible in the sunlight. But his eyes were their usual cool gray. And it was so bright in the
room that she could see it—the almost imperceptible glacial blue amidst the gray. The shade
she had only seen once before.
She relaxed into his arms. Against his chest.
It felt like she fit perfectly.
Before she succumbed to sleep, Hermione felt the faint sparks of her messages being
delivered, and Patronuses disappearing.
***
The next five days brought an agonizing sort of comfort. Although he continued to have
seizures, the Wiggenweld allowed Draco to stand and even walk, though slowly. But he still
slept most of the time. More every day.
Hermione fell into a routine of exploring the Manor when Draco was asleep, although she
almost always ended up in the library—one of the only other places with any sign of use.
The collection itself was enormous, especially in contrast to the Order's makeshift
underground archive. Every shelf stretching up to the domed ceiling was loaded with books,
some ancient-looking and others that appeared newer. After almost falling off a rolling ladder
trying to pull out a heavy tome, she began using her wand to reach the highest shelves.
Sometimes Draco would join her. Draping himself across an armchair and summoning a book
right into his hands. He did not seem to have a preference—one hour reading about
astronomy and constellations, then picking up a novel on flying. Once she even caught him
reading Muggle dystopian fiction: A Clockwork Orange.
However, he never asked about what she was reading. In fact, he seemed purposefully
disinterested. Turning away any time the title on a spine or book cover came within eyesight.
Leaning against the back of his chair and staring instead at the Italian fresco on the domed
ceiling. And when he rested his head against her shoulder, he would close his eyes and sleep.
Yet no books were off limits to Hermione. Unlike the Hogwarts library, there was no
restricted section—accounts of blood rites; diagrams of pure-blood family histories;
propaganda on quantum supremacy; and countless books on dark magic—were spread
around every corner of the massive room.
It was not hard to figure out which books Draco had read. She quickly noticed that he kept a
habit of leaving handwritten notes between pages.
None of the notes were as interesting as his instructions on Vulnera Sanentur. They typically
just had a few neat lines with his reactions, or cross-references to another chapter. Strangely,
the books she found them in the most were about Gellert Grindelwald.
The library had an inordinate amount of books on that dark wizard. And Draco seemed to
have read every single one. Before, Hermione had only known vague outlines of
Grindelwald's history—mostly his pursuit of the Deathly Hallows. But she quickly became
absorbed; engrossed. Especially once she read about Grindelwald's attack on the Lestrange
Mausoleum in the United States, where he reportedly cast Protego Diabolica—a dark charm
of his own invention. Using the black flames to incinerate enemies and spare genuine
followers.
Arguably, that was the least interesting aspect of Grindelwald's life. She also discovered that
he was a natural-born seer, having visions of the future where he foresaw his rise over the
wizarding world. And she almost fell out of her chair and woke Draco when she read that,
while teenagers, he and Dumbledore made a blood pact to never fight each other.
Hermione spent hours pouring over books on Grindelwald and dark magic. Like in Azkaban,
she told herself that it was only gathering intelligence on the enemy—this time using Draco's
books instead of answers. Finding information to bring back to the Order. And that was partly
true.
A half-truth.
But when Draco fell asleep in his chair, she would always pull out books on antidotes and
poisons. Magizoology texts on rare birds and reptiles. Writing her own notes. Picking apart
every mention of phoenixes and serpents.
Learning very little.
Hermione learned very little about Draco outside of the library as well. Regardless of his
promise to tell her everything eventually, he continued to hold so much back. Although it
went both ways.
Neither spoke about the war. It felt like the moment they did, the spell would break. And this
thin veneer of normalcy would fall apart, leaving only their ugly reality.
There were other topics they avoided just as firmly. Draco seemed to have locked away or
altered most memories between the Battles of Hogwarts and the Valley. There were too many
obvious inconsistencies for someone so clever. It was not just forgetting about the house-
elves. One day Hermione questioned him about the swamp raid where he rescued her from
Grindylows—an incident that she would obviously remember. Draco admitted to helping her
and killing Greyback. But he had no memory of Dennis, insisting that he found her alone.
And every time she mentioned his parents, it was like his voice disappeared entirely.
Meanwhile, their portraits continued to remain empty.
Hermione did not push the matter—at least not yet. And she did not think that he was lying.
Instead, she guessed it could be the product of years of powerful Occlumency combined with
Voldemort's manipulation.
But the question they avoided the most was each other.
Draco understood her Unbreakable Vow. That had not changed. And even if Hermione now
admitted how much she cared, she was toeing a deadly line just by trying to heal Draco.
When she decided to save him, she accepted the possibility of not leaving the Manor alive
herself. Accepted that Kingsley was right—being with Draco at all could break her
Unbreakable Vow. And yet she was hopeful that there was another solution. Perhaps it was
self-delusion. She told herself that, like Spider, he was useless to the Order dead. Told herself
that she still needed him to destroy Voldemort, so she needed him to stay alive.
The truth lay somewhere in the middle.
At the same time, both through his words and actions, she knew how Draco felt about her.
While his deception still hurt like hell, it hurt a little less every day. With every answer he
could give. With every way she realized Draco already proved his remorse. The betrayal
would always lay beneath—a dark base layer. But he was slowly painting over that ruined
canvas.
The problem was that whatever they had together felt incredibly temporary. Slipping away
with each hour that Kreacher failed to reappear. Fading in line with his more frequent
seizures. With every time she saw Draco staring at his burning Dark Mark.
No Death Eaters had come to the Manor—both sides were likely still reeling from the
aftermath of the battle. Yet Draco refused to say why he would not break faith with his
master. If he survived, Hermione worried that it would only be a matter of time before he
chose to return to Voldemort. And maybe it was better not to know if that choice was truly his
own.
But she knew better than to ask Draco to come back with her again. Knew better than to think
that he would, or even could, join the Order.
Not anymore. Not after Shell Cottage.
Not after they almost killed him.
***
Despite her insistence on moving to one of the dozens of other rooms spread throughout the
mansion, Draco continued to muster just enough strength to pull her into his every night. The
velvet chaise was planted back in its corner.
Instead, she slept in his bed.
Nightmares rarely seemed to find her there. And if they did, it was easier to reorient in the
darkness when she heard his even breathing; his heart beating steadily against her back. She
had never shared anything as intimate as a bed before, or left herself so vulnerable in her
sleep. But this type of vulnerability, the relief of sleeping in his arms, felt like opening herself
up to being cherished. She did not resist.
That being said, her sleep was as punishing as it was restful. She was hyper aware of Draco
the entire time. It was not just the seizures, which came often. No, it was how he buried his
face in her hair while he slept. The possessiveness of his arm hooked around the bare skin of
her waist. The surge of white-hot energy when his lips brushed against the base of her neck.
How natural it was to succumb to his embrace, so that she forgot it was possible to sleep any
other way.
When she woke the sixth morning, the room was so quiet that she could hear the muted
sound of the far-off ocean. The soothing rise and fall of the water filled her ears, and lulled
her thoughts.
As was often the case, Draco was already awake. Resting against the cushioned headboard
and watching the waves beyond the charmed glass.
His eyes moved down to Hermione when he noticed her stirring. The shadow of a smile
danced across his mouth.
"Hello, Granger."
"Morning."
Then she rolled on her side to face the window, asking, "That's Tenby, isn't it?"
Draco's gaze left Hermione and drifted back to the ocean. She counted twenty-three swells
before he responded.
"Yes. Maybe you were listening after all."
"Something like that."
Her mind wandered back to dozens of dreams of a younger Draco in that coastal town. And
she wondered if he even knew that his Legilimency eventually cut both ways. Yet she
hesitated to tell him in case he sealed those dreams away. She enjoyed them too much. The
sense of calm they brought. As if she was the one sitting on the shoreline watching the blue
seawater and skipping stones.
Draco was still staring out the window as he said, "I wish you could have seen it in the
summer, instead of when the ocean is so dark. Or at least seen it in the spring. In April, it
changes to a sky blue that gradually warms. For a while I kept a calendar to track the days
until June, because that's when the water melts into a rich blue probably best described as
cerulean. But I could never pronounce that word when I was young, so I called it cobalt. And
after the solstice, the blue deepens—"
Hermione grabbed Draco's shirt collar as she lifted her head.
And this time, she kissed him first.
His lips were still forming beautiful words when she pressed into them. Sealing them
together like the end of a sentence.
But as soon as she did, Draco took charge. Pulling her even closer. Tilting her face until he
found the perfect angle. Running his hands along her scalp. Tangling his fingers in her hair
more tightly with every stolen breath.
Consuming her slowly, but not enough to hide his hunger.
She could taste the tonic on his tongue. The bark and root had a bitter, earthy flavor. One she
had never tasted before, and did not know if she liked. Then Draco deepened the kiss,
sending a roaring sensation down her spine. And suddenly the bitterness became sweet
nectar.
The mattress sank as he moved right above her. Deftly using his knees to spread hers apart.
An ache pulsed through her at the motion, and she pulled him down.
His lips moved to her chin then her jaw. Nipping lightly along the bone. Spreading an
unexpected warmth through her body once they found her neck, carving a tortuous path,
slowly, softly. Tenderly. She gripped onto his shoulders just to keep from melting into the
silky duvet.
The bedroom itself began to blur and disappear as his mouth moved lower, reaching the
curved top of her breast. She gasped at the sensation.
And when she arched her back closer, he laughed into her glistening skin. Then his hand
dropped to crawl up the most sensitive points on the inside of her thigh, fingers like smooth
velvet. Making her shiver with every tortuous touch.
Her breathing quickened.
With a deliberate, roguish slowness, he began to slide the buttons of her nightshirt out of their
slots. One by one. Leaving a sinful kiss on every fragment of newly exposed skin.
Draco's lips were moving dangerously low when she slipped her hands under his shirt.
Brushing her trembling fingers along the taut, V-shaped muscles on his torso. Gently tracing
the scars. She felt him relax into each long stroke. Felt his heartbeat gain speed beneath her
hands.
A heartbeat later, the seizure started.
He dropped to his elbows above her as his entire body quaked. His eyes snapped shut and she
could tell he was using every effort to not collapse. Somehow he made no noise as the
venomous pain ripped through his nerves like a barbed wire. But her hands were still under
his shirt, and she could feel his abdominal muscles flaring with each rapid breath.
It subsided, and Draco rolled onto his back. Eyes still closed. One hand found hers again,
while the other clenched a pillow.
They lay there for a long while after. Not speaking. Not sleeping.
Just listening to the sound of the ocean.
Drowning in the bitterness.

Serpent Fangs and Phoenix Tears
Thy words to comfort my distressed soul!
Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.
***
They were walking across a low hill overlooking the sprawling estate. A solid layer of ice
blanketed the entire grounds, and thick tufts of snow continued to fall from the still-dark
morning sky. Only the gravel pathway remained untouched—charmed like so many parts of
the Manor to repel the frost.
Neither had slept the night before. Every healing potion Hermione brewed that entire week
was now doing little to help as the venom reaped irreparable internal damage. Her diagnostic
spell yesterday came back completely red.
She never left Draco's arms once that endless night, feeling the seizures tear through his
chest; feeling his breath become steadily colder against her skin.
But as they traversed the gravel path that morning, arms linked together, Draco seemed
almost normal. As long as she did not look too closely. During her research in the library,
Hermione had come across a medical phenomenon known as "surge before passing"—a brief
period of renewed energy before death.
A false hope.
She felt herself descending down that dark rabbit hole of anxiety and overthinking when
Draco spoke, catching her off guard.
"Now will you tell me where you actually sent Kreacher?" he asked.
"He's exactly where he's been for years," she confessed, seeing no point in dodging the
question anymore. "At the castle finding what you need."
Draco frowned, saying, "You should never have asked him to go back to Hogwarts. The Dark
Lord will be suspicious after what happened in Grenoble and Cornwall."
An idea hit Hermione, and she replied, "Mulciber assumed that the Order killed you. Why
can't you just let Voldemort believe you really are gone?"
"He knows I've survived worse. I didn't even suspect what was on those knives until I felt
them in my back."
"I can try to contact Blaise. Have him plant a rumor that you're dead," offered Hermione
hurriedly. "You can go somewhere and disappear. Or join the Order and help me without
anyone knowing."
"It doesn't work like that. Besides, I'm not asking Zabini for anything."
"And why not?" she demanded, pulling them to a stop. "Don't blame me for not
understanding you when you never explain yourself."
"I never blamed you. Some questions are just better left unanswered. Not for forever, but at
least for now."
Draco leaned forward to pick a snowflake off her nose. His fingertips were so bloodless that
it did not even melt on his skin.
A deep chill settled over Hermione at how determined Draco was to not reveal his attachment
to Voldemort. A gust of wind blew through the air, making her even colder.
But she steadied her nerves and began to voice a decisive line of questioning that she could
no longer avoid.
"Do you know why the knives were coated in Basilisk venom?"
"No, although I assume it was the Order's way to make my death as painful as possible. Are
you going to brag about how that part was your idea?"
Hermione instinctively glared at him, even as the dread continued to crawl down her spine
like a fire ant.
In Azkaban, she had never directly spoken to Draco about Horcruxes, unwilling to disclose
how much the Order knew about pieces of Voldemort's soul and their significance in the war.
But the Council apparently suspected Draco was one. If they were right…
"Have you ever heard about dark magic to break a person's soul into fragments?" she asked,
averting her gaze in an attempt to mask how very much she feared his answer. Instead, she
focused on the sensation of the gravel beneath her shoes as she shifted her weight unevenly. It
felt like standing on crushed bones.
"I've read about Horcruxes, if that's what you're asking," he responded easily, tugging her
back along the path.
The crunching noise of the pebbles continued to occupy her ears, but her mind shuddered at
how quickly Draco drew a connection to Horcruxes. Potentially too quickly. Then again, the
Manor's library was crammed with books on even more sinister dark magic.
She blinked, saying warily, "The Order has a theory that you could be one of Voldemort's
Horcruxes."
Draco halted and laughed, although his eyes remained subdued. He let their linked arms fall,
taking both of Hermione's hands in his instead.
He ran his thumbs along the set of puckered scars on her palms, as he replied evenly, "And
that would make things… difficult given your Vow, wouldn't it?"
Hermione's heart dropped, then leapt again when Draco pressed her palm to his blue-veined
cheek, and spoke in a firm voice.
"I'm not a Horcrux, so at least we have that going for us, Granger."
"How can you be sure? You may not even be aware that you're tied to him. Have you… have
you ever had any strange visions or heard Voldemort in your head?"
"If I had a part of the Dark Lord's soul, do you really think he would risk me on the field?"
Draco pointed out smartly.
Hermione gave a slow, tentative nod. His reasoning made sense—if Voldemort knew, or even
suspected, that Draco was a Horcrux, he would still be locked in that blood-stained cell. As
isolated and hidden as Nagini.
"And I told you years ago, I've never been in his head. Only yours," Draco added.
"Legilimency doesn't count."
He looked far too smug as he said, "Well, in that case, I don't think I'm your Horcrux either.
Though I wouldn't mind that quite so much."
Despite the brightening sky, the January air was so frigid that the edges of Hermione's mouth
hurt as she forced them down into a scowl, retorting, "None of this is a joke, Draco. You
know I can't stay unless you at least try to help the Order."
"And what do you propose I do next to 'help the Order'? Die faster? Let Weasley fucking
knife me in the back again?"
Hermione flinched, but turned to face Draco, holding his gaze. "Help me find Voldemort's
snake. You knew where she was before, so you can help me find her again. You told me that
Voldemort relocates her for protection. Where is she now? "
"What will you do with the snake once you find it?"
"Some question are better left unansw—"
"It's his Horcrux, isn't it?" Draco interrupted astutely, gray eyes narrowed. "The Order wants
to chip away at the Dark Lord one piece at a time. And you want to go after his snake first."
Hermione hesitated, considering, then bent her head in confirmation.
"Yes. Well, not exactly. He only has one Horcrux left. We already destroyed the others. That's
what Ron, Harry, and I were doing during seventh year when the snatchers found us and
brought us to the Manor. Hunting down fragments of his soul."
"I told you before. I'm not their replacement."
"You don't have to be. Just do as much as you can, and I'll handle the rest," Hermione said
dispassionately, then finished, "And if you can't do anything, then…. then you know exactly
why I have to leave."
Draco did not speak, so she searched his face, looking for even the smallest indication that he
was willing to commit such a serious act of disloyalty.
Suddenly his eyes closed and grip tightened.
A moment later, he released her, and stumbled off the path. Dropping onto the snow-packed
ground. Landing roughly on his hands and knees. He cursed, and tried to stand, but another
spasm tore through him and he hunched over.
"Let's go back to the house. I'll make more medicine," cried Hermione, rushing to him and
running a hand down his rippling back.
Then Draco coughed violently, and brilliant crimson dripped onto the snow. They both stared
at it. Watching his blood slowly crystallize into red ice.
Hermione felt the tears start to edge into her eyes—ones she did not want Draco to see. So
she wiped them hastily with a sleeve before kneeling beside him.
She was about to lift Draco back onto his feet when her own slipped out from under her. The
world temporarily lost all direction. White filled her vision as she tumbled face first into a
snowbank.
Draco had the gall to laugh as Hermione groaned and flipped over, front half completely
covered in snow. Looking far closer to a glazed donut than a human.
Still grinning ruthlessly, Draco rolled over on the frozen ground right beside her. Laying on
the snowbank shoulder-to-shoulder. Brushing the powder from her frostbitten skin.
"Don't laugh. That hurt, you asshole," she grumbled, red-faced and avoiding his gaze.
Snorting, he said, "I can't help it, Granger. It just made me remember how you were never the
most graceful. Brought to mind halfway through second year when you missed classes for
weeks. Rumor was you had your nose stuck in a book, fell off one of the moving staircases,
and got shipped out to St. Mungos."
"I'm guessing YOU started that rumor. And none of it is true!" Hermione insisted, but now
she was laughing. "I ran into some trouble with Polyjuice Potion and had to stay in the school
hospital wing. It was all your fault, to be honest."
"How the hell was everything my fault even back then?"
Now Hermione buried her somehow redder face in her hands, confessing into her palms. "We
were brewing it to spy on you because… well… because we thought you were the Heir of
Slytherin."
Draco guffawed and started to speak. She cut him off, teasing, "Could you blame us, Malfoy?
You were a sneaky little prick that whole year. Always going on about purity and how dirty
bloods deserved to be attacked by the Heir's monster."
But as the last words burst from her mouth, Hermione winced at the irony. And she was
dragged from Hogwarts back to their present, harsh reality.
However, Draco's voice held only wistful nostalgia as he looked up at the overcast sky,
responding, "If being the Heir of Slytherin included some resistance against this damn
venom, I suppose it wouldn't be so bad. And I'll concede I was a little shit, especially to you."
They did not move from where they lay on the snowbank for hours. Talking as they watched
the dark clouds sail over their heads. Not even bothered as the frost melted into their cloaks,
numbing their backs.
Too preoccupied with reminiscing about a simpler time when they were only in opposing
houses.
After a very long while, Draco took Hermione's hand in his, letting them fall over his chest.
He released a long exhale, then gently squeezed her hand once… twice… a third time.
Hermione turned to look at him, confused by the gesture. But Draco's own gaze was still
fixed on the sky, and she could sense his fleeting contentment—she felt it too.
Eventually, he spoke.
"I'll find the serpent."
Hermione sat straight up at his sudden agreement, stunned. She studied him. Catching the
ghost of a sad smile leaving his face.
"Really?"
"Yes, Granger," he sighed, adding, "That is, if I ever make it out of this snow."
"Of course you will. And I'll figure out how to deal with the venom," she said, not very
convincingly. "But none of this 'we do it my way' nonsense anymore. I only need you to tell
me where Nagini is, then I can take it from there."
"We'll see."
It was not an easy task getting either of them off the ground and back onto the gravel path.
They were half-frozen from foolishly lounging in the snow for half the day. Hermione herself
felt like an ice lolly as they walked stiffly back toward the Manor. Despite that, there was a
small, new fire growing somewhere deep within—a hope that if Kreacher returned—if Draco
lived—whatever impermanence they had could now extend.
It was nearly dark by the time their slow pace led them through the rose garden. As they
crossed between the shadowy hedges, another memory bubbled up in Hermione's brain. She
turned her head away from the looming house to look back over her shoulder.
"The first time I came here, I saw a pure white peacock. Over there," she commented,
pointing toward the icy lawn in front of the wrought-iron gates. "What happened to it?"
Draco's eyes softened, but he did not turn back as he replied, "He was already old by that
time. Nearly fourteen. His name was Amros and he was my birthday gift when I was a child.
We used to let him wander the grounds when it was warm in the spring."
Hermione considered, then asked, "Can you summon a corporeal Patronus?"
"Yes," Draco said suspiciously. "Regardless of what you think, my life wasn't so depressing
that I have zero happy memories. Why?"
"No particular reason." Then she offered casually, "My Patronus takes the form of an otter.
And yours…?"
He rolled his eyes and smiled, at last recognizing how slyly Hermione backed him into a
corner.
"I like to think it's a jailbird."
***
Sleep came easily to Hermione that night. Likely the result of being so cold and exhausted
after hours in the snow. Or perhaps it was the warm afterglow of their hours of conversation.
As she had the past week, she fell asleep tangled in Draco's arms, soothed by just being near
him.
She was caught in a dream about their school days—specifically the train ride where she
boasted about keeping Rita Skeeter in a glass jar, and Draco overheard and forced his way
into her carriage—when she was abruptly jerked awake. Shaken out of her slumber by a jolt
of ice against her head.
"Hermione, you need to wake up now."
Her vision was flooded with Draco's penetrating gray eyes. His palm was gently pressed to
her forehead and his face was tense.
She eased upright, blinking herself back into lucidity.
The room was still dark, illuminated only by a half moon hanging beyond the enchanted
window. Draco slipped his arm from her waist. She rolled over to see him touching the jet
black Dark Mark on his skin.
He spoke in a low, oddly calm voice.
"Someone just apparated outside of the gates. They'll be here within minutes."
"Who?"
"I'm not sure."
As Hermione struggled to make sense of his words, Draco swiftly moved to the opposite end
of the bed and downed every remaining healing potion on the nightstand.
"You need to hide," he ordered, now standing. He maintained his balance as he summoned
Death Eater robes and began changing. "No matter what you see or hear, do not show
yourself. And if I leave tonight, go straight back to the Order. Do not follow or speak with me
until I contact you first. The Dark Lord is a Legilimens. He will sense you."
"It could be Kreacher. Maybe he found it," Hermione whispered hopefully, despite knowing
full well that, as a house-elf, he could have reappeared directly in the Manor.
Draco shook his head as he forced Hermione's wand into her hand, sliding his own into a
holster strapped to his thigh.
"Disillusion yourself. Go up to the second floor and hide in one of the farthest bedrooms."
Hermione jumped from the bed, dressing just as quickly. Her hands were steady, but her
voice shook as she said, "You won't be able to apparate to Voldemort or anywhere else like
this. Not without the tears. We should both leave right now. Go out the back and—"
"They'll find us. Find you," Draco replied sharply. "For once, stop fucking arguing and trust
me when I say there is no other option."
Before he could leave, Hermione crossed the room and pressed her back against the broken
door. When Draco turned and saw her standing there—not listening, blocking his exit—his
expression darkened.
He stepped forward, using a firm hand to sweep her to the side as he reached for the brass
doorknob.
But Hermione stood on her toes, pulling his face down to her. Locking his mouth to hers.
Kissing him urgently as she begged, "Come with me."
He paused, and she felt his glacial breath slip through her parted lips.
A second later she was lifted into his arms, back slammed against the closed door. She
straddled her legs around his hips to keep from sliding down. Then her lips were forced open
as Draco devoured her.
It was a reckless kiss.
A wild recklessness that was soon laced with agony when a seizure deregulated his breathing
and she tasted his blood.
But he steadied them both by crushing his hand into the paneling above her head. She
flinched when the wood cracked again, dropping splinters onto her hair and down her shirt.
Cried out as the grain scraped against her back when he pressed every inch of him against
her. But even the painful friction was a release, like running nails across a stinging wound.
Now his hand shot down to grasp her jaw, forcing her head back. Exposing the unblemished
skin on her neck. Then he was carving a trail of bites down into her throat.
Marking her with sharp teeth.

Her hands found his silky hair, tangling the fine strands. She locked on and guided his head
lower. He obliged. Sliding the nightshirt from her shoulders and running his teeth, his tongue,
along the length of her collarbone. The swell of her breasts. Every piece of exposed flesh that
his mouth touched seared with a biting cold.
Then he tilted her head down and captured her mouth again. Driving into her with an
unfamiliar intensity. Kissing her so fiercely that her lips went numb as they lost all sensation.
Crushing her in an embrace greedy enough to take the wind from her lungs. She gasped and
fought to breathe when the air itself grew suffocating.
But the roughness, the desperation, felt earned. There was no time left for anything tender.
No desire for slow brushes along her skin. Not when she could smell the spice of his blood in
the air. Taste its metal on his tongue. The salt tinged with iron.
Not when it was a goodbye.
It still ended too soon. And her feet were back on the solid ground as Draco wiped the blood
from his mouth and stepped away.
She reached up to stroke his moon-white hair out of his eyes. Smoothing every loose strand
back into place, whispering, "Don't go back."
"Do you trust me, Hermione?" he asked, reaching past her waist to turn the doorknob.
"Not at all."
An almost smile curled Draco's mouth, and he touched her cheek so softly that it felt like a
lover's caress.
Then he laced their fingers together and pulled her quickly through the open door.
They ran into the midnight-black corridor. The entranceway was still empty as they tore
across the marble ground, footsteps echoing with every long stride. She registered that
Narcissa's frame was vacant before she was pushed toward the curved base of the twin
staircases.
Hermione had barely made it to the top when she jumped at the jarring bang bang bang of a
metal knocker hitting the surface of the large front doors.
She edged around the corner, kneeling on the rug and disillusioning herself. Any concealment
charm paled in comparison to the Invisibility Cloak, but offered a shred of protection if one
did not know where to look.
Partially obscured, she stuck her head back around the corner just in time to see Draco lean
against a stone pillar. Bracing himself against it in a way that appeared casual, indifferent.
With a flick of his hawthorn wand, the front doors swung open.
Something small launched into the foyer, barreling across the floor with a painful grunt.
Hermione immediately recognized Kreacher, looking twice as battered as a week ago. Even
through the darkness she could see the inflamed welts all over his body. The purple bruises
on his wrinkled face. A trail of fresh blood streaked across the marble from where he was
kicked.
Hermione pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling a horrified scream. Forcing down every
impulse to rush to the injured house-elf cowering on the floor.
Because an agonizing second later, another figure entered.
Then a familiar voice called out, and Hermione's veins froze.

The Midnight Visitor
Chapter Notes
Torment, sweet friend, that base and crooked age,
That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer,
With greatest torments that our hell affords.
***
"Should have known it was you, Draco. You slithery little shit. Could have at least told your
friends years ago. What made you do it now?"
"Nott," Draco greeted stiffly.
"Already dodging my question," Theo guffawed, striding into the cavernous room. "And
apparently you even forgot my first name."
He ran a hand through his already ruffled auburn hair, tousling it further, as he continued,
"Then again, now that you think you're better than me, this is probably your attempt to force
some distance."
The shadows around Theo's deep set eyes made them almost indiscernible. Yet they were still
visible enough to see a strange spark within his pupils. He would have been handsome, but
for those eyes. There was something fundamentally off about them. Something slippery. Or
perhaps it was the unnerving smile distorting his face. The entire effect was disturbing.
"I was asleep. I don't understand why whatever you came here for couldn't wait until the
morning," Draco drawled.
Theo's grin widened as he took in Draco leaning against the pillar. He sauntered forward,
saying, "You're one to complain about surprises. You've been holding out on me, mate." He
laughed so loudly that it sounded forced. "Why reveal yourself during that raid instead of any
other? Forgot to cover your mask before you summoned the dead? Or just looking for more
attention?"
Draco folded his arms and said, "You don't get to show up at my house in the middle of the
night to insult me and demand answers. Tell me what you want then get out."
Now the other man had reached Kreacher, still curled on the marble floor. He lifted his shoe,
and cruelly pressed it into the elf's discolored forehead. Draco's eyes shot to them, but his
expression remained blank.
"Consider this a favor from an old friend," Theo said. "Figured you'd want me to return your
house pet before word spread that it was sneaking around the castle every night."
He pressed the heel of his shoe in harder, and Kreacher let out a low moan. "At first I thought
someone sent the elf as a spy. To spy on me. Fortunately, I remembered how it always
followed you around like a dog. You're lucky I found it first. If the Dark Lord caught it, he
would have had some nasty questions for you, Draco."
Now Hermione saw Draco discreetly move his hand toward his thigh, resting it on the top of
the wand holster. His tone remained blasé as he responded, "I have no clue what you're going
on about, Theo. I haven't seen the wretched thing in years. But if you suspect the Order's
involvement, leave it here and I'll interrogate it myself."
In lieu of answering, Theo began to survey the dark room. Hermione shrank when his gaze
lingered on the second floor landing. So close to where she knelt. She tried to keep
completely still. It felt like his eyes were boring into her even through the disillusionment.
"If you insist on bothering me, then let's go somewhere else to sit," Draco interjected. "This is
hardly the place to have a conversation."
Theo continued to stare pointedly at the top of the stairs as he sang, "No. No, I'm fine right
here. Just summon a chair if you're too frail to stand."
Draco tensed, pushing himself off the column. Rising to his full height. Then, without
looking back, he turned and walked right out of the foyer.
A satisfied look crossed Theo's face, but he slowly dragged his eyes away from the stairs and
followed the diminishing sound of Draco's footsteps.
Every muscle within Hermione screamed from staying in the same fixed position. However,
she did not move an inch until the entranceway was completely silent. Only then did she gasp
for air and allow her body to relax. After gathering herself, she sprinted toward the injured
house-elf.
Halfway down the flight of stairs, she heard Draco's voice ring in her head.
"Take Kreacher and get as far past the front gates as possible before you disapparate. Go
now. I can't distract him for long."
"No," said Hermione at once. "He'll be even more suspicious if Kreacher isn't around when
he returns. We need to keep him here."
She stooped over the unconscious elf, gliding her wand over the worst cuts. Summoning a
bottle of Dittany to pour over the rest. She was wrapping a fresh bandage over a deep,
infected-looking wound on his arm when Draco spoke again. And she could feel his anger
reverberating through her mind.
"Then you go, Hermione. Right now."
"I'm not leaving either of you. Not yet."

After gently placing Kreacher's head back on the ground, Hermione refreshed her
concealment charm and stole into the corridor, following the faint murmur of voices to the
drawing room.
Its doors were barely open. She heard Theo's laughter spilling out through the crack. A light
flickered, and she guessed the fireplace was lit. She crouched on the floor, and pressed her
ear against a crevice between the wall and hinge to listen.
"—my fault for not figuring it out sooner, really. I KNEW something was up with you, but I
could never quite pinpoint it. So what does it feel like, reviving the dead?"
"Like I've died and come back a thousand times."
"You can feel how someone died? How did the Dark Lord do it? Give you that kind of
control?"
"If you're so interested, then ask him," Draco dismissed brusquely.
"Figured you'd say that. Once an asshole, always an asshole."
Hermione heard the sound of something flying through the air, then a light thud of hands
catching it. A pop followed, like a bottle being uncorked. Far too curious, she inched closer
to the cracked doors, and peered inside. Fortunately, Theo's back was to her.
Draco was balancing a small vial between two fingers. As if deciding whether or not to drop
it. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he spoke.
"This feels like a painfully obvious attempt to drug me with truth serum. Though you never
were one for subtlety."
Theo laughed. Crossing his legs and tapping the side of the upholstered chair. "I think you'll
like what's in there a lot more than Veritaserum, considering you sent the elf hunting for it.
You should have just asked me, Draco. I could have given it to you all along. I don't
understand why you insist on making everything harder for yourself."
Sniffing the vial, but not drinking, Draco asked flatly, "Where did you even get this?"
"Perk of being part of our great Lord and Savior's Cabinet. There are certain things he asks
me to safeguard for him, phoenix tears being one of them."
Hermione saw Draco hold the vial up to the light. "If you're giving it to me, I assume you'll
demand something in return. What do you want?"
"Does it matter? You'll die without it. So drink, then we'll talk about the details. I can see
your bloody hands shaking all the way from here. If the Dark Lord discovers how seriously
the Order injured you… well, I think we both know how that would end," said Theo
cryptically.
Draco glared, but slowly lifted the glass to his lips.

Suddenly he paused, and Hermione saw his gray eyes widen in recognition as they met hers.
His grip tightened around the vial, and it looked like he was considering something. But then
Draco tilted it into his mouth and swallowed—gaze still locked on her, even through the
concealment charm.
As soon as Draco finished, Theo let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning so far back in his chair
that the front two feet tilted off the floor. The wood creaked as he spoke.
"Since you're not about to pass out anymore, maybe now you'll explain how you control
Inferi? Or where you've been keeping them after each fight? It doesn't make sense that the
Dark Lord would give you so much power. You're a threat. I've already heard the others
talking about who should ascend after the Dark Lord. And ever since you exposed yourself
last week, the name that keeps coming up is yours."
"There is no after the Dark Lord because he cannot die. You know that. To say otherwise is
treason," Draco replied sharply.
"Sure, all right," dismissed Theo. "But hypothetically, just saying that he did, it wouldn't
change much anyways. Not after we've come so far. You should see what we have planned
for MACUSA. They're finally warming up to the fact that we aren't going anywhere. And
Macnair and Zabini's units are already set to retake Italy."
Now Theo let all four legs of his chair drop as he leaned forward, speaking passionately.
"They're calling our movement 'the Dominion,' Draco. And you and I could be at its head.
Even if you won't tell me how you became this strong, I want you to swear you'll join me
when the time comes."
"And what time is that? Are you really planning some sort of harebrained coup d'état? You're
being fucking stupid, Theo. Don't drag me into any of it."
Theo laughed again, but a new, brutal undertone ran through his voice.
"Fine. Since you still insist on doing this the hard way… What's FUCKING stupid is how
you acted at that raid. I saw it with my own eyes. You weren't even trying to kill the Order,
not that there were as many to kill as we expected. You even started resurrecting before the
rest of us got out. Goyle lost his damn arm because of your stunt. Then you just fucking
disappeared and left us to clean up your mess. Because of what happened, the Dark Lord is
interrogating every single one of us who joined the fight. Executing anyone who shows a hint
of disloyalty. And not just them, but their entire bloodlines as well."
Hermione's heart rate spiked as she saw Theo rise from his chair. But he only walked across
the room to examine Lucius's empty portrait frame, continuing coldly, "The fact is that your
master sent me to bring you back tonight. There were only enough tears in that bottle to make
it to Hogwarts. Not nearly enough to treat the venom. I'll give you the rest after you answer
our questions."
The air itself grew colder as Draco stood abruptly, dropping any attempt to hide his anger.
"The Dark Lord knows that I would never harm him," he snarled, eyes flashing a brilliant
ruby red.
His hand tensed, and ice spiderwebbed along the wainscotting then up the wallpaper. The
fireplace flickered and went out, leaving the drawing room darker than the corridor.
Theo sneered as he pulled out his wand, twirling it between his fingers causally like a
conductor’s baton, reflecting, "Maybe that's right, Malfoy. But you're clearly hiding
something." He let the wand slide down into his palm, then, in one fluid motion, slashed it
through the air.
A long slice formed across Lucius's portrait, splitting the canvas in half. The ruined paper
curled in on itself.
"And I'm sure I don't need to remind you how things turned out the last time a Malfoy tried to
keep something from him. Or someone, that is," Theo finished cruelly.
"I don't know—"
"Tell you what," Theo interrupted. "Since you refuse to come back, I'm sure you wouldn't
mind me taking a look around the house before I leave. I thought I saw something upstairs. If
it's a ghoul, I know how to remove them." A knowing look distorted Theo's shadowy face.
"And if it's the girl you had on your arm at Christmas, the one who sent the elf, I can remove
her as well."
The entire room froze over as Draco strode toward Theo, drawing his wand. Hermione
planted her boots more firmly on the icy floorboards to avoid sliding, palming her own
redwood wand in preparation for the fight.
"Uh uh, none of that," Theo scolded, waggling a finger as he stood his ground and smiled
viciously. "Don't think I didn't plan for contingencies. If I don't return, my entire unit will
descend on the place faster than you can say 'blood traitor.' They're waiting outside the gates
right now. There's no running from this, Malfoy."
Draco stilled. Hermione watched him weigh the threats. The risks. Meanwhile, her own mind
felt as frozen as the floorboards beneath her—paralyzed by the impossibility of their
situation. At how completely they were ensnared in Theo's deadly web.
Her brain thawed as the words formed in her head.
"Leave with him. Get the antidote and find Nagini. If Voldemort trusts Theo with something
as valuable as phoenix tears, he may also be guarding the Horcrux."
Hermione watched Draco's eyes flare even redder, and she promised, "I'll stay here with
Kreacher until you learn about the Horcrux. If you agree to go with Theo now, he won't have
a reason to search the Manor. And if he comes back before you, I'll be ready to escape to the
Order."
"Get out of the hallway and go upstairs," Draco directed forcefully.
Then the drawing room doors slammed shut with a deafening BANG.
This time, Hermione listened to him. Running as quickly and quietly as she could through the
lower wing, only pausing to cast a blood replenishing charm over Kreacher—splashing the
liquid over his body. Disguising his barely healed wounds.
She was already shut in a darkened bedroom on the second floor and peering out the window,
when she saw a pair of figures following the gravel path leading out of the estate.
The taller of the two—Draco—seemed to be walking steadily. His gait and posture were
stable.
The intense undercurrent of foreboding running through Hermione that entire week eased just
a bit as she watched Draco move past the gates. If he could make it through Voldemort's
inquisition… and if Theo was telling the truth about the rest of the antidote… then he may
survive.
But there were still far too many "ifs" to cure her dread. Like the venom in Draco's veins, it
was dulled, but still present.
The thunderclaps of multiple disapparitions carried into the house, shredding Hermione's
nerves like razors. Shattering the facade of peacetime that they had indulged in for hundreds
of hours. Reminding her that this was enemy territory.
The jarring sounds also confirmed that Theo was telling the truth—an entire contingent of
Death Eaters waited just outside the Manor. All to escort Draco back to his Dark Lord.
As Hermione thought back through the overheard conversation, the knot in her stomach
coiled even tighter. Theo knew about her. Maybe not her specifically, but he knew that Draco
was protecting someone—hiding someone from his side of the war.
And it was entirely her fault.
Even more guilt and regret tore through Hermione as she shouldered the full weight of
Kreacher's injuries. Recognizing that Theo likely tortured the elf to extract information about
the mission she gave him. Even if the end result was that Draco survived and located Nagini,
the fact that she threw Kreacher right back into the fire gutted Hermione. She had crossed so
many unforgivable lines during the war, but this one stung her heart.
Once the last echoing crack faded into the night air, she rushed out of the bedroom and back
down the stairs.
The house-elf was still out cold on the entranceway's marble floor. Hermione took him into
her arms, carrying him deeper into the Manor. He felt appallingly thin. And the blood from
her spell and his own wounds dripped down her arms.
She entered the room next to Draco's. Placing Kreacher on a lavish bed. Vanishing the blood
and dirt, and tucking him into the embroidered sheets. Gently removing the necklace digging
into his swollen neck, leaving it on the table right beside his head, within eyesight. Aware of
just how much his former owner's trinket meant to Kreacher.
Then, without pausing, Hermione carved a wide circle around the room, casting every single
protection charm she knew. Every alarm spell in her arsenal. Only stopping once the air
buzzed with so much magic that her skin crawled.
Finished, she slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. Unwilling to leave, and not even
knowing where to go. But she kept her hand firmly on her redwood wand. Pricking her ears
as she listened for the sound of Death Eater apparition.
Unlocking the cell within her mind.
Waiting for Draco to contact her first.
Chapter End Notes
And with that, we're officially halfway through the story. Just wanted to stop to thank
you for being the best community. I appreciate every single read, comment, and kudos.
You all have me smiling wider than a river. Thank you thank you.
Purgatory
In meantime take this book; peruse it thoroughly,
And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt.
***
No Death Eaters came for Hermione that night or the next, and she slipped into a new routine
with even more apprehension than before.
On its face, her second week at the Manor looked similar to her first. She slept in the same
bed, spent most waking hours in the enormous library, and took to the wintry grounds in the
afternoons.
But Draco was not there.
And the house felt even lonelier.
To Hermione's relief, however, Kreacher recovered at record speed. After only a day of her
attentive healing, most of his wounds faded and he regained consciousness. As soon as the elf
woke, he was perturbed that Hermione placed him in such an inappropriately fancy bedroom
and moved himself to the butler's quarters off the pantry. Then he was up and puttering
around the kitchen before she could even stop him—pushing her out of the way and
whipping up the savory stews and treacle tarts he made at Grimmauld Place.
They took to eating meals together, much to Kreacher's initial reluctance. In fact, Hermione
had to threaten not to eat at all to get him to join her at the table. Despite the ever-present
anxiety filling her mind, twisting her stomach, their meals together brought Hermione a sliver
of companionship and amusement. She could just imagine how revolted Draco's ancestors
would be at seeing a Mudblood dining with a house-elf in their Manor.
Eventually she did not have to imagine—she saw it on the appalled faces of their portraits
every time she wandered the halls.
Kreacher ate silently in the beginning, not speaking. But he slowly opened up about his years
at Hogwarts. Every detail he provided on Voldemort's seat of command was as captivating as
it was revealing.
The castle had not hosted students since its occupation, and was shrouded in secrecy ever
since. No doubt traitorous Death Eaters like Spider and Blaise had some information, but few
knew as much as Kreacher and the other unseen nonhuman servants.
Hermione learned that no prisoners were kept at Hogwarts. Instead, they were sent to either
Azkaban or Paris for interrogation, although Kreacher could not identify their exact
whereabouts. Besides Theodore Nott, nobody seemed to know where prisoners were kept.
Consistent with Draco's information, Kreacher confirmed that Voldemort resided in the
Chamber of Secrets. However, no one, not even his Cabinet of Advisors, was permitted
below the castle. Voldemort instead held council with foreign emissaries in the Great Hall
every fortnight. Kreacher also explained that the members of the Cabinet never met all at
once. He knew as much because Voldemort would use kitchen-elves to send notes throughout
the castle, summoning his followers when he was ready to speak with them individually.
Not only were meetings between Cabinet members forbidden, but so were all large Death
Eater gatherings without Voldemort's presence or blessing. The Lestrange's Christmas Eve
ball was an unprecedented exception to that rule, and one that would not be repeated.
The entire picture of the regime that Kreacher painted reeked of the Dark Lord's paranoia.
Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he had constructed a system of distrust and control. One he
ensued was impossible to dismantle by a solitary traitor.
A system designed to catch a traitor.
Hermione began to send Blaise regular intelligence reports using her Patronus, including
information not only from Kreacher, but also from her own research.
She dedicated countless hours to combing through the Malfoys' books on dark magic and
soul splitting in anticipation of locating Nagini. Prior to Harry's death, the Order believed that
he could survive a fatal curse by Voldemort. Their researchers spent years operating under
that assumption—hypothesizing that because Harry had two souls within his body, his own
may survive a confrontation with the Dark Lord.
And yet Harry had died…
He had died then resurrected at the Battle of the Valley before Hermione's eyes, and they still
did not know the reason. Hermione worried that even if they found Nagini, there was some
key about destroying living, animate Horcruxes that she was missing. A key that she had to
uncover so that when they located Voldemort's final vessel, they would kill more than just the
serpent.
On her fourth day of research, Hermione finally found a book referencing Horcruxes by
name. It was not even in the library itself, but rather the potions room—slotted between
Draco's school copies of Advanced Potions Making. The dog-eared pages described how the
first known Horcrux was created by Herpo the Foul in Ancient Greece. It also explained that
only the most powerful, potent magic could destroy soul fragments: Basilisk venom,
Fiendfyre, and ancient relics like Godric Gryffindor's sword.
Maddeningly, every section referencing Horcrux creation was ruined—covered in

impenetrable black ink. She could decipher some words, and already knew a bit herself. She
knew that soul splitting occurred when the caster committed an unspeakable act of murder.
But the paragraph naming the curse needed to complete the ritual was partially obscured. The
only words she could decipher were "fissile" and "ruptio." The rest of the dark incantation
was redacted.
When Hermione sent reports to Blaise, she asked him to deliver any particulars about
Horcruxes to the Order's research team in Wales. She had little faith that they would accept
information directly from her after falling out with the Council.
Strangely, she had not received a single response from the Second-in-Command, if that's
what he was after the Captain's death. In spite of Lucius's damning accusation, Hermione
continued to trust Blaise. He knew about her involvement with Draco, yet always seemed
inclined to cover for them both. And Blaise crossed through her black flames, proving that he
was not her enemy.
But Hermione also began sending duplicate reports to Pangolin.
***
As the days continued to pass with no word from Draco, Hermione's dread only grew worse.
Before falling asleep, she would reinforce the Azkaban walls in her mind to ensure that
Voldemort could not reach her through Draco's Legilimency connection. But nightmares
continued to break through her mental fortress. Graphic hallucinations of Draco's
interrogation. His blood splattered across a dark floor. New scars cutting into his chest.
Festering wounds.
At a conscious level, Hermione hoped that she invented these nightmares—that Draco was
not being violently tortured for information.
But her subconscious prayed that they were indeed Draco's recent memories—confirmation
that even though he was suffering, he was alive and cured of the Basilisk venom.
But she could not be sure.
Equally unsure if Draco or a unit of Death Eaters would return to the Manor first, Hermione
and Kreacher began to practice their escape strategy. Now that the house-elf was fully
recovered, he could disapparate with Hermione from anywhere in the Manor; not just outside
the gates. During random points throughout the day, she summoned Kreacher, who always
appeared at once. It was risky to stay at the Manor. But she was still learning so much from
the library.
And she could not force herself to leave for another reason. Not yet.
Hermione devoted her afternoons to a different kind of practice. She disillusioned herself and
spent hours in the field beyond the rose garden fighting.
In between drills, she rested on the snowy lawn pouring over a stack of spellbooks. Then she
attempted many of the charms, hexes, and dark curses she found within their pages and
Draco's handwritten notes. Refining her own use of Diabolica until she could create smaller
rings of black flames or bursts of fire to conserve energy. Becoming more familiar with her
temperamental redwood wand.
She also retrieved the six Basilisk knives extracted from Draco's wounds, using them for
target training. Whenever Hermione touched her hand to their white blades, she continued to
feel a stabbing pain—indicating to her that they were laced with enough venom to slay
Nagini.
When Draco found the Horcrux, she would be ready.
***
A faint tap tap tap of a hand striking wood startled Hermione out of another nightmare.
"I'm decent. Come in," she replied habitually, pushing herself up against the white headboard
and grabbing her wand. It was still nighttime, but the full moon beyond the charmed window
was so luminous that she could make out the entire airy bedroom.
A small, wrinkled head poked through the door. Beady eyes squinting from the bright
moonlight cast over the water.
"Apologies for waking. But Miss has a letter. Kreacher did not know if Miss is needing right
away," the elf rasped.
Hermione blinked, surprised after not hearing from the outside world in weeks. "Yes. Thank
you, Kreacher," she said, standing and crossing the room to take a thick yellow envelope
from him.
Most of the package was occupied by a lumpy piece of burlap, which Hermione removed
cautiously on the off chance that it was cursed. She unfolded it, and saw a plastic comb
inside. Perplexed, she searched through the rest of the envelope and found a scrap of paper
with only four lines.
G,
Planning something big.
Know you're distracted, but just in case.
"Who gave this to you?" Hermione asked, even more lost than before reading the note. "Did
Draco send this?"
"Kreacher does not know. Owl came then flew away."
She squinted at the paper. It did not seem like Draco to contact her this way, even if it was too
risky to speak mind-to-mind. After rereading the message, she decided it was likely from
Blaise, vaguely recognizing his handwriting and that the "G" could stand for her codename.
He was also the only other one who knew her location, or at least suspected, and could send
an owl. But what was the Knife planning? She looked at the comb again, being even more
careful not to touch it since it could be a Portkey. Wondering if it would take her to Wales,
Italy, or somewhere else entirely.
Feeling even more conflicted now that she had no excuse to avoid returning to the Order.
After reassuring Kreacher that the delivery was harmless, Hermione settled back into bed.
Placing the note and comb in the nightstand drawer. Sliding beneath the silky covers. The
shadow of Draco's salt and musk was still caught in the sheets.
The comforting scent was slowly fading.
***
Hermione's morning research and afternoon training the next day were particularly
unproductive. Likely because she had barely slept after receiving Blaise's Portkey. It felt like
her time was running out.
She had been at the Manor now for more than three weeks with no word from Draco. If she
did not count her nightmares, there was not even a clear sign that he was alive, let alone
finding the snake. And even she had to admit that there was little else left to learn from the
library or Kreacher.
After staring at the comb Portkey for what felt like hours, she placed it back in the drawer
and decided to remain one more day.
Unable to sit idle, she meandered around the lower wing and ended up in the purple
wainscoted drawing room. Staring at Lucius's unoccupied portrait.
The blank canvas was as Theo had left it—sliced cleanly in half. She had not seen Draco's
parents appear in either of their frames since her first encounters. Yet the sight of Lucius's
damaged painting disturbed her. A chilling reminder of that night.
So she asked Kreacher to bring her charmed thread and Spellotape, then got to work trying to
stick the two pieces back together.
She was still mending the portrait when Lucius strode into its frame, making her drop the
sewing needle in shock.
"If being split in two wasn't bad enough, now you've turned me into an arts and crafts
project," the man said scathingly, glowering down in disgust.
But this time, Hermione had to choke back a laugh. One of Lucius's eyebrows was covered in
tape, and the entire effect was definitely not threatening.
"I'm trying my best," she said after regaining her composure. "I didn't do this to you, and it's
not like you have a better option."
Lucius noticed the tape, and moved to the side so that only part of his body was in frame,
saying, "I would rather you leave me and this entire household alone. We were perfectly fine
until you showed up and dismantled the place. Bringing that filthy servant back. DINING
with it like an equal. Tearing apart my gardens and library."
Hermione did not take the predictable bait, meeting his fierce gray eyes. "Why don't we make
a bargain, Mr. Malfoy? Tell me about your execution, and I promise to leave."
"No. Go find Blaise Zabini and ask that two-faced fox."
As Lucius spat hatefully, the pieces of canvas began to loosen and split again, falling
forward. Now only the edges of his long, white-blond hair were visible.
"What could he have possibly done to make you this angry? Regardless of what you said
before, I don't believe that he actually killed you. From where I'm standing, it seems like
you're shifting the blame," replied Hermione, forcing her voice to remain level.
When Lucius did not respond, Hermione tried again. "How does Blaise fit into any of this?
He and Draco weren't even close. Not friends since Hogwarts, and maybe not even then."
Lucius's tone was cold as he said, "The fact that you know so little yet keep talking is
staggering, Mudblood."
The beginning of a curse word was about to burst from Hermione's lips when Lucius spoke
again.
"My son and that double-crosser worked together for years. And all that came of it was this
—" Hermione saw Lucius gesture to his frame; his painted, lifeless body. "When the time
arrived for Zabini to pay up, Narcissa and I ended up dead, and Draco—"
Hermione stepped back, overwhelmed by a resentment so intense that it transcended death.

But Lucius was not finished.
"—Draco refuses to look at either of us anymore, on the rare occasions he comes here at all.
Zabini used Draco, and as good as murdered us."
"Worked together doing what? As Death Eaters or—"
"And you," Lucius hissed, "YOU stay away from Draco. I've seen what you do to him. Don't
think I wasn't watching. You may have him wrapped around your filthy little finger, but I
won't fall for it. The only way your poisonous game ends is with my son dead!"
Lucius was still screaming when Hermione fled the drawing room.
Hours later, she was back in the library. Slumped over a table. "Reading" a book on
Legilimency. Trying to discern if her visions of Draco were real or fabricated. But between
the ache in her head and sting in her eyes, she could scarcely make out the words on the
page.
The most skilled Legilimens of the modern age was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. While the
majority of practitioners of the art of mental invasion require direct eye contact and a
magical instrument such as a wand, it is possible to access the brain and memories without
traditional methods or via other means. On occasion, access may even occur unintentionally.
You-Know-Who was able to enter the mind both wandlessly and nonverbally. During the
First Wizarding War, it was often said that it was "the Dark Lord's pleasure to invade the
mind." He was famously known to wield Legilimency as an interrogation tactic, and even
rumored to enter the minds of his victims to create visions that would drive them to
madness…
When the lines began to meld together, Hermione admitted defeat. Resting her head on the
tear-stained pages.
Closing her eyes.
Forgetting to close her mind.
***
Two cloaked men walked side-by-side along a narrow path at the edge of a great black lake.
A full moon illuminated the dark water and sprawling moor. Part of the lake was frozen over,
distorting the reflection of a vast castle perched atop a high mountain. A seemingly infinite
number of windows bedecking its many turrets and towers sparkled in the starry sky.
As Voldemort walked along the pavement, his dirt-caked bare feet caught on sharp rocks and
his robes dragged on the ground. But he did not look down. Instead, his chalk-white face was
tilted up toward the heavens.
"None of this was by my design. In fact, there is nothing that hurts me more than seeing my
children suffer."
Draco's face was expressionless. His head was bowed and his eyes were pointed toward the
netherworld. He responded in a voice blacker than the frozen lake.
"Discipline is not meant to be pleasant, but painful."
A wide smile spread across Voldemort's cracked lips. "Good. There is no greater joy than a
lesson well learned, Draco. So tell me, did you murder Rodolphus Lestrange?"
Draco continued to look downward as he answered, "I did not."
"Then where were you during the French terrorist attack?"
"With the other guests in the ballroom. Fighting. I was injured that night, and not at full
strength during our raid on the resistance base."
The cat-like slits in Voldemort's eyes contracted, consumed by a sea of red. He stepped off the
path, sliding his feet through the smooth mud until he reached the lakeshore. When his gaze
fell on the water, the creatures swimming beneath its glassy surface bolted away.
"You say that, and yet I sense an infection spreading within you," reflected Voldemort. "No
one would deny that you have been a valuable Mouth. That has never been your disease. No,
what ails you is your forked tongue. Your lies."
As Voldemort spoke, he pulled back the long sleeve of his robe, exposing the weapon barely
hooked between his unnaturally long, bony fingers—a rich brown elder wood wand carved
with spheres, bumps, and holes.
"You are concealing someone from me again, Draco. I see her veiled within your soul."
Draco remained on the path, but his eyes left the ground to stare into the back of Voldemort's
head. His tone remained steady, unwavering as he said, "You see through me as always, My
Lord. The entire truth is that I desired what was given to Zabini. When the terrorists attacked,
I saw an opportunity and succumbed to childish jealousy. I took the Delacour girl for myself.
I took the terrorist and hid her in my house. She is the one who infected my heart. Forgive me
for my weakness."
Voldemort's high-pitched laughter stabbed the night air like a spear and a new spark glinted
in his eyes at the admission. "I doubt this is all as simple as a fight for a stolen toy, but come
here next to me, Draco," he commanded with a mirthful smile.
Once Draco obliged, walking to the lakefront, Voldemort angled the Elder Wand held loosely
between his fingers toward the water.
"Fulgeris Percutiens."
The entire sky flashed purple as the Great Lake was struck by a bolt of violet lightning.
The ice shell covering the water fractured into a million jagged pieces, drifting in the waves
left behind by the electric current. A gust of wind tore through, carrying with it the
unmistakable stench of burnt flesh.
Then black shapes began to float to the rippling surface—hundreds of once-living creatures
shocked by Voldemort's dark curse. Waterfowl. Toads. Grindylows. Yellow-eyed Merpeople,
faces contorted by their sudden, violent electrocutions.
"You would never lie to me, Draco?" Voldemort hissed, voice spiked with venom.
Draco's head rose at last, and he looked directly into Voldemort's serpentine eyes as he said
firmly, "Never. I swear it."
After a hair-raising silence, Voldemort smiled and let out a single sharp laugh. "You will
leave the castle tomorrow. There are signs that our enemies remain in Stirling. You will join
Nott and eradicate any who resist my Dominion."
Then Voldemort spun the Elder Wand around, holding it by the tip. Offering the handle,
saying, "Just this once, you understand."
Draco took the wand, gripping it with such ferocity that brilliant red and gold flares flew out.
He lowered himself to kneel in the sticky mud, dipped the weapon into the Black Lake, and
delivered his command.
At Draco's voice, hundreds of water-logged corpses bobbing at the surface writhed, wormed,
and thrashed. Yowling, screeching screams erupted across the lake as its denizens were
pulled back from the shore of the afterlife to the shore of the living.
Then an eerie quiet permeated the air as they descended beneath the water.
Draco rose, and placed the Elder Wand in his master's outstretched hand.
Voldemort smiled his terrible smile.
"This time, no survivors, Draco. And if you ever show weakness again, I will kill both you
and your stolen toy."
Split Perspectives
Chapter Notes
As the title suggests, this chapter does something very different. At this point in the
story, one POV isn't enough (at least every once and a while). Looking forward to seeing
what you think.
When Faustus had with pleasure ta’en the view
Of rarest things, and royal courts of kings,
He stay’d his course, and so returned home;
***
Hermione | Wiltshire, England
Draco was alive.
That singular thought dominated Hermione's mind as she peeled her cheek from the rumpled
book pages and sat straight in her chair. Her throbbing head flung toward the library's
cathedral windows, and she could see it beyond the glass—the full moon suspended in the
night sky. The same full moon that hung over the Black Lake in her vision.
She was positive that if Draco had not been cured of the Basilisk venom, he would have died
from it weeks ago. And in her vision, he was not only alive tonight, but healthy. Strong
enough to resurrect every inhabitant of a large body of water.
It was a testament to how far-gone Hermione was that she barely gave Voldemort's genocide
of hundreds of living creatures a second thought. It simply paled in comparison to the relief
she now felt.
However, that relief was accompanied by a sense of urgency.
Hermione stood so quickly that the tower of books balanced precariously on the table toppled
over. Their crashes reverberated around the empty library.
CRACK
Kreacher appeared within seconds.

"Is they here?" he wheezed frantically. The clean, white towel tied around his waist like a
loincloth flapped around as he spun, surveying the room for Death Eaters. Once Kreacher
saw that they were alone, he squinted up at Hermione with a confused expression.
"Not yet," assured Hermione quickly. "But we still have to leave, Kreacher."
As she spoke, her jumbled thoughts reorganized into a plan of action. After weeks of no
contact, Draco must have lowered his own mental shields to allow her to see this
conversation for a reason.
It was clear now that Voldemort knew Draco was hiding someone. A familiar conflict tore
through Hermione as she considered how Draco named Gabrielle. She understood why he
would offer Voldemort a series of half-truths as a means of deflection. Why he redirected the
Dark Lord's attention away from her and toward another woman.
But with Draco, she could never be sure.
Regardless, it was a dangerous ploy, and there was no guarantee that Voldemort would
believe it or wait to take her from the Manor.
Hermione summoned her Patronus before her knees even hit the floorboards, instructing,
"Find Angelina Johnson. Tell her that Voldemort is sending his army to Stirling. They should
be prepared to fight and relocate any remaining civilians."
The silvery otter ducked its head in acknowledgment, then darted right through Kreacher,
making him flinch.
"Let's go," she said, pulling the house-elf by his wrinkled hand and out into the lower wing.
"Death Eaters may come for us very soon. It's not safe to stay. The package last night was a
Portkey, so now we don't need to disapparate. As soon as I get it, we'll move to the Order."
They burst into Draco's bedroom. Hermione immediately began to pull out the salvaged
Basilisk knives, slotting them into a belt she strapped to her waist. But while doing so, she
noticed that Kreacher was still standing at the door, clutching his locket in the way he tended
to when nervous.
"What's wrong?" prodded Hermione, not pausing as she finished fastening both wand
holsters to her bodysuit.
He dropped his head as he spoke hoarsely, "Since Miss does not need Kreacher anymore,
Kreacher is staying here at the Manor. Waiting for Master Draco to return."
Now Hermione did freeze, saying. "I can't protect you from so far away. And I'm sorry, but I
do need to leave right now."
"Kreacher can protect himself," he said stubbornly.
"If Nott comes back, he could do even worse things to you than at Hogwarts. Next time he
could kill you."
But as Hermione discouraged the house-elf, she noticed how firm he seemed in his decision.
She saw it in his unblinking black eyes and tight-lipped frown. It was not all that surprising
Kreacher would want to remain in the comfort and familiarity of the Manor, rather than run
away to a place controlled by the same dangerous activist he was taught to distrust. There
were so few choices that Kreacher made in his lifetime. It felt wrong to deprive him of any
more agency.
Hermione let out a heavy breath, then crossed the room to stoop down and meet Kreacher's
gaze, saying, "If that's your decision, I understand. Just promise to leave immediately if
anyone besides Draco appears. And if you ever need help, go to Grimmauld Place and send
an owl. I'll come right away."
In response, Kreacher made the funny little spasm that Hermione recognized as his attempt at
a respectful salute, before backing into the hallway.
Still clenching her jaw in worry, Hermione hurried across the room and slid open the
nightstand drawer. The Portkey was where she left it, wrapped loosely in a burlap cloth. But
when she lifted it out, a glint of bright metal caught her eye.
There was something gold beneath the cloth. Buried at the very bottom of the drawer. So
deep that it must have already been there.
She rifled through the other expected odds and ends Draco had crammed into his bedside
table—quills, blank notebooks, and loose Sickles and Knuts—until she had the gold coin in
her hand.
It looked exactly like Blaise's two-sided signal coins. Hermione quickly recognized its unique
design, but now she looked more closely. The "tails" side had an image of what could be the
Hogwarts Express, while the other had the likeness of a dark-featured woman. She could not
make sense of either side.
Why did Draco have one of Blaise's coins tucked away with the rest of his loose change in a
bedside drawer? Lucius's accusations sprang to mind, and Hermione decided now it really
was time to find Blaise and demand answers.
She continued to study both sides for another minute, utterly bewildered, before jerking
herself back into action—sliding the coin into an inner pocket and placing the Portkey on the
bed.
Hermione's ungloved hand was hovering right above the plastic comb when she paused,
taking a final look at the place that was home for nearly a month. It felt like the ghosts of
their memories still hung in the airy seaside bedroom.
As her fingers reluctantly made contact with the Portkey, her eyes remained locked on the
moonlit ocean beyond the charmed window: on Tenby, wishing she could have seen it with
him in the summer.
Then she was soaring across the bedroom, through the window and dark countryside beyond.
Tugged forward by a strong hook behind her navel. A magnetic force towing her over rolling
hills, inky towns, and artificially lit cities. So powerful that the moon and stars themselves
seemed to bend and flatten.
As the changing landscapes gradually slowed, Hermione began to guess her end destination.
Sure enough, a moment later her boots slid into the rich earth of an Italian vineyard.
This night, there was no Blaise lying in wait behind the shadowy rows of grapevines. So
Hermione led herself along the brick path toward the villa, noticing a light still flickering in
an upstairs window.
Once she reached the top of the spiral staircase, her ears picked up the sound of soft chatter
coming from the women's bunkroom. Perhaps Angelina also returned from her post in
Scotland.
Hermione was about to open the door, when she reconsidered, and instead knocked lightly.
The voices ceased at once, followed by the pitter patter of footsteps.
And suddenly, she was pulled into a tight bear hug. Her first human contact in weeks. The
corners of her mouth lifted as Pangolin's spiky hair tickled her ear, and Hermione gasped, "I
never meant to be away this long, but hopefully I'm not too late."
Pangolin drew her face back to respond, when another voice spoke from within the room.
"Not as late as me."
Hermione looked inside, and her mouth fell open as she saw the voice's owner perched on a
cot. Taking in her freckles, flaming red hair, and bright brown eyes that were finally open.
"So what the bloody hell have you been doing?" smiled Ginny Weasley.
***
Draco | Hogsmeade, Scotland
The road to the village was bitterly cold and flanked by snow piled twelve feet high—large
enough to block even the towering shape of the castle. A line of black-cloaked figures walked
between the snowbanks, bent double against the fierce wind.
But Draco stood tall, unbothered by the blizzard. What little warmth existed before Azkaban
had long since been leached by the Dementors. So long ago that he forgot what it was like to
feel any other way. The memory itself, however, shot a surge of unnatural white heat through
his gloved hands. He clenched and unclenched them as he pushed past a group of lead-footed
Death Eaters huddled together like penguins.
They were so fucking slow.
A ray of wintry morning sunshine fell across Hogsmeade as it came into view. The sky
lightened to a dazzling, opaline white, illuminating every caved-in thatched cottage, shattered
window, and collapsed rooftop.
Draco's gaze remained straight ahead until a sudden breeze and flurry of snowflakes ruffled
his hair. As he ran fingers through the loose strands, combing them back, his eyes fell on a
shabby inn at the end of the lane—the Three Broomsticks—and he briefly wondered if a
drink inside would still have warmed him. Not a butterbeer of course; something far stronger.
An asinine thought, since the entire area was abandoned.
CRACK
CRACK
Death Eaters began disapparating as soon as they reached the edge of the castle's anti-
movement charms. However, a few held back, whispering in low voices and shooting him
nervous glances. He could immediately tell which of them knew. Who recognized him. Could
see it in their slack-jawed faces, distorted in an infuriating blend of shock and fear. Some of
the apes were even brash enough to stare at him directly.
Their reactions confirmed exactly why he spent years avoiding this kind of attention.
Draco clenched his fists, glaring at them with gray eyes colder than the storm, until they
looked away.
Once the village was nearly empty, he continued walking, eventually turning into a deserted
backstreet. He pulled the hawthorn wand from the holster strapped to his thigh, sweeping it
over his body starting from the neck down. Transforming his clothing. His robes reshaped
into a wool overcoat. His tunic and trousers thinned until they resembled a fitted black suit.
Only his leather gloves and shoes remained the same.
Then he pivoted into the suffocating darkness.
Draco opened his eyes.
Now he was standing in a snowy lane. But the sun here felt stronger. On his left was a
quarried stone wall so ancient that it dated back to the medieval ages. The rich green moss
covering its many fissures and crevices barely seemed to glue the bricks together.
Draco stared at the medieval stones as he took a long breath. The brine of the nearby ocean
stung his nostrils, and released some of the tension in his face.
After sliding his wand into an inside jacket pocket, he followed the curve of the town wall
until it ended at a street bustling with tiny stalls and booths. Given the morning hour, some of
the vendors were still setting out their produce. Early risers mingled along the center of the
marketplace, eagerly accepting free samples. Filling their grocery bags with fruits and
vegetables.
Draco made a straight shot for one of the busiest stalls.
While he was waiting in line, a small girl hanging onto the hem of her father's shirt ogled
him, brown eyes wide in an impolite fascination only a child could get away with.
At first, Draco ignored the girl's stare, even as he felt her round eyes burning into him.
However, he could not avoid noticing when she tugged on her father's shirt, asking loudly,
"Why is that man dressed so fancy?"
"What man, darling?"
The child's father shot a quick look over his shoulder, then gave Draco an embarrassed nod.
He shuffled his daughter in front of him, apologizing, "Sorry. You know how they are at this
age. She's too curious for her own good."
The father turned back around before Draco could respond. But the tightness around his
mouth softened at the interaction. At the brown-eyed girl. She reminded him of someone.
Then he considered the girl's question, and his eyes dropped to his tailored suit.
Draco was still looking down at his clothes—thinking about whether he should transfigure
them into something more Muggle appropriate—when he reached the front of the line.
"Morning, handsome. You'll just be wanting the usual I presume?" chirped the elderly shop
woman, pushing up her spectacles and winking at Draco.
Despite every effort, the corners of his mouth twitched as he responded, "Yes, thank you. One
dozen."
The shop woman beamed and tottered around the stall, gathering handfuls of stems. Draco
pulled out bills and began counting.
"Been coming around here almost every week for… must be going on two years now and still
can't even manage small talk. Reminds me of my own son 'cept I'm starting to suspect you
don't know my name," the shopkeeper scolded. "It's Mrs. Audrey, by the way."
Now she was wrapping the package up in newspaper, saying, "Folks in the market have
decided to just call you 'Mr. Greenhill Road' since the most we know about you is your
address."
"That's fine by me. Thank you, Mrs. Audrey," Draco said respectfully, placing the exact
amount he owed on the counter.
"Still a bit stiff, but we'll work on it," Mrs. Audrey chuckled, then unfolded the newspaper
covering the top of the bouquet. A dozen white roses popped out, waxy petals still glistening
with dew.
She passed the bouquet to Draco with a smile warm enough to melt iron. "I'll have you know
I woke up at four a.m. to cut these fresh, so I hope you're giving them to a special lady friend,
Mr. Greenhill."
By the time Draco left the marketplace, the crowd of shoppers was even livelier. He weaved
through, backtracking along the city wall. Finally stopping when he reached an old building
—a parish church topped by a spire, shining like a lighthouse in the sun.
Instead of entering the building, Draco followed a dirt path to an adjoining fenced graveyard.
He knelt in front of the only two unmarked headstones. After surveying the area to ensure he
was alone, he pulled out his wand to melt the snow from the blank metal nameplates. Then he
unwrapped the roses, dividing them evenly between the graves.
He knelt for so long that the noon sun began to descend below the spire of the church. But he
did not say a single word. Wholly engrossed in staring at the headstones. Reading names and
inscriptions that did not exist.
At some point, he stood to leave.
The emptiness of Draco's afternoon was soon filled with the sound of the ocean. With the
stone-colored tide rolling in from the harbor and washing the beach. His eyes remained on
the harbor as he walked along the cobblestones of Greenhill Road, making his way to an
address that was apparently his new namesake.
The unassuming white house was as he left it. Every arched dormer window curtained and
sealed tightly. Lights off. The only changes were that now its sloped rooftop and the craggy
shoreline below were dusted in snow; while its sun-bleached walls were glazed in a light
layer of ice.
As Draco crossed through the watery film marking his Fidelius Charm's boundary and
unlocked the door, he found himself imagining what his Muggle neighbors might see, since
they could not view the actual property.
He bypassed the darkened living room, moving straight down the hall to a smaller sitting
room at the back. The space was just as dark until a flick of his wand drew back the drapes to
reveal a wide picture window overlooking the sea. The fading sunlight streamed through it,
warming the airy room.
Another twist of his wand lifted a stone basin from where it rested beneath a low coffee table,
setting it on the wood surface.
Next, Draco pulled out a handful of empty glass vials from his pocket and lined them up
before pulling the cloth from the Pensieve. The light shining from within added a silvery hue
to the sunlit room. He sat on the edge of an armchair and leaned over the bowl, staring at the
memories within for a very long time, as if in a trance. Its contents moved ceaselessly, like
light made liquid, or maybe wind made solid.
The first silver thread was barely out of Draco's temple and into a bottle when a startled voice
broke through the silence.
"You're alive…"
But Draco did not look back or respond, still focused on extracting his memories.
"I couldn't be sure," the woman continued, voice laden with a desperate-sounding relief. "I
haven't seen you for weeks. I know this is far from the first time. I was just so afraid that he
locked you up again, or worse."
Five vials were filled before Draco spoke, tone emotionless.
"How is she?"
He heard the woman's sharp intake of breath at the question, and she stuttered, "You… you
spoke to me! Why today, Draco? It's been so long."
Then the woman's voice caught, and she said softly, "Promise me you are not about to do
something dangerous."
"Tell me how she is," Draco repeated. But now his voice was milder as the echoes of the
woman's sobs pounded against his back like raindrops.
"She is alive. In fact, she left the Manor overnight. I heard her tell the house-elf about using a
Portkey to return to the Order," the woman said between sniffles. "I don't think she's planning
on coming back."
Draco steepled his long fingers and nodded into his lap. A bitter warmth stirred within him at
the confirmation that Granger was safe and where she belonged.
Away from him.
He closed his eyes when the warmth abruptly vanished, replaced by frigid ice. Before he
could stop himself, he dug his fingernails into both palms so hard that they drew blood.
Then he steadied his breathing and reached for the next vial.
"You're trying to forget her, aren't you?" asked the woman.
Draco hesitated, then said slowly, "Not for forever. Just for now."
"I always know when you're lying," the woman said at once. And now her voice was firm.
"Go ahead and lie to me, but you should tell her the entire truth. Hermione deserves to know
what she is to you, Draco. It is time that you explain your connection."
At last Draco turned, gaze steely as he stared into Narcissa's small framed portrait sitting atop
the fireplace mantle. So small that it was barely the size of a book.
His gray eyes found her blue. And even as scaled down as Narcissa was, it was impossible to
miss the sadness etched across her pale face while she looked down at her son—as if the
wizard he commissioned to make the charmed portrait painted in his mother's sorrow.
They held each other's gaze for a time before Draco replied, "I already told her the truth. I
told her that she is a part of me."
"Do you think she understands what that means?"
"How do you know what Hermione is to me?" he said, shifting forward in his seat and
pressing the wand back to his temple. His grip was so tight that blood dripped from his cuts
down onto the white floorboards. "And telling her the truth wouldn't change anything. It
would only make it even harder to fulfill my promise."
"Tell her, Draco. She will understand. I watched her the past month. Her heart is kind, and I
can see how much she cares for you. She may even be in love with—"
"DON'T FUCKING SAY IT!"
CRASH
The picture window violently exploded in a whirlwind of wood and glass. Crystal shards
flew across the sitting room like shrapnel. Refracting both the silvery light of the Pensieve
and the orange hue of the setting sun. Slicing the back of Draco's suit jacket to shreds.
"Are you in love with her—"
"STOP TALKING!" he raged, gripping the wand still pressed to his temple even more firmly
—so hard that the hawthorn handle began to splinter.
Then Draco let out a choked noise that was filled with thousands and thousands of smaller
noises. He loosened his grip, and hunched over the table, shaking. Breathing irregularly.
Trying to keep himself together.
But Narcissa persisted, repeating quietly, "Do you love her?"
When he did not reply, Narcissa continued in a broken voice, "I've seen how much she cares.
I've seen it in the way she looks at you. Even when she sleeps, she dreams of you, Draco. I
hear her whisper your name. You have to give her the whole truth and let her decide… before
it's too late."
At the words, Draco dug fingernails into his palms once again, grounding himself in the
caustic pain. His breathing steadied and he leaned back in the chair, face clear.
"I never asked you to spy on her," he replied coldly, eyes now fixed on the vaulted ceiling.
"And it's already too late."
Then he closed his eyes.
Very soon after, the sound of Narcissa's pleading faded into nothing more than a distant hum
as he waded into the dark waters of his mind.
The swell rose above his chest, shoulders, neck, until he was completely submerged by the
freezing ocean in his head. As he sank slowly into the weightless depths of his own creation,
he felt his memories of her dragged down by the current.
Fading into a watery black abyss.
The sitting room was dark by the time Draco finished Occluding and resurfaced. Only the
swirling silver light of the Pensieve remained.
He covered and stored the Pensieve beneath the table, vanishing the vials. Then he stood and
crossed to the fireplace, tilting Narcissa's small frame so that it lay face down.
"Please don't do this, Draco," she begged, voice muffled by the bricks on the mantle.
"Reparo."
Glass soared through the air and reformed into the picture window. As soon as it was
mended, Draco secured the curtains and locked the room. Ignoring the sound of Narcissa
sobbing. Before leaving the house, he changed back into his flowing robes. He did not wear a
mask.
The instant Draco crossed beyond the house's boundary line, he spun on the spot to
disapparate.
His eyes remained open as he rematerialized in a pillar of dark smoke. Almost nothing was
visible under the sunless sky. But his ears registered the harsh sound of humans screaming
and dying as he waited for the haze to clear.
Once it settled, Draco took in more than a hundred cloaked figures clashing on the dusky
Scottish moor below. Curses fractured the pagan-black sky like multicolored thunderbolts.
Then a barrage of gunshots tore through the air, and his eyes followed the sound to a tight
formation of No-Maj combatants driving over the terrain to the east. A door gunner pelted the
battlefield from a helicopter flying overhead.
Draco drew his wand, but remained in place as another Death Eater emerged from the edge of
the fight and began to climb the hill. The man removed his skull mask as he neared Draco,
calling out, "We were taking bets on when you would finally show! I just lost ten galleons,
you bastard. Bet you'd come earlier, but fucking late as always."
"Piss off, Nott. What do you want, an IOU?"
Theo thumped Draco roughly on the back and flashed a feral smile that did not reach his
eyes. Draco's own face was completely blank as he surveyed the battle raging beneath them.
"This time, stay out of my way," Draco warned.
He was about to walk down when the other man hooked him by the shoulder, saying,
"Almost forgot. I have something for you. A present from him."
Then Theo reached for the holster strapped to his arm, pulling out a wand pitted with holes.
Offering Draco the sphere-covered handle.
Draco did not move to take it, narrowing his eyes at Theo distrustingly.
"Oh, and it comes with a message. The Dark Lord said to tell you, 'Only for tonight. So don't
even think about stealing shit from your master again'," Theo recited with a smirk. "Or
something along those lines."
Draco did not blink as he removed his glove and yanked the Elder Wand out of Theo's grip.
Brilliant red and gold sparks shot from the end as soon as his skin made contact. Briefly
illuminating the smoky night air.
Theo watched the flares fall to the ground and scorch the weeds. He clapped Draco on the
back a second time, laughing far too loudly.
"Never seen a wand do that before. I think it's in love with you, Malfoy."
"It just loves killing."
Then Draco shook Theo off, tensing his flexed fingers one by one until each joint and
knuckle cracked.
As he descended the hill, a dark fire ignited behind his eyes.

Undesirable
I tell thee, he has not slept this eight nights.
***
Three Months Later
Tuscany, Italy
April 10, 2004
"I swear he's avoiding me," Hermione grimaced, closing one eye and launching her Basilisk
knife toward the target.
Ginny raised her eyebrows, impressed, as the blade struck right on center, asking, "I've seen
you cast that wicked black fire, but how did you learn to aim like that?"
Hermione's mind flashed to Renée, hoping that she was adjusting to the charmed prosthetic
Luna fitted her for the month prior. She had not heard from the dark-haired woman in a
while. She should write again.
"I learned from another squad mate. And you're changing the subject, Ginny," she said.
"Honestly, sometimes it feels like you're in on it. Just tell me where Blaise goes between
training. Every time I try to corner him alone, he disappears."
Ginny sighed, reaching over to pull one of the white knives off Hermione's belt. Pointing it
toward the target and closing her own eye.
"You know as well as I do that Zabini has double duty. He's probably at Hogwarts eating
babies or waxing Voldemort's head. Normal Death Eater stuff."
Hermione snorted. "And yet he somehow always has time for extra practice with you. I'm
starting to think—"
"That was the deal," Ginny interrupted quickly, neck flushing as red as her hair. "None of you
could get rid of me after I found out about Phlegm and George. The only reason I'm still here
is because I swore to make up for being an invalid by working my arse off until Paris."
As she talked, Hermione noticed how Ginny shifted her weight uncomfortably between each
foot. And her own scarred ankles stung as she recalled Blaise's brutal wheat field training.
Hermione's eyes softened.
It had not been an easy time for Ginny since regaining consciousness. Most of her muscles
had atrophied after such a long period of disuse. And she was still far too thin. But she was
getting stronger by the day.
The first night Hermione returned to Italy, she had learned that Ginny's coma broke almost as
soon as Blaise took her from the farm to a nearby shelter. The timing led them to suspect that
Death Eaters paralyzed her with a curse tied to remaining in the Order's custody.
Because Gabrielle was already awake and safely back with her parents, they instead tested
the theory on Moody, who likewise reawakened while en route from Italy to their new base in
Wales. Strangely, Pangolin continued to dodge every question about the mysterious shelters
and who transported their former teacher, if not the Order.
"It was someone Lynx knows," Pangolin had said evasively. "Clever bit of magic, innit? We
probably never would've figured it out except by accident. I bet our healers are feeling pretty
useless right about now."
Months later, the logic still did not make sense to Hermione. Nonetheless, she begrudgingly
accepted it since Pangolin similarly covered for her whenever Ginny probed about her
"confidential solo assignment" in January.
Hermione was abruptly jerked back to the present when Ginny waved a hand in front of her
face, demanding, "Still there, Goldfinch?"
She nodded, and Ginny eyed her curiously, asking, "I know you can't tell me what happened
after Shell Cottage, but will you finally explain how it ended between you and Charlie?
Before everything went to hell, you two seemed good together."
When Ginny noticed Hermione starting to freeze up, she added, "I wouldn't keep mentioning
it, except that Charlie asks me to check on you when he writes. He even asked about you
yesterday," Ginny said, pulling a letter out of her pocket.
This was not the first time Ginny pushed the issue of her older brother. It was a sensitive
topic. And one that Hermione recognized was likely part of her friend processing so much
loss and change. She understood that Ginny was still grieving Bill.
They both were.
Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, then drew her wand—summoning a picnic blanket
between the rows of trellises.
"How about a break?" she offered, taking a seat and patting the blanket.
Ginny plopped down beside Hermione, passing over the letter as she said, "It's obvious that
he still has feelings for you. How do you feel about him?"
Hermione took the neatly-folded parchment, but did not open it. Instead placing it on the
ground beside her.
"I don't think I'll ever stop caring about Charlie. He helped me learn to live again. And he
was there for me in a way I didn't even realize I needed after Azkaban. But I did, and he
was."
Now her eyes left Ginny's, drifting down to the unread letter. It fluttered slightly in the
breeze, but not enough to show more than a few inky words.
She continued, "The longer I was with him, the more removed I felt from the war. And for a
while I wanted that—to forget everything while I was healing. But the war never stopped,
and eventually I was forced to remember. As soon as I did, it became clear that I could never
be there for him in the way that he needed."
Ginny leaned down to study Hermione's face, saying, "You're beginning to sound a lot like
Harry. He told me almost the exact same thing before—" she paused and her freckled
forehead creased. "I just don't want you to live with regrets either, Hermione. Ten years ago,
Voldemort was just a name, none of us had heard of the Order of the Phoenix, and being a
Muggle-born wasn't a death sentence. But even now we're more than this bloody war. I'm
sure there's a way to have both."
"Right," said Hermione with a sad smile. "I'm probably oversimplifying things. There were
other reasons why we didn't work."
They sat in silence for a bit, then Ginny narrowed her eyes astutely and replied, "If it was
another person, just say so. I promise I won't tell Charlie."
Hermione's heart lurched into her throat and she confessed, "I suppose that was one of the
reasons. Of course, I never did anything I shouldn't have when I was with Charlie… It's
really complicated."
"Who is it? Do I know them? Are you still together? Is that why you sneak out every night?
To write to them?" A strange expression crept over Ginny's face as she peppered Hermione
with question after question.
"I won't say. Sometimes I feel like I don't even know him. I have no idea. Not really. And
no," rattled off Hermione. Then she suddenly stood, looking at a wrist watch that wasn't there
while she said, "We're late for the briefing. Let's finish this another time."
As they sped through the humid vineyard, Hermione tried to focus on something other than
her pounding headache. The shooting pain in her chest. At one point, she even shut her eyes
and guided herself forward by dragging one hand along the vines. Every day it became harder
to reinforce her crumbling mental walls against what felt like months of battling a hurricane.
"Zabini keeps hinting about a final test," Ginny said abruptly, causing Hermione to jump and
open her eyes. "You're making me think it involves fighting with a blindfold."
Hermione blinked at the other witch. "No. Nothing like that. You'll find out soon enough."
Then she changed the subject, asking, "Have you told Charlie about joining the Knife yet?"
"Nope," said Ginny in an offhand way. "I'm still waiting to tell him after my first assignment.
Put him in a good mood when George and the rest are back. And technically, I'm not part of
anything until then anyways. So for now, I'll let him keep thinking I'm at an Italian safe house
recovering, which is true. Although he might be starting to suspect what actually happens
here since becoming Captain Ishida's Second."
As if by instinct, Hermione flexed her hand, and her eyes dropped to the smooth skin on
Ginny's palm. Thinking about how Charlie's little sister was setting herself up for one rough
conversation.
They were walking along the tree-flanked path leading to the house when Ginny exclaimed,
"OH! One thing you can help me with before this meeting." She stopped in her tracks, and
Hermione looked back, confused.
"Help me pick a code name. I need one by today. Zabini is threatening to call me 'Blood
Traitor,' and Seph keeps pushing 'Horse' after my Patronus. They're both awful and I'm sure
you can think of something better."
"Well, what do you—" Hermione cut herself off as something Ginny said sunk in, and she
asked instead, "Who is Seph?"
Ginny blanched and looked away, whispering under her breath, "Damn it… I completely
forgot… And she's so sensitive about her name."
Then she started shuffling along the path, freckled face pointed toward the lemon trees
instead of Hermione.
Ginny only made it halfway before she was yanked back by her hood.
"God, you're worse than Zabini! What? Are you gonna Imperius me too?" Ginny yelped,
freeing the cloth from Hermione's grip.
Hermione stared at her, eyes hard as nails.
After a beat, Ginny sighed, relenting, "Fine. Just promise not to say I slipped up." She bit her
lip, then said, "Pangolin's real name is Persephone. I guess you wouldn't know because she
was a first year when you three left to find Horcruxes. You never overlapped at school. But
Seph was in the DA with me and Neville."
"Persephone… Smith…" Hermione repeated, brain going into overdrive. "She's not related to
Zacharias is she?"
"I never pried since she's so private, but maybe they're cousins or something? Though
obviously our Pangolin's a big improvement on that sniveling Hufflepuff twat."
"What twat?" a voice asked eagerly.
They both jumped as Pangolin stuck her round face out of the open villa door.
Hermione regarded the strawberry blond with fresh eyes, for the first time noticing how very
young she looked. Eighteen at most, if they were six years apart. Barely of age now, and only
a child when Hogwarts fell and the war began. No wonder she preferred blades to wands—
she had probably never had the luxury of learning charms over curses.
When neither Hermione nor Ginny answered, Pangolin's brow furrowed, and she tugged
them both into the house. "If you're talking about Lynx, don't worry. He's away again, so
won't notice we're late. Impala is leading today's session."
They let themselves be guided through the hall like two guilty balloons on a string.
***
But they were very late. Every seat in the cramped courtyard was already taken, and they
were forced to inch along the wall and stand in the back.
Since Angelina's squad arrived from their former post in Stirling the week prior, the place felt
crowded. More than twenty new fighters, all of them unfamiliar to Hermione. They had to
expand the women's bunk room just to squeeze in more beds. And Blaise sulked for days
when he was forced to sacrifice his enormous walk-in closet to extend the men's quarters.
"Makes me miss when we had the whole place to ourselves," Ginny lamented under her
breath.
"This is a big assignment though," Hermione whispered back. "Besides, half the team may
stay behind if Death Eaters end up invading Italy."
"Shhhhh, it's starting," warned Pangolin, nodding toward Angelina, who was standing at the
front of the now-silent courtyard.
Angelina pinned one last map to a board, then spun to face them, dark eyes steely.
"Bear with me, I understand it's a bit tight. But we had to meet as a group one last time given
we're only days out from Paris," she said, surveying the crowd. "As most of you know,
intelligence confirmed that the Dominion traffics war prisoners through a redlight district
known as the Latin Quarter. Specifically, a place Death Eaters call the Revue—their
transitory prison fronting as a night lounge. Besides our Scouts, we're not sure who else we'll
recover. We got a tip yesterday that now they're even trafficking American resistance and No-
Maj hostages."
Angelina drew her wand and used it to point to a detailed blueprint, continuing, "This map
shows the Catacombs beneath that section of the city. Squad A will enter below ground and
focus on search and rescue. Squad B will split up and create a perimeter around the entire
district to ensure they can't relocate our prisoners."
Ginny leaned over to say in a low voice, "It's almost like we're back in the locker room before
a match."
"I wouldn't know how that feels," Hermione pointed out in a whisper.
A hand shot into the air, and Angelina paused, saying, "Yes, what is it, Jag?"
"Is the Second coming?" voiced a thickset wizard propped against a corner.
"Which one?" joked another, and uneasy laughter broke out around the courtyard.
Hermione did not join them, suddenly overcome by a pang of guilt.

Ever since the Captain's death, something of a rift had formed between the Special Force and
the rest of the Order. Blaise was Hestia's hand-chosen replacement. However, the Council
quickly appointed Ishida Ren to lead all four branches of its military, with Charlie as his
Second. Ren did not trust Blaise, plain and simple. Yet most of the Knife refused to follow
anyone else.
The result was a standstill.
And two Second-in-Commands.
The Council continued to rely on the Knife—active resistance fighters were in short supply
after the raid on Shell Cottage. And most members of the Knife still had some sort of tie to
the rest of the Order.
But every day, with every mission, it felt like the rift grew wider. Hermione did not even let
her mind wander down the path of what any of this meant for her Vow.
"Lynx will lead Squad A, and I'm in charge of B," Angelina said firmly, raising a hand to
quiet the raucous crowd. Headquarters is aware of the mission, so just focus on what you can
do to prepare and leave the politics to us."
An olive-skinned witch cleared her throat. "What's our strategy if the Necromancer confronts
either team? Retreat, or fight?"
For the first time since returning to Italy, Angelina looked at Hermione directly, face burning
with disdain. Staring Hermione down as she answered the other witch's question.
"Draco Malfoy remains the Order's Undesirable Number One. Always remember to behead
the fallen. And if that war criminal finds us, we fucking make him regret it."
***
Hermione waited until the bunk room was dark and she heard Ginny's even breathing in the
neighboring cot before sliding out of the sheets.
Despite her precautions, the redhead's eyes flashed open the moment she stood.
"Why can't you just meditate in bed for once?" Ginny yawned, sitting up and watching
Hermione quizzically as she began to lace her shoes. "Anyhow, I know you go to the cellar
every night. No need to put in so much effort to sneak out. You're not fooling anyone."
A woman's guttural snore echoed across the room, and Hermione's mouth set in a hard line.
"It's just easier to concentrate when I'm alone. Go back to bed and I'll return before you know
it."
"You're wearing yourself out right before the mission, Hermione. Barely sleeping for even the
few hours you stay in the room."
When Hermione pulled on a jacket and started to move toward the door, Ginny swung her
legs around the side of the bed and offered, "Then how about I go down there with you this
time? We can Occlude together, or talk if that'll help more?"
"I appreciate it, but I'd rather go alone."
A shrewd look crossed Ginny's moonlit face, and she said, "If this is about not being able to
pin down Zabini, I'll try to figure something out. I didn't realize you're pressed enough to lose
sleep over it."
"It's related, I guess. But don't worry about me. I'll figure it out myself," Hermione whispered
tiredly.
Then she navigated the maze of cots and slipped out of the room before her anxious friend
could say another word.
The route down to the wine cellar was so habitual by now that the tiles were beginning to
look as overworked as she did. She had followed that same path every night during the entire
three months since her return. It was stupid, really. It was not as if Draco only existed down
there. But she had long since come to associate the storeroom beneath the safe house with the
cell in her head.
That association was so strong that she could already see the iron bars in her mind's eye when
she reached the base of the stairs and stepped onto the cool earthen ground. And by the time
she was situated in her normal spot—legs crossed—back against the curved side of a wine
barrel—only her body remained in Italy, while her mind searched for him.
But Draco was not here.
He was never here anymore.
Hermione crossed the cell to lay on the bed that she spent far more time in than any other.
She did not sleep. No, she rested the side of her cheek on the rusty slats and stared at the
blank prison wall. Waiting. Unwilling to close her eyes on the off chance that he chose
tonight to reappear.
Draco had not spoken to her even a single time in months. Not since he promised to find
Nagini then left the Manor. She had not seen him since the vision at the Black Lake with
Voldemort where he swore himself to his master again. She had not dreamt of him once since
that night.
For weeks and weeks, Hermione just sat in the basement and resisted the temptation to reach
out through their strange, two year connection. Fought the risky urge to enter her Azkaban
cell and look for him. After all, Voldemort now knew that Draco had someone he cared for in
his heart, in his head. Every word she sent to Draco could end up with Voldemort.
Yet she knew that Draco was alive. Everyone knew.
Since the day after the Black Lake vision, he fought in almost every raid and battle.
Unmasked. Killing and resurrecting without hesitation. Sparing no one, just as his master
ordered. It was not hard to understand why Captain Ishida designated him Undesirable
Number One.
After months of zero communication, Hermione had given in—entering their shared prison
cell only to find that Draco was no longer there. She tried to trust him, telling herself he did
not change his mind, and this was for her own protection. But it felt more like a lie with
every passing day. While this was not the first time they had gone so long without contact, it
was the first time Draco shut her out.
Tonight as she lay on her Azkaban bed, Hermione still heard and saw nothing.
He was gone.
And her heart never felt more empty.
***
"Where are you taking me?" asked Hermione, trailing Ginny through the trellises.
The ginger witch did not turn as she responded, "There's someone I think you should meet.
He may be able to answer your questions."
This spring afternoon, the vineyard was exceptionally balmy. Even the plump grapes on the
vines seemed to sweat in the heat. Hermione wiped a bead of water from her brow and sped
up to match Ginny's fast pace.
Ginny finally reduced her speed near the far edge of the property, and Hermione's eyes
widened when she saw an unfamiliar, middle-aged man seated in the shadows cast by the
distillery. Up until this point, she had never seen anyone near the building.
The man rose from his lounge chair, lifting two fingers in greeting. He looked to be about
fifty with rich, umber skin. He continued to smile kindly as they approached, and Hermione
noticed that Ginny's smile was just as bright.
"Hello," he said simply.
"Tony!" responded Ginny, running up to the man. "I was worried we missed you. I know that
normally you're off working by now."
Then Ginny turned, waving Hermione closer and saying, "This is my good friend Hermione.
She was hoping to speak with you."
The man put out a hand, and Hermione noticed his rough, calloused fingers. Working hands.
As they shook, His high cheekbones rose into an even broader grin as he said, "Antonio
Albero. I already heard about you from my son, so I'm glad Miss Weasley set up a time to
meet."
"I've been telling you to call me Ginny for ages," the redhead chided, smacking the older man
playfully on the back. He flinched, but she continued, "I'll leave you both to it then. Zabini
will literally Avada me if I skip field practice again."
"Sometimes my son scares me too," reflected Mr. Albero with a chuckle.
Ginny threw him a sympathetic wink before she darted back into the vineyard, leaving them
alone.
"Well," said Mr. Albero, clapping his hands together and meeting Hermione's eyes. "Why
don't you tell me what I can help you with, Miss Granger?"
A torrent of confusion surged through Hermione as she gawked at the man who was
apparently Blaise's Muggle father. But even as her mind struggled to catch up, she pulled out
the gold coin pilfered from Draco's bedroom and passed it over.
"I see—" Mr. Albero nodded slowly as he took it into his palm, turning it to study both sides.
"If Blaise gave you one of these, I'm sure he trusts you enough to keep the secret."
Then he folded up the lounge chair by hand, and gestured for Hermione to follow him into
the mysterious building that was obviously not a wine distillery, explaining, "Naturally, Miss
Weasley has known since she arrived, seeing as Blaise brought them both back from England
through our network of Muggle shelters."
"Network of Muggle shelters?" Hermione repeated, dumbfounded. "What—"
But the words died on Hermione's lips as they reached the narrow front door. Mr. Albero
wrenched it open with a grunt, and they stepped into a darkened passage.
Then the middle-aged man held the signal coin to his mouth, and said "Railroad" in a clear
voice.
In response, overhead lights flickered on one by one, illuminating a seemingly endless

corridor of fireplaces. Stretching as far as the eye could see. Over a hundred, if Hermione had
to guess. As she watched, a brilliant emerald flame ignited to her right, and a soot-covered
woman tumbled out.
"What—is this place?" asked Hermione, heart pounding.
Mr. Albero rushed forward to help the coughing woman to her feet. Once she was steadied,
he addressed them both.
"Welcome to the Underground Railroad."

The Revue
Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt
***
Hermione | Tuscany, Italy
Underground Railroad…
The words and their implications were still racing through Hermione's mind as Mr. Albero
settled the newly-arrived Muggle woman into a small bedroom, then guided her to a nearby
kitchenette.
He sat her down at the counter, and began to heat up a kettle for tea.
"I'm sure you have a million questions," he said, turning on the gas stovetop. "Go ahead."
As she considered where to even begin, Hermione's eyes swept across the room, noticing that
it was as non-magic as they came. Electric appliances, a stuffy couch, and homey decorations
filled every corner. And there was a Murphy bed that Hermione assumed belonged to Mr.
Albero folded up against the wall. A picture frame hung next to it, with an unmoving
photograph of him, a much younger Blaise, and a stunning, ebony-skinned woman.
After half a year of being in the dark about her squad leader, Hermione did not even know
where to begin. But she asked hesitantly, "So you and Blaise transport Muggle refugees here
in Italy?"
"That's part of it," the middle-aged man replied. "Our Floo network includes points
throughout Europe, and now we're in talks with some of our American counterparts. Muggles
like me don't need magic to use Floo travel, you see. If anyone chooses to leave a Death
Eater-occupied country, we're there to help."
"I've never heard of the Underground Railroad. Are you part of the Order?"
Mr. Albero pondered the question as he pulled out two floral print mugs, handing one to
Hermione. "No, not exactly. We existed years before Blaise joined the resistance, and for a
very long time no one but your Captain Jones knew about us. It's most accurate to say that we
work in parallel with the Order, but our purpose was never anything as grand as defeating
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Railroad is just that—a means to ensure that non-magic
folks are moved out of the crossfire."
The steaming kettle began to whistle, and Mr. Albero rushed over to remove it from the
burner. The sound barely registered in Hermione's already buzzing ears.
Blaise was always adamant that he played both sides of the war—a fact that made Hestia's
unrelenting faith in her Second difficult to understand. Even controversial.
As Hermione was stewing, Mr. Albero placed a teabag in her mug, and poured in the hot
water.
"We call this particular building 'Main Station' because it has the largest number of Floo
access points," he clarified. "Our operation here was busiest when Death Eaters controlled
this country. There was more need to get refugees out. Although, Blaise mentioned that they
may retake Italy soon. If they do, we'll be prepared to act. The Railroad prefers to get folks
who contact us transferred out of Europe completely, but that is proving trickier as the regime
spreads."
Hermione nodded slowly, then asked, "Who is part of the Railroad?"
"A mix of people, magic and non-magic," replied the man, voice now a tad wary. "You'll
understand why I don't want to name names. Our shelters aren't like your Order safe houses
—not nearly as protected by fighters and spells. Just normal do-gooders willing to open up
their homes to the persecuted."
"Do you ever work with Death Eaters?" Hermione said, eyes jumping to Draco's gold coin on
the countertop. Brain trying to form an elusive connection that must be there.
The edges of Mr. Albero's mouth turned down, and he took a sip of tea before answering.
"That's one question I'd rather you ask Blaise. Sorry, Miss Granger."
***
Draco | Paris, France
The bedroom was dark enough that Draco could not see the wound, but he could feel its
viscous wetness soaking into his nightshirt. With a snap of his fingers, an oil lamp
brightened, and he peeled back the fabric over his shoulder, quickly locating the bullet still
lodged beneath his muscle. He must have missed one.
After releasing an annoyed exhale, Draco slid from the bed to walk towards his potions room.
He was already out into the living area when he remembered this was not the Manor. So
instead, he crossed through the apartment to a handsome kitchen. He had rarely been in this
particular space, and it had none of his regular tools, but it would have to do.
He plucked a short paring knife from a wood block and removed his shirt, exposing the
bleeding injury. Not even bothering with a numbing charm, he let his muscles relax and
slowly dug the blade into his skin. Soon the lead bullet fell out, rolling across the floor. It left
a thin red stripe in its wake.
Draco was casting a healing charm over the now profusely bleeding hole in his shoulder
when a bolt of acidic pain shot through his back. But when he ran a hand over the area, he did
not feel anything foreign. Several long strides later, he was in the ensuite bathroom, peering
behind to survey his skin in the mirror.
Nothing there except the smooth Basilisk scars. Even cured of the venom, they still flared up
at random.
"Damn Weasel," he hissed, tossing his ruined shirt onto a towel rack. For the life of him,
Draco could not recall why he did not just end the man that night. It would have been so
easy.
Enjoyable.
Draco turned away from the mirror; thinking. It was earlier than he had planned to leave—
barely after sunset. But there was no sleeping when he was this ticked off. A cold stream of
air shot through his clenched teeth as he summoned clothing and began to change, opting for
simple dark trousers and a collared shirt. Before leaving the apartment, he rolled both sleeves
up and slid his wand into its holster.
Then he was out the door, not stopping to lock it. If anyone wanted to burglarize the city flat,
they could have at it. Nothing inside mattered.
The limestone boulevard beneath his apartment building was packed with cars and
pedestrians. Hurrying off to their evening activities, parties, shows.
Draco was marking time at a crosswalk when he sensed eyes begin to stare. Not
unsurprisingly, he felt a soft tap on his shoulder a moment later, and turned.
A smoky-eyed Muggle woman stood below, gaze fixed on Draco's tattooed forearm.
Her voice was pitched low as she said, "Monsieur, thank you for your service. I am not
exaggerating when I say that I am indebted to you and our Sauveur des Ténèbres for
liberating and protecting this city. If you are free now, I would love to take you for a drink to
prove my gratitude. There is a place just at the end of this block."
As she spoke, another sycophantic man sidled up, and began speaking rapidly in French—no
doubt making Draco a similar offer.
A vein popped out of Draco's neck and he let a hand drift to rest on his wand holster. The
color drained out of both the man and woman's faces at the thinly-veiled threat. They
retreated, and Draco crossed the street without a word. But he heard the woman shouting
"Vive Le Embouchure!" at his tensed back.
As soon as the crowds lessened, Draco pivoted to disapparate, reappearing in a much emptier
avenue lined with trees. Brass street lamps lit the sidewalk, giving off a diffused, yellowish
glow. Draco followed the road, deciding that even if it was early, he should have apparated
here straight from the apartment.
Most of the bars and nightclubs were already open, and patrons meandered between them.
The smells of cheap booze and stale cigarettes dirtied the air, and drunken shouts leaked onto
the street through cracked windows. Out of the side of his eye, he noticed a pair of Muggle
women pawing at a wizard dressed in Death Eater robes—not an unusual sight after the
French Ministry terminated its Statute of Secrecy, but still disgusting.
However, no one else accosted Draco, and he kept walking, eyes pointed ahead toward the
flashing neon sign of the Revue—guiding him through the rabble like a fog light. The scene
grew even rowdier as he neared the Parisian lounge. A man reeking of vomit stumbled and
fell right onto the pavement in front of its awning, while his friend doubled over in laughter.
"Move," Draco ordered, jerking his wand to sweep both them and the other rubbish off the
sidewalk and into a storm drain. Then he held his Dark Mark against the locked handle,
waited for a click, and entered.
As he walked through the doorway, Draco ran a hand through his hair and twisted his
expressionless face into a haughty sneer. But the club was almost entirely deserted at this
hour. Or at least that is how it appeared. Thick red drapes lined every wall, concealing an
unknown number of rooms and doors.
A muzzled hostess scurried up and tried to take a coat from Draco that he did not have. When
she realized her mistake, any skin exposed beneath the restraint on her face flushed pink, and
she instead led him down the corridor to a softly-lit, private room.
Once he was seated in a velveteen booth, the woman offered a menu and quill to write down
his drink order, gaze averted politely. Draco set them both on a side table, said "gin and
tonic," then motioned for her to leave.
The hostess exited with a silent bow. Draco watched her go, noting that he did not recognize
her. Good.
Then he leaned back in the booth, settling his head against the curtained wall. Waiting. When
even the dim lights in the room became too bright, he let his eyes fall shut.
***
Today, the sea looked like an enormous pool of liquid metal. It was exceptionally dusky, with
slight jade undertones. The surface swelled, and plunged, and swelled again at a
mesmerizing tempo.
Draco watched from where he relaxed against the white headboard. It had been weeks since
his last visit, and he wondered how cold the harbor town was on the other side of the window.
Wondered if he would ever go back again.
A sigh broke him out of his reveries, and he glanced down.
She was still asleep, nestled in the curve of his left arm. He could not even feel that arm
anymore. It was entirely pins and needles after hours of holding still. And perhaps she had
laid claim to it already. After all, her rich, brown curls had run wild during the night, and
now they wound up his skin like climbing ivy.
He fought the desire to reach down and unweave the soft vines, knowing that even the
smallest movement would wake her. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the impossibly faraway
ocean beyond the false glass.
He was still turned away when he felt her stir against his prickling arm. A smile took root on
his mouth as he looked down.
"Hello, Granger."
"Morning."
***
Smooth fingernails skated along Draco's scalp. Brushing the hair from his forehead. These
hands seemed so familiar, and he eased into her gentle touch without opening his eyes.
"I remember you used to like this," she said.
Now Draco felt his head lifted from the wall and placed onto a warm lap as her fingers
continued to slowly stroke his hair. With every long motion, another muscle in his body
loosened and released.
Then she scolded playfully, "You should have told me you were coming today. I couldn't be
sure. The others will be here soon, but for now we can be alone."
Draco opened his eyes.
A strong-jawed face flooded his vision. A perky, upturned nose and dark hair that stretched
past her waist.
Pansy Parkinson smiled down at him when she noticed he was awake, and spoke again.
"Just like old times, right, Draco? Takes me back to the common room, although this one is
far more private." She inclined her head, whispering in his ear, "And I remember a few other
things you liked."
Draco sighed, but did not move from her lap as he asked, "Did you arrive with Nott? Is he
planning to show up at all tonight?"
Pansy let out an exasperated huff, yanking the white-blond hair coiled around her finger. "I
can't decide if you're jealous that I've seen Theo more than you the past few years, or if you
want him to be your girlfriend. Why do you always ask? I thought you weren't even close
anymore?"
Now Draco rolled onto his side, saying flatly, "Didn't grow out of the control issues I see."
When he felt Pansy's thigh tense beneath his cheek, he finally sat up. Stretching, reclining his
head against the wall again, and eying her distantly.
Her prominent nostrils flared in irritation. "And you didn't grow out of being a mean,
conceited git!" she shot back smugly.
But then the sound of voices outside the room made Pansy freeze. She promptly slid to the
opposite end of the velveteen booth and readjusted her party dress.
The curtained door swung open, and Theo stepped inside, wearing a dark green dinner suit
and crooked smile.
"Evening you two," he said, deep set eyes gleaming.
Pansy perked up when Theo dropped into the seat beside her and draped an arm around her
shoulder.
"Told you he was coming," she said to Draco, leaning against Theo's chest.
Draco was still rolling his eyes at the ceiling when Goyle pushed into the room. Just like last
week, his stump of an arm was wrapped in a sling. Obviously the Dark Lord had not judged
him valuable enough to gift a replacement.
"Snithe and Davis not here yet?" questioned Theo, looking at Draco.
"Don't ask me. They're your problem, not mine."
Theo clicked his tongue. "Mea culpa! Just seeing as you've been showing up so early, thought
you might know."
Pansy began to play with Theo's shirt collar, ignoring a muzzled waiter who offered her a
menu. The hostess who greeted Draco when he arrived walked over to set a glass with a sprig
of spearmint in front of him.
Theo raised his eyebrows at the drink. "I'd say you're hooked on the place, Malfoy. Coming
so much the past month, it's like you're making up for lost time. Told you I made the joint
first-rate after taking over."
"I passed a dozen other clubs on my way here," Draco said, swirling the perspiring glass in
his hand. "I still don't see why this one has any more to offer."
"Hah!" bellowed Theo, and Goyle sniggered as well. "Of course you would think that, always
shutting yourself in a room like this. But you haven't seen half the fun."
"I'm not interested in whatever you find enjoyable, Theo. I'm sure it isn't anything I haven't
seen already," Draco sniffed, making Pansy glower.
While riling them up, Draco caught Goyle flashing him a half nervous, half angry stare. He
turned sharply, and Goyle lowered his eyes to his sling.
Catching the exchange, Theo simpered, "You really do owe him an apology for that arm,
Mouth of the Dark Lord. Your demons took it, after all. The least you could have done is
order them not to go after friendly limbs."
Goyle pursed his lips and moved his gaze to the carpet, as he agreed, "He's right, Draco. That
was careless. And the Dark Lord blamed me for it too."
"Neither of you know how any of it works, so stop speaking out of your asses," Draco
intoned, a jeer crossing his face.
"Then finally care to explain?"
"Not likely."
"He's being difficult as always, just forget him," snarled Pansy.
"By definition, I'm your superior," said Theo loftily, plucking Pansy's wandering hand out of
his auburn hair and plopping it back on the seat. "I could just order you to stop being so damn
cryptic."
Draco downed the rest of his gin and smirked, "Since the Dark Lord clearly doesn't trust you
with anything more important than a shitty bar, you're not getting anything out of me."
Pansy's chorus of snide giggles filled the room. Theo's chronic smile vanished.
"I'm a member of his Cabinet—"
"Fancy titles mean nothing when they're just his way to keep your greasy hands distracted,"
Draco drawled, interrupting. He snapped his fingers and a muzzled attendant hanging in the
shadows came to exchange his drink for another. "Everyone knows you're little more than the
Dark Lord's errand boy."
"Show him, Theo. You keep it here, right?" urged Goyle, nodding his head toward the
curtained door. "Make one of the slaves bring it here, then he'll see."
Theo leveled Draco an appraising look and the grin returned to his face as he said, "Great
idea, Greg." He instructed the waiter behind him without turning, "Have Delacour join us,
and tell her to wear my present."
Draco had reached the bottom of his second gin when the door slowly swung open. But no
one appeared. Instead, the drapes framing each side swayed in an undetectable breeze. He
was still staring at them when he felt the cushion beside him sink down.
A beautiful, disembodied head materialized to Draco's left. Her golden hair and moon-white
skin glowed ethereally even in the low light.
Draco's eyes narrowed in recognition. Fleur really did look like the younger one. Right down
to the Revue's prisoner muzzle affixed to her pert mouth.
As he watched, Fleur finished pulling the Invisibility Cloak from her shoulders, and placed it
on Draco's lap, which instantly disappeared. He did not look down at it, too preoccupied with
holding the woman's fierce gaze. Although she could not speak, there was such malice in
Fleur's large blue eyes that it felt as if she was trying to force the rest of him to disappear.
"Don't mind Delecour," Theo laughed loudly, amused by the confrontation, "although who
could blame her, given what you did to her little sister?"
"What did he do?" asked Goyle, posing the question to Theo instead of Draco.
"Caught the girl in Stirling, then dumped her on his aunt and uncle. But the minute the Dark
Lord assigned her to Zabini, Draco went and took her for himself. No doubt has the girl
locked in some sort of pleasure cage right now."
"That's sick, Draco," scolded Pansy. "Even for you."
"I wouldn't get too worked up about it," Theo said haughtily, crossing his legs and picking at
his nails. "Draco knows Gabrielle will be his for only as long as he behaves."
As Theo spoke, Draco's hand tightened around his glass, and the liquid within started to
crystallize. He set it down on the table, bent both elbows behind his head, and yawned.
Unsurprisingly, Theo's taunts seemed to affect Fleur the most. While lazing, Draco sensed the
wild energy leaking out of the part-Veela right beside him. Pansy noticed as well—her dark
eyes darted between them possessively. Meanwhile, Theo finally shut up and Goyle was
basically drooling.
With a great sigh, Draco used one pinky to lift the shining, silvery cloth off his lap, as if
touching dirty laundry, saying, "As lovely as it is to talk about my personal vices, care to
explain why you had yours—" he waved a hand lazily toward Fleur's livid face, "—bring out
the cloak? Again, it's nothing I haven't seen before. In fact, I'm the one who recovered it
from Potter's body in the first place."
Theo's smile did not falter, but a blood vessel pulsed near his temple. "Oh there's plenty else
the Dark Lord has me keep besides the Veela and that cloak," he said.
Draco coughed rudely, unconvinced. "So now you're his errand boy and storage closet. Big
improvement."
Pansy screeched in a fit of laughter, and even Goyle let out a choked snigger. Theo sat up
straight and glared venom across the booth, canines bared.
But before he could respond, Draco knocked back his drink, tossed the cloak into Theo's red
face, and stood to leave.
He was already halfway out the door when he sent a wry smile back into the heated room.
"If you have something worthwhile to show me, Theo, then fucking prove it."
The Many Faces of Blaise Zabini
Chapter Notes
Hope you're ready for some major, well-earned reveals.
But mercy, Faustus, of thy Saviour sweet,
Whose blood alone must wash away thy guilt
***
It took one more trip to Antonio Albero's kitchenette to finally ambush Blaise.
Hermione and the mild-tempered Muggle were chatting at the counter when his elusive son
stalked in, swore, then immediately backed out.
Right away, Hermione was on her feet, dragging Blaise inside while Mr. Albero called out
from his stool.
"She knows about the Railroad, and it's time you explain the rest."
Mr. Albero pushed his seat out and strode across the room. He clamped a hand on his son's
lean shoulder and steered him toward the sofa. Blaise mumbled darkly under his breath the
entire short distance.
But as soon as he was situated, Blaise seemed to accept the inevitable—kicking his feet up on
one armrest, and resting his head on the other. His long braids spilled over the edge, touching
the floor. His eyes, meanwhile, anchored on the ceiling, as though he was waiting to begin an
unpleasant psychiatry session.
"Never trust family," he sighed.
After giving Hermione a conspiratorial nod and Blaise a tight-lipped frown, Mr. Albero stuck
his hands in his pockets and left the room.
Hermione retook her seat at the counter, and folded her arms, demanding, "Well?"
"Well what?" Blaise asked stubbornly. "If you're here—" he pointed through the open door
toward the nearest fireplace, "—then you already know more than enough. Probably too
much, honestly."
"You told Ginny about the Railroad as soon as she arrived, and some of the others seem to
know as well," Hermione said. "So why have you been avoiding telling me?"
Blaise rubbed his eyes and sighed before responding, "Because I knew you would never get
it, Granger."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Hermione retorted, ears growing hot.
"It means you're JUDGMENTAL. And you've always given me shit for doing what I need to
as a Death Eater. Like you hold me to a different standard than the other villain in your life."
"If you're referring to Spider, she isn't even active—"
Blaise laughed snarkily, and Hermione glared.
"Uh huh, I was totally talking about Spider," he tittered, scratching the jagged scar on his
cheek.
"Well how could I not?" Hermione shot back, voice rising. "You were Hestia's Second. Now I
find out you've been helping Muggles on the side. But you confessed yourself to murdering
innocent people as a Death Eater in Scotland."
She saw Blaise tense, but he gritted his teeth and said, "I didn't kill the 'innocent' in Scotland,
whatever you think that means. I became a member of the Dark Lord's Cabinet because I
killed the Order."
Hermione blanched, saying, "Then are you even part of the Order? I don't understand what
you want in this war. It's like you're a walking contradiction. Make it make sense, Blaise."
"Maybe the problem is that it will never make sense to someone like you," Blaise said
coolly.
Hermione uncrossed her arms, staring intently at the fridge right ahead instead of Blaise, and
demanding, "Then describe how YOU see all of this. The war. The Railroad. Everything."
Even without looking back, she could feel Blaise hesitate. But he responded at last, "Neither
side is innocent anymore. The only ones who can make that claim are those without a stake in
the outcome. Who didn't ask to be hunted down by the Dark Lord or blown to bits during a
resistance strike."
"Like your Muggle father?" Hermione offered cagily.
"No," Blaise snapped at once. "My father went and got a pure-blood witch knocked up. He
threw himself into our world. And not your dentist parents either. No, I'm talking about the
people who don't even know that magic exists, then wake up one day in the middle of a
fucking warzone. If they wake up at all."
"That still doesn't justify ending lives as a Death Eater," Hermione contended. But as she
spoke, her eyes shifted to Rodolphus's wand on her thigh, and she tried not to think about
how it got there.
"You spent half your life as a Muggle," Blaise said, picking at a loose thread in the sofa. "So
maybe you've heard of something called the 'trolley problem'?"
Taken aback by what felt like an irrelevant question, Hermione froze. In both fighting and
conversation, Blaise always managed to catch her off guard.
Blaise did not wait for a response before he went on, "The trolley problem is a thought
experiment. A scenario in which a runaway train will inevitably collide with and kill ten
people. But a bystander can divert the train to a different track and kill just one person."
When Blaise paused, Hermione turned in her seat to watch him.
He was sitting up now, chin perched on his hand, expression hardened.
He spoke again, tone accusatory. "YOU, Granger, would probably try to come up with a
grand scheme to save all eleven people, and end up killing all eleven people. Or maybe you
would even lay down on the tracks yourself."
Hermione was about to argue, but Blaise's dark eyes moved to her. She swallowed her words
as he said, "I don't lose sleep over taking the life of someone who volunteered to join either
side if I'm able to divert the train from hitting people who couldn't even see it coming in the
first place."
"Then just try to end the war," Hermione appealed, face a picture of frustrated confusion.
"You're a member of the inner circle and lead the Knife. Why not use everything you have to
destroy Voldemort?"
"Knew you wouldn't get it, Gryffindor," he said in a scathing tone. "Why don't you ask Potter
how it went when he tried to 'end the war'? Oh right, you can't. Because he ate shit and saved
no one."
"At least Harry died trying to—"
"Tyndrum," Blaise said tersely, breaking off Hermione's words.
"What?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. The word was unfamiliar.
Blaise grimaced, then clarified, "Tyndrum was a Scottish village seven miles from the valley
where the Chosen One had his brave, not-final showdown against the Dark Lord. The
younger generation moved away to the city long ago, so the remaining population was what
you would call geriatric. After Potter died and the Order retreated, some Death Eaters
decided to take a detour on their way out. And now there is no Tyndrum anymore."
"I had no idea," whispered Hermione. And it was true—she had never heard anyone on the
Council mention nearby Muggles when they selected Glen Lochy as the location for that
battle. They were solely focused on finding a topography near Hogwarts that would allow
Voldemort to see the field from every possible angle so he would choose to confront Harry
himself.
"And by the way, I AM part of the Order!" Blaise fired back. "Of course I don't want the
result of five years of risking MY NECK for a bunch of magicless strangers to be a future
where only blood purity matters. Captain Hestia—just as much of a bleeding heart idealist as
you—forced me to 'see the light' and make peace with this imperfect resistance we're BOTH
a part of ages ago."
Running his hands through his twisted hair, Blaise rasped, "And ever since, I've been trying
to keep this train on the least deadly track possible, just like the perfect little Slytherin-
Gryffindor-Death Eater-Rebel DAMN FUCKING IDIOT I AM!"
***
Hours later, they were both outside in the vineyard. Sitting on the grass. Backs leaned against
the trellises. Sharing a bottle of even worse wine taken from Mr. Albero's pantry.
"Do you even make wine here?" Hermione asked, trying not to gag from the sourness.
"Not for a while. Tony probably got this from a local store," Blaise coughed.
Hermione nodded, letting her eyes flow across the vineyard to the large wooden structure in
the distance.
There was now some understanding about the building and its owner. Blaise indeed had
ulterior motives, but they were selfless in the most brutal way. It was little wonder that he
inspired such loyalty from his squad and became Hestia's right hand. And while Hermione
was still unsure if his violent means justified any end, she at least understood him.
If the Second Wizarding War was divided into black and white, Blaise was gray.
But there was one more question.
Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out the gold signal coin. The next time Blaise
reached for the wine bottle, she put the coin in his hand instead.
He stared at it and raised his dark eyebrows. "If this is your way of saying you don't want
anything to do with the Railroad, remember that I never asked for your help, Mudblood. The
fewer involved, the better."
"I found that coin at Malfoy Manor," Hermione countered, closely studying Blaise's reaction.
A sudden rush of what looked like nausea washed over his face. As if he tasted something
even worse than the wine. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by a disparaging smirk.
"And? You probably left it there on one of your steamy trips to gather intelligence," he said
smoothly, flipping the coin back to Hermione.
She caught it, unfazed that Blaise defaulted to dodging any questions about Draco. But now
that Blaise was unmasked, she recognized his evasive behavior as more than stubbornness.
It was a defense mechanism.

"You also avoided telling me about the Railroad because of Draco," Hermione said carefully.
It was a subtle movement—barely there—but Blaise's fingers hovered above his

Sectumsempra scar before continuing their journey to tie the braids back from his face.
When he did not respond, Hermione spoke again.
"I know that you're connected to Lucius and Narcissa's deaths."
"Malfoy told you that, didn't he?" Blaise asked at once, tone accusatory.
"No," Hermione replied in a calm voice. "He barely mentions either of them or you. I learned
it from Lucius Malfoy's portrait. Lucius implied that you had a deal with Draco and worked
together for years. He… he blames you for their execution. With everything you just told me
about the Railroad and how you've been acting since I've returned, now I'm certain you know
something."
And it was as if Hermione peeled back the final layer of whatever it was Blaise was so
painstakingly guarding, leaving only bleak resignation. His eyes lost all brightness. His
shoulders sank. Even his throat seemed to stop working, like he had trouble swallowing.
After sitting in silence for a long time, Blaise leaned forward on his knees and spoke heavily.
"I approached Malfoy a few months after I started the Railroad and took the Mark. Not long
after the Battle of Hogwarts—when we were part of an attack at Ballyallia Lake."
"Where Hagrid died… " whispered Hermione, stomach dropping.
"It was always a trap," Blaise said with a subdued nod. "Dolohov killed everyone in that safe
house the week before, and set up an alarm to know when the Order appeared. When they
did, Malfoy and I were instructed to join the ambush."
Blaise met Hermione's gaze as he continued," I needed help. It was just my dad and I running
the whole network at that point. During the raid, I saw Malfoy burn Fenrir Greyback to
protect you and Creevey. After that, I knew I could trust him with my secret. With the reason
I swore myself to a fucking monster."
The humid vineyard air felt as thick as it had in the swamp four and a half years ago. And
now she remembered overhearing a third Death Eater's voice while she and Dennis hid in the
fog. Remembered hearing him back up Draco's lie about the Order killing Greyback when
Dolohov was suspicious. It must have been Blaise—
"Malfoy's reason for serving the Dark Lord was obvious, because it was the same one that
made him target Dumbledore," Blaise said heatedly, "I hadn't seen his parents since Hogwarts
and guessed they were being kept hostage. That's when I decided to use his parents just like
the Dark Lord."
"What do you mean use them?" Hermione asked, voice guarded but eyes wide.
Blaise let out a raspy breath, then explained, "Malfoy was never like me. He would flatten a
thousand people for even a chance at saving a single one he loved. I knew that, so I made him
an offer. If he joined the Railroad, I would get his parents out of Europe at the earliest
opportunity. He agreed."
A sudden prickling sensation ran through Hermione's body. The more she had learned about
the Railroad the past two days, the more she had hoped for this answer. But she was still
blindsided by the truth. As if she was the one laying on the tracks being struck by a runaway
engine.
After dropping the now-empty wine bottle, Blaise slid down to lay on the grass and squeezed
his eyes shut. He did not say anything for so long that Hermione had half a mind to shake
him out of his sleep. But then he spoke, voice tired.
"I learned shortly after just how useful Malfoy could be. Until then I didn't know that he was
the Mouth, since the rest of us always leave before he starts resurrecting."
"Do you know how Voldemort gave him that power?" Hermione interrupted.
Blaise shrugged his shoulders. "No clue. All I do know is that, even now, it's risky to be near
him during a fight. The dead don't care who they kill. He can fully control a limited number
of Inferi—and maybe that's changed as he's gotten stronger—but back then, giving more than
basic commands to hundreds at the same time was impossible. Like having one brain for an
entire army."
Hermione nodded. It made sense. She knew firsthand how difficult it was to manipulate even
a single living person under her Imperius Curse.
"Malfoy ended up proving invaluable though," Blaise reflected, face pointed up, like he was
watching the clouds through closed eyelids. "More than I ever expected when I approached
him. We trusted each other and came up with a strategy. Before a fight, the Railroad would
move civilians so they weren't caught in the fallout. And after the Order was gone, he would
summon the dead and leave their corpses in the evacuated areas, to make it look like there
were no survivors. It worked for a while. For years."
"But he still killed the Order," said Hermione, filled with mixed emotions. "You both did."
"We've gone over this already, Granger. We did what we had to do," Blaise replied sharply.
"And for every life we took, we protected others."
Now Blaise opened his eyes and his face tensed. "But I could tell it all got to Malfoy. He may
have agreed to join the Railroad for his parents, but that was only part of it. The other part
was guilt."
"Why would you think so?" asked Hermione quietly. She had discerned exhaustion within
Draco after he took lives, but never remorse.
"I noticed how slowly he enters every fight to give the other side the option to retreat. He
doesn't have to—he's fast. It always struck me as deliberate," Blaise explained. Then he
plucked the gold coin from the grass, flipping it between his dark fingers.
Hermione watched the shiny metal flashing while she thought. And a heaviness settled over
her. Eventually she asked, "But something happened, right? Draco isn't part of the Railroad
anymore."
Blaise flicked the coin high into the air, and reached up to catch it. Without looking, he
pressed it into his palm, then uncovered the train car engraved on one side. Hermione was
still staring at it when Blaise spoke in a hollow tone.
"Right. Muggle lives aren't off the table for Malfoy. Not for a long time."
"What changed?" she asked cautiously—it felt like every question pushed Blaise onto thinner
and thinner ice.
Now Blaise turned the coin over, displaying the dark-featured woman on its other side as he
said, "I joined the Order."
At once thinking of Draco's borderline hatred of the resistance and refusal to come back with
her, Hermione ventured, "And he didn't like that?"
"No, the opposite. Malfoy saw it as the opportunity we had been waiting years for. My
chance to ask the Order to break his parents out of Azkaban and get them under its
protection. He couldn't do it himself or leave with them, although he never told me why. So
he wanted 'terrorists' involved to make it look like they were taken as war prisoners," Blaise
said dispassionately.
"But I disagreed," he went on, turning the coin over and over again in his hand. "No one
trusted me at that point except the Captain, and even she would be hard pressed to get the
Council to rescue and permanently guard Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy —not with their
history of serving the Dark Lord. In what universe would the Order risk its already limited
resources and lives to protect a family of Death Eaters? Especially one that Voldemort
himself used as leverage and would go to the ends of the earth to recover."
"So you had a falling out," Hermione concluded, eyebrows raised and pulled together. "You
refused to attempt a rescue, and broke your bargain."
"Not quite right, Granger," said Blaise, making Hermione flinch at the familiar phrase. "No, I
promised Malfoy the Order would help. Maybe he still thinks it did."
"Then what was the problem?" Hermione asked.
"I lied," Blaise spat.
Despite the balmy air, Hermione shivered as she watched Blaise slowly sit up, then stare into
the ground. Expression, incredibly hard.
He continued speaking in the same grating voice, saying, "I fucking lied to Malfoy. I never
even asked the Captain about his parents, because I already knew her answer. Instead, I
gambled that I could save them by myself and risk no one. So I broke into Azkaban—it
wasn't even hard, which should have been the first sign something was wrong."
Hermione saw Blaise dig his fingers into the dirt on each side. Then he said angrily, "I took
his parents to a Railroad shelter, not an Order safe house. It was still hidden and off the grid,
but we didn't have anything as strong as a Fidelius Charm, and no guards. So I spelled the
place myself and left them alone. I knew Malfoy would have tried to stop me, so I never told
him they weren't with the Order."
The heavy air around Blaise seemed to become even more stifling as he finished, "The Dark
Lord found them within a day. He had them executed before I even knew they were gone."
Lucius's words stung in Hermione's brain.
When the time arrived for Zabini to pay up, Narcissa and I ended up dead. Zabini used
Draco and as good as murdered us.
And as she studied Blaise through stunned eyes, Hermione saw nothing within him but anger.
His dirt-covered fists were clenched. His demeanor had darkened. As if he was manifesting
the very callousness and treachery that Lucius claimed.
All of a sudden, Blaise rose to his feet and stalked away.
Hermione stood just as quickly, now angry herself. Following right behind him and yelling at
his shaking back, "Don't leave without telling me the rest!"
Without turning, Blaise snapped, "You already know the rest. Malfoy executed them."
"Voldemort forced him to do it, right?" Hermione shouted, chest heaving. "As punishment for
trying to get them out."
Blaise's answering laugh tore through Hermione like a dagger.
"No. The Dark Lord came up with something far uglier. He sent Narcissa and Lucius into the
next resistance raid, weaponless and looking exactly how he found them—like the Order.
They survived the fight, but didn't know to retreat when the others did.
The sun itself dulled at Blaise's horrible words, and Hermione was wrenched back to her
surroundings. She realized that he had led them out of the vineyard. Now they stood beneath
a solitary oak tree surrounded by a sea of grass. The tree was so massive that it looked almost
prehistoric. Its canopy of thick branches and leaves blocked out the daylight.
Blaise walked to its base and glared into its knotty trunk. Hermione lingered behind him—
uncertain about what to say or even think.
When Blaise spoke again, he sounded different. Emptier.
"Malfoy killed his parents during the fight with his own hands. He didn't know what
happened until he revived their bodies."
Hermione felt her knees buckle, and grabbed onto a hanging branch to keep from falling. Her
head was spinning so much that now it looked like there was a forest of trees and Blaise
Zabinis.
"How could Draco not know until it was too late?" she asked, voice barely audible.
Blaise pressed both palms to his forehead and paced back and forth, as if trying to use his
boots to carve two trenches.
He was still pacing when the shouting started. Hermione flinched as he began to rage more
furiously than she had ever heard before.
"BECAUSE HE WAS WEAK!" roared Blaise, kicking his foot into an exposed root and
cursing. "He was so fucking stupid and weak. That's why he wore that fucking red thing over
his mask."
Tears began to flood Hermione's eyes as she said, "You mean… he couldn't see through it?"
With a harsh laugh, Blaise said, "Oh Malfoy could see. He could see everything he needed to,
except for faces. From the beginning, he cursed the cloth to blur his vision so he could kill
like a damn coward."
After closing his own eyes, Blaise leaned forward and knelt on the grass, collapsing in on
himself. In a voice dripping with bitterness, he said, "I imagine that much bloodshed feels
easier when no one has a face. But it was still Malfoy's fault his parents died. He should have
recognized them. It was all his fucking fault—"
The accusation broke off as Blaise dropped his head against the tree trunk, blinking back
tears. Tears that Hermione had never before seen in his dark eyes, and that did not match his
scathing words. Tears that she could barely see through her own.
And another, heartbreaking image flashed in Hermione's mind: Draco falling to his own
knees when he realized what he had done. What he had failed to recognize. Voldemort
whispering lies into his ear. Blaming their deaths on the Order's failure. On his compassion.
A noise pulled Hermione back to the present, and she saw Blaise sob and crumple before her
as the full weight of his own responsibility seemed to hit him. His guilt became palpable.
Visible. Like a barbed chain around his neck. A punishing weight pulling his shoulders down
to the earth.
And Hermione felt equally ruined. Her skull pounded just imagining what Blaise lived
through every day, serving the Order and Voldemort. Her mind raced from being thrown into
an ethical dilemma without a good answer. Her heart broke with the revelation that Blaise
must have cared for Draco like a brother, yet did not hesitate to deceive him when the time
came to make an impossible choice. A choice with irreversible consequences.
Her heart broke for them both.

But as Hermione watched Blaise—slumped over on himself, back heaving—she also thought
of Atlas.
Of a god condemned to hold up the sky even as the weight of it slowly crushed him.
"It was my fault," Blaise confessed brokenly, weeping into the bark.
And even the ancient tree itself seemed to wither with him.
"It was all my fault."

Open to Interpretation
Come, what doest thou with that same book? Thou canst not read?
***
"You're going to fall."
"Am not," said Hermione stubbornly, stretching her fingers out as far as she could reach. She
was soooo close to the top of the book's spine. If she could grow another digit, it would be
within her grasp. Instead, her fingers scratched the air a mere inch away.
"You're a witch. Use your wand."
"No."
Hermione was dead set on retrieving the third volume in "An Anthology of Ancient Albanian
Rites" the manual way. She had already finished the first two, and there were just enough
hours before bed to make headway into the last.
"If you're too embarrassed to admit you forgot the spell, I'll summon it for you. Tell me the
title," he scolded.
While Hermione could not see Draco, busy as she was at the moment, she guessed that he
was smirking from where he sat across the library. Probably kicked back in an armchair
while he enjoyed the show.
"Did YOU forget what happened when I summoned such an old book yesterday?" Hermione
puffed, shifting her feet forward on the platform atop the rolling ladder. "Half the pages flew
out as soon as I had it in the air. It's better like this." Even her voice strained as the pads on
her fingers made contact with the book's leather cover. But it was jammed in so tightly that
she struggled to pull it off the shelf.
"GAH!"
Suddenly her hand slipped from the spine as the ladder rolled to the right. She tensed every
muscle in her core to keep from tumbling twenty feet to the ground.
Draco laughed. And now his voice came from right below.
Hermione regained her balance, steadying herself on the skyscraper of a wooden bookcase.
Draco was staring up at her, one hand wrapped firmly around a rung on the ladder, wearing
the exact amused smirk she predicted.
Boiling at the sight, she accused, "You moved it on purpose, didn't you? Would you even try
to catch me, or just ship me off to St. Mungos?"
Draco replied smoothly, "If you don't want to find out, then try harder not to fall."
Hermione glared daggers down at Draco's conceited face, but he did not take the bait. Biting
his lower lip as he watched her amusedly from below. Ever since they returned from their
afternoon of resting on the snowbank, his mood was lighter than Hermione had seen her
entire week at the Manor. Although he still bullied her—that seemed permanent.
Despite Hermione's best efforts, a reluctant smile found purchase on her mouth and she
laughed. Maybe it was not so bad being teased by him.
With a sigh and wordless charm, Draco twisted his wand.
A flash of movement made Hermione face forward again, just in time to see the out-of-reach
anthology slide easily from the shelf and glide into Draco's raised hand.
Not long after, they were both on the ground. Back in what had quickly become their regular
positions: Hermione perched on the edge of her seat, elbows rudely on the table, head tilted
to read the open pages. Draco lounged in a chair pushed so close to hers that their sides
touched. As she read, his cheek rested on her shoulder.
"I thought you didn't know what I've been reading," Hermione commented as she flipped to
the first chapter. "How could you tell which book to summon?"
"You never put the first two in the series back," responded Draco with a yawn, nodding his
head toward the stack of books threatening to tumble off the table. "It wasn't hard to figure
out."
Hermione's eyes moved from the books to him. This late, the dusky library was lit only by
flickering candles, but she still saw how bloodless his face was after seven days of slowly
dying.
Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight.
And yet the longer she studied his shadowy face, the more she saw also a quiet sort of peace.
It was etched in the slightly upturned curve of his mouth; the softness around his closed
eyelids. She wished it was possible to freeze time at this moment. Or that she still had the
Time Turner and could reverse every hour for hours. Days. Maybe years.
When a tear burned Hermione's eye, she looked away and went back to reading—only then
noticing a new book on the table.
It was a small novel with fine, gold-leafed pages. She flipped it over, reading the cover:
"Fairy Tales Told for Children. First Collection."
After forcing down a surprised smile, she turned to the index and began searching for the
story she knew must be somewhere inside. Draco must have left it here for that reason.
"You were wrong about the ending," he said softly, catching Hermione by surprise again.
"What do you mean?"

His eyes were still closed as he replied, "In some editions, it doesn't finish with the Mermaid
dissolving into seafoam."
Now Hermione paged through the book more intently. "That can't be right. I know the ending.
I've read it hundreds of times."
"Well," sniffed Draco, "you probably didn't have the right copy. Or were reading an abridged
version."
She found it and immediately flipped to the last few pages, scanning furiously. At some point,
Draco spoke again, and she stopped reading to listen.
"After the Mermaid dissolves into foam, which is still stupid by the way, she becomes a spirit:
an earthbound daughter of the air. She ascends, and the other spirits tell her that she became
like them because of her final choice in life. Because she chose not to pierce the prince's
heart to save her own soul. Recognizing the Mermaid's sacrifice, they give her a chance to do
good deeds for three hundred years. Once the Mermaid does, she'll receive both an immortal
soul and future in Heaven."
"So… the fairytale has a happy ending?" Hermione asked, thoroughly dumbstruck.
"Possibly. I guess technically it's open to interpretation."
They sat in silence for a very long while after that—Hermione reading and rereading the
story she apparently understood even less than she thought—Draco leaning against her
shoulder; eyes shut and breathing even.
Eventually, Hermione pushed the book away. Not sure if Draco was awake or asleep, she
whispered, "Tell me what you're thinking right now."
Draco let out a long exhale—so he was awake.
Then he replied, "I'm thinking that my back still feels frozen from lying in the snow all day."
"Mine too," she smiled.
"But you're never as cold as me, so warm me up," he said in a way that was both gentle and
demanding.
Now Draco nestled his head in closer. So close that she could feel his cheek against her neck.
Feel his hair brushing along her skin like soft feathers.
She shuddered as his icy hand found hers, then relaxed into his touch. He weaved their
fingers together as he always did.
Letting her own head drop atop his, she said quietly, "Ask me what I'm thinking, Draco."
"What are you thinking?"

After closing her eyes, she squeezed his hand one time… a second… then a third, saying,
"You did that earlier today. And right now I'm wondering what it means."
She could feel Draco smile into her neck.
"Ask me tomorrow, Hermione."
***
When Hermione woke, one half of her face was covered in sticky mud.
She sat up, confused. Unsure where she was. Unsure when she was. It was dark, so she
fumbled for her wand, speaking, "Lumos."
The wine cellar slowly came into view, And Hermione realized she had been sprawled on the
cool earth floor—pouring tears into the dirt as she dreamt.
After wiping the mess from her cheek, she tried to refocus her mind, forcing herself back
from that last day at Malfoy Manor—her last day with him—to the present. But the effort
took even more out of her heaving chest.
There was so much loneliness. Three months of it.
And maybe it was bearable at first.
But not now.
Not after learning about the Railroad. About Lucius and Narcissa. Not after this memory
clawed its way back into her heart.
The April sun was inching above the horizon when Hermione stumbled out of the house and
into the vineyard, feeling like the walking dead. No one else was awake yet. That was good.
She did not want any of the others to see her in this pathetic state.
The humidity felt closer to dew at this early morning hour—a heavy layer of mist hung in the
air, soothing the raw skin around her eyes. She navigated the grounds without purpose.
Roaming aimlessly. And her mind wandered back to the memory, wishing now more than
ever that she had the Time Turner. That she could go back to their last night together and
make Draco leave with her instead of Theo.
But even if they knew what was to come hours later, would that have changed anything?
No.
If Draco lived, he still would have returned to Voldemort. And maybe his empty promise to
find the snake was only part of the reason.
After learning about Draco's history with the Railroad, it was clear that he changed after
killing his own family and two years in Azkaban. He was not interested in helping anyone
anymore… perhaps not even her.
The next thing Hermione knew, her feet led her back to the oak where she spoke with Blaise.
Hit by a curious urge, she walked right up to its massive trunk. Then she was kicking off her
shoes and socks, digging her nails into the bark, and scaling the tree.
It took a few attempts, but eventually she made it to one of the larger branches and dangled
her legs over the edge. At least twenty feet off the ground.
She flicked her wand, and spoke, "Avis."
Then she was no longer alone—kept company by a dozen tiny yellow birds. She watched the
goldfinches flit among the leaves. Filling the damp air with their warbling. Conjuring them
always brought her a temporary sort of comfort. Once, in an embarrassing fit of jealousy, she
even used them to attack Ron.
The memory brought a prick of shame, but she felt nothing else.
It did not make sense. She had so many people left who cared for her. Well, not so many, but
more than most. If Ginny saw her like this, she would worry.
Somehow it was not enough.
The yellow birds were still twittering around Hermione's pounding head when a voice called
out from the base of the tree.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione inched to the branch's edge, and saw Mr. Albero staring up at her in concern. He
was carrying a folding chair beneath one arm. And he held a newspaper—as if planning to
read.
"Good morning," greeted Hermione sheepishly, and started to climb down without any
explanation.
The easygoing man waited until Hermione had both feet planted on the ground and back into
her shoes before saying, "I'll admit to being a bit surprised. I've never seen anyone out here
besides Blaise." Then he set up his chair, and offered it to Hermione.
Instead, she cast a duplication spell, and seated herself on the second.
Mr. Albero blinked at Hermione while he took his own seat. "Twenty-four years and I'm still
not used to magic." Then he opened the newspaper as he said, "Feel free to do that again if
you want another of these, although it's in Italian."
Hermione shook her head and smiled, too tired to try to puzzle out a foreign language, but
appreciating the gesture. "Don't mind me though," she clarified. "I'll probably just doze off
for a bit."
"Were you in the tree all night?" he asked, unfolding the pages and turning to what looked
like the football section.
"Oh no, only thirty minutes."
Nodding as he read, Mr. Albero replied, "That’s good. I know you’re all headed to France
tonight, so it wouldn’t do to lose sleep right before something so important."
"Blaise told you about the mission?" Hermione responded. Granted, it was not hard for
anyone to puzzle out given the entire villa was swarming with squad members. Mr. Albero
was right though—she really should have stayed in her bed instead of going to the cellar. At
least right before Paris.
"Yes, so I insisted he sleep in as well," Mr. Albero stated, interrupting her thoughts. Then he
said, "Nerves always give me insomnia, so I understand why you'd wake up early."
An unexpected coziness spread throughout Hermione, and she was glad that the other man's
eyes were glued to his article so he did not see her bemused expression. Blaise's Muggle
father looked as dissimilar to her own as he could. And yet sitting here, chatting over the
morning paper, gave Hermione the same feeling.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" she interrupted.
Not looking up, Mr. Albero said, "Go ahead."
"Well," Hermione began, "I noticed the photograph of your family the other day. Where is
Blaise's mother?"
Mr. Albero's eyes continued to move along the page as he replied, "She's buried right here,
actually. Part of the reason I come every morning."
"I'm sorry," blurted Hermione at once. "I didn't mean to—"
"Not at all. I enjoy talking about Viola," responded the man graciously, cutting Hermione's
apology short. "Ask anything you'd like."
Hermione studied him, breathing easier when she saw that his polite smile remained. Voice
hesitant, she asked, "When did Viola tell you she was a witch?"
"Probably not soon enough," he chuckled. Then a warm, glazed look overtook his eyes as he
continued, "I came from the States to work her family's vineyard one summer. The first time I
saw her, she was reading underneath this oak tree. Probably a book about spells. Though of
course I didn't know it at the time."
After turning to the next page, Mr. Albero went on casually, "And once I learned about
magic, I became her secret. I'm sure you've heard about how many times Viola married—
Blaise told me her love life was hot society gossip in your world."
"Umm, yes. I heard," agreed Hermione, blushing. She remembered Professor Slughorn
mentioning Mrs. Zabini's string of seven husbands during one of his god-awful club
meetings. She never would have predicted that, years later, the topic would resurface like this
—with Blaise's actual father.
Curiosity got the better of Hermione, and she ventured, "So Viola's family never knew about
you?"
Now a tightness appeared on Mr. Albero's face as he replied, "Never about me specifically,
but they always suspected Blaise's parentage since she refused to name his father. And a
month after You-Know-Who took power, they—" he paused, and his hands crinkled the sides
of the newspaper. "Some of Viola's relatives were fearful that Death Eaters would discover
how she 'corrupted' the purity of their bloodline and punish the entire family as an example.
A warning not to protect blood traitors. So they got rid of her themselves."
A tear dropped from Hermione's eye, but Mr. Albero did not see it as he stared even more
intently into the newspaper and said gruffly, "They called what they did to Viola an honor
killing." His dark hands gripped even harder. "I've never heard of anything more
dishonorable."
"I'm so very sorry, Mr. Albero," Hermione repeated.
"Ancient history," he dismissed—although it very much was not. He began to scan what
looked like the same article for a second time as he cleared his throat. "But enough about me.
You have someone important to you on the other side, right? That's why you asked me if the
Railroad works with Death Eaters?"
Taken completely by surprise, Hermione admitted, "Yes," then flinched and looked away.
Mr. Albero's black eyebrows rose and he peered over the top of his paper as he asked, "I'm
guessing he is just as much a secret as I am?"
"Yes. Although we're not together."
Frowning, Mr. Albero probed, "Why not?"
It was like Hermione was being grilled by her own father. Despite her brain telling her to
respond evasively, she could not bring herself to lie to him. "I made a promise to always put
the Order over any personal attachments. So it could never work between us for… well, for
obvious reasons," she said reluctantly.
"Then why doesn't he just join the Order?" offered Mr. Albero, as if it was the easiest solution
in the world.
What could have been a laugh, or maybe a sob, came out of Hermione's mouth, and she said,
"Trust me, I've asked. He refuses every single time."
Now the Muggle man folded his newspaper, setting it on his lap. His eyes held Hermione's as
he spoke.
"Maybe he just doesn't understand why you want him to join. Does he know how much he
means to you?"
"Yes," voiced Hermione at once. Then she thought more about it, realizing she had never
truly expressed in words that she cared. For all their months speaking in and out of her mind,
she had never once told Draco how much she needed him, and what exactly that meant. How
could she, with the Vow?
So Hermione conceded, "I mean, I've never actually said it, but I'm sure that he understands."
Mr. Albero pursed his lips, and his gaze moved up to the oak tree as he reflected, "Maybe I'm
just an old man trying to project my own regrets onto you. After all, Viola and I were
destined to fail regardless of how often I said I loved her. We were always running on
borrowed time."
He bent forward, and finished ruefully, "But she was gone before I knew it, and I should have
told her more."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said for a third time.
Then she looked down at her clasped hands, suddenly thinking of her last question to Draco
in the library.
They never had a tomorrow, so he never explained what the gesture meant. But three months
later, maybe she knew his answer.
Maybe she even knew her own.

Netherworld
Chapter Notes
Welcome to the Paris arc, and prepare for a lot of plot progression.
First will I question with thee about hell.
Tell me, where is the place that men call hell?
***
"Just pick one for me," groaned Ginny. "If you don't, Zabini will tell everyone to call me
Weasel tonight. And that's too damn obvious to be a code name."
Hermione tried not to react and jerk her hands—she was so close to finishing the plait in her
friend's red hair, and did not want to have to start over again. However, a rude giggle rang out
from the opposite end of the bunk room, and Ginny glared at one of the members of
Angelina's squad.
Pangolin, who was sitting on a neighboring cot polishing her golden blades, offered, "What
about 'Pony'? It's cuter than 'Horse,' right?"
"It doesn't have to be cute," Ginny sighed, "It also doesn't have to be based on my Patronus
like yours."
"I can't summon a Patronus," said Pangolin unblinkingly. "Remember? Neville tried to teach
me, but all I could manage were silver wisps."
Ginny released a loaded sigh, then responded, "Right. Well, that year we were focused more
on not being tortured by the Carrows than Dementors."
After sheathing both scimitars across her chest, Pangolin jumped up, and said quickly, "How
about you name yourself after Arnold?"
"You want Ginny's code name to be 'Arnold'?" Hermione asked, nonplussed, not stopping to
glance up as she slotted Basilisk blades into her belt. Her two wands were already in their
thigh holsters.
"No, no," gushed the pink-haired witch. "'Pygmy Puff,' like her mini Puffskein Arnold. Or
maybe just 'Pygmy.' Whatd'ya think?"
"It's still too cute, I should probably just—"

The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted Ginny's protests, and all three witches
looked up to see Blaise standing in the bedroom doorway. Unlike them, he was not wearing
his Knife uniform. Instead, he was dressed in dark trousers topped by a barely-buttoned shirt.
And his Sectumsempra scars were conspicuously missing—concealed by an enchantment.
"Change of plans," he explained, interpreting their confused faces. "Jag will lead you tonight.
Impala will still handle the rest of Squad B. We just found out that the Dominion was tipped
off about a potential strike, so I'm going to the club to monitor things above ground."
Ginny sniffed, unimpressed. "If I had the option, I'd also choose partying over crawling
through the sewers."
Pangolin winced at the jab, but Blaise only leered as he said, "Give me your drink order and
I'll leave it at the bar, Pygmy."
Then he fled into the hallway as Ginny swore at his receding back. After he was gone, she
sank down on the bed and angrily grabbed her black gloves, grumbling, "He's the worst.
Yesterday, the arse even told me he added EXTRA poison to my mark 'just in case,' and now
my hand looks worse than Merlin's saggy left nut—"
"Ginny!" Hermione scolded, pulling up the hood over the ginger's mouth.
"It's Pygmy now," Pangolin tittered. "Second-in-Command's orders."
But her laughter quickly died out when Angelina strode through the door.
The dark witch ran a hand over her shaved head, and said sternly, "If you have time for jokes,
Smith, then you should already be downstairs. You're holding up the rest of your team. You
lot will head out first, so get moving." Then Angelina crossed to the far side of the room,
speaking quietly with another woman.
"What's her problem? queried Ginny as she followed Hermione and Pangolin into the hall.
"Ever since Angelina came from Scotland, she's treated both of you like dirt. And it's like I've
wronged her by association."
When Pangolin's eyes fell, Hermione jumped in.
"It's because of me. We had a few rows about… Draco Malfoy. What you just saw is the
aftermath."
"What does Malfoy have to do with any of this?"
A lump formed in Hermione's throat. After confiding in Mr. Albero that morning, continuing
to mislead one of her closest friends felt insincere.
They were halfway down the curved stairwell when Hermione confessed slowly, "I never told
you, but Draco was the one with me in Azkaban, not Lucius. He got into my head. I learned
the truth the day you rescued me."
Pangolin just raised her eyebrows, but Ginny gaped and said, "Draco Malfoy is the reason
Charlie taught you to shield?"
Hermione secured the cloth hood over her hair and bent her chin in confirmation.
"But that wasn't your fault!" insisted Ginny, eyes wide. "Angelina can't keep blaming you for
something that happened ages ago. Besides, as soon as you found out the truth, you cut
Malfoy off and—"
Then Ginny paused, eyes stretching even wider. Realization dawned on her face. She pulled
Hermione away from the front entrance and into a shadowy corner.
"I'll buy you a minute," Pangolin said, rushing outside.
Neither looked up.
Ginny's voice was controlled as she spoke.
"Malfoy is the other person you told me about before, right? When you go down to the cellar
every night to 'Occlude,' you… talk to him?"
The memory of Kingsley's first interrogation resurfaced. And again, Hermione felt forced to
choose between confessing to a betrayal or insanity.
But she was not the same panicked captive Ginny freed last April. And she wanted to believe
that her friend would not hold the truth against her. So Hermione held her head high and
stated firmly, "Yes."
A look of abject horror overtook Ginny's expression. "You can't be serious, Hermione. He's a
Death Eater." Steadying herself against the tiled wall, she said in a low voice, "Charlie told
me what happened at Shell Cottage. Malfoy is the Necromancer. The one who threw you to
the bloody Dementors to begin with! He shouldn't still be alive, let alone in your brain."
"He—"
The echoes of footsteps made Hermione break off. She saw Squad B climbing down the
stairs.
Ginny, however, remained wholly engrossed, saying too loudly, "This isn't Hogwarts!
Whatever you think you feel for Malfoy isn't worth the risk. Is that why you left the Council?
Does Zabini even know?"
Now Hermione saw Angelina's dark outline approaching, and she hurried to whisper,
"There's a lot more to him than you think. Now's not the time, but I'll answer your questions
after Paris. Just try to trust me until then."
"My parents are dead because of what he did in the Great Hall, Hermione."
"I… I know. And I can explain later," she said again, grabbing Ginny by the hand. It was an
effort to drag the other witch out of the villa
Heavy clouds blanketed the night sky, rendering the crowd beneath little more than shadows.
But Pangolin saw them, waving both over.
Blaise was nowhere in sight—likely already on his way to the Revue. Instead, their squad
was gathered around a stodgy-looking man who Hermione vaguely recognized as Jaguar, one
of the arrivals from Stirling. Bizarrely, Jag did not even bother with a hood, opting for an
aviator hat and goggles. Though Hermione had to admit the getup did obscure most of his
scruffy face.
"Nothing I enjoy more than switching things up at the last minute, so here we are," the man
said sarcastically, sizing up his group of ten fighters. "As you all know, the French support
Voldemort's regime, making it too risky to go in guns blazing. And no doubt Death Eaters
have set up alarms around that whole area. Fortunately for us, the city was built above the
world's largest system of Catacombs. Our Portkey will drop us a few miles beneath the Latin
Quarter, so they won't detect us approaching. Since it's still possible that we run into guards
underground, stay alert. We'll move directly beneath the Revue and wait for the Second's
signal before attempting entry. At that point, we'll reconnoiter with Squad B and move into
the recovery phase."
Jag stretched an arm over his head, scratching the base of his neck, and concluding, "I wasn't
in charge of you all until ten minutes ago, so let me know if I got any of that wrong."
There were a few anxious glances, but no one spoke up. Jag fastened his goggles and rubbed
his hands together. "Right then. Who has the Portkey?"
Pangolin coughed and said apologetically, "Ummm, I think Lynx had it."
Half-expecting her to make a snarky comment, Hermione watched Ginny out of the corner of
her eye. But the redhead was silently glaring at the ground between her feet, obviously still
fuming about their heated conversation. What a great start to the night...
"Damn," swore Jag. "Okay I'll find Impala. Everyone stay here and do last checks. Won't be
but a minute."
He was about to sprint back into the house when Angelina called out from where she stood in
the center of her nearby squad, "I have the Portkey here, Jag. Gloves on?"
"Yep!"
Something ring-shaped flew through the inky air, and Jag's hand shot up to catch it. "Righto,
huddle up," he directed with renewed confidence.
They all circled around what Hermione quickly saw was a detached, rubber steering wheel.
Once everyone had a bare hand above the Portkey, Jag started the countdown.
"Five… four… three… two… one!"
Hermione's feet left the ground. She could feel Pangolin and Ginny on either side of her; their
shoulders knocking against hers; their hoods barely staying over their noses and heads. They
were speeding forward through darkness and howling winds.
Then her hand left the wheel as the magnet tugging her navel forward eased, and her feet
slammed onto solid dirt. A few grunts rang out, but it sounded like everyone kept their
footing.
In her mind, Hermione knew that they were in the Paris Catacombs. Yet the entire space
around her was coal black; as lightless as the Lestrange's ballroom. Something wet that she
could not see began to seep into her boots—she was knee-deep in tepid water. This section of
the underground must be flooded.
"Lumos."
Jag's wand illuminated his bristly face. Then, using a voice barely more than a whisper, he
said, "Let's try to minimize sound while we're down here. Does everyone still have their
return Portkeys?"
A few shrouded heads nodded. Hermione moved her hand over the small pocket on her
forearm, feeling the reassuring shapes of her signal coin and enchanted paper clip beneath the
fabric.
"If you're separated from the group or need to extract a prisoner immediately," Jag continued,
"remember to use your individual Portkeys to retreat to our Welsh base."
Now he glanced around and his gaze landed on a muscled, olive-skinned woman. "Gaur, you
memorized a map of this section of tunnels, correct? I'll take the rear while you guide us the
four miles to the Revue."
The woman lit her own wand and grunted, "Understood."
Soon, the dim Catacombs were filled with the swishing sounds of legs moving through the
water. They traveled two abreast—eyes sharp and ears tuned. Hermione walked beside
Pangolin, whose blades were gleaming in the wand light. The entire time, she could feel
Ginny's brown eyes against her back, sending a chill into her skin that only worsened with
the increasing dampness of the ground.
No one spoke, and for a while there was nothing to see but chiseled stone walls curving into
the murky water. But as they drew closer to their destination, the fighters at the front of the
line gasped.
The cause was quickly apparent when the smooth Catacomb walls became bricks… then
skulls.
Human skulls jigsawed like a grotesque puzzle. Fleshless, bony heads locked together in
death, arranged in decorative arches. Cemented. Some had holes in them, some were eaten
away by the water, and others looked bizarrely unblemished. All had the dull patina of
darkness and age.
"Bloody hell," mumbled Ginny, and Hermione bobbed her head in commiseration.
While she had read of the six million souls killed by a plague and buried underneath the City
of Light, seeing their horrendous graves firsthand was foreboding. But she could not look
away. And the longer she walked, the more it felt like they were also watching her. As if there
were the shadows of eyes still within their sockets. It could have been black magic, or her
own imagination.
SPLASH
At the unsettling noise, the entire squad raised their weapons and moved into combat
positions. Waiting.
"Watch it!" warned Gaur from the front.
When no Death Eaters appeared, the wizard beside the olive-skinned woman leaned down
and plucked something from the water, lifting it curiously to his face. He turned it in his
hand, then showed it to the line behind him, announcing "False alarm. It's just a skull. Must
have fallen from the ceiling."
In spite of his reassurance, everyone's shoulders stayed tense as they resumed their journey
through the dark Catacombs.
After what felt like years, but was probably only forty minutes, the tunnel widened into a vast
cavern—stretching so high that its top faded into the shadows. The water was shallow here,
but the sloshes of their footsteps echoed off the stone walls like a rippling current.
As they moved farther into the octangular chamber, Hermione began to make out roughly-
hewn archways. Eight total, spaced all around. At the sight, she pictured the map committed
to her own memory, and easily identified the correct entrance two arches to her left. Their
Scouts had marked that as the fastest path to the Latin Quarter. Hermione turned, and
Pangolin likewise began to tread in the same direction.
However, Gaur, guiding the squad, continued to walk forward. Making a straight shot for a
different outlet.
A gruff voice broke the silence—Jag had noticed the group splitting apart.
"Oi! Which way are we headed?" he asked, speeding up to speak to the witch at the front.
The two argued quietly, gesturing around the room.
"It's this one, yeah?" Pangolin whispered to Hermione, who nodded.
Ginny moved to join them, agreeing, "I've never been good with directions, but I'm positive
it's not wherever Gaur is going."
They were all still debating when another person called out, "There's something… something
moving over there—"
Hermione spun, and saw a shaky-looking woman pointing toward a dark tunnel at the far side
of the cavern. Sure enough, a split second later, inky figures began to slink out of the gloom.
Although it was almost impossible to distinguish them from their black backdrop, the
creatures appeared bipedal; humanoid. Yet the way they jerked forward was far too unnatural
to be human.
SCRAAAAAAHHH
A deafening screech pierced the air at the exact same moment that everyone's wands
extinguished, leaving the chamber without even a speck of light.
SCRAAAAAAHHH
A second shriek prompted Hermione and the rest of the squad into action.
The colorful flares of curses and hexes shot toward their monstrous attackers. No one even
attempted to brighten the room—too engaged in throwing knives and magic. They could all
fight in the dark, and did not need eyesight to understand that it was kill or be killed.
The shadowy creatures were abnormally fast.
Hermione could not see them, but she could hear their rapid, sporadic movements drawing
closer. She raised her redwood wand, guessing that putting these creatures down required
dark magic. Also aware that any spell could as easily hit an ally as an enemy, she focused on
channeling her charm, moving the tip in a tight, vertical circle, and hissing, "Protego
Diabolica!"
Just as in practice, a small ring of blue-black flames fired out from her wand and right into
the head of her attacker. It stumbled and disappeared beneath the water. Almost as soon as it
fell, something sticky wrapped around her ankle, heaving her down.
Hermione drew a knife, freeing herself with a firm stroke of the venomous blade. The
creature writhed in agony at her feet, then stopped moving.
She turned, and recognized the dark outlines of what looked like Ginny tackling another one
to the ground while Pangolin decapitated it with her longer cursed blade.
Hermione was sprinting to help them when a gloved hand covered her mouth, and she was
pulled backward into the shadows.
At first she fought violently against this new assailant, sinking her teeth into their glove until
she felt cold skin; brandishing her knife and slicing blindly over her shoulder as she was
carried away from the cavern and through one of the dark tunnels.
But then she felt ice against her ear, and stilled any effort to resist.
"Stop biting me, Granger," he whispered.
Her heart pounded.
It was him.
He was here.
Draco continued to lead her deeper into the Catacombs, even after the clamor of the battle
died out completely and the only sounds left were their legs treading through the flood
waters. It was pitch black, but it felt like a different path than the one she had previously
traversed.
At last, Draco stopped walking and released her. She heard him step away.
Hermione lit her wand.
Once her eyes adjusted to the harsh brightness, she saw Draco standing in the shadows more
than fifty feet down the tunnel. Unmasked. Appraising her.
Her already unsteady heartbeat increased to a dangerous pace. Her head swam with countless
thoughts. There had been so many sleepless nights without even his dreams to keep her
company. Seeing him was like finding a pocket of air after months of drowning.
He was outfitted in a deep green suit, cut in a style flashier than his usual attire. Hermione
had to blink twice to confirm the color—she had never seen Draco wear anything remotely
close since Hogwarts. She also noticed the wand held in his hand was not his normal
hawthorn, but a shorter one with a yellowish handle.
However, Hermione's gaze only lingered on his body for a moment. Then it was back on his
face, which looked strangest of all. And she blinked back tears.
Distant.
That was the first word that stung her mind when studying his face.
Unsurprisingly, Draco's gray eyes were streaked with red after using dark magic to control
whatever dead he sent after them in the cavern.
No, what disturbed her were the ghosts of detachment haunting his eyes; his completely
smooth expression. As if he was carved out of cold, unfeeling marble.
He seemed so much farther from her than fifty feet.
Hermione dimmed her wand and walked forward.
An intense unease made her slow a few feet in front of Draco. He continued to watch her
coldly, and a prickle dripped down her spine. Before she could help it, she pleaded, "Don't
hurt the others. Just let them escape and they won't resist."
As her distrusting words found Draco, his demeanor became even stonier. After releasing a
scornful breath, he said, "None of them will die, I'm only delaying them. Buying enough time
to get across the city. The snake is at the Paris Arboretum. Ending it during a terrorist attack
will attract the least attention."
"You found the Horcrux," she gasped, heart pounding harder. So hard that it was probably
even visible through her uniform.
"Do you have the poisoned blades?" Draco asked tonelessly. As she neared, his eyes fell to
her belt, and narrowed in recognition. "Good. Fiendfyre isn't worth the risk."
Now Hermione released her own held breath, but it was filled with the choked sobs of relief.
Then she closed the distance, and fell into Draco.
The steady rise and descent of his chest against her cheek was painfully soothing.
She missed this feeling.
At the same time, she felt his new scars through his thin shirt: reminders of how an entire
season had come and gone apart. She never took even a second together for granted; always
aware that there may not be another. But hearing the pulse of his heart, seeing him alive and
healthy, was a small miracle.
It was not one that she could keep.
So Hermione begged, throat burning, "Go right now. If Voldemort ever learns that you helped
us, let alone went after his soul, he'll kill you." Her voice broke. "Thank you for finding
Nagini. But you need to leave."
There was nothing but bitterness in her mouth anymore. It tasted like a premature ending.
Draco stiffened and did not respond. She could feel his every exhale on the crown of her
head. See his arm held rigidly by his side; his clenched fist, so pale in the water-reflected
light.
It all reminded Hermione of her resolve to tell Draco what he meant in words in case there
was no tomorrow.
"I wish we had more than stolen moments," she said.
When she saw Draco's hand loosen in response, she spoke even more delicately, like she was
spinning a fairytale.
"In a simpler life, last week would have been Easter. And we would have spent it together. I
would have asked you to take me on a holiday, and maybe you would have refused. I would
have made you take me regardless."
Draco let out a barely audible laugh, and Hermione smiled against his chest, saying, "I don't
know where we would have gone together. I imagine a place neither of us had ever visited.
Somewhere far and new. The weather may have been too cold this time of year, but I bet we
would have spent the day outside. I would have read a book while you played with my hair
and slept on the sand."
Now Draco's arms wrapped around her waist, and his head dropped against hers. She nestled
in closer, fitting perfectly.
"It's not fair," she said, soul bleeding with every breath. "I wish we had more than
goodbyes."
The dark water around them rippled as Draco held her tightly. Close enough to feel his
beating heart.
Then he gently lifted her chin, viewing every detail in her face like a painting he had never
seen before. Or maybe a masterpiece that he had nearly forgotten, and only just remembered.
Hermione stared back, seeing her own brokenness reflected in his gray eyes.
But when Draco pressed their foreheads together, his voice was strong and sure.
"You are not doing this alone."
And soon half her tears were soaking into his collar, while half fell to the flooded earth.
Erised | Desire
I will not hide from you the thing my heart desires; and, were it now summer, as it is
January and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no better meat than a dish of ripe
grapes.
***
The water continued to steadily rise until it reached past their hips. Neither wanted to move.
Eventually she felt a loss of pressure as Draco raised his head and straightened. But, as
promised, he did not leave.
"Paris has been on a terrorist high alert all night," Draco explained. "The French Ministry
suspended all apparition within the city center, but if we pass the first checkpoint we can
apparate straight to the Arboretum. I'll use Inferi to delay the resistance attack for as long as
possible. Once I release them, we need to move across the city fast. End the Horcrux while
everyone is distracted fighting the Order."
Still half-stunned by the turn of events, Hermione asked, "How long have you known where
Voldemort keeps Nagini?"
"Not long. I was waiting for the right opportunity to risk attempting anything," he said.
"Then how did you know where to find me?"
"You weren't in the cell tonight, so I assumed the attack must be the reason. That, and you
talk in your sleep. You've been mumbling about the Catacombs since March," admitted Draco
with just a hint of a smirk.
"I thought you never went into my mind anymore, I didn't see—"
Before she could finish speaking, Draco's arm dropped from her waist to hand, and he led her
deeper into the tunnel. "Enough questions. Just try to trust that I know what I'm doing."
They ran through twisting passageways and pooled water. Draco navigated them easily
through every turn and fork, as if he had spent years in the underground labyrinth.
They finally stopped.
Hermione looked up and saw a rust-covered ladder suspended above the waterline, leading
up into the ceiling.
Now Draco whispered something that sounded like a summoning charm, and sure enough a
large bundle flew through the air. He caught it, and began to unwrap its contents while
Hermione peeked over his shoulder.
He withdrew two bottles containing a murky brown liquid, giving one to Hermione. She
uncorked it, and her nose crinkled as she sniffed. It smelled like hot asphalt. Her suspicion
about the substance was confirmed when Draco passed her a fine yellow hair.
"We're using Polyjuice Potion," Hermione stated.
"Let's hope this batch doesn't put you in the hospital wing," replied Draco, brow furrowed.
Then he added a reddish-brown hair to his own vial, which frothed and turned a khaki color.
He tipped it into his mouth.
Hermione followed suit, noticing that her potion dissolved into a soft golden shade. Much
nicer than essence of Millicent or Bellatrix. And when she drank it, the flavor resembled
honey.
It still felt horrible.
Immediately, her insides started writhing, as though she had just swallowed live eels. She
bent forward, trying not to be sick. Then a heat spread rapidly from her stomach to the very
ends of her fingers and toes. She steadied herself against the wall as the heat escalated into a
horrible melting feeling, as the skin all over her body bubbled like candle wax—finally,
before her eyes, her hands began to narrow, her legs lengthened, and she felt her hair unwind
and grow until it brushed against her back.
And as abruptly as it started, everything stopped.
Hermione was surveying her willowy new figure when an alto voice coughed, and her eyes
shot up.
Theodore Nott was standing where Draco had been a moment before, eying her in his normal
off-kilter way. Now Draco's strange suit and wand made sense. She shivered, and it was an
effort not to reach for her wand and curse the auburn-haired fiend.
"So who am I impersonating?" inquired Hermione, trying and failing to see her temporary
face in the dark surface of the water.
"Tonight you're Fleur," he said in Theo's voice, passing her a muzzle—twin to the one she
removed from Gabrielle.
"So Fleur is at the Revue?"
"Not by tomorrow if your friends have anything to say about it," Draco replied.
Hermione caught a glimpse of her reflection on the side of the metallic restraint. Her brown
eyes—already faded by Azkaban—had lightened even further to a striking blue: Delacour
eyes.
"This is a better disguise than Christmas Eve," replied Hermione gratefully, "But why are we
impersonating these two?"
"You'll see soon enough. For now, transfigure your clothing into something else."
"Witch or Muggle?"
"Either, just hurry," Draco said, glancing at a rectangular watch on his wrist.
A second later, Hermione's tight uniform looked a bit closer to a casual black shirt and
trousers. It was the best she could do without actually changing. She had finished retying her
weapons holsters beneath her clothing and was braiding back her gold hair when Draco
leaned over the package again. Her eyes widened.
"Is that—"
"Potter's cloak," Draco confirmed, voice tight.
A rock sunk in Hermione's stomach as she watched Draco unfold the silvery, shimmering
cloth. She had not seen the Invisibility Cloak since the Valley. Not since she stole it from
Harry's room and concealed herself during that entire hopeless battle. The lining was still
stained with her blood. And as she stared at it, the memories of seeing Harry and Ron die
flashed in her mind. There was nothing but sorrow associated with it anymore.
When Draco attempted to give her the cloak, she jerked away, as if burned. And her tongue
felt thick as she retorted, "I can't. I'll just use a disillusionment charm. Please don't make me
wear it."
"At least shrink it down and keep it with you," he responded.
When Hermione still did not take it, Draco met her gaze. His features were different, but the
firm expression was his own. After a pause, he said heavily, "Neither you or this cloak are
why they're gone, Granger. And if you need someone to blame, then blame me."
The next time he offered her the cloak, Hermione took it. Swallowing three years of shame as
she felt its cool fabric against her skin. Her hands were still shaking as she cast a resizing
charm, and slipped the shrunken cloak into a pocket. Then she fastened the muzzle to her
face; wincing as its steel dug into her jaw with even the slightest movement.
Draco pulled out a large umbrella from the now-empty package. Then he crossed to the
ladder, holding the umbrella in one hand while he climbed.
"I'll go first. Stay close behind," he instructed.
Hermione blinked, still taken aback by Draco-Theo's peculiar appearance. But, she quickly
reoriented and gripped the rung beneath him.
Despite previously insisting that she would not blindly accept Draco's lead once he located
Nagini, it felt wrong to protest in light of how much he stood to lose if caught. Maybe it was
as selfish as it was reckless to go together tonight.
She could not bring herself to separate so soon.
Now Draco's words echoed in her head. And thankfully his internal voice sounded like his
own.
"If all goes according to plan, the Dark Lord will never know we were there." He halted at the
top of the ladder and said in a serious tone, "But if he does appear, promise me that you'll
wear the cloak and escape unnoticed."
Instinctively, Hermione tried to speak out loud, making the muzzle cut into her skin. She
flinched and replied nonverbally, "I'll promise if you agree not to block me out like that ever
again."
Draco did not react to her demand, instead raising an arm above his head. Then Hermione
heard the scrape of something metallic being moved.
Suddenly, the glow of street lights and blares of car horns spilled into the Catacombs. Draco
disappeared through the blinding hole.
Hermione was only alone for a heartbeat when his hand reappeared and she reached up to
take it. She emerged onto a busy sidewalk. Crowds of Parisians pushed past them. A few
people paused to watch Draco replace the manhole cover, before they muttered rudely in
French and shuffled onward.
Something wet hit Hermione's cheek, and she looked up at the night sky, realizing that it was
raining. No wonder the Catacombs were flooded.
It was as if nature read Hermione's mind and decided to put on a show—the light sprinkle
rapidly became a shower, drenching her already damp clothes. Draco rose from the ground
and opened the black umbrella, tugging Hermione out the downpour. Guiding them through
the foot traffic.
No one else gave them a second look once they began walking, too preoccupied with their
own schedules and trying not slipping on the wet bricks. And Hermione was just as lost in
her thoughts. Both enochlophobia and agoraphobia clawed at her brain as they traversed the
urban boulevard. She had not been in a crowd crush since the Lestrange's masquerade; had
not visited a proper city in years. Every time a car honked or a stranger shoved past, she
practically jumped out of her skin.
But then Draco's arm locked around her shoulders, holding her to him beneath the umbrella.
He angled it downward to cover their borrowed faces, and like this she could only see a sea
of legs and shoes. A sense of safety befell Hermione. It felt like returning to the shelter of the
Hand of Glory.
After several blocks, Draco halted, shutting his eyes. Then they flashed open again and he
whispered wordlessly, "I'm ending my summons now. The Order will be able to resume its
attack."
A guilty sort of relief hit Hermione. She believed that Draco had not grievously injured her
squad with the creatures he summoned. But what would her friends think once the dust
settled and they noticed her absence? Pangolin would probably get it; had even defended her
in the past. Ginny, however, was sure to react poorly given what she divulged before the
mission. At the same time, Hermione reminded herself that this was a rare opportunity to
move forward in the war; that one day Ginny would understand.
But the guilt was still there.
So Hermione distracted herself by speaking without moving her muzzled mouth. "What
happens to an Inferius when you're finished with it?" she asked.
She felt Draco tense at the question—they had never before discussed necromancy. At least
not this directly.
He cautiously answered, "It depends."
"On what?"
"On what I choose to do each time. The corpses I used tonight will revert to what they were
before I revived them in the Catacombs."
"And the others?"
As Draco considered, Hermione's gaze followed a bead of water that dripped from his
reddish-brown hair and streamed down his cheek.
"An Inferius does not need me once it is reanimated, although it only has basic instincts left
without my control," he said hesitantly.
"What makes you think so?" Hermione asked, ducking her head lower when a child peeked
curiously under their umbrella.
"Gellart Gridelwand's Inferi outlived him," Draco said, startling Hermione. This was the first
time that he mentioned Grindelwald by name. He went on, saying, "The Dark Lord also
believes that Inferi can survive their summoner's death."
"Which is why he isn't afraid to kill you, or at least threaten to kill you—" surmised
Hermione, considering.
"How do you know what the Dark Lord told me?" asked Draco, eyes narrowed.
However, Hermione barely heard him—too engrossed in thinking about the cave of Inferi
that Harry and Dumbledore discovered. Voldemort had protected Slytherin's Locket with his
own undead—ones that continued to guard his soul even when their master was only partially
alive: when he was reduced to a ghost of himself in Albania. Voldemort's deduction was
reasonable.
Before she could help it, Hermione's hand drifted to the miniaturized Invisibility Cloak in her
pocket. "Last year you told me that Harry's body was 'gone.' What does that mean, Draco?"
A tightness developed around Draco's mouth.
"I need to know the truth," Hermione urged.
"The Dark Lord wanted Potter's corpse, but I—"

"AHHHHHH! NON!"
A guttural shriek cut Draco off, and they both turned toward the source.
"NON! AIDEZ-MOI!"
The police were dragging an elderly man up the rainy steps leading to a government building.
When they reached the imposing front entrance, he broke free, wrapping his arms around a
stone column while his escorts cursed and yanked him roughly back by his hair. He continued
to struggle like a wildcat, latching onto a black banner hanging next to the doorway.
Screaming and spitting into the dark fabric.
Hermione's eyes widened, recognizing the lettering embossed on the banner. As she read, a
woman on the sidewalk beside them stopped and shouted the same words.
"Liberté, pouvoir, pureté!"
Now a crowd of onlookers was gathering to watch the arrest, some fanatically even yelled
"Sang-de-Bourbe" and "Vive Le Sauveur des Ténèbres," just like at the Château.
"Don't watch, Granger," cautioned Draco, reading the concern in Hermione's blue eyes.
"Keep walking. There's nothing we can do to stop it."
Trying to drag her eyes away, Hermione's gaze shifted to the rows of stone pillars, seeing
dozens of identical black flags. She asked shakily, "What is that place?"
"The Blood Registration Commission," replied Draco out loud. And the effect was even more
disturbing in Theo's voice.
Now the elderly man's feet were disappearing into the building's lobby, which was packed
with other panicked detainees. The black hoods of Death Eaters moved between them, wands
raised.
"Why are they taking him? Is he a Muggle-born?"
Draco finally succeeded in forcing Hermione onward, past the Commission building. "It
doesn't matter. He could even be a pure-blood causing problems."
Soon the man's cries were lost amongst the intensifying rainstorm.
Breathing rapidly, Hermione let herself be pulled past from the horrific scene. Draco was
right: exposing themselves for a single person did nothing to destabilize an entire
government.
Accepting that did not make it any easier to leave.
The sidewalk began to empty as they neared what looked similar to a border crossing. A
barbed wire fence loomed above them, blocking their path. Police officers dressed in heavy
riot gear directed any approaching pedestrians into queues leading to gated toll booths.
Draco guided them toward a booth with no line.
A harried policeman blocked their way, speaking angrily in French. His head was not visible
through the umbrella, but she saw a military-style gun slung over his chest. A moment later,
he bent down and his face appeared. His gaze sharpened as he noticed Hermione's muzzle,
and he spoke even more rapidly.
Rather than reply, Draco removed his hand from Hermione's shoulder. Then he yanked up his
left sleeve, exposing his forearm. The officer flinched as he took in the Dark Mark on Draco's
skin, and stood aside.
"Toutes mes excuses," the man said apologetically, ushering them onward.
As they neared the fence, Hermione felt the electrifying buzz of sinister magic radiating
through the air, making the hair on her neck stand on end. Bright crimson signs were affixed
to its chainlink surface, translated into multiple languages. She studied the English one.
Terrorist alert level: RED
Limit movement between districts.

Anti-concealment and apparition measures enforced.
Blood status identification required.
Violators will be prosecuted. No exceptions.
A moment later, they strode through an empty turnstile gate—apparently set aside for Death
Eaters—and made it to the other side of the barricade.
They were only a few feet beyond it when a blaring alarm cut through the liquid air.
The noise continued to repeat, and Hermione was not the only one on the boulevard to stop in
her tracks and press palms against ringing ears. As she did, she peered under the edge of the
umbrella, seeing that the checkpoint behind them was now shut down completely. Every gate
was sealed, and armed policemen were herding the crowds away from both sides of the fence.
The Order's attack must have started.
Draco collapsed the umbrella, and steered them toward a shadowed alleyway. Once there, he
said, "We're apparting to the Arboretum."
Without giving Hermione the chance to respond, he drew her close and pivoted.
They reappeared across the street from an enormous glass structure—ten times larger than all
of the Hogwarts greenhouses combined. The tropical plants visible beyond its translucent
walls were so dense that they resembled a rainforest.
It was utterly quiet here. No terrorist alarm. Not even a single person in sight. But Draco still
spoke mind-to-mind.
"The Polyjuice won't last more than another hour so we need to find the serpent before it
fades," he explained, ruffling his auburn hair and straightening his suit. Then he began to
stride toward the glass building as he said, "Walk a few steps behind me and keep your eyes
on the ground, at least until we're alone inside. And remember to use the cloak if anything
goes wrong."
After waiting a beat, Hermione tailed Draco's green back, asking, "Where did you get Harry's
cloak anyways? And how do you know that Nagini is here?"
Draco glanced behind as he walked. A lopsided smile curled his lips. Then he pressed a
finger to his temple and simpered, "I know because this face belongs to a fucking idiot. One
who has the Dark Lord's confidence and a raging inferiority complex."
Then Draco considered and added, "I also know that Nott doesn't suspect what the snake is to
the Dark Lord, otherwise he wouldn't be so loose lipped about it when drunk."
"That explains why you're Theo," Hermione said, snorting despite herself. "But why am I
Fleur?"
Turning forward again, Draco responded flatly, "She was given to him in the same way that
her sister was given to Zabini. Since you wanted to come with me tonight, it was either
pretend to be her or Pansy, and I guessed that you would prefer the former. Was I wrong?"
Hermione's mouth tightened, making the spiked metal on her jaw break skin. She waited for
the pain to ebb, then replied, "So Parkinson is Theo's disgusting 'war prize' too?"
Now Draco laughed loudly, making him sound more like Theo. "Hardly."
"Then is she part of the regime? I noticed there aren't too many witches," commented
Hermione. To date, she had mostly fought male Death Eaters, but it was possible that Pansy
was one of the minority.
"No," said Draco. "She's more what you would call a fervent supporter. And being part of the
war effort is discouraged for women. Not family values, some would say."
Hermione was still rolling her blue eyes when they arrived at the transparent domed facade of
the Arboretum de Paris. It must be after visiting hours, because every automatic door was
sealed shut, and there were no sightseers around the dark building—if they were even
allowed inside at all anymore.
Draco pressed the yellow-hued wand to his forearm, whispering under his breath.
In response, something moved within the Arboretum's interior and one set of glass doors slid
open. Draco entered, and Hermione glided behind, keeping her eyes demurely pinned to the
rubber mats covering the floor.
An unmasked Death Eater wobbled sleepily at the end of the walkway, while another lazed
inside a ticketing kiosk, also barely awake. They both hurried to stand at attention once they
recognized their unexpected visitor.
"Evening, Advisor Nott," greeted the nearest man nervously, scrambling out from behind a
counter covered in his drool, "and apologies for not setting up our normal reception. What
brings you here so late?"
With a dismissive swing of his hand, Draco said, "You two clearly slept through the sirens.
There is resistance activity on the other side of the city. I came to confirm that everything is
as it should be here." He strode forward, but Hermione continued to hang back, eyes low.
"How many are patrolling inside tonight?" demanded Draco.
"Oh, should be—" the unmasked Death Eater's mouth twisted as he tried to remember.
"Seventeen, not counting us," remarked the other.
Draco nodded coolly. "Call them back to guard the entrance until I return. I don't want to be
disturbed."
"Understood, Advisor."
Soon they were alone inside an atrium so large that even the tallest palm trees did not reach
its peaked ceiling. Draco strode forward and cast a wordless spell that clouded the glass walls
with a swirling layer of mist, turning the translucent walls opaque. It felt like being inside an
enormous Pensieve.
Hermione's fingers found the lock on her muzzle while she met Draco's dark eyes. "Go
ahead," he assented. "But hold onto it until we leave."
Once the restraint was off and Hermione was stretching her tight jaw, she asked, "So what
now?"
"I only confirmed that Theo keeps the Horcrux in one of the exhibits, so now we search."
"Let's split up," Hermione suggested, surveying the enormous greenhouse surrounding them.
"I'll take the left and we can meet in the middle. It will be faster."
Draco hesitated, before agreeing curtly, "Fine." He pulled his hawthorn wand out of a pocket,
and disappeared into the misty foliage to the right.
As Hermione headed the opposite direction, she imagined that this is what a South American
jungle is like, though she had never been to that part of the world. Vibrant green vegetation
carpeted every bit of ground except a trail of rubber matting. She followed the winding path
through the dense treeline, eyes keyed for any sign of movement.
However, she saw nothing living besides the plants and a few exotic insects. By the time the
path ended in a large butterfly enclosure, Hermione was beginning to feel desperate. She
decided to skirt around the circumference of the glass atrium, hopeful that she could uncover
a clue about Nagini's location off the marked path.
When Hermione still found less than nothing, she began to sprint. Her face remained Fleur's
for now, but the potion was sure to fade the longer they took.
Hermione was moving so fast through the underbrush that she almost missed it—and in fact
it blended in incredibly well amongst the tropical plants. But the tiniest motion caught her
attention, and she skidded to a stop in front of a dark green tangle of vines.
The plant's snake-like tendrils veined along the floor and up the side of the atrium behind it.
So thick that she could not even make out the wall past its leafy curtain.
She stared, eyes narrowed, seeing no other movement. Then a very old memory hit her, and
she brightened her wand, holding it up to the nearest tendril while being very careful not to
touch it.
Nothing happened. So Hermione dug even further into her memory.
"Devil's Snare likes the dark and damp—" she muttered to herself." A flip switched on in her
brain, and she sent a jet of bluebell flames at the plant. In a matter of seconds, the entire mass
of tendrils began to writhe, cringing away from the fire.
Hermione sent a second flame toward the vines covering the wall, which similarly recoiled,
exposing something more reflective than the glass wall beneath.
Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was a magnificent mirror with an ornate gold frame,
standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru
oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Her panic eased. There had to be a reason for concealing this looking glass beneath Devil's
Snare in a greenhouse otherwise filled with only non-magical plants. In particular, the first
foreign word—"Erised"— struck Hermione, and she recalled Ron and Harry boasting about
discovering a mirror with that name hidden deep within Hogwarts. One that would show your
greatest desires. Could it be the same?
Heart pounding furiously, Hermione neared the mirror, but saw no reflection. Only when she
was standing directly before it did she make out indistinct shapes within the burnished
surface.
There she was, reflected in it. A sense of disappointment settled over Hermione as she gazed
at her reflection, seeing no snake. Perhaps she was wrong—this was not the same enchanted
artifact.
Hermione was about to turn away when she froze, then looked back. A realization dawned on
her, and she ran a hand across her cheek. Despite the Polyjuice, the mirror reflected not
Fleur's face, but her own.
Only, it was not quite her own face.
Not yet.
In the mirror, she could see fine wrinkles etched into the skin around her eyes and forehead;
soft smile lines angled up from her lips. Her hair was as curly as ever, but streaked with gray.
Her face, gently pulled down by gravity and time. If Hermione had to guess, this reflected
version of herself looked to be about fifty.
After staring curiously for a bit, Hermione summoned a pool of water beside her feet. She
looked into it, confirming that she still wore Fleur's face. It was strange that the mirror would
show her true appearance. But why did it make her so much older?
Now Hermione stepped closer, pressing her fingertips against the hard glass. She was
studying the mirror image of her aged hand, thinking about what, if anything it could indicate
about the Horcrux, when she saw Draco's reflection walk up from behind her back.
Just like her, the mirror showed Draco's own face rather than Theo's. And also like her, it was
decades more mature than his present one. She raised her eyebrows as he approached,
fascinated by his future appearance. His hair was more silver than blond, and wrinkles left by
frowns mixed with the ones left by smiles. But the entire effect was striking, like the years
had only refined him. She had never pictured Draco like this.
Very likely having the same thought, Draco stopped right behind her. His creased eyes grew
gentle as he watched their charmed reflections. A powerful kind of ache grew inside
Hermione, half joy, half terrible sadness. And for a while, they both just stood and committed
the sight to memory. How long they stood there, she did not know.
Finally, Hermione said, "Did you find anything?" addressing the question toward Draco's real
face in the mirror instead of Theo's behind her. It was better that way.
Draco smiled and his face crinkled even more, but he did not speak. Then he nodded toward
the glass surface and lifted a pale finger, tracing what resembled runes in the humid air. At
first it was hard to read them, flipped in the reflection, but Hermione eventually recognized
that they formed the word for "key."
Her mouth fell open, and she asked, "There's something hidden behind the mirror?"
Again, Draco did not answer.
Confused, Hermione was about to turn around when she glimpsed another figure emerging
from the trees behind Draco. A pretty young woman, not more than sixteen. School age. And
indeed, she was wearing Hogwarts robes. Blue ones marking her as part of Ravenclaw.
Nothing else about her looked familiar—not her warm, bronze skin or black hair. And yet,
Hermione had the distinct impression that she should recognize this person.
Before Hermione could call out, the girl faded back into the trees.
She was still staring when a blur of movement caught her attention. She saw the older Draco
folding both arms around her waist, resting his pointed chin on her shoulder. His face relaxed,
melting his harsh wrinkles into soft lines. Her reflection smiled just as easily.
There was such joy and quietude in both of their faces. As if they were a couple posing for
their silver anniversary portrait.
But an intense unease washed over Hermione at the sight, because she could not feel Draco's
hands. Could not sense him touching her at all, even when her own reflection nestled against
Draco's neck. Even when she watched them embrace lovingly in the mirror.
At once, Hermione whirled around, finding that she was completely… alone.
No Draco.
Nothing except the buzzing insects and empty jungle.
Hermione turned to face the enchanted glass again. Now only her solitary figure gazed back.
A secretive smile blossomed on her reflection's lips, then she vanished.

Eden
Nay, let me have one book more,—and then I have done,—
wherein I might see all plants, herbs, and trees, that grow upon
the earth.
***
Ginny | The Catacombs
"What are these things?" someone yelled through the blackness.
"Inferi!" Ginny shouted in answer, swapping her knife for a wand. As part of the Infantry, she
had seen Malfoy's monsters enough times to recognize the signs. But she had never once
fought them; had only ever retreated from a distance. They were so much faster than she
expected.
They were also unusually stealthy, so that it was almost impossible to see them in the dark
chamber. However, the water submerging the ground, now even pouring from the ceiling like
a waterfall, made it possible to hear the Inferi. Hear them displace it with their jerky, darting
movements.
So Ginny abandoned any attempt to use her eyes, and relied on her ears.
"Reducto!"
A blast of blue light skated across the pool like a stone, striking a charging figure in its
grotesque chest—briefly illuminating its colorless face and sodden skin. It shrieked
murderously, then rushed forward again. Ginny swore, aiming her wand. At least now she
knew its exact trajectory—
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Inferius came apart with her curse, bursting into green-tinged chunks of flesh and bone.
Ginny spun as it fell—it sounded like another Inferius was behind her back. She sent a
Reductor curse into the shadows.
But her streak of blue light only briefly illuminated Persephone, who leapt out of the way at
the last second. Ginny's eyebrows shot up as she watched the younger witch running straight
into a horde of creatures, dragging her dual blades through their abdomens. They
immediately collapsed under the water and did not move. What the bloody hell was on those
swords?
Seeing that her squad mate had that section handled, Ginny pivoted to find another target,
trying to pick out the markers of Inferi among the sounds of spells and metal.
Her wand arm was raised when a wet hand latched onto her wrist, locking her in a vice-like
grip so tight that her palm spasmed and her wand flew across the room.
"Damn it," Ginny spat, sending a kick toward her assailant. She felt the heel of her boot crack
ribs. Next she swung her elbow toward its head, and succeeded in freeing herself when it
tumbled backward.
"Oi! Newbie! I got your wand. Don’t lose it again!"
Ginny sighed as she turned toward the caller. She could make out Jag's aviator goggles
glinting in the refracted light of curses. He sprinted toward her, vaulting her wand through the
air. She caught it, shouting a quick "Thanks."
The squad fought for so long that time became meaningless in the octangular cavern. Ginny
kept an eye peeled for Hermione whenever her spells broke through the darkness, yet did not
find her—eventually spotting virtually every other Knife member absorbed in their own
nightmarish duels. Where did she go?
It all added to the jumbled knot in Ginny's stomach. She had yet to untangle her friend's
confession right before leaving Italy. It was more than just dishonesty. It was downright
stupid. And it made no sense—Hermione was so much smarter than this.
Then again, it made perfect sense.
For all of her attempts to sweep things under the rug, she knew that Hermione was not the
same person after Azkaban. The memory of how damaged Hermione looked when finally
freed from that dirty room would never leave her mind. Those haunted eyes and haunted
expression; as if she had not known warmth for far longer than eleven months.
Hermione even fought back while they tried to disapparate, talking to herself and ranting
about Malfoy… Yeah… she should have known then that the differences were more than just
surface-level.
But at Headquarters things seemed better for a time; almost normal. She had spent hours and
hours in Kingsley's office explaining as much, hadn't she? Spent months defending her
friend's mental stability under the man's intense questioning. Kingsley was so concerned
about Hermione. They were all worried. And eventually, Charlie worried the most.
Though her brother had barely known Hermione before the war, dedicating every morning to
Occluding together quickly changed that. Even Hermione herself admitted that being with
him was healing. Maybe she never knew that their months together were equally healing for
Charlie.
"Frrrrr," Ginny grunted, grinding her molars as her left palm flared. It felt like needles were
drilling into her skin. How could Seph manage fighting with both hands? This god-awful
cursed scar made her want to cut her hand off.
She was wrestling an Inferius into the water—thrusting her stinging hand against its skull and
jamming her wand into its stomach—when it suddenly stopped moving. Laying completely
still.
Ginny stood, lighting her wand and whirling in a circle. The creatures on all sides were
collapsing, as if hit by a catastrophic stunning spell.
"What happened?" someone yelled. Their voice reverberated around the distant stone walls.
"Dunno! It's like they died all over again."
Other wand tips began to brighten the chamber as the Inferi assault ceased. Movement on
Ginny's right made her turn, but it was only Seph, treading through the inky water.
"Alright?" Seph queried. Her blue eyes were wide with concern.
"Yeah, could've been worse. But have you seen Herm… Goldfinch?" Ginny replied hastily,
scanning the room.
Seph glanced over her shoulder, "About that… Goldfinch is—"
"What's the hold up? Impala's group signaled that they were ready an hour ago. So why the
fuck is everyone just standing around?"
Seph's words were cut short by Blaise, throwing out his own questions as he exited a nearby
archway. He had finally ditched his party getup for a Knife uniform, and was pulling a black
hood over his braids.
Blaise probably changed his clothes more than a girl. Annoyed, Ginny blew hot air through
her nostrils as she used her wand to repair the rips in her own bodysuit.
Jag strode forward, explaining defensively, "Inferi snuck up on us and attacked. Then they
went and dropped all at the same time. It was freaky." Now the stodgy man spoke to his
gathering team. "Everyone make it? No casualties?" he asked.
"Little banged up, but alive," growled Gaur, then she began to count and said, "We're one
person down. Who's missing?"
Without taking a breath, Seph announced, "Goldfinch found an injured No-Maj hostage and
Portkeyed to Headquarters. The guy she found looked really messed up and she probably
needs to spend a long time healing him with that Sanentur song spell, so we shouldn't wait."
Then Seph and Blaise exchanged a weird look, as if communicating something without
words. A beat later, Blaise nodded and ordered loudly, "You heard Pangolin! We're moving
up to the Revue right now."
A man on Ginny's right whose name she could not remember muttered something about "also
wanting a break." Blaise cut him off, saying, "We've wasted enough time. If we wait any
longer, the whole damn city will go on lockdown before we can evacuate more than one
fucked up Muggle."
Blaise promptly backtracked into the same passageway that he just exited, jerking a finger
behind his shoulder. The rest of the squad groaned but moved to follow.
After dashing to catch up with him at the front of the line, Ginny pitched her voice low as she
asked, "So will you tell me where Hermione went?"
Blaise cleared his throat then said, "Goldfinch tends to make her own plans. I've learned it's
better not to ask questions and just accept it."
Ginny eyed him skeptically, noticing that the wicked-looking scar was back on his face—the
concealment charm must have faded. He was uncooperative every time she grilled him about
where he picked up the wound, and she did not recall seeing it at school, meaning it was
relatively recent. Maybe Hermione…
"Are you scared of her or something?" said Ginny flatly.
Blaise snickered. The noise bounced around the claustrophobic Catacomb walls. Gaur
grunted something about keeping quiet from where she stalked at the rear.
"You would be scared of Goldfinch too if you saw how skilled she is at interrogation," Blaise
whispered to Ginny.
Now Ginny pitched her voice even lower, accusing, "You and Pangolin guessed that she's
with Draco Malfoy. She went to find him during the fight, yeah? 'Evacuated a hostage'
Merlin's left asscheek."
They reached the base of a dark stairwell spiraling up into the shadows. Ginny paused, but
Blaise began climbing. She sped up to join him, ascending quickly.
They had only made it a few steps when Ginny felt Blaise's gloved hand brush against her
own. Her eyes rounded, and she stared at him.
He winked, then she felt him slide a smooth glass into her palm. She lifted the square bottle
to her face, reading the blue label. "Ogden's Finest Firewhisky… What the hell, Zabini?"
"I promised you a drink, Pygmy. And I try to keep my promises," taunted Blaise. "Nicked
that from the top shelf on my way out, so it's good stuff."
Despite herself, Ginny burst into laughter, earning her another shush from Gaur.
Now Ginny grabbed Blaise's other hand, crushing it so tightly that they both flinched. She
shook the bottle in front of him and demanded, "What am I supposed to do with this?"
Blaise shrugged, but his dark eyes gleamed with deviltry.
"I don't know. Drink it on the way up?"
***
Hermione | Arboretum de Paris

Hermione allowed herself one minute to gather her disjointed thoughts before calling out to
Draco in her mind.
"I know how to reach Nagini. I'm on the far corner of the atrium. Follow the signs toward the
butterfly garden then head west. I'm standing in front of a mirror."
"I looped back to the center but I'll come now," he replied, making Hermione's stomach turn
at the proof that she had not actually seen this Draco reflected in the mirror.
So what had she seen?
Now Hermione wished that she was a better student in Divination. Unfortunately, she could
never stomach Professor Trelawney's ravings; the entire "ancient art" of Second Sight always
felt like hogwash. But if this was a preview of what was to come after the war, then what did
it mean?
No. No, it couldn't be.
The Mirror of Erised revealed a person's heart, not their future.
Right on cue, a sense of loss hit Hermione. Her hand clawed at the now-vacant glass, as
though she was hoping to fall right through and reach the surreal vision on the other side.
Head still reeling but knowing that she had to hurry, Hermione swapped her hand for a
fingernail and began to trace the pattern that the older Draco had shown her: the key to
finding the Horcrux. When her nail completed the runic symbols, a thin red trail seared into
the varnished glass.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
Hermione jolted as Draco-Theo appeared right next to her, looking impressed as he watched
the mirror swing forward to reveal a short door hidden behind its backing.
Blinking, she responded, "Actually, your reflection showed me."
After giving Hermione a puzzled look, Draco raised his wand and ducked through the door.
She followed right after, palming a Basilisk knife.
The passage beyond eventually deposited them into a long, humid room. It was cooler and
darker within this area, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all varieties of
reptiles were creeping over habitats littered with wood and stone. Neat metal placards
describing each species were spaced between the enclosures.
A vein throbbed in Hermione's temple as she took in countless snakes, slithering behind the
glass exhibit hall as far as the eye could see.
At Hogwarts, Theo had never struck Hermione as especially smart, but she had to admit that
hiding Nagini here, in plain sight, was clever. Frustratingly so.
"Maybe we just kill all of them?" Hermione said, cringing at her own idea.
Draco grimaced and replied, "That won't work for a few reasons. The least of which is that
we don't have time."
Hermione nodded. "Alright. Then I'll take this side while you cover the other."
They moved through the reptile house quickly, only pausing to take a closer look when they
saw large pythons that resembled Nagini. But there were dozens, if not more, slinking
beneath rocks and bushes—Hermione could not even fully see some of them within their
tanks, only a tail here and there. None looked quite right.
Halfway down the exhibit, she decided to change tack. After spending hundreds of hours
wearing Slytherin's Locket around her neck, she understood that it was possible to sense a
Horcrux. While she had never been affected by the Locket except when touching it, maybe
she could still perceive Nagini if she focused.
So Hermione closed her eyes, summoning the gloom that always poisoned her heart when
she had worn the garish Locket so many years ago. Recalling the dark emotions. The
sensation of the Locket draining all happiness and life out of her, leaving her feeling cold and
empty. So similar to the hollowness she felt after losing her friends and waking up in
Azkaban: like a soulless Dementor hanging around her neck.
"What are you doing?" asked Draco.
Hermione ignored him, squeezing her eyes shut and running her hand along the glass wall
until she felt it—felt the sinister, unworldly heaviness settling on her chest. It must be here.
She stopped at once and opened her eyes.
A dark green serpent lay coiled before her, at first glance appearing no different than any in
its neighboring enclosures. However, as Hermione drew closer, the weight on her chest
increased exponentially.
As if aware of its discovery, the snake unwound its tail and slithered toward the glass,
regarding Hermione through yellow, slitted eyes. She had never been so close to Voldemort's
snake before, and the misery she felt staring into its black pupils felt like confirmation of her
theory. Living Horcruxes were different from inanimate ones—this felt so much worse than
the Locket.
The echoes of Draco's approaching footsteps broke Hermione's trance, and she looked up at
him.
"This has to be Nagini," she stated, drawing her wand and pressing it to the glass. A tap later,
and nothing stood between them and the heated habitat.
"How can you be sure?" he said cautiously.
"You can't feel it?" asked Hermione, stepping up into the enclosure. Nagini recoiled, then
bared her sharp fangs, hissing.
"Incarcerous!"
Ropes shot out from Hermione's wand and wound tightly around the snake, leaving her
immobile.
"Feel what? They all feel the same to me." As he spoke, Draco leaned down, tilting his head
slightly to the side as he scrutinized Nagini.
Hermione stooped low as well and carefully ran a finger along the side of her white knife. A
familiar stabbing pain radiated from the point of contact, and she was reassured that enough
venom remained to end the snake.
"There's a certain sensation you get near a Horcrux," she said. "I've spent months around
them and years with Harry. Maybe I've become more perceptive to it."
Then she pulled a second Basilisk knife from her belt, passing it to Draco, who furrowed his
brow. "Why don't you do the honors," he offered.
"No," Hermione replied firmly. "Since Nagini has two souls, her own and a fragment of
Voldemort's, the best way to guarantee that we destroy both is by striking her twice, at the
exact same time.
Draco looked skeptical, but tightened his grip on the handle. "Or else what?"
"Or else—" Hermione's voice wavered and she admitted, "Well, maybe nothing. But better
safe than sorry."
He snorted then relented. "Have it your way, Granger. On the count of three?"
"Right." Hermione shifted her gaze back to Nagini, tied so tightly that she lay stick straight
on the leafy floor. Helpless.
A sadness crept over Hermione at the sight. She had no ill will toward the creature, only pity.
She also knew that Nagini could not live.
"Three," said Hermione, voice steady as she started the countdown. She positioned both of
their hands a few inches below Nagini's head, shifting the ropes to expose the scales above
her serpentine heart.
"Two," Draco continued. The tip of his blade nicked Nagini's flesh, and she hissed.
"One!"
They plunged their knives in at the same instant.
Black smoke billowed out across the reptile house. A woman's long, drawn out scream and a
man's high-pitched laugh cut through the humid air.
Draco stumbled backward. Hermione tipped onto her side, curling in on herself as Nagini's
death cries ripped through her heart and tore into her eardrums. As her pity mutated into
unbearable, white-hot pain.
Then Nagini's hissing scream diminished and died out.
The pain gradually ebbed. Hermione peeled her eyes open.
Draco was kneeling before Nagini, untangling the ropes from her rigid remains and removing
the bright red blood splashed across the habitat.
Still catching her breath, Hermione stuttered, "What are you doing?"
He replied evenly, "Making it look like we were never here." He lifted his palm right above
Nagini, then clenched it into a bone crushing fist. The temperature in the room fell
precipitously. The lights dimmed.
His mouth was shaping words when he froze, and his gaze went to Hermione, as if just
remembering that she was there. She propped herself up on the ground to watch him.
Draco's jaw tightened and he said, "You should go back to the atrium, Granger. I'll meet you
outside."
"Are you… resurrecting Nagini?" said Hermione, confused about why Draco did not want to
display his necromancy. After all, she had seen a far more extreme demonstration in her
vision of the Black Lake. And even at Shell Cottage, although from a distance. Was he
ashamed because of what happened with his parents?
Draco dropped his fist and pointed toward the door. "Go back outside right now," he repeated
sharply.
"Why—"
"Go!"
Hermione rose to her feet, still dazed. She used the wall to keep herself upright as she
teetered into the tank-lined corridor. But she did not leave the reptile house. Rather, she
walked barely out of eyesight, then waited.
After a beat, she heard Draco speak in a low voice.
At his words, the black vapor still clouding the air crystallized and shattered against the
ground. Hermione's own blood vessels seemed to turn to ice, making her joints stiffen and
creak. Now it made sense why Draco did not want her in close proximity.
Despite the discomfort, curiosity overcame Hermione—conducting her toward Draco like an
electric current.
Nagini was moving again. Winding her body into concentric circles in front of Draco's bent
knees. Even from where Hermione lurked ten feet away, she could see that the undead
snake's scales had faded to a pale green, and her once yellow eyes matched Draco's gray.
Now Draco was drawing his hawthorn wand and running it along the entire length of Nagini,
whispering beautiful, lilting notes that sounded like a melody Hermione already knew:
Vulnera Sanentur. The words were so sweet that they even soothed her stinging ears.
The serpent relaxed; uncoiling and zigzagging her pointed head up to stare directly into
Draco's face. Her coloration was almost normal, although not as vibrant as in life. The large
knife punctures on her torso were healed without leaving a scar.
But Nagini's eyes were still not her own.
Draco also noticed. With another sweep of his wand, the snake's eyes were charmed to appear
more yellow than gray.
When Draco stepped down from the enclosure and began to reconstruct the glass, Hermione
slipped back through the hallway and passage beyond. The atrium was empty, and its glass
exterior remained clouded over. She waited beside the propped open Mirror of Erised.
It was not long before Draco emerged, stowing his hawthorn wand in his suit pocket, and
grabbing the black umbrella from where it rested against a tree. Then he gave Hermione a
strange look.
"What is it?" she asked, trying not to appear guilty.
"The Polyjuice is timing out," he said, voice indeed sounding deeper than Theo's. Hermione
grabbed at her hair, seeing that it was slowly starting to curl.
"We need to leave."
They rushed toward the ticketing lobby. As they ran, Hermione refastened her steel muzzle,
suddenly energized. The heartache she felt after Nagini's violent death had mellowed,
overpowered by sheer elation.
She had done it. Killed the snake.
Six years after the Battle of Hogwarts. Two years after Ron and Harry passed beyond the
veil. Too late for them to see it happen; not too late to make a difference.
But she had not done it alone. Draco had shown her the key tonight, in more ways than one.
He had betrayed his master. They had destroyed Voldemort's final Horcrux together.
Now Hermione's mind flew to what she saw reflected in the enchanted mirror. To the image
of their faces, aged by time, laughter, and joy.
To her vision of them growing old together.
And she hoped that was a future they could someday create.
City of Water and Light
Chapter Notes
Mind the tags for this one, and I hope you're ready.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee
***
Hours later, Hermione hung onto Draco's arm as they walked along the Seine River. The rain
beat against the top of their umbrella like a timpani, so that it was difficult to hear anything
besides each other over the April storm. And they could see very little through the water. It
was nearly midnight, but night owls still traversed the slick boulevards beneath their own
parasols; in their own rain-shielded worlds. Paying no mind to anyone else.
They had not parted immediately after disapparting from the Arboretum. Although Draco
tried to leave once he confirmed that she had a safe way back to the Order—a Portkey to their
Welsh base. As always, Hermione out-stubborned him, pointing out that she could hardly
return while wearing half of Fleur's face without inviting too many questions. So she
convinced Draco to wait until the Polyjuice Potion faded completely. He did not fight the
excuse.
The night was too beautiful.
The terrorist lockdown had ended and the sirens were gone, leaving only the sound of
raindrops. Hermione hoped it was a sign that the Knife was successful, but there was no way
to be sure. And regardless, the strike successfully distracted the city while they targeted a
Horcrux.
Like the Polyjuice, the bliss that Hermione felt after destroying Nagini had not fully faded. It
was as if a weight had been removed from her chest. A sudden lightness after years of
crushing pressure.
But there was another reason she could not bear to separate from Draco quite yet: she was too
afraid that this goodbye would last longer than three months and twenty-one days. That
without his promise to find Nagini, there was nothing left to bind them together.
Antonio Albero was right.
Draco might not know how much he meant to her, thinking that she only used him for
information about Voldemort. Manipulated him in the same way he believed Blaise had for
the Railroad—that he was only needed and wanted if he helped complete her Unbreakable
Vow.
So she had to give Draco her answer before there was no tomorrow. She had to tell him the
truth. Explain how what started as a bargain made in desperation was not that anymore.
That she needed him more than to fulfill the Vow.
That she wanted him after the Vow.
So as they walked, Hermione rested her head against Draco's shoulder and tried to turn
thoughts into words. It was not easy. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, her throat
closed up.
Sensing that she was distracted, Draco looked down at her intently. She met his familiar gaze.
Almost every semblance of Theo was now absent. His white-blond hair was swept back by
the humidity, but a single fine strand lay across his forehead. He had run his fingers through
his hair on several occasions the past hour, but he always seemed to miss that one. Hermione
let it stay there, preferring the imperfection.
Her eyes wandered back to the city.
Despite the weather, Paris was a dream.
It was called the City of Light for a reason. Every Romanesque building was still dripping in
artificial brightness, illuminating the skyline. Countless glowing bridges arched over the
winding canal so that the river flowed between light and shadow. Even the Eiffel Tower was
visible far off in the distance, floating between the clouds like a sparkling minaret.
The night was so beautiful.
And if Hermione dulled her mind, she could almost pretend that they really were on that
Easter holiday.
At some point, they stopped on a moonlit bridge overlooking the river. Then Draco spoke,
voice soft, eyes even softer. And Hermione listened to his words. It was as if he was reciting
a poem.
"The Parisians like to say that the Seine is a woman, calling her la Seine, not le Seine. Even
their textbooks say she's female, named after the goddess Sequana, who blesses worshipers at
the river’s wellspring."
As Draco spoke, he held Hermione's eyes. And his own were a stunning cool gray. She could
not comprehend why Draco ever hated the color. If the ice and stillness of winter were ever
captured in a single shade, it was in his silver eyes.
Then her gaze lingered on his crescent lips, which were forming sentences that she could
barely hear through the rainstorm.
"The Seine can't be a woman, because that contradicts cartography and grammar. She should
use masculine langauage, because feminine rivers must flow inland. La Seine flaunts every
rule as a woman who flows out to the sea."
The edges of Hermione's mouth lifted and she stood on her toes to whisper coyly in Draco's
ear, "I don't know when you managed to memorize that nonsense, considering lately I've only
seen you use a book as a pillow."
"Lately—" Draco replied haughtily, "I've been a bit preoccupied with Basilisk venom, but
before that I liked to read, Granger. You're not the only one with the hobby."
Now Draco dipped his head until his lips caressed her ear, making every part of her body
liquify with the contact. He exhaled, "But I'm not dying any longer. So I have more than
enough energy for reading and other shared interests."
Hermione blushed redder than the geraniums lining the pavement. She hid the evidence by
facing away, and her eyes landed on thousands of tiny, multicolored padlocks affixed to the
bridge's bars and rails. Some were even fastened to each other, tangled like shiny fish caught
in a net. It was an architectural feat that the railing did not collapse with the weight.
As she stared, a young couple knelt to add their own heart-shaped lock to the bridge.
"Is that a Muggle custom?" Draco asked, regarding the scene through narrowed eyes.
Hermione nibbled at her lower lip, fighting a sudden temptation. Then she gave into it and
teased, "So you know all about ancient French history, geography, and grammar… but not
about love lock bridges?"
Lifting an eyebrow, Draco responded a bit grumpily, "I can never impress you, can I?"
A sharp giggle left Hermione's mouth. The Muggle couple glanced up, looking embarrassed.
Likely thinking that Hermione's laughter was directed at them. So she turned into Draco's
chest, hiding her deeper blush, and he lowered the umbrella to cover their faces. They stayed
in that position until they heard the pattering sound of the couple leaving the bridge.
As they waited, Hermione's breathing quickened. She was running out of time, and so far had
only added to their growing list of misunderstandings. Maybe if she just—
Her balled-up fist dropped from Draco's chest. She took his hand and braided their fingers
together, not meeting his eyes. But now that she was here, she did not know what to do next.
Draco had his own ideas.
He let the umbrella clatter to the ground. And now nothing separated them from the torrential
downpour. He stepped into Hermione until her back bent against the lock-covered railing.
Then he leaned down. The kiss he left on her forehead was so much softer than the falling
raindrops.
And when he moved to her lips, he tasted sweeter than honeysuckle. Or maybe it was
honeydew.
No bitterness remained.
As they kissed, he held Hermione's jaw like a chalice. Tilting her to his mouth and drinking
greedily. As if she was ambrosia and he could never quench his thirst. Forever bone dry and
parched, despite the water spilling into their lips from the sky.
Her palms wrapped around his hands, clutching just as firmly. Pressing her scars into his wet
skin. Kissing him fiercely. Taking as much as she gave.
Mindless. She was becoming mindless.
But she had something to tell Draco first.
Hermione broke the kiss and steadied herself as she tried to force out the words once again.
And again, she could not do it. At least not here.
So instead she pleaded breathily, "Take me somewhere."
His lecherous eyes remained on her lips as he asked, "Where do you want me to take you?"
"Somewhere with walls and a door."
Draco laughed. But his voice was mean as he said, "And what if I refuse? Will you make me
take you anyway?"
Even while turning Hermione's words against her, he locked her in his arms, making it clear
that she was the one who could not escape her own demand.
Then he pivoted them into the blackness.
Draco must have been as unfocused as she was, because neither kept their footing as they
rematerialized in front of a gothic-style building. Thankfully, Hermione landed on top of his
chest when they plummeted to the pavement.
They lay there for a moment, letting the rain cool their steaming heads.
"You'd think this was our first time doing it," she laughed.
One of Draco's eyes twitched as he smirked up at her.
Hermione blanched. "Apparating I mean," she clarified weakly.
When a predatory look danced across Draco's face, she jumped up and busied herself
studying the empty boulevard.
She heard him rise.

A moment later, she was being dragged by the wrist toward a shadowy apartment building,
barely maintaining her already precarious balance on the slippery bricks.
"Where are we?" she panted as they summited their tenth flight of stairs and started on their
eleventh.
"A place with walls and a door," Draco replied coolly, voice stable despite the climb. They
stopped at the penultimate level, which only appeared to have a single apartment, based on
the single door.
Oddly enough, Draco walked right in without unlocking it. Hermione hesitated, then
followed him cautiously, praying that they were not trespassing in a stranger's home.
However, only Draco waited within, standing with his arms crossed in the hallway of a
modern Victorian flat. Her eyes adjusted and she took in a dusky living area behind him; a
washroom on his left; a room with a wide, white bed to his right.
Once Hermione edged past the threshold and closed the front door, Draco raised his wand,
and she heard multiple deadbolts slide shut with a series of clicks.
She swallowed.
Finished, Draco raised an eyebrow, as if asking "Well, will this do?"
Instead, she responded, "Do you own this place?"
"Does it matter?"
Hermione glared until he gave her a "Yes, it's mine," accompanied by an unhelpful sneer.
After pausing a long second to confirm that she did not see or hear another person in the
handsome apartment, Hermione bowed her head a tenth of an inch.
"Okay."
Then Draco was there, crowding up against her a tenth of an inch away. Trapping her
between his body and the only exit. So close that his soaked suit dripped onto her shoes. She
could smell the fresh spring rain wafting from his skin. The scent of damp earth and grass.
It was intoxicating.
The tip of his nose brushed her neck as he said throatily, "You should pull that Portkey out of
your pocket and go back to the Order now, Granger."
"What? You—you don't want me to stay?"
Draco angled his head toward the room behind him. "You need to leave. Because if you
remain one second longer, I'm going to have you on that bed. And I never lie."
Hermione's heart thundered.

Then it beat even harder as Draco's tongue traced the sinewy muscle down her throat at the
exact same moment he undid the first button on her shirt.
"Get far away from me," he repeated, tone dark. "Miles away. Leave the city. Get out of the
fucking country." Only this time he voiced the warnings in Hermione's head, as if he knew
that her ears had long since lost all function. The problem was that her mind was just as
unsound.
But the rest of her body was healthy. Healed. And so was his. Every other time they were
together, one of them was broken. Dying.
Not tonight.
She dug her fingers into the green fabric stuck to his back, and his breath grew stronger
against her neck. "You can't get rid of me yet," she said, voice pitched low. "Leaving now is
too easy."
Now his hands were sliding the shirt from her shoulders, flinging it down the hallway. She
heard a small thump as the signal coin and Portkey hidden in its sleeve hit the floorboards.
Then she arched forward as Draco's lips found the notch in her clavicle. She gasped, and her
hands flew to his hair, twisting the wet strands, holding him close.
The apartment was freezing, and goosebumps formed across every piece of bare skin. But she
did not stop to shiver, too spellbound by his touch. Too distracted to even notice when the
rest of her clothing fell to the ground.
Then Draco swept his eyes up and down her entire body, undressing her all over again, before
taking her face in his hands and whispering into her mouth, "Perfect. You're perfect."
Hermione shivered at last, and reached for his belt, pulling him closer and unfastening the
metal buckle.
"Easy there, Granger. Not in the damn hallway," he hissed, gripping her hands.
"Quit telling me what to do, Malfoy," she fired back with a smile, yanking at his buckle even
harder.
All of a sudden she was in his arms, being carried to the bedroom. And unlike the past, there
was no high of dark magic. Yet she could still feel every part of him, down to the grooves on
his fingernails. Perhaps it was the wind hitting her naked flesh, or the white-hot adrenaline
coursing through her veins. Even the smallest sensation and movement was irresistibly
heightened.
As he lowered her onto the bed, Hermione knew that Draco felt it too. She saw it in his
burning eyes, raking into her while she braced herself against the pillows. In his hands as he
tore apart his own sopping wet shirt, not even blinking as the buttons flew off and rolled
across the floor. It felt like they were hit by the same fever.
Like they were drunk on each other.

And she watched him just as intensely.
He was beautiful.
Statuesque.
Every soft curve and hard muscle on his body, shaped by a master sculptor. Her eyes lingered
on the swell of his shoulders, traced the taunting V running down his torso. And she decided
that his imperfections only added to the image. The jagged lines and scars cutting into his
skin were like signatures left by an artist.
Draco knelt at the end of the bed for half a second, teeth flashing. But there was only sin in
his darkened face when he began to advance across the sheets toward her. Unnaturally,
unbearably slowly. Torturing her with his leisurely pace. As if daring Hermione to change her
mind, leap up, and run.
Instead, her hand shot out, latching onto his belt and ending the bullying.
As she glided the strap through its last loop and began to work on his zipper, Draco lowered
himself above her, and his frozen palms began to coil around her throat. He inclined his head,
consuming any skin exposed in the gaps between his fingers.
When he noticed Hermione was still fumbling, he laughed and said, "It's like you've never
touched a zipper." He moved to help, guiding her trembling hands until there was nothing left
between them.
Then Draco slowly broke apart her knees with his own. Laying her flat and arranging her legs
like a painter's model.
A strange hollowness accompanied the movements. An overpowering ache that made her
pull him closer. She was kissing the scars over his chest when he slid a hand down between
their bodies.
"Tell me what you want," he breathed as his expert fingers sent vibrations into her bundled
nerves.
She did not respond; words evaded her more than ever. There was only white electricity and
Draco's icy hand touching somewhere incredibly sensitive.
He repeated, "Tell me what you want, Hermione." But it was hard to hear anything over the
rain drumming against the bedroom window.
"Then at least tell me how you like it," rasped Draco as she bit into his shoulder.
A pleasant spasm ran through her center, and Hermione gasped then admitted, "I'm not sure. I
haven't…exactly… done this before."
And it was the truth, because she had never found the right moment with anyone. Never left
her heart or any other part this defenseless. Not until now.
Draco stilled at once, and his forehead furrowed. As if he was considering something. Or
maybe caught off guard.
His jaw tightened and he responded evenly, "I won't hold back unless you say when to stop."
"Don't stop," Hermione said, reaching up to comb back his light hair. "I never asked you to
stop, idiot."
So Draco's hand resumed its journey inward and upward, now even more tenderly than
before her confession. She melted into the bed.
"Last chance," he offered. "You might regret wanting this tomorrow."
A heat spread in her stomach, then radiated lower. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, her
throat, smoldering. So she did not use any of them, and instead spoke voicelessly.
"I want you to be the first."
He looked at her with a mirthful smile.
"Good girl, bad decision."
His hand withdrew.
Suddenly he was there, fusing them together. And she felt all emptiness vanish, replaced by
unbelievable pressure and force. Then he braced against the headboard, pushing deeper.
And it hurt.
Draco's head dropped to her shoulder. She could feel his humid breath as he moaned and
cursed into her skin.
He drew back, studying the strained expression on Hermione's face.
"I'll take it slowly," he whispered. And his voice was as soft as it was dark.
Now his hips rolled forward and back, a wavelike motion punctuated by ragged breaths. At
some point, her pain diminished like a withdrawing tide, and she began to move with him.
Following an equal and opposite current.
Her head fell to the side, cheek pressed against the pillow, as she rode out the ratcheting
tension; the aching pleasure. The air grew balmy, and she saw that steam was building on the
rainy window. It matched the wetness in her eyes.
She gripped his shoulders. Clung onto his back. Then he drove into her further, and her vision
blurred; her toes numbed; the sensitive ball of nerves in her core wound tighter and tighter.
Time may have passed, but she could not track it. The storm raging furiously outside barely
existed. Dissonant, meaningless noises escaped from her lips, mixing with his. But there was
no room left for shame as they each chased the ebb and flow of the other.
It was new. And it was as intimate as it was agonizing. It felt like they became one body. One
mind. One soul. Until it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began.
They were the same vibrant shade of blue.
***
Hours later, they lay tangled together under the damp sheets. Blissfully shattered into
millions of little pieces.
Hermione was roaming toward sleep when she felt Draco's hand find her own. His cold palm,
his long fingers, were now even more familiar.
Before entering the landscape of dreams, she squeezed his hand three times and finally freed
the words imprisoned in her heart.
"I love you."

A Grim Revelation
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander’s love and Oenon’s death?
***
The violent clap of thunder jerked Hermione awake. A flash of lightning followed,
brightening the air and reminding her where she was. But the light was gone as quickly as it
appeared, and shadows reclaimed the apartment bedroom.
After her eyes adjusted, she turned over, savoring the coolness of the pillow against her skin.
She did not know what time it was—sunset or sunrise. It was too gray outside. Her sleepy
lids began to crawl shut again as she watched rain pounding relentlessly against the bedroom
window.
The sky split a second time, and her eyes snapped open. She rolled to her other side.
Draco was missing.
A flood of insecurity hit Hermione when she remembered the events of the night before. Was
it bad for him? It did not seem like his first time, but knew it was hers. Maybe he had higher
expectations...
Then something more sinister than insecurity wormed its way into her brain like a parasite.
She sat up, unreasonably certain that Voldemort discovered what Draco did to the Horcrux.
Discovered his disloyalty and stole him away while she slept. He could even be dead.
Executed as swiftly as his parents.
It might already be too late.
Hermione sprang out of bed and flew to the door. Yanking it open so roughly that it left a
handle-shaped dent in the wall. She was down the darkened hallway before she even took a
breath.
She only stopped to breathe when her eyes found Draco—lounging on a covered balcony
across the living room.
Her dread drained away the longer she watched him, assured that he was both alive and here.
And she mentally pinched herself, frustrated at how often she succumbed to overthinking.
Draco's back was to her, and he did not seem to notice her sudden appearance—too focused
on the thunderstorm beyond the awning. His head was tilted against one hand, while the other
held a long, thin object she could not recognize from this far away. He was twisting it
between his fingers, apparently deep in thought.
She wondered if Draco ever slept.
Lightning split the air again, and Hermione retreated into the inky hallway. As she walked, a
peculiar tenderness began to bother her from deep within. She chewed on her lip,
overthinking again. Though this time the thoughts were not unpleasant.
Far from it.
Hermione sped into the nearest bathroom, locking the door.
Now her heart was racing as she slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. Breaking apart her
feelings. Deconstructing every emotion.
There was no regret in her mind; no conflict. Only relief.
Though it was clear that Draco lost himself following his parents' death and Azkaban, Blaise
explained how they had saved hundreds, maybe even thousands, of lives in the years before
that tragedy. And now, he had done more than she ever hoped or imagined—not only hand-
delivered the Horcrux, but plunged the knife in himself.
So Hermione regretted nothing. Being with Draco would not break her Vow.
She could want him.
She could have him.
It wasn't impossible.
***
After a much-needed soak in the bathtub, Hermione planted herself in front of the vanity
mirror, and let her memory wander back to the Arboretum—to her heart's reflected desire.
But this glass showed only her present appearance. Not even a premature wrinkle. And not
Fleur's face either.
Most of the Polyjuice was gone. Her face and body had already returned to normal before
they even left the bridge. The only residual effect was in her left eye. The right was back to
its regular faded brown. But the left was different—some of Fleur's blue seemed to have
mixed with her natural shade, leaving it an ashy color. Still a better side effect than cat
whiskers, which took Madame Pomfrey weeks to treat. Hopefully it would revert before
going back to the Order.
Then her attention shifted to the soft bruises and bites all over her neck. These would take
longer to heal without the help of magic. She decided to retrieve her wands from the hallway
to treat the marks. Plus, she should use another spell to prevent last night from causing any
long-term side effects.
After wrapping herself in a towel, Hermione crept out of the washroom and into the corridor.
Draco was still not there, and neither was anything else. However, she found both wands atop
the bedroom dresser, placed next to her Knife uniform, which had been dried and transfigured
back to its original shape. She brushed her fingers along the sleeve, confirming that both her
Portkey and signal coin were still in the pocket.
Clean, dressed, and decent, she made her way back through the apartment to Draco, using the
journey to tame her nerves at the prospect of their impending reunion.
She did not know exactly what came next with him. Last night was a night of many firsts—
she not only left herself physically vulnerable, but also laid bare her heart. Confessed exactly
how much she cared. Draco said nothing in response. And now it felt like there were more
butterflies in her stomach than the exhibit at the Arboretum.
Before stepping out onto the balcony, Hermione hovered in the living room. Gathering
herself.
Draco was still turned away, leaning forward, chin resting on his palms, elbows on a wrought
iron table. But now that she was standing so close, it seemed… deliberate. Willful. And the
longer Hermione waited without eliciting any reaction, the more anxious she became.
She stepped out to join him on the balcony, taking the chair opposite.
Even once she was seated, Draco's attention remained fixed on the dozens of Lilliputian
waterfalls streaming from the overhanging canopy; watching them splash against the railing,
then plummet eleven stories to the ground. Following the course of the water with his eyes.
Granted, there was little else to see, since almost nothing was visible through the haze. If
Hermione squinted, she thought she could make out the pointed silhouette of the Eiffel
Tower, but she was not confident. It was as if the storm clouds had sunken to street level.
Their tension felt thicker than the fog.
When the silence became unbearable, Hermione broke it, asking quietly, "So what should we
do now?"
Draco hunched farther over the table, steepling his fingers over his face until only his gray
eyes were exposed. He spoke in a steady voice.
"You return to where you belong, and I do the same."
Hermione stared at him, discerning nothing but hardness in his eyes; his rigid posture. He
seemed as resolute in this decision as his promise to kill Nagini the evening before. Maybe he
simply had not heard her final whispered words—by that point they were barely awake.
But in the cold, wet daylight, saying the words felt far more difficult. So she asked another
question—those came easily.
"When will I see you again?"
"I don't know."

Nodding heavily, Hermione replied, "Just promise not to shut me out this time. We can be
careful, so no one will ever learn what we are to each other."
"And what do you think we are exactly?" he said. Both palms fell from his face as he sat up,
finally looking at Hermione. There was such intensity in his eyes.
She held his gaze. In Muggle culture, this sort of discussion was called "defining the
relationship." Was there a wizarding equivalent? Regardless, she refused to leave before they
reached an agreement about their future. She would not spend another season in the dark.
"I told you how I feel last night," Hermione responded in a measured tone. "I can repeat it if
you didn't hear."
Draco's brow furrowed and he faced away. So he had heard…
While she waited for a response, the wind began to pick up. Blowing rain across the balcony;
soaking her feet. Hermione glided her chair farther from the edge, but Draco continued to sit
pensively, not moving. Another flash of lightning split the clouds, charging the already
buzzing atmosphere with electricity.
The wind was beginning to howl when Draco lifted a hand and placed three pieces of wood
on the damp table.
He did not speak.
Hermione blinked at them, confused.
At first glance, the twigs resembled a miniature pile of firewood—two shorter pieces, and
one slightly longer. This must have been what Draco was fiddling with as she watched earlier
that morning.
She was still regarding the splintered wood, trying to make sense of this latest mystery, when
Draco explained, "These used to belong to you."
And now Hermione knew what she was looking at—recognizing the chipped, sand-toned
handle. The winding, sinuous design that resembled ivy. The exposed core.
They were the remnants of her lost vine wood wand.
"I don't understand—"
"How did you break it?" Draco interrupted sharply.
"Years ago, during the fight at Glen Lochy. I was hit by a hex to my legs. It severed my
tendons and my wand snapped when I fell." Then she stared at Draco again, adding, "Why?"
Suddenly a terrible thought struck her like lightning. She had never actually seen her attacker
in her rush to reach Harry; had always assumed it was a stray curse since she was hidden
beneath the Invisibility Cloak. She never even knew if it was cast by the Order or a Death
Eater… Maybe this was the reason that Draco was treating her so distantly. Because of guilt.
"Were you the one who hexed me?"
"No," Draco replied at once, shooting down that theory and calming her nerves by a hair.
He picked up the largest fragment of Hermione's former wand. Absently twisting it between
his fingers again while he studied the rain.
And now she felt more confused than ever; more disoriented than after waking in the
thundering bedroom.
"Then something must have happened this morning," she stated, forcing her voice level, "I
don't know what else to think with the way you're acting."
Draco did not seem to hear her, continuing to twist the vine wood between his fingers. His
tone was almost introspective as he asked, "Are you still this wand's master?"
Why was he so adamant they talk about her old wand? It was a part of history, and nothing
else. Not nearly as important as deciding what came next.
And yet there must be a point to Draco's cryptic questions. So she answered hesitantly, "I
don't know since broken wands don't work. Ron snapped his once, and it was never the
same."
"Meaning that even if repaired, this wand would not belong to you?"
"I have no idea, Draco. It might belong to the person who injured me, or still be mine.
Honestly, I don't see what wand allegiance has to do with any of this, or with us."
But Draco continued to drag them down this labyrinthine tangent, his motives were as
obscure as the Eiffel Tower.
"And what if I was the one to put the pieces back together?" he posited, eyes narrowed at the
railing. "Would it belong to you, or be loyal to me?"
Hermione hunched forward in her seat, hands pressed to her face. Pushed to the brink.
Declining to answer any more of his irrelevant questions.
Then another gust of wind blew the rain sideways, leaving her as wet as the sunless city
beyond the balcony.
She shivered.
Sliding her chair back, Hermione announced, "I'm going inside. Tell me when you're
interested in having an honest conversation."
She was retreating to the shelter of the living room when Draco spoke coldly.
"You don't actually love me, Granger."

Hermione stumbled, catching herself against the door frame as his six poisonous words
pierced her like six knives to the back.
She turned.
Draco was watching for her reaction, eyes as sharp as his words. He had never been kind, but
this… this far exceeded his normal cruelty.
Her heart beat rapidly. Maybe it was just another misunderstanding. After all, they had so
many over the years, starting from her very first question in the prison cell. She had to clear
the air.
"I realize that in Grenoble I promised to never choose you. Things are different now. Maybe
they've been different for a while. I meant what I told you last night, I still mean it today, and
I will tomorrow."
"Just stop. You don't know what you're saying."
Hermione was about to protest when a new thought surfaced, and she began to guess the
source of Draco's distrust; why he had misgivings about any confession immediately after
they destroyed the Horcrux. Of course he would be wary of her timing—he had been burned
before.
Only pausing for a moment to wipe her tears, Hermione walked back onto the balcony and
retook her seat. Then she spoke as calmly as she could manage, which was not very.
"I learned about the Railroad and your parents."
At her admission, Draco's face clouded over.
Hermione forged ahead, watching him carefully; treading lightly. "I won't claim to
understand your entire history with Blaise, but I swear that I am not using you, Draco."
"This has nothing to do with Zabini," Draco glowered.
"Then why are you treating me like I've wronged you because of my own choices?"
beseeched Hermione, reaching toward his hand across the table. Draco shifted away, creating
more distance.
She persisted, "You're the one who said that you can't get me out of your head. Months and
months ago you told me how much you cared, so why am I not allowed to do the same? Last
night—"
"Last night was a mistake," Draco hissed. "None of it was real. I knew better and should have
forced you to leave. What you feel for me isn't love."
It was as if Draco found the final thread holding her heart together, then ripped it out just to
watch her unravel. Hermione's cheek sank to the table. She could not look at him. But the
words fell from her lips even as she struggled to breathe.
"If you don't believe me, use Legilimency and you'll know that what I feel for you is real. I
never lied to you, Draco. You've been in my head every single day since Azkaban. Do you
really trust me so little?"
"You shouldn't trust yourself," he shot back.
Then Draco rose, towering above. Face awash with strangeness, voice even stranger.
"I only used Legilimency on you one time. At the Manor when I needed to understand your
Unbreakable Vow."
And now it felt like the balcony was plummeting to the ground, taking her and all sense of
stability with it. Because it was true that she had only ever heard Draco say the spell once—
the day he apparated her to the drawing room, held her against the floor, and invaded her
memories in a way that felt so different than the others.
Her reality was still collapsing when Draco's next voiceless words rang out. Chilling her
mind and ripping her to shreds.
"This is not Legilimency."
Hermione was off her chair, scrambling on the slippery ground. Not even knowing what she
was doing as she descended into a state of panic. As she lost all control and curled in on
herself.
Eventually, she sensed Draco kneel down and begin to stroke her hair. She looked up, eyes as
flooded as the city. All of the hardness in his face was now replaced by pain and regret. And
like this he seemed so much younger. Disarmed.
His voice was soft as he whispered, "I didn't plan for any of this when we made our bargain.
In the beginning I only spoke with you as a distraction, using you when I had no one. I
assumed that eventually you would realize the truth yourself, or stay away from me and none
of it would matter. But then last night—" he faltered, and finished, "—I should have
explained that very first night you heard me in Azkaban. This is my burden and it wasn't right
for me to wait so long."
Now he was caressing her cheek, gently turning her to look at him. Begging her to look at
him.
But she could not do it.
Her eyelids were clenched shut as firmly as her fists. She saw only darkness; felt only sleet.
Became more barren than a tundra as she retreated into a state of mindlessness. But she
continued to hear Draco—his words always broke through her walls.
"What we have is not something you can shield against. Not something you can learn to block
or resist. I've been in your mind for two years because I made you a part of me two years
ago."
Before she knew it, Draco was holding her tightly against his chest, wrapping her in his arms,
pulling her back to reality with a question as he had every day in her prison cell.
"Can't you feel that this is more than a temporary connection?"
At last Hermione answered, voice and body shaking in Draco's cold embrace.
"I can't... I don't understand."
Draco exhaled sorrowfully against her cheek, "Then let me show you, Hermione. Look at me
and let me show you what happened."
She felt him press a wand into her hand.
As soon as her eyes flashed open, Draco locked her in his own. And his eyes were laced with
more death than the mesmerizing song of a siren. Silver oceans calling her out to their stormy
waters.
She went to them without thinking, sinking into blackness and crushing gravity.
Falling into the darkest depths of Draco's memories.
"Legilimens."
Clipped Wings
Chapter Notes
And here it is: the big reveal. I've been holding onto this secret since writing the very
first word, so I'm relieved to finally let the truth out. Let me know if you guessed it.
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
***
May 2, 2002
Tenby, Wales
Draco sat alone on a wall overlooking the shore, accompanied by a pile of flat stones that
was growing steadily smaller. As each stone left his hand and glided over the waves, he
thought only of the sky blue color of the sea. There were no other thoughts, at least that is
what he told himself.
It was a lie.
This was not going to work. His hands shook violently with every whiplike motion. The scars
cutting into each knuckle, pearl-white under the rising moon, were reminders of his
weakness. Even watching the ocean failed to provide the escape it once did—barely holding
his attention for more than a second. There was no way he could hold a wand.
It was better when he was contained within four walls. Freedom was an invitation to choose
for himself.
And he did not deserve it.
Once the moon hit its apex, Draco stood and walked back into the beach house. It did not feel
like his house anymore—it had not for a while. But it was less sickening than any other place.
On instinct, he apparated here today after leaving Azkaban for the final time.
The airy interior was covered in a thick layer of dust. He had never anticipated needing to
charm it like he had the Manor. And he still did not care enough to clean. Maybe he would
one day. Maybe not.
As Draco walked through the darkened hallway, he ignored the empty beds and pictures on
the walls. The ghosts of his childhood. Then he was in the sitting room. The Pensieve was
right where he stored it. He slid it out from beneath the coffee table and summoned hundreds
of empty vials around its base.
It took the entire night and next morning to extract his memories, since he had not done so in
two years. There were so many. He retrieved every battle. All of their names and blank,
lifeless faces. The betrayal.
His failure.
Pulling each wound from his temple and sealing it in a tiny glass prison.
Next, he reclined in his chair as if asleep, and began to Occlude. Suppressing all but the
basest memories. Pushing them deep within his mind and swallowing the key. Leaving only
enough to survive.
When Draco exited the room, he thought of nothing.
Now it was not a lie.
He was back on the seawall watching the second moon rise when his forearm ignited in
searing pain. For a long time, he simply ignored the Mark, waiting for guards to take him to
serve the Dark Lord as they always did. But when they failed to appear and his skin burned
again, he was thrown back to his surroundings.
There were no Dementors here in Tenby. He had to go himself.
Draco rose to his feet, summoning his cloak and mask as he strode past the boundary line.
Then he pivoted into the darkness.
CRACK
The explosive sound of his reappearance pounded against his eardrums. As he waited for the
smoke to fade, he tied the cursed cloth over his eyes. Maybe one day he would go without it.
Maybe not.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was stained crimson.
Then the smoke cleared, and Draco saw that he was standing at the peak of a hill soaring
above a Scottish glen. A dry river bed wound through its center, already filled with corpses—
a small mercy. But far too many living, faceless figures still moved across the ground below
to justify leaving.
Draco descended the slope with leaden steps. He could not remember why he walked into
battle so slowly. He knew the reason once, but now it was a force of habit. The temperature
descended much more quickly, plummeting to a dangerous low. So freezing that his bones
ached by the time he reached the valley floor.
After flexing his gloved hands to regain some blood flow, he drew his wand from its thigh
holster.
Then, for an indeterminate period, he was aware of almost nothing; existing along the
borderline of consciousness and a dark fabrication. He barely felt the ground splitting
beneath his feet as he summoned a chasm of Hellfyre; did not even recall voicing the spell.
Did not hear a shapeless woman's shrieks as skeletal limbs dragged her beneath the earth.
While he vaguely knew what his hands were doing, his mind never left the top of that hill. His
eyes remained on the sky blue ocean. There were no humans, only mannequins. Faceless
dolls. And the fighting and bloodshed existed only in fractured moments. Distorted. Blurred.
Fake.
Little more than a vile dream.
The words fell from Draco's mouth like a benediction—an end to his service. As necessary
and mundane as eating.
But he would never stop hating what came next.
Draco hunched over, jerked out of his trance as the moon and sky darkened and shadows
blanketed the valley. Hands shot heavenward, clawing at the red air as their soulless bodies
were dragged back through the veil.
Then Draco was dragged into his own personal hell. A torturous place where he was forced
to learn the name and final moments of each new Inferius. A punishment condemning him to
relive every single violent death.
He had already died a thousand times.
Her name was Beatrice Marisol Caddel. She was forty-three years old and the proud mother
of two children. Their names were Henry and Mila, and they were why she was here tonight,
why she joined the Order—to protect them. The little one, Mila, was a Squib. Surrendering to
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named guaranteed a life of servitude for her daughter, but she would
never allow it. She loved her children more than herself, and needed them more than air or
water. The last faces she saw were theirs. The last sound she heard was their laughter. Then
she felt a painful blow to the back of her head, followed by nothing.
His name was Andre Ballesta, although he always went by his middle name, which was Luis.
He turned seventeen a week ago, and celebrated with his brothers and too many rounds of
Butterbeer spiked with bourbon. This was his first battle, and he expected it to be so different.
Stimulating and addictive, like in practice. He was fucking wrong. He knew he was wrong
when he killed a terrorist woman who must have been his age. Hardly more than a girl, and
she looked so much younger. He used his hands to do it; not even his wand. Breaking her
neck felt like cracking open the spine on a new book. One firm snap, then ruined. After she
stopped moving, he vomited into the grass, and his throat burned more than his Dark Mark.
He did not know how he died or who killed him, but once he murdered the girl he must have
left himself vulnerable—maybe even intentionally. All he did know for certain was that dying
felt both disgusting and earned.
His name was Marty Denton Klein.
Her name was Carlotta Bell Vasquez.
Bernard Kennedy Parsons.
Neromie Jay Cross.
Christopher Rodd Connors.
Adelaide Kai Mana Lee.
Merrion Jane Spencers.
Eunice Christina Halwyn.
Harry James Potter…
Draco spun around and quickly located Potter's body writhing on the earth. He was still
recognizable, even without a face. His jet black hair looked even more chaotic in death.
So the Dark Lord had ended him at last.
This death was predestined. And yet, something like grief tormented Draco as he was cursed
to revisit Potter's final moments—the desperation in his voice as he dueled an unkillable
enemy; the sweat on his hand as he clutched his wand; the white-hot pain piercing the scar
on his forehead. The last eyes he saw were serpentine. The last person he thought of was
Ginny Weasley. Then there was a flash of green and an overwhelming feeling of loss as both
souls left his body.
As Potter and the others began to rise, the cold plaguing Draco became excruciating.
Punishing. If hell existed, it burned with ice, not fire.
He had to end the fight; could not endure their suffering a second longer.
"Kill them," Draco hissed, sending the command through his network of joined minds and
manipulating their strings like a black hearted puppeteer.
Then he closed his eyes as the screams of every surviving Order member pelted his back like
stones. They should have fled already. Why did they always stay and fight?
Draco was trying to block out the sounds of violence when he heard a soft cry only feet
away.
He looked down.
A faceless woman was crawling across the grass. There was something wrong with her; she
was catastrophically injured. Dying. Blood was flowing like water out of deep wounds to her
legs. She dragged herself onto the disfigured torso of a man who looked more corpse than
human. Then she slowly pressed her cheek to the man's chest, and her tears mixed with his
blood.
Even with his blurred vision, Draco saw her grief. It was visible in her heaving back,
wracked with sobs; her hands, caressing the remains of a man she must have loved. He could
hear it in her voice, ragged as she took her final breaths.
The woman stopped breathing a heartbeat later.
She was gone.
Draco turned away from her body, resolving to repress this wretched memory along with the
rest.
A second swell of screams tore through the valley. And he was consumed again as new names
crashed into him like glacial tidal waves.
Steffanio Delgado Acosta.
Peizhi Lin.
Ian Daniel Web.
Layla Rose Burgess.
Brenin Rey Grant.
Draco was drowning in their deaths and memories, suffocating in dry water… when her
name entered his mind.
Her name was Hermione Jean Granger, and she was lying only steps away—still draped over
Ron's remains like a burial shroud. Once again pouring tears and regrets into his bloodied
chest.
Then Draco was there, standing over her, not knowing what to do or think. It was like sifting
through a million shells and finding a broken piece of seaglass. Something about her felt so
strange compared to all of the others. Incongruous. Unique.
Different.
But the words Draco spoke to her remained the same.
"Hello, Mudblood."
***
It was summer, and the sand was warm from baking all day beneath a strong June sun. So
tonight Draco decided to sleep on the shoreline, under the stars, listening to the sound of the
ocean. The tide flowed in unison toward the coast in a constant undulation. The only
variations in noise came from the waves lapping against rocks and the mouths of crying
seagulls.
Even here, the nightmares found him.
"It was all my fault," he choked into the grainy sand, "I couldn't save you."
The two blank faces haunting him tonight were the ones he saw the most. The ones his eyes
failed to recognize until their names pierced his mind through the darkest magic. They
brought him into this world, they were the only reason he made a devil's pact, and he
murdered them like strangers.
"I can't do this anymore," he confessed to no one.
And when Draco finally woke and looked into the welcoming abyss of the midnight blue
ocean, he knew that it was true. That as weak and selfish as he was, there was a limit. He had
reached that limit.
There was no self left to preserve.
Draco was already waist deep in inky water when he heard a voice speak.
"I… I'm here," the woman offered, but with such timidness that it was closer to a question.
Like she did not know what "here" really meant.
In contrast, Draco knew immediately—had endured this kind of phantom presence ever since
his first taste of necromancy. And yet, he had no understanding of how she lingered in his
head a month after dying. While he had experienced a thousand memories, this felt more like
a conversation.
So he asked incredulously, "You can hear me?"
"Yes," the woman replied at once. And then she added, "I think I'm in the cell next to yours."
The cell next to his? What did that mean?
Now Draco waded out of the ocean, and dropped back onto the beach. Sitting with his face in
his palms; temples throbbing from what felt like speaking with a ghost.
The woman was not a ghost though. And now he guessed who she was. How could he not
guess she was Granger, when he was the one who put her in that cell?
Something must have happened to set her apart from the rest. He suspected the differences as
soon as she entered his mind during the battle. Saw the differences after he healed her still-
bleeding wounds with Vulnera Sanentur and enchanted her eyes back to brown. Confirmed
that she was nearly human when he carried her to the Dark Lord; felt her living, beating
heart against his own.
What Granger was though, he did not know.
And in the end, it had not mattered. He still locked her in a fucking cell…
Draco's skull pounded even harder as he was hit by a whirlwind of conflict, guilt, and
confusion. He had no clue what to do when it came to Granger. But two things were clear.
She should never learn what happened at Glen Lochy.
He should stay far away.
Decided, Draco sank into the sand and started to Occlude. Burying Hermione Jean Granger
and every other name in the nethermost trenches of his subconscious.
Dawn was breaking when he heard Granger speak again. Her voice was even clearer than
before he tried to shut her out.
"Are you still there? Did the Dementors come to take you away?"
If Draco had to ascribe an adjective to her tone, it would be "worried." So he answered

truthfully, because it did not seem like the kind of question he could simply ignore.
"No, I'm still here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Neither am I," Granger sighed.
Draco fought back a grateful smile.
***
"Chocolate or vanilla?"
"Chocolate."
"Favorite animal?"
"Cat."
"Which Quidditch teams do you follow?"
"I don't."
As promised, Draco asked her one question every day. And, although he could sense her
initial reluctance, she eventually responded.
But there were too many days where Granger would not respond, and he could hear her
screaming in his mind—the unmistakable screams of Dementor-driven nightmares. Knowing
exactly how easy it was to lose yourself to them, Draco told her silly stories the entire time,
though she likely never heard them. He did not need her to, because telling her the stories
was primarily meant to soothe his own guilt.
And when her nightmares ebbed for just a moment, he asked her a question.
His questions were designed to test her humanity. To learn exactly how much of Granger
remained in her deadened mind. Some he already knew the answers to, and others were
meant to understand how much of her original personality remained.
"Are you a night owl, or more of a morning person?"
"Morning person. Although I used to stay up late studying anyways."
"Butterbeer or pumpkin juice?"
"It depends. Obviously I'm not enough of a lush to start the morning with a Butterbeer. Then
again, I'd kill for either at the moment."
Sometimes, especially right after a Dementor attack, he would quiz her instead.
"What is the first life cycle of a Grindylow?"
"The first life cycle of a Grindylow is the larval stage, during which it is referred to as a
Grypt."
Reassuringly, Granger seemed to prefer knowledge-based questions. She was still such a
know-it-all. Draco enjoyed asking them, imagining her jumping up behind her desk,
waggling her hand in the air, and regurgitating the textbook before the professor called on
her to answer.
It was damn good entertainment.
Then the day finally came when she started asking him questions. And, of course, her first
question was the worst one of all.
"What is your name?"
"Lucius Malfoy," Draco replied at once. He had long since decided to use his middle name
when she inevitably posed this question.
It was technically the truth. But more significantly, Draco did not want to be himself when
they spoke. Granger was an escape from his reality. And she would probably cut him out once
she learned his identity—they were never on friendly terms at school.
She would hate him even more once she understood the entire truth.
And yet, a part of him wanted Granger to discern the truth for herself. To pick apart every
question and answer, and recognize exactly who kept her company in that prison cell.
Because he saw Granger uncovering everything as a sign that she kept her own free will.
Evidence that she did not just blindly follow his words like the others.
Proof that she was still Hermione Granger.
He even left hints, refusing to answer questions about the Mouth; giving her information
Lucius Malfoy could not know. Once, he even asked if she wanted to know his middle name.
She stubbornly refused.
And she NEVER figured it out. Even after hours of conversation; hundreds of questions and
answers.
It was like an infuriating game.
One that she was winning.
Back and forth they went. Trading questions and responses, until speaking with Granger
became as engaging to him as the Manor library, and as necessary as Occluding.
Draco told himself that he was only following orders, and that Granger had no future outside
of the three-sided tower.
However, the longer their game went on, and the more he learned about her, the guiltier
Draco felt. Even if she was not the same Granger who he teased for six years at Hogwarts,
she deserved to be more than a prisoner.
So Draco began to give her options. Began to offer her a way to break free.
"What do you want for Christmas?"
"I don't want anything from you," Granger replied so scathingly that Draco could envision
her eye twitching.
"What if I distract the guards so you can escape?" he said generously.
Granger snorted. "And how the hell would you distract a Dementor? Give it a kiss under the
mistletoe?"
That response made Draco laugh so hard that his ribs hurt.
The next week, he mused, "You must be thin enough to slide through the bars by now, Miss
Granger."
"Actually, it turns out that having bread for every meal is fattening," Granger giggled, before
she started grilling him about the Dark Lord's Cabinet.
After that response, Draco had a palm-shaped mark on his face the entire day. It was like she
did not even want to get out.
But part of him was glad for it. Because as long as she was hidden away, she was his. His
secret that he did not have to share with anyone.
It was selfish. He was selfish. But he did not care. The world outside those four walls was
unpredictable and ugly, especially now. No one knew that better than him. She was so much
safer inside the cell. In there, she was protected, and she was his.
Only his.
She was his beautiful bird in a cage.
***
"Ginny?"
"...I can't, Ginny. My ankles. I can't walk."
Draco shot upright in bed. Grabbing his wand even before his eyes adjusted to the blackness.
Even before his mind caught up.
He swore he had heard Granger talking to someone. A person who was not him for the first
time in a year. She was speaking with Ginny Weasley, he had heard her say that name. The
Order must be there to rescue her at last.
To take her away.
As soon as Draco made the connection, he stood. Summoning his robes. Tearing through the
seaside house and pressing the skull mask to his face as he ran.
He was already pivoting to disapparate when he heard Granger say, "...We need to help him.
Lucius Malfoy. Voldemort… Voldemort put him in the cell right next to mine."
An agonizingly long heartbeat of darkness later, he was standing at the base of Azkaban. The
roiling sea around the island was precisely as he remembered. But today the slit-like entrance
carved into the towering prison was swarming with hundreds of Dementors, rallying to
attack the intruder. Their piercing cold was so similar to his own, but he could tell it was
spiked with fury.
"...Mr. Malfoy! Lucius! Where are you? Where did they take you?" he heard Granger crying.
And something deep within his chest began to ache. Like a thorn lodged in his sternum.
Draco looked up. He could see it—the gaping hole high up on the side of the triangular
prison. Thirty stories above. And he could see her—Granger was there, twisting and turning
in Weasley's arms as she dragged them both onto a dangerously narrow edge overlooking the
ocean.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Granger sobbed. "You promised me. Remember? We made a bargain. We both
promised that we would answer one question every single day. I haven't asked my question
yet today, so you have to answer!"
"I get to ask my question first," Draco replied, sprinting closer. "Where am I?"
"In my head. You're in my head."
Now the soulless guards were moving up the side of the prison. Gliding their torn robes along
the vertical wall like vengeful wraiths. Heading straight toward Granger and Weasley.
He had to act fast.
"Good girl. Now your question, Granger," Draco said between heavy breaths.
Then he shouted into the frigid air, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
A dazzling, silver peacock burst from his outstretched wand, flying toward the black-cloaked
demons, sweeping its wings across the prison wall.
"YOU PROMISED! YOU SWORE TO ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH!"
The Dementors were falling into the ocean, scattering across the waves, retreating into the
dark shadows, slinking into the caves beneath the prison like frightened rodents.
Draco looked up again. Granger was somehow still fucking here, kicking her own friend as
she struggled to claw her way inside of Azkaban.
He laughed, both loving and hating her stubbornness.
He kept his eyes pinned on Granger's broken, perfect face as he responded coolly, "I always
told you the truth. I still am."
Granger did not see him—she was staring back at her prison block, as if she wanted nothing
more than to return. As if she yearned for that dingy cage more than freedom.
And when she finally turned away, it was only to shout into the wind, "THEN WHO ARE
YOU?"
While he watched her disapparate, Draco sent the final answer into her mind.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy."
Then she was gone.
And there was no one left to see his tears.

Confessional
If thou lovest me, think no more of it
***
Consciousness returned to Hermione slowly. Reluctantly. It took time to recognize that her
head was resting on Draco's lap; that he was running fingers through her curls.
She knew that they entered Draco's memories, but had no recollection of how they ended up
in the living room, on this couch. He must have carried her inside at some point. And she did
not know how many hours passed. The sun was still absent. The gray sky had more clouds
than open air, and the storm was raging more furiously than ever.
Draco saw that she was awake and met her gaze, saying softly, "I'm so sorry, Hermione."
It was more than an apology.
It was grief.
And it broke her heart.
The next three days passed in a blur. A whirlwind of waking nightmares and restless dreams.
Hermione barely moved from the white bed, and did not speak at all, either out loud or
through their mental connection. She had no words yet. At present, she only had an
unprecedented sensation of scarcity. She felt like a shade of her former self; a discarded husk.
Like she crawled into the skin shed by a snake and never left.
It was not only remembering something she had forgotten. It was being forced to recognize a
life-ending trauma. Coming to terms with the revelation that she lost more than Harry and
Ron at Glen Lochy.
Realizing that she did not survive the battle.
The overwhelming emptiness that Hermione first experienced in Azkaban reappeared with
the memory of her death. It was likely always there, lurking deep beneath the surface—a
ghostly undertow sucking her down to a dark place where joy, and pain, and thinking, did not
exist. Perhaps she had been trying to return to the afterlife when she stopped eating and
began to fade in that prison cell.
Maybe she never came back through the veil. Or at least not as the same person.
The entire time Draco was there, then and now. As variable and reliable as the weather. He
was not always in the Parisian apartment. No, he came and went like a spring rainstorm. But
he talked to her constantly, comforting her with his words. And when he was physically
present, he never left her bedside. Sometimes water dripped slowly down the window;
sometimes he held her as she wept. Sometimes the clouds parted for just an hour; sometimes
he leaned against the headboard and recounted his favorite, most benign memories, as if
dictating his diary.
Even that was not enough. So for three days, Hermione was like a boat adrift on an uncharted
sea. Buoyed by a current beyond her control; lacking any sense of direction as she mourned
her own death.
Only on the fourth day did she finally wake up and find her voice.
As usual, Draco spoke first.
"We can't stay here any longer, but I promise not to block you out," he coaxed.
Instead of agreeing to leave, Hermione put into words thoughts that still did not seem real.
"I don't remember dying. It felt like falling asleep."
"That's how it is for most people," Draco reassured, running a cold thumb across her temple.
"It's better not to remember. I never wanted you to remember."
Throat hoarse from days of silence, she whispered, "What am I now?"
His tone was firm as he responded, "You're not like the others."
The rain struck the apartment walls like liquid shrapnel. Water was even spilling onto the
carpet through the cracked bedroom window. But Hermione's eyes were dry as she stared up
at him and pleaded, "Meaning I'm alive and I have a soul?"
"I didn't say that," he replied sadly.
"If you don't think I'm still me, then why did you fight the Dementors so I could escape?"
Draco glanced to the side. "The same reason I promised not to break your Vow. I don't know
how much life you have after coming back from death. I do know that they would have
punished you for trying to escape, and I wouldn't let them steal what little remains."
The pain in her chest had vanished, sucked away by the black hole in its place. Leaving her
feeling as lost as she looked in Draco's memories.
"That's a lie," decided Hermione, voice hollow. "You could have taken me somewhere else.
Locked me in another cage. Tell me the whole truth. I need you to say exactly why you set
me free."
Now Draco was brushing a finger along her cheek, the circles under her eyes, the creases on
her lips. Like she really was his own beautiful, dark creation.
And when he spoke, his gray eyes never looked more colorless.
"Because I fell in love with you, Hermione. I loved you more with every question and
answer."
They let the sound of the rain fill the quiet that followed. And for the briefest fraction of
eternity, it was like they could just sit and exist in his words. In a simpler life, there would
have been nothing else to say.
Eventually, the rain eased and Draco's expression hardened. He spoke again.
"What you feel is not love, but blind devotion."
"Because you resurrected me."
"Yes."
***
One Week Later
Cardiff, Wales
April 27, 2004
The resounding peals of the bell tower were loud enough to rattle Hermione's bones and
every stained glass window in the cathedral. She had yet to acclimate to the deafening
ringing, even though it occurred at six in the morning, high noon, and six in the evening
every day without fail. She imagined that the blacksmith who forged the bells must have had
a personal vendetta against religion—devising a way to ensure the Welsh friars who once
resided here could never sleep late or enjoy a meal without losing a bit more of their hearing.
But now Hermione's ears were the ones victimized by this hypothetical bell maker. Hers, and
the hundreds of ears belonging to the Order members who now called the abandoned
monastery home.
The volume was always worse inside, so Hermione stood from the wooden pew, and departed
down the aisle. She jammed her fingers in her ears until she was in the open air of the
courtyard.
Although it was still earlier than they agreed to meet, Hermione made her way to the fishing
pond at the outskirts of the resistance's new base.
Surprisingly, she was the last to arrive—Spider and Luna were already seated at the water's
edge, talking quietly.
Since Luna's Research Unit fitted the ex-Death Eater with a prosthetic leg, the two had
developed an unlikely friendship. Hermione was tempted to hang back and eavesdrop on
their conversation, which must be fascinating. Spider was as morose and standoffish as Luna
was dotty and curious. They both had a flair for the dramatic though—maybe that was what
they shared in common. The long war had led to so many strange relationships, and
Hermione knew that she was in no position to judge.
Aside from Spider, no other member of the Special Force remained at Headquarters for more
than an hour after completing the Paris strike; all were back at their respective safe houses.
Hermione had missed overlapping with them by several days, Porkeying as late she did.
However, as soon as she arrived, it was apparent that the mission was a success—the Knife's
greatest one since retaking Italy the year before. They extracted more than fifty prisoners
from a network of human trafficking, all without suffering a single fatal casualty. It was a
success as resounding as the thrice-daily bells.
It was also bittersweet.
The rescued survivors had not left the Revue unharmed. Despite the Order's intelligence that
it was a transitory prison, some captives had been in Paris for years. That said, a few of the
most traumatized survivors endured shorter periods of the worst kinds of suffering, like Fleur.
Hermione had yet to see the woman whose face she wore for a night. But she knew from
Luna that Fleur was not doing well mentally. Emotionally. It was more than grief from her
husband's violent execution. No, it was what came after that destroyed the part-Veela.
In many ways, recovering at the Order's peaceful new base hidden deep in the countryside
was the ideal place for Fleur. The entire hermitage and nearby village belonged to the
Shacklebolt family, and was gradually being restored using Kingsley's personal fortune and
recent funding from their allies in MACUSA. What the Council accomplished in barely three
months was impressive.
It was good that Fleur was here, instead of Shell Cottage. The simplicity of the monastic
retreat was like a breath of pure air. Healing and restorative.
At least to everyone but Hermione.
It would take far more than time or a change of scenery to piece her back together, if that was
even within the bounds of what was possible. It almost certainly was not.
She was still lurking behind a tree when Luna spotted her and said in a singsong voice,
"Hello. Happy second ring of the day." Then she gestured for Hermione to join them at the
shallow pond.
Hermione lowered herself onto the grass, letting her bare feet dangle in the cool water like
the other two. Spider furrowed her brow, but did not speak.
Luna, on the other hand, leaned in far too closely to study her, and mused, "I still can't get
used to your eyes, I believe it's called heterochromia iridum, having one light and one dark.
You normally see it in cats, but it's very rare in humans. And especially fascinating since you
developed it later in life."
Hermione averted her gaze. She tried not to dwell on her grayish brown left eye; avoided
catching sight of her reflection. For days, she had tried and failed to fix the pigment.
It must be a byproduct of necromancy, though she did not know why Draco's recoloring
charm took so long to fade, and only for one eye. Maybe it had to do with the Polyjuice, or
being too near when he revived Nagini. Either way, the ashy shade was a visible reminder of
Glen Lochy and their last conversation in Paris. She could not stomach it.
Spider seemed to sense Hermione's discomfort, saying in her deep voice, "The past six years
have left us all rather unbalanced."
"Right," replied Hermione gratefully, glancing at the other woman's aluminum limb, which
was stretched across the grass. Then she changed the subject, asking Luna, "Can I come by
the lab Monday, or is it too soon?"
"Oh, yes," said Luna, playing with a string of butterbeer caps around her neck which had
somehow survived the entire war, "I think Monday works just fine. I'm still looking into your
Inferius question, but at this point a physical examination would be helpful."
"Thanks, Luna."
They were sitting on the bank, watching tiny fish picking at reeds, when Spider asked
Hermione, "When will you go back to the Knife?"
"I don't know."
Spider leveled Hermione an appraising look, so she supplemented cryptically, "I have a few
things to do first." Then she asked, "What about you?"
While the black-haired witch was considering, Luna chipped in, "You can, you know, Renée.
If anything, you'll be even faster with the prosthetic. Once you described how you were
injured, my team prioritized speed and mobility."
After a long while, Spider replied, "If given the option, I don't intend to return. I never chose
to be part of the resistance."
Hermione nodded toward the pond, understanding, and also wondering where she would be
at this moment if she never made Kingsley’s Vow. Never went to Glen Lochy. Wondering if
she would have continued to struggle alongside Harry and Ron, or buckled under the weight
of this hard existence long ago. Abandoned the Order. Followed her parents to Australia and
tried to forget the bloodshed like a bad dream. Right now at least, she wanted to leave it all
behind.
But she knew deep down that it was a fleeting thought. She had to see the fight to its end,
regardless of the outcome. Even if she had changed, her convictions had not. They were as
engrained in her being as words printed on a page.
And now she knew that there was someone else binding her to this endless war. She did not
know how to feel about any of it yet, or if Draco was right and she had zero control over her
feelings.
Perhaps her love could be reduced to base instincts, and she was only drawn to him because
of dark magic.
Apparently processing equally grim emotions, Spider reflected, "I have a meeting with
Captain Ishida in two days where he'll read me the Council's verdict. I'll know then whether
I'm going back to the Force to complete my pledge, or… " she broke off to stare at the sky.
"Or they'll finally carry out your death sentence," concluded Luna dreamily, splashing her
feet in the stagnant water.
The quiet that followed was as stifling as a held breath.
"Is that still what you want," Hermione prompted, voice tentative, "to stop living?"
Spider's green eyes lost all brightness as she echoed the very sentiment plaguing Hermione's
heart.
"It doesn't matter what I want."
***
The stone courtyard was filled with something more jarring than bells when Hermione
walked toward her assigned room. Cormac McLaggen and a group of similarly doltish
Infantry soldiers were taking up space on benches beneath a cypress tree. Their loud laughter
and heckling seemed wholly inappropriate in the spiritual retreat.
Hermione strode past them, mouth tight. Unfortunately, Ginny's hex must have worn off over
time, because McLaggen no longer face planted every time he crossed paths with Hermione.
The past week he had returned the favor tenfold with verbal abuse.
As expected, she did not make it far before McLaggen whistled for her like a dog and yelled,
"Oi, you! Come back. I'm talking to you, Granger!"
Someone spit at Hermione's feet as she passed. She did not slow, growling, "Leave me alone,
assholes."
But McLaggen nabbed Hermione by the jacket, wrenching her back so forcefully that she lost
her balance and landed on her wrist hard. It throbbed as she glared up at him.
"Just because you have the impulse control of a toddler doesn't mean you have to prove it,
McLaggen," she hissed.
The sandy-haired man crouched down beside her, nostrils flared. "It's mind blowing that you
can flounce around base with your head held high when everyone knows you used Captain
Jones as a human shield," he said, tone as menacing as his eyes. "They should have torched
you like the rest of Headquarters."
Hermione attempted to get up. McLaggen pushed her roughly down into the gravel, while his
friends gathered around, barking. The sharp stones cut into her hand.
"And now word is you ditched the Order to whore yourself out to Draco Malfoy for
information. But since you came crawling back here, even Undesirable Number One must
have standards."
With disgust distorting his face, McLaggen spat on Hermione and snarled, "Can't blame him
for not wanting Potter and Weasley's dirty scraps."
There was a rule against attacking fellow Order members, but Hermione was about to violate
it thoroughly. She was already reaching for her wand and voicing the curse when a flash of
orange streaked through the courtyard, taking McLaggen with it.
Hermione leapt to her feet, turning with the others to watch Charlie ram McLaggen into a
brick wall, not even bothering with magic. Crushing both calloused hands into McLaggen's
windpipe as the other man gasped for oxygen. Forcing a raised knee into his stomach. As if
he was disciplining a dangerous animal.
"Stand down, McLaggen," Charlie thundered. "Don't ever touch her again."
The younger man did not hear him, far too busy asphyxiating. His arms dropped to his sides
and his eyes rolled skyward. Then he slid to the ground, not moving.
McLaggen's slack-jawed gang was still staring at Charlie in shock when he knelt down to feel
for a pulse and ordered, "Take Cormac to the hospital wing and have him cuffed to the bed
until Captain Ishida and I deal with him later."
Then Charlie rose, placing a hand on the small of Hermione's back and guiding her out of the
courtyard.
He did not speak until they were alone in a prayer closet set off the Cathedral. Hermione
perched on a windowsill while Charlie paced the tight room. She could feel the anger
radiating off him, heating the dusty air.
Eventually, he asked, "How long has this been going on, Hermione?"
"I mean, it's nothing new. McLaggen started messing with me practically the moment Ginny
got me out of Azkaban. And it's nothing I can't handle myself," answered Hermione firmly.
Then her eyes softened and she said, "Hello, by the way. It's been a while."
They had not seen each other since Shell Cottage, despite both being in Wales for seven days.
It was unclear if Charlie was avoiding her in light of the rumors, no doubt spread by her
abandoned squad and Angelina before they returned to Stirling. Or perhaps he was simply
stretched thin by his new, demanding schedule as Second-in-Command.
Either way, she was glad to see him safe and alive, even with his temporary agitation.
"You won't have to worry about Cormac anymore. He's unstable and I'll have him transferred.
But that's not what I meant, Hermione." And now Charlie held her gaze, expression serious.
"How long have you been speaking with Malfoy?"
Her eyes fell and she did not respond. So Charlie continued, "When you didn't come back
from Paris with the rest of the Force, Ginny pulled me aside and—" He paused and took a
deep breath. "She explained how you stopped Occluding and started talking to him again."
Hermione kept staring at the ground. It felt like she was caught in her own web of deceptions.
Tangled in a year of pretexts, evasions, and white lies that had become inescapable.
"Tell me how long," Charlie repeated, his troubled hazel eyes boring into Hermione.
Eventually she whispered, "The six months I was with you were the only times I didn't speak
with him."
The confession was probably the worst ever made in the stuffy prayer closet. The space itself
seemed to grow tighter, more claustrophobic. Charlie leaned his cheek against the doorframe,
sun-burnt face suddenly pale.
Before she knew it, Hermione was saying, "It's not what you think. He's helped me since the
beginning. McLaggen is right that he's given the Order information about Voldemort, but the
other rumors aren't true."
"I saw your memories during shielding practice. I know what happened between you in
Azkaban," Charlie said, looking back at Hermione, who was unconsciously rubbing her wrist
—covered in gravel from the courtyard. Her scrapes were still oozing blood.
When Charlie spoke again, his voice was pitched even lower.
"He's hurt you for years, Hermione. He's still hurting you."
"Don't say that. That's not fair."
Now Charlie sat beside her on the windowsill, taking her hand and inspecting the bleeding
wounds.
As Charlie used his wand to heal her skin, he said tiredly, "Nothing he can give the Order is
worth the pain you've suffered."
"It's not that simple," Hermione said, reciting the same words she always used to shut Charlie
and everyone else out. "I can't tell you all that Malfoy's done. Not even the Council. I can
only tell Kingsley, if he'll ever give me the chance to explain."
Charlie's rough fingers moved from her healed wrist to the cursed scar on her palm, tracing
the crossed lines softly enough that there was no painful friction. The more he ran his fingers
along the marks, the more forlorn he looked. And Hermione felt just as defeated.
She rested her head on Charlie's broad shoulder and her resolve to stay strong cracked, then
shattered.
"I know it doesn't make sense," she admitted through falling tears. "I don't understand it
either."
He held her head as she sobbed.
They were still there when the sun began to set, Charlie stroked soothing lines down
Hermione's back while she wept into his shirt, using up the little air that remained in the
airless room. Breaking down after a week of holding everything in; bursting like an
overflowing river.
She could always let her guard down with Charlie. In spite of everything, she never felt safer
than in his calming presence. He was there to catch her when she fell. And, at least for this
moment, he offered the stability she needed.
But in spite of everything, she could only ever take from him. It was not an equal exchange,
just a passing moment of weakness.
When the bell tower rang for the third and final time, Charlie gently lifted her face,
examining her discolored eyes. He waited until the cacophonous peals ended to speak.
"Does he know about your Unbreakable Vow?"
"Yes... He's careful not to break it."
Charlie shook his head disbelievingly and stood, opening the door.
"Some things are simple, Hermione," he said.
A flood of chill night air burst in from the courtyard, making Hermione shudder and tense.
But his next words burned like fire.
"If Draco Malfoy cared, he would let you go."

Stranger in a Strange Land
Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever
ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me
***
The sound of a soft tap tap tap on her bedroom door made Hermione look up from where she
knelt on a floor cushion. She had not been praying, instead doing what was probably closer to
meditation. Fighting back the fog that always threatened to cloud her mind.
The knocking came a second time, and Hermione rose to open the door, now fairly certain
she knew who lay on the other side, even without his regular greeting.
Bright daylight streamed into the room from the courtyard beyond, and Hermione took in
Charlie—standing a few feet ahead, holding a pair of broomsticks and waiting, like he had so
many other windswept days. However, his shoulders were tight. His brown eyes, guarded.
"Morning," he greeted in a measured tone.
She gave him a small nod and smile in return, and the tension thawed just a bit.
Charlie stepped forward, offering her a handle. "I think we should have another talk. This
time somewhere with fresh air."
While Hermione was hesitating, a warm ray of sun hit her cheek. And she decided that
venturing from her dim monastic bedroom was not the worst idea. She really did owe him a
less emotional conversation.
She took the broom, and followed Charlie into the bright courtyard.
There was no McLaggen this particular day. But a few Infantry lounging on the edge of a
stone fountain noticed Hermione as she strode past. A tawny-haired one began to say
something vile. Then he saw Charlie, and shut his mouth faster than an expired Howler.
They were already past the fishing pond when Hermione sped up to ask, "We're not flying
within Headquarters?"
"There isn't enough space to move unimpeded," Charlie replied, looking straight ahead as he
voiced what seemed like an excuse. "Besides, there's a place I scoped out and know you'll
like. I'll keep us safe, so don't worry."
And soon they were soaring above the low hills surrounding the monastery, over the thatched
rooftops of the hamlet beyond. They passed through the invisible liquid bubble encircling the
retreat, and banked southward.
Hermione's sweater flapped in the wind—unlike Charlie, she was not wearing riding leathers.
But the breeze felt pleasant. Charlie was right. The rush of adrenaline that came from flying
cleared her mind far better than Occlusion or meditation. Gliding across the sky felt like
leaving all heaviness behind, defying physics and the crushing weight of responsibility.
As they flew, Hermione surveyed the vibrant green landscape below. Wales was largely
spared from combat, which is why Kingsley based the resistance here. She hoped that they
would never bring war to the idyllic countryside.
It was not obvious where Charlie was leading them, but she tagged after him just the same.
Tailing him so high that her ears popped from the altitude. She had not been airborne in
months, and it was nothing short of refreshing. Freeing. It was easy to forget how big the
world was when hers felt so small.
After an hour, they gradually descended, and Hermione saw that they were sailing above a
coastal Muggle city—hundreds of concrete buildings dotted the ground below, leading to a
shipyard filled with dry docks, vessels, and cranes.
When they drew closer, Charlie pulled out his wand and ran it down his body and broom,
disillusioning himself until he was a shimmery distortion instead of a person. Unlike France,
the British Statue of Secrecy remained. They had to be careful. Hermione briefly considered
wearing the shrunken Invisibility Cloak hidden in her pocket, but ended up using a
concealment charm. She squinted to keep sight of Charlie's barely visible outline as he flew
toward the earth.
They landed on an overturned shipping container in what seemed to be a deserted section of

the harbor. There were no signs of Muggles or anyone else.
"It's Sunday, so the dock's closed and no one is working," Charlie explained, casting a
counter-spell to remove his disillusionment.
Hermione followed suit, then walked across the corrugated steel roof, joining Charlie where
he sat at the center.
"Keep your wand handy just in case," he instructed, reclining on his back and staring up at
the clouds. They were drifting by so quickly that the air could have been made of water: a
floating river filled with white cotton.
Hermione took the same supine position beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was like Charlie
was trying to recreate their hours together atop the seaside plateau.
She stared up, commenting mildly, "If all you wanted to do was go cloud gazing, I'm pretty
sure we have a sky above Headquarters."
She heard Charlie's half-suppressed chuckle in response.
"I lied. I've actually never been here before," he confessed. "But it is the weekend, so I
assume that's why the harbor is empty. I didn't have a plan for where to take you today
beyond flying someplace different. It all starts to feel like a straight jacket when you don't
stop to stretch."
While he spoke, Hermione let her head fall to the side, watching him instead of the clouds.
He looked more mature. His trademark Weasley hair was longer than before—more like
Bill's. However, the hardness she first saw during the Shell Cottage raid still haunted his face.
And his lips were flipped up in a tight smile that did not reach his hazel eyes.
"When I'm off duty, I like to hunt for a new spot," he went on. "Once George recovers, I'll
take him to the best ones. Maybe Fleur too when she's ready. Even a few minutes in the air
can be more restful than a full night's sleep."
"That's why you brought me?" guessed Hermione.
Charlie contemplated as he blew a lock of red hair off his nose. But every time he got it back
in place, the breeze whipped it down again. He gave up, and confessed soberly, "I'm worried
about you."
Hermione looked the opposite direction, at the stacks of cargo netted together along the
industrial shoreline. Distracting herself by reading their labels like the spines on a stack of
books. She did not respond, not knowing what to say.
Eventually, she heard Charlie clear his throat and speak.
"After graduation, I was assigned to a place called Baile Herculane. It's an isolated town
between two mountain ranges. Tourists visited for the hot springs. I went to research
dragons."
Nostalgia warmed Charlie's voice as he continued, "Most subjects came easily at Hogwarts,
but I showed up at the reserve completely unprepared to speak the native language. Nobody
thought to add linguistics to our school curriculum since people tend to rely on a translation
spell. I never even learned that. So for the entire first year I was studying Romanian as much
as dragon keeping. I was the only non-native speaker and it took me a while to get the hang
of things. I definitely offended quite a few of the locals."
Hermione heard Charlie sit up; felt his eyes burn into her. His tone grew serious.
"My breakthrough came when I realized I didn't need to know every detail to see the bigger
picture. For example, if a shopkeeper was ringing me up and asked a question, it was
probably about the weather, payment, or needing a bag. I became pretty decent at reading
situations I couldn't fully understand. Filling in the gaps."
When Charlie's words died out, Hermione glanced over at him, meeting his gaze. Her heart
jumped at the sincerity in his eyes.
"Lately, I understand almost nothing about you, Hermione. But I can see you're not okay."
Now Hermione lifted herself up to sit, stretching a hand over her brow like a visor. It was so
bright on top of the reflective shipping container that she could feel the sun tanning her skin.
So bright that her eyes hurt just staring at Charlie.
Squinting, she admitted, "I don't know how to respond to that."
"Then let's start smaller," Charlie replied judiciously, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.
"What are you thinking about right now?"
His touch and the question made Hermione jolt. The last time he asked it, one thing led to
another and they kissed under the falling snow.
She pulled away, swiveling until her back was to Charlie, hiding the full range of emotions
flashing across her face. After a while, she answered, "I'm thinking about how I should have
told the Sorting Hat to put me in a different house, because I'm tired of pretending to be
brave. I'm tired of waking up exhausted."
Charlie released a deep breath that seemed to go on forever. "That's why you're doing all of
this, right? Because you want to complete your Unbreakable Vow and move on?"
"No," Hermione muttered, voice soft. "Not anymore."
Charlie weighed her answer, then tilted his head back to stare at the clouds, reflecting, "When
I became a Seeker, I used to think that catching the Snitch was the best way to win a match.
You got the highest points, the most attention, and you won the match immediately. I would
nearly kill myself trying to catch that bloody golden ball. Professor McGonagall talked some
sense into me after my fifth broken bone."
Moving closer, he said firmly, "I'll repeat what I told you yesterday. Nothing a Death Eater
offers is ever worth the price. Destroying Voldemort, ending the war as quickly as possible, is
breaking you, Hermione. And eventually, that damage becomes permanent. Playing with fire
ends with you burning alive until there's nothing but ashes."
"I understand why you're worried, but I'll be fine."
"If you're with him because of your Vow—"
"I'm not," swore Hermione, standing and grabbing her broom. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to
talk about it anymore. I'm going back to base."
Before she made it to the edge of the shipping container, Charlie gripped her shoulder and
turned her around.
Then he was holding her tightly, like he had so many times when she cried in shielding
lessons, when she tumbled off her broom, when her grief became unbearable. His hug was
tentative at first, but gradually grew more secure. Utterly enveloping, like he was still trying
to fill her emptiness with warm compassion.
It was simple, and it spoke volumes. Conveying every written word on every unread letter.
She still couldn't help but melt from his heat.

From his kindness.
"Ten years ago, I came home to the Burrow and saw you waiting at the table. And I knew you
were part of the family," Charlie said quietly.
Now his breath was searing her neck as he voiced his final heartfelt plea. It sounded like he
was praying to a god who never listened.
"I won't ask you to explain your plans, and I can't demand anything. Just know that I'm here
when you're ready. I can't lose you like the others."
***
Hermione apparated to the monastery alone while Charlie opted to fly back. It was better that
way.
She skipped dinner and went straight to her room.
The lightness she felt soaring through the sky together had vanished. Now there was only
inescapable gravity.
It was probably unfair not to explain her behavior to Charlie. It was certainly cruel.
However, Hermione had yet to fully process a death she could not remember. And how could
she even begin to explain something like that to a person like Charlie? He would never look
at her in the same way if he knew the truth. He could barely stand the blood magic on her
palm—how would he react to knowing that necromancy corrupted every other part?
More than that, she refused to speak about Draco to anyone but Kingsley. She would only tell
him about Draco's disloyalty and the Horcrux. Draco's plan relied on concealing the truth. If
Voldemort ever suspected that he lost another fragment of his soul, he would inevitably
discover that Nagini was revived as an Inferius, and only one of his followers had that
damning ability.
The fewer who knew the better. Draco staked his own life on complete secrecy. Hermione
would not risk him to defend her reputation.
Not even to salvage old relationships.
But she had to tell Kingsley so he could mobilize the Order to end Voldemort at last. After
years of defeats and failures, innumerable lost lives, it was time to reveal their final hand;
take the king. Kingsley had to understand that now there was nothing standing between them
and the war's conclusion.
Reporting to him was Hermione's main purpose for staying at Headquarters. The problem
was that he would not see her at all. She was blocked from all access to the Monastery's
library and training sessions. Had not even seen Charlie until yesterday.
It was understandable why the Council walled her off. Aside from a few close friends, every
other Order member treated her like a mental patient turned traitor. Their whispers followed
her through the passageways like poltergeists.
Compromised.
Deranged.
Treasonous.
Those were the tamest accusations they whispered. Perhaps Kingsley still allowed her to
remain because of the Vow he requested. But he would allow nothing more.
An overwhelming sense of loneliness befell Hermione as she entered her room and crawled
into bed. Her gaze drifted to the small Christian cross nailed above the doorway—one of the
many relics left behind by the original inhabitants of her assigned quarters.
The space was clearly furnished with self-denial in mind. Only a sparse wooden bed and
chair. A floor cushion for kneeling.
She had read once that monks called these rooms "cells" as a constant reminder of their
commitment to lives of forbearance and discipline.
As Hermione lay on the thin mattress, she decided that the word fit. The room's plainness was
comforting. So familiar that the instant her eyes closed, the monastery's white plaster walls
darkened into gray stones, the wood planks became damp bricks. The arched door split apart
into cylindrical iron bars. The spartan bed frame hardened into solid metal.
And her mind slipped into another cell.
To Hermione, this prison cell brought more peace than religion.
Sleep found her before she knew it.
***
"You came early tonight."
Before she saw Draco, she heard his voice, sensed his arm hook her navel, his heart beat
against her rounded back.
"I missed you," Hermione replied honestly, curling into his chest, nestling closer on the metal
bed.
"Are you in Wales or Italy?" he whispered.
"You're in my mind, so don't you already know the answer?"
"I don't hear everything you say," Draco replied, kissing a line down her jaw, making her
shiver. "Only a few words here and there, I assume when you're thinking about me."
"Then I'm in Wales. I don't plan to stay much longer if I can help it," confessed Hermione,
relaxing as his lips moved to her neck, then she asked, "Where are you tonight?"
"I'm right here with you."
"You mean at the Manor? The rose garden must be blooming by now."
Draco did not respond, but instead began to slowly wind a finger in her hair, as if he was
threading a loom. She felt his breath on her scalp, and closed her eyes.
Despite the risks, this time Draco had not left her after separating. Not quite. And she easily
fell back into the intimacy of sleeping in his embrace, even from miles and miles away. His
cold touch was as real here as anywhere, and now she understood the reason.
It was not a passing connection. Her resurrection chained them for life.
Some nights, they slept not in her mind, but in his. It was a sunless and captivating place.
There was no Azkaban in Draco's head. No Dementors or walls. Rather, an ocean filled with
depthless black waters. A realm that was as quiet as it was dark. One where it was always
summertime, but dawn never came.
They would rest together on the beach, lying on the velvet soft sand. Entwined in each other
like a fisherman's daily catch. Dreaming beneath the starless sky.
It felt like home, and it felt like torture.
Although Draco invited her into his subconscious, he created so many new boundaries. Drew
new lines without even asking her. Lines that he refused to cross.
They spoke very little about necromancy; not since that heartbreaking conversation the day
she returned to the Order. Hermione had always known that something changed after the
Valley, but attributed the emptiness plaguing her soul to survivor's guilt and Dementors.
She was wrong. The entire time she was wrong. That was only half of the equation.
Hermione did not even know if she had a soul anymore, or if she was merely a vessel for
Draco's blood magic. It all made her feel diseased. Permanently stained by forces far beyond
her control. Stained by the same cold hands she desired.
The result was purgatory.
Stasis.
They were not "together," yet were equally unable to keep apart. The attraction was magnetic.
Irresistible. But their relationship existed in the borderland, just like the question of
Hermione's soul.
And there was never a second night like Paris. Draco remained convinced that it was a
mistake on his part. A lapse in judgment. He held her, even kissed her. He never went any
farther, seeming so conflicted.
So tonight, like every other night in their joined minds, Hermione slept in the arms of
someone who was impossibly out of reach.
Once Draco's breathing steadied and he fell asleep, she rolled over on the metal slats of her
prison bed. Gazing at him with more intensity than she had ever wasted on the clouds.
Relishing the sight of his mouth gradually relaxing. The hard angles of his face were masked
by the shadows of her dark cell. The longer she stared, the more he resembled the Draco of
her memories. The arrogant classmate who prided himself on his wealth and status, yet had
so little of substance underneath.
The childhood bully who was still finding ways to torment her a decade later.
Hermione ran a hand along his temple, down his jaw, eventually landing on his pulsing heart.
It belonged to her since Azkaban, before she even knew his name.
Draco loved her.
He was protecting her from himself.
And Hermione tried to tell herself that every thought was still her own. That every feeling,
every affection, was genuine. That her love for him was real.
That her choices were consensual.
But the overpowering pull she felt toward Draco could have been artificial all along. As
forced and unnatural as her revival.
Maybe she would never know the difference.

Thicker Than Blood, Thinner Than Water
Gentlemen,
For that I know your friendship is unfeign’d,
***
Blaise | Tuscany, Italy
Blaise could actually see her stupid little boot sticking out between two lemon crates. As he
watched, it wiggled, then retreated into the shadows. She must think herself so sneaky.
It was a miracle Ginny survived her first mission. He had no idea how she made it through
six years in the Infantry with only a minor coma to show for it.
Must be divine intervention.
Blaise had half a mind not to find her. To let her stay "hidden" behind the wooden mountain
of boxes and crates for the rest of the afternoon, while he went on his merry way. Maybe he
would take a nap under the oak tree. That would get her pissed.
He was still deliberating when Ginny let out a muffled sneeze, and her shoe popped out
again. She had not even used a concealment charm.
Blaise decided the nap could wait.
Instead, he slowly removed the long sickle strapped to his back, making sure that it glinted in
the sun. A flash of light hit the box near the likely location of the ginger's head, scorching the
wood like a wicked magnifying glass. The shoe stopped moving.
Blaise's face split into a malevolent grin, and he dashed forward. This was always his favorite
part.
But a moment later, he was standing behind the pile of crates with an empty boot in his hand.
And now he realized it was not even a girl's shoe. It was one of his ….
Shit.
"Reducto!" Ginny yelled, charging from across the vineyard and laughing at the victim of
what was indeed a clever trap.
Caught on the defensive, Blaise rolled across the grass and pulled out his wand. He threw up
a shield as fast as he could verbalize the charm.
"Protego!"
The crates around him exploded in a rainstorm of splinters and lemons, covering every bit of
exposed skin in sticky fruit juice. He was still shaking the mess off his hands when Ginny's
next attack hit the vines inches above his shoulder.
"Avada Kedavra!"
This time, Blaise ducked low, cursing bloody murder as the grapes behind him burst apart
like a hundred tiny purple firecrackers.
She was crazy.
Blaise heard the hex before he saw it.
"VESPERTILIO MUCILAGO!!!"
It struck right on target.
And now Blaise was squatting on the ground, dry heaving. Desperately jamming two fingers
up his nose to prevent an entire colony of black-winged mammals from escaping out his
nostrils. It felt like trying to stop a waterfall with a bucket.
While Blaise knew from Hogwarts that it would be over quickly if he freed the bats, he
absolutely refused to give Ginny the satisfaction. Not like this. Even if it meant that the little
beasties crawled up into his skull.
"Finit… Finete… Incant…"
Blaise struggled to voice the counterspell. Every time he tried, another twiggy black hand
clawed at his sinuses. It was worse than he remembered. Worse than an Unforgivable.
It was pure sadism.
Then the sun went dark. A figure loomed above Blaise, casting a shadow across his hunched
back. Ginny's presence seemed to energize the bats, who put forth a renewed effort to force
their way out of his nasal cavities.
Blaise was curled on the ground, hacking violently, when Ginny pressed a dagger to his
spasming throat.
"Just like old times, eh Zabini?" she taunted, bright brown eyes sparkling with equal parts
victory and madness. "Did you forget that it's healthier to let the bats out?"
"No… way… "
Ginny bit her upper lip as she reflected evilly, "The more you resist, the nastier it will be. My
brother resisted once, and he ended up with an eye twitch for the better part of a decade.
Healers said it was brain damage."
"You're… a fucking… monster," wheezed Blaise, hands still crushed against his nose, even
while the edge of Ginny's knife cut into his skin.
"A monster who's five sickles richer," boasted Ginny, shoving her knee into Blaise's chest,
pushing him into the grass. "Made a bet with Pangolin that charming a boot would work. She
didn't think you'd fall for it, but Jag agreed it was worth a shot."
Ginny leaned down, right above Blaise's scrunched-up face, and began to pry the fingers
from his nostrils one by one, saying, "I'll nullify the hex if you tell me everything you know
about Hermione and Malfoy."
It sounded like a threat, not an offer.
But Ginny was so close to him now. Near enough that he could see the intricate pattern in her
brown freckles. There were more spots than last week, and far more than when she was
younger. They changed like the constellations.
Blaise smirked, and unplugged his fingers.
All at once, a swarm of bats surged out of both bogeyless caves…. straight into Ginny's
shocked face.
She tumbled backward, attacked by her own creations.
Without a second's delay, Blaise rolled on top of her, trapping both hands under his knees;
pinning Ginny's own wand to her temple.
After releasing an adorably indigent "Hmph," Ginny glared up at him, enraged. He could
always tell exactly how mad she was by the intensity of her blush. Right now, for instance,
her neck was a brilliant fuchsia. Her cheeks, more red than cabernet.
"Lesson number ninety-eight," Blaise cackled, pressing his forehead to Ginny's so that all he
saw were shades of red, orange, and brown, "don't start the interrogation until you disarm
your victim. And that includes de-batting nostrils."
He felt Ginny's brow crinkle, and watched her eyes narrow. That reaction was expected.
The surprise came when she planted a light peck on his nose.
Then he felt cold metal on his skin and froze.
"I think this means I win," concluded Ginny, jiggling the tip of her knife until it nicked
Blaise's ribs.
"And I think I preferred the kiss," said Blaise snarkily, causing Ginny to wince and her knife
to dig in deeper.
He winced.
"That was NOT a kiss," she shot back, twisting to break out of his tight hold. But only one
arm was loose. The rest of her was still anchored to the grass.
Blaise grinned down at her like a Cheshire Cat. "Well whatever that was has room for
improvement," he lectured as Ginny continued to struggle. "My first point of feedback is that
you have horrible aim. You completely missed my mouth."
He leaned in closer, whispering into her lips, "Next time, do better, Weasley."
Then he was on his feet, dancing out of range as Ginny swung her weapon wildly.
Blaise was sniggering and raising his stolen wand for a counterstrike when a man called out.
They both turned to look.
Tony Albero was striding through the vineyard. His expression was tight, and he held a letter
in his hand.
"An owl from Hogwarts arrived at the decoy shelter. I'll set up a Floo connection in a
Railroad room, but you shouldn't keep them waiting," said Tony, not even blinking twice as
he interrupted his son and Ginny's violent confrontation. To be fair, it was not anything out of
the ordinary—they had been going at it like Tasmanian devils since January.
However, Blaise detected a streak of urgency in his father's voice. It chilled his pumping
blood.
"Who sent the letter?" he asked soberly, giving Ginny back her wand without meeting her
wide eyes.
"Theodore Nott," Tony replied.
"Lovely."
Blaise dusted himself off, cracked his neck, and headed for the outline of Main Station at the
opposite end of the balmy estate.
Tony fell into step with Blaise as he passed, speaking in hushed tones.
"Do you think it's about You-Know-Who invading Italy?"
"Theo doesn't normally contact me directly, so it's possible. If that is the situation, we need to
send word to every shelter in the capital immediately, and get help from Wales. We lost too
many the last time Death Eaters took the country. I won't let it happen again," glowered
Blaise.
"You're on his Cabinet this time around," his father pointed out, clearly worried. "You might
not have a choice in the matter, and I won't let you expose yourself. If you alert the Order
about the attack and it's a trick—"
"I know, Dad," Blaise sighed ruefully, Then he said, "This isn't my first rodeo. I'll verify
Theo's information before we try anything."
"They could suspect you after Paris. You risked your neck to get those detainees out, Blaise.
Someone might have connected the dots," Tony insisted.
The sound of fast-paced footsteps made Blaise cock his head back. He spotted Ginny
following them, hanging onto every eavesdropped word. He could never manage to keep
secrets from the she-weasel.
Seeing that she was found out, Ginny quickened to walk alongside the two men. "So what's
the plan? Should I go and Floo Angelina's squad? I'm sure they're willing to come back if
Voldemort is sending his army to Rome," she offered.
Rubbing his temples, Blaise replied tersely, "You are not doing anything. Stay here and wait
with the others like a good little subordinate."
"Fucking son of a bludger," the subordinate cursed, making Blaise snort and his father
cough.
"Sorry, Tony," mumbled Ginny. The middle-aged man waved it off, embarrassed.
Now they had reached the creaky front door of Main Station. Blaise pressed a signal coin to
his lips as he yanked it open, and all three entered.
He was starting to transfigure his Knife uniform when Ginny spoke up.
"You should physically change your clothes, not just charm them. Magic fades, and it would
be a dead giveaway if your robes start to revert to a bodysuit in front of Voldemort."
"She's not wrong. Better safe than sorry," agreed Tony.
"Fine!" Blaise snarled, walking into his father's apartment and rifling through the closet.
What a waste of time. Plus now they were ganging up on him.
"Accio Death Eater robes," Ginny said smartly, and a wrinkled lump of black fabric flew into
her arms, nearly knocking Blaise over in the process.
Blaise was still pulling the cloak over his shoulders as Tony led him toward one of the lesser-
used guestrooms off the hallway of fireplaces.
"I'll make sure you're not bothered," assured the Muggle man, patting his son on the back and
gently pushing him inside.
The door was almost shut when Ginny wedged her head in through the crack, yelling,
"BLAISE! YOUR SCARS! THEY'RE STILL SHOWING!"
Blaise flinched, eardrums throbbing. "Got it. Thanks," he said. He had indeed forgotten to
conceal the wonderful presents Malfoy left all over his face. A flick of his wand later, and his
ebony skin appeared smooth, but he still had to remember to refresh the spell periodically.
Then he pushed the intruding gingery head back into the corridor.
"Be careful out there, Zabini," Ginny ordered. And for a heartbeat, he caught a peculiar look
of respect in her expression.
Blaise saluted her before slamming the door, barely hiding the stupid, giddy smile on his
face.
He enjoyed her nagging.
Finished, Blaise strode through the compact bedroom—furnished with only a cot and wood-
burning fireplace. He dimmed the lights until the room was nearly dark. Then he knelt at the
hearth, noting that his father had thoughtfully left a pot of Floo powder on the mantle.
After reading the instructions on the owled letter, Blaise reached up to grab a handful of
emerald dust, tossing it into the empty fireplace and saying in a clear voice, "Hogwarts, Third
Floor Study Hall."
A woosh of brilliant green flames later, and Theo's head was sitting in the fire—looking like
a pompous, auburn log.
Before speaking, Theo's downturned eyes inspected Blaise and his surroundings. Then Theo
complained, "You always use a different fireplace. It makes it hard to reach you on short
notice. Just pick a bloody girl, settle down, and be done with it."
Ignoring the jibe, Blaise said loftily, "I assume the Dark Lord called you back to the castle
after what happened at your club? I was there earlier, but must have missed all the fun. So
you'll have to get me up to speed. From what I heard, it was a total shitshow."
Theo's sneer did not falter as he replied, "It was a miscalculation that won't be repeated. And
soon they'll wish they never tried anything. In fact, that's why I'm calling."
When Theo paused dramatically, Blaise rolled his eyes and said, "Go on then."
"Move your unit to our Western Vienna station in five days. The Austrians aren't cooperating
with his advances, and we received a tip that the Order is dispatching some of their higher-
ups for an official government meeting. You and Macnair will secure the city and make an
example out of any Muggles and dirty bloods who resist. It will send the terrorists a
message."
Blaise forced his face to remain an expressionless mask as the other man's instructions sank
in. They reeked of lies. Trickery. No one had ever mentioned invading Austria in the near
term, whereas Italy was constantly raised as their next target. Why the sudden reversal?
Unease twisted Blaise's stomach. Theo must suspect him of something, or it could be another
of the Dark Lord's loyalty tests. But in the end, it did not matter. He had to play along and go
to Austria, or risk everything.
"Duly noted. We'll be there and ready," said Blaise, picking at his sticky fingernails. "Just out
of curiosity, why didn't the Dark Lord summon and tell me about Vienna himself? Not that I
don't like any excuse to chat with my best mate's disembodied head," he clarified.
Theo laughed loudly enough that the fire flared around him like a green lion's mane.
"HAH! If you must know, there are going to be a few changes in his leadership structure,"
Theo explained smugly. "Maybe a few new openings—" Blaise clenched his fist out of
eyesight as Theo continued, "—From now on, all instructions are going through me, and he's
suspending Cabinet sessions. But don't fret about that. Just keep your eyes on your own
goalpost and you won't run into problems."
"If that's a Quidditch reference, I was never into sports, so don't blame me for not
understanding," Blaise yawned, stretching his arms.
"Oh, we all know you prefer games with higher stakes, Zabini," Theo intoned.
Then a CRASH sounded from somewhere behind Theo's back, and he spun around, speaking
to a person at Hogwarts who Blaise could not see. When Theo looked forward again, he had
the fakest smile plastered on his face. "We'll finish this in Vienna. Do try and stay out of
trouble until then."
"Yeah, yeah whatever."
Blaise was stepping away when Theo's withdrawing head spoke again.
"By the way, I'm putting that Firewhisky you took last week on your tab. I'm sure you were
getting too drunk off it to fight the Order, and didn't run off for another reason… But I'm still
collecting."
Then he vanished.
"Fucking hate that asswipe," sighed Blaise, giving the empty fireplace a middle finger salute.
***
The next morning, Blaise stood outside the gates of Malfoy Manor, stomach as twisted as the
Sectumsempra scars on his face.
He had gone back and forth about coming here all night, not sleeping a wink. And if he was
being honest with himself, he had been considering it for far longer than that. Apparating to
Wiltshire was hardly an impulse—he just could never pull the trigger.
The daunting iron gates fronting the estate were padlocked shut; sealed tighter than a bank
vault.
The sight made Blaise rethink his decision.
However, the uncertainty passed. Blaise drew his wand and stalked to the gates, tapping the
iron in the same rhythmic pattern previously used to signal his arrival. While he had not
signaled like this in four years, Malfoy would know what it meant.
But Malfoy did not come, and neither did any of his millions of servants. In fact, the entire
sprawling grounds looked more deserted than Blaise had ever seen on his past trips. Not a
single light flickered within the faroff mansion.
Blaise was about to give up and leave, when he heard the sudden CRACK of apparition.
Strangely, it came not from within the estate, but outside of it—from the trees just to his left.
He turned, and saw Malfoy leaning against a trunk, arms crossed. Surveying his unwanted
visitor coldly.
Neither spoke.
Though they had seen each other on the field and at the castle over the years, they never
interacted; both maintained a wide distance.
That had to change.
So Blaise stepped forward, saying, "I need your help."
Malfoy's pale eyes glinted as he replied, "What makes you think I would ever help you?"
"We can help each other," said Blaise woodenly. "The Dark Lord is clearly paranoid after
Paris. He's smoking out a traitor, and you understand better than anyone which two Death
Eaters his digging could unearth."
"I have no idea what you're going on about, Zabini."
"What did Theo tell you about Italy?" Blaise pressed, holding Malfoy's narrowed gaze. "I
think he's feeding us inconsistent information to see how we react. Did he tell you to go to
Rome or Vienna?"
Looking to the side, Malfoy said in an icy voice, "I never make the same mistake twice, and
I'm done with your horse trades. Find someone else to double-cross."
"So you DO remember our deal! I wasn't sure if you fucking Occluded your brain into mush
and forgot the Railroad," Blaise spat. "I always warned you it was dangerous to repress your
memories, but you were hooked on it. Like an addiction."
"You don't know anything."
"I know that you could have killed me after Hangleton, or handed me over to the Dark Lord
for a hundred different treasons over the years, and still haven't. Even after I fucked you over,
you never used the Railroad or my father against me as leverage," accused Blaise, expression
dark.
Malfoy glared at the gates above Blaise's head, hissing, "I was every bit as tangled up in the
Muggle-saving heroics as you, Zabini, in case you forgot. I'm not rash enough to implicate
myself.
"Then stop acting like you're one of them!" raged Blaise, positioning himself directly in
Malfoy's line of vision. "You can't convince me you changed that much after Azkaban. You
never gave a rat's ass about the regime or any of it. And you can't deny how much you've
risked, how much you've sacrificed, for the Order… and for Granger."
Now Malfoy stood tall, exuding deadly intimidation. The grass and dirt beneath his feet
began to freeze as the temperature plunged until it was as cold as deep winter. Even the sky
shadowed.
It was damn terrifying.
Nonetheless, Blaise held his ground, observing how the other man did not reach for his wand
holster.
He smirked up at Malfoy, calling his bluff. This was nothing new.
"We used to compare homework all the time in school. I showed you my notes, so it's your
turn. Are you being sent to Rome?" demanded Blaise.
They locked eyes—neither backing down. Then Malfoy answered, catching Blaise off guard.
"Yes. Everyone except you will be in Italy by Wednesday night. We'll strike at daybreak. It's
likely that you were the only one given divergent instructions."
"Thought so… And if I tip off the Order or go anywhere but Vienna, it would be like
climbing up the Astronomy Tower, waving a flag, and shouting, 'I'm the traitor, come get
me'," reasoned Blaise, rubbing his chin.
"Yes."
Heaving a great sigh, Blaise plopped onto the ground and began picking at an icy dandelion.
"Well this fucking sucks."
Malfoy seemed to think, then said slowly, "If I were you, I would do as the Dark Lord
directed. Italy isn't worth unmasking yourself for. The resistance can attempt to take it back
again in the future."
"Last go around, I lost friends," Blaise vented. "And most of the non-magic population
around the capital still hasn't recovered. They turned my home country into a warzone. It was
a damn bloodbath—one that I won't repeat."
"You're smarter than this, Zabini. Just walk away and let it go. Don't make it personal,"
Malfoy cautioned.
Blaise laughed bitterly, then said, "Is that what you told Granger before firebombing a
Christmas party for her?"
For half a second, Malfoy looked as frozen solid as the ground at his feet. Then his lip
twinged and he sat down next to Blaise, noting coolly, "Technically, she was the one who set
the Château on fire."
Blaise guffawed. "Damn. Credit where credit's due. Next time I piss off that pyromaniac, I'll
do it near a body of water."
The atmosphere began to warm, the grass thawed. And Malfoy said seriously, "Let's make
another bargain."
Blaise stared at him in disbelief. Malfoy paused before going on, "I'll help evacuate the
civilian population. I still remember how to reach your Italian shelters, and I'll leave bodies in
their place. It won't stop the Dark Lord from seizing control, but it should reduce the number
of casualties."
"You would really do that? After everything?"
Malfoy's blond brows furrowed. "Yes, but—"
"Yes, but you don't do anything for free. I know how it works," interrupted Blaise. "So what
do you want in return?"
Malfoy sat silently for a while. His gaze was fixed to the Dark Mark on his forearm. As if he
could will it to disappear.
Eventually, he said, "If anything happens to me, take care of Granger. She trusts you. And
you can be there for her in a way I can't."
Blaise cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, saying in a gruff voice, "There you go
again, being all dark and moody. Always pretending you're about to drop dead any second."
Then he jumped to his feet, offering Malfoy a firm hand. "It's a deal."
Rather than shake it, Malfoy faced away and rose to his own feet. "You should also know that
there is a spy on the Order's Council," he said, lips stretched thin. "I can't tell you more than
that, but keep it in mind."
"Duly noted," said Blaise, eyes wide.
Malfoy nodded, and began to walk into the forest instead of the Manor.
As his back disappeared between the trees, Blaise finally shouted the apology he only ever
delivered to his bedroom mirror.
"Your parents died because I made the wrong decision. I regret it. Every single day."
Malfoy's shoulders tensed, and he said, "Just keep Granger safe."
Then he melted into the shadows. A moment later, the thunderous CRACK of disapparition
sent a flock of sparrows flapping out of the leaf cover, soaring into the open air.
Blaise watched them fly over the forest and fade into the horizon.
Once they were gone, he looked back to the Manor gates as he pulled out a Portkey to return
home.
"I promise."
Necromancy and Other Rituals
And he have not slept this eight weeks, I’ll speak with him.
***
Hermione | Cardiff, Wales
Hermione was nodding off when the sand tickled her cheek. She rolled over onto her back
and noticed Draco was awake, watching the indigo sky. Her eyes rose to join his as they
followed the curved path of a meteorite.
They were laying together on the dark beach in his mind, passing the hours like they did
every night regardless of their actual distance.
It was not Legilimency.
It was so much more, and it was real.
When Draco caught her staring, he moved her head to his shoulder, brushing the sand from
her face. Hermione curled into him like a pillow, then began to slowly unbutton his shirt. His
hand moved to stop her, but without much effort. A moment later, she was tracing a finger
along each line on his chest, leaving a kiss on every deep and shallow scar.
Draco rasped when she reached the marks above his heart, pulling her down. She could feel it
beating against her lips—a racing pulse that vibrated through her own body and left her
wanting more. Draco knew. He always knew. And soon his smooth hand roamed down the
peak of her breast, the divet of her hip, and lower. Worshiping every inch of her skin.
She sighed, arching against him. Bridging even their metaphysical distance.
His mouth found the hollow of her collarbone, sending a slithering cold down her spine.
Then he was sliding up in the sand to hold her jaw. Caressing her lips with a velvet soft kiss.
It was beautiful magic.
A dose of healing elixir that brought Hermione back to life every single night. A ritual more
necessary than sleeping.
In the harsh daylight of Headquarters, Hermione sometimes wondered if these stolen hours
with Draco were merely dreams. After all, their bond seemed as unlikely as fiction.
But each night when she fell asleep and woke up in Draco's arms, she remembered. And her
doubts melted away faster than snow under a hot sun.
At the same time, Draco continued to believe she was only drawn to him because of
necromancy. While his touch was laced with desire, there was such conflict in his burning
eyes. Hermione had no idea how to assuage his doubts, or if it was even possible when she
had so little understanding of her own strange existence.
She was bullheaded enough to try.
So tonight, Hermione nestled into his side and asked a question.
"How can I prove that I have my own free will?"
Draco's voice was muted as he posed his own question instead.
"If you no longer had the Unbreakable Vow, would you still risk everything to end the Dark
Lord?"
She looked at Draco. His face was turned away, but it was so quiet on the beach that she
could hear his every exhale and inhale. They perfectly matched the push and pull of the tide.
"Yes," Hermione answered, closing her eyes. "Everything."
She did not feel Draco leave.
***
A pair of inky figures walked together along the shore of the Black Lake. Dawn was breaking
behind the castle, shimmering in the yellow sun like a distant mirage. Its towers, peaks, and
flying buttresses gave the illusion of stone palm trees floating above a golden oasis.
However, the grounds beneath Hogwarts were black as sin, not yet touched by the
encroaching daylight. And this morning there was no smile on Voldemort's sallow face as he
came to a halt at the waterline, hands clasped behind his back, serpentine eyes closed.
Draco hovered behind him, head bowed and gaze moored on the grainy shore, like a ship
waiting to carry his master to an unknown harbor.
There was no sign of life in the water. When Voldemort opened his eyes, it was only to view
his own mirrored image on the stagnant surface. His voice was equally reflective.
"You are weak, Draco. Despite that, you listen to me more than the others. You built your
house on solid rock. When the tide rises, your house will not crumble."
Now Voldemort began to walk into the dusky lake. His robes billowed around him. He
continued preaching.
"It is becoming clear that another man does not listen. He is a fool who built his house on
sand. When the ocean swells, it will take his house with it."
Draco stepped forward, asking, "What do you want, my lord?"
The question seemed to pain Voldemort, who sighed and lamented, "Find the traitor. Kill him
and his entire household. Turn him, then give me the corpse and tell me what you find inside
his mind. I want to know why he betrayed his master."
"Understood," replied Draco, moving to leave.
Voldemort tilted his head up, and the sun lit his face like a blazing torch. He hissed, "Never
forget that your foundation is built on mine, Draco. Your life is only as permanent as your
faithfulness."
At his words, Draco came to an abrupt stop and doubled over. He began to choke, as if he
was breathing daggers instead of air. Then he fell to his knees, clawing through the cloth on
his chest until his hands grew red with blood.
Voldemort glided up from the lakeshore, smiling down at Draco while he continued to dig
fingernails into the skin over his heart.
"I knew you didn't forget," said Voldemort, turning his skeletal face toward the castle.
Laughing at the rising dawn as if it brought with it a great and terrible joke.
***
Hermione woke up shaking.
Voldemort's laughter still pierced her ears. She gasped for air, it felt like her throat was
closing up. Then a white-hot pain radiated through her chest—a cattle brand searing into her
skin.
This nightmare-induced agony lasted longer than normal. Only when Hermione's flitting eyes
steadied enough to see wooden rafters, instead of the sky above Hogwarts, was she hauled
back to her surroundings.
To her monastery bedroom.
The last thing she remembered before entering this vision was falling asleep with Draco on
the dark beach in his head. The next thing she knew, he was with Voldemort. It did not feel
like a dream or old memory, but something else. Like she was a ghost eavesdropping on their
conversation.
Hermione's eyes darted to her stained glass window, and she saw the sun rising through the
distorted pane. It was at nearly the same height that it appeared above the Great Lake.
It must be a vision of the present.
Now Hermione sat up in bed, gaze locked on the cross above her doorway, breaking apart
what she had seen. The last time she had a vision, Draco obviously let her slip into his mind
as a warning. To warn her to leave the Manor because Voldemort learned about Gabrielle. So
what was he telling her now? And why was he hurt?
Hermione untangled herself from the sheets, and knelt on the prayer cushion in the center of
her monk's cell. Shutting her eyes and opening her mind.
"What happened?" Hermione pleaded anxiously.
She heard nothing in response, so called out to him again and again and again.
"What did Voldemort do to you?"
"Are you still at Hogwarts?"
"Where are you? Answer me."
Draco still did not reply, and Hermione continued to speak voicelessly until the first bells of
the morning rang out across the courtyard, jerking her out of a hypnotic state. Hours must
have passed.
Suddenly she heard Draco say, "I'm here." He sounded so tired.
"Are you hurt?" Hermione asked urgently, heart beating out of her chest.
Draco hesitated, then replied, "No, but the Dark Lord is becoming wary. I need to shield you
from my head. Hopefully not for more than a week. I'm sorry."
"I… understand."
"Hermione," Draco said, and she listened intently, "don't trust the Council."
Before she could ask for an explanation or even say goodbye, he was gone. She could feel his
absence in her mind.
Hermione tried to stand, then stumbled. Her whole lower half was numb from kneeling so
long in the same fixed position. Rather than try to get up, she lay down on the hard floor,
letting her tears soak into the prayer cushion.
Until she heard Draco's voice, she had convinced herself that he was dead. Ever since
learning about her own death at Glen Lochy, it was so hard to discern dreams from reality.
And more than that, even just imagining Draco being tortured brought her back to the last
time he went to Hogwarts. The agonizing period when she did not even know if he was alive,
or had succumbed to the Basilisk venom. The dread that battered her heart for those long
three weeks was like a scar tissue.
Maybe it was necromancy, or her own trauma—there was no peace when they were apart.
But they were always apart.
And she was slowly fading.
***
Draco | Hogwarts, Scotland

As Draco drifted through the tapestried corridors, he felt more like a shadow than a human.
Though his firm steps echoed loudly off the arched stone walls and down the empty spiral
staircases, he may as well be invisible because no one was around to tell the difference.
Despite that, everywhere he looked was filled with memories—only some of which were his.
For example, the oak door to his right evoked the memory of a lively conversation with an
Arithmancy professor who he never met. And yet he could visualize Professor Vector's stern
expression and red robes in his mind. It all made Draco wonder who owned this memory—
who, out of the thousands he revived, was the one to think of a subject as dull as Arithmancy
as they passed.
…Possibly Granger.
But Draco's educated guess, and every other thought about Granger, was gone within a
second; pushed down. Suppressed. It was too dangerous to let his mind wander here in
Hogwarts so close to the Dark Lord.
Draco stepped onto a moving spiral staircase, winding its way down to the second level.
While he stood, he continued to reinforce the defenses in his head, reshape the mask on his
face. He always detested coming to the school—regardless of what the sycophants said,
everyone knew that being summoned here was an obligation, not an honor.
It was not Hogwarts anymore.
At least not the Hogwarts of his adolescence. Today, and for the past six years, it was
occupied territory. The spoils of a war so long that it bookended the prior century and the
start of this one. And if the Dark Lord truly could go on forever, then maybe it would also
span the next century. By then, would anyone even understand what the hell they were doing,
or would it just be an inherited hatred? A fight with no objective. Meaningless.
Maybe they already reached that point.
The second floor gallery was nearly as empty, if you did not count the muttering portraits and
creaking suits of armor. A pair of cloaked figures lurked together near the wall, speaking in
low voices. But they ducked around a corner as soon as Draco appeared. Lately people had
been speculating that being close to him would cause their own death—cut their lives short.
Like he was a fucking Grim. He had heard their whispers. It was like they did not even
understand the purpose of necromancy. Though he could hardly blame them. It was not
exactly a school elective like Ancient Runes.
CRACK
Draco did not flinch when a female kitchen elf suddenly apparated before him. Without
saying a word, she bowed and stretched out a bony hand—a red envelope was clasped in her
trembling fist. He took it, dismissing the elf with a small nod.
Once he finished reading, the paper crumbled into dust, taking the Dark Lord's summons with
it.
Draco turned around, and began walking toward the Great Lake.
***
Some hours later, he was sitting in what used to be the Slytherin Common Room. He had
already healed his wounds and washed the blood from his hands. Now his head rested against
the back of a winged armchair, as if he was sleeping.
He was not.
He was Occluding. He was eliminating another vulnerability. Granger had tried to contact
him while he was with the Dark Lord, and now he could not force her out of his head.
The Delacour ruse was never a permanent solution—he was not that deluded. Eventually,
they would realize he kept no one at the Manor besides Kreacher. It would only take one slip
up for this precarious house of cards to come crashing down, taking Granger with it. He was
getting sloppy. Soft. And one of these days, it would get her killed.
The whispers were right. Being near him was a curse.
Not that Draco was unique in that regard. There was no such thing as an old Death Eater. It
was an unspoken fact that the previous generation was slowly vanishing. Some were
executed publicly, but others seemed to dissolve into the shadows. His own aunt had not been
seen since last winter. No doubt purged for her weakness.
Aging was a threat to him, bringing with it too many connections, opinions, and context.
There was a reason their ranks were composed almost entirely of young men, naive and eager
to pledge themselves to a greater cause. To sign their lives away for nothing. Impressionable
enough to ascribe to the idea that something as amorphous and manufactured as blood purity
was worth dying for—unable to think for themselves and see through a snake's
manipulation.
Draco tried to tell himself that he was not like them, and originally came here for a real
purpose. But he knew deep down that he was no better. His arm had the same black brand. It
mattered little why he took the Mark years and years ago, when they all served the same
slavemaster.
If anything, he was worse than them. Because he had knowingly tied the noose around his
neck with his own hands. All for two reasons—two faces—that only lived on as memories.
Draco pressed his head into his palms and sighed bitterly. It was so damp in the low,
underwater chamber that he could see the white vapor in his breath.
A flick of his wand later, and a fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece,
providing the facade of warmth and light. Draco was sinking into his high-backed chair again
when the stone door to the Common Room slid open.
He closed his eyes anyway.

"Thought I would find you here, Malfoy. You're as predictable about your favorite napping
spots as a cat."
Still watching the insides of his lids instead of Theo, Draco asked, "What do you want,
messenger dog?"
Theo let out a thin chuckle. "Just dog today, considering you already got your orders from
him."
"So what do you want, just dog?" Draco said flatly, finally looking at his smirking classmate.
Reaching up to spin one of the round, greenish lamps hanging from a chain on the ceiling,
Theo sighed, "Nothing at all. I wanted to visit my old haunt, same as you. Maybe tonight I'll
even crash out in a dorm room to get the full experience."
Draco sniffed, skeptical. Knowing that Theo, like the rest of the "senior" followers (whatever
the hell that meant), stayed in former professor's quarters and offices when they were
required to remain at Hogwarts. Draco himself was permanently assigned a study room on
the fourth floor. Although he was typically only there a few horrendous days each month.
"And who says I need a reason to come here? It's a Common Room for Merlin's sake," Theo
noted. Then he dropped his hand and leaned forward, saying, "I am interested in knowing one
thing though."
"Go ahead and ask," said Draco, lazily tapping the side of his chair, as if he was holding
court.
"What did the Dark Lord tell you today?"
Draco's answering snort was as short as it was derisive. "The man with a million secrets
wants one of mine… Like I would tell you anything."
The vein in Theo's temple was threatening to make an appearance, so Draco said, "Truthfully,
we didn't speak about much, except—" he paused for dramatic effect. Theo gritted his teeth.
"—except," Draco went on, smiling, "the Dark Lord mentioned your fuck up at the Revue. I
think the word he used was disappointment."
Rubbing his chin in mock consideration, Draco drawled, "Actually, no. The exact word he
used was pathetic."
Then Draco sat back and watched the show. It was too easy to get under Theo's skin, both
during school and now. With or without liquor. Easy, but so satisfying.
The sound of tramping footsteps and a snarled password made both men turn toward the
entrance.
A group of pimply-faced rookies was pushing through the door. When they saw Draco and
Theo silhouetted in their armchairs before the fireplace, they shuffled quickly toward the
dormitory.
Unfortunately, the interruption gave Theo enough time to self-regulate. He tousled his auburn
hair, gushing, "I'll never understand what dirt he has on you, Malfoy. It's bloody obvious to
everyone how much you hate all of this. But you always do WHATEVER he says. Murder
WHOEVER he wants. Doesn't matter if you knew them, or even if they gave birth to you."
Draco's nostrils flared. His nails dug hard enough into the armrest to pierce the leather.
"Who the fuck—"
"Same person who told me that you returned Gabrielle Delacour to the terrorists last
December!" Theo burst out, eyes sparkling. "Which made me wonder what girl was warming
your bed when I paid you a visit." His head was tilted up, so that his overly loud voice
bounced off the low ceiling and around the roughly hewn stone walls. "I've been giving it a
lot of thought lately, and I'm certain it's the one you were hiding behind your back at
Christmas. The thing is, I already know her."
Theo smirked, then finished, "Imagine my surprise finding out the pure-blood prince has a
taste for dirty blood."
"Tell me who fed you those lies," Draco hissed.
"A million secrets, remember?" intoned Theo, flashing his sharp teeth. "So the next time you
want to compare sizes, make sure you're prepared to come out the loser."
"Mea culpa," Draco replied, voice dripping in ice.
Then his eyes flashed to the large window at the front of the room, which looked out into the
depths of the Great Lake. Eerie ripples danced around the underwater chamber, making it feel
even farther beneath the surface.
Draco stood, crossing to the window and touching his palm to the murky glass.
Within seconds, dark forms emerged from the shadows and swam toward him. Sunken, dead
faces and waterlogged fingers pressed against the other side of the window. Clawing at the
flimsy portal between their worlds. Reaching toward Draco like a hundred nightmarish
reflections.
At the necromantic demonstration, Theo stopped smiling and sat straighter in his chair.
Draco let out a scathing laugh.
"Your turn."
The Soul Reader
Master Doctor, I heard this lady, while she lived, had a wart or mole in her neck: how
shall I know whether it be so or no?
***
Hermione did not rise until the second bells of the day signaled twelve noon, ruining her ears
and reminding her that she had somewhere to be. After feeling Draco's comforting presence
leave her mind that morning, she had not been able to move, let alone fall back asleep.
It took a Herculean effort to peel her cheek off the pillow. Getting the pins and needles out of
her legs took even longer. But eventually, she stood and began to dress.
The courtyard outside was packed with people enjoying the balmy weather, lounging against
pillars and trading stories. Hermione weaved through, noting Infantry uniforms, healer robes,
and hospital gowns. But she recognized almost no one. General recruitment had clearly
increased over the months—an equal and opposite reaction to the spread of the Death Eater
regime.
It was a good development, yet sometimes Hermione reminisced about their early days in
Grimmauld Place, when the Order of the Phoenix was small enough to fit around a kitchen
table. Although it hardly felt like it at the time, things were so much easier then.
The crowd began to thin when Hermione climbed up to the second floor corridor, then
crossed an elevated walkway connecting the Monastery to an adjoining seminary. The
medieval religious school had been taken over by the researchers. Hermione had very little
insight into exactly what they did here, but knew from past Council meetings that they were
tasked with investigating Horcruxes, blood magic, Inferius, and even more sinister weapons.
Without their inventions and breakthroughs, the resistance would have folded ages ago.
Most of the classroom doors were closed with only a few lab-coated witches walking
between them, headed to their lunch break. Hermione made a beeline for the auditorium at
the end of the corridor.
She entered, eyes wide. She had never been in this particular space, and wondered if she was
even allowed in light of her other security restrictions. Hopefully nobody would report her
presence to Kingsley. That was why she initially made her research request when Luna was
off duty.
Fortunately, only Luna remained inside the auditorium, though it was difficult to spot her
amidst the clutter. The interior was lined with long metal tables, almost every inch of which
was covered in complicated-looking devices. Whirring and buzzing noises filled the air so
that it was hard to hear anything above the racket. Hermione could only see Luna's dirty
blond hair poking out above a precarious stack of cauldrons; could barely hear her speak. The
entire chaotic effect made Hermione think of the Room of Requirement.
When Hermione drew closer, she began to make out Luna's words—the other witch had not
noticed the noise issue, and was in the middle of a dreamy sentence.
"—which is why I mentioned the private militia angle. If Cornelius Fudge had his own army
of heliopaths, who's to say that Voldemort wouldn't as well? Because if you really think about
it, there's no soldier more destructive than a fire spirit. Just imagine: great tall flaming beasts
that gallop across the field burning everything in front of—"
"Sorry, I missed what you were saying," apologized Hermione. But before Luna could repeat
herself, she said quickly, "Thanks for meeting with me today. I know we don't have much
time until the rest of your team comes back. I'd like to keep our conversation personal, so I'd
appreciate it if we hurry."
"Oh yes, of course," replied Luna, blinking herself back on topic. Then she plucked the wand
from where it was stuck behind her ear, and led Hermione to a lab table covered with a lumpy
white sheet, explaining, "I've been dissecting this specimen since the Special Force brought
her back last week, though it's gotten more tricky as she decays."
Luna removed the sheet in one fluid motion, like she was stripping a bed, unveiling an
abysmally pale woman. She was lying on her back atop the cold metal surface, arms crossed
above her inert chest, eyes open and milky. So many gaping, bloodless incisions riddled the
corpse's pearl-white skin that even Pangolin would have had trouble finding a fresh spot to
mutilate.
Hermione gulped as she took in the sight.
A serene smile remained on Luna's mouth as she continued breezily, "Ginny reported that
Draco Malfoy's Inferi were faster in Paris, so we examined this body for physical
abnormalities. I've ruined three lab coats because it's been rather messy."
"And what did you learn?" asked Hermione, feeling nauseous.
"Less than nothing!" Luna admitted right away, like she had made a grand discovery. Then
she mused, "I suppose we've confirmed that there's nothing anatomically different about her
compared to Inferi we've studied over the years, meaning that any enhanced abilities must
come down to dark magic. She hasn't moved an inch though, which is why we removed the
handcuffs after a few days."
Hermione stared at the cadaver, resisting the urge to hold her own arm up and compare
complexions. But it seemed like just that—a discarded shell, not a human. Motionless.
Lifeless.
Dead.
Luna interrupted her thoughts, saying, "I've also learned less than nothing about your
question. I have no clue if an Inferius can have a soul. All I have confirmed is that this one
does not."
"How?" asked Hermione, gaze shooting from the grizzly body to her smiling companion.
"How can you prove she doesn't have a soul?"
"Oh! I thought that was obvious, considering the Horcrux investigation team is our best-
funded."
Now Luna skipped down an adjacent aisle of tables, trailed by Hermione. She stopped in
front of what resembled a large dog crate stuffed with blankets. As she watched, the fabric
moved, and a tiny deer head emerged. Then the blankets fell off entirely, and Hermione
decided it was definitely not a deer, seeing that its entire back was covered in bronze scales.
Weirder yet, the creature had two whiskers as long as tendrils curling off its snout, like long
mustaches.
Picking up on Hermione's confusion, Luna offered, "This is a Qilin, otherwise known as a

half-horse half-dragon native to China."
And suddenly Hermione's mind flashed back to last November—to tearing through the
Malfoy Manor library in search of a spell to heal Blaise. She remembered finding Draco's
note with Vulnera Sanentur in a book about how Gellert Grindelwald resurrected a Qilin.
A soul reader.
A magical beast with the ability to look into a person's soul and judge purity of heart.
"He's a baby Qilin," Luna went on, reaching through the bars to stroke the creature's tiny
snoot. It chittered and leaned into her hand. "The Order imported him from a magizoology
reserve in Kweilin specifically to use on the Soul Project. We figured it'd be helpful to have a
way to detect souls considering the importance of Horcruxes. But Biyu is still too young to
go out on the field. Once he's grown, we're planning to send him with a scouting unit on their
hunt for Nagini. Until then, we get to train him here."
Stretching her own fingers through the bars and receiving a scratchy lick in return, Hermione
said, "So you used… Biyu to prove the Inferius you dissected doesn't have a soul?"
"Well, he's not the most accurate yet, being so little," Luna said happily, "but both myself and
Biyu agree she doesn't have a soul. And probably, not much of a pure heart left either."
Hermione glanced hastily back toward the auditorium door, then the clock hanging above it
—still at least twenty minutes to spare before the end of the lunch break. She kept her voice
low as she said, "I think it's time for your next test subject, Luna."
"Let's do it then," agreed Luna. "Where's the second dead body you were bringing in today?
Did you shrink it down to fit in your bag?" Luna surveyed Hermione, searching for and
failing to spot the charmed beaded bag she used to carry.
Hermione took a deep breath, then admitted quietly, "Actually… it's me."
Luna's protuberant eyes widened so that she looked madder than ever. She stared at
Hermione with more curiosity than she ever afforded her upside-down Quibbler.
However, it only took a moment for Luna to accept the bizarre statement—she had always
been eager to believe the improbable after all—and say, "Well, that explains why your eyes
and skin changed a bit, though you do seem alive at present. So when did you die?"
Hermione leaned against the side of a table, nerves shot. When she initially approached Luna
in hopes of learning more about herself, she hesitated to disclose the entire story. Even now,
the prospect of recounting a death she could not remember disturbed Hermione. Then again,
maybe Draco was right. No one knew when they died, just like no one remembered being
born.
As Hermione was considering where to start, her eyes wandered around the room and landed
on a silvery glowing Pensieve resting on a nearby table. It would be simplest to show Luna
everything using that enchanted artifact. And yet, she did not want to relive the Battle of the
Valley a third time.
So Hermione closed her eyes, and reluctantly recounted that dreadful night using her words,
describing how she fought under the Invisibility Cloak; why Mad-Eye Moody sent her to
extract Harry; her frantic rush to find him amidst the chaos.
When she reached the events leading up to her fatal wounds, Hermione spoke even more
slowly, trying not to spare any detail, no matter how agonizing.
After far too long, she concluded, "I must have underestimated how seriously I was injured. I
was just trying to get to Harry before Voldemort attacked, and didn't stop to think of anything
else. At first I barely felt any pain."
"Probably the adrenaline. So when did you start to regain sensation?" chirped Luna, twirling
her Dirigible Plum earring, thoroughly engaged.
Hermione weighed the question, deciding softly, "Everything became real when I saw
Voldemort kill Harry. When I saw him die in front of me, I knew that I failed. Then when
Ron—" Now Hermione was shaking. She looked away.
"Interesting," Luna said, dangerously chewing on the end of her wand as she thought. "A
wound to the Achilles heel wouldn't normally be enough to kill a person, but there are several
major arteries near that section of the leg. If those were severed, you would have bled out in
minutes."
Hermione continued uneasily, "I—don't fully know what happened after, but I remember
getting to Harry and taking off the cloak. Then I lost consciousness. I came to when Draco
Malfoy apparated to the Valley. I heard him revive Inferi, including Harry. So I moved to
Ron's body. Everything started to go black. I thought I lost consciousness again, but—I must
have—I—"
"You died," Luna concluded. "Then what?"
A coldness fell over Hermione, but she forced herself to continue.

"Then the next voice I heard was Draco's. I heard him speak the curse a second time… and I
woke up."
"You came back to life," corrected Luna, eyes dancing as she began to walk around Hermione
in a circle, inspecting her body.
"Yes. Draco healed my injuries and took me to Voldemort. The final time I regained
consciousness, I was in Azkaban. And everything felt empty. I didn't understand why at the
time."
"Empty how?"
The words would not come, so Hermione just shook her head.
"Were you ever kissed by a Dementor?"
"No."
Hermione jerked when she felt Luna's wand prod her temple as she asked, "When did you
come out of that catatonic state?"
"When Draco began talking to me every day. He… well you probably figured it out by
now… he was the one who kept me company in Azkaban. Not his father."
"Ah, yes that makes sense. He did like to visit me and Mr. Ollivander when we were
hostages," Luna commented, without a hint of resentment in her tone.
Hermione nodded. "From that point on I was able to think more clearly. And you know the
rest. After eleven months, Ginny took me back to Headquarters. I started Occlumency, but I
was never able to block Draco from my mind." Then she added swiftly, "Please keep all of
this between us, Luna."
"Your secret's safe with me. Me and Biyu, that is," assured Luna, "since I presume you want
to know if you still have a soul after reanimating?"
The agreement was on Hermione's tongue when she thought twice, and clarified, "I want to
know if I have free will."
Luna progressed to jabbing her wand into Hermione's chest. "That's the same thing,
Hermione. If you have a soul, you have free will. They're tied together, you see? True Inferi
don't have souls or autonomy once they come back from the afterlife. Precisely the opposite
of Voldemort, when he was weak and hiding in Albania—back then he was only a soul and
no physical body. Inferi and Dementors, on the other hand, only have bodies. We've learned
that much over the years."
Then Luna dropped her wand, spun around, and knelt to open the Qilin's crate, saying, "So
let's test out the theory and learn exactly what's left inside of you."
As soon as the door swung wide, Biyu hopped out. His hind legs had a slight avian curve to
them, like an ostrich. He did not seem used to them quite yet, bumbling around the floor in a
gangly sort of way. If Hermione was not so busy regulating her breathing, she would have
thought it cute.
Before Biyu wandered too far, Luna looped a leash around his scaly neck, and guided him
back toward the dissected Inferius.
"So how does it work?" asked Hermione, following them.
Rather than answer, Luna tied the creature to a chair, then began stretching her back and
twisting her hips. "First help me get the body down so he can reach her," Luna said,
limbering up.
Hermione moved to obey, sliding her arms beneath the corpse's stiff torso, while Luna
grabbed both legs. A firm heave later, and the corpse was off the table and onto the floor,
already being sniffed curiously by the Qilin.
"Not so fast, Biyu," Luna scolded, pulling him away. "You'll distort the results if you start
without a base reading. We need to be methodical."
"Base reading?"
"Using me. I'm pretty sure I have a soul. Although I've been known to sleepwalk, so it's
within the realm of possibility that I misplaced mine at some point." Then Luna rubbed her
chin, thinking. "But I still qualify as the best control subject."
After pushing another hand through her hair—mussing it even further until she really did
look like a mad scientist—Luna dragged Hermione to the end of the aisle. Then Luna took
the opposite side herself, so that the corpse lay in between them. Hermione could not help but
feel self-conscious, queued up like this, and glanced toward the doors again. No one.
"Hao de. Biyu, kaishi," Luna instructed the Qilin.
"He only knows Mandarin, you see," she explained to Hermione. Though it looked like the
creature was not versed in any language, since he was now balled up and taking a nap.
However, with another minute of coaxing, Biyu relented and lumbered toward Luna.
"Kaishi," Luna repeated as he neared, and the whiskers on Biyu's nose began to wiggle, like
two long caterpillars. Luna squatted in response, and let the whiskers run over the length of
her face, chest, and stomach. Giggling as she was scanned meticulously. It must tickle.
Once the Qilin reached her toes, he chuffed in satisfaction. Then he lowered his head and
front legs until he genuflected before Luna; bowing more deeply than a Hippogriff.
"One soul down, two to go," said Luna, giving the creature's head a small pet and leading him
toward the corpse.
Hermione watched them anxiously from the end of the row, feeling like she was waiting for
O.W.L. results.
It was an effort to drag Biyu to his next subject. He resisted Luna's tugs, digging his hooves
in and pulling away. And when he finally did give in and start to sniff the Inferius, he
recoiled as if his whiskers were singed. No soul.
Luna did not seem perturbed, moving the Qilin on to Hermione and saying, "You should sit
or kneel since he's little."
Once Hermione was resting on her knees, Biyu approached hesitantly. His doe eyes were
rounded as he slowly unfurled his whiskers to brush down Hermione's body. It was a strange
sensation—akin to being touched by a feather.
The Qilin took much longer to inspect Hermione, who tried not to move a muscle in case it
affected the reading.
After scanning Hermione for a third time, Biyu at last seemed to make a determination,
bending his head a few inches, like he was ducking. It was not the full bow he gave Luna,
and not the aversion he showed the Inferius, but something… in the middle.
Tidal waves of loss and hope clashed within Hermione at the sight of the bending creature.
As she tried to decipher the implications for her soul.
For her free will.
While Hermione was thinking, Luna walked over. Her already dazed face was a portrait of
bewilderment.
"I've never seen him do that before!" she exclaimed.
"What does it mean?" asked Hermione, extending her hand to stroke the magical creature.
Luna said without any hesitation, "It means you're alive and have a soul, Hermione."
For a while after that, Hermione simply sat cross-legged on the floor, lost in deep
introspection. Barely hearing Luna's rambling.
"—or you at least have some soul left after dying. Maybe you weren't gone long enough to
lose all of it. Or maybe it grew back, like a starfish. I'll have to dig into that angle—"
When the chatter of researchers filled Hermione's ears, she was jerked back to her senses.
She turned.
Dozens of lab coat-wearing witches and wizards were coming back from their lunch break,
filing into the auditorium, and returning to their workstations. A few stared at Hermione, who
looked quite out of place in her jumper and jeans.
Luna was now spouting some nonsense about sea creatures and the Rotfang Conspiracy, not
even seeming to notice their bustling surroundings.
Suddenly remembering another question, Hermione leaned in closer, whispering urgently,
"Do you know anything about Unbreakable Vows?"
"Of course," Luna confirmed. "A binding magical contract tied to your life force, but that's
separate from your soul, if that's why you're asking?"
"What do you mean separate?"
Luna pulled at her plum earring, saying, "Well, a human can go on living without a soul. Just
look at the hundreds of prisoners still in Azkaban after their souls were sucked out by
Dementors. On the other hand, the whole purpose of an Unbreakable Vow is to kill the
oathbreaker, so it wouldn't make sense to tie the Vow to something you technically don't need
to survive."
"Then does that mean—"
BANG BANG BANG
A woman who must be one of Luna's teammates was smacking Biyu's empty crate and
whistling for the Qilin to go back inside. Hermione winced at the noise.
"We'll talk later. I should go—"
"Hey! She can't be in here, Lovegood!"
Both witches started as a lanky, bespectacled man called out across the table, pointing an
accusatory finger at them. "No visitors without security clearance. You should know better
than to sneak friends in here for your freaky experiments."
"They're not freaky, they're scientific," said Luna coldly, tucking her wand behind her ear and
pulling Hermione toward the exit.
They were barely in the walkway outside when Luna abruptly jumped, as if shocked, and
exclaimed, "I almost forgot to give them to you! Wait here one second." Then she charged
back into the large room, leaving Hermione lurking by the doorway more confused than
ever.
After much longer than one second, Luna reappeared and shoved a stack of dog-eared
notebooks into Hermione's hands.
"These were Harry's journals. The Soul Project finished with them last month, and I think
they should stay with you. No one in the Order has a better claim to his belongings, except
maybe Ginny. Go ahead and share them with her if you want."
Hermione blinked down at the four leather-bound books she had never known Harry kept.
She had no inkling of what was on their wrinkled pages.
But the idea of opening yet another Pandora's box exhausted Hermione—a weariness that
spread through her body until her bones felt like lead, and the thin journals between her
palms became heavier than thick tomes.
She was tired of revelations.
"It's like the more I learn, the less I know."
Luna smiled. "It's okay not to know. There are so many things I don't, but that makes the
exploration far more exciting."
"I—I don't even understand how I can have anything but dark magic left within me after
dying. I should have lost my soul when I passed through the veil," said Hermione, head split
in two.
Luna hummed as she reflected, "Well, my mum always said some things we lose have a way
of coming back to us in the end."
"It's not like my heart just stopped, Luna, I bled to death and only came back because of
necromancy. I know something's different now. I can feel it."
Then Hermione closed her eyes. Focusing on finding the strangeness within her heart.
Searching for her soul, if that is really what it was.
Instead, she felt Luna gently pat her shoulder, and heard her dreamy voice.
"Being different isn't a bad thing."

Little Gods
Chapter Notes
TW: suicidal ideation.
Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord:
Revolt, or I’ll in piece-meal tear thy flesh.
***
"They're executing her!"
The declaration burst from Neville's mouth as he burst into the bedroom.
Luna followed right behind, saying serenely, "The Council just made their verdict. Renée will
be dead by morning."
Hermione stared at them wide-eyed from where she knelt on the prayer cushion. Neville
seemed the most shaken, though he barely knew Spider aside from some healer duties and
through her friendship with Luna. He probably did not even know why the former Death
Eater was here at all—details of her involvement in the Dursley's murders were strictly
classified.
But Neville was made of sympathy. He seemed downright horrified by the prospect of the
Order carrying out a capital punishment.
Hermione went to join him, and both perched on her bed. She tried to keep her pitch level as
she asked, "Is there anything we can do to change their decision?"
Neville's mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. He looked like a fish swallowing
air.
Luna sat tailor-fashion on the vacated floor cushion and answered in his place.
"Unfortunately, no. There was no trial or defense since Renée originally came to the Order to
be executed. They're just fulfilling that request a bit later than she wanted."
"Did they even talk to her, or just lump her life in with every other Death Eater's? She's done
more for us than half the Infantry but the second she outlives her usefulness, they decide to
euthanize her like a criminal," Hermione soapboxed. Now Neville was the one giving her arm
a reassuring squeeze, eyes worried.
Hermione shot up from the bed, saying, "Besides, she can return to active duty, right, Luna?
She can still fight if she goes back to the Special Force—"
A heaviness settled over Hermione when she recalled Spider's preference for death over
fighting. But there was so much Spider likely did not understand. And maybe it was because
she did not let herself think there was another option; did not think she could choose for
herself. After all, the Order had used her as an unwilling weapon for years. No better than
Spider's own father.
No better than Voldemort using Draco.
Hermione's righteous indignation flared even hotter. "Where is Renée?" she demanded.
"I wish I knew," replied Luna wistfully. "I wanted to see her one last time. She was a good
listener and I was hoping she could test out her new leg on the field. I've grown rather fond of
her these past months. It would have been nice to say goodbye. Maybe in the next life."
It sounded like a eulogy.
Neville started crying.
However, Hermione was barely listening, too focused on grabbing her wand and signal coin.
Then she began rifling through Harry's notebooks. When she found the right one, she looked
down at Luna, whose protuberant eyes rounded in response.
"Does the Council still meet in the Cathedral every night?" Hermione asked, voice firm.
"Oh yes. Nine o'clock on the dot. Why?"
Hermione took a steadying breath, then crossed to the door. "Because Renée Dolohov is
getting an appeal whether she wants one or not."
Luna smiled brightly.
"See? You DO still have a soul, Hermione."
"What?" said Neville.
***
Five heads turned as Hermione entered the vaulted Cathedral and strode up the long aisle.
Candlesticks flickered at the end of every pew. The Councilmembers sat in a semi circle on a
barely lit altar. Their expressions were shrouded in darkness.
Only when Hermione neared did she make out their profiles. As she took in each one, she
tensed.
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Aberforth Dumbledore
Ishida Ren
Alastor Moody
And… Charlie Weasley
Seeing Charlie here should not have come as a surprise given his new position. And yet the
idea of saying what she intended in front of him was daunting.
Hermione swallowed and stepped onto the platform, anxious and wondering why Draco told
her not to trust the Council. She resolved not to say anything that would implicate him.
All five men watched her shrewdly as she summoned her own chair, placing the journal on
her lap and completing their circle. As soon as she did, Ren leapt up, feline face contorted in
anger. Kingsley waved him down, and he begrudgingly retook his seat.
She was about to begin when Kingsley cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the stained
glass windows.
"To what do we owe this visit, Miss Granger?" The words were welcoming. His tone was the
polar opposite.
Hermione stole a glance around the group. Moody was tapping his wooden leg at an erratic
tempo, while Aberforth was staring pointedly at his leathery fingers. Meanwhile, she sensed
Charlie's eyes burning into her like a hot iron.
It felt like she was the one on trial. And maybe that was partially true.
"I came to request that you reconsider Renée Dolohov's sentence," Hermione said
unflinchingly.
Ren snarled, "That is not how this works, Granger."
"So explain how it works," challenged Hermione, lifting her chin, "because from what I can
see, the five of you decided a person's fate without any semblance of due process."
This time Charlie spoke. His voice was calm yet firm. "Dolohov sealed her own fate when
she aided and abetted the murders of Dedalus Diggle, Vernon Dursley, and Dudley Dursley,
then personally tortured Petunia Dursley to death. She confessed to those crimes years ago."
"Repenting isn't the same as confessing," Hermione replied, meeting his gaze. "Renée would
still be a free woman if she hadn't voluntarily surrendered to the Order."
"She asked to be executed by the Order! We're just giving the girl exactly what she wants!"
Ren laughed.
Opening the journal, Hermione started to say, "That's not the whole story. Renée sought
Harry out because he was the only one with a right to her life. Renée probably still thinks
that Hestia denied him that right. But Harry himself wrote how he didn't want—"
Kingsley cut in harshly, "The members of this Council already voted to carry out a sentence
that was only ever postponed, never pardoned. This is not open for discussion. You are
dismissed."
The darkness in the church seemed to contract until Hermione felt like she and Kingsley were
standing at opposite ends of an isolated tunnel. Her vision grew that narrowed.
"Was it even a unanimous decision? What evidence and testimony did you consider? Or was
it just revenge disguised as guerilla justice?" Hermione said, firing question after question.
Kingsley's eyes flashed from across the circle.
Ren stretched out a hand to clap Charlie on the back, and snorted, "You aren't part of
leadership anymore, Granger. Get off your damn high horse and go back to Italy with the rest
of the Voldemort sympathizers."
"Those 'sympathizers' are the reason we saved dozens of prisoners from Voldemort,"
Hermione shot back. When Aberforth nodded reassuringly, she continued, "And Renée was
part of the operation that won Italy back from Voldemort. Does her past service count for
nothing?"
Now Moody shifted forward in his chair, drawing the Council's attention toward him. One
beady eye rested on Hermione while his electric blue one moved ceaselessly, without
blinking—rolling up, down, and from side to side.
"You were as much a captive of the enemy as I was, Granger," he acknowledged, "not so
different from what Dolohov has been these past three years. Do you believe the Dark Lord's
Cabinet would ever pardon you?"
Hermione internally scoffed. She and Draco were the only reason Moody was alive and back
on the Council. So much for gratitude.
"No. But I'm not asking for a pardon, I'm asking—"
"You don't get to ask for anything anymore," Ren said sharply. "If—"
"What do you want, Miss Granger?" Aberforth contributed, raising a hand to disrupt Ren
while he stroked his beard in a way that so closely resembled his older brother. The memory
of Professor Dumbledore brought Hermione a much-needed shred of encouragement.
"I want you to listen and reconsider," Hermione stated, fingers clenched around the journal.
"I didn't know until recently that Harry kept a record of his thoughts. He did, and they're all
we have left of the only person with any claim to Renée's future.
Then Hermione began to read out the five bookmarked entries before any other man could
demand her silence.
***
August 29, 2001
"They will torture and kill you like my parents." That was one of the last things I said
before I dumped them on Hestia and Dedalus. I bet they knew it wasn't a warning to get
them to hide. I bet they saw it for the promise it was. They were right to hate me and my
parents and magic. They probably knew I would get them killed one day.
It happened today.
Hestia pulled me out of practice and told me they were gone. She didn't even know where
the Death Eaters took them, or if there was anything left to bury. She said it was her fault
for leaving them with only Dedalus as a guard. She thought they weren't being targeted
anymore. She called it her "greatest regret." I told her we have that in common.
They were probably the worst family I could have asked for, but it went both ways.
I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.
I'm sorry, Dudley.
I'll try to make it count.
***
August 30, 2001
Hestia found me again today.
It wasn't to talk about what I expected. She said that last night Dolohov's daughter showed
up outside of Privet Drive, tripped Kingsley's alarms, and cast Morsemordre above the
neighborhood. Hestia apparated there first and arrested her before anyone noticed.
I don't understand any of it. I didn't even know Dolohov had a daughter, but apparently
she told Hestia where they were buried and how they were tortured. She admitted to being
the Death Eater who murdered my aunt.
I had to ask Hestia to repeat herself when she told me the next part. She said the daughter
requested I kill her.
I told Hestia I'd think about it.
***
September 15, 2001
I saw her today.

She didn't see me, and they didn't tell her I was coming. Hestia hasn't told anyone in the
Order about her yet, and is keeping her unconscious until I make my decision.
They locked her in a hospital room. When I went, there was a guard outside. Some guy
named Beowulf who works for Hestia, and who I've never met. He wouldn't even let me in
at first until Hestia showed up and explained everything.
They had Dolohov's daughter strapped down to the bed like a mental patient. Ready and
waiting for me to execute her.
She's so young.
I went there ready to do it. To kill her like she wanted. Like I wanted. Like she deserved.
My wand was on her head. Every time I tried to say the words, I couldn't get them out. I
don't know how long I stood there trying to do it.
I couldn't do it.
***
September 25, 2001
I went to see her again today. They knocked her out like last time, to make her easier to
kill. They even covered her face with a blanket.
Beowulf told me her name is Renee. It's French for "born again," which feels ironic. He
told me everything he knew about her, good and bad. He said she's a right piece of work
and as depressed as they come. The bed straps aren't to keep her from escaping, but to stop
her from ending her own life. The only time he isn't on suicide watch is when she's asleep.
I don't want her to die.
***
October 6, 2001
Today I gave Hestia my decision.
I want her to take Renee back to her special unit. I'm pretty sure that's where Beowulf
came from (the meathead refuses to say anything), and he can keep an eye out for Renee.
Eventually she might quit trying to kill herself. Until then, Hestia will tell Renee that she
hasn't earned the privilege of dying yet. I hope it works, because she deserves more than to
die young.
Maybe one day I'll tell her that myself.
I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley.
You deserved more too.

***
As soon as Hermione closed Harry's journal, she opened her mouth to speak.
"Renée Dolohov's delayed death sentence was a pretense to keep her from taking her own
life. Harry knew exactly what she did to the Dursleys, and forgave her years ago."
As Hermione talked, she studied the face of every wizard, seeing a spectrum of reactions.
Ren was massaging his temples, forehead creased like he had a migraine. Aberforth and
Moody were shooting each other sideways glances that she could not interpret. Charlie was
propping his elbows on his knees, listening intently. Kingsley was wearing an expressionless
mask.
Hermione held Kingsley's gaze as she continued. If there was anyone she had to convince, it
was him.
"Harry, Hestia, and Wolf—Beowulf—were the only three people who knew the truth. For
better or worse, they even kept the truth from Renée. Now they're dead. All of them. But I'm
certain that if they were here tonight, they would ask this Council to commute her
sentence."
Kingsley reached up a dark hand, rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose. He looked more
overworked than Hermione had ever seen. His normally rich complexion was peaky despite
living above ground. The months had not been kind to the Order's leader.
"Guerilla justice is allowing Potter to judge and carry out a capital penalty. It was inexcusable
for Captain Jones to give him that power. And it was categorically wrong of her to conceal
Dolohov from the Council."
Charlie tensed at Kingsley's blistering condemnations of the former Captain, clearly

disturbed. Hermione felt the same. It was like spitting on the dead woman's grave.
"The Captain—"
"Hestia—"
They both tried to speak at the same time. Charlie sat back, relenting. Hermione nodded in
thanks.
"Hestia gave Harry the option to forgive Renée because she believed in second chances,"
Hermione insisted.
"Murderers don't get second chances," Ren leered.
Hermione's voice was high and clear as she said, "And I murdered Antonin Dolohov, right
after he cut off his own daughter's leg for serving the Order. For trying to find Harry's
remains and save you, Mad-Eye."
Moody flinched in response. Hermione persisted. "None of this is simple or clean. We can
keep arguing in circles, but this Council has also taken lives, directly and indirectly. So who
are you to decide which ones are worth redeeming?"
She stood, leveling a final accusation. "This is not justice, it's playing god."
"Someone has to, when we're fighting the devil," Kingsley responded pitilessly.
***
Hermione was sitting on the steps outside the Cathedral, digging her feet into the gravel
while she waited for the Council to deliberate. It was late, and the courtyard was deserted.
Anxious, she summoned a flock of goldfinches just to create some movement. A few landed
on the cypress tree, a few poked at the ground, looking for worms, and one settled right on
the crown of her head—probably mistaking it for a bushy nest.
It remained there until the doors swung open. Hermione jumped up, startling the bird from
her hair. She did not even notice. Instead scanning unreadable face after unreadable face. But
they filed past her without even a second look.
Everyone except Charlie, who guided Hermione to the stone walkway surrounding the
courtyard. He kept an eye over his shoulder until the rest of the Council was gone, then
leaned against a pillar, using a tensed hand to push the red hair off his forehead. He seemed
on edge.
"They're still going to execute Dolohov," he stated tonelessly.
Hermione's heart sank.
"They were never going to overturn their decision. I don't know what you were expecting to
accomplish," Charlie said. "From what you told me, Kingsley didn't even trust Harry's
judgment when he was alive. Why would he put stock in what Harry wrote on a piece of
paper?"
"I know. I just couldn't sit back and do nothing. Not after I learned what happened,"
Hermione said.
Then she let her back slide down the rough wall, defeated. Charlie was correct after all.
Kingsley did not even let Harry plot the course of his own life until she staked hers on an
Unbreakable Vow.
Charlie came to sit beside her. Hermione let her head drop against his shoulder, and for a
while they watched the yellow birds flit around the darkened courtyard. Disappearing into the
night sky one after another.
When none remained, Charlie drew his wand and said, "I'm probably going to regret this."
Hermione looked at him with bated breath.
He smiled. "You're smart, Hermione. I'm sure you've already thought of a way to get Dolohov
out. I'll tell you where she is and create a diversion. Just don't get caught."
"I won't!" Hermione burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth, and whispered, "Thank
you. You don't even know how much this means. Renée already paid for her mistakes a
hundred times over. And she doesn't have anyone left who gives a damn."
Charlie's hazel eyes flickered. "Are you sure you're only thinking of Renée Dolohov?"
But before Hermione could answer, Charlie stood, saying, "Forget it. This has nothing to do
with him."
Now Charlie pointed toward the archway opposite the imposing Cathedral. "There's a
staircase down that hall. Once you reach the bottom, take the first left, then left again.
Dolohov's door is the only one without a handle. The password is reparations. Wait for my
signal before trying anything."
He lifted Hermione to her feet, cautioning, "Be careful. If anyone sees you—"
"I promise not to tell them you helped," assured Hermione at once. "And you be careful too,
okay?"
Charlie's brow furrowed, then relaxed.
"I'm not worried about me," he said, reaching out to gently brush a curl behind Hermione's
ear, "and I won't get caught. I did used to be a scout, so sneaking around comes with the
territory. Plus, I always have a few tricks up my sleeve."
He smiled again, and this time Hermione returned it.
A moment later, Charlie was across the courtyard, disillusioning himself and melting into the
shadows.
Vanishing like the goldfinches.

Disorder of the Phoenix
Chapter Notes
TW: suicidal ideation.
Thy fatal time doth draw to final end
***
Hermione followed Charlie's directions, and was soon standing outside a knobless door. She
perked her ears for the sound of his diversion.
Sure enough, a loud BOOM reverberated around the corridor, then a series of sizzling and
popping noises that could have been firecrackers. Hermione disillusioned herself as shouting
rang out above, and the ceiling shook with the dust from running feet. But her level appeared
unoccupied.
After speaking the password, she edged into the room.
Hermione half expected Spider to be strapped down to the bed, like in Harry's journals. She
was not. Rather, she was laying on her side, facing the wall and using a willowy finger to
scratch at the stones. Her raven black hair was spread behind her back like a mourning veil.
Spider did not seem to notice her entering over the racket. So Hermione closed the door
softly and said, "Renée."
Not looking back, Spider replied, "Why are you here, Goldfinch?"
"I'm getting you out of Headquarters," Hermione said, moving closer.
Spider continued to pick at the wall. "I want you to leave."
Even without the bed straps, Hermione could visualize the young prisoner Harry described,
imagining the scene in his eyes. Then and now, there was nothing that Spider desired more
than dying. Nothing in the world left to tempt the green-eyed woman to stay. She gave up her
family and had no purpose for living besides earning the right to die. Then she lost Wolf—the
man who must have watched over her from the beginning. A sentinel protecting her against
inner demons in a way that even Harry grasped three years ago.
It stung Hermione's heart.

But Charlie was right. The sadness and fury she felt was not only because of Spider. There
was another Death Eater on her mind.
While Hermione was plagued by similar dark thoughts in Azkaban, she had Draco to bring
her back in ways she was only beginning to understand. They pulled each other out of that
inescapable hole. Tonight, she had to be that person for Renée Dolohov.
At the same time, she recognized the lack of control that came from being forced to go on
living; existing in a way she didn't choose. It was not necromancy that tied Renée to this
shore. No, the Order bound the ex-Death Eater with leather bed straps and false pledges.
They were not identical chains.
They both represented a loss of agency.
"I told you I wanted to die," said Hermione, resting at the foot of Spider's bed. "The truth is
that I've seen what's on the other side, and it's beautiful. It felt like finally being able to sleep
after a lifetime of insomnia. There was no more pain, only rest."
And as Hermione spoke the words, she knew they were authentic. Because now she could
remember the stillness and silence on the other side of that tattered veil. She remembered the
freedom that came with leaving every bitter problem behind. Every earthly burden.
Every desperate oath…
Another whizzing BANG shook the window and shattered the ensuing quiet, briefly dousing
the room in a spectrum of light—the dazzling offshoots of Charlie's distraction.
The brilliant flares did not tempt Spider to look outside. She continued to pick at the stones.
So Hermione reached out, taking the other woman's hand from the wall and speaking softly,
"Sometimes I still think about going back there. But death isn't the last page of a story. It's not
the conclusion. It's shutting an unfinished book never to open it again. And I want to finish
this story before I start my next."
"I'm not strong like you," Spider whispered, hand limp. "I don't care about the ending."
Inching forward on the sheets, Hermione said, "Beowulf wouldn't want you to join him quite
yet. He sacrificed himself so you could live a long life. I know as much, because he
persuaded Harry to want that too."
Now Spider turned to stare at Hermione. The sorrow in her face cut through the shadows.
"Why would Harry Potter—" Her words broke off as tears began to flow onto the bedcovers.
In answer, Hermione carefully ripped the pages from the diary on her lap, passing them to
Spider. Then she took the gold signal coin from her pocket. As she gave it to the stunned
woman, the metal glinted under the light of Charlie's distant fireworks like a beacon. Finally,
Hermione pulled out her stolen cedar wand, and forced it into the other woman's palm.
Spider looked down at all of it, expression a maze of confusion.
The room grew dark and quiet again as another round of fireworks fizzled. Time was running
out.
"Do you know what the coin means and how to get to Lynx's shelters?" Hermione asked
quickly.
Spider considered, before replying, "Yes."
Hermione stood and walked toward the door.
"What you do with your life should be your own decision, Renée. It never belonged to your
father, and it doesn't belong to the Order. But I hope you feel free enough to choose living."
She glanced behind.
Spider was reading the five torn pages, flooded eyes shining like gemstones.
***
As Hermione traversed the dark passageway, she fought the urge to hang back and wait;
telling herself that it was better not to know Spider's conclusion.
Hermione's feet were heavy as she walked away.
When she emerged above ground, the normally drab gravel courtyard was awash in sound
and color. A kaleidoscope of rockets, Catherine wheels, and sparklers—soared across the
skyline like hurtling comets, burning out before touching the earth. Charlie clearly had a
stash of the twins' Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. Hermione smiled at the old memory.
As she continued to watch the show, a yellow and blue firework collided in midair in an
explosion of sparks. They showered down from the sky, turning the courtyard green—more
vibrant than the glow cast by a Dark Mark.
And suddenly she was carried back to the Château ballroom. To dancing in Draco's arms
beneath a domed sky of emerald stars. There was so much darkness around them that night.
Any second she could have been recognized and killed. But when Draco took her hand and
held her waist, every fear melted into the varnished ebony floor. And for that short moment,
it felt like they could dance forever.
It was the night Hermione knew she was falling for him.
Draco was wrong.
She did not go to him because of blood magic or necromancy. Draco loved her for two
winters before she had those same feelings. Yes, they were thrust together involuntarily. But
the relationship that slowly grew over the following seasons was simply human nature.
It was a loss of independence. It did mean surrendering to forces beyond her control.
But falling in love is hardly a choice in the first place.
It just happens.
***
The night sky was still bathed in color when Hermione returned to her monastery bedroom.
Her hand was on the doorknob when she paused, and decided that she was tired of hiding;
done locking herself in yet another dim cell.
So she released the handle, backed away, and began searching for Kingsley.
It did not take long to find him. In fact, it was almost as if he was waiting.
He was standing in a small alcove only a few buildings away—viewing the fireworks through
a keyhole window overlooking a meadow. He was still dressed in his rich blue robes instead
of nightclothes, watching pensively.
Kingsley sensed her approaching, and asked without turning back, "You wouldn't have
anything to do with this midnight display, would you, Miss Granger?"
"We need to talk," Hermione replied curtly. "You must know that I'm only here because of
you."
A bright red Roman candle whirred through the air, and Kingsley's gold hoop earring flashed
with the changing lights. He did not speak.
Hermione stepped forward, stating, "If you won't hear my report, then just tell me to leave.
But what I have to say changes everything."
Another fountain of sparks rained down over the meadow. Kingsley waited until they fizzled
out, then began striding through the corridor with his hands clasped behind his back.
Hermione followed.
Soon they were alone inside what looked to be a storage room. Tithe boxes and broken chairs
littered the unfinished floor. Kingsley sat himself behind a makeshift desk that was just a
table covered in a drop cloth.
This new office lacked the stateliness of his tapestried cave beneath Shell Cottage. But as
Hermione took the chair opposite Kingsley, it felt like no time had passed. They were still
separated by so much more than a desk.
And yet, she trusted her mentor; wanted to believe he would do the right thing. Wanted to
justify her actions for the past two years.
Kingsley flicked his wand to light the dreary, windowless room. Then he rested his elbows on
the desk, leaned forward, and recited.
"I, Hermione Jean Granger, vow to finish what Harry Potter was chosen to do if he cannot. I
vow that I will never betray the Order. And I vow that, in the end, I will always choose
destroying Voldemort above my personal attachments, affections, and desires. Above all
else."
Hermione's heart raced as she listened to the words. They sounded even harsher coming from
Kingsley's mouth.
Finished, Kingsley laced his fingers, apprising Hermione.
"Since you returned from Azkaban, you have attempted to break that grievous commitment at
every opportunity."
When Hermione started to protest, the man's inky eyes drilled into her, pupils large as
mirrors. She stilled.
Then Kingsley hammered the nail in deeper.
"You used your Occlumency training to steal a wand and fly off in the night. Conspired with
Captain Jones to end your trace and join her unit, then used your newfound freedom to
repeatedly seek out Draco Malfoy."
Now Kingsley's face shadowed. "And when Malfoy was sentenced to death for his crimes as
the Necromancer, you thwarted the Council's hand and saved his life, just as you did tonight
for Dolohov."
Hermione gripped the sides of her chair, shaking with anger. As always, the Order's leader
was harboring a treasure trove of knowledge vast enough to make a dragon envious. And he
knew just how to weaponize it.
Holding his unyielding gaze, Hermione said, "If you know all that, then why am I still part of
the Order?"
"I think the better question is why are you still alive," Kingsley challenged coldly.
"I'm alive because of Draco Malfoy."
Kingsley scoffed, glaring into his steepled hands.
"If you know everything about Shell Cottage, then you can't deny that Draco is the reason
most of the Order is alive. He warned us about Voldemort's attack in time to evacuate,"
Hermione insisted, chest rising and falling rapidly. "And now he risked himself to give us a
fighting chance at destroying Voldemort."
Flattening all ten fingers on the table, Kingsley said in a low growl, "From the beginning, you
have been too blinded by your personal emotions for Malfoy to see through his scheming and
lies. Whatever he has given the Order is little more than an attempt to double deal in the
event his master falls. To save his own weak skin. Lip service that will never erase six years
of heinous war crimes."
Kingsley leaned closer, eyes narrowing, and continued, "You failed to appreciate that Potter
had only a fool's hope of killing Voldemort, just as you disregarded every single sign that
Malfoy is the Necromancer. And tonight, you still refuse to accept that there is no outcome
where both the Order and Draco Malfoy survive."
A bone-chilling dread shot through Hermione, and it took every ounce of willpower not to
cross her arms over her chest and retreat into herself. She felt stripped bare by Kingsley's
tirade. After all, he was correct that she gravely misjudged Glen Lochy. Correct that she
stayed conveniently in the dark about Draco. But that all paled in comparison to the wizard's
final, savage proclamation. Because as much as she tried to ignore it, Draco was never on the
right side of the war.
In spite of that hard truth, she needed Kingsley to understand the entire state of play—
recognize not only Draco's damning behavior, but also his acts of salvation.
Throat dry as sand, Hermione explained, "During the Special Force strike in Paris, Draco
found and killed Nagini, then resurrected her as an Inferius."
"What?" Kingsley exclaimed, shooting out of his chair as if burned. Thunderstruck.
"Voldemort doesn't suspect that we destroyed his final Horcrux. He believes she is alive,"
said Hermione dispassionately, also rising. "This is the opening we've been waiting for since
Hogwarts."
Kingsley began to pace the cluttered room, looking more frenzied than she had ever seen.
"Are you positive he eliminated the Horcrux before reviving the snake?"
"I am," replied Hermione firmly. "Draco and I used Basilisk fangs to strike at the exact same
moment. I could sense two souls leaving Nagini. Since Harry is also gone, Voldemort is
vulnerable. The only soul fragment left is in his own body."
At the confirmation, Kingsley stopped in his tracks, staring at Hermione with such ferocity in
his expression. She could see the spark within his dark eyes.
"You will report to the Council immediately, and we will deliberate."
A barbed knot formed in Hermione's stomach. She had intentionally avoided telling anyone
but Kingsley about Draco's involvement and betrayal.
"The Council cannot know the truth about Nagini," she insisted, fists clenched. "No one can
know except you and me."
The resolve in Hermione's voice seemed to unsettle the wizard, who began marching across
the floor again. "This is not up for discussion, Miss Granger. Any secret shared with me
belongs to the Council. Especially if it has the potential to change the course of the war.
Wiser leaders have failed because they withheld information. You should know that better
than most," cursed Kingsley, turning to glower at Hermione's fists—at the poisonous scars
she was never meant to have. At two of many secrets she kept from her former mentor.
"I don't trust the Council," said Hermione through gritted teeth.
Kingsley leveled a knowing look.
"What lies about the Order has Draco Malfoy whispered in your ear? What else has he
planted in your mind?"
Hermione admitted tersely. "There could be a traitor among us. If word gets back to
Voldemort that Nagini is dead, then we'll lose our advantage. We won't be able to take the
regime by surprise."
"If Voldemort discovers the truth, so be it. Our researchers believe his soul is too unstable to
split again. Ending a Horcrux is not something we can conceal for long. We will rally the
entire resistance around the knowledge that this is the end. Once the Council decides on a
plan of action, we will inform the rest of the Order and our allies."
It felt like the earth was slipping out from beneath Hermione's chair as she listened to
Kingsley voice her worst fears.
"You can't," she whispered, blinking at the floor. "You can't tell anyone."
But Kingsley did not hear her pleas. Instead, he was drawing his wand.
"Expecto Patronum."
A graceful wildcat materialized before him. The pointed tips on its silvery ears perked as it
awaited instructions.
Kingsley's mouth was moving when Hermione stepped right through the Patronus,
commanding his attention.
"If you tell anyone about Nagini, Draco will die," Hermione said brokenly. "He'll be gone
before we even get the chance to kill Voldemort."
Deep lines formed across Kingsley's brow. He glared at Hermione. "So that is the real reason
you won't speak with the Council. Not to give us an edge, but to protect a Death Eater."
He swung his wand, vanishing the Patronus. "I should have expected as much, given your
history of placing emotion over logic."
Hermione did not back down; refused to let Draco walk into another trap he created. Would
not allow Kingsley to throw him to the wolves.
Not again.
"Draco risked his life. We can't turn around and stab him in the back like this," Hermione
urged.
"A single good act does not excuse his countless crimes. When Voldemort executes Malfoy
himself, that will only benefit the Order. We will stand aside and let the regime self-destruct,
then make our move once Voldemort has weakened himself—rendered himself weaponless."
"No! He can help us fight Voldemort. Isn't that more valuable? I'm sure he'll join us when the
time comes."
Shaking his head condescendingly, Kingsley moved to the side, recasting his Patronus and
imparting a hushed message. Hermione could not hear it, but knew that Kingsley must be
summoning the Council.
It was too late. Kingsley was decided. Trying to change that decision was a waste of precious
time.
She had to warn Draco.
Without saying another word, Hermione crossed to the door.
It was halfway open when Kingsley's gleaming Patronus darted through first.
Her heart plummeted.
"Where are you going?" Kingsley growled, striding across the room and pulling her back
toward a chair. "You need to stay here. As I explained, you will report every detail about the
Horcrux to the others. Until then, you are not permitted to leave."
Hermione reached down to grab her wand, feeling nothing but empty pockets, and suddenly
remembered that she had given the cedar weapon to Spider. Her redwood still lay in the
bedroom.
She twisted out of Kingsley's tight grip, and resumed her journey, this time making it through
the door. The fireworks had ceased, leaving the sky pitch black. Hermione raced down the
darkened walkway.
"You're going to find Malfoy, aren't you? So he has time to escape?" Kingsley raged. His loud
footsteps pounded against the stones behind her like canonfire.
The questions pelted Hermione's back, but she did not speak, at least not to Kingsley.
"You need to hide!" she shouted through her necromantic connection. "It won't be long before
Voldemort learns about the snake. You need to get somewhere safe."
There was no answer, and Hermione could not even feel Draco in her mind—had not sensed
him since he blocked her out yesterday.
She grew more desperate. It felt like her head was splitting in two.
"Answer me. Tell me how to find you. I'm coming to find you."
Nothing.
Now Hermione was stumbling into her monastery bedroom, yanking open drawers, strapping
her knives and redwood wand in their holsters. Shoving the Invisibility Cloak and Harry's
journals into a charmed rucksack. Grabbing her Portkey to Italy.
The room grew darker, and Hermione spun to see Kingsley silhouetted in the doorway,
blocking out the light from the courtyard.
"You are not leaving."
Undaunted, Hermione tried to push past him.
Kingsley shot an arm across the frame, snarling, "It was an error of judgment to ask you to
make the Vow. I thought it would keep you safe and off the front lines. I thought it would be a
constant reminder of the consequences of putting weakness over your true purpose, and you
would stay where you belonged. I saw you as my own daughter, Hermione. And I will not
allow you to put your selfish attachments over the Order! I won't let you break your promise
to me because of a DAMN DEATH EATER!"
"I will finish what Harry started and I will destroy Voldemort," maintained Hermione, eyes
hard as she pressed forward. "But Draco is more than collateral damage."
Lowering his head until he met Hermione's gaze, Kingsley said, "If you step out this door,
you are breaking your promise."
"I am fulfilling my promise," she said vehemently.
"You are betraying the Order."
"I'm betraying YOU, Kingsley!"
Suddenly Kingsley retreated into the courtyard, clearing her path. Inviting her to choose. But
there was a mania in his face that Hermione had never before discerned. It was almost as
unexpected as the tears streaming from his sharp eyes.
His next words were the most cutting.
"I AM THE ORDER!"
Hermione stumbled back into the room, catching herself on the wall.
"If you leave tonight, I guarantee that you will die, Hermione Granger. You are placing your
own selfish desires above the Order as you swore never to do again. You are breaking your
Unbreakable Vow."
A deafening quiet followed. It did not last long.
"There is no Unbreakable Vow," Hermione said coldly. "Not anymore."
Then Kingsley watched, stunned, as she stepped out of her monastery cell.
Tore through the moonlit courtyard.
And left the Order of the Phoenix.

The Chosen One
Now go not backward; no, Faustus, be resolute
***
Hermione continued to call out as she stole through the darkened building and emerged onto
the open meadow beyond. There was little else on her mind than warning Draco about
Nagini. The more of a head start she could give him, the better chance he had at fleeing
before Voldemort learned the truth about his Horcrux. She had no doubt that if there was a
traitor on the Council, they would not delay in telling Voldemort. And even if there was not,
it would only be a matter of time until news spread to hundreds of other Order members. At
that point, it would be too late.
He did not respond.
And the dread Hermione felt was all-consuming. Initially, she did not even give a passing
thought to the fact that she was leaving the Order.
The magnitude of her decision only began to hit as she sprinted through the village beneath
Headquarters.
It was not just forsaking a movement she had been a part of for eight years. No, it was so
much more than that.
She intentionally broke her Vow.
And in doing so, Hermione confirmed what she already suspected: there was nothing left to
break.
Luna's theory was right. The magical contract Kingsley used to bind her to the resistance was
tied to her life, not her soul. When she died at Glen Lochy and fell through the veil, her
promise to Kingsley died with her. Even if Draco brought her back to life—even if she
regained her soul—there was no Vow.
There had not been a Vow for years.
As she neared the edge of the Order's Fidelius Charm, Hermione began to laugh. A bitter
laugh mixed with tears. It felt like discovering the key to a prison cell that was unlocked long
ago.
Hermione was crossing through the liquid barrier when his strong hand pulled her back
inside.
Charlie was speaking before she even saw him.
"What happened to Dolohov?" he asked, searching Hermione's face.

Hermione said candidly, "I don't know, but thank you for helping me find her. Because of
you, she at least has a way to escape."
"And is that what you're doing right now? Escaping?" Charlie gripped Hermione while he
glanced over his shoulder. "Did the guards see you? I can distract them again and you can go
back to your room. Act like you were sleeping the whole time. I don't want you getting into
more trouble."
Hermione's voice shook as she replied, "No. I finally met with Kingsley and we talked. It
didn't end well, and now I need to leave." She wavered, then confessed, "I don't think I'm
coming back to the Order."
"So where—" Charlie's words broke off and both hands dropped to his side in shock. "That
doesn't make any sense."
"I know it doesn't. I won't pretend it does when I hardly understand it myself."
"Then tell me you're at least going to Italy with Ginny and the others."
"Maybe one day. I'm not sure," Hermione said. Her eyes grew soft and damp, and she lifted a
hand to stroke a lock of red hair from his brow. "I'm sorry for everything. There's too much I
held back that I shouldn't have. I was worried you would think less of me and I didn't want to
hurt you. But you deserved to know all of me, even the ugly parts."
"Where are you going, Hermione?"
No response.
Charlie reached up to cup her palm, pressing it against his cheek as he asked, "Why are you
acting like I won't ever see you again?"
Hermione looked away.
All of a sudden, Charlie's freckled skin lost all color and his expression grew haunted.
"You're going to Draco Malfoy," he stated slowly.
"Yes," Hermione admitted. She could feel his jaw clench beneath her hand, but she persisted.
"I need to help him."
"Your Vow won't give you the chance."
Hermione let out a stifled sob. "I was wrong about my Vow. If there was anything left to
break, it would have killed me the second I told Kingsley my intentions, and I'm still
breathing. Honestly, I probably broke it a dozen times over the years because of Draco."
The distress in Charlie's face was replaced by raw emotion.
"I don't understand any of it, but I'll ask you one last time not to go," he whispered. "Stay
here, Hermione, with me."
Charlie pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes.
Hermione did the same, letting her lids fall shut. Relishing his warmth seeping into her skin
like fading sunlight—memorizing the blissful feeling.
And for a very short while, she wanted nothing more than to fly back to their sea of grass
outside Shell Cottage. To their afternoons together beneath the autumn sky, laughing at the
clouds. To their charmed bubble, and the comfort she felt in his arms as they hid from the
snow and encroaching winter.
If she never made the Vow, never went to Glen Lochy… it would have been him.
She would have stayed with Charlie, and the simple, pure love he offered would have been
more than enough to span a lifetime.
But since she could never say that, Hermione let her palm drift from his cheek and
straightened. And soon the only warmth that remained was in Charlie's hazel eyes, which
continued to sweep down her face—looking for any sign of acquiescence—seeking a glint of
gold he could snatch to make her stay.
When Charlie found none, he stepped back.
"If he ever hurts you again, I'll—"
"I know," Hermione smiled sadly.
Then, without another word, last glance, or goodbye, she walked through the boundary line
and disapparated.
***
After an indeterminate period of darkness, she appeared at the end of a long country lane. She
did not see the padlock on the wrought-iron gates until drawing closer. Her attention went to
the Manor beyond, which looked as unreachable as its missing owner.
"I'm here in Wiltshire, are you at the house?" Hermione asked, and was disappointed yet
unsurprised when she heard no response. After all, she has spent more hours alone here than
she ever had with Draco. It was a pipe dream to think he would be at the Manor. Nothing was
ever that easy. Though she had seen him at Hogwarts in her vision, trying to reach him there
was out of the question. With no inkling of where else to find him, this had been her best
shot.
Hermione tried to contact him several more times, before she decided to change her
approach.
"Kreacher!" she shouted loudly into the night air.
CRACK
The house elf materialized at once. He was wearing the striped tea towel Hermione
recognized as his bedclothes, and his beady eyes were still heavy with sleep. But he looked
healthy and alert enough. He was even gripping a pencil like a would-be weapon.
"Miss summoned Kreacher," he mumbled, swaying slightly.
"Yes," Hermione agreed, reaching out a hand to steady her wizened companion. "Sorry to
wake you. Is Draco inside?"
"No. Has not seen Young Master since Easter."
"He hasn't come back at all?" Hermione asked, bewildered.
Kreacher waggled his head in affirmation.
"Then where has he been?"
"Kreacher does not know."
A tight band formed across Hermione's chest. She had assumed that Draco went to the Manor
after Paris, though he had never exactly said so. And their mental connection was not affected
by physical proximity—Draco could be thousands of miles away and she would not know the
difference.
Reading her concern, the house-elf croaked, "Master Draco does not normally come home.
He is away, always."
Suddenly dizzy, Hermione leaned against the spiked iron fence. Without her Vow or the
Order to ground her, what did she have left besides Draco?
Hermione's hands shook as she pulled the Portkey from her Knife uniform. She could use the
enchanted paperclip to return to Italy, but balked at the idea of being countries apart if Draco
was still at Hogwarts. It was better to remain within apparating range until she learned where
he was.
So Hermione turned to Kreacher, who was blinking up at her, waiting.
"No Death Eaters have visited the house since Theodore Nott?"
"No one," the house-elf confirmed.
"Then please take me inside," Hermione requested, stowing the Portkey back in her pocket.
Kreacher's crinkly hand latched onto Hermione, and he turned.
CRACK
They rotated right onto the marble floor of the grand entrance. With a snap of the house-elf's
fingers, a chandelier brightened, vanishing the darkness. He looked up at Hermione again,
nonplussed.
"I… think I'll stay here for a bit, if that's okay with you?" Hermione suggested, and Kreacher
nodded quickly.
She followed him through the lower wing to Draco's empty bedroom, which was as elegantly
understated as months before. In fact, it seemed preserved like a time capsule, perhaps
because Draco had not used it. The dark chaise was in the same exact spot in the corner. Even
the nightstand drawer was partially open from her rifling back in January.
After bowing, the drowsy elf closed the door, leaving her alone.
Hermione herself was dead tired, body and soul. Despite her resolve to break from the Order,
it was difficult not to grieve. While the resistance was almost unrecognizable from its early
years, it still felt like abandoning her family: an estrangement that may not ever end.
And now here she was—failing to find the person who drove her to leave the Order.
Hermione crawled beneath the white duvet, cold and lonely. Kreacher must have changed the
linens. At present, they smelled only of soap.
As Hermione slowly fell asleep, her eyes rested on the charmed window. Draco was right.
The sky blue ocean was extraordinary.
***
April 9, 2002
I had that dream again last night. The one where Sirius was being tortured at the Ministry.
The one Voldemort planted to lure me to the Hall of Prophecy. I don't know if he keeps
sending me the same fake vision as a reminder of how Sirius died, or just because he can.
Either way, my scar hurts like hell, and I'm sick of it.
I had other dreams after that. Well, technically they were memories. Real ones for once,
although they weren't mine. I dreamt about Snape's memories—the ones he gave me
before dying. I still don't understand most of what happened, but there's one thing he told
Professor Dumbledore that I can't seem to forget.
“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was
supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him
like a pig for slaughter."
Those were Snape's words.
Snape gave me the facts where Dumbledore refused. I went into his office that day
thinking I'd find the secret to killing Voldemort. Instead, I learned I wasn't supposed to
survive. My job was to walk calmly into Death’s welcoming arms and break Voldemort’s
link to life, so that when someone who isn't me fights him, the end is clean, and the job
that should have been done in Godric’s Hollow will be finished.
Neither can live. Neither can survive.

Maybe Snape was right to be angry at Dumbledore for keeping all that from me for so
long. I wasn't angry. No, I was ready to do it. I was trying to do it, even though I failed to
kill the snake. I thought Ron or Hermione could do that part, if I just took care of the
Horcrux in me first.
Then I was in the forest, feeling half asleep. Using the stone to speak with them. With my
parents and Lupin. With Sirius. Everyone was right that I look like my father—we were
even the same height, and have the same hair. The same terrible eyesight. They all looked
so young, so happy. They told me they were proud of my decision and that dying was
quicker and easier than falling asleep. They promised to stay with me to the end. That
made dying not seem so bad.
Except I didn't. I don't know why I didn't die. I keep replaying the battle in my head a
million times—that's why I started writing these stupid journals—and I still don't
understand what happened. I only remember waking up at Shell Cottage. Alive and still a
damn Horcrux.
I do know that the next time I have the chance to end him, I'm taking it.
***
Hermione closed the journal. It was the last of the four—there were only a few more entries
after this. Just weeks later, Harry had fulfilled part of his prophecy at Glen Lochy.
He had died.
While Harry's inner thoughts were as interesting as they were joyless, they were not
surprising. And none were as helpful as his entries about Spider, or gave her the faintest clue
of how to solve her current troubles.
She already knew about Snape's history with Lily Potter, Dumbledore, and their strange
bargain. Harry had explained as much to her and Ron years prior. But since these journals
were some of the last pieces of Harry she had to cling onto, Hermione found herself reading
and rereading the yellowed pages.
She wished Ron kept a diary too.
A sparrow landed on the empty spot of seat beside Hermione and squawked ferociously for
its size. She glanced down at her tiny, red-chested new bench mate, who was now pecking at
the seed he brought with him as a snack.
She smiled.
The Manor's rose garden was filled with dozens of birds, hopping around and searching for
insects. The entire area was teeming with life thanks to the pleasant spring weather. Sitting
here, on the same bench she occupied the previous winter, was incredibly comforting. Even
more so since the once-barren rose bushes were decorated in flowers. There was probably no
better place to read.
But Hermione pushed the journals aside, and dropped her head into both palms. Frustrated.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
After waking, she had spent most of that morning trying and failing to contact Draco. It was
like he did not want to hear her warning. Though she could never seem to block him out, that
did not seem to be a problem for Draco—possibly because he was the one who revived her,
and not the reverse.
Not knowing where else to go, Hermione's feet led her to this spot in the garden courtyard.
For the past few hours, she had distracted herself with Harry's journals while she listened to
the trickling stone fountain and let the afternoon sun warm her back.
It would have been a beautiful place to rest, if her world was not crumbling.
This was the bench where she realized how much she needed Draco—how much she loved
him—but only when he was succumbing to Basilisk venom. And months before, it was
where Draco swore that he would never join the Order. It was where he confessed to not
being able to get her out of his head. By that day, he had probably been trying to Occlude her
away for years.
It was all bitterly ironic. Draco finally cut her out as protection from Voldemort, and in doing
so, was slicing his own throat.
Hermione's hands grew wet with tears. She was drowning in them. The Unbreakable Vow
was gone. They still had so many other burdens.
It felt like they were at an inflection point. On the precipice of a huge shift. In the final act of
a tragedy. In spite of her promise to never choose Draco, she did exactly that by leaving the
Order. Leaving Charlie.
Leaving them all behind.
But as she cried, Hermione wondered whether Draco would do the same: sacrifice it all to
end the war.
In the end, would Draco choose her over Voldemort? She needed him to, because that part of
her conviction had not changed—she would finish what Harry started, what Snape and
Dumbledore prepared him for since his birth. She would finish the Dark Lord, even if it
killed her in the process. Even if this death was permanent.
She hoped Draco would join her; she had no one else.
It was only a hope, not a certainty.
Draco loved her, but maybe that was not enough.

Nomad
He now is gone to prove cosmography
***
That evening, Hermione sat at the head of a long, oak table. Kreacher perched at the opposite
end—only the tip of his wispy hair was visible over his plate.
The fact that the house-elf agreed to accompany Hermione for a meal at all was likely due to
pity. When she finally came back inside after hours in the rose garden with no word from
Draco, her face looked as downturned as Kreacher's. Downturned, and smudged with dried
tears.
Hermione was too drained to talk, and Kreacher never volunteered to speak without
prodding. So the only sounds filling the elegant dining room were the scrapes of silver
utensils and reproachful huffs of Malfoy portraits. They all still detested Hermione. To them,
she was a recurring pest problem—an unwanted infestation that would not stop coming back
despite their discouragement.
As she ate, Hermione surveyed each pale, painted face hanging on the wall, trying to discern
who looked the most like Draco. And she decided that there was a bit of him in every single
one. For instance, behind Kreacher's chair there was a middle-aged wizard with the same
straight nose as his descendant. To his right hung the portrait of a witch whose hair had
Draco's same sheen. It was a game distracting enough to settle her stomach.
Hermione almost jumped out of her chair when Kreacher spoke unprompted.
"How long will Miss be staying?"
"I—I'm not sure," Hermione admitted, and the portraits on all sides groaned.
She glowered into her stewed potatoes.
"Master Draco is not returning often," Kreacher said. The portraits nodded in agreement.
"I understand."
Kreacher seemed to consider, then offered, "Miss Cissy may be knowing where Master is."
CLANG
Hermione dropped her spoon, dumbfounded. "What makes you think so?" she asked quickly.
"Miss Cissy is always disappearing to another place. Master may be there."

Hermione was out of her seat in a flash, trying not to slip on the marble floor. She practically
skidded into the foyer, stopping her momentum on the staircase railing.
Narcissa's large, framed portrait was as vacant as ever. Only the painted window and light
blue sea occupied the canvas.
But now Hermione gave more thought to where the matriarch must spend her time when she
was not at the Manor.
Hermione decided to try to contact Narcissa—even if not visible, she could be listening.
After all, the portrait was enchanted.
"Mrs. Malfoy, I need your help. Draco did something for me, and now it's put him in danger.
I can't find him anywhere. If you have even the faintest idea of where I should look, please
—"
Suddenly, a face that did not belong to Narcissa slid into frame. And the dreadfully familiar,
drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy filled Hermione's ears.
"How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from my family before it gets through
that thick skull?"
Hermione held her ground, meeting the man's piercing eyes. Finding so much of Draco
within their gray.
"I only returned to warn your son about the Order and Voldemort. I'll leave the second you
explain where to find him."
Lucius scoffed.
"I did what you asked, Mr. Malfoy, and went to Blaise. He explained what happened with the
Underground Railroad and your execution. I know now that neither he or Draco wanted
things to end how they did. They both tried to save you. It was all Voldemort's fault that you
died. You understand that, right?"
Lucius's answering glare could have withered every rose in the garden.
"When a thief steals and is caught red handed, should he blame the law for his punishment, or
his audacity to flaunt it?"
"Tom Riddle is not the law," Hermione retorted heatedly. "He is a fascist tyrant who you and
the rest of his followers have elevated to the status of god. He is a human, and once you
accept that fact, you'll realize how severely he used and manipulated your family."
"Hah!" Lucius leaned forward so that his white-blond hair brushed against the surface of the
portrait. "Ironic coming from the Mudblood girl who only ever shows up when Draco is
about to die."
Hermione did not try to dispute that accusation. It was a fair one. She also did not mask the
sincerity in her voice.
"I love your son, and I never want to hurt him again."
The patriarch's face fell. He seemed entirely defeated. Like Hermione had just given him a
terminal diagnosis.
"That's impossible," Lucius said quietly.
Now Hermione was angry again. What was with these Malfoy men deciding how she should
feel? It was downright infantilizing, and she was done with it.
"I know I'm hardly what you want for Draco, but that's his decision, not yours," she spat.
Lucius turned to the side. And, if Hermione did not know better, it looked like his eyes were
misted.
However, his tone was rough as gravel.
"That's not what I meant. If you really do care about Draco, then leave him and this
household alone. It is selfish to keep him on a string when you know he serves the Dark
Lord. That will never change."
Chest heaving, Hermione repeated, "You can't say what Draco will decide. Maybe you're
frozen in time. He is not. I've sacrificed for him, and I know he has as well. I know he cares
for me too."
"You think I haven't figured that out?" Lucius snarled, facing forward. "That's been obvious
to all of us for years, stupid girl."
"Then what is the problem?"
"The problem is that you are conflating fantasies with harsh realities. It's time you learn the
difference between life and dreams, Granger. This doesn't end with you riding off into the
sunset like a pair of star-crossed lovers. If you imagine otherwise, then you are about to be
sorely disappointed."
The prediction harkened back to the same one made by Charlie. By Kingsley. And, except for
that short moment in front of the Mirror of Erised, Hermione had not permitted herself to
think they actually had a future.
So she asked the hard question.
"Does Draco have a piece of Voldemort's soul?"
The man's cold eyes sparkled.
"For someone who wasted that many hours in my library, you remain astoundingly narrow-
minded."
Before Hermione could fire back, another figure strode into view; standing beside her
husband.
Narcissa.
Lucius turned to stare at the immaculate woman, and his gaze grew strangely gentle. Narcissa
rested a slender hand on his shoulder, and said, "We should hear Hermione out, Lucius. She
came to us for a purpose, and the least we could do is give her a chance to explain."
Narcissa and Hermione exchanged a look, and it felt like they had an understanding. At least
until Lucius interjected sharply, "She came here to wax poetic about love and feelings. If I
had the option of leaving the Manor like you, Narcissa, I wouldn't have listened to a single
vapid word."
It was a small movement, but Hermione saw Narcissa's hand dig into her spouse's shoulder.
Lucius jerked and shut up.
Something he said struck Hermione, and she asked, "You can leave the Manor, Mrs.
Malfoy?"
"I have a second portrait in Tenby," Narcissa responded, motioning toward the ocean painted
behind her back. "I tend to travel between the two, since Draco lives at the beach house, not
the Manor."
Had Lucius not been giving Hermione such a judgmental expression, she would have
smacked her forehead. It was so obvious. How could she not guess after seeing so many of
Draco's memories in that seaside town?
Hermione stepped closer to the frame, saying hastily, "Is he there right now?"
"No."
Seeing Hermione's dismay, Narcissa supplemented, "However, the last time Draco was at the
beach house, he mentioned an assignment in Italy."
"Italy?" Hermione repeated. "Where in Italy? Which city?" Her mind automatically went to
Voldemort's raid on Shell Cottage—if he was planning a similar attack on the Knife's safe
house… on Blaise…
Narcissa's blue eyes held a tenderness that Hermione had never seen in life. "He didn't say.
But if I had to make a prediction, I believe he's in—"
The woman's mouth was still moving when Lucius stepped into the portrait's foreground,
blocking her from view. Now Hermione saw only his angular side profile.
Lucius's jaw jutted forward as he snapped, "That is enough, Narcissa. I won't have my wife
tricked into becoming a terrorist informant."
Then he began shepherding Narcissa out of the frame as Hermione stepped closer to protest.
As she was pushed away, Narcissa stated clearly, "Go to Italy. Find Draco and bring him back
alive, then I'll tell you anything you want."
The offer continued to echo around the cavernous stone room long after the Malfoys left.
***
The last sun of April was setting when Hermione slid into the Italian vineyard. The smell of
grape leaves and rich earth welcomed her to a place as close to home as any. She let the
Portkey fall from her hand and sprinted toward the flickering lights of the villa.
She almost collided with Pangolin, who was standing by the lemon trees outfront. The
younger witch steadied them both, and her round face blossomed into a grin.
"You came back! I didn't know the next time I'd see you, though we had a sort of bracket
going and I just lost my bet," she gushed, giving Hermione a bone-crushing hug. "Lynx put
money on you coming back by the end of the month, so he'll be pleased."
"I… couldn't… stay away," Hermione wheezed. Then she extracted herself and hurried to
ask, "Is Lynx inside? I need to speak with him. There could be a Death Eater strike on his
Italian safe houses and shelters, including this one."
Pangolin's smile faded. "No. He's been gone for days. Only a few of us are still here—the rest
of Impala's squad returned to Cardiff."
Hermione tried not to let her panic show; did not even want to suggest that Blaise could be
executed as a Secret Keeper, like Bill.
"Then you should get the others and leave right now," Hermione decided, tugging the
strawberry blond up the path. "Use the Railroad's Floo network to leave the country. Go to
Cardiff and contact Impala."
"And what about you, Goldfinch?"
When Hermione failed to answer, Pangolin looked her up and down with shrewd eyes, then
stated, "You're running straight to the action."
They had reached the front veranda when Hermione replied, "I'm not with the Order
anymore. What I'm planning to do tonight will put the Knife at risk of retaliation, so it's better
if you act like I was never here. Just get moving and hopefully no one asks questions."
She gently, but firmly, nudged a protesting Pangolin through the door.
But while Hermione was closing it, a clear voice rang out.
"The Death Eaters are in Rome."
Hermione froze as Ginny yanked the door open and met her gaze, expression more fiery than
her flaming red hair.
***
They were sitting in the wine cellar. Every time Hermione had tried to get out of Ginny's grip
and disapparate, she latched on tighter. Eventually, Hermione relented, and let herself be frog
marched beneath the house "for a talk."
Pangolin had mumbled something about getting the rest of the squad ready, and dashed
upstairs.
So now the two witches were alone in the dirt-floored room where Hermione had spent so
many sleepless nights pretending to Occlude.
Ginny crossed her arms and scowled at a rack of wine bottles. Hermione sat stock straight,
accepting that she owed her oldest friend this conversation.
"I'm sorry I didn't—"
Ginny cleared her throat, interrupting the apology.
"Before Zabini went to Vienna, he told me everything about Malfoy. About the deal they
made after Hogwarts. How they spent years transporting civilians through the Underground
and how he messed up the escape attempt. He told me why Malfoy murdered his own
family."
She faced Hermione. "It doesn't excuse what he did to my folks, you get that, right?
"I do," Hermione responded soberly. "I know that this is all hard to accept. This is also the
fourth intervention I've had in the last twenty-four hours."
"It's just—out of every other guy in the world, it really had to be him?"
"Yes."
"He's such a meanspirited ass, Hermione. On top of all the Death Eater stuff."
"It's nothing I can't handle. Trust me."
"Are you positive he didn't just Imperius you? Or slip you a love potion?"
It was an effort for Hermione to keep her face straight. "Yes."
Ginny released a loaded sigh.
"Well, if you must, then who am I to stop you."
Hermione stared, dumbstruck. This reversal felt like being hit over the head by a broomstick.
However, Ginny was still speaking.
"I'm also not really in a position to criticize," she grumbled, leaning against a barrel and
blushing. "Being with Zabini has made me rethink things. Until recently, I never would have
thought the conceited prick who spent years calling me blood-traitor had one for a mother.
The idiot probably thought he was flirting."
Blinking, Hermione asked dazedly, "What do you mean 'being with Zabini'? You're not
together, are you?"
The redhead smirked. "And what if we are? What are YOU going to do about it? Don't be a
hypocrite, Hermione."
Then Ginny stood, offering her a hand, saying, "C'mon. Seph should have the squad ready by
now, and we can't put off Zabini's instructions any longer. You showed up right in time to
Floo with us."
They climbed the stairs while Ginny detailed their Second-in-Command's plan.
"Zabini is in a bad spot—Voldemort suspects he's a double agent and transferred his unit to
Austria as a fake out. The real fight is here in Italy. The Death Eaters will strike key points
around Rome until the entire government submits. Apparently, Malfoy has been there for
days, relocating the most at-risk people. But I'm sure you already knew that."
"I didn't know," said Hermione, blood pressure rising. "I came to warn Draco. He's in danger
because of something he did to Voldemort, and I need to find him before the Order reveals
the truth."
Ginny frowned. "That's why you told Seph you broke from the Order?"
"Right."
"Well, then join the club. What we're doing tonight isn't exactly Council-approved either. The
Order isn't supposed to know about the Italy attack yet. Zabini is waiting until the last
possible minute to alert them, otherwise it would blow his and Malfoy's covers. Meaning the
rest of us also have to be smart about this so Voldemort doesn't connect us to any organized
resistance."
As they navigated the upper level, Hermione noticed that Ginny was not in her bodysuit.
Rather, she was dressed in Muggle clothes—running bottoms and a tight-fitting sweatshirt.
"I should change before we leave," Hermione said, and Ginny nodded in agreement.
They entered the women's sleeping quarters. Gaur and Pangolin waited inside, similarly not
in uniform. The former wore a romper that blended with her olive skin. Pangolin had opted
for a Cambridge hoodie, and could have passed for a university student except for the long,
serrated blade strapped to her leggings. Her trademark scimitars, however, were absent.
Hermione glanced around the room, spotting no other squad members.
"Jag, Coney, and Echidna will meet us downstairs," Gaur noted.
As Hermione slipped into a borrowed set of black jeans and a t-shirt, she whispered to
Pangolin, "Have you heard anything from Spider?"
Pangolin shook her head. "I haven't, no. Was she trying to reach me?"
"Forget it," Hermione replied nonchalantly, biting back her disappointment. She stuffed her
spelled rucksack in one jacket pocket, and her wand in the other.
Hermione still did not see Spider when they exited the villa. Only three men who she
recognized as part of the Paris mission stood on the grass, pulling balaclavas over their faces.
Ginny gave one to Hermione, and she forced it over her hair. It was thicker than a Knife
hood, and made Hermione feel like they were about to ski, or maybe traverse a desert storm.
The seven-member squad crossed the vineyard in a flash, making a straight shot for the
shadowy outline of Main Station.
Tony Albero waved as they approached, and ushered them into the hallway of fireplaces.
"Our most central shelter is Via Savoria 78. The married couple there know you're coming,"
he explained.
The group split up as each began to toss powder across hearths, speak the shelter address, and
walk into green flames.
Ginny and Hermione hung back to say goodbye to the middle-aged Muggle.
His mouth was tight as he urged, "Be careful out there. If things get hairy, just apparate
somewhere safe. And if you're hurt, use your coins to contact the nearest shelter."
Ginny gave him a friendly hug, teasing, "Yes, Tony, and we'll even remember to finish our
homework and eat our vegetables."
She released him, and the two witches positioned themselves at the fireplace.
Hermione went first, stepping into the flickering green flames. Her muscles relaxed as she
was enveloped by the warm breeze of Floo travel.
She had barely exited the linked fireplace when a plump grandma accosted her with a broom,
dusting the soot from her jacket, and pushing her toward a staircase. Hermione did not resist,
and soon found herself on an apartment rooftop with the rest of the squad.
Ginny was shoved out shortly after. She spun in a circle to get her bearings, surveying the
capital city as she spoke. Everyone moved closer to listen.
"We're splitting up to evacuate as many hit points as possible before the Death Eaters and
Infantry arrive. Focus on children and the elderly, then other Muggle civilians, then the magic
population. These are Lynx's instructions. I'm just the messenger, so if you have any
complaints, take it up with him, not me."
"So where are the hit points?" Jag asked. He had swapped his aviator goggles for a pair of
sunglasses, and was pulling on leather gloves.
"The thing is, I'm not sure—"

"LOOK!" Pangolin shouted, pointing at something behind Ginny's back. They all turned.
A thick emerald fog was materializing above a crowded plaza to the east. The people beneath
the strange cloud began to scream as it slowly took the shape of an enormous skull with a
serpent winding out of its eye socket.
The Dark Mark.
"They weren't supposed to strike till morning… " Ginny muttered.
"More over there!"
Hermione whirled with the others, watching Dark Mark after Dark Mark appearing in the
evening sky—suspended over domes, arches, and palazzos. A horrendous collection of lights
scattered across Rome, staining the ancient city an eerie green.
"Well, I think we can figure out the hit points now," Gaur commented unhelpfully.
"There are so many… " Pangolin gasped, walking to the edge of the roof and counting.
"There's no way we can reach them all in time."
"We don't need to. Let's just prioritize the densest areas until backup comes. I'm sure the
Order has realized what's happening by now and will send help. And since the attack started,
Lynx should be joining us too."
"Got it, Pygmy," Pangolin said, saluting as she pivoted to disapparate.
"I'll take the south."
"I'm shooting for that park."
"Good luck!"
CRACK
CRACK
CRACK
And soon Hermione found herself alone with Ginny, whose face was pale as she continued to
take in the floating skulls surrounding the balcony. It felt like they had a ghostly audience.
"You're a natural leader," complimented Hermione.
"I'm a fraud. I don't know what the hell I'm doing," Ginny admitted. "I also don't know where
Malfoy is, so it's up to you to find him."
"Thank you for understanding."
Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I won't say he's good for you, Hermione. He isn't."
Then she climbed onto the green-tinged ledge to disapparate, sending a smirk behind her
back.
"But I think we've outgrown good."

Sacred Grounds
And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome,
To see the Pope and manner of his court
***
Hermione did not disapparate right away. Instead, she surveyed the urban sprawl, selecting
her next destination carefully. She wanted somewhere distinctive that Draco could easily
recognize.
She saw it.
A collection of white domes and colonnades, looking like a Goliath set of marble chess
pieces.
The Vatican.
Even the papal seat had not been spared from Voldemort's Dominion. The Dark Mark hung
over the spire of St. Peter's Basilica like an emerald moon. Sightseers ran from the nearby
square, fleeing an army of robed soldiers.
Keeping her eyes locked on the distant holy city, Hermione turned in place.
The world became black and small as space contracted. Then Hermione was at ground level,
being jostled by a sea of strangers. She adjusted the balaclava more tightly around her nose,
but it felt as smothering as it did unnecessary—everyone was too focused on trying to escape
to give her a second look.
And Hermione herself fared no better. She was trying not to hyperventilate as she was
elbowed, bumped, and shoved. It felt unbearably claustrophobic. And it was so difficult to
breathe through the thick cloth covering her face.
But she had to move.
"I'm at the Vatican," she said urgently, gasping for air, weaving toward the domed basilica.
"Come find me. I'll stay here and do what I can to slow the attack. Find me at the Vatican."
A burst of orange light shot through the air faster than a laser. A man running beside
Hermione fell and began to writhe in pain. She crouched beside him, not recognizing the
symptoms of this dark curse. While holding his head away from the bricks, her eyes searched
for the castor.
In answer, a flurry of multicolored lights cascaded down from the sky, and Hermione traced
them to the surrounding rooftops—masked figures were spaced between decorative sainthood
statues, firing curses into the panicked crowd.
The noise level increased as shrieks filled the air. The hundreds of columns encircling St.
Peter's Square had become impassable—there was a shimmery barrier preventing anyone
from leaving.
Hermione's horror intensified.
They were little more than fish trapped in a barrel.
The man in Hermione's arms ceased moving and she looked at him hastily. His mouth was
dripping foam. She could not pick up a heartbeat. He was not the only victim—bodies were
beginning to pile up on all sides as Voldemort's regime brought the country to heel.
Hermione gently lowered the dead man from her lap, and resumed sprinting toward the
basilica as hundreds of people ran the opposite direction. But she forced her way upstream.
There was little she could do to help at ground level, and whoever created such a widespread
barrier charm was likely above or inside—away from the frenzy.
As she neared the massive cathedral, Hermione had to slow her pace. Death Eaters were now
spraying severing hexes like gunfire, and the marble bricks were wet with blood—a hundred
red puddles that were steadily increasing. Meanwhile, other smoky shadows were apparating
directly into the mob and killing unopposed. She even spotted Dementor robes amongst the
chaos. The Muggles had no defense against their barrage of dark magic and Unforgivables.
Hermione was not defenseless. Not anymore.
She glided her feet along the slick ground, knife raised and wand outstretched—wishing she
still had two wands, but making do with just the redwood.
A pillar of black smoke erupted before Hermione. Black pupils glinted from beneath the slit
of a hood.
Her Basilisk knife was in the Death Eater's eye socket before he even finished materializing.
He fell to the side, and was quickly absorbed under a wave of bloody knees and legs—
vanishing along with her knife.
Hermione did not try to retrieve it—she still had five others. However, as she continued
forging ahead, she palmed a normal one in its place, deciding not to waste the rare venom on
foot soldiers.
By the time Hermione reached the stone steps leading up to the basilica, her supply of even
normal knives was dwindling, and she was dizzy from the stifling balaclava. There had been
no choice but to fight her way through the entire square.
However, no masked figures stood between her and the entrance of the cathedral. It appeared
that the bloodshed had coalesced at the center of the plaza, and not here.
Screaming pounded against Hermione's eardrums, but she did not look back—climbing two
steps at a time—gasping for air as she sidled through the arched doorway.
The basilica was bright as day. Not a single shadow lurked behind the dozens of white
sculptures decorating the sanctuary. The gold on its gilded ceiling shone down like brilliant
sunlight, illuminating every painting and tapestry.
No Death Eaters lay within, so Hermione darted into a secluded corner to catch her breath.
Then she yanked the thick balaclava from her face—it was so much more suffocating than
her normal hood; not worth wearing if it affected her mobility. And since the attack had
started, there was no longer a need to disguise her appearance.
As she stowed the cloth in her charmed rucksack, her fingers brushed along the Invisibility
Cloak. She only considered wearing it for half a second before a flood of nausea hit. She still
could not stomach the idea of hiding beneath it during a fight.
Hermione was about to disillusion herself when she finally heard him.
She heard Draco.
Her blood chilled. He was screaming for her. The harrowing noises bounced off the walls;
echoed around the domed basilica. His voice was raw, like he had been shouting for hours.
Like in her nightmares of his torture.
"Hermione… "
She could barely make out her name through his choked whimpers.
But Hermione was back on her feet at once—chasing his voice through the palatial building.
It was growing fainter, as if he was being carried away by unseen attackers.
"Hermione… "
"What did they do? Who has you?" she pleaded. "How did they find out about Nagini?"
She only heard a fresh round of Draco's screams in response, and something in her brain
snapped. The only thought dominating her mind was that she had to find him. Every lesser
purpose slipped through her fingers like sand.
He was in pain, and nothing else mattered.
Hermione tore through the elaborate, winding corridors. The intricate murals on both sides
flashed by faster than a film reel. She did not see anything, solely focused on following his
words and the thumps of rapid footsteps.
"Where… where are… you… "
"I'm here. I'm coming, so just stay alive and keep calling out," she said desperately.
The hall opened up into a wide, colorful room. Italian frescoes bedecked every inch of its
plastered walls and ceiling, depicting famous religious scenes—an otherworldly assemblage
of saints, angels, and demons watching Hermione stride into the Sistine Chapel gallery.
At first, Hermione saw no one within—no priest or Death Eater. As she drew closer, her eyes
fixed on a white clothed table at the center, laden with wine and bread for a communion
sacrament.
Then something moved, and Hermione's heart plummeted.
A pale hand was resting at the base of the table, half-covered by the overhanging cloth.
She aimed her wand, edging forward as she whispered through their connection, "Is that you,
Draco?"
The hand jerked, and Hermione bridged the remaining distance, kneeling to lift the fabric.
Draco was there—spread-eagle on the floor beneath the communion table. His hand
continued to spasm, but nothing else moved. His gray eyes were wide open and empty. His
face was bloodless, sapped of all but the last flickers of life.
As Hermione lifted him onto her lap, his breathing grew shallow. She glanced over her
shoulder, panicked. They were still alone. She looked back down at Draco. There were no
visible wounds—nothing to heal—but something was wrong.
She cradled Draco's head and begged, "What did they do to you?"
He did not answer, and the air vanished from Hermione's lungs. It felt like she was dragged
back to Glen Lochy, watching the green fade from Harry's eyes, the blood flow from Ron's
skin. Like she was holding Hestia in her arms as the woman passed through the veil.
But for Hermione, this loss felt unsurvivable.
"Don't leave," she sobbed into Draco's cold chest. "You can't leave. I'm not ready."
Her tears fell like raindrops.
"It isn't fair. It wasn't enough time," she said.
Riotous laughter broke out, and Hermione looked up as she aimed a blade at the source.
"Had a feeling I'd find you somewhere in the city, but you made it almost too easy. And
where's the sport in that?"
Theodore Nott was striding across the chapel, wiping fake tears from his amused eyes.
"I don't think I've ever seen anything so sweet," he lamented. "To think MALFOY could
attract this much heartbreak. It's almost as wasted on him as it is that thing you're sniveling
over. Fucking disgusting."
Then Theo twisted his wand toward Hermione, laughing, "Riddikulus!"
The lifeless Draco in her lap exploded into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, and was gone.
"CRUCIO!"
Theo's Unforgivable curse struck Hermione point blank, and she crashed to the ground—
falling on the very spot the boggart had been a moment before.
The chapel filled with her piercing shrieks as the world descended into terrible, crimson-
colored pain. Her body contorted as fire coursed through every vessel; scorched every nerve.
Her eyes shadowed, and the frescoes painted on the ceiling melted into colorful blurs.
She vaguely sensed a wand stab her temple and saw a face flood her vision.
"Imperio!" sang Theo, leaning over Hermione with a wide, gloating smile.
Now a numbness cooled her head, accompanied by an itch she could not scratch. She stopped
screaming.
Theo ran a fingernail down her cheek, saying, "You do look different, Gabrielle. In fact, if I
didn't know any better, I'd say you weren't even Gabrielle at all. But no. No if that was true,
then Malfoy would have lied to the Dark Lord. And he would never lie to the Dark Lord, isn't
that right, Hermione Granger?"
Her mind went blank. She ceased moving and lay completely still, no longer trying to reach
for her wand or knife.
"I preferred you in that velvet number at Christmas," Theo sighed wistfully, skating a hand
down her neck and chest, then pinching her thigh like she was a slab of meat. "But I recall
how you never liked getting dolled up at school. Only for special occasions, isn't that right?
ANSWER ME!"
Hermione felt a wire grow taut in her brain, compelling her into submission.
"Yes," she said flatly.
Theo tut-tutted. "Such a waste, Granger. Really. Could have been a real looker if you put as
much effort into yourself as reading books and fucking Death Eaters."
"Yes," she repeated.
"Well, since you already escaped Azkaban once, I believe this time the rule is to not take any
chances. If you weren't a Mudblood, I could get away with just cutting off your leg.
Unfortunately, you're as filthy as they come. So I'll have to kill you. Pity, because you and I
would have had so much fun together," Theo said, sighing again.
When Hermione did not respond, he studied her face, and his own was filled with morbid
curiosity. He opened his mouth to issue his next direction.
"Answer me—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Theo abruptly rolled to the side, barely avoiding the deadly curse shooting from the redwood
wand. It hit a stone altar, which crumbled into dust. Theo was still scrambling across the floor
as Hermione broke free of the last of his Imperius Curse, and charged.
Despite being put on the defensive, Theo's deep eyes danced wildly as he ducked and
weaved.
"You ARE fun, Granger!" he cackled.
"TELL ME WHERE HE IS!"
"Tell me where he is!" mimicked Theo in a horrible, mock-baby voice.
A knife impaled the mural behind Theo, taking a chunk of his shoulder with it. He staggered,
smile faltering as he took in the bleeding wound. "So you DO bite," observed Theo, and sent
a jet of red light at Hermione.
She deflected it easily, and rushed her auburn-haired opponent.
The duel went on, neither relenting. A deadly hunt of pursuit, fake outs, and last-minute
evasions.
Hermione dove under a green blast, directing her own at Theo as she rolled up to stand. It
struck the wall above his ear, and he laughed like a hyena. The air grew heavy with smoke.
The curse-riddled ceiling began to drop chunks of plaster onto their heads. They were evenly
matched, and their breathing grew labored as the battle dragged on.
Now they were circling each other, wands raised and eyes wary.
"I'm not taking prisoners either," Hermione panted, chest heaving and face ablaze. "So if you
won't tell me where Draco is, I'll finish you here and find him myself. Don't worry though. I
promise to pretty up your corpse before I fucking burn it."
Theo bounced his wand as if it was a conductor's baton, but did not cast a spell. "Who would
have guessed Miss Perfect Prefect grew up to have a mouth as filthy as her blood?"
They continued to orbit the chapel like the constellations.
This round, Hermione struck first. Weaving to the side and shouting, "Protego Dia—"
"DIFFINDO!"
The redwood wand flew out of her hand as a slice formed on her wrist. She rolled, retrieving
the wand in one smooth motion; staying low to avoid a flash of lightning.
Then, without hesitating, Hermione vaulted another knife at Theo's maddening smirk. He
avoided it by a fingerbreadth, and quickly launched the weapon right back. Hermione lifted
her shield again. The knife clattered to her feet.
It was still wobbling when Hermione tore off her gloves and slid across the floor, hissing,
"Pestis Interitus!"
Her fingernails raked across Theo's cheek, at the same moment her knife lodged into his
sternum. Theo dropped his wand as both palms flew to his face, and he screamed.
Fat maggots were spilling out of the decaying scratches on his skin. He was clawing at them,
squeezing at the yellowed pustules. Too distracted to notice the Basilisk blade seeping venom
into his bloodstream.
But Theo saw the blade a moment later, and yanked it out. Then he was picking up his wand,
chasing his assailant down, and slashing it through the air.
A violet flame erupted from the tip, passing through Hermione's raised shield and straight
into her heart.
Hermione's legs crumpled. She was hit by a sudden paralysis that was spreading like an
anesthetic: deadening her nerves. She tried to push through the strange lack of feeling,
hauling herself upright even though she could not sense anything from the waist down—not
her feet as she tried to resume running. Not her legs as she stumbled, and fell into a statue. It
toppled with her, shattering on impact.
While Hermione was struggling, Theo began gouging the rotting flesh from his face. Putrid
gore dripped from the gaping wound onto his teeth and chin.
"This is the part where you get down on your knees and beg for mercy," he said, flashing
Hermione a bloody smile as he strode across the room.
Then Theo flung the rot from his hand and pointed his wand.
"MORTUSPINA!"
"DAMNUM INTESTINORUM!"
Their dark hexes struck the other at identical moments. Theo hunched over, wrapping arms
around his stomach as he coughed violently, spewing red bile from his mouth. Screaming as
his intestines contorted into an irreparable, gory mess.
Theo fell to his side and stopped moving.
But his parting gift was just as brutal. Hermione arched up like a cat as her neck and chest
were punctured by invisible spikes that cut through muscle and cracked bone; impaling her
with a hundred thorns.
Crucifying her to the hard floor.
Her heartbeat became irregular. The marble under her back grew hot with blood. It was
flowing out of her faster than a river.
It felt like hell.

It felt familiar.
It felt like dying.
And the only comfort Hermione had was knowing that, this time, she fought instead of hid.
And yet, there was still so much regret within her soul.
Shadows danced around the chapel dome, and her gaze drifted to the fresco painted above—a
man reaching out to his Creator, their fingertips almost brushing. Only an inch of earthly
plaster between this world and heaven. An imminent touch that would never happen. One
that was designed to never happen.
Her eyes swam with red tears.
"I don't think I can stay," she whispered faintly, sending the words to a person who might
have already left. "In a better life, we would have had longer. We would have more than in
this life, and I would have chosen you every single day. In a better life, we would have grown
old together."
She sobbed, and spoke into the air, "I wanted that life."
As Hermione's voice faded, her vision flooded with cobalt ocean waters; with the cold wind
and salty tide. The pain ebbed, and the blood on her skin felt like a warm summer sun.
And she finally saw Draco—watching the waves roll into the shoreline. Skipping stones and
waiting for someone to join him.
Waiting for her.

Seascape
But tell me now what resting-place is this?
***
They strolled along the blinding white pavement, hands clasped and eyes squinted. It was so
bright in June that the ground reflected more light than a mirror.
"We should stop counting," Draco said. "It isn't healthy or doing either of us any good."
Hermione looked up at him. His pale skin was already turning pink.
She smiled.
"I'm not counting. Not quite."
Draco looked as leery of Hermione as the pelicans were of a class of school children playing
on the nearby sandbank.
Sighing, he pointed out, "I've seen the stacks of calendars you keep in the kitchen pantry.
You've never been the best at hiding secrets from me, Granger."
It was Hermione's turn to eye him cagily, despite the grin tugging at her lips. She changed the
subject. "When are you going to stop calling me Granger? In one decade, or two? And I can
list on my fingers how many times you've used my first name. At this point, I know you're
doing it on purpose."
Draco glanced away as he choked back a laugh. "Would you prefer I call you Mrs. Greenhill
Road like the neighbors?"
"I guess it's an improvement on what you used to call me at Hogwarts," said Hermione,
mouth pursed.
"And you'll never let me forget it."
"Never."
"If you have such a perfect memory, then you don't need to track the date," Draco observed,
steering her back to their original conversation.
Hermione let the air between them grow silent, and they both listened to their rhythmic
footsteps and the soft lapping of waves. If heaven existed, it was walking hand-in-hand like
this. Sometimes their life did not seem real, or like it could disappear far earlier than
expected. And she did not want to ruin it by arguing about the future.
So instead she reminisced about the past.

"Years ago, when you let me see your memories, you even thought of me as Granger in your
mind. What about now?"
Draco seemed to admit defeat in the face of her stubbornness, and answered the question in a
subdued voice.
"You were Granger to me before anything else. If you haven't noticed, I don't like change."
The air grew quiet again, and for a while Hermione was content just to follow the familiar
path back home.
But once they reached it, Hermione's eyes fell and she confessed, "The calendars aren't
meant to remind me of the date. They're meant to keep away the guilt."
Draco considered, then pulled her across the lawn and through the paneled front door.
"Never feel guilty for choosing this, Hermione Malfoy."
***
Hermione woke to the sound of beautiful music.
Saccharine notes that flowed into her ears. Sweet and comforting.
Healing.
The pilot light, the small flame of life within her soul, flared brighter. Burned stronger. Her
breathing steadied, and the blackness receded from her vision.
She blinked, lids heavy. It was difficult. Her eyes moved slower than molasses.
But she could see it again—the Creation of Adam painted on the dome above her, intact. Man
and God forever reaching across an unreachable distance. How had she forgotten the name of
such a tragic masterpiece?
A hand caressed her cheek, tilting her face to the side.
He was here.
Kneeling on the bloodstained floor, lifting her into his arms, pressing her to him.
"You're alive," Hermione tried to say. Only a weak croaking noise came out. Her throat was
not working.
Draco understood even without words. In reply, he leaned down and whispered the healing
incantation into her parted lips.
Her lungs cleared, letting her breathe. She tried to speak again.
"You're alive."
Draco sounded haunted as he said, "I should have come sooner. I didn't hear you. I was
resurrecting and couldn't pick out your voice above the others in my head. I should have
heard you."
"I thought you died."
"Says the girl I found lying in a pool of her own blood," Draco responded heavily, holding
onto her tighter than a lifeline. "Promise to stop doing this, Granger."
Something that may have been a vision flickered within Hermione's head, but she could not
bring herself to voice the promise.
"Sleep," said Draco. "You need to sleep."
Hermione let her eyes drift shut. A warm glow spread through her body, and soon sleeping
sounded like a fine idea.
Some hours later, they were resting against the chapel wall, nestled into each other. Every
now and then, the room shook with the rumbles of nearby explosions. The Death Eater attack
outside had not ended. Muted screams and roars continued to assault their ears—reminders of
how only a thin wall lay between them and violent warfare.
Draco was running fingers through her matted hair and talking quietly.
"It's not safe. We should get you out of the city. Tell me how to find the resistance and I'll
take you back."
"I can't go back," Hermione admitted.
"Why not?"
Reality seeped in like cold water.
"Kingsley knows about Nagini, so the Council must know by now as well. And if Voldemort
hasn't learned the truth yet, he will soon."
Tensing at her words, Draco said, "I'm sure that he will. An informant has been contacting
him through Nott. I haven't been able to uncover who it is, but they'll still figure out how to
reach the Dark Lord."
Draco's gaze fixed on something across the room, and Hermione inched up to see that Theo
was slumped at the base of an altar, skin chalk-white and eyes glassy. Both arms were
wrapped stiffly around his torso, as they had been when he was struck by that last fatal hex.
He was dead.
And the hatred consuming Hermione while they dueled had died with him. He looked like a
broken sacrifice. A slain animal.
He looked like an opportunity.

Hermione began to speak even while the plan continued forming.
"Revive him and give the corpse to Voldemort."
"What? Why would I do that?" asked Draco. "It's better just to act as if nothing happened and
erase any signs that we were here."
Dizzy but determined, Hermione insisted, "No. You can end an Inferius from a distance,
right? You're able to return them to what they were before resurrection, like the dead you
summoned in the Catacombs?"
Draco's brow furrowed as he nodded.
"End Nagini this instant, then go to France and destroy any evidence that she was an Inferius.
Blame her death on Theo. It should at least create confusion and buy you time. Voldemort
himself told you to find and turn the traitor, so you can act like you were following his
orders."
"How do you know what the Dark Lord told me?"
"I saw it."
The entire chapel quaked again. A long, jagged crack spiderwebbed along the frescoed
ceiling, ruining the centuries-old art. And Draco brushed a finger unhurriedly along her
temple with an incredibly sad smile.
"I really can't keep you out of my head, little jailbird."
Hermione curled in closer.
"So stop trying."
***
The next hours were a blur of shifting countries and unbelievable weariness. Without an
international Portkey, Draco had to apparate them short distances, pausing to heal Hermione
in between each jump to avoid splinching.
By the time they reached their final destination, Hermione was on the verge of
unconsciousness. She barely registered Draco tilting her head to view a slip of paper; her
eyes saw double as she tried to read the Welsh address written on it. When he carried her
through the cool liquid boundary of a Fidelius Charm and across a threshold, she felt and saw
only blackness.
Draco was gone when she next woke, but there was a folded note on the bedside table.
Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and reached to take it.
Stay inside the barrier. I'll return soon.

DM
A well known worry plagued Hermione. By now, Draco must be in Rome recovering Theo's
body, or maybe even Paris or Hogwarts. She tried to brush off any misgivings about the risky
ploy, and her terror at sending him back into the trenches. To not make any attempt at
deceiving Voldemort would mean accepting Draco's death; ensuring that his days were
numbered.
This way, he at least stood a chance at surviving.
At least that is what Hermione told herself.
She let the note flutter back to the table, and rolled to her opposite side, wearier than ever.
There was little to do besides wait.
While she did, Hermione began to look around this new place. It seemed virtually identical to
Draco's room at the Manor. Whitewashed wooden furnishings and coastal decorations more
reminiscent of Santorini than Wales. Yet the longer she stared, the easier it was to find the
dissimilarities.
The velvet chaise was replaced by a rattan ottoman, and a bookshelf with row after row of
Muggle fiction stood in a corner. Hermione's eyes rounded as she recognized the titles—what
did Lucius Malfoy think of his son reading what he no doubt regarded as low-class rubbish?
Though perhaps Lucius never knew, if the books were recent additions.
The starkest difference was the window. It intrigued Hermione so much that she tottered out
of the bed and moved closer. The large panel showed the exact same charmed ocean scene as
Draco's Manor window. But after lifting the glass and feeling the briny wind hit her face,
Hermione knew that she was in Tenby.
How strange to be here after years of listening to Draco describe its calm blue waters and
seeing it in his dreams. If she was here now, then that hallucinated conversation about
calendars could actually be a premonition of this visit. It was all very fuzzy, and it warmed
Hermione as much as it confused her. Perhaps she could only Divinate when severely injured
—what a morose thought.
But if that was her future, she would gladly take it.
Suddenly, Hermione dropped to the floorboards in unimaginable agony. She clawed at her
nightshirt, revealing a hundred small, circular scars along her chest and abdomen. They were
treated, yet she continued to feel the shadows of thorns puncturing her, straight through to the
disfigured skin on her back. She hunched over, seeing shadows.
It took a while for her head to clear and the pain to diminish. Whatever sinister magic Theo
used must still be in her system.
Once she was able to stand, Hermione decided that her nerves would not let her sleep again.
She crossed the bedroom and opened the door. A hallway lay beyond—abstract paintings
lined the walls. She walked through, viewing each one.
Then she was at a sitting room, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming in through a set of
doors leading to a beachfront veranda. Hermione stepped inside, feeling like she was
transported from Wales to the Greek isles.
She took to combing through the space, perhaps rudely. She did not think Draco would mind,
but was glad the Malfoy portraits were not around to judge.
She quickly discovered a Pensieve tucked beneath a low table, and recalled the memory of
Draco using it before fighting at Glen Lochy. But why did he need the Pensieve to Occlude at
all? This type of artifact was meant to view memories, not store them.
Curiosity overcame Hermione, and she began ransacking the place, pulling open drawers,
searching.
She found them. They were stashed in a jewelry box which had obviously been magically
enlarged—there were thousands of glass vials within it. She began to read the labels on the
first few within grasp. They all looked like names.
Realizing the significance, Hermione ran back down the hall to grab her wand. Then she was
in the sitting room again, saying, "Accio Hermione Jean Granger's memories," and a bottle
flew out of the box and into the air.
Hermione caught it, eyes as protuberant as Luna's. It seemed that Draco had indeed extracted
her dying thoughts before suppressing them with Occlusion. Although she did not understand
why he wanted to preserve them at all—even the small taste of necromancy she experienced
when Draco showed her his own memories was torturous. What was the point in reliving so
much pain?
Another idea hit Hermione.
"Accio Harry James Potter's memories."
And now she was holding two people's final moments in her shaking palm—hers, and
Harry's.
However, Hermione did not immediately bring them to the Pensieve. Did not know if she
wanted to see either one. There was only death within these flimsy vials.
A faint voice startled Hermione out of her contemplation. She looked toward the source. It
sounded like it came from outside the veranda doors.
Hermione was pushing them open, letting a cold breeze drift into the room, when the voice
spoke more loudly. She whirled back around, and tracked it to a fireplace.
There was no one else inside, but noise was coming from a picture frame that was placed
glass-side down on the mantle. She cautiously flipped it over, meeting Narcissa's worried
blue eyes.
The woman burst into tears when she saw Hermione, who held the frame up to her face and
whispered soothing words.
At last, Narcissa steadied herself and said, "If you're here, that must mean Draco is alive. You
found him."
"Draco found me," Hermione replied, lowering herself onto the sofa and propping Narcissa
on the coffee table. She was feeling dizzy again. "He's still in danger, but once he returns I
think he'll be safe. At least for a while."
The words coursed through Narcissa like a powerful medicine. She leaned against the side of
her frame, saying, "Thank you, dear. I've been running back and forth between here and the
Manor since you left yesterday, not knowing what else to do. My options are rather limited
being what I am. If you weren't there for Draco all these years, I don't—I can't—" Her voice
broke, then she ended in a serious tone, "He's in love with you."
"It goes both ways," said Hermione.
Unlike her husband, Narcissa looked delighted at the confirmation, giving Hermione a smile
more dazzling than the sun.
"So it's settled. Stay here until you recover, then both of you must leave Europe. We have
properties in South America with even stronger protection charms than this one. They're
hidden from all but our family and not in any written records. Go there together and do not
return."
"Why would I leave?" gasped Hermione, floored. What started as a reassuring chat had taken
such an unexpected turn. She had no clue how else to respond.
Undeterred, Narcissa continued, "If you love him, then you will leave all of this behind.
There is no hope that the resistance will defeat the Dark Lord, and Draco's loyalty can only
withstand so many tests. I'm certain you're clever enough to know that, Hermione dear. So
go. Go and don't look back. You'll be safe. It's what your own parents would have wanted."
"I can't, Mrs. Malfoy. I'm sorry, but I'm not going anywhere."
Color filled Narcissa's pale cheeks. She stared at Hermione, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Well, at least consider it," Narcissa pleaded. "Think it over and talk to Draco before you
decide. You will change your mind."
***
Hermione was sitting on a breakwater wall, letting the waves splash against her legs,
watching sailboats pass by as they docked in the nearby harbor. At low tide, she had been
able to walk here. But now the water swelled high enough to surround the wall, trapping her
on a narrow, stone island. To get back to the house, she would have to apparate or swim.
But she was in no hurry to return. The afternoon had melted into a pleasant dry heat, and the
saltwater tickling her feet was the perfect temperature. The Fidelius Charm seemed to extend
far into the sea, and she was as protected here as anywhere. Plus, the house felt stifling after
her confrontation with Narcissa.
CRACK
Hermione's heart thundered.
She turned around in time to see Draco cross the boundary line and stride toward the beach.
He let his black cloak drop into the sand, then pivoted again.
CRACK
A second later, Draco was standing atop the breakwater wall. The reflective water turned the
threading on his Death Eater robes blue, and danced light across his face. He lay beside
Hermione—his head resting on her lap. His gray eyes closed as she reached down to stroke
his cheek.
He was back, and all was well again.
Hermione turned out to watch the sailboats, letting a sense of calm fill her soul. It was like
they were on a floating bench in the middle of the ocean.
Draco's eyes remained shut as he said, "The Arboretum is gone. Terrorists burned it to the
ground under Nott's treasonous directions. The Dark Lord has designated him an apostate: an
enemy of the regime. Unfortunately, no one can seem to find Nott since his unexpected
betrayal. I've been tasked with hunting down and executing him… slowly."
Nodding, Hermione translated, "You removed all signs that Nagini was resurrected, named
Theo as the traitor, and disposed of his body. What are the chances that this will still work
once the Order names you as the one who destroyed a Horcrux?"
"Probably low, but they haven't yet."
"Then you should go into hiding before they do," insisted Hermione. "I spoke with your
mother. She explained how you have safe houses abroad. Voldemort can't find you there,
right?"
The muscles around Draco's temples relaxed until his face was an expressionless mask. He
did not open his eyes as he said, "Now you want me to leave?"
"Of course I don't. I want you to stay with me and see this through to the end. But I also can't
lose you because of Nagini. Because of something you never wanted to do in the first place.
You shouldn't die for helping the Order."
Draco scoffed and sat up, glaring into the deep water. "I knew the risks the moment I agreed
to find the snake. None of this is news, Granger. This is simply my own decision catching up
with me."
"Well I can't stand by and let that happen."
"And why not?" Draco hissed. "You were perfectly willing to gamble your own life away like
an adrenaline addict."
"That's not fair."
"Then what the hell was that with Theo? There wasn't anything in that church preventing you
from disapparating to safety. But no, once you got it in your head to play the martyr, nothing
could stop you from fulfilling your dream of dying in a fucking murder-suicide."
Heat rising, Hermione shot back, "Theo knew about us. If I didn't fight, he would have gone
straight to Voldemort and you'd already be dead. I had to silence him."
"Not if it means losing your life a second time," said Draco coldly.
"You don't get to make my decisions. You might think I'm some half-brained monster who
doesn't know my own mind. But that's not true."
Now tears burned her eyes. They seemed to hurt Draco more than her. He reached out to wipe
them away. But his hand was covered in salt from the ocean, only adding to the stinging.
Hermione continued speaking, letting the tears fall onto his fingers.
"I have my own free will, and if I choose to risk my life or to love you, there is nothing you
can do about it."
"You don't know what you're saying," he repeated.
"And you swore never to join the Order, so I left it for you, Draco. That was my decision, not
yours. Not because of necromancy. The least you could do is meet me halfway and believe
that I know what I'm doing."
Draco's shoulders tensed. "How can you leave the Order without breaking your Vow?"
"Does it matter?" Hermione replied. "The point is that I did. My Vow is gone and I'm not. I'm
here, with you. I gave it all up, and you still refuse to believe that I can choose for myself."
"Are you positive that the Vow isn't just unbroken?"
"Yes. It died with me at Glen Lochy. There's nothing left to break. I even remember feeling it
leave when I passed through the veil. I remember losing it." Hermione considered, and added
softly, "But you already knew that, didn't you? If you saw my dying memories?"
Draco sat up, glancing to the side, tracing a finger around his knuckles, thinking. Eventually
he admitted, "I suspected. I could never confirm."
Then, without warning, Draco leaned forward, locking Hermione in his mesmerizing gaze.
The waves lapping against her feet, the brilliant blue ocean, faded into the background. And
he said vehemently, "If you're sure the Vow is gone, then you don't need to kill the Dark Lord
anymore. We'll run away together. Start again somewhere far and new, and forget about the
war."
It was not a question. There was too much darkness in Draco's bloodstained eyes, too much
force behind his voice.
It was a command.
A coiled wire deep within Hermione's soul grew taut, compelling her to agree, seducing her
to agree. She wanted to say yes. And why shouldn't she? There was nothing left for her here;
nothing except a cause that abandoned her long ago.
"Come with me," echoed Draco, wrapping a hand around her waist, pulling her closer on
their watery bench. "We don't need anyone else if we have each other, and I'll never leave
without you. I promise we'll be happy. Say you'll come with me."
Hermione looked out to the smooth ocean, stretching so far that she could see the curvature
of the planet.
"Run away with me," Draco said a third time, reciting the litany into her neck.
A sailboat coasted over the horizon, falling off the edge of the world. Blinking out of
existence like a light.
She couldn't do it.
"No," Hermione said simply. "I love you, but I won't leave. I'm staying until the end."
A strange relief washed over Draco as he faced the shimmering blue sea. As if he needed to
hear this refusal. As if it was a guiding star after miles of hopeless navigation. The proof she
could choose freely without the chains of a vow or necromancy.
The answer he searched for since the very first question.
Draco kissed her forehead.
"There you are, Hermione Granger. I've been looking for you."
Green Hills, Midnight Sands
Chapter Summary
And with this, we're officially caught up to the two-year flash forward in Chapter 1.
What comes next is open to interpretation.
She whom thine eye shall like, thy heart shall have,
Be she as chaste as was Penelope,
As wise as Saba, or as beautiful
As was bright Lucifer before his fall
***
"Morning, Mr. Greenhill."
"Nice to see you, Greenhill!"
"Off to the market this late, Mr. Greenhill Road?"
Hermione's eyes grew wider as they neared the Muggle town. Every time she tried to mention
Voldemort or her post-recovery plans, another neighbor passed by—ducking their head
genially at Draco, and calling him that strange name. Greeting him like a permanent fixture.
He nodded back in turn, whispering to Hermione, "West Greenhill Road is the beach house's
address."
"Is it a good idea to let them see me? To see us?" Hermione asked, pulling nervously at the
brim of a bowler hat to cover more of her face.
Draco replied, "One of my more paranoid ancestors made it his life's work to place an
obscene amount of Confundus Charms around the region. As long as we stay within its
borders, they won't recognize us."
"That's why you live here instead of Wiltshire… because you prefer the anonymity?"
Draco considered, then admitted, "Yes, although I didn't at first. And my father always
detested being treated like just another Muggle. We were the only wizarding family that ever
seemed to visit Tenby, so no one knew our names, let alone our history. Fortunately, that's
still true today."
"The charms haven't faded? How does that even work?"
Shrugging casually, Draco said, "I assume some type of ancient magic. While it's not the
safest place in the country, neither the Order or Dark Lord has managed to track me here yet.
It would be hard for anyone to find us as long as we only stay for a day or two at a time. Try
not to worry."
"I suppose it's fine for a bit," Hermione relented, flashing a hesitant smile toward the next
neighbor.
However, she kept one jittery hand on her hat as they traversed the harbor walkway. While
she had been reluctant to step outside the house's boundary, Draco convinced her to rest and
let her injuries heal. And she had to admit that a break was needed after almost dying a
second time.
So here they were: pretend Muggles in a town that some long-deceased Malfoy had
Confunded right off the map.
Hermione knew that Tenby was a facade. A Potemkin village that could not remain
untouched forever. Yet, for a brief interlude, she was tempted to embrace the normalcy it
offered. Even this fake normal was enticing. A mirage in the desert.
A charming lie of a town.
Perhaps detecting her nervousness, Draco squeezed her hand. Hermione glanced up at him,
not finding a single hard muscle in his expression. They had killed enough time on the
breakwater wall for the dark magic to fade from his eyes, which had melted to a beautiful
bluish gray. He looked freer than she had ever seen, and far younger than at the Manor. It was
easy to forget he was only twenty-four…
…Or was he?
"When is your birthday?" demanded Hermione.
Now a streak of annoyance crossed Draco's pointed face as he responded, "June 5th."
"1979 or 1980?"
"1980. And I already know your birthday, Granger, so don't you dare rub it in."
She laughed. "Rub what in? That I'm older than you?"
"Only by nine months," he shot back petulantly. "You aren't exactly robbing the cradle."
"It's not a competition, Malfoy. You don't need to feel self-conscious," lectured Hermione in a
way that was definitely meant to raise Draco's blood pressure. It worked. She could see the
flush in his neck, and it was positively refreshing. Disarming. Maybe even cute.
"Besides, I prefer younger men," she added, biting her lip.

Draco scowled and tugged at her cheek. "I'm sure your geriatric Weasel of a boyfriend heard
a very different story. How many times a day did you force feed the geezer vitamins just to
keep him healthy?"
"Why do you always bring him up? If you're jealous, go ahead and admit it."
"You can't fault me for being bothered. I spent months hearing the lewd, disgusting things
you said to him, like you were shouting them in my ear," needled Draco. "Like you wanted
me to hear them. Like you got off on the voyeurism."
Hermione stifled her flinch, and accused, "It's your fault for listening. If you didn't like it, you
could have tried harder to block me out. At any rate, I meant what I said. Younger men are
easier to manage. So if anyone's on the wrong end of a power dynamic, it's you, JUNIOR."
Another passing local tried to say hello, then shrank back immediately—sensing the tension.
Draco did not notice, having eyes only for Hermione. Looking as livid as he did delighted;
fully engaged in their exchange.
Draco leaned over. "If you want a whipping boy, then you had better keep searching."
Now his hand slithered electricity down her spine, paused on the small of her back, steering
her close. Close enough that she felt his pumping blood. His arousal.
Her bones turned to liquid as cold lips invaded her ear.
"But if you want role play, then I can play the professor. I promise you'll learn more from me
than some shit Occlumency or riding a broom. And if the lessons don't stick, my idea of
detention will make the Forbidden Forest look like a fucking butterfly garden."
Hermione shivered, and soon Draco was the one laughing.
"What was that about a power imbalance, old lady?" he hissed into her neck.
Pushing him ahead on the sloped path, Hermione stated matter-of-factly, "Ginny was right.
Some things never change. You're still such a meanspirited ass."
"You like me this way," smirked Draco, walking backward and challenging her with a raised
blond eyebrow.
Hermione glared at him, but did not protest.
Mean as he was, Draco made life a lot more enticing.
They continued their stare down until they reached the edge of a farmer's market. Fresh
produce stalls and booths laden with trinkets snaked along a crowded pedestrian street. It
seemed like there was some sort of celebration—strings of flowers hung from the
streetlamps. And festive, multicolored ribbons streamed down from a pole.
Hermione was still squinting curiously at it, only now remembering that it was May first,
when Draco faced forward again and took her hand. He leaned close and dropped his pitch.
"Try to at least act happy today, Granger. It's a small town and gossip spreads faster than a
nasty disease. Wouldn't want the neighbors to think my wife hates me."
"Your wife?!" Hermione sputtered.
Wearing a wry smile, Draco dragged her into the hubbub.
As they meandered through the festive Muggle market, arms linked, a sense of calm befell
Hermione. Though she continued to glance anxiously over her shoulder, she felt much farther
than a mere hundred miles from the Order's base in Cardiff. Being here in Tenby was like
retreating to a time after the war, or slipping into an alternative reality where it never existed.
Where they could just be.
They continued to wander aimlessly, nibbling on shortbread, sharing a paper cup of mead,
and watching school children twist ribbons around the maypole.
After an hour or so, Draco brought them to a halt at a busy flower booth, joining the queue
without explanation. The line moved at a snail's pace since the shopkeeper started a full-
blown conversation with every customer. When they at last made it to the front, the sun was
setting and the display stood half-empty.
"Happy May Day, dearie," an elderly woman mewled, giving Draco a warm side hug. "Or
maybe May Night is more accurate."
"Mrs. Audrey," Draco replied flatly, not even attempting to hide his discomfort at the public
affection. He also did not attempt to push the shopkeeper away, and she continued chatting
eagerly.
"This must be your special lady friend. I was wondering when you would bring her 'round."
Mrs. Audrey redirected her attention to Hermione, who was shifting her weight between both
feet, nervous.
"He's one of my best regulars," the shop woman explained. "I've always been curious about
what a handsome young fellow like him needs with dozens of white roses. Now I get to meet
the reason. You're lovely, dear. Especially your eyes. They're so unique being different colors.
Reminds me of a mixed bouquet."
Hermione grimaced self-consciously at the ground. "Nice to meet—"
Her words broke off when Draco wound an arm behind her waist and said in a firm tone,
"The roses were for family. Today I'm buying something for her."
Draco's grip tightened, and Hermione's eyes lifted to study his face—finding only pride, and
perhaps a tinge of mischief.
"Go on then," Draco invited. "Pick out what you want."

The shop woman was downright appalled. "Making your date choose her own flowers? Not
very romantic, Mr. Greenhill. You'll never pin down someone as pretty as her with that
attitude."
Draco simpered, "Apparently I don't control this one. She has her own brain, so she might as
well use it."
That earned Draco a series of pinches courtesy of Mrs. Audrey. Meanwhile, Hermione began
to peruse the table, grinning in spite of herself.
The shop woman's scolding subsided when Hermione lifted a circlet of daffodils from the
table, asking meekly, "How much?"
"I should be paying you for putting up with a rascal who wouldn't recognize polite talk if it
danced in front of him stark naked," Mrs. Audrey said. Draco counted bills and looked
mollified.
They left the festival after that.
Smiling instead of bickering.
Laughing as Draco exchanged Hermione's hat for a crown of summer flowers.
***
Night fell across the ocean, and soon the only lights remaining were inside the pastel-roofed
houses bordering the Welsh coastline. And the only movement came from the two people at
the end of Greenhill Road.
The temperature was gradually decreasing, but nothing could tempt Hermione to leave their
spot on the beach. The sand on her back was still warm from roasting all day under the strong
sun. The fire in her veins ran much hotter. And even the damp air, even Draco's cold touch,
could not soothe this type of burning. She needed him, and the feeling was mutual.
The linen blanket beneath her became hopelessly twisted as Draco slowly inched down in the
sand. His fingers drew rings around the peaks of her breasts, while his feathery hair tickled
her navel.
"Tell me what you want, Hermione."
"Everything," she gasped, guiding him lower.
He laughed without raising his head.
"Always so greedy."
Then he was kissing a trail along the oversensitive skin on her inner thigh as he slipped the
satin robe from her shoulders. It was the sweetest torture, making Hermione breathe faster
through half-lidded eyes.
She felt everything: could count each grain of sand on his lips as he kissed her in a place
where she had never been kissed. As he devoured her with a velvet tongue.
Her hips pitched forward as Draco's mouth tickled her bundled nerves. His hand slithered
under her backside, arching her close as his tongue plunged into her depths. A delicate,
tender exploration.
She reached for his moving head, knotting her fingers in the white-blond locks. Mussing his
hair and tangling the blanket. She was so close. Chasing a pleasure that was becoming less
elusive. An eruption that had her writhing and melting into the sand.
The aftershocks were still rolling through her body when Draco snaked a hand down his own,
readying himself. She could feel him growing hard against her leg.
Hermione's heart quickened. She slid to meet him, lacing their fingers together, matching his
pace.
How strange that his pleasure became hers.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to have you on this exact spot," Draco whispered
darkly. "Why do you think I'm always dreaming about the ocean?"
He moved up, framing Hermione's head with his elbows, widening her knees.
The breeze stung the rawness between her legs. She shuddered and pulled Draco down,
kissing his pale throat.
"Since your mind is a prison cell, you must secretly want something even less pedestrian," he
said. "Maybe tomorrow we'll break into Azkaban and I'll fuck you against the—"
"Oh shut up, Malfoy," interrupted Hermione, then solved the problem herself by kissing him.
He tasted like the ocean; like saltwater and alkaline.
He tasted like her.
Draco broke the kiss, sneering as he straddled her hips, making her sink lower in the
sandbank. "Don't pretend this isn't how you like it. You swore never to lie. And if I can admit
you have a soul, then you can confess to having even filthier dreams about me."
"You evil son of a—"
He laughed, then cut Hermione off with a sudden, rough penetration; with filling and
stretching. She moaned, and almost went over the edge again from just the sensation of being
entered.
The noise seemed to make Draco lose control. One ankle flew behind his head as she was
pressed down, hard. The blanket was a useless bundle, so he threw it aside. And now the
earth scraped right into her back with every push; leaving a million, tiny scratches. Igniting
her skin with a grinding heat.
Draco's hips sped up as he watched her with such intensity, pupils dark as midnight. Fueling
their tension with short, rapid bursts and long, rolling motions.
It was even better than the first time.
It felt too good to hurt.
The tide rose, lapping at their feet. And they moved with the water, swelling and falling in a
perpetual oscillation.
Cold sweat dripped from Draco's brow. He dropped his foreheads to hers, voicing her name
again and again and again. They were on the verge of breaking.
He lifted her leg against his neck, deepening and shifting the angle. Crushing their bodies
together like two opposing currents.
Their breathing grew ragged as the waves drew closer, soaking into their skin. As the starry
night sky blurred.
And when they both came apart, it was in each other's arms. Subsumed by the rising ocean
tide.
Whispering their love into the sand.
***
The sound of waves tumbling toward the shore woke Hermione from sleep. Her lids felt
heavy as she opened red-rimmed eyes and struggled to adjust to the darkness. Shadows cast
from the water danced across a vaulted bedroom ceiling. And, for a moment, she was
transported back two years.
But these waves were not the ones she knew. Not the raging swells crashing against the
impenetrable three-sided Azkaban walls. This room was nothing like her damp prison cell.
And when Hermione rolled onto her side, her eyes did not fall on the kind lover she once
expected, but instead on the cruel enemy she needed and hated.
The man she loved.
Draco sighed, and even the harshest lines around his mouth softened. He was so beautiful.
Though it could rouse him, Hermione brushed the silver hair from his face. Watching him as
she always did. Reading and rereading his scars like her favorite fairytales. Finding more
peace in him than she ever did a book.
And, for a moment, Hermione imagined what life would be without the war. Or if she had
agreed to run away with him that morning.
But no, now she did not have to imagine—it would have been just like today. And if this was
all they had, it was enough.
Hermione smiled through her tears.
It was not enough.
She knew that he was hiding something. In spite of his promise never to lie, their entire
reality was built on half-truths. There were still too many secrets concealed within his heart.
Suddenly Draco's eyes shot open, pulling her into a sea of stormy gray. He pivoted, violently
turning her beneath him. Pinning her to the satin sheets. Crushing her chest against his until
she gasped for relief. One hand gripped her bare shoulder, while his other snaked paralyzing
fingers up her throat.
She ran nails down his back. Carving trails of blood into his pale flesh even as the twin curse
marks on her palms stung with the burning friction.
Then his cold, silken, harsh, irresistible voice whispered to her. Reawakening her mind and
tearing through her soul.
"Do you want to go back to sleep, little jailbird?"
"No, Malfoy. I don't."
Draco lifted her chin, locking her in a dark and punishing kiss.
"Good answer."
Endgames
O, I come of a royal parentage!
My grandfather was a Gammon of Bacon, My grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine;
Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny; wilt thou bid me to supper?
***
Blaise | Hogwarts, Scotland
He was being pressed on all sides; compressed like a sardine in a tin can. That the first floor
corridor was this packed would have been almost comical . . . if it was not so damn
annoying.
Blaise finally extracted himself from the mass of bodies by ducking into a hidden
passageway, stumbling through a false tapestry and cursing. At least it was quiet here, and he
was ALONE. After breaking to catch his breath, he followed the path to a spiral staircase.
It was almost as crowded on the second level, but Blaise wrestled his way through by Jelly-
Legs Jinxing a few of the slowest moving Death Eaters. He pounded on the door until it
swung open, and stepped into the room. He raised one eyebrow at the squat, lump of a man
sitting within, saying suspiciously, "Morning. Didn't expect to find you in Macnair's room. I'll
come back later."
Amycus Carrow scratched at his doughy face then gestured for Blaise to take a seat on the
bed.
"Elliad will be here any minute. Anything you have to say to him, you can say in front of me.
Or would you rather I report to the Dark Lord that I caught you sneaking around?"
"Fat chance the Dark Lord would listen to you, Carrot," taunted Blaise, reclining on the
pillow. "From what I hear, he won't let anyone come within a hundred feet, thanks to our
friendly neighborhood apostate. He won't even let the house-elves into the Chamber
anymore. So how the hell would you reach him?"
Narrowing tiny eyes, Amycus snarled, "You're making him sound weak, Zabini. Keep
spreading lies like that and people will think you're an apostate. The Dark Lord is right to be
cautious given what happened with Nott."
"Exactly!" Blaise said. "Malfoy already exposed Nott for the treasonous rat he is. And we
should all be spending more energy on planning how to catch him, and less on accusing each
other." He waggled a dark finger at the cracked door. "There are hundreds of rookies out
there with nothing better to do than jam up the hallways. Go give them something useful to
do, like cleaning up Italy. The entire capital is a fucking mess and our placeholder
government isn't in any state to pick up the pieces."
"The Italians could have followed the French model and not resisted. What became of Rome
is their fault. You're also in no position to criticize since you weren't even there, Zabini."
Blaise retorted, "Not by choice."
Amycus appraised the younger man, who was staring at the cobwebbed ceiling above the
bed. With a lopsided leer, he noted, "And just because the Dark Lord's Mouth named
Theodore Nott as the traitor, doesn't mean it's true or that he's the only one."
"You don't believe Malfoy?" intoned Blaise, sounding bored. "Why would he lie about
something like that? They were friends, but Malfoy put his duty over all that when he learned
about Nott's betrayal. Besides, who else would it be? Everyone knows that Nott was at the
massacre in Grenoble, and how he couldn't even defend his own club from getting ransacked.
None of it was a coincidence. Nott must have been working with the terrorists for years. It all
points to him."
The door slammed open. A tall man with a thin, black mustache plowed through, then paused
when he noticed his guests.
"What are you two doing in my room?" Elliad Macnair demanded harshly.
"Oh, you know. Just shooting the shit," yawned Blaise.
Growling, Amycus clarified, "We're both waiting to speak with you, El. Though I was here
first."
"Nice," Blaise snorted.
Elliad scowled at them, saying, "I could care less who came first. Tell me what you want,
then leave."
In answer, Amycus stood up and handed him an envelope, then retook his seat. "Courtesy of
our favorite terrorist."
Blaise tensed—this must be a message from the Council informant who Malfoy warned him
about. He watched Elliad unfold the note out of the corner of his eye, trying to look
disinterested.
The tall Death Eater turned his back to Blaise as he read, shoulders raised. When he was
finished, he dropped the paper into the lit fireplace. "So what do you want, runt?" he asked,
turning to glare at the younger man.
"I came to file a complaint about the crowding problem," Blaise said. "Whose bright idea was
it to relocate so many of us to the castle? I can't even sneeze without blowing over a dozen
new recruits, and the entire place stinks like a middle school locker room."
"The Dark Lord is strengthening the regime's defenses for a reason. The Order is preparing
for something big, and we have to be ready. Tighten security, reinforce our ranks—"
Still lounging on the bed, Blaise waved his hand to disrupt Amycus. "Yeah, yeah, I get all
that. So what is the Order planning, and who told you about it?"
"Keep sticking your fingers where they don't belong, and one day someone will bite them
right off," threatened Elliad. "And because I'm feeling generous, here's another word of
advice from your senior: you may think you're hot shit for making it onto the Cabinet. You're
not. You're just that much closer to the chopping block. So quit asking unnecessary questions.
The three of us shouldn't have met in private to begin with—it isn't permitted. Next time, find
me alone."
"I was here first, Zabini, so get moving," snarled Amycus.
Blaise rolled his eyes and jumped off the bed. "Yeah, well I have somewhere better to be
anyways."
He stalked to the door, hands in pockets.
Then he was out in the packed corridor, pushing through hundreds of men who were little
more than the Dark Lord's living shields. Basically just human fodder.
Trying to keep the mask from slipping off his face.
Feeling very ill.
***
Blaise did not Floo directly home. Instead, he took the long way through Hogsmeade and
multiple Railroad shelters, in case he was being monitored. He was almost certainly being
monitored.
But this was nothing new. The target of their leader's paranoia always went around his inner
circle like a roulette wheel—and right now it kept landing on Blaise's ticker. His, and
Malfoy's.
It was not an ideal situation. Whenever this happened, Blaise had to be extra careful not to
blow their multiple covers. One wrong move, and heads would roll.
While the Dark Lord's army had grown at an unprecedented rate, his Cabinet was emaciated.
Antonin and Rodolphus were dead—victims of a certain bushy-haired Gryffindor. And it was
rumored that Bellatrix had been quietly executed for her husband's failure at Christmas. That
only left him, Amycus, Elliad, and Corban Yaxley… if one did not count Theo… which he
did not.
He had a feeling that Theo would never make a reappearance. Though he had not yet
confirmed it, Malfoy must have done something to Theo. Neither had been seen since Rome,
and the Dark Lord's psychosis had skyrocketed to new heights.
Whatever happened must have been game–changing.
More than that, both sides were clearly signaling the end. Increasing their numbers and
contacting foreign allies for support. It was all quite shocking—Blaise had long since given
up any expectation that their six year war would ever reach a conclusion.
Now, Blaise could sense it.
The question was, where should he stand? Because unlike most, he actually had a choice.
If Captain Hestia was still alive, the answer would have been obvious: with the Order.
But she was dead, and the Order was not the same. It was not what Blaise had agreed to join
all those years ago. And maybe he would have stuck around despite the Council's red tape
around his neck, despite their obvious intelligence leak. He would have been able to overlook
all that and continue operating in the shadows like he had been.
No longer.
Not after they abandoned Italy.
The Order never came to protect Rome, even after the Death Eater's bloodshed started. Even
after his squad signaled for reinforcements. Instead, the Council instructed the Muggle and
magic prime ministers to surrender, calling it a "strategic defeat," then washed their hands of
the country.
But neither leader bent the knee to Voldemort willingly. This time, the Italians fought back;
refused to submit to the legion of devils stealing their homeland.
It was a genocide—one that the Order was trying to cover up by reporting a low civilian
death toll. Fucking disrespectful propaganda. If Malfoy had not assisted the Railroad before
the attack, they would have lost thousands more.
Blaise gritted his teeth, seething. Hurt.
Resolved.
Fuck the Order.
***
Main Station's hallway of fireplaces was as crowded as Hogwarts. Displaced Muggles were
still transiting through on their way to their next destinations, with Tony at the center
directing traffic. Blaise gave his father a nod, then slid into a private room, transforming his
robes into a Knife uniform and pulling the hood over his face.
He stepped back out to help.
Several exhausting hours later, Blaise was at his favorite spot beneath his mother's oak tree;
head leaned against the trunk; eyes closed. Resting on her grave. It was hard to believe that
more than half a decade had passed since her death.
He missed her.
So much.
People said he took after his mother. Those people never truly knew her. She was a wildcat of
a witch. A firecracker who threw her pure-blood heritage to the wind; who killed to protect a
secret she hid from the world.
He was only a feeble imitation.
But when his grandparents murdered her, their only daughter, because they feared the Dark
Lord discovering that secret—he was strong enough then. Strong enough to get retribution
for his mother.
A dark smile curled Blaise's lips at the memory. He had not expected taking the lives of blood
relatives to be pleasant. Necessary, yes. Enjoyable, not really. He was wrong. It was
exhilarating. And maybe he had gotten carried away. They all deserved it.
It was not just Viola Zabini buried under this tree. No, it was his entire maternal family.
Blaise registered soft footsteps on grass, and opened his eyes.
"You wanted to see me?" said Pangolin, coming to sit cross-legged in front of him.
Blaise gave her a once-over, noting that aside from a few purple bruises, the young witch
appeared largely uninjured. Some of the other members of his squad were not so lucky—Jag
lost most of his left arm, while Gaur and Coney did not return from Italy at all, and were
presumed dead.
But even Pangolin's full face was thinner, and her hair was a tangled pink mess. It made
Blaise feel guilty. Though they had only briefly overlapped at Hogwarts, he still saw a
beaming, twelve-year-old Hufflepuff whenever he looked at Pangolin. That was why he
personally trained her for an entire year before letting her near a fight. Even now, she was
basically his kid sister—one who had the misfortune of growing up during a war.
She was his responsibility.
Blaise cleared his throat, saying, "You should go home."
The statement threw Pangolin like a clean sweep to the legs. Her shoulders slumped and her
eyes widened. "What? Did something happen? Why should I go now?"
"You've done more than enough," Blaise replied flatly, avoiding the questions. "The Captain
would have been proud of what you've become. But it isn't realistic to keep this up anymore.
And before you start thinking this is personal, know that it's not. I'm planning to tell Weasley
and the others the same thing."
"Tell them what thing? That you're kicking us out?"

"Yes. No. The reverse, actually. I'm leaving the Knife."
Pangolin put both hands on her knees as she scooched closer, as if she was waiting to hear the
punchline of a joke. "And where are you going?" she probed.
"Nowhere," responded Blaise. "That's why you all need to get out of my vineyard."
"If it's about needing more fighters, we can ask Angelina to combine units again. Or recruit
new ones from the Infantry."
"I'm not asking the Order for jack shit anymore, and I would highly suggest you not either,"
Blaise said in a hard voice. Then he sighed, "You're a free agent though, so do whatever you
want."
Looking decided, Pangolin said, "Great, then I'm staying right here."
Blaise sat upright. "That's not what I meant."
However, Pangolin was not listening.
"If we're leaving the Knife, we need to figure out a name for our new group," she said,
scratching her round chin, brainstorming. "Unless you just want us to join the Railroad too?
Maybe we can be called the Express Train, so we can stay on theme? No… that's weird…"
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying," Blaise interrupted sharply. "I'm not starting
something new. I'm ending my allegiance. Breaking faith."
He stood, and Pangolin also leapt to her feet.
This was obviously not working. Blaise changed tack.
"I'm sure your family misses you, Persephone. You ran away the minute you turned of age
without even a goodbye note, far less a visit. Just go home and the Order will handle the rest.
Don't, and you may never get the chance to see them again."
Pangolin's blue eyes grew dewy, but she did not budge from her spot on the grass.
"You said I'm a free agent, so I'm exercising my independence and joining the Underground
Railroad."
"Hell no—"
"Then it's settled!" yelled Ginny.
Blaise recoiled, spinning in time to see the redhead jump down from a tree branch.
She landed at the base of the trunk, hands on hips.
Pangolin asked, "What's settled?"

"That we're all joining the Railroad. Or starting our own faction of the resistance. Either way
works. We'll iron out the details later. Point is, we're doing this."
"WE are not doing anything, Weasley. "I am sending you back to your brothers tonight,"
Blaise said grouchily.
Ginny flapped her hand at Blaise, like she was swatting a mosquito. Then she faced Pangolin,
reassuring, "Don't worry. He's been threatening to ship me home every day since January, and
I'm still here. He doesn't really mean it."
The strawberry blond giggled and wiped her eyes. Then she made a mad dash away from the
oak tree before Blaise could get it another word.
Blaise watched her fade into the trellises. Once she was gone, he turned to Ginny.
"None of this is a game. And if it is—"
"If it is, then I'm playing it with you," she finished, draping Blaise's lean arm around her
shoulders. "The Order can shove it. I'm never going back after how they handled Italy. Plus, I
already spoke with Jag and Echidna, and they're also all in."
"Fucking mutiny," Blaise groaned, barely concealing his relief. He had not wanted to go at it
alone after years of relying on a team, though he would never admit it.
Ginny saw right through his act. She snorted and tugged him toward the shimmering outline
of Main Station.
"C'mon, lover boy. Tony already made dinner and it would be rude to keep him waiting. The
only thing worse than cold soup is a bad attitude."
"You're one to talk."
Ignoring the jibe, Ginny said, "Seph's right. We need a new name so it's clear we separated
from the Knife. Maybe the Scissors? What do you think, Zabini?"
Blaise sniggered, then squeezed his girlfriend's hand until she winced. She was not very
creative, but her other skills more than made up for it. Especially that one move last night—
He leaned over to kiss the freckled tip of her nose.
"Whatever you want, Second-in-Command."
There was still a stupid smile plastered on Blaise's face as he followed Ginny through Main
Station to his father's apartment.
Half his family was buried under an oak tree.
The other half was sitting at this kitchen table.

White Lies
And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
***
Draco | Tenby, Wales
Draco kept a keen eye on Granger as they climbed. It would have been faster and easier to
just apparate to the summit, as he sensibly pointed out. But of course, Granger disagreed,
insisting that she test out her physical recovery by hiking up the manual way. And, of course,
that is exactly what happened.
Granger seemed healthy enough. Despite his reservations about taking her to Allen's
Viewpoint, she was moving at a quick pace. Her legs were lean, but toned from what must
have been months of combat training. And her endurance was even better than his.
At Hogwarts, she had never struck Draco as particularly athletic, though he admittedly had
not paid much attention to her back then. Still, it was clear to everyone that she was the
brains of the Potty-Weasel-Granger operation, not the muscle. Back then, most of her
exercise probably came from writing mile-long essays and carrying armfuls of books. She
even had her nose in them during Quidditch matches.
A lot had changed since Hogwarts, for them both.
Sometimes Draco found himself marveling at the changes. Most of them were negative,
though not all. Not when it came to her. If you told him that, after six years of fighting the
daily impulse to punch the know-it-all, he would want to do so much more to her… What
was the Muggle saying?
The only thing more unpredictable than the future is the heart.
Although there was a great view from behind, he quickened to join Granger.
She looked at him, weaving their fingers together in the way they fit best. Her eyes were
becoming increasingly discolored—reverting to the Inferius gray they were at Glen Lochy.
He could tell how much the color distressed her, noticed how she avoided her own reflection.
He could not blame her, considering that losing her deep brown eyes was just one symptom
of a darker condition.
Draco tried not to dwell on it.

He may have accepted that Granger regained the ability to think independently; to choose for
herself. He still did not know the reason, or if it would last forever. It felt like their time was
slipping away faster than sand through an hourglass. If there was any spell to slow the hours,
he would have cast it.
But, at least for now, she was his.
Only his.
His beautiful bird who deserved more than a cage.
***
"I can't tell if it's an island or a cloud," said Granger, squinting down from where they
lounged atop the woodland hill. "My vision is getting worse than Harry's, probably from the
headaches."
Without sitting up, Draco tilted his head toward the collection of massive rocks jutting out of
the ocean below. Then he replied, "Last I checked, clouds don't have trees growing out of
them. That's St. Catherine's Island. I can take you there later if you're interested. But only if
you promise we can apparate."
"If you're uncomfortable, it's only because you're dressed like that," Granger laughed,
gesturing at Draco's black trousers and dress shirt, which were growing increasingly dusty
from the ground. "It's okay to look like a peasant when you work out. Or do you genuinely
not own anything besides Death Eater robes?"
Deeming that question beneath him, Draco asked, "When did your headaches start?"
She rubbed at a long scar on the base of her skull, and said, "They're nothing new. I cracked
my head the night of the Shell Cottage Raid, though I think they started before then—maybe
even back in Azkaban. It's usually worse after nightmares."
His brow furrowed. "You said before that you've seen me with the Dark Lord, and not just
heard me speak to him. When did that happen?"
"I'm not sure," Granger replied, still rubbing at her scar uneasily. "I think the first time was at
Shell Cottage. That one felt more like an old memory—one of Voldemort visiting you in
Azkaban. There were two other visions after that, both at the Great Lake. And both felt like
they were happening in the present."
She studied Draco, and he could see a tightness in her expression. "But you showed me those
visions to warn me about Voldemort, didn't you?"
"I didn't show you any visions," he said carefully. "I only ever let you in my memories once,
to explain how you became a—how you passed. And aside from your final thoughts, I can
only hear a few of your words here and there. Probably when you're thinking of me."
Now Granger's face grew white.

"Then, it must be from necromancy."
Draco nodded, and moved Granger's head to his chest. Her eyes closed as Draco began to
untangle her windblown hair, noting the shades of tan, chocolate, and umber amongst the
strands. The curls seemed to coil around his fingers like Devil's Snare, alive and sentient, just
like their owner.
Magical.
To him, Granger was more captivating than the ocean. Call it love or an unhealthy obsession,
he could not force himself to look away from her shifting colors. Could not help but follow
her currents.
All the while seeing the approaching shipwreck.
Draco would not let her drown with him. As long as Granger followed the same rules as a
pure Inferius, she could go on existing after he was gone. That is why he poured so many
hours into research; bought every text he could find about Gellert Grindelwald—a man
obsessed with the afterlife, the Deathly Hallows, and resurrection. All for the reassurance that
Granger's life was not dependent on his, even if their minds were joined.
He found what he needed. Grindelwald's Inferi outlived him, and so could Granger.
She had to survive.
And now he had Zabini's promise to watch over Granger after he left.
It was a meager comfort.
Draco was still deep in thought when Granger reached up a hand to caress his cheek. He
leaned into her touch, so soft and gentle. There was no better feeling.
"When I was unconscious in Rome, I think that I Divinated," she mused. "I was never much
for the subject in school, but it seemed like I saw the future… or… hallucinated."
"What did you see?" Draco whispered, shifting close enough that he could feel her warm
breath.
"Us," Granger admitted, blushing. Then she explained, "I saw us years from now, here in
Tenby. I had a vision of when we're older and… married. I don't think it's the first one I've
had either."
A sudden cold tore through Draco's soul. He ignored it by slipping a hand beneath her
sweater, tracing the lines on her newly-disfigured skin.
"It's not too late to change your mind and run away together."
Granger sighed and rolled onto her side, smiling through closed eyelids. Draco's hand
ventured lower as she continued speaking.
"I thought that asking me to leave was a test. To see if I have enough independence to place
my convictions over my heart. Over you."
"If it was a test, then you got full marks as always," Draco complimented, pinching
somewhere sensitive, making her shiver. He could feel how much she wanted him. "And I
already gave you several rewards last night." Now the buttons were practically falling off her
clothes.
Draco leaned down as he cast a disillusionment charm over them both.
"So let's go for extra credit."
***
Hermione | Tenby, Wales
Hermione was prepared for this conversation, and so was the airy sitting room. She had
removed Narcissa's portrait from its spot on the mantle—now it was in a guest bedroom far
down the hall, out of eavesdropping range. The Pensieve was resting on the table, with two
vials lined before it. The only thing missing was Draco.
Despite that, Hermione did not call out for him. She was too busy bracing her nerves. After
all, there must be a reason Draco had avoided these questions for so long.
The questions he never answered.
She was lost in thought when Draco cleared his throat from the open doorway. She turned to
look at him, detecting the hardness in his face. He spoke.
"Does it have to be now? You're still injured, so we should keep your stress levels low until
you're fully recovered."
Another excuse.
Fiddling with the tiny glass bottles, Hermione replied, "It will only get worse the longer we
put it off. You know that, Draco. There are things I need to ask you that will guide what
comes next."
He nodded, and moved to sit on the sofa beside Hermione. But his hands remained in his lap;
even their knees did not touch. As if any contact would increase the tension. His attention
went to the vials in Hermione's hands, and he read the labels.
"Go ahead and ask, Granger," he offered.
Hermione spoke slowly, hands clutching the vial with Harry's dying memories like they were
an anchor. Perhaps they were.
"What happened to Harry's body?"

"It's gone," Draco repeated for the third time. When Hermione's grip tightened, he said in a
low voice, "The Dark Lord wanted Potter after the battle, but I wouldn't let that happen. I
knew that he planned to use it for the worst forms of dark magic. So I destroyed the corpse
that same night. I burned it and told the Dark Lord it was too damaged to revive. I don't think
he believed the lie at the time. He still doesn't."
So Harry was actually gone.
Hermione looked away, concealing the pain in her eyes.
It was not as if she imagined Harry could somehow be alive like her—she had never let
herself hope for that much. And yet, the confirmation that her friend would never return made
her grieve losing him all over again. Reopened an old wound that never completely healed.
Hermione wiped the tears from her cheeks and steadied her breathing. Then she passed Draco
the vial.
"Why did you keep Harry's memories?"
Draco rolled the smooth glass between his hands and did not respond for a very long while.
When he did, Hermione heard his own grief.
"The same reason that I keep all of their last thoughts. Even if I try to forget their names and
histories, it feels wrong to make the dead disappear completely. I can't destroy what little
remains. One day, there may be no one else who remembers."
The air felt as heavy as Draco's words. As the burden he carried for six agonizing years.
"Does it ever get easier?" Hermione asked.
Draco exhaled and closed his eyes—that was answer enough.
So she asked another question.
"If their memories are with you, then what about the rest of them? Where do you keep Inferi
after each fight?"
Though Hermione knew that this was a deeper twist of the knife, she had to understand the
entire state of play. For years Kingsley had speculated that the Necromancer had his own
hidden army, ready and waiting to serve their master. It was why Theo seemed so concerned
about Draco's personal agenda—why he offered to trade phoenix tears for the promise of
allegiance. Maybe it was even why Voldemort seemed to both need and fear his servant. And
if Draco now agreed to join her, to end the war together, what better advantage was there than
unkillable fighters numbering in the thousands? If she could just convince him—
Suddenly, Draco rose from the couch and crossed to the double doors, flinging them open,
striding onto the seaside veranda.
After waiting a few minutes, Hermione went to join him.

He was seated on a wall overlooking the ocean. Since it was just barely May, the water
remained a cool shade of azure blue—it had yet to deepen to cobalt. There were months until
the summer solstice. As Hermione took the spot next to Draco, she wondered if he still
tracked the days as he did during childhood.
They watched the waves together for a long time, neither speaking. And at some point,
Hermione was overcome with a sense of existing outside of herself. As if she was floating in
the air high above the beach house, viewing the scene as a distant observer. Like she had in
so many of Draco's dreams.
But now she was here, seated beside him. Head resting on his shoulder. Passing the afternoon
quietly, exactly as the boy had years in the past. There was nothing as soothing as Draco's
arm around her waist. Regardless, it did not alleviate all her worries. Could not reconcile the
peace and torment coexisting within her soul.
She had to keep pushing.
"Where do you keep the dead?" Hermione echoed.
"Nowhere."
She stared. Draco's eyelids were clenched shut. He was not even looking at the ocean.
He spoke again, sounding incredibly hollow.
"I prefer not to keep any Inferius animate after a battle. You were an exception. I destroy the
rest as soon as I'm able, and bury their ashes in the sea."
"You don't save—they're all gone—" her voice faded as Draco's guilt became tangible. It felt
like she was skipping stones across his bleeding back.
Like she was forcing a sinner to confess.
Of course Draco would not want the dead to linger in any form. He did not even want to
think about their names; could never stand to see their faces. She had been foolish to think
otherwise.
"I know why you're asking about them," said Draco, leaning forward so that his chin rested
on his palms. "I also know your next question, Hermione."
She stilled, caught off guard by both the incredible rawness in Draco's voice, and his choice
to use her first name. It happened so infrequently, making her uneasy.
"You're going to ask me to kill the Dark Lord."
Hermione nodded and spoke seriously.
"Yes. I want us to finish the war. It's time."

Now Draco straightened, running a hand through his white-blond hair as he thought. It was
so light under the sun. Almost as translucent as his pale skin.
He sounded like a shell of himself.
"There was a point after Azkaban when I wanted to take my life. I walked into the ocean
intending to end it. No one except my neighbors would notice at first, and maybe not even
them," Draco reflected, staring out at the waves.
"Then I heard your voice, and I was too selfish to leave," he said.
"Why are you telling me this now? What's wrong?" she asked.
Draco's expression was so peculiar. Like he was wearing a mask. Masking his pain.
"Nothing is wrong. I'll help you. I'll do anything you ask, Hermione. You know that I will."
Instead of finding relief at his agreement, Hermione felt unbearably sick. A nausea. A cold
heat that crawled down her spine. Her hands shook as she spoke.
"Did something happen?
"No. Nothing."
Hermione grabbed Draco's jaw, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"You promised to give me the whole truth eventually. Especially the answers that hurt," she
pleaded, pressing a hand into his freezing temple. "So follow through on that promise today.
Explain everything."
"No. It isn't the answer you're hoping for, Granger. It's better this way."
"You promised to always tell me the truth. White lies are not the truth."
The seawalls protecting Draco's darkest secrets seemed to crack, then shatter into a million
unsalvageable pieces. Leaving him unguarded.
Defenseless.
"The Dark Lord did not give me these powers freely. He knew that I could become a threat,
and ensured that I would never willingly harm him by tying our lives together at the Battle of
Hogwarts. He bound me to him with blood magic."
"What does that mean?" Hermione choked. It felt like the entire pressure of the ocean was
crushing her chest. "I don't understand. You told me before that you're not a Horcrux."
"I'm not. There's nothing preventing us from ending him for good. Not anymore. Not after the
snake… but there are consequences for me."
Draco reached up to stroke her cheek. She felt the heartbreak in his touch. "You'll be fine. I
found proof that you don't need me to survive. You'll grow old and gray, and live a long life.
So long that you'll find someone else and forget about me," he reassured.
"Tell me the truth." Every breath felt like a dagger in Hermione's throat. "If Voldemort is
destroyed, what happens to you?"
The blue in Draco's eyes shone more vibrantly than she had ever seen. The cobalt of mid-
summer. Almost no gray lay beneath the blue. No red.
They were wet as Draco spoke the cruelest answer.
"I'll die."
Act Four of Four
Nay, Faustus, stay: I know you’d fain see the Pope,
And take some part of holy Peter’s feast,
Where thou shalt see a troop of bald-pate friars,
Whose summum bonum is in belly-cheer.
***
Hermione | Wiltshire, England
The door creaked open and Riddle crossed over the threshold. His eyes slid slowly around the
room, then found the empty armchair where a drunken man—Morphin—had sat during his
last visit to this hovel. It was as dank and disgusting as that day. The day Riddle learned
about his father being a Muggle. Right before Riddle ended him and his household of
cockroaches.
They had their value though, the Muggle vermin. Riddle plucked the large, gold ring from his
finger, ruminating on how very valuable they were. His eyes flashed crimson as he stared at
the black stone in its setting—his second fragment, forged with the murders of his blood
family.
How fitting that their deaths would prevent his own. Ensure that he could not die. That part
of his soul would forever remain earthbound and undamaged.
Riddle used the tip of his shoe to push a jumble of moldy pots across the ground, exposing the
floorboards beneath. Then he knelt, placing the ring inside a velvet-lined jewelry box, hiding
it beneath the rotting wooden planks.
"Aeternum Interitus," Riddle hissed, sweeping his wand over the floor. For a split second, the
damp air flashed violet, before darkening once again.
There. A terminal present for the fool who dared disturb it.
Riddle backed out of the shack with a wide smile.
Slughorn was mistaken. Tearing his soul into thirds was child's play.
He was only getting started.
***
Hermione jerked awake, heart pounding. It felt like her skull was splitting. White-hot pain
that had her rubbing her forehead until the shadows faded. She blinked, taking in her
surroundings. Row upon row of towering bookcases, candlesticks still flickering in their
holders. A raven cawed and flew from its perch outside the window, startled by the sudden
movement as she sat upright. A wooden table was in front of her, stacked high with every
book on blood magic.
That's right.
She was in the Manor library, searching for a solution to the worst problem.
Hermione blinked back tears, noticing the black streaks on her palm, realizing that she had
fallen asleep on top of Harry's journal. She had not found a single word about linking life
forces in the library books, so resorted to searching through Harry's recorded thoughts
instead. The ink must have transferred to her forehead, then her hand when she wiped it.
Distressed, Hermione studied the entry she had been reading before dozing off—it had been
about Tom Riddle's memories at the Gaunt shack. Harry's descriptions were so vivid that it
felt like she was stepping inside a Pensieve. No wonder she had this dream of Voldemort.
But now, some of Harry's writing was ruined past the point of recognition. Smudged and
distorted.
Hermione was still a damp mess while she tried to reconstruct the lettering as best she
could.
May __ , 1999
Two years ago ton_ght, I first spoke with Professor Dumbled_re about Horcruxes. I didn't
know it at ___ time , but that was the ring with the blood curse that eventually killed
Dumbledore. I also didn't know what the black gem was until the Battle of Hog____ .
Voldemort probably never even realized what it was himself, or he wouldn't have turned it
into a Horcrux and left it in the ground.
The second memory we viewed that night was from P____ssor Slughorn. In it, he spoke to
Riddle, explaining how a person can create a Horcrux by a supreme act of evil. By
committing murder, ripping the soul apart, and encasing th_ torn portions.
Of course, Horcruxes don't mean eternal life. They're only a bandage over a bleed__g
wound. Voldemort figured that out when I got this scar. When he was ripped from his body,
less than a spirit, _ess than the meanest ghost, but technically "alive."
I don't understand why anyone would create a Horcrux.
After a few attempts, Hermione managed to fix most of the entry. The small effort sapped the
rest of her energy. She leaned forward in her chair, exhausted.
Disappointed
The journals continued to provide no help. Harry only wrote about linking souls, not life
forces. But Draco was adamant that he was not a Horcrux. That he was not a vessel for
Voldemort's soul.
Lucius had been right. Narcissa had known as well. The clues were as obvious as day. Red
writing on the wall. Hermione had simply lacked the creativity, or maybe the willingness, to
see them. Draco gave her the hard facts long ago. She remembered the words snarled at her
as she lay on the drawing room floor.
"You can never save me. And you know that I am not your savior, Granger. We both saw you
vow to take on Potter's burden when he died . . . If you have to end the Dark Lord, then you
have to end me."
It was not a threat. Not a declaration of his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Not the ravings of a true
believer.
It was the bare truth.
Voldemort had collared his servant with barbed wire. Made him into a weapon who would
never turn on his creator; not without guaranteeing his own death. And Draco had not. Not
for years. He had protected his Dark Lord's life as his own. Safeguarded it against the Order.
Prolonged the war to prolong his life.
At least until she entered his mind.
He was selfish, but he loved her. Eventually, enough to kill Nagini and shorten his existence.
Enough to put her first.
No wonder he already knew about Horcruxes. They were as important to his self-preservation
as Voldemort's.
Draco was not a Horcrux.
He was an unforeseen consequence.
A mania surged through Hermione like an electric current. She sat upright, suddenly
energized, and grabbed the nearest anthology on blood magic, flinging the pages open,
scanning the passages she had already read a dozen times.
Heart racing. Eyes dilated and frantic.
Reading.
Crying.
Hermione was spiraling, and she knew it. How could she not? That was why she made Draco
apparate them straight from Tenby to the Manor. To the library. She was like a cat returning
to its own sick. When she lost control, her first instinct was to return to books.
So here she was, reading.

Reading and falling apart.
***
Draco | Wiltshire, England
He found Granger balled up beneath the library table. The books encircling her were piled up
higher than walls. It looked like she was taking shelter in a cave made of leather and
cardboard.
She was even using a particularly bedraggled paperback as a cushion.
If Draco didn't know better, he would have thought she pulled an all-nighter cramming for
O.W.L.s. It evoked the many times he stumbled across her in the school library or a study
hall, fast asleep on top of a different book pillow. Back then, he would have jostled her chair
or coughed loudly to scare her awake.
Draco pulled out a cloth as he knelt beneath the table, carefully wiping the dried ink from her
scrunched-up forehead.
She yawned and stretched, smiling when she noticed Draco's presence. Then, fast as
lightning, her expression grew haunted.
"Good morning," said Draco, stroking her cheek. "You should have slept in the bed."
"I couldn't." Gaze moving to his Death Eater robes, Granger asked, "Were you at Hogwarts
all night?"
"Yes. He summoned us to watch the executions. He's starting to hold them publicly."
"Who was it this time?"
Draco shook his head, reaching down to lift her off the floor. "It doesn't matter. I don't even
think the Dark Lord cares as long as it sends the right message."
She did not press the subject, which came as a relief. He had not wanted to explain how two
of the victims wore the same black uniform she wore; had likely been on her fighting team
and were captured in Italy. The others were the French Arboretum guards who Draco himself
framed as conspiring with Nott.
Who he was ordered to execute as the Mouth.
It was quick and painless—he knew that after he resurrected them and received their last
memories.
Granger did not ask any other questions as he carried her through the lower wing. A few
smudges of ink remained on her gaunt cheek. She seemed lighter than he remembered. Thin
enough to feel the ribs through her shirt. He frowned, making a note to ask Kreacher if she
was eating.
Then he was lowering her onto the mattress; cleaning the rest of her face with a corner of the
white duvet; drawing the curtains over the window to block out the sunlight.
"Leave them open. I want to see the water," she urged, eyes indeed anchored to the charmed
glass, watching the waves roll into the faroff Tenby shore.
"It's too bright. Nearly noon. You won't be able to fall asleep," Draco pointed out. But he
released the drapes, stepped back, and slid into the empty spot she left for him on his side of
the bed.
And now he was Granger's pillow; could already feel his arm becoming numb beneath her
head.
"I don't want to sleep," she confessed, settling into position.
Draco got to work; gently running fingers through her hair; untangling each twisted strand.
They were worse than normal. It would take hours to fix.
He was in no rush.
"I never want to sleep ever again," Granger repeated. But her eyelids were heavy with it.
"I know," he replied, understanding without needing to ask the reason. He also did not want
to sleep away whatever time they had left.
She turned into his shoulder, hiding her crying. "I'll figure out a way to break the blood curse.
I already have a few leads, it won't be much longer until I come up with a solution," she lied.
Draco gazed at the ceiling.
"I don't think about it," he lied. "So try not to think about it either. This isn't like Basilisk
venom. There is no cure, but right now I'm healthy and alive."
"Only until he isn't. I'm sure that Kingsley started planning an attack the second he learned
about Nagini. Even if we don't kill Voldemort ourselves, the Order will."
"Then we stand by and let them," said Draco, reclining against the headrest. There was
exhaustion in his voice. "I know that's the only option for you, Hermione. I'm not a good
person. Nothing will ever justify what I've done to survive the past six years. I deserve worse,
but I was always too weak to take myself out of the equation."
Granger fell silent.
Her tears were soaking into his shirt.
This went beyond bitterness.
***
Draco sensed it before he saw it. And indeed, it was waiting at the foot of the bed,
glimmering in the waning afternoon light.
He reclaimed his arm from Granger, moving slowly enough that she did not wake. Placing
her head on a feather pillow.
Then he was following the pint-sized, silvery dragon through the corridor. The Patronus led
him where expected, to the person he expected.
Charlie Weasley was standing outside the Manor gates, as he had every single day that whole
week. The Peruvian Vipertooth Patronus flew into his wand tip, and vanished.
As Draco approached, he unconsciously flexed each finger until every stiff knuckle and joint
cracked. Weasley looked equally tense. His shoes were planted firmly in the grass, broad
shoulders back and chin lifted.
CRACK
Electing not to unlock the gates, Draco had disapparated.
CRACK
He reappeared in a pillar of smoke, pivoting into existence directly in front of his unwanted
intruder. Towering at full height. Near enough to see the skin on the shorter man's ginger
scalp.
To his credit, Weasley stood his ground.
They both assessed the other, eyes narrowed, neither speaking.
Weasley's attention went to the estate behind Draco's back and he broke the silence first.
"Where is she?"
"Sleeping," Draco responded, then added coolly, "in my bed."
Anger flashed across Weasley's face, disappearing just as quickly. He did not resemble the
Weasel King, in looks or temperament. Not as hot headed, apparently.
"If that's all you came to ask, feel free to stop loitering outside of my house," said Draco,
sounding as rude as possible.
Then he turned to leave.
Weasley spoke in a low voice.
"It's not. I came to talk to you. And I wouldn't have to loiter if you ever answered the door."
He heard Weasley step closer.
"The only thing I want is Hermione safe."

Their eyes locked again.
Weasley continued speaking. "Be honest, Malfoy. You can't do that for her. I've seen you fail
to protect her for years."
Draco's fists clenched tighter. He exhaled frost and his face darkened.
"You know I'm not wrong," Weasley accused. "So let's talk about it."
After a pause, Draco reached for his wand holster.
A raven tore out of the treetops, disturbed by the hair-raising screech of the front gates
painfully scraping open. Metal on metal, rusted after years of disuse.
Draco strode through without a backwards glance.
The other man released a heavy breath, before following him into the estate.
***
They walked "together" along the gravel path, maintaining an abject distance; each traveling
as close to the edgeline as possible.
Night was descending like a black veil. No lights burned behind the Manor windows.
Granger must still be asleep. That was for the best. He did not want her caught in the middle
of this, or to ask difficult questions.
"Is her Unbreakable Vow gone for good?"
A slow nod.
A sigh of relief.
"I won't pretend to know you. Not as well as my siblings. Although I get the sense they don't
either. What I do know is that you spared my life at Shell Cottage."
"You're deluded, Weasley," drawled Draco, studying his fingernails. "You probably nicked
yourself with one of those poisoned blades and started hallucinating. I am not your friend."
A fire lit behind Weasley's eyes. "C'mon. I wasn't born yesterday. What sort of Death Eater
leaves himself vulnerable like that? Even after I struck, you fought everyone except me.
Why?"
One of the six scars on Draco's backbone flared in a phantom pain and a memory in the
deepest recesses of his mind threatened to resurface. He suppressed it.
"What does the raid have to do with any of this? Just tell me what you came here to say, then
fuck off."
"You answer my questions first," Weasley growled.

Draco sniffed, "I don't answer stupid questions."
"If you're only going to shut me down, then why did you let me in here at all?"
They both came to a halt in the gravel.
"Why didn't you kill me?" insisted Weasley, moving to block his path.
Draco glared at the darkening sky.
"Because killing you would hurt her," he spat.
"And you never want to hurt Hermione, right?"
"Obviously."
Weasley grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place. "Then we can help each other, Malfoy.
We're not on the same side, but we aren't enemies either. At least not in this. Not when it
comes to her."
"You're daft, Weasley" Draco sneered, plucking the hand from his shirt and dropping it like a
used napkin. He continued up the path. "Honestly, if you were any simpler, you'd be
prehistoric."
"This war is killing her. She's being torn in every direction. Spare her like you did me, and
end it."
Without thinking, Draco's hand drifted to his sleeve, and he snapped, "In case you haven't
noticed, no one can reach the Dark Lord anymore. Not you, and not me."
"Have you even tried?"
A harsh laugh.
"Clean up the mess at your own table before judging mine. Your Council has a mole spouting
off lies and spilling secrets in plain sight."
Weasley did not seem phased by the accusation. "You think I'm not aware? Like I said before,
we aren't enemies, Malfoy. We can help each other."
Draco's fingernails were digging into the Mark on his forearm. Mangling his own flesh as
Weasley watched, wide-eyed at the self-mutilation.
"You act like I owe you a conversation or some kind of fucking showdown," Draco hissed,
stepping closer; piercing deeper. "I don't owe you a damn thing, Weasley. You'll get what you
want soon enough."
Now droplets were forming on his tattooed skin; leaking dark blood onto the gravel.
"So back off and leave us the hell alone."

Fairytales
And glutted now with learning’s golden gifts
***
His lips were smoldering ashes, burning into her skin, pressing into her temple with each
advance and retreat. His hands slid up to brush against her heaving ribs.
A throb spread deep inside, coming from him, removing her bones like bad magic.
She sat upright and began to move faster. Knees sinking into the mattress. Straddling him.
Her breathing grew labored.
They increased speed, racing together, hunting the same evasive desire.
As they did, Hermione watched him, lying beneath her hips. He was devouring her with
predatory eyes. Sweat glistened on his brow and rolled onto the pillow under his head. She
had never looked down at him like this before, always the reverse.
It made her feel vulnerable.
And in control.
"Tell me . . . when it started for you," she gasped, bracing both palms on his chest.
"There wasn't one moment. It was a thousand smaller moments." Draco's pupils were
penetrating into her as he spoke. "Every time you asked me a question first . . . or made me
beg you to answer . . . I lost another piece of myself."
Her skin crawled with him. This angle was dangerous and unfamiliar. She swore he was
reaching all the way to her spine.
"Your turn," he coaxed. "When did it change for you . . . or are you still keeping your options
open?"
She confessed breathily, "Let's just say you're a very good ballroom lead."
As if to prove her point, his hands found the bow of her back, guiding her into a new
position. Intensifying the pressure. She threw her head back, seeing black spots.
Then he thrust farther, deeper, making her dissolve around him, collapsing forward. She was
little more than soft clay in his hands. A shuddering cluster of nerves and pleasure.
She felt him empty into her as she saw starlight.

And, for the shortest lifespan, they simply existed in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
Listening to each other's heartbeats steady—a pounding allegro descending into the slowest
of adagios.
But when the adrenaline faded completely, reality crept back into the dark bedroom.
"Don't leave me," Hermione whispered into his chest.
Draco held the back of her head; soothing her with gentle noises.
Saying nothing.
***
Light heated Hermione's face. It felt as if someone was leaning right above the bed, warming
her with a candle. Her skull was pounding ferociously and her vision blurred with every
attempt to open her eyes. The headaches never seemed to let up anymore, just like her
anxiety. Eating and sleeping were becoming increasingly irregular.
The candle grew hotter against her skin. She could see the color through her lids. A rich
orange that reminded her of Crookshanks. She missed the half-Kneazle; hoped he was
growing old and plump in Australia with her parents. She missed them most.
When she could not stand the brightness any longer, Hermione sat up, stretching the stiffness
from her joints. The noon sun was streaming in through the enchanted window, hitting her
cheek like a magnifying glass.
She turned.
Draco was not there. His side of the mattress was cold, meaning that he had been gone for
hours. She had not noticed when he woke.
But it was hardly unusual. Voldemort summoned him every single day like clockwork. And
he always obeyed. Even now, after everything. If he openly defied Voldemort, he would be
targeted in a heartbeat, and so would she.
Hermione did not try to stop him anymore. Not yet at least.
She was far too conflicted.
It was true that she had lost some of her conviction on that beach in Tenby. Risking her life to
kill Voldemort was somehow entirely different from asking Draco to end his own. Her heart
wanted him safe more than the war's conclusion. The rest of her understood the selfishness of
that mentality.
Draco may have killed as many as he saved, directly and indirectly. His actions were not
defensible. But setting his sins aside, was it right to value Draco's life over every other?
No.
It was like a tiny Blaise was perched on her shoulder, whispering about the trolley problem.
The Death Eater regime was a cancer slowly killing Europe. The only way to treat it was by
destroying every mutated cell; cutting out the entire malignant tumor.
Killing Voldemort.
Letting Draco die.
But she couldn't do it herself. Not any longer. At most, she could hang back in the shadows
and let it happen; let the Order carry out a final attack.
Even that was unbearable.
It was the dread of not knowing how much time they had left together that was blighting
Hermione. Perhaps they had years before the Council successfully infiltrated Hogwarts and
confronted Voldemort; perhaps only an hour. Neither felt like enough.
So Hermione rose from the bed, dressing as she continued to think. The only purpose driving
her onward—preventing her from crumbling beneath the crushing weight—was the faint
hope that she could discover the key to Draco's survival.
An escape route.
After all, she had survived her Unbreakable Vow in a back-door way that still made little
sense; she evaded death. The rules of magic were hardly rules at all. In a world of spells and
curses, there must also be miracles. She just had to find one before Kingsley reached
Voldemort; before allowing a dictator to continue in power for one second longer became
unjustifiable.
Soon Hermione was plodding through the marble corridor. The pale-faced Malfoy portraits
on the walls were unusually quiet today. Reserved. As if they saw her sadness and finally
achieved a smattering of compassion—at least enough to politely ignore Hermione as she
walked past. It was an improvement.
Hermione stilled when she reached the library. Its massive oak doors were flung open, the
sconces within were already alive and flickering. Perhaps it was Kreacher tidying up.
She entered, wand raised in one unsteady hand.
Draco was draped across a couch, paging through a book. She could not read the title through
his fingers; only saw the gold leafing on the edges of the parchment.
He looked up when she stepped inside. His words carried across the cavernous room.
"You're awake," he greeted.
Eyes drifting to his forearm, Hermione replied, "And you're still here."
In answer, Draco nodded and yawned. Then he went back to casually flipping through his
book, jaw resting on a palm. The indifference felt forced, but Hermione was glad for it.
She crossed the library, kneeling to peruse the lower shelves, fingers brushing along the
bumpy row of spines, not searching for anything in particular. At this point, she had combed
through the Malfoys' entire collection on dark magic twice over and needed to start thinking
outside the box.
It was then that a juvenile impulse struck Hermione. After pouring over complex tomes on
blood rites for a week, today she wanted to start off with something nostalgic, simple, and
familiar. A palate cleanser. The real research could wait a bit.
Without glancing up, she asked Draco, "Where do you keep your fiction books?"
"Bottom shelf, near the window."
Sure enough, a bookshelf dotted with paperback novels was tucked in the far corner, looking
terribly mislaid. The colorful, cheap bindings stuck out like dozens of sore thumbs amongst
the other leather-bound books—first editions which looked far older than even the most
wizened Malfoy portraits.
Hermione scanned them, now hell-bent on finding her favorite comfort read: Fairy Tales Told
for Children. The storybook with 'The Little Mermaid.'
She could not find it.
"Where are the children's stories?"
Draco chuckled. She heard him sink deeper into the sofa—clearly realizing that Hermione
was taking her time before joining him, and deciding to laze. The small book he was reading
now rested on his face like a sun shield.
"Next shelf over. There are only a few."
Hermione crouched lower to the floor, following the directions. She still did not spot Hans
Christian Anderson, only the names of wizarding authors who she did not recognize, having
grown up as a Muggle.
Then her eyes landed on a symbol that she had not seen for years. A triangular eye with a line
down its middle.
She pulled out the spine, coughing as a puff of dust accompanied the motion.
The Tales of Beedle the Bard
This copy of the wizarding fairytales was in better shape than the dog-eared one that
Hermione carried in her bag during their hunt for Horcruxes—the one Professor Dumbledore
left for her under his strange will.
And the spine was so stiff that Hermione guessed it had rarely been opened; probably
purchased as little more than a decoration; a collector's item. There was even a faded, loopy
author's signature on the interior binding.
To Hermione, there was no greater crime than buying a book only to leave it on a shelf.
Determined to fix this problem before tackling the rest, she stood, crossed the room, and took
her favorite position at a table. As soon as her elbows were propped on the hewn surface,
Draco took the book off his face and left the couch to join her. He sat and his head dropped to
her shoulder, his eyes closed.
It was no Little Mermaid, but reading like this, in a beautiful, sunlit library with Draco's nose
tickling her neck, was nearly perfect and far more soothing. There were only the sounds of a
crying raven and turning pages.
Before she knew it, Hermione was thumbing to the story she had read most frequently. It was
easy to locate because the runic-like symbol of the Deathly Hallows was stamped on the top
of the page.
At one point, she probably could have recited 'The Tale of Three Brothers', but years had
passed since Xenophilius Lovegood had introduced her, Ron, and Harry to the famous
artifacts. The Hallows seemed important at the time, but in the end they had not mattered,
and were probably as imaginary as the Crumple-Horn Snorcack.
Nonetheless, the story was a good one—good enough to revisit if only for the nostalgia.
The Tale of Three Brothers
Three brothers traveled along a lonely, winding path at midnight. Far into their journey, they
reached a river too deep to wade through, and too deadly to traverse by swimming. However,
these brothers were well-practiced in the mystical arts, and so they simply swirled their
wands, and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water.
They were nearly over it when they found their path blocked by a silvery cloaked figure,
whose name was Death. He was furious that he had been cheated out of three new victims,
for all travelers were fated to drown in his river. But Death was cunning and sly. He feigned
excitement at the Brothers' ingenuity, praising them for their magical prowess, and saying
that each had earned a reward for evading him in such a clever way.
So, the oldest brother, who was a violent man, asked for a weapon stronger than any in
earthly existence. A wand that shall always win battles for its owner. A wand worthy of a
wizard who had outmatched Death. So, Death went to an Elder Tree on the banks of the river,
constructed a wand from a hanging branch, and gifted it to the oldest brother. And the
moment the oldest brother touched it, he and the others could see its dark and terrible
power.
The second brother was a greedy man, and thus decided to humiliate Death still further,
beseeching the robed figure for the power to recall others from the afterlife. So, Death
plucked a black stone from the riverbank, which shone like a starless gem, and gave it to the
second brother, telling him that the stone would have the power to summon the dead from an
otherwise unreturnable shore.
The third brother was a humble man, and asked for the ability to hide from Death. And so it
was that Death most reluctantly handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility, and the third
brother accepted Death's gift.
The sun rose and the Brothers separated, each for his own purpose. The first brother voyaged
for a week or longer, and, reaching a faraway village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom
he had a duel. Naturally with Death's weapon in his hand, he could not fail to win the fight
that ensued, and assumed an even greater arrogance. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor,
the oldest brother proceeded to a roadhouse, where he bragged of the invincible wand which
he had stolen from the Reaper himself, and of how it made him unstoppable. That very night,
another violent man crept upon the oldest brother as he lay drunk upon his bed. The man
knocked the oldest brother unconscious and took the wand for himself. However, he left a
false in its place. When the older brother rose, he was fooled by the false wand, and that
night quarreled with a new opponent. Without the wand fashioned of Elder wood, the brother
was slayed with ease.
And so, Death bested the first brother.
Meanwhile, the second brother returned to his own house, where he eked out a lonely
existence. There, he pulled out the stone, which had the power to recall the dead, and turned
it thrice in his hand. To his astonishment and delight, the woman he had once hoped to
marry, before her untimely demise, appeared before him. Yet she was sad, empty, and cold.
Not the lover he once knew. For while she had come back to the mortal shore, she did not
fully belong in it, and suffered. In due time, the second brother, driven mad by hopeless
desire, hung his lover then himself, so as to join each other on the distant shore.
And so, Death claimed the second brother.
But the third brother was the wisest of the three, so that Death searched for him for many
years, yet was never able to find him. It was only once the third brother had achieved a
respectable age that he finally took off Death's gifted cloak, which was later found by his son.
When the third brother crossed the bridge above the river again, he greeted Death as an old
friend, going with him gladly.
And so, Death took the third brother from this world as his true equal.
Hermione closed the book slowly enough so as to not rouse Draco. Then she simply sat there
for a while, pondering a story that was more sinister than she remembered. Or maybe it was
that the war changed her, and now she had a stronger reaction.
No… No, she swore that the story itself was not the same, though she could not quite put her
finger on how it diverged. The overarching plot was similar, but with minor variations, like a
dark reprise of a classic song. Xenophilius had mentioned multiple versions of 'The Deathly
Hallows.' This must not be the one she inherited from Professor Dumbledore.
She was still attempting to pinpoint the differences when Draco stirred, his hair sliding down
her neck like the finest gossamer threads. His whisper was even softer.
"Read to me."
Hermione blinked at the request. He had never made it before.

She humored him nonetheless, reopening The Tales of Beedle the Bard, paging to the index,
and perusing through the chapter titles. Eventually, she settled on 'The Wizard and the
Hopping Pot', recalling that Ron once mentioned it as his favorite in the anthology.
After clearing her throat, she began to tell Draco the story.
It was more lighthearted than the one she just finished and better suited for children, being
about a generous, elderly warlock who doted on the Muggles in his village more than his own
son. Rather than admit he possessed magic, he pretended to brew medicine in an old
cauldron. On his death, the warlock left all his belongings to his son, who was not like his
father, being as selfish as they came and despising Muggles.
He reminded Hermione of a certain Lucius Malfoy.
The son was bitter for having been left nothing but a pot, and so closed the door on every
Muggle who begged for his help. The first was an old woman whose granddaughter was
plagued with boils. As soon as the son closed the door on the old woman, he heard a
deafening clanking in the kitchen, and noticed that his pot had grown a foot and was covered
in boils. The next day, a small boy needed to find his donkey to fetch food for his starving
parents. The son closed the door on him too, and the pot started braying like a donkey. Then,
a young woman came sobbing to the door, hoping for a cure for her sick baby. Again, the son
ignored her pleas and shut the door on her only for the pot to begin wailing.
The pot's crying became unbearable. The son was unable to sleep or have a moment of
silence.
Finally, the son gave up and began using magic to help his Muggle neighbors. Once the last
of their problems was solved, the old pot grew a shoe that perfectly fit on its foot. It then
jumped up, and hopped into the sunset, leaving the son in peace and quiet.
Hermione closed the book.
Yes… this was a much pleasanter story, and seemed to have a nice message.
"Do you want me to read another?" asked Hermione, glancing down to see if her shoulder
warmer was sleeping.
He was not, and soon said shoulder-warmer was stretching out a hand and flipping to the
book's front cover; studying the publication details.
"What are you looking at?"
"I wanted to see when this copy was printed. It's an early edition, unlike the one I had as a
child," Draco replied.
"Why does the date matter?" Now Hermione knew that there were indeed multiple versions
of the book.
Draco hesitated, then explained, "Not long after the story was first published, Muggles began
persecuting anyone with magic. There was reactionary backlash against any literature that
taught children to care for Muggles. 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot' was revised to send a
different message. Growing up, I heard the newer version, which ends with the pot
swallowing every single Muggle in the village so that the son can practice magic freely."
What a dark alternate ending.
"Magic is might," Hermione reflected, remembering the statue she saw at the Ministry
Atrium—the horrific representation of Voldemort's regime. The stone witch and wizard
seated on a throne built of ugly, naked Muggles.
Draco did not answer, instead letting the cover fall shut as he nuzzled in close and kissed her
neck. She shivered from both his lips and the conflict plaguing her mind.
"I asked you once if you believe in blood purity," she said.
Draco's kisses ceased, but his arm remained possessively hooked around her waist.
Hermione went on, "You said that what you believe doesn't matter. It does though, Draco. It
matters to me. The pictures in your house call me a dirty Mudblood under their breath. Your
own father would never accept us together, and don't pretend otherwise."
Draco snorted.
Then he was standing and striding across the library, stopping at the couch he had been
lounging on earlier. He bent down to pick up something up, then walked back as he drew his
wand.
A burst of heat erupted on the table, and Hermione turned in time to see the Tales of Beedle
the Bard catch on fire then crumble into ashes, scorching the wooden surface. A pristine
original destroyed in an instant.
Draco retook his seat, dropping something small into Hermione's lap. She looked down. It
was the book he had been using as an eye mask. She read the title embossed on its spine.
Fairy Tales Told for Children
"This book is far better than that dusty, old boring one," he responded, tracing a finger along
the fine, gold-leafed pages. "It was written by Muggles, and it's my favorite."
"You didn't need to incinerate a first edition to prove your point," replied Hermione, smiling
in spite of herself.
Her smile vanished almost immediately. She lifted the book from her lap, turning to the last
page, admitting, "Besides, I just decided that it's not my favorite any longer. I don't care if the
Little Mermaid becomes seafoam or a spirit. Both versions are tragedies because the prince
goes on living without her."
And now Hermione was ruining a book with her sobbing. Water was falling onto the open
pages. A summer rain shower crinkling the paper with every drop. Ink was running onto the
table like black tears.
"I'm not ready for that ending," she confessed. "I don't want to end my story alone."
As she broke down, Draco gently took the book from her hands. Then, in one smooth motion,
he tore the final page clean out of its bindings. Removing the fairytale's conclusion.
"I always knew that I couldn't keep you forever, little bird," Draco said as he began to
separate, fold, and bend the torn paper, shaping it into something new. "But I'm here with you
today. Let's not think about the future."
"What if today is all we have left?" said Hermione quietly, letting her head rest against his,
watching his fingers move like a master crafter's. "It isn't enough. We could have had years
together. Instead we wasted them and we can't go back."
"It's not too late. Even if we're only given a single day, we can choose to spend it with each
other."
Draco finished twisting the gilded page into a tiny circlet, reminiscent of the crown of
daffodils in Tenby. Equally fragile, and much smaller.
A ring made of paper and ink.
Now he took her left hand, clasping once… twice… thrice.
"We don't need to wait until the last page to be happy, Hermione."
He slid the paper ring onto her finger, its gold edges sparkled in the sunlight.
She looked up, eyes glistening.
Draco smiled through his kiss.
"Marry me, for just one day."

The Witness
Bear witness I gave them him.
Bear witness I give them you again.
***
Blaise | Hogwarts, Scotland
The grounds below the castle were lined with cloaked figures, positioned in neat rows,
standing at attention. Gridlocked like a thousand black ants as they faced the empty platform
erected above the Great Lake.
Blaise shifted his weight from one leg to the other from where he stood at the front of the
Death Eater ranks, struggling to stay awake, or at least look like it, since he was technically a
commander. But it was sweltering this time of year, and he could feel the sweat dripping
down his spine. Every one of the testosterone-fueled idiots behind him was probably just as
disgustingly overheated. Hogwarts would smell foul once they returned. At least the castle
had the chance to air out for a few hours.
This was the fourth demonstration in a week, and he was as sick of the pomp and
circumstance as the bloodshed.
Why did the Dark Lord always make them assemble this damn early only to stand around?
He felt like a circus monkey being forced to dance.
As he waited, Blaise let his eyes meander through the crowd, and saw a group of journalists
huddled together, scribbling on notepads. A paunchy photographer was clicking away madly,
capturing every angle of the Dark Lord's Army, no doubt to be published in that evening's
papers. Blaise could already see the Daily Prophet headline. It was always the same breed of
kiss-ass propaganda.
A New Era in Europe: The Dark Savior Quadruples Purification Efforts
Or…
The Death Eater Army Rises From the Ashes of the Order of the Phoenix to Reclaim Rebel-
Held Italy
Or maybe…
Hey Terrorists! Check Out Our Army of Avada-Happy Meatheads and Don't Even Fucking
Think About It
Blaise had to bite his tongue to keep from sniggering. Maybe he was becoming as unhinged
as Theo (god rest his rancid soul). In this situation, laughter was truly inappropriate. It was
not like they were queued up for a graduation or funeral.
This was an execution.
The camera began snapping even faster as figures approached the stage, finally starting the
show. Two Death Eaters led the procession, wands held stiffly at their sides, robes dragging
across the scorched grass. They were yanking the condemned prisoner behind them—there
was a rope tied around his neck. A burlap sackcloth covered his head.
Next in line was Amycus Carrow, who flashed the journalists a lopsided smile. He wore no
mask—apparently, in an attempt to humanize the regime.
As usual, Malfoy brought up the rear. Also unmasked and without his red blindfold. His pale,
pointed face was devoid of any emotion. As if every muscle was set in hard wax.
Blaise's eyes narrowed at today's prisoner, trying to figure out who was beneath the hood. He
looked to be an old man, based on his stooped posture. At least it was only a single person
this time. The display two days ago had been far worse. They had publicly executed Gaur and
Coney, who were captured during the Rome attack. Both were missing their left hands—cut
off at the wrist to prevent suiciding—and someone had even dressed them up in Knife
uniforms, like battle trophies.
It was hell to watch, even for someone as adaptable as Blaise. It was also unpreventable. No
one had access to the identities of prisoners marked for execution except Amycus Carrow,
who had assumed Theo's warden responsibilities. Blaise saw his missing squad members at
the same moment everyone else did: when they were already kneeling on stage, waiting to
die.
Blaise knew that trying to rescue them, surrounded as he was by hundreds of foot soldiers,
would cost him his own life. So he stood in rank and let it happen, not being ready to die
heroically quite yet.
He was a coward.
And the only solace he had was that Malfoy ended them humanely. It was good that they did
not linger. Almost the instant their hoods were removed, they were gone.
The Dark Lord was not present that day or now, but black banners embossed with his praises
framed the platform, flapping in the wind. He had not been seen in weeks, and there was a
rumor he relocated to Albania, sending orders via his most trusted advisors. Blaise was not
trusted.
Now the five men mounted the steps, and the charged silence broke as their audience of
Death Eaters began to yell, jeer and curse.
Malfoy pulled the hood from his victim.
It was subtle—but Blaise saw recognition dawn on Malfoy's face. It made Blaise squint
harder, and now he understood the reaction. He also knew who it was.
A member of the Order's Council.
No wonder they invited the press to this execution; they would want to publicize it across the
entire continent as a signal of the regime's success.
Blaise could guess the headline:
Aberforth Dumbledore - Ex-Barman and Senior Extremist Leader - Executed for Crimes
Against Humanity.
The sweat collecting on Blaise's back grew cold as he saw Malfoy press a knee into
Aberforth's neck, pushing him into the platform. The old man's stringy gray hair and beard
snagged on the planks, and his bright blue eyes swam with tears.
The taunts grew louder.
Blaise forced himself to keep watching. Malfoy was leaning down to whisper something in
the disgraced man's ear. Aberforth quieted in response, squeezing his bound hands together,
nodding at words that were intended solely for him. They could have as easily been threats as
words of comfort. But Blaise had never known Malfoy to speak to the condemned at all, and
it gave him pause. If only he could be a fly eavesdropping on their final conversation.
Then Amycus pushed through them both, ending the hushed exchange, taking center stage
and jabbing a wand against his throat, amplifying his voice. His snarls cut through the
raucous crowd, which grew silent.
On instinct, Blaise tuned the speech out. Deadening his auditory functions so that all he
picked up was a phrase here and there. It was the same drivel; probably recycled from the last
execution.
As he pretended to listen to Amycus, Blaise stared up at the sun, attempting to track its
movements. He really should start carrying a watch. His scars would show within the next
hour if he did not sneak away to refresh the concealment charm. At least he humored Ginny
and physically changed clothes today, otherwise he would also have to worry about his robes
reverting into the Muggle sweatsuit he had been wearing when summoned.
" . . . a blessed sacrament to the Dark Lord's dominion over this country. A cleansing,
whereby our Savior's Mouth shall destroy then reforge the feeble into something strong.
Recall the wicked from death to serve a new and forgiving master."
The Death Eaters on both sides began clapping, and Blaise hurried to join them, barely
catching the tail end of Amycus's pseudo-religious diatribe. It still made him feel sick.
A sixth figure was striding onto the stage—Corban Yaxley. He was holding a bejeweled box
in his hands. He went to Malfoy, who opened it and removed the Elder Wand resting in its
cushioned interior. Dazzling gold and crimson sparks flared out of its tip at the contact,
searing into the wooden floor of the stage.
The crowd went wild as they always did when the Mouth wielded the Dark Lord's infamous
weapon. As if they had not already seen the exact same thing dozens of times.
Malfoy waited until the cheering faded before taking his place directly behind Aberforth. His
shadow loomed over the man's hunched back. He forced the wand against a wrinkled
temple.
Blaise looked away and blocked out the noise.
***
Hours later, he met Malfoy in Hogsmeade—at the ruins of the Three Broomsticks, just like
they planned. Their old haunt.
The place was a graveyard of memories. Overturned chairs and shattered glass littered the
floor. No Madam Rosmerta stood behind the weathered bar, only a pile of twiggy
broomsticks.
While the inn was far from secure, it was better than speaking within the castle. There was
nowhere for unwanted visitors to hide in the pub's dilapidated carcass, and it was deep
enough into the village that they could disapparate if caught.
Malfoy had arrived first and was leaning against a crumbling foundation beam, polishing his
fingernails like he had not just used them to murder a war prisoner.
At least it had been fast.
"I think congratulations are in order," Blaise said wryly, slinking through the freestanding
doorway. "You finally killed a Dumbledore. Seven years late and not the right one, but close
enough."
A low blow, but Blaise's Sectumsempra scars were itchy from sweat, and he was feeling
ornery.
Defensiveness streaked through Malfoy's voice as he shot back, "You know that if it wasn't
me, someone else would have done it, Zabini."
Blaise raised his palms in apology. Goading Malfoy was not his smartest idea, especially
since they were just barely rebuilding their friendship.
"You're right. I know you were only carrying out his instructions. And Carrow would have
guaranteed the old coot suffered."
Malfoy sniffed, but his shoulders relaxed, recognizing the peace offering. Recognizing
Blaise's attempt to rationalize away the guilt. After all, they had each done unredeemable
things in the name of "just following orders." If anyone understood the dilemma, it was him.
"How did they capture Aberforth? He should have been more protected than anyone," said
Malfoy, seeming rattled.
"Dunno. Probably hand-delivered by another Order Councilmember," Blaise replied. "A gift
to the Dark Lord to prove he's willing to cooperate even without Theo playing go-between."
Then Blaise gave into his morbid curiosity, asking, "What did you tell Aberforth before you
did it?"
Another crack formed in Malfoy's inscrutable mask.
"I described what happens after resurrection. How he won't even know that his body returns
once he passes."
"Why would you do that? He was about to die anyhow."
Malfoy sighed bitingly.
"People fear being trapped in a body they can't control if I revive them, so I explained why
that is not the case. That his soul will move on after death. I also promised to cremate his
remains as soon as I'm able."
Blaise dissolved into a fit of laughter, wheezing, one hand on the bartop.
"And here I was thinking you finally got hard in Azkaban. Bloodthirsty enough to ditch the
blindfold. Looks like I was fucking wrong. It's the opposite—instead you just whisper sweet
nothings to the people you murder. I should try it out. Maybe then I wouldn't need to get
blackout drunk to sleep through the nightmares."
"And you give me shit for Occluding?" Malfoy said, mouth twitching. "At least my vices
aren't poisoning my liver."
"No. From what I hear, you save that damage for Basilisk venom," cackled Blaise, walking
over to clap a hand on the taller man's back—on the exact spot where he suspected the
Infantry's knife scars were located.
Sure enough, Malfoy winced, cursing like a sailor. But some of the tension left his face. He
sent Blaise a reluctant smirk, which was returned.
"Are you headed back to the castle tonight?"
Blaise shook his head. "No. Back home. I have refugees coming out of my ears. The Italians
are continuing to resist. Since the Revue is gone, Carrow started sending prisoners to labor
camps in the mountain region. When they're full, he makes room instead of building new
ones."
Glancing to the side, Malfoy responded, "I'll do what I can to keep moving civilians. Just
send the names of targeted cities and I'll go there first. I already—"
A creaking noise made both men whirl around, directing their wands at the source. It sounded
like it came from the collapsing thatched rooftop. Malfoy sent a shot of light into the gloom.
Hissssss
It was only a stray cat, which darted along the rafters, hackles raised and tail stiff. A false
alarm.
"We're getting old. Losing our nerve," snorted Blaise as he lowered his wand and cracked his
neck. Then he said darkly, "Watch it though, Malfoy. I don't want to see you kneeling on that
platform next week because of what you're doing for the Railroad. Help who you're able.
Kingsley can deal with the big ticket item."
Deep lines formed across Malfoy's forehead. "And what is the Order planning to do about
Italy?"
"Fuck if I know. I'm not with those holier-than thou hypocrites anymore. Down to two faces,
you could say. But I doubt they'll step in to help at this point. What's left of the Council is
pouring everything into a last, decisive strike. They're going after him to end the entire
regime."
Now Blaise paced about the room, kicking a chunk of wood, reflecting, "Best case scenario:
they wipe out each other, and Europe gets a clean slate. Mutual destruction sounds pretty
damn good to me."
Loudening voices and footsteps made Blaise dash to the doorframe, peeking outside. There
was a group of cloaked men walking into the village, past the ruins of Honeydukes. He
turned back to Malfoy, who had reformed his emotionless mask.
Blaise cleared his throat and asked, "We can't stay much longer. Just tell me what you want in
return for helping."
In answer, Malfoy strode forward. He slipped a piece of paper into Blaise's hand, pausing just
long enough to say, "Get rid of it after."
Then Malfoy stepped back and vanished in a ripple of black robes.
Deciding to read the note before disapparating, Blaise stole through the decrepit building and
out the rear door.
He unfolded the paper.
West Greenhill Road
House at the End
Tenby, Wales
Sunset
***
"He could have given me a few more details," sulked Blaise, rotating in a circle to survey his
strange surroundings. "Now where the hell do I go? House at the end of what?"
Instead of a house, there was an old stone wall that must predate Hogwarts. It looked like it
came from the Middle Ages, and would erode into sand with the next strong gust of wind.
Like it belonged in a museum, not on the Pembrokeshire Coast, gradually being eaten away
by the salty air.
Blaise was poking at it inquisitively when a female voice coughed behind him.
He turned.
"There's an ordinance against touching the town wall," a frumpy woman scolded. She was
towing a brood of equally frumpy children behind her like luggage. They ran ahead while
their mother gestured to a nearby plaque. "The Historical Society won't hesitate to issue fines
to violators."
Blood rushed into Blaise's cheeks. He pressed a palm flat against the mossy surface and
challenged, "So what are you going to do about it? Report me?"
The woman looked Blaise up and down, taking in his black Death Eater robes, which were a
stark contrast to her own capris and polo shirt. She crinkled her nose like she whiffed
garbage.
"If you're here for some sort of freaky costume convention, keep moving. This isn't the right
place."
"Tell me how to reach Greenhill Road, and I'll do just that, lady."
Without deigning to look at Blaise again, she sniffed then pursued her fleeing children,
saying loudly, "You're standing on it! Follow the town wall if you're trying to get to the
beach."
After thanking her with a few choice expletives, Blaise continued on his mysterious journey.
His confusion only increased as he neared the ocean, not understanding why Malfoy would
want to rendezvous here just to explain his request.
However, it was quickly becoming obvious that this Muggle community remained under the
Statute of Secrecy. Not a wand or Dark Mark in sight. The sidewalk overlooking the harbor
was packed with couples on holiday, and the shore was alive with parents reclining on picnic
blankets; kids playing with plastic sand pails in every color; carts serving ice creams.
Blaise waited until only a flock of pelicans was watching him, then ducked into some bushes
to transfigure his robes into something less "freaky" and more beach-themed.
Even after changing, Blaise got the impression that he was not welcome. There was a distinct
air of hostility toward his presence, and Blaise himself had to fight the urge to leave the
seaside town. Several policemen actually stopped him to demand why he was strolling along
the coastline, as if he was not doing exactly the same thing as everyone else.
By the time the sun was falling, Blaise had scripted a mental list of questions for Malfoy, in
addition to a rant about how to write bloody directions.
But when West Greenhill Road ended in a sleepy cul-de-sac, Malfoy was nowhere to be
found. In fact, it looked as if nothing was here. Just another old wall. Then a faint shimmer of
liquid distorted Blaise's vision, and he recognized the border of a Fidelius Charm.
He inched forward cautiously, and was able to pass through the enchanted border without
issue. Malfoy must be this safe house's Secret Keeper and hand wrote the address himself. It
still failed to explain why he summoned Blaise to a place where he was so plainly
unwanted.
As soon as Blaise was through, a prickle ran down his spine. He could sense he was not
alone, and there was no guarantee the other person here was Malfoy. He drew his wand and a
knife, gripping them at the ready, edging along the exterior of the house, ears tuned for the
smallest sound of movement.
Then Blaise was on a veranda, which overlooked a secluded beach.
Both arms fell limply to his side.
Granger and Malfoy were there—thirty feet below the house. They were standing right along
the shoreline, hands outstretched and joined, facing each other. Granger was draped in a
gauzy, light dress, its hem stained yellow by the sand. There was a diadem of flowers atop
her head, and her normally tangled hair was finely braided and decorated with a waterfall of
orchids.
He had never seen Granger look so beautiful.
And then there was Malfoy—lifting her wrists with more gentleness than seemed possible for
a demon. Like Granger could shatter at any moment. He was dressed almost as simply as her,
but in midnight black. His eyes, which were always hard as ice, had melted. Softened under
the fading sunlight.
He was not the Draco Malfoy of that morning.
He sensed Blaise's presence, and their eyes met very briefly. He gave Blaise the subtlest nod,
then looked back at Granger, who had not seemed to notice.
Blaise retreated beneath the overhanging rooftop eaves, creating more distance. Quietly
blending into the lengthening shadows. At last understanding that his purpose for being here
was to bear witness to a ceremony.
To their wedding ceremony.
An aged house-elf was positioned between them, and now he stood on his toes to wind a
golden cord around their joined hands. Carefully tying them together in a symbolic rite which
Blaise had never seen before—one which made his eyes burn.
He was still wiping at them when Granger's lips began to move, and he saw the tears rolling
down her radiant face. They dropped onto the ropes binding her to Malfoy. Blaise could not
make out her words from where he lurked, but they were not meant for his ears.
While he had known that Granger loved Malfoy for ages, now he could see it firsthand. See it
in the way she watched only him, as if the breathtaking sunset at her side paled in comparison
to the person who truly captured her vision.
Malfoy rested his forehead against Granger's as he recited his own vows, holding her watery
gaze the entire time. The longer he spoke, the more the sharp edges around his eyes, his brow,
dulled; brushed smooth by the tide. The more at peace he appeared. Like he had finally found
the one, and would never let her go again. And there was such intensity in his expression, in
the promises his mouth was shaping.
Then Granger laughed at something Malfoy said, kicking him with her sandy, bare foot.
Malfoy also laughed, letting his head fall back, smiling impishly up at the sky. At the clouds,
painted in every shade of vermillion as the sun dipped below the ocean horizon.
The house-elf stepped back and snapped his fingers.
At once, the golden cord ignited at both ends, rapidly blackening, crumbling, and dissolving
into ashes, blowing through the twilight air. Freeing two pairs of hands which remained
linked. Bound by an oath transcending thin ropes and quiet words.
Two lifetimes tied together by marriage vows.
They looked so happy.
Blaise grinned as he faded into the background, and left.

Saccharine Moon
Marriage is but a ceremonial toy;
If thou lovest me, think no more of it
***
She was in Draco's arms, barely keeping the circlet of flowers on her head. Orchids were
dropping from her curls as he carried her beyond the beach house's boundary line.
He pivoted, crushing her to him as they were consumed by blackness.
The world rotated back into existence, only for Draco to turn again. And now they were
standing on the steel beam of a suspended bridge, stretching over a body of water that was
not the Tenby sea. Much lighter colored, and filled with ships hauling cargo containers.
Hermione had just placed it as the English Channel, when it vanished in a third revolution of
suffocating disapparition.
A final crack rang out in Hermione's ears, and she fell backward through the darkness,
landing on a smooth duvet.
She did not recognize this place, and it was too dim to see clearly. But it seemed like a hotel.
Then Draco was there, leaning down over her, silver eyes dancing in the moonlight streaming
in through a soaring window. His black dress robes enveloped her like a shroud, blocking out
the light. His hands, which were still dusted in ash from their burnt ceremony cords, reached
up to brush her cheek.
Hermione pulled him down by the fabric of his shirt, capturing his face in her hands, her
mouth pressing against his, taking his air into her lungs. Winding her sandy legs around his
trousers, clinging to him like a lifeline.
Draco slid an arm around her waist and kissed her back for a moment, then tilted his head up
to study her face.
His eyebrows drew together in concern, and he began picking at the few remaining white
flowers caught in her hair.
"Don't tell me this isn't what you wanted?"
She did not answer, so Draco let his head drop to the sheets beside her, holding her with his
eyes as he continued to pluck the bridal orchids from her braid, his fingers were as soft as his
expression.
"Whatever happens tomorrow or in fifty years, tonight is ours," he whispered.

The mattress sunk low as he inched nearer, pressing cold lips to her forehead. Cooling her
skin with an almost imperceptible pressure. As if he was already a specter passing through
the dusky hotel bedroom. Dust slipping through her clenched fist.
As impermanent as a ring crafted from paper.
"I can never say goodbye," she finally confessed into his shirt.
Draco laughed, a small and quiet laugh.
"This is a honeymoon, Granger. Not a wake. You need to shut your brain off for once. Forget
necromancy. That's your husband's order."
"Don't make fun of me for overthinking," Hermione grumbled. Wiping her tears and lightly
punching his arm. "It's hard to break a twenty-four year habit overnight. Besides, you're off to
a rough start too. I still haven't forgiven you for those vows. They were atrocious."
"And what about them didn't meet your high standards?" Draco teased, slowly unfastening
the pearly clasps on her dress, easing the straps from her shoulders. "Was it the part where I
swore to put your dreams and desires above my own for as long as I walk this earth?"
Hermione closed her eyelids and focused on the feeling of his hands brushing a tingling
current down her spine.
"Or was it the part where I promised to love you until my last breath? Until my dying
heartbeat?"
He pulled the pins from her plaited hair, freeing the curls so that they spilled wildly across the
bed, just the way he preferred. Then he turned her onto her back, gray eyes gliding down the
length of her bare frame. Unhurriedly reading every line, dip, and curve a dozen times over,
then reading them again.
It made her shiver even more than his touch.
"Or maybe it was the part where I called you my soulmate?"
A terribly unexpected smile tugged at Hermione's lips and she said, "No, Malfoy. Actually, it
was the bit about reserving a three-sided honeymoon suite with concrete walls and a barred
door."
Draco sneered, but Hermione was not finished with her scolding.
"And I will not repeat what you described doing to me in there, my god. I can't believe you
said that IN FRONT OF KREACHER, you vile, disgusting asshole."
He pinched her cheek, adopting a lofty tone and taunting, "What? Not what you envisioned
your future husband saying on your wedding day? That sounds like your problem, not mine.
Either a shameful lack of creativity or severe case of sexual repression."
Now Hermione's tears of laughter were sliding down his long fingers. Because, for all her
overthinking, she had never imagined one day lying on a honeymoon bed across from Draco.
Somehow it felt like the universe was both playing a joke on her, and giving her exactly what
she needed.
He pressed their foreheads together.
"Fine. I'll admit your vows were better than mine. So now is the part where I make up for it,"
he promised.
His ensuing kiss was only confirmation. Slow and tender, so dissonant from his jesting
words. It spoke of eternity.
The backside of his hands ghosted across her breasts and down her ribs, tracing each one
with smooth fingernails. Making her wish she had more than two dozen if only to prolong the
caress. Every point of contact was like lightning striking the sea.
Her knuckles reached up to glide along the shallowest scars encircling Draco's heart, skating
down to find his zipper. She was better at managing it now, no fumbling. And then there was
a steady motion that had him cursing dampness into her neck.
When he was close, he lifted her thigh and pushed slowly, very slowly inside. She released a
low noise, barely audible over the sound of the moving sheets. The sound of them coming
together and splitting apart.
The pressure mounted. The room grew darker. And he continued to watch her with piercing,
eagle eyes. His gaze never left her, not for one instant.
They were catching fire together, white-hot and frenzied. A grassland of flames racing over
their joined bodies in an uncontrolled burn.
Then he was whispering into her ear, calling her his and only his. His beautiful bird. Calling
her his wife. Her heart thundered every time he said it, because tonight it was not a question
or dream of the future.
It would always be the truth.
Whatever physical separation tomorrow brought would be painful, but it would not erase
history.
Their moments were still stolen, but nothing could take their vows.
They belonged to each other.
In this short lifetime and the next.
***
The mattress shifted, and Hermione stirred. Light cast by the morning sun filtered in through
a wall that was entirely a window. A suspended planter box lay beyond, hosting a row of
chattering, yellow birds. They reminded her of goldfinches.
The sheets moved again.
Draco was beside her, fast asleep, the pale skin of his cheek buried in a pillow. How unusual
to find him this way. He tended to rise early and leave the room.
Since he often seemed to memorize her face, now Hermione did the same. And the longer she
watched him, the warmer the sun felt. The easier it became to take in air.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hermione Malfoy," smiled Draco. Those were the first words that left
his mouth, even before his eyes opened.
His arm hooked around her waist, easily sliding her toward him on the satin sheets. Piecing
them together in the way they fit best.
He breathed into the base of her neck, "You're blushing bright red. You don't like when I call
you that, Granger? Just in case it wasn't clear, when I asked you to marry me for one day, I
wasn't planning to divorce you the day after."
"How generous of you," retorted Hermione playfully. Then she let her gaze drift back to the
window. The yellow birds were still there, and now a one-legged raven was roosting amongst
them. She had seen a similar black bird at the Manor, and it felt like it was watching her, like
they were studying each other. There was a dark gleam in its beady eyes.
Hermione eventually rolled to her other side, ignoring the raven. Facing Draco as she said
softly, "It's just going to take some getting used to. It happened so fast that I didn't have the
chance to process everything."
It was true that they were young, but she remembered hearing stories of how many couples
wed quickly during the First Wizarding War. There simply was not time to wait to grow
older. Aging was not guaranteed. Still, agreeing to marry him was probably as foolish as it
was selfish.
She didn't regret it.
While Draco was unsnarling her hair, she slowly began to guess the location of her
surroundings. And she already knew them. The modern furniture and paneled ceiling were
burned into her memories, although this room was not identical to the suite from the year
before. The hotel name surfaced in her mind, and she smiled.
"Maison d'Aubusson."
"So you finally figured out this isn't Azkaban," he replied with a light tug on her scalp.
"Why here of all places?"
In answer, Draco braced the back of her neck, drawing her close. Tangling fingers in her
sandy curls as he tilted her mouth to the side. Finding the perfect arc. Recreating that first
kiss in Grenoble.
Months had come and gone, but he still tasted like salt and mint.
And this still felt inevitable.
Some while later, they were caught under the duvet. Half awake and half asleep. Listening to
the distant sound of a street musician float in through the open window. The rings of church
bells layered in, adding a melodic overtone. Hermione counted nine peals.
"I'll order breakfast for the balcony," said Draco, lifting her head to reclaim his shoulder.
He eased out of the bed and stood. His tone darkened.
"This time, don't make me wait."
***
This time, Hermione dallied only long enough to rinse off and attempt to salvage her braid.
All but one orchid was gone, so she tucked it behind an ear, feeling like she was in the tropics
rather than the French mountains.
Then she was out the door before Draco could complain. This suite was enormous compared
to the last. Its coffered ceilings and windows stretched so high that it must be the penthouse.
Multiple doors encircled a lavish sitting room, and it was dotted with enough settees and
plump floor cushions to host a large gathering. It felt excessive for just two people.
Draco was already outside. Seated on a balcony that spanned the length of the suite. He was
leaned back in his chair, and his hair was slick with water. He must have used a different
bathroom.
Hermione took the chair beside him, running a hand through the dripping strands, then taking
out her wand to cast a spell to dry them. He stopped her, saying, "Leave it alone. It's warm
enough for the sun to handle."
Although his tone was casual, Hermione caught a distinct look of wariness in his expression.
"What? Are you scared of losing your beautiful blond tresses? Don't trust me not to singe you
bald?"
Draco plucked the redwood handle from her fingers, placing it on the table. "It's not a slight
on you. That wand has a history, and I would rather avoid it getting anywhere near me, if
given the option."
The top few buttons on Draco's white shirt were undone, and it was folded open. Her eyes
went to the disfigured skin beneath—to the pair of incision scars left by her wand when she
extracted Basilisk venom from his bloodstream. She had used this wand to prolong his life.
But those scars were dwarfed by the other damage to his chest. The scratches and deep cavity
on the right side of his heart were far more striking. Hermione once again puzzled over their
source: whether they were the aftermath of torture, his own hands, or something more
perverse.
Noticing the focus of her attention, Draco turned away in his chair and picked up utensils to
eat. Delaying another hard conversation.
Soon there was only the scrape of metal on plates. However, Hermione had lost her appetite.
She stood, inclining over the terrace ledge to see the city across the river.
The June weather was nearly perfect—pleasantly humid with a slight breeze. Every inch of
mountain snow had melted from the surrounding Chartreuse, Vercors, and Belledonne ranges.
And the walnut trees along the river bank were thick with dark green leaves, full and opening
toward the sun.
But something felt off.
Despite the beautiful day, there was almost no one on the streets. Hermione stood and walked
right up to the railing to get a better view. Even from this high vantage point, the strangeness
was unmistakable. Her skin grew cold.
The city was dying.
Decaying like fruit on a diseased vine.
The ice rink had been replaced by a shoddy, wooden platform, constructed for a sinister
purpose she could only guess. Half the stores in the town square were boarded shut. The bells
chimed again, and she found the small church from her last visit. At Christmas, it was
decorated in garlands and lights. Now long, dark pennants hung from its eaves, drifting in the
wind like cloaked Dementors. The cross on the chapel's steepled roof was missing, replaced
by a black X.
There was hardly anyone in sight. The few people traversing the cobblestone sidewalks
shuffled quickly with their heads bent low. The only crowds were gathered at security
checkpoints, which divided the city into a checkerboard of chain link fences. Hooded figures
passed between the lines, and armed policemen guarded each barrier, inspectings
identification cards as they had in Paris—granting passage, or escorting detainees into
unmarked buildings.
It all spoke of segregation.
Apartheid.
Hermione's eyes grew misted. They were high above the war. They would have to descend
soon.
"Grenoble changed so much in only six months," she reflected gravely, turning to face Draco.
"What happened?"
He glanced to the side as he spoke in a hard voice. "Nothing unexpected. This is all according
to his plan. What happens after a country submits."
She was opening her mouth to respond, when Draco interrupted.

"I know this isn't a future you can accept. Not a future for you at all. I know why this has to
end."
Hermione's throat was dry. "But then you would—"
A siren began to sound far below, pounding against her ear drums. Someone had tried to get
around a checkpoint, and a lockdown started.
Nerves shot, Hermione retook her seat as one of her darkest thoughts rose to the surface—the
one only ever entertained when her mind went to the worst places.
The next question fell from her mouth like a beggar's plea.
"Have you ever considered making a Horcrux?"
Draco saw through her desperation. He let his head drop backwards, gazing at the cloudless
sky. Not answering.
Hermione studied his upturned face. His pale features were veiled by the reflective sunlight.
She voiced another unthinkable thought.
"What if you already have? What if I'm—"
He stared at her intensely, and a heavy silence followed.
Then Draco said sharply, "What do you mean? Do you honestly think that I would split my
soul like him?"
"Maybe," she admitted. "It's just . . . you could tell I was different from the others the
moment I returned. Of course I would be different if you left a fragment of your soul in me
before I passed."
"That's impossible," Draco said dismissively, sitting straight. "When a person dies, their soul
dies too."
Now Hermione's months of research—hours with Luna—all the sleepless nights of thinking
—came back to her in a tidal wave, then burst from her mouth.
"Horcruxes are not like untouched souls. They don't follow the same rules. Only very specific
forms of dark magic can destroy an unnatural fragment, like Fiendfyre or an Unforgivable
Curse. And even then, if a vessel has multiple souls, it's possible that killing them would only
destroy one—either theirs or the Horcrux. That's the reason I had us pierce Nagini twice: to
ensure we destroyed both."
Draco met her eyes, expression unreadable.
"You died, Granger. I felt it."

"Maybe not completely. Bleeding to death could never destroy a Horcrux. My soul faded
when I passed through the veil. But if I kept a part of yours, that would explain why I didn't
return as a true Inferius. It would explain why I'm alive and not like the rest."
Draco whispered into steepled fingers. "Don't think I haven't considered making a Horcrux.
I've thought about every way to get around being tied to him." His shoulders grew tight. "But
I never went through with it and I never will."
Hermione flashed back to Glen Lochy, seeing the events of that night both through her eyes,
and through Draco's crimson shroud—the cloth he cursed to distort his vision, just like the
Occlusion he used to manipulate his own mind. It was possible he could have suppressed or
even Obliviated the worst memories.
"Maybe you don't remember, or it didn't happen on purpose," she insisted. "Voldemort never
intended to leave a piece of his soul in Harry . . . It could have been the same for you."
She leaned close, holding his gaze.
"It would also explain why I've seen you in my visions."
"I never lie to you, Granger. Trust me when I say that I would never break apart my soul.
That is no life. A soul without a body is hardly alive, and it's not as if I can resurrect myself,"
said Draco firmly.
There was some truth to that. When Voldemort's curse rebounded and he fled to Albania, he
was little more than a spirit; had needed a host or blood magic to regain a physical form.
But there was another way.
"Teach me necromancy," Hermione said, reaching for Draco's cheek. It was ice cold, as if he
was already halfway in his grave. "If Voldemort is gone and a piece of you lingers, there's
still a chance that I can bring the rest of you back."
A desperate proposal to use the blackest magic.
Draco shook his head resolutely then took her hand, tracing a nail along her finger where the
paper ring had been so briefly. It had long since fallen apart.
"It's not something you can learn," he said. "The day the Dark Lord tied me to him, he also
—"
A choked noise came from Draco's throat, like he was suffocating. His fingernails, which
seconds before had been gently caressing her hand, went to his chest, and he began digging
into the marred skin around his heart, drawing blood with ten sharp needles. Fresh wounds
blossomed, staining his white shirt a brilliant red.
"What are you doing?" cried Hermione, reaching out to stop him. He resisted, like he was
possessed—hell bent on self-mutilation. His eyes were entirely black pupils.
When it at last subsided, Draco seemed drained of all energy, hunching forward in his seat.
Then he flinched and grabbed his forearm. The ink burned dark enough to show through his
sleeve.
A summons.
Draco stood, breathing heavily. He lifted Hermione onto her feet and went back into the
hotel, changing into robes, not even pausing to heal his bleeding chest.
"We can't stay. I'll apparate you back to Wiltshire," he said.
Hermione followed him inside, feeling ill.
"Take me to Tenby. I'll wait there."
***
Once the CRACK of Draco's departure resounded, Hermione rushed into the beach house,
straight to the sitting room.
The Malfoy matriarch's small portrait was in its regular spot on the mantle, and her blue eyes
appeared alert. As if she was expecting Hermione. Waiting for her daughter to visit.
Narcissa spoke first.
"I swore that if you brought Draco home, I would answer any question you asked. So ask."
Hermione stepped forward.
"Tell me how Draco became the Necromancer."

Deaths and Hallows
It grieves my soul I never saw the man:
If, therefore, thou, by cunning of thine art,
Canst raise this man from hollow vaults below,
Where lies entomb’d this famous conqueror,
And bring with him his beauteous paramour
***
Frustration ran through Narcissa's voice as she spoke.
"That is the one question I cannot answer."
Hermione lifted the frame from the fireplace mantle, holding it close. "Please," she entreated,
"I know that Draco's life is tied to Voldemort. Understanding how he became like this could
be the key to breaking the blood curse."
Narcissa shook her head and her hands flew to her mouth, which was the same perfect
crescent shape as her son's. She whispered through her trembling fingers, "It's not that I don't
want to tell you everything, Hermione. I cannot talk about the Battle of Hogwarts. The Dark
Lord used ancient magic to permanently seal the mouth of every witness, including our
family. I'm not able to explain what happened, even now in death."
Fighting the urge to scream in frustration, Hermione sank down on the sofa, letting Narcissa's
frame rest on her lap. For every stride she took toward the truth, she was wrenched two steps
back. And now she was running out of time.
But Narcissa spoke again, pressed close to her portrait's glass.
"While I cannot speak of that day, it is possible for you to view it through my mind. There is
no one who knows more about it than myself."
Hermione sat up, glancing toward the Pensieve at her feet, then back to Narcissa, saying,
"You're not . . . alive anymore. How can I extract your memories?"
"You cannot. However, my final thoughts were of my greatest regret," Narcissa replied.
"They can explain more than my words. And because of how Lucius and I died, they went to
Draco, though he likely suppressed them."
Then Hermione was out of her seat, flinging open the charmed jewelry box where Draco
stored the thousands of vials of his Inferi's memories, saying, "Accio Narcissa Malfoy's dying
memories."
Nothing.
"Accio Lucius Malfoy's dying memories."
Still nothing.
Narcissa's clear voice rang out from the sofa.
"Did you find them?"
"No," whispered Hermione, tugging at her eyelids in exasperation. Of course things were
never this simple or easy.
The woman said hopefully, "I doubt Draco would have destroyed them, so he must have
stored them elsewhere for a reason."
Now Hermione considered. She agreed with Narcissa, yet did not have the faintest clue of
where Draco would keep the last memories of his parents. Particularly since he cremated all
remains.
Wait.
The connections were still forming in Hermione's mind as she raced into the hallway, not
even stopping to say goodbye. The flower stall lady—Mrs. Audrey—had mentioned Draco
regularly bought white roses, flowers he claimed were for family. She had never seen a
headstone around the beach house. Was it possible he had some kind of memorial for his
parents in the village?
Hermione accosted the first neighbor she found, who exclaimed, "Christ, you scared me!"
The portly, Muggle man blinked confusedly as she hurried to ask, "Where is the nearest
cemetery?"
The man stepped back, saying, "Oh! Just follow the old town wall and it will take you
straight to St. Mary's Church. There's a graveyard out back."
She followed the crumbling, medieval wall along the shoreline and through the length of the
town. Running at breakneck speed—so fast that she almost barreled into a group of school
children, and was chided to slow down. But she did not. It felt like she was on the brink of an
important discovery. She would not let it slip through her fingers.
The stone wall ended at an old parish with a beautifully carved chancel roof topped by a
spire. A signpost out front marked it as the "Historical Preservation Site of St. Mary's Holy
Chapel." Hermione followed a dirt path that led behind the building. Sure enough, there were
rows upon rows of tombstones, plaques, and mausoleums. All black marble, gleaming in the
sunlight.
A feeling of heaviness settled over Hermione as she walked through the aisles, reading each
name and epithet. There was only death here.
Then she saw it: a bouquet of withered, white roses placed on an unmarked grave. The
headstone had two blank nameplates and was far tidier than any other in the cemetery. As if
charmed by magic to repel the creeping weeds. This must be it.
Kneeling, Hermione looked left and right, confirming she was alone. Then she drew her
wand, using a banishing charm to remove the soil. It seemed wrong to defile a grave, but she
knew that no bodies lay within and Narcissa would not disapprove.
A wooden box was at the bottom. Hermione lifted it out, hands shaking with equal parts
excitement and anxiety. Sure enough, there were two glass bottles inside—two sets of
memories. She reformed the gravesite, then apparated back to the Fidelius boundary of the
beach house.
Narcissa was abnormally quiet when Hermione returned and placed the Pensieve on the
table.
However, as Hermione was pulling the shining, silver thread from its vial, Narcissa spoke in
hushed tones.
"I hope that you will not think less of my son. We all did terrible things out of fear and
desperation. If anyone is to blame for what became of him, it is me."
The memories swirled, ethereal and strange. Before entering, Hermione glanced at Narcissa's
pale face, which was painted with distress.
"Nothing will change how I feel," she promised.
Then she fell headfirst into the stone pool of memories.
***
"You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself."
Every eye was fixed on the Dark Lord as he spoke. He stood with his head bowed, and his
white hands folded over the Elder Wand in front of him. He might have been praying, or else
counting wordlessly in his mind. Behind him, the great snake floated in a glittering, charmed
cage like a monstrous halo, swirling and coiling in the air.
"I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. . . . One hour. . . ."
A fire burned in the middle of the clearing, and its flickering light fell over a crowd of
completely silent, watchful Death Eaters. Some of them were still hooded and masked; others
were nervously wiping their sweaty faces. Rowle was dabbing at his bleeding lip, while
Fenrir was chewing at his long, yellow nails. Two giants sat on the edges of the group,
casting massive shadows over the scene, their faces were cruel, rough like rock. The half-
giant Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a nearby trunk. His massive body shook the
branches overhead as he struggled, crying.
No one spoke as they all waited for Potter. Waited for his guilt to drive him to the Forbidden
Forest during this break in the battle. Waited for the lamb to walk straight to his butcher.
He would surely come soon.
Lucius was lurking subserviently with the others behind the Dark Lord, looking defeated.
However, Narcissa was standing alone at the outskirts of the gathering. The firelight danced
across her sunken, apprehensive face. She was wringing her hands over and over again in a
repetitive motion. Glancing nervously into the forest behind her, blue eyes frantic.
Bellatrix rose from her position at the Dark Lord's feet and walked to join her sister.
"Cissy — Narcissa — listen to me — "
Narcissa shook her head, continuing to scan the crowd, refusing to meet Bellatrix's
gleaming, black eyes.
"Go back to your master, Bella," Narcissa whispered in a voice so soft that it did not even
move the spiderweb hanging beside her face.
"You must listen to me," the dark woman hissed.
Narcissa was not listening. She was already slipping backward into the treeline, hurrying
through the Forbidden Forest. Decided.
Bellatrix pursued her fleeing sister.
Once they were out of earshot, Narcissa spoke without slowing, "I've done what I was told
since we were children, and all that's come of it is losing my son. I will save Draco and
nothing you say will make me return without him."
Now Bellatrix caught up to her prey as she crossed a dry riverbed, catching hold of
Narcissa's slender wrist and swinging her around so that they faced each other.
"GET BACK WHERE YOU BELONG!" Bellatrix panted, chest heaving. She looked around
to check that they were indeed alone. "Draco was CHOSEN to find Potter. My nephew should
be proud. The Dark Lord is blessing him with this duty, and he should be glad of a chance to
prove himself. Excited at the prospect to redeem his parents. To redeem YOU."
"Let go, Bella!" snarled Narcissa, drawing a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it shakily
in the other woman's shadowed face.
Bellatrix laughed, "Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't—"
A note of hysteria shot through Narcissa's voice as she cursed, "There is NOTHING I
wouldn't do. We all know that the Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. I won't stand
by and watch him ripped apart as punishment for Lucius's failures. I don't care if the Dark
Lord wins."
Breathing furiously, Narcissa brought down the wand like a hatchet, there was a flash of red
light, and Bellatrix let go of her sister's arm as though cut.
"Narcissa!"
But Narcissa had rushed ahead. This time, Bellatrix did not give chase, instead staring,
transfixed, as the other woman melted into the shadows.
The castle grounds were eerily quiet. The grass beneath Narcissa's feet was strewn with
rubble, bodies, and blood. No other living soul remained outside besides Narcissa, who
looked like a phantom running through the dust; a ghost in the fallout of a great and terrible
battle.
Then she was inside the crumbling, destabilized ruins of Hogwarts. Her long, blond hair flew
loosely behind her shoulders, snagging on the jagged walls. Something dripped onto her
cheek, and she wiped at it—blood. There was a young girl impaled on a flagpole, mauled by
a werewolf, leaking onto the stones.
It was not Draco.
She kept running.
The castle was barren. Even the portrait people were missing from their frames. And the
whole place was utterly still, as if all its remaining lifeblood was concentrated in the Great
Hall where the dead and mourners were crammed during this interlude between fighting—
this ceasefire, where Potter was meant to find the Dark Lord willingly, and Draco was meant
to fall short.
Sobs of grief came from the large oak doors of the Great Hall, and from Narcissa's own
throat as she tore past them and up a marble staircase. She continued to search furiously,
finding nothing. The only faces she saw were of winged gargoyles, staring down at her like
stony spectators.
The seventh level appeared equally deserted, until a flash of movement caught her eye at the
end of a wide corridor. A blackened leg was jutting out past a suit of armor, jerking weakly.
Narcissa was to it in a heartbeat, wand extended, face pale.
Draco was there—pressing a finger into the Goyle boy's neck, who appeared burned and
unconscious, but breathing. The floor trembled violently, and the muffled roar of a firestorm
shook the walls, however they appeared out of danger.
Narcissa knelt, pulling her son into shaking, disbelieving arms.
He was alive.
In spite of everything, Draco had survived.
Narcissa explained rapidly, "We don't have long until Harry Potter chooses to go to the forest
himself. As soon as that happens, the Dark Lord will know that you were unsuccessful. That
you failed to capture Potter as ordered. We must get to your father and escape. To stay would
be a death sentence."
"Crabbe is dead, and Goyle's hurt. He can't walk," Draco said, rising and wiping soot from
his blanched face.
"So we'll take him with us, but we need to leave now," Narcissa urged, giving her wand to
Draco, who used it to elevate the injured boy.
The curse-riddled corridors remained empty as they stole back down the castle and out onto
the grounds. In spite of the devastation beneath their feet—the smoke clouding the sky—the
war began to feel a long way away. It was so deathly quiet.
And yet they were moving too slowly. Narcissa could already see the first light of day. The
hour must be almost up; the armistice would end before her family could fade into the
backdrop.
She led them through the Forbidden Forest, retracing her path. Swarms of Dementors were
gliding, wraith-like, amongst the trees. She could feel their chill gnawing at her bones, colder
than frostbite, but had no strength left for a Patronus.
They did not make it far before they found him.
Harry Potter.
He was standing entirely alone beneath a towering, moss-covered willow. A strange

disillusionment cloak was hanging off his shoulders, leaving him half invisible. And he was
holding a gold object in his hands, breathing fast and hard.
Narcissa, ushered Draco and the unconscious Goyle behind a tree, out of sight, whispering,
"This is your opportunity, Draco. You can bring him to the Dark Lord, and all will be
forgiven."
A hauntedness entered her son's gray eyes, and he glanced to the side indecisively. Looking
as if happening upon Potter was not a windfall, but a dilemma. Like he would not have
chosen this turn of events.
Then Draco said in a very low voice, "He saved my life."
"What? He saved you?"
"Just now, he . . . he rescued both of us from Fiendfyre. He didn't have to after we attacked
him, but he spared our lives."
Narcissa's stunned mouth was forming another question when she heard Potter speak
instead. She peered past the trees to listen.
"I am about to die," Potter whispered, pressing a golden, metal ball to his lips.
The metallic shell split open, and a dark stone fell into Potter's hands. As they watched, he
closed his eyes and turned the stone three times. Then, strangely, he began rotating in a
circle, gaze locked on something that Narcissa could not see; staring hungrily at companions
that were not there, talking to voices she could not hear.
"Does it hurt?" Potter asked no one. He sounded so lost, continuing to mumble into the air
with a strained expression. "I didn't want you to die. Any of you. I'm sorry."
Narcissa felt her heart breaking—a grief known by all mothers. She had no ill will toward
this child, who could have as easily been her own. She had never seen a human look so
lonely.
She leaned in to whisper to her son, "Take Goyle and get to the clearing. I'll meet you and
your father in Tenby."
"What are you—"
"Go now," she insisted, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks, pushing Draco deeper into
the trees. "I have something to tell Potter. I promise I'll join you once it's safe. Go."
Draco hesitated, then lifted Goyle and turned to leave.
As soon as his back disappeared into the forest, Narcissa crept toward Potter. Now he was
begging, "You'll stay with me?"
Narcissa took a deep breath, stepped forward, and said firmly, "You must leave Hogwarts
immediately, Harry Potter. This time, the Dark Lord will kill you. You, and the rest of your
friends, down to the last person."
The boy jumped out of his skin, and spun around. His emerald green eyes met hers, and
widened in astonishment.
She spoke again, every word felt like a betrayal.
"Because of you, my son is alive. Malfoys pay our debts. I will create a distraction so that you
can flee unnoticed. There won't be a second chance and you are far too young to sacrifice
yourself for no reason."
The black stone was still clutched in Potter's bloodless hand. Narcissa could sense the fear
crawling through him.
Nevertheless, he replied, "This war won't end until I die. I'm going to him and you can't stop
me, Mrs. Malfoy."
What a foolish thing to say. How brainwashed this child must be to believe that he had to
leap into the fire to stop the forest from burning. There was nothing but pity within Narcissa.
She reached for her wand, only then remembering it was with Draco. So she instead used her
words. She had to convince him, and quickly.
"If you truly care about yourself, you will leave all this behind. There is no hope that the
Order of the Phoenix will defeat the Dark Lord. And even if it does, you will not be alive to
see it. I'm certain you're clever enough to know that, Harry. So go. Go and don't look back.
You'll be safe. It's what your own parents would have wanted."
Potter's eyes darted from side to side, again looking at thin air like it was sentient. He must
be completely past the point of sanity, hallucinating, ready to throw his life away for nothing.
"It's not what my parents would have wanted." Potter's tone was dark yet empty. "Neither can
live, neither can surv—"
"STUPEFY!"
Narcissa was thrown backward as the scarlet flash of a stunning spell struck Potter right in
the chest.
The silvery cloak slipped off as he crumpled onto the leaf strewn floor. His glasses dropped
from his face, shattering on impact, and he did not move. The glistening stone rolled out of
his hand, hitting a nearby tree stump.
Robes drifted past Narcissa as she lifted her head. Draco was standing above, offering a
hand,
"You're wasting time. Potter would never agree to abandon the fight. He's noble to a fault."
Once Narcissa was stable, Draco strode to pry the hawthorn wand from Potter's fingers—his
rightful wand, stolen at the Manor.
Narcissa said hurriedly, "Why did you come back? Where is Goyle?"
"With the others."
"Did you change your mind about Potter?"
Draco used his wand to raise the boy's stunned body high into the air. "It's too late and it
doesn't matter. If the Dark Lord invades Potter's mind before he dies, he'll know you warned
him to escape. So we'll get him back to his friends, then we're leaving Hogwarts. Father can
find us later."
Although Narcissa balked at the prospect of splitting her family apart, she understood that
Lucius would be just as stubborn as Potter, and refuse to leave the battle prematurely. Draco
was correct—they could get a message to him after the dust settled.
Suddenly, Draco shouted, "Kreacher!"
CRACK
Narcissa jumped.
A stooped, wrinkled house-elf had apparated thirty feet away, a large, silver locket on his
neck smacked against his bare chest as he whirled in a circle, confused. Searching for his
summoner.
Draco's eyes narrowed, and he explained to Narcissa, "Last year, Potter had the Black's
servant spy on me. I saw him again tonight in the castle."
Recognition dawned on Narcissa, and now she knew this wretched elf—had seen him dote on
her cousin Regulus during their childhood.
Kreacher noticed Draco approaching, and the kitchen cleaver he was clutching fell to the
wayside. He blinked, saying in a bullfrog voice, "Master . . . Draco is here? Why is he calling
Kreacher from Hogwarts? We is fighting the Death Eaters with the other house-elves."
With a twist of the hawthorn wand, Potter flew through the trees, landing before Kreacher's
knobbly knees, and Draco said, "If you want to help the resistance, take Harry Potter back to
the castle and tell everyone to run."
Kreacher's gaze went from Potter's motionless body to his dirt-caked, lightning bolt scar, then
returned to Draco. He began squeezing the locket, croaking "Why is Young Master doing this
. . . for him?"
"Don't ask questions," Draco responded harshly, picking up Potter's cloak and passing it to
the rattled house-elf. "Take him and get out. That's an order."
Slowly, very slowly, Kreacher took the silver cloak, which concealed his arms, and clutched
Potter's inert shoulders.
He gave Draco and Narcissa one last staggered look before snapping his fingers.
CRACK
Kreacher was gone.
Draco faced Narcissa, expression tight.
"Let's go."
***
Dawn was rising above the leaf cover, light spilled down between the gnarled branches in a
thousand golden rays. The crunch and snap of twigs filled the air as they tore through the
trees.
They were almost to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, approaching the squat shape of the
groundskeeper's hut, when ropes flew past Narcissa's shoulder and tangled around Draco's
legs.
He fell.
"INCARCEROUS!"
Now course fibers burned her skin, coiling around both ankles like a snake. Then she was on
the ground, head spinning from the hard landing. Legs tightly bound by ropes.
A shrill laugh pierced the air.
"Cissy . . . oh, Cissy. Foolish doesn't even begin to describe what you've done." The dark
woman's chest was rising and falling rapidly as she stood over Narcissa, the flush high in her
cheeks. "That I, who spent many years in Azkaban, can have a sister capable of such
disloyalty is beyond disbelief. You have led yourself and your son astray, and there shall be
no forgiveness. You are lost."
"Please, don't do this—" Narcissa was crawling toward Draco on the forest floor. Rodolphus
Lestrange was savagely jabbing an orange wand into his neck and hauling him away. "Act
like you didn't see anything, Bella. We're family."
Bellatrix's mouth contorted, as though she had swallowed a dose of foul medicine. She
released a great, shuddering breath, and was about to speak, when a third figure emerged
from a copse of trees.
And Narcissa knew that it was over.
"What is this?" the Dark Lord asked in a serpentine whisper. His skeletal head was tilted to
the side, studying the scene. His attention went to Draco, tied and held down like a captured
animal.
Narcissa rushed to lie.
"Harry Potter is attempting to flee to Hogsmeade. We saw him leave the forest and followed
him here. To bring him back to you, Master."
"LIAR. FILTHY, ROTTEN LYING BITCH," screamed Bellatrix, spitting on her sister's face.
Her wild mane of black hair registered in Narcissa's periphery as she kneeled before the
Dark Lord.
"Master, my sister and her son are weak and traitorous. She found Harry Potter. She helped
him retreat to his allies. Rodolphus and I discovered their treachery as they were deserting
the fight. We caught them for you—"
"SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence
was forced upon them all.
None moved. They were waiting. All of them were waiting, and Bellatrix was panting,
kneeling humbly.
Voldemort lamented, "I knew you would fail, Draco." His eyes rose to the sun streaming
through the overhanging branches. "I expected you to fail. What I did not predict was the
gravity of your mother's falseness."
No one spoke. They seemed as scared as Narcissa, whose heart was now throwing itself
against her ribs as though determined to escape the body she was about to lose.
All at once, a wand slashed through the air, and an invisible whip tore into Narcissa's back.
She writhed as it struck again and again and again and again. A rope covered in caustic
thorns, thrashing and burning.
Flaying.
The world lost all shape as fog flooded her vision. She felt the skin being ripped from her
spine as the Dark Lord's lashes continued, unrelenting and cruel.
She was being ripped open.
Tortured.
Dying.
Draco began to shout, struggling against his restraints. She could hear him even through the
barbed pain tearing her to shreds. He was pleading for the Dark Lord to show his mother
mercy; promising to give him anything to prevent her execution. Do what he wanted. Kill who
he wanted.
Swearing his loyalty.
But the flogging did not cease until her naked back was stripped down to the bone, white ribs
exposed, mangled flesh bleeding onto the earth. Her heartbeat weakened.
The Dark Lord lifted his wand once more, but this time strode to Draco, pressing a dirty, bare
foot into his chest. Narcissa released a choked sob.
Now the Dark Lord was turning something between his bony fingers: the black gemstone the
Potter boy had held. There was a long, jagged crack running down its center. An evilness
leaked from it, poisonous and cold.
"Hold him down and cut me an opening," the Dark Lord commanded with a truly sinister
smile. "Right next to his heart."
Rodolphus moved to obey. Wrenching both of his nephews arms above his head, chaining
them to a tree. Draco did not fight his uncle or resist. He faced away, not moving.
There was a terrible carving noise; the crack of a sternum fracturing. Bones breaking. Draco
cried out. A guttural, inhuman sound.
Heavy shadows were engulfing the forest; the dewy grass iced over. As if the season changed
from early summer to dead winter.
The Dark Lord was placing the black stone into Draco's chest while he writhed on the
ground, forced down by Rodolphus.
Brilliant, crimson blood flowed from a new wound in the Dark Lord's palm, dripping onto
Draco's incision—onto the stone.
The Dark Lord was speaking. He was saying something to Draco. Hissing poisoned words
that failed to penetrate the clouds filling Narcissa's head. But Bellatrix was laughing madly,
as if she just received wonderful news.
Draco's face drained of all color as he listened. A single tear streamed down his ashen cheek.
He looked at Narcissa.
Their eyes met. Gray on blue.
Then there was nothing.

Hypocrite
God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for vain pleasure of twenty-four years
hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity.
***
Ginny | Tuscany, Italy
Ginny spent the afternoon tottering around Blaise's walk-in closet, which had been restored to
its original, obnoxious size now that their Railroad squad was down to only five members.
She was practicing a nifty household charm inherited from her mother to sort and stow his
clothes. Despite having hundreds of outfits, the man seemed entirely incapable of folding a
single one. The room was a mess.
Not that Ginny was becoming domestic. Rather, she was doing chores to calm her
collywobbles in anticipation of tonight: their biggest mission since breaking with the Order.
They had never attempted such a large-scale rescue operation, especially with only a skeleton
crew and no backup.
But as soon as they learned about the horrors taking place in the Apennine Mountain labor
camps, their next move was obvious. No questions asked; no reservations. There simply was
no standing by while Death Eaters slowly genocided Italy's "genetically inferior"
population.
It was clear as a Divination ball that Voldemort saw the country as an example. A warning to
others who considered fighting his expansion through Central Europe. There was no other
explanation for the unprecedented, heavy-handed brutality. Although, yesterday Blaise had
told her that even the French were experiencing a crackdown. Because of what happened to
Fleur and George, it was difficult to pity the Voldemort-loving baguette eaters. Still, the
French probably did not deserve to be persecuted either.
Nobody did.
At the start, they called this the Second Wizarding War. Now even state-run media renamed it
the Second Global Wizarding War, in recognition of how it had become as widespread as
Grindelwald's climb to power across three continents. There was no getting around the fact
that the "good guys" were losing, and badly.
Out of the blue, Ginny was hit with a sharp pang of grief. She leaned over a dresser, wiping
her stuffy nose on a shirt sleeve.
Part of her was relieved that Harry was not around to see what had become of the resistance
since his passing. But she still missed him. Every damn day.
He was a lightning bolt seared into her heart. A scar that had not faded over two years, and
would probably never disappear. She had yet to speak with Blaise about Harry, but he likely
sensed her enduring feelings. And there was no jealousy.
It was possible to fall in love with him and miss loving Harry. Possible to find a new family
after losing her own. Possible for life to move on while mourning.
She had never been the type of person to drown in tears, and that had not changed. It was a
point of pride to keep her chin up in the face of adversity. Or maybe it was that she knew how
buckling for a single moment—showing any weakness—would mean admitting defeat.
Despite that, here she was, a mess of a human in a disorganized closet.
There was too much death to be one hundred percent okay all the time.
Ginny was so lost in laundry that at first she did not see Blaise watching her from the
doorway. His dark eyes were uncharacteristically serious and his arms were crossed. He was
wearing his black Death Eater uniform minus the cloak, presumably having just come from
Hogwarts.
He spoke, and Ginny looked up.
"Ever think about getting hitched?"
"What the hell, Zabini?" Ginny burst out, so startled that she reverted to using his surname.
They had only recently agreed to get on a first name basis, and old habits die hard.
She swore and reached down to pick up an armful of robes, which now needed refolding,
saying, "You don't go from dating to proposing marriage in only a couple of months."
(Of course, her dad had done exactly that during the last war, but she conveniently ignored
that fact).
Stepping right on top of a pile of suit jackets, Blaise smirked, "Well, we wouldn't be the first
to pull the trigger. But agreed it's probably too soon. You need to sort out your anger issues
before committing to a lifetime of bliss with someone as perfect as me."
Ginny snorted indignantly. "That's rich from the guy who spent the better part of the year
turning my legs into minced meat."
"I wasn't angry when we were sparring," Blaise flirted, materializing at her back. Nothing
makes me more zen than an honest bloodletting session. Couldn't say the same for you
though, fire demon."
She felt Blaise's warm breath on her shoulder as he crept right behind, arms around her waist.
When she tried to continue folding, he secured both wrists, halting her movement. Then he
deftly spun her around, sweeping her into a kiss. Engaging her in a different kind of sparring
session.
Very quickly, she was on the floor, pinned beneath him; her knickers added to the pile.
Forgetting to be mad and ruining all of her efforts at housekeeping.
Her life was a jumbled mess.
That was okay.
***
Main Station's Floo hallway was the least crowded that Ginny had seen in weeks. No
transient Muggles were shuffling through to the next Railroad shelter. There was only herself,
Blaise, Pangolin, Jaguar, and Echidna, wearing their skintight Knife uniforms and strapping
on an obscene amount of weapons.
Blaise's father was prepping a fireplace, dusting soot from the hearth and restocking the tin of
Floo powder. Keeping busy to quell his nervousness at sending his kids straight to the gates
of hell.
There was an unspoken sense that tonight could be a doomsday operation. It was hard to
believe otherwise when they had just lost two members in Rome and their numbers were
dwindling. Even self-terminating was difficult with the Death Eaters now aware of the toxin
in their palms.
In response, Blaise had carved new curse marks into their right shoulders, within biting range
and hidden beneath clothing. Ginny was itching hers right now. It had yet to completely heal.
However, after hearing about Gaur and Coney's public tortures, a little bit of discomfort was
worth avoiding their fate.
Better dead than captured.
Blaise was briefing the squad, voice muffled through his shrouded face. They all gathered
close to listen.
"The compound is divided into ten quadrants, each with a higher level of security. Obviously,
we'll start with the easiest and work our way through. There is zero chance that we can
extract more than a few people this time. So our objective is to take out as many of the guards
as possible so that the prisoners can revolt themselves. Create enough disorder so that they
can escape into the surrounding mountains. Keep that narrow target in sight, and do not take
unnecessary risks. I don't want to see a single one of you at the next execution, got it?"
A round of subdued nods.
Persephone caught Ginny's eye, grinning widely through her mouth cover. She had both
golden scimitars already in her hands, ready. She also wore a belt full of razor-thin blades—
Ginny had seen her drive them into Death Eater brains without blinking. The young witch
was probably their best fighter. Ruthless. Yet as Ginny returned the smile and faced away, she
could not help but remember that Seph was unable to summon a Patronus. Had the eighteen-
year-old known so little peace in her life that she had no happy memories? Seph was as
bubbly as they came, but it could be a coping method. They all had their crutches.
Unlike Seph, Ginny preferred a wand and bare fists over weapons. Maybe it was thanks to
her Infantry background. More likely it could be traced back to a childhood spent pummeling
six brothers, who she missed terribly. She had heard that George had recently rejoined the
frontlines with Charlie, and apparently Fleur was returning to the Scouts. Charlie had said so
in his last letter, but nothing more. Nothing "confidential." He knew that his little sister had
sided with the rest of Blaise Zabini's group and split from any organized resistance.
Despite Charlie's attempts not to show his disapproval when he wrote, it was the Erumpent in
the room. Ginny hoped she would see him again. But there were no guarantees in wartime.
"Second-in-Command? What the fuck are you doing spacing out? Earth to Pygmy Puff!
Helloooo?!"
Blaise was snapping gloved fingers before her face, whistling her back to the present. Like
she was a pet dog.
Ginny's bright brown eyes flashed dangerously. Blaise stopped at once and backed out of
smacking range.
"Do that ONE more time and I'll make an opening in the chain of command," Ginny replied
in a deadly growl.
The rest of the squad suddenly became very preoccupied with looking pointedly anywhere
else.
Blaise cleared his throat. "I was just explaining how you and I are leading the charge, so let's
get in position."
Then he jerked a thumb toward the fireplace, directing Ginny to enter.
After giving Tony a goodbye hug, Ginny scowled and followed Blaise into the emerald green
flames.
A rush of heat enveloped her whole body, like she was still being hugged. It was something
she preferred about Floo powder compared to the windstorm of a Portkey. Far better than the
suffocation of apparition.
Blaise was waiting when she exited the fireplace and stepped into the abandoned warehouse.
His hood had fallen off during transit, and he was twisting his waist-length braids back into
place; securing them beneath the cloth.
Ginny sighed and moved to help him.
"Sorry about that," Blaise said, catching and kissing her hand. "I shouldn't have called you
out in front of everyone."
"Make it up to me by not kicking the bucket tonight," Ginny sniffed.
Blaise smiled, and the stress slowly left Ginny's neck as she leaned against him. He felt
warmer than Floo travel.
"I'm too nasty to die."

Ginny laughed. "We can agree on that. But if you do, I'll kill you."
"And you—" he kissed her nose, "—you fight those Gryffindor tendencies and put yourself
first, understood? A dead hero is still dead. So if there's a cherub-cheeked kid standing
between you and making it out alive, you run that little shit over."
"Bloody hell, Zabini. Message received."
Their squad mates were slowly filling the dusky building. Persephone came first, then
Echidna, a man with spiky hair who never smiled. Jaguar appeared last. He was trying to
tighten his aviator goggles, struggling to do so with a single arm, having lost his other during
the capital attack.
None of them offered to help. They knew it was a point of pride for the stodgy wizard to stay
self-sufficient.
Jag managed the goggles eventually, then noticed they were staring. Strangely, he decided to
break the tension with an off-color question.
"Why can't a one-armed wizard ever win a duel?"
"Why can't he?" Seph asked eagerly.
"Because he's already dis-armed."
Seph tittered, but everyone else groaned.
Looking disgusted, Blaise said, "How long did it take you to come up with that bullshite?"
"No, but do you get it? It's like a pun—"
"Shut the fuck up, Jag," Blaise ordered.
The man listened. They all shuffled obediently to the front entrance. Seph continued to giggle
under her breath. At least someone liked the joke.
It was frigid at this high altitude, so that it no longer felt like summer—a stark contrast to the
perpetually balmy vineyard. Ginny's skin crawled with the sudden change in temperature.
The wind chill went right through her thin uniform into her bones.
They skirted around the building and up a dirt hill. The moon was a sliver and the sky was a
black canvas, cloudless and starless. She could barely see anything besides Blaise sprinting
directly ahead. Moving as quickly as they did stealthily.
He brought the squad to halt at the base of a towering stone wall, warning, "No light. Stay
sharp and don't get caught. See you back home."
They split apart in five directions.

Ginny turned briefly back to glimpse Blaise's outline fade into the night. Then she faced
forward again, increasing speed, telling herself that he would be fine.
The shadows receded as Ginny approached a watchtower, shining above like a forty-foot high
bonfire. She could pick out a dozen shapes moving in the platform; could see the Muggle
guns strapped across their backs. She ducked into the bushes when a floodlight swung toward
her, barely avoiding being seen.
She pulled out her wand and checked her watch. They would sync this next part to prevent
the Death Eaters from knowing their exact number of assailants.
Three seconds . . . Two seconds . . . One.
She pivoted.
CRACK
Now she was up in the watchtower, moving faster than a firebolt. Half the guards were on the
floor before they even saw her coming.
"Fumos," Ginny snarled, and a thick, gray smokescreen permeated the air, concealing her
movements. The sound of gunfire pummeled her eardrums, coming from across the prison
yard. As she continued sending out curses, Ginny prayed that no bullets struck a friend.
Once Ginny was finished with the guards, she picked up their guns. Criss-crossing as many
as would fit on her back. The hard metal dug into her shoulder blades uncomfortably. She
also found a few wands, which she shoved into her spare holsters.
Ginny glanced at her wrist again.
One minute . . . thirty seconds . . . now.
CRACK
This apparition was not as well-timed, but Ginny was relieved to hear several other CRACKS
echo around the stone walls. At least some of the squad must be alive and progressing to this
next phase. She could see that four watchtower searchlights, including her own, were
extinguished. But what happened to the fifth?
She did not have the luxury of worrying about it. Soon, she was racing across the ground,
tossing guns at the gathering Muggle detainees, who caught them, seeming to understand
what was taking place. They were beginning to make a break for the unguarded compound
gates.
"DOES ANYONE HAVE MAGIC?" Ginny shouted urgently, running through the crowd.
"ANY WIZARDS OR WITCHES? CAN ANYONE USE A WAND?"
"SÌ! YES! OVER HERE!"

Ginny veered toward a woman's shrill voice, almost barrelling right into her. She was chained
to a low wall, hands tied. However, the gag covering her cracked mouth had loosened, and
she was shouting for Ginny's attention. A row of similarly-bound prisoners, likely Italian
Muggle-borns, were crying out for assistance.
After releasing the lot, Ginny passed out the stolen wands, explaining, "Come with me to the
next section. We need to keep attacking the guards before they figure out we're here and call
for reinforcements."
A few cowardly prisoners instantly disapparated, making Ginny flinch. However, most opted
to follow Ginny deeper into the compound. As predicted, security here was tighter, and there
were three times as many guards. Worse yet, Death Eaters moved amongst them, shooting
Unforgivables at the growing pack of insurgents.
But more Death Eaters meant more wands. Ginny picked up every single one.
It took hours to make it to the innermost gates in her quadrant. She recognized the people
here as former Italian Ministry officials. Political prisoners. Their faces were gaunt, underfed,
and their eyes were faded by lack of sunlight. They were thanking Ginny; pressing grateful
hands to their bony chests and begging her name—their savior.
Ginny did not respond, instead darting into an offshooting corridor, checking her watch a
final time.
Ten seconds . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.
She turned on the spot.
The abandoned warehouse was empty. No Blaise waiting. No Jag making lame jokes. But
Ginny saw green embers glowing in the fireplace. She must be the last squad member to
leave. After waiting a minute to confirm that she was indeed alone, she tossed Floo powder
into the hearth and leapt inside.
She emerged into Main Station, coughing from the soot in her lungs.
"SEAL IT NOW!" someone yelled.
Echidna yanked Ginny out of the way and began casting a series of spells over the fireplace.
She stumbled, catching herself on the opposite wall. Her eyes widened.
Persephone was hunched over in the corner. Her round face was streaked with blood and she
was sobbing. Jag was patting her back, whispering softly.
"It's okay, Pangolin. It's not your fault. Lynx would have done it for any of us, you know that
he would. Don't feel guilty for what happened. He wanted you to make it home safe."
The words sank into Ginny incredibly slowly. She blinked, and scanned the hallway dazedly,
not finding him anywhere.
No.
Not like this.
Her heart began to race.
She knelt in front of Seph, who was now crying uncontrollably. There were jagged teeth
marks inches below the X on her palm, and it looked like she also tried to bite the mark on
her shoulder. The black fabric was shredded and her skin was mangled.
"Where is he?" said Ginny, reaching out to latch onto Seph's heaving shoulders. Blood
soaked into her glove as she squeezed, shaking the young witch. Demanding an answer she
didn't want to hear.
"I'm sorry," Seph said between her heavy sobs.
"Tell me where he is!"
Tony hauled Ginny off Seph, pulling her to the side, restraining her in strong arms. There was
only grief in his dark face. Tears stained his high cheekbones—the ones he shared with his
son.
It tipped Ginny over the edge. As she was dragged backward down the hall, she continued to
shout, throat raw and burning.
"WHAT HAPPENED TO BLAISE??"
"I'm sorry," Seph repeated.
"WHY DIDN'T HE COME BACK?"
"I'm sorry."
"WHERE IS HE?"
"I'm sorry."
Damning Consequences
Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now?
***
Kreacher was perched on the marble foyer steps, polishing his locket with wrinkled fingers.
Utterly in the dark about why Hermione so abruptly demanded to leave Tenby and return to
the Manor.
She went to sit beside the house-elf, speaking seriously.
"You're the one who rescued Harry during the ceasefire?"
The house-elf nodded reluctantly. His pale eyes were wide and he was muttering something
about a secret under his breath. He seemed very much disturbed.
Hermione opened her mouth to reply.
A man's snarl interrupted from across the room.
"Do NOT say another word. The help should never be seen and know when to stay silent."
Lucius had commandeered Narcissa's frame—the woman nowhere to be found. He was

standing in front of the painted beach house window, glaring at the Mudblood and elf with
the disdain shown to trespassers.
This was nothing new. Hermione ignored Lucius, which only made him angrier. He was
practically spitting through the canvas.
She asked Kreacher, "What happened after you left the forest? Please tell me everything."
The house-elf's huge eyes darted to Lucius, then he began to speak in a voice too low for an
eavesdropper to overhear.
"Kreacher is taking Harry Potter to the castle, like Master Draco ordered. Is putting him
outside the dining hall under the silver cloak."
"Where did you go next?" Hermione urged.
Still avoiding Lucius's hammering gaze, he answered quietly, "Kreacher is staying with Harry
Potter, watching to make sure he is safe, until the Mouth—"
His sentence trailed, and he dropped his leathery face into both palms, shaking.
Hermione's hand hovered above Kreacher's heaving back, not touching him, but unwilling to
sit still while he shook.
Eventually he said, "The Mouth is attacking, then everyone is running away to the kitchens.
Kreacher is going to Malfoy Manor, but Miss Cissy is not there."
"She was sent to Azkaban," said Hermione, "for lying to Voldemort."
Lucius hissed from the portrait frame.
His demands fell on deaf ears and Hermione said, "Voldemort did something to Draco that
night. He used dark magic to implant something in his chest—a black stone. Did you get a
close look at it before you left the forest? I think it's important."
"Not seeing, but feeling it," the house-elf replied, "Very cold and dark. Like winter." He
shivered, and finished, "Strange, old magic in that stone."
Now Hermione was rising from the staircase and running toward the library, mind racing
even faster. The candlesticks lit as soon as she slid into the cavernous room, heading directly
for the fiction section, scanning the bottom row of spines.
It was only then that she recalled how Draco burned it —The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
Her heart sank.
Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and tried to recreate the page in her mind. She did not need
the whole book; just a portion of a single story. While her mind had weakened since Glen
Lochy, she still had a nearly eidetic memory when it came to books.
The words drifted back to her slowly.
. . . the second brother returned to his own house, where he eked out a lonely existence.
There, he pulled out the stone, which had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in
his hand. To his astonishment and delight, the woman he had once hoped to marry, before her
untimely demise, appeared before him . . .
Could it be possible that the same stone Harry held in the forest—the one Voldemort placed
in Draco's chest—was the stone in this story? After Xenophilius first told them of the
Hallows, Harry had been briefly obsessed, convinced that his Invisibility Cloak was Death's
gift to the third brother passed down for generations. Equally sure that Dumbledore hid the
second brother's gift in his Golden Snitch.
Maybe Harry had been right, although he had never spoken about either again after the Battle
of Hogwarts. Instead, he had become wholly focused on destroying Nagini. As if he finally
realized the Hallows did not matter. Useless distractions with no more value than
Leprechaun's gold.
In stark contrast, they had always deeply disturbed Hermione, especially the Resurrection
Stone. There was something more subtle about its magic. Something dangerous.
Hermione concentrated harder, envisioning the rest of the page.

. . . she was sad, empty, and cold. Not the lover he once knew. For while she had come back
to the mortal shore, she did not fully belong in it, and suffered . . .
Now Hermione felt like she was gazing into a mirror; reading about herself. Like Beedle had
spun what ailed her into a dark, twisted fable. Because try as she might, there was no denying
that she had returned through the veil a different person.
But there was more. The worst part. The ending.
. . . the second brother, driven mad by hopeless desire, hung his lover then himself, so as to
join each other on the distant shore.
Hermione opened her eyes. She had been running from death for years, only to find it at
every turn. Was there really nothing else in her future? In Draco's? There was no other way to
see it. Not when the second brother's folly was playing with the laws of nature. A warning
that no one could truly return from death. That at best, one could only come back a pale
imitation.
And yet, Hermione knew that she was not the woman in the story. She wanted to live. Maybe
not at first—not in Azkaban—but she did now. That had to mean something.
She pulled out her wand and spoke in a steady voice.
"Expecto Patronum."
***
Hermione was kneeling in front of the crackling drawing room fire, feeling its heat soak into
her skin. There were no windows to let in the sun, and the light cast from the flames danced
shadows across the deep purple walls.
Draco had yet to return from Hogwarts. However, he was not who she was waiting for. Not
this time.
It took several hours for her to sense the faint spark of her otter's message being received, and
another hour for the fireplace to flare a brilliant emerald green.
As soon as it did, Hermione sat up, sliding closer to the hearth.
Luna Lovegood's disembodied head erupted above the burning logs. She blinked, taking in
her new surroundings, her eyes round with curiosity.
"So you are at Draco Malfoy's house," she reflected, easily recognizing the room. "Neville
and I have been wondering. Is Renée there with you? We heard the Council couldn't carry out
her sentence and figured you two went into hiding."
"You're alone?" Hermione asked, dodging the question.
"No other humans here besides me," smiled Luna. "But I think this room is infested with
Wrackspurts. They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go
fuzzy. I felt some zooming around the rafters. My father went to file a complaint with the
hotel staff."
So Luna was not in Cardiff anymore . . .
"How long have you been with your father?"
"Only a week. I'll go back to the Order when he relocates again. He moves often to avoid the
Death Eaters, you see. So it's hard to pin him down in one place. Right now we're staying at a
luxury Muggle resort called the Travelodge. It seems quite famous, though it was surprisingly
easy to make a reservation. Have you heard of it?"
"Yes," admitted Hermione, though she would not exactly call it a luxury resort. But Luna had
always been a romanticist. Then she urged, "I think you should stay with him for a while. It's
safer."
Before Luna could probe deeper or object, Hermione steered them to a different topic.
"Years ago, your father told me about the Deathly Hallows. Has the Research Unit ever
studied them?"
"Only the Elder Wand, since it seems like Voldemort is its current owner," Luna responded in
a serene voice. "The wand he uses resembles the Death Stick, don't you think? It's even
possible he's hoping to become more powerful by uniting it with the other Hallows."
"Voldemort really believes all that Master of Death nonsense?"
Luna looked affronted. "It's not nonsense, it's a potential theory about centuries-old artifacts.
A theory that is based on verified information. While it's not in the actual text of Beedle's
'Tale of Three Brothers,' people have connected that story to the Peverell brothers. Antioch
Peverell was the original owner of the Elder Wand, and Cadmus had the Resurrection Stone.
Ignotus Peverell was the youngest brother—the one gifted with the Cloak of Invisibility.
Eventually, a legend formed that if a person possessed all three Hallows at the same time,
they would become immortal. Grindelwald spent a lifetime searching, but died unsuccessful."
Now Luna was playing with the necklace of Butterbeer caps in a way that resembled
Kreacher. She finished dreamily, "It makes sense that collecting powerful gifts created by
Death himself would make you his master."
A chill dripped down Hermione's spine. She turned, seeing Lucius watching the two witches
from his portrait hanging on the far end of the drawing room. Only half of his livid face was
visible through the torn canvas. This time, however, he remained quiet.
"Then what is the other theory?" Hermione asked.
Luna sounded much less passionate, speaking flatly.
"Well, some people think the Peverell brothers created the Hallows themselves. If that's the
case, then owning them would make you powerful, but still mortal."
Hermione inched closer across the hearth, meeting Luna's glassy eyes.
"Setting aside the other Hallows, is there any concrete evidence that the Resurrection Stone
exists? And if it does, can it revive the dead like necromancy?"
The questions seemed to flummox Luna. Her fingers moved from her necklace to earring,
and she twirled it in consideration.
"There's no proof the Resurrection Stone doesn't exist. I think that's enough."
Choosing to overlook the sophism in Luna's response, Hermione moved to her final subject.
"When I returned from death, I still had a soul, or at least part of one. Your Qilin made that
clear when he examined me." She paused, glancing backward at Lucius, who was still
listening intently. "What if I didn't return with my own soul, but one that belonged to
someone else? A fragment I gained before I died. A piece of the person who revived me. A
part of Draco."
"A Horcrux," Luna said, smiling madly. "It's true that human Horcruxes are different from
inanimate ones. It's even conceivable a soul split with dark magic could pass back through
the veil if it was revived quickly. Dark magic has a way of latching onto us like
Flabbergasted leeches and not letting go. At least not without some prodding."
It looked like Luna was half tempted to leap out of the green fire and start prodding
Hermione herself, but settled on saying, "What makes you think you're alive because of a
Horcrux?"
Hermione could have listed a hundred reasons, having watched Harry over the years. The
headaches; the excruciating pain after nightmares. The connection to Draco that went so far
beyond her understanding.
Instead, she voiced the one that kept her up at night.
"I've seen more than Draco's memories. I've seen visions of him in the present."
The fire licking Luna's scraggly hair began to dwindle. Hermione threw in another handful of
Floo powder, and the flames surged.
Once they receded, Luna asked, "What have you seen?"
"They're always visions of Draco at Hogwarts. At the Great Lake below the castle, where he
meets with Voldemort."
A strange unease overtook Luna's face.
Lucius began laughing, a cold and callous sound.
***
The fresco on the library ceiling was not Michelangelo's masterpiece. Not the Vatican. But it
was still a beautiful piece of art, depicting a starry night sky awash in rich yellow, purple, and
umber. The craters on the silver moon were painted with striking accuracy.
As she stared up at it, Hermione found herself reliving untold nights in the Astronomy Tower,
mapping out the movement of stars and planets. And while she could still name every single
constellation in the indigo sky, she had never felt this lost.
Hermione knew that she was not like the woman revived by the second brother. But what she
was, she did not know.
As Hermione continued to watch the false sky, a pain blossomed in her chest. A white-hot
snake winding through every nerve and bone. Biting with sharp fangs.
And it seemed so familiar.
Then it exploded.
Her head pounded. Her vision blurred. She was not at the Manor. Not in Wiltshire. His
disappointment was his. . . A bird was cawing loudly. Crying like a human child. . . . a crow
or maybe a raven. The pain was so terrible . . . ripped from her body. . .
The night was wet and windy. A summer sleet pelted the backs of two cloaked figures as they
circled the Black Lake, hands behind their backs, hoods covering their soaked faces.
Voldemort's scarlet eyes gleamed brightly through the darkness. He reached out a large, pale,
spider-like hand, letting droplets of water pool in his palm. He spoke softly.
"My mother followed a Muggle around like a beggar, desiring him and falling pregnant. He
abandoned her without a passing thought. He discarded her before I was even born. Then she
died giving birth to me, loving him even on her deathbed and giving me his name."
The clouded moon barely cast any light across Draco's face, which remained fixed on the
path ahead, shadowed and tight. Voldemort's red eyes darted from the lake to a collection of
lights across the moor.
He smiled as he continued to speak.
"My mother was a fool. And children should never repeat the mistakes of their parents. Every
plague in this world can be linked to them—to the ones born inferior and promised nothing
greater. To love a cockroach is to despise yourself, and I want more for my chosen family."
A distant drumming reverberated through the air, like the dull pounding of thunder, a beating
that vibrated the watery surface of the lake. A crowd was chanting something indiscernible
through the rainstorm. Both men turned to look at the stage. A crowd of Death Eaters was
swarming before it; growing larger and rowdier as they approached the execution site.
"Why are you telling me this?" Draco asked darkly.
A sharp, clarion laugh.

"Because I smell your guilt. You reek of it," Voldemort said. He tilted back his terrible face,
his slit-like nostrils widening. "Years ago, you failed to save your parents, and were punished
for daring to defy me. Then, just two short years later, you brought her to me as an offering.
The prisoner you did not end at the valley as instructed. Harry Potter's filthy, Mudblood
whore."
Draco's hand tightened around his hawthorn wand, fastened to his hip, however Voldemort
was not finished speaking.
"But I forgave you again. I gave you another chance to set right your failures. I told you to
drain her for information about the Order, and you failed once again. Instead, you let her
escape, thinking I had forgotten and wouldn't notice the thing you left in her cell. Assuming I
couldn't tell the difference between a corpse and your disgusting, little toy. Believing I
couldn't see through your lies about the Veela. THAT I—THE PERSON WHO MADE YOU
WHAT YOU ARE—would fail to recognize your years of wicked deceptions. I will admit that
I did not want to accept the truth. But no longer, Draco. I can no longer turn a blind eye to
your betrayals, and there will be payment."
Draco's spine stiffened with every vile word, but he kept walking, staring directly ahead as if
entranced. Compelled onward as the poisonous threats struck his taut back.
There was a purpose behind the Dark Lord revealing these truths now, surrounded by
thousands of his followers. An army of his devoted servants. To disobey him here guaranteed
retribution. Ensured a fight that he knew Draco would not risk.
So Draco continued forward.
They were nearly to the wooden stage, which shone brighter than a lighthouse beacon. Rain
was streaming across its slippery, wooden surface, which was already stained with blood
from countless executions. A group of lowly recruits was cleaning the mess in preparation for
the last prisoner. A prisoner vile enough to be executed by the Dark Lord's Mouth.
Voldemort released a high, cold, mirthless snarl. "And yet, I know your heart, Draco. I see it
—weak, feeble, and beating with mine. You will never repeat the mistakes of my mother. No,
you will cut out the Mudblood like a diseased tumor."
Now Voldemort lifted his sleeve, offering Draco the Elder Wand dangling loosely between his
unnaturally long fingers. In spite of his damning accusations, there was no shadow of distrust
in his snakelike face. No doubt of Draco's intentions. Only disgust mixed with unshakable
confidence. In truth, these small betrayals meant nothing. They were setbacks that could be
corrected with the right discipline, like punishing a misguided child. Because he knew the boy
was gagged and bound since that night in the Forbidden Forest. He knew the threats
whispered in his ear.
As they mounted the steps, Voldemort repeated them again. A reminder to his wayward
weapon. He always needed reminding.
"My death means your suicide."

A photographer was clicking madly, trying to capture every angle of this unprecedented
execution: the first one in a very long time graced by the Dark Lord's personal presence.
Journalists from the Daily Prophet were yelling questions at the Cabinet of Advisors as they
followed the two cloaked figures onto the stage.
"Your life is only as permanent as your faithfulness. And you will never defy me again. Never
raise a hand to my neck. Because we all know exactly what you are. What you have always
been, Draco."
The midnight air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks and barbaric laughter as the
crowd moved closer to the platform, jeering as a prisoner was flung onto its center, hooded
and condemned.
A young man, hooded and stumbling.
Glass bottles shattered on his prostrated back, thrown by the riotous crowd. The prisoner did
not flinch. Amycus Carrow was giving his normal speech. Spinning gruesome lies about the
condemned man's crimes. Sermonizing about how the prisoner murdered his own blood
family. How he raped and defiled helpless women. Killed pure-blood children.
Draco took his place behind the prisoner. Voldemort stood before them both, hovering like an
angel of death.
His eyes flashed scarlet and he leaned in to whisper a third time.
"You are a coward."
Draco reached forward, yanking the hood from the prisoner's head, letting the cloth drop to
the wet stage.
The crowd gasped in shock. A name was shouted again and again.
"ZABINI!"
"BLAISE ZABINI!"
Blaise knelt on the stage, horribly beaten and bloodied. Every inch of his dark body was
mangled and sliced open. His long braids were missing, shaved down to a scalp that was
more hole than skin. Both arms were broken and his breathing was rattled.
Voldemort hissed in a voice so low that no one except his traitorous Mouth could hear.
"Execute Zabini, or I will kill her. The Mudblood will die like a jezebel. Cut into a thousand
dirty pieces and fed to the dogs."
Draco met Blaise's dark eyes.
For the briefest fraction of an instant, and even without speaking, the two friends shared an
understanding. A maelstrom of bitter anger and regret. An impossible situation with
irreversible consequences.
A damning choice.
The instant passed. Draco slowly pressed the Elder Wand into his victim's temple.
A forlorn sort of amusement crossed Blaise's bruised face. He leaned into the wand tip so
hard that a spark flew out, burning his skin.
"Just make it fast, Malfoy. A ghost's final request."
Voldemort strode to the front of the platform, facing out to his army of slaves. A wide grin
twisted his bloodless lips, as he waited for Draco to carry out the execution. Waited like a
puppet master manipulating iron strings.
But Draco hesitated, wand gripped tightly, not moving.
"Do it," Blaise snarled. "Kill me. Fucking do it."
"TURN THE APOSTATE!"
"BLOOD TRAITOR!"
"KILL HIM!"
Voldemort hissed, "You will always be an extension of me, Draco, and you will execute him."
At last, Draco forced Blaise's head into the platform. His cheek scraped against the hard
grain. He spat into the wood, "FUCKING DO IT, MALFOY!"
"Put the cockroach down. He wants to die. He's begging to die," said Voldemort cruelly. A
smile as wicked as the words, all white teeth and a forked tongue.
Draco slid his free hand discreetly beneath his robes, extracting his hawthorn wand. He
pointed it into the crowd.
Voldemort stopped smiling at the same moment Draco opened his mouth.
"GEHENNAM IGNIS!"
An enormous, burning chasm appeared behind Voldemort, and he spun to witness the castle
grounds being cleaved in half.
Hundreds of skeletal hands shot out from the split, winding around the sea of Death Eater
legs and feet like humanoid serpents. Their taunts transformed into shrieks of primal fear as
they were violently pulled beneath the surface.
A dark red, ominous glow was spilling out of the depths. People were shouting, running as
bony hands latched onto cloaks, dragging them to an unseeable inferno.
The air grew dangerously cold. Rain hardened into razor-sharp hail, slamming into the earth
like knives. The chasm grew wider and longer, spider-webbing all the way to the Great Lake.
As soon as the chasm reached the shoreline, black shapes began to rise from the surface.
Distended, swollen Inferius swam out of the inky water, charging across the shoreline,
attacking the fleeing crowd.
A chorus of screaming.
Dying.
Now Voldemort's metal heart was banging outside his chest, and he was flying above the
chasms of Hellfyre, flying with rage in his heart, without need of broomstick or Thestral . . .
Draco and Blaise were already gone.

The Manor and the Railroad
Say, he surrenders up to him his soul,
So he will spare him four and twenty years,
***
Caustic knives were searing into her chest. It felt like she was going to burst from the pain.
As though an old wound had reopened, and an unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong
hate rose within her soul, so powerful that, for an instant, she desired nothing better than to
strike—to find—to kill. To kill him.
And then it stopped.
Hermione rolled over, blinking. Exhausted.
Her eyes landed on the shattered stain glass of the library window. The night sky was visible
beyond the sharp fragments.
Slender hands gripped Hermione's shoulder, gently laying her flat on the floor. A woman's
veil of black hair flooded her vision.
The sight brought Hermione both relief and confusion.
"Renée?"
Spider grimaced, propping Hermione's throbbing head on a cushion. Saying in a deep voice,
"You had a seizure so I broke inside."
Hermione tried to sit up, but the room was spinning. Instead, she asked, "I thought you were
gone. How—how are you here?"
"I did leave, although I never went far," Spider admitted quietly. "I've been watching." Her
green eyes flashed toward the shattered window. "I've been watching you and the others,
flying between here and Tuscany."
"Flying?"
Spider nodded, and now she could see the raven-black feathers strewn around the floor. The
familiar, dark glint in the woman's eyes.
The revelation gradually dawned on Hermione. She had seen a one-legged bird several times
since Spider's disappearance, one with those same sleek feathers. One that always felt
sentient. It was often perched outside the library, or drifting around the estate. Could it be—
"You're an Animagus," Hermione guessed. "A bird."

"Yes. My father thought it would be useful for me to learn transformation when I was young,
so that I could play spy. When I joined the Knife, I promised the Captain I would never use
my other form. She did not trust me with it."
Hermione's vision flashed white again. She blinked through it, saying, "Then you didn't need
my help to escape from the Council. You could have shapeshifted even without a wand."
Spider's smooth face remained unreadable, gaze still on the window. "Having the option to
leave and the will to do it are not the same."
Now she looked down at Hermione, speaking gravely. "You are sick, Goldfinch. How long
have you had seizures?"
"They aren't seizures," Hermione said in a very quiet voice. "They—"
SLAM
"Miss is yelling. Calling Kreacher?"
The house-elf barreled through the library doors, cheese knife outstretched, expression
frantic.
He skidded to a stop in front of the two witches, scanning the room for danger. Strangely, he
did not seem disturbed by Spider's presence.
"I am glad to see you again, elf," the dark woman greeted solemnly. "It has been many
years."
Satisfied that they were alone and not in danger, Kreacher's attention went to Spider, and he
croaked, "Kreacher and the other kitchen elves has not seen Miss Dolohov or her father at
Hogwarts for a long while. Kreacher is thinking you is both dead."
Hermione rose to her feet, helping Spider to do the same. The woman's prosthetic leg was
missing, so she steadied herself on a nearby table.
"Has Draco returned?" Hermione asked the house-elf urgently.
When Kreacher shook his head in the negative, she decided to risk contacting Draco.
"I left Tenby and went to the Manor. Where are you?"
His answer came immediately.
"I'm coming. Meet me in the potions room. Bring Kreacher."
Her eyes had barely reopened when a CRACK split the air.
Hermione jumped into action, pulling Kreacher out the doors and through the lower wing.
She heard a swishing sound, followed by the flapping of wings—Spider had transformed and
was flying close behind.
Draco was there.
Standing behind a long table, casting a spell over a bloodied mass of cloth—a body that
barely looked human.
"Lynx," said Spider. She had reappeared at Hermione's side and was leaning against the
doorframe.
Draco's red-gray eyes narrowed when he noticed Spider, but he didn't speak to her or ask
questions. Instead, he crossed to Hermione and kissed her forehead.
"Heal Zabini. I have to guard the house. Do not leave. Any of you."
Then Draco was out the door in a ripple of black robes, gone as swiftly as he came.
Kreacher rushed forward, climbing onto a countertop and collecting bottles of tonic from the
cupboards. He began to pour them over Blaise's wounds.
Hermione drew her wand and went to the table, reciting a healing incantation over his inert
chest. Both arms were broken; bones protruding and skin yellowed with infection. His
ribcage was caved in from being stepped on and crushed, and there was an ominous, rattling
noise coming from his lungs.
When Blaise stopped breathing completely, Hermione resorted to chest compressions,

switching off with Spider.
It took hours to get Blaise stable. When he at last seemed out of the worst danger and was
breathing steadily, Hermione slumped onto a stool, spent. Kreacher and Spider appeared
equally exhausted.
"Lynx has served both the Order and Dark Lord for years," Spider noted bleakly. "How was
he discovered? What about the rest of the Knife?"
Feeling ill, Hermione admitted, "I don't know. I'll send a Patronus to Italy to tell the squad
he's safe."
She did not even want to entertain the thought that Ginny, Pangolin, and the others might
already be dead or worse. They had to be alive.
Eventually, Kreacher found Spider a walking stick—a black cane topped by a snake head that
must have belonged to Lucius Malfoy. He escorted Spider to the upper wing to rest while
Hermione continued to monitor Blaise.
Even through the fatigue, her mind was racing as she tried to make sense of an onslaught of
revelations about Spider. About Draco. A whirlwind of changes that had come faster than she
could process. It felt like she was being pulled through a Portkey at breakneck speed; too fast
to recognize more than indistinct blurs. All the while fearing the end destination.
When Blaise's complexion improved, Hermione carefully lifted him to the closest bedroom,
settling him on the mattress. Though it was not the same room he occupied the year before,
Hermione was struck with a terrible sense of repetition. That night, Draco had also left her
with a grievously injured Blaise while he returned to Little Hangleton under Voldemort's
directions.
But as Hermione took her place at the bedside, she knew that everything had changed. Draco
had finally broken from Voldemort. Six long years after submitting in the Forbidden Forest,
four years after losing his parents, Draco had openly defied him. There was no going back.
A coldness swept across Hermione's skin, making her shiver. At first she assumed it was
simply nerves. Then ice formed on the bedroom window and she recognized the signs of
necromancy.
She went to the glass.
Draco was reentering the iron gates, which swung shut behind him with a distant crash. The
sound of locks clicking.
A dark red moon hung over the Manor. The estate grounds were dusky, but she could make
out forms moving beyond the fence, crawling through the shadows.
Inferi. Resurrected to fight an attack that must be coming.
But no Death Eaters came that night, either out of fear, or because they were still plotting
how to strike their new enemy. It would only be a matter of time.
The rest of the night was just as quiet. There was not yet talk of leaving the Manor—not in
Blaise's condition. He was recovering very slowly. However, by the third day he was awake
and restless to go home in spite of his injuries. But at least for now, he stayed put. They all
did, Spider included.
The raven-haired woman kept mostly out of sight. Sleeping in her guestroom or flying to the
outermost edges of the countryside estate. However, once Hermione stumbled upon her with
Draco. The two were seated in the drawing room, speaking in whispers and with familiarity.
Like they had already known each other for years. Their words were too muted to hear, yet
Hermione could sense their shared understanding—the children of Death Eaters who chose to
leave it all behind.
The days continued to slide by without a trace of Voldemort, only a growing dread of his
eventual, inevitable appearance. The biggest development was that they began to hold group
dinners. They were probably the strangest affairs ever hosted at the Wiltshire house. A table
of terrorists and blood traitors.
As expected, the Malfoy portraits decorating the walls were spitting mad, and now Hermione
was not the only target of their passive-aggressive comments and constant grumblings.
The group was on their second course when Blaise cleared his throat loudly. The portraits fell
silent.
"So what do we do now?"

When no one answered, he spoke again.
"At least let me Floo back to Italy."
"I shut the connection down this morning," Draco said. And only Kreacher and myself can
disapparate from inside the gates. I'll get you out when it's safe."
Blaise dropped his utensils and leaned back in his chair, blowing out air in frustration. He
glared at Draco. "What's your endgame? Are you actually planning to go after the Dark
Lord? Or just playing house until he rings the doorbell?"
"Rest for a few more days then we'll figure something out," Hermione insisted. "I already
sent Ginny a message, so she knows you're here."
Blaise sat straight up, as if electrocuted.
"You told her where I am?"
"Yes . . . why? Is that a problem?" Hermione replied, confused. Even the portraits were
holding their breath.
Blaise slumped down again, rubbing his eyes.
"I guess we'll see."
They did not have to wait long. The dining room had barely quieted again when Draco
abruptly stood and began striding to the door, announcing, "Get ready. Someone's outside."
"And there she is," Blaise decided. Then he rose to his feet, clutching onto the table. He was
far from fully recovered, and Hermione could tell it was an effort to stay upright. Spider
noticed as well, and passed Blaise her walking stick.
He took it with a grunt, and they followed Draco into the hallway.
The moon remained an ominous crimson, casting almost no light across the long Manor
driveway. Draco was already fifty feet ahead, almost to the boundary line. His wand was
stretched out ahead, and his fist was clenched.
Hermione broke into a run.
It was not only Ginny beyond the gates. It was her entire squad.
Ginny was kicking an Inferius off Pangolin, who was unsheathing her blades as the squad
was being encircled. Surrounded by dead-eyed sentries.
Until now, Hermione had not seen the Inferi guarding them this closely—they did not
resemble the ones Draco revived during battle. These creatures were severely decayed, like
they had been dead for years or decades. Perhaps he had summoned them from a nearby
graveyard.
"Call them off, Malfoy!" Ginny yelled from beyond the fence.
Draco loosened his fist.
At once, the Inferi dropped to the grass and the Manor gates creaked open.
A flash of flaming hair shot through, colliding with Blaise so hard that he fell backward.
Ginny was thrusting him into the frozen ground, shouting at the top of her voice.
"YOU COULD HAVE DIED! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN EXECUTED!" DAMN IT,
ZABINI. I WON'T FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS, YOU HYPOCRITE. ORDERING ME
AROUND. TELLING ME NOT TO PLAY THE HERO, ALL WHILE YOU RUN OFF
LIKE A DAMN IDIOT!"
Ginny was digging her wand into Blaise's chest as he coughed violently, lambasting him in a
tirade that seemed to go on for hours. She shouted herself hoarse before she finally took a
breath.
Blaise's dark eyes were darting around the group desperately, pleading for an intervention.
They all backed away.
All except Pangolin, who cut short her reunion hug with Spider to squat beside Ginny, gently
coaxing, "Let's just try to calm down, yeah? He survived."
"Barely."
Ginny shook Pangolin off, stood, and walked right up to Draco.
She extended a hand.
"Thank you for saving him."
Eyeing her warily, Draco replied, "I didn't do it for you, Weasley."
"I know that," Ginny said through gritted teeth. "But thank you just the same."
When Draco glanced to the side, Ginny grabbed his hand herself. "For once, quit being an
arsehole and take it, Malfoy," she said wolfishly, shaking with a firm grip.
Neither seemed to enjoy the formality. It was over very fast.
Then Blaise was propping himself up on the ground. Jaguar and Echidna helped him stand as
Ginny watched, eye twitching.
But now she seemed ready to settle things in private, latching onto Blaise's lean arm and
marching him across the estate "for a chat."
Blaise sent Draco a "help me" sort of look, before being dragged behind a row of bushes.
***
The Railroad made itself right at home. Space was not an issue—the Manor could have
hosted an entire army. However, it was a strange adjustment. The place felt more alive than it
had in years.
No one spoke of leaving. There was a consensus that this was their new base. So they began
to reinforce the perimeters, casting every protective enchantment, hex, and alarm spell in
their memories. The Manor buzzed with magic. Magic, and grim anticipation of something.
Life settled into an uneasy routine.
They rested, healed, and trained. Dueling with each other on the sprawling estate grounds.
Preparing for the approaching fight. Luna had thoughtfully arranged to send Spider another
prosthetic limb to replace the one she abandoned in her flight from Cardiff, so she was also
back in action. And even Kreacher could scarcely be found without a kitchen cleaver in his
wrinkly hand.
The only person who did not join their training was Draco. Instead, he went at it alone—
pouring all of his energy and time into necromancy. Every single morning, he would
disapparate to an unknown place, then return at dusk with red-stained eyes.
Hermione did not accompany him, understanding the danger without needing to ask. So she
remained in Wiltshire with the others. Today, they were paired off, sparring on the field
beyond the rose garden. Disillusioned and armed to the teeth. Tearing across the grass in a
mock battle.
Ginny was her current partner. She was pursuing her bright red ponytail through the empty
horse stable on the east side of the estate. Following her around corners and through the
paddocks.
While Hermione was fast, the former Infantry soldier was much faster. It reminded Hermione
of the long days spent chasing Spider through the ancient forest.
The longer the chase extended, the more frustrated Hermione became until she felt a gnawing
pressure build. A white-hot flame licking her mind and heightening her senses. The same
anger she felt hunting Dolohov. Dueling Nott.
The same fire she used on Rodolphus Lestrange.
"Crucio!"
A torrent of heat and light blew apart a hay bale. Hermione's eyes flashed scarlet.
Ginny dove to the ground as charred grass and dust flew through the stable.
Without giving her the chance to recover, Hermione threw a knife low, rapidly followed by a
well-aimed severing charm.
"Diffindo Maxima!"
The attack hit her target—slicing deep gashes into Ginny's ankles. She fell to the ground,
cursing murderously as her blood soaked into the packed dirt; as she desperately tried to
stanch the bleeding.
Hermione blinked.
Then she was there—kneeling beside Ginny, pouring Dittany into the wounds before they
could cause permanent damage. Before she lost too much blood.
"What the hell?" Ginny spat indignantly. "This is supposed to be practice."
Summoning gauze and pressing it against Ginny's ankles, Hermione apologized, "I'm sorry. I
don't know what happened. I haven't used dark magic in a while. Not since—" she swallowed
with great difficulty, "—not since killing Theo."
Ginny's brown eyes grew wide. "You were the one who killed him? Where?"
"Rome."
Hermione was breathing rapidly. Faster than when she had been running. Why was it so
difficult for her to tell training from the real thing? For an instant, it felt like there was no
difference.
Once Ginny's injuries were mended, Hermione slumped next to her on the straw-covered
dirt.
"I really am sorry for losing control," she repeated.
Ginny's hand twitched, then she reached out, squeezing Hermione's shoulder. There was
concern etched in her freckled face, closely resembling her older brother. Her next words
cemented the comparison.
"Sometimes, it's like I barely know you," said Ginny. "You changed after Azkaban. You
haven't been the same person since. I know this war has hardened all of us—made us do
things that we never imagined. But I can tell that you went through something worse. I wish
you would trust me enough to explain what it was."
Ginny paused. Hermione let the words wash over her as she watched the sunlight, which was
sliding slowly across the stalls, glinting off the discarded iron horse shoes.
Maybe it was time.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione admitted, "That night at Glen Lochy, someone injured my
legs, like I did to you right now. Then I—"
Hermione's words broke off.
Recognizing her discomfort, Ginny started babbling to fill the awkward silence. "I already
knew you were hurt. I've seen the scars. You were hit while wearing the Invisibility Cloak,
right? Now that we've practiced severing charms so much, it is sorta freaky that someone was
able to land such a clean hit to both of your legs without seeing. Harder than hitting a
bullseye with your eyes closed. Almost makes you wonder if someone targeted you on
purpose, though I don't know how that's even possible—"
But Hermione was barely listening. Her heart was beating very fast. She interrupted Ginny's
nervous rambling.
"I didn't survive the Battle of the Valley. I died with Ron and Harry."
Ginny's hand dropped from Hermione's shoulder.
"I only came back because of necromancy. Because of Draco. He revived me that first night,
then he was with me in Azkaban. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. It's still hard to talk
about."
A long exhale escaped Ginny's mouth. She met Hermione's eyes, her own filled with
incredulity.
"You don't seem . . . like . . . them." Ginny's eyes darted to the fence outside the Manor. To
the Inferi.
"I'm not."
"Bloody hell," Ginny said, pinching her nose and shaking her head.
And for a while, they both sat in silence. There was only the occasional rustle of mice
running across the straw, the sound of Ginny picking at her scabby ankles.
Then Ginny burst out, "So did he force you to do it?"
"What?"
Ginny's face tightened. "Did Malfoy force you to elope?"
"No. No, of course he didn't," Hermione hurried to say. "I'm not a smooth-brained monster.
But how do you know about . . . all that?"
Ginny snorted and stood, offering Hermione her hand.
"Ask your husband."
***
When Hermione woke the following morning, the bedroom was so deathly quiet that she
could hear the sound of the faroff Tenby sea, carried in from the charmed window. The soft
swell and crash of the water dulled her senses.
She had risen early. The morning sun was barely inching over the ocean horizon. She had
been trapped in another dream. This time, it was the one where Voldemort did not die, and
the war, the genocide, continued. The dream where Draco lived only long enough for
Voldemort to seek retribution.
The night before, it had been the reverse. The one where the Order finally ended Voldemort.
The dream where Draco succumbed to blood magic.
Two dueling nightmares. Two trains approaching from opposite directions, with Draco
standing on their tracks, waiting. Waiting for one to strike first.
When Hermione's anxiety skyrocketed, she rolled to her other side, gaze resting on him. And
her tension disappeared faster than melting snow.
Draco was leaning against the cushioned headboard, hawthorn wand still caught in his hand,
arm stretched across the white duvet. His other arm was hooked around her bare waist, as it
had been all night. Both eyelids were flickering but he was still deep in sleep. His mouth
moved inaudibly, trapped in his own nightmares. Hermione reached up to guide his head onto
the pillow.
How had she ever hated him?
Her eyes meandered across his smooth face, mapping an unhurried trail down the soft creases
of his eyelids, the straight line of his nose. The perfect crescent moon of his lips.
It was only then that Hermione saw another wand. It was resting atop the nightstand. She
recognized it at once.
The spheres, bumps, and pits carved into its handle were unmistakable. The very dark, almost
black, hue of its elder wood.
The Deathstick. The gift lost by the first Peverell brother only to end up as Voldemort's
weapon. Stolen by Draco during his flight from Hogwarts.
Until now, she had not known Draco kept the wand. Had not seen him hold it except in her
Great Lake visions. But here it was—looking like just another bedside decoration.
It was not the first treasure Draco had taken from Voldemort. No, he had stolen Mad-Eye and
Gabrielle; covertly rescued refugees for years with the Railroad. It was not even the first
Deathly Hallow he had stolen. The first would have been the Invisibility Cloak . . .
Hermione sat upright as a web of elusive connections began to form in her mind.
She extended her trembling hand to brush along the scars on Draco's chest. She could feel its
unnatural cold seeping through his skin, chilling the Manor air. Feel the ancient magic
beneath her fingertips, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The Resurrection Stone.
The last of the three artifacts separated for generations and reunited by Draco. Reunited by
the fabled Master of Death . . .
Hermione's hand fell as reason returned, harsh and painful. She turned to stare at the waves
rolling into the shoreline.
The ocean. The fable. None of it was real. As fictional as a fairytale; as false as a charmed
window.
This wasn't Tenby.
And Death had no master.

Otters, Peacocks, and Vipertooths
That time doth run with calm and silent foot,
Shortening my days and thread of vital life,
Calls for the payment of my latest years
***
"Expecto Patronum."
A shining, silver otter blossomed from the point of Hermione's wand and began gamboling
around the rows of bushes, eventually settling in the three-tiered fountain at the center of the
courtyard.
Draco watched the enchanted creature splashing in the water like it was a tiny wading pool.
He had never before seen her Patronus.
They were both seated on a stone bench in the Manor garden, which was flushed with June
flowers—violet peonies, periwinkle hydrangeas, and every shade of rose—fanned out to soak
in the summer sun. The others had gone to the field for another mock duel, however, she and
Draco had absconded here.
Lately, they found very little time alone together. They took whatever moments they could.
Hermione tilted her head against Draco as he watched the otter, saying, "Now it's your turn. I
haven't seen your Patronus since Azkaban and I'm curious if it's the same. Did you know that
as a caster ages, it can manifest in their magic? Some couples even end up with identical
animals."
Draco's mouth twisted in amusement, and he replied, "Most people would be satisfied with
matching wedding bands, but you've always had high expectations. Sorry to disappoint."
Then, with a happy memory and wordless charm, a luminescent, silvery peacock glided
through the rose garden, looking exactly as it did so many nights in her lonely prison cell.
So his Patronus had not changed.
When the slender bird landed, it fanned out its tail of opal feathers, brightening the already
sunny air. Hermione smiled at the ethereal bird, leaving the bench to cross the circular
courtyard. Following it through the flower bushes. Her fingers skated along every leafy green
branch she passed, marveling at how vibrant they were compared to dead winter.
She did not make it very far before the peacock suddenly vanished, and she sensed Draco
right behind; felt his breath tickle her upturned ear.
"When you called my name in that clearing last year, and I brought you to Wiltshire, I didn't
want to let you go. It was like dying. So then I brought you back, and seeing you leave again
was like dying a second time."
She felt his hands slide down her hips, pulling her close. His lips grazed the swell of her
collarbone, leaving a necklace of numbing kisses.
"I should have done this the first day I showed you the garden. Instead, I just played with
your hair like a damn schoolboy."
The notes on his skin, the sharpness in his spearmint breath, overpowered the garden of
roses.
She leaned back into Draco as he wrapped arms around her waist. It was a struggle to stay
upright and not drag him into the prickly hedges.
"I'm glad you didn't try anything that day. If you did, I promise it would have ended with you
getting punched in the face," Hermione countered.
"I should have risked it."
She let her eyes flutter shut as his lips found her collarbone, blond hair spilling across her
shoulder.
"No," Hermione disagreed, "I was still taken. I was with someone else, and you knew it."
Draco's embrace became possessive; his voice as dark as it was greedy.
"That didn't matter, Hermione. You were already mine, and you knew it."
"Maybe, maybe not," she replied, sinking further into his chest, letting him support her
weight while his touch sparked a frozen heat somewhere deep, deep down. An ice and burn
that radiated out and swept across her skin like a brushfire.
Her knees buckled and a wave of shivers ran through her as Draco's attention returned to her
throat. Not being able to see him standing behind her, only feeling his teeth moving up her
skin, made every small bite an excruciating pleasure.
Hermione spoke without speaking.
"Not bored of me yet, Mr. Malfoy?"
She felt Draco's lips widen into a smirk.
"Never."
The rose garden disappeared as he swept her into the crushing darkness.
Black spots continued to dance across her vision as they rotated into the Manor bedroom, and
before she knew it, he was pressing her against the paneled wall.
He slipped cold fingers beneath her skirt, up her thigh and inside as she arched, catlike.
An involuntary sound.
"Quiet," he hissed. "We're not alone. And the last person I want storming through that door
and seeing what I'm about to do, is Zabini."
"Aren't peacocks supposed to like strutting about and showing off?" Hermione asked
breathily.
"Only for my wife."
Draco's lip curled up, his eyes grew predatory. Then instead of carrying her to the white bed,
he perched her atop his hips, sliding her higher up the wall.
She was looking down at Draco, taller than him. Sighing into the crown of his head, into the
white-blond wisps on his brow. Gasping as he exchanged his fingers for something else.
Then he was there, the entire length of him, and her shoulders were being driven into the
wood paneling, her legs were straddling his waist.
His head dropped and he bit into her collarbone as the pressure mounted, so much fiercer at
this angle. A throb, deep and high. A thrust and retreat in a ceaseless repetition. Burying
himself straight into her center.
It was painful and it was perfect.
Her fingers caught in his hair, slipping through the strands like silk. And she moved with
him, matching the same and opposite motion. Crushed between him and the panel.
Soft noises escaped her mouth, quickly smothered as she was consumed by crescent moon
lips.
His fingernails dug into the bare skin on her torso, grabbing hold to keep her in place.
Pressing her spine flush against the wall, increasing their pace. Crashing into her deeper,
faster. Bringing her right to the edge.
Time passed in irregular heartbeats.
The air grew hot; the wood fractured.
Their breathing increased, the ache spread, then burgeoned into a firework of release. A
tangled mess of sweat and salt.
And she could feel him pouring into her like molten earth, liquifying her against his chest as
they both sank down to the floor. As she collapsed into his arms.
Draco was right.
It was always going to end like this, with loving him.

As inevitable as dying.
As beautiful as winter.
***
They were still sprawled across the thick rug on the bedroom floor, in no rush to move. She
was making a pillow out of Draco's chest, draped across him like a blanket. He was toying
with her untamed mane of hair.
Hermione's cheek began to grow numb and cold, and she inched farther from his heart—from
the darkness that lay beside it. She had not yet told him about entering Narcissa's memories
and learning the origin of his power over the dead. It all continued to feel as foggy as a
dream, and she had not decided if it was a good one. Did not yet know the implications.
It was clear that speaking about the Battle of Hogwarts at all reawakened Voldemort's sealing
magic over Draco. She did not want to cause anymore curse-compelled mutilation. If she was
to talk about the Resurrection Stone with him, it would have to be subtle. Avoid connecting it
directly to necromancy.
She leaned deeper into Draco, choosing her next words carefully, forcing her tone to remain
casual.
"I spoke with a portrait. With your mother."
Draco's hands stilled at once and he stared at the ceiling. "What did she tell you?" he said in a
tight voice.
"I know what Voldemort did to you . . . that day."
Then her eyes went up to meet his, which were pressed closed. He seemed to be Occluding
his thoughts, fighting the impulse to reach for his chest. Gradually, his face lost all
expression, and his hands relaxed.
His gray eyes shot open.
"I've spent half a decade trying to stop being tied to him. But my uncle put . . . it . . . so close
to my heart that I can't remove one without damaging the other. It's all connected."
Hermione wavered, then asked, "Do you know what it is? Does Voldemort?"
She tried again.
"Have you ever read 'The Tale of Three Brothers'?"
"Yes."
The sound of laughter spilled beneath the doorway. It sounded like Pangolin and Blaise were
in the corridor. Their voices grew louder, then faded as the shadows of shoes moved past the
threshold.
Once they were gone, Draco said darkly, "I know what you're trying to say. But the Deathly
Hallows are a curse."
Hermione studied Draco intently. He brushed a hand across her temple as he spoke quietly.
"The Hallows aren't what people think they are, and there is no Master of Death. Why else
would Grindelwald die like he did? In Nurmengard, alone and disgraced?"
"Right."
Of course Hermione knew as much. Despite Luna's ramblings, she lived in reality. While the
Resurrection Stone existed, and the Elder Wand and Invisibility Cloak seemed just as Beedle
described, the rest of the legend was fiction. It was just that she had nothing else to latch onto
besides the Hallows, and could not admit that she failed to find a way to save him.
Draco gently lifted Hermione off his shoulder, leaning against the side of the chaise and
pulling her against him.
"Chasing a fairytale isn't the answer. Especially one that's based in even less fact than your
Little Mermaid. There's nothing we can do about it, so let it go. We'll both only end up
disappointed."
The room grew quiet.
Then Hermione asked in a very soft whisper, "Is it too late to change my mind?"
"About what?"
"About—"
Hermione's throat caught, and suddenly it became difficult to speak. So as she waited for the
words to return, her eyes went to the window.
A flock of pelicans was crying and taking flight, soaring over the rich, cobalt blue waves. A
blue that was gradually melting into the deepness of mid-summer. And at this hour, she could
see it—see the breakwater wall, just visible above the high tide. The place where Draco asked
her to leave it all behind and escape together.
The place where she refused.
She loved Draco, but love was not enough. Not enough to justify putting him above every
other person. Even now, after everything, she couldn't be that selfish.
"What did you change your mind about, Hermione?" Draco repeated.
Hermione tried not to hear the faint thread of hope in his question, forcing down her
heartache as she watched the cobalt sea. The cerulean ocean. It was as beautiful as she
imagined.
She looked away.
"Nothing."
***
Hermione did not see Draco the rest of that day. It was unclear if he was preoccupied with
something important, or creating distance, as he had tried to do so many times over the years.
Preparing for a separation that he had seen coming since admitting he loved her—a loss that
she now had to accept.
Lucius Malfoy had known all along. He told Hermione, and she had blocked him out.
Ignored the canary singing in the coal mine.
The only way your poisonous game ends is with my son dead.
The war had to end without a way to save Draco. There was no Master of Death, not unless
she cast out all logic and reason. And if Draco was telling the truth, there was no fragment of
his soul.
He was going to die.
And Hermione felt like she was already grieving. A sluggish, leaden heaviness on her chest
and lungs. A slow pressure that drove her from the quiet, whitewashed bedroom and to the
Manor library.
Hermione was nearly there—passing the drawing room—when she heard muffled, male
voices behind its shuttered doors.
She stopped to listen.
Draco was speaking, sounding incredibly cold. So unlike that morning.
"I thought I warned you to leave us alone."
"Yes. But I still need your help," another voice responded.
A scoff.
"Has your Council even found the traitor? Obviously it's not Aberforth, unless he planned his
own execution. And if you're here, I'm guessing it's not you either, Weasley. Though it would
be foolish to rule anyone out at this point."
Confusion tore through Hermione. It couldn't be. . . . She leaned closer to the crack between
the double doors.
A baritone tenor carried into the hallway, confirming this unexpected visitor's identity and
leaving her with only more questions.
Charlie.
He was still speaking.
"I could ask the same of you, Death Eater. Just name your spy and we can be done with it."
Draco's classic sneer was apparent even without being able to see him. "My spy? In case you
haven't read the Prophet headlines, I'm not with the regime anymore. So if you don't have any
new information, then leave. I have enough to deal with as a fucking enemy of the state."
A pause and then Charlie replied, "I came to tell you that we're striking Hogwarts tomorrow
night. It would have been better to find our leak in advance. If you don't know who it is, then
that's our situation."
The scrape of a chair shifting on the floorboards.
"The Order has to be prepared for a bloodbath, because if you're not, he'll end all of you,
down to the last child. You won't get a second shot."
"We are," confirmed Charlie. "We've never been more ready. This is it."
She heard Draco recline in his seat, and the room quieted.
Hermione let her back slide down the wall, sinking to her knees. Her initial shock at
stumbling across the last two men she ever expected to share a discussion had vanished,
consumed by sheer terror.
Tomorrow.
In one short day, they would win the war and she would lose Draco. There was no name for
what she felt.
Charlie broke the silence first.
"The Order is as ready as we've ever been, but we both know the outcome isn't guaranteed."
Now Charlie's voice became rough, grating. "I also came to offer redemption. You destroyed
a Horcrux, and I convinced the Council to conceal your betrayal from Voldemort. We
protected you for months. In return, we need your help. You need to do more than leave him
and lock yourself in a mansion. You need to join this fight. Anything less means you'll never
survive the war's conclusion. Voldemort will target you the minute we're gone. And if we're
successful, the Council will hunt you down for the rest of your life. Those are just the hard
facts. To stay neutral is to stay a damn coward. It's time to stake your claim and take a
position. And you know that only one side will let you be with Hermione."
"You know nothing," Draco repeated.

Charlie stood, his footsteps echoing as he strode toward Draco.
"Forget the fucking Order. She needs this war to end. Nagini wasn't enough. The guilt of
choosing you is killing her, Malfoy. I know that she loves you. I've seen the way she loves
you. But you need to deserve it."
Draco did not answer, and suddenly it was too much. All too much. She could not listen.
Hermione escaped through the lower wing, tearing across the varnished marble tiles as hot
tears rolled down her cheeks. The smug, pale faces on the walls heckled as she ran, then
gasped as she turned a corner and crashed into Blaise.
They both went tumbling down, taking a Baroque statuette with them. White plaster hit the
ground, smashing apart into fine, stone powder. It looked like a snowstorm hit the corridor
"THE MUDBLOOD BROKE ANOTHER HEIRLOOM!!" screamed a blond painting as

Blaise helped Hermione to her feet.
Every portrait in the vicinity began viciously cursing. At least until Blaise threateningly
raised his wand and middle finger.
They fell silent.
Blaise turned to Hermione, seeming about to demand an apology until he studied her face.
His own shadowed with concern, and he asked, "What the hell did Malfoy do to you now?
Newlywed bliss not all it's cracked up to be? Have a spat about redoing the kitchen
counters?"
She glanced to the side, not meeting Blaise's shrewd gaze. Not speaking. But the Second-in-
Command had been able to read her since the start. To him, she was an open book, in both
conversation and fighting.
He exhaled dramatically, then brushed the white dust from Hermione's shoulders, saying, "If
you need a girl to talk to, I'll go find Pangolin or Ginny."
Blaise backed up and was striding away when Hermione said softly, "I have no idea what to
do."
At first, she could not tell if Blaise caught her whispered confession.
He had. And soon he was leaning against the wall beside her, head tilted.
"Fine. Go on then."
Hermione took a deep breath. "No matter what I choose, there is no right answer. No good
option." She met Blaise's dark eyes, asking, "What did your mother do? It was impossible for
her to marry a Muggle with her pure-blood family. Impossible to have both."
"She didn't marry him, Granger."

"That doesn't help."
Scratching his scarred neck, Blaise replied flatly, "You're smart. Top of the class. I'm sure
you'll come up with something brilliant to save the day if that's what you're worried about,
Goldfinch."
"It's not," Hermione said into her clenched fingers, "I can't think myself out of this situation
and we're out of time."
Blaise sighed banefully.
"Remember, my mother didn't choose. She hid my father from the world by murdering
innocent people and pretending to keep her bloodline pure. It worked for a while, until it
stopped working. She bought two decades of happiness on credit, then paid for it with her
life. Maybe it was wrong, but I'm sure she would have done it all again."
He retreated down the hallway, sending one last piece of advice to Hermione.
"If you don't like either option, find a third and accept the consequences."
Gryffindor Tower
Chapter Summary
This is the final chapter before the battle, and I may or may not have cried writing it. Be
prepared for 3000 words of nostalgia.
What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate
For being deprived of the joys of heaven?
***
That night, Draco left to meet with the Council. While he had not told Hermione any details,
it must be about joining the fight. Blaise and Ginny had gone as well.
Hermione had not asked to accompany their group, and they never offered. That entire day,
she had shut herself in the library, not speaking to anyone. Even Kreacher gave her space,
placing a dinner tray at the closed oak doors.
Hermione only noticed it when dusk fell and she finally exited the library, but she did not
pause to eat. Instead, she wandered the cavernous mansion, seeing no one apart from the
portraits. The rest of the squad must be outside.
Now she was sitting in an imposing cherrywood office that once belonged to Lucius Malfoy.
Priceless antiques, dark artifacts, and texts on blood supremacy lined the bookshelves. A
Pensieve, identical to the one at the beach house, was resting on the desk before her. Silver
light swirled within the stone basin in a ceaseless motion, dancing patterns across the
coffered ceiling.
She was holding a vial in her hand: preserved memories with her own name scripted in
Draco's handwriting. The final thoughts she lost after resurrection.
She had gone back and forth about what to do with them. For months, they had simply lay at
the bottom of her bag, cushioned by the Invisibility Cloak. Untouched and unopened. But
they were always a weight on her mind.
While glimpses of her death had resurfaced recently, they came only in fragments. Parts of an
unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Thoughts stolen from her by necromancy and Dementors.
Now she was finally ready to reclaim those missing pieces. To finish remembering who she
was.
For some reason, it felt like there would not be another chance and that remembering was
important. Like it mattered before the Second Battle of Hogwarts.
It was time.
Hermione's fingers held steady as she removed the cork.
She tilted the vial into the stone basin, and her mind was transported from Lucius Malfoy's
cherrywood desk to a place she had never wanted to return.
It was time to remember everything.
***
May 2, 2002
His eyes were not the emerald green of Lily Potter. It was as if death had leached out all
color, leaving behind only cold gray. The color of the moon before it turned to blood.
Harry straightened stiffly, and departed.
Suddenly Hermione was alone, grasping at his receding back but unable to stand and follow.
Everything felt numb from the waist down as the life flowed from her like rushing water. The
ground was soft with blood—her blood. Drenched in it.
She rested her cheek atop his chest, breathing shallowly. Her tears spilled onto his torn shirt,
soaking into the dried blood on the fabric, into his mangled skin. Maybe she had loved him
first, and maybe she should have known that sooner.
She could hear the Necromancer's leaden footsteps slowly approaching, but could not muster
the strength to look, much less escape.
Her lids had become unbelievably heavy, sluggish, weighted and dark. The scarlet air was
unbearably bright, and her lungs were burning. It became impossible to breathe, so she
stopped trying.
Her eyes fell shut.
nothingness. She could see them both waiting for her beyond that tattered veil.
She smiled one last time.

Her heart ceased beating.
Hermione was lying on her back, listening to the silence. She was perfectly alone with
nobody watching. Nobody else was here. She was not perfectly sure that she was here by
herself.
A long while later, or perhaps a short while later, it came to her that she must still exist. She
was definitely resting on some surface. The surface on which she lay seemed to be colorless,
neither warm nor cold, but simply there. A flat, blank something on which to exist. What was
this strange place?
She wondered whether, as she could feel, she would be able to see. Her eyes slowly opened,
and she discovered that she had eyes.
The dark valley had vanished, replaced by a blindingly bright mist, though it was not like a
mist she had ever experienced before. Her surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor;
rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into her surroundings. As she blinked, the mist
continued to take shape. It was like the longer she looked, the more there was to see. As if the
world reinvented itself before her eyes.
It gradually formed into a round, tapestried room with many sunlit windows, cluttered with
dilapidated armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire crackled merrily behind a grate, sending
a pleasant heat through the air, casting light onto the portrait of a lion hanging above the
mantle. The daily detritus of crumpled-up bits of parchment, used Gobstones, empty
ingredient jars, and candy wrappers covered the stone floor. And if she didn't know better, it
looked like Harry's old Firebolt was propped by the stairwell.
Then a noise reached her through the nothingness. And there were voices. Not the screams of
Inferius or the roars of fighting. Not the haunting voices of the Dark Lord or his Mouth.
No. These were the voices that belonged in the Gryffindor Common Room. She could hear
them, meaning she kept at least three senses. They were laughing.
The Fat Lady's portrait swung open, revealing two figures. Hermione sat straight to watch
them enter.
Her eyes grew hot with tears.
There he was—Ron—whole and undamaged. He was climbing through the circular doorway.
Not a speck of blood on his clean face or fluffy, ginger hair. He wore a lopsided grin as he
crossed the room, plopping down beside her onto the lumpy sofa.
"Hey there, Hermione," he said, one arm reaching up to playfully ruffle her curls. She stared
up at him, not knowing what to think, but happy to see him again.
Now Harry walked over, seating himself on the carpet at their feet, leaning his head against
the base of the sofa. Removing the spectacles from his emerald eyes to rub at the imprint on
his nose. His untidy, jet-black hair spilled across the cushioned seat.
They both looked so healthy. So alive.
Except they were not.
The room grew quiet.
Hermione whispered, "This isn't Gryffindor Tower, is it?"
"I don't think so, no," responded Harry, shaking his head. "I think it's somewhere . . . in
between."
"Meaning we didn't make it."
"Right."
Then, for what could have been a minute or a month, they simply sat in a terrible sort of
peace. Exhausted, beaten down, but glad to be together in the Common Room—the best place
to find each other after a busy school day. A room to reunite, chat, and enjoy the warm
fireplace in each other's company.
"Well, that could have gone better," Harry said eventually, as if they just bungled a History of
Magic exam. "I really thought that Voldemort would have brought Nagini."
Ron cleared his throat, saying, "We all did. Even Bill and Charlie. But I just know that Fred
is going to take the mickey out of ME for it when I see him. Say that I'm the one who cocked
up the fight. Like what Bellatrix did to my body wasn't torture enough. Now I get to look
forward to an eternity of checking that everything I eat isn't laced with Nosebleed Nougats."
"I don't think we can eat here anyways," Hermione pointed out in a resigned voice. Then she
shifted uncomfortably in her seat, plucking something fuzzy from behind the cushions—a
knobbly, wool elf hat, very much resembling the ones she had knitted to fund S.P.E.W.
She gripped the hat tightly in her hand, clenching her teeth, biting back disappointed tears.
Wiping her face when they came out despite her best efforts. She wasn't the only one crying.
Harry's cheeks were wet.
Although they were surrounded by vacant chairs, Harry moved up to sit at the other end of
the small sofa, all three squeezing in tighter than when they used to share the Invisibility
Cloak. It warmed Hermione even more than the crackling Yule log.
Ron draped his arms around both friends' shoulders, squeezing tightly.
"Why were you at the battle tonight? I thought the plan was to use a double of you, Harry?
And Hermione—what the hell were you doing out of Shell Cottage at all? You both should
have been safe at Headquarters."
Harry replaced his glasses and hunched forward onto his knees.
"I dunno, to be honest. The Council changed their minds at the last minute and let me join.
Kingsley never explained himself. He just made me promise that if the snake wasn't there, I'd
retreat with Moody. Obviously that didn't happen."
Despite the heat in the sunlit room, Hermione felt suddenly cold as memories crashed into
her like a glacial wave. She shivered, then confessed, "If anyone deserves an eternity of
eating Nosebleed Nougats, it's me. I persuaded Kingsley to let us all go to Glen Lochy."
Shock washed over Ron's face. Harry looked just as floored, asking,"How did you manage
that?"
It was hard to get the words out.
"This morning, I made . . . an Unbreakable Vow to finish what you started," she told Harry,
taking his thin hand in her own.
She clasped Ron's a moment later. "To finish what we all started."
Ron gaped, blue eyes rounded.
"You sold your soul just to let Harry face Voldemort?"
"I don't think that's what an Unbreakable Vow is exactly," Harry mused, scratching his chin.
"Right, Hermione?"
Hermione's hands dropped as the energy drained from her muscles. "Right. Though I suppose
the entire thing is pointless since we're stuck here. Still, I shouldn't have agreed to the Vow in
the first place. It was a mistake to bargain with Kingsley. We should have broken from the
Order and found Nagini ourselves. I'm sorry."
Ron flopped back in his seat, looking frustrated.
"We only made it this far because of you, Hermione. So don't go getting all doom and gloom
about it. The Death Eaters would have killed us ages ago without you keeping us breathing. If
anyone's at fault, it's Tom Bloody Riddle."
"Ron's right," agreed Harry. "I planned to go after Voldemort regardless. If it wasn't tonight,
it would have been the night after. We delayed this too long and had to try something. It just
didn't work out."
He rubbed at his lightning bolt scar and added, "It's not all bad. At least Voldemort's down to
one Horcrux. I know I felt his soul leaving my body before I came here. After the Order kills
Nagini, they can finish him and this war. But I wish we could have been around to see the
damn ending."
The conversation subsided again, dwindling like the fire. And Hermione took the opportunity
to more closely study the space, since she had not seen it in four long years. While they
remained the only people, she recognized other nostalgic objects spread across the rugs and
tables. As if the Room of Requirement had collided with this common area, or the Hogwarts
house-elves had finally gone on strike and refused to clean up after a tower full of ungrateful
Gryffindors.
Harry's Cloak of Invisibility was hanging from a hook, all bloodstains removed. A half-
finished Arithmancy report lay crumpled near the rubbish bin, covered in Professor Vector's
angry scribbles. And the crimson smoke swirled within Neville's Remembrall as Ron tossed it
up and down in the air.
However, as the three friends sat waiting, the realization of what would come next gradually
seemed to settle over them, chilling the warm air like an off-season storm.
"Is this real, or is it happening in our heads?" Hermione queried.
Harry shrugged.
Meanwhile, Ron extended his long, gangly legs and yawned.
"Whatever this is, at least we went out in a blaze of glory. Make our Gryffindor forefathers
proud and all that. It better score us some bonus points. And if it doesn't and I get sent to hell,
I'm dragging you both down there with me for company."
"For heaven's sake, Ron," said Hermione, exasperated. "Be serious. We aren't waiting for
House Cup results. I don't think we have any control over what happens to us now."
"Not with your bad attitude."
Incensed, Hermione replied tartly, "Well if there is any sort of entrance test, you're not
copying off me, idiot."
"Oh come off it. You really think I'd cheat my way to the afterlife?"
"Wouldn't you?"
While they continued to bicker like an old married couple, Harry's attention moved to
something outside the open portrait hole. He adjusted his glasses and stared more intensely,
transfixed.
"Do you see him? He looks familiar," Harry mumbled, rubbing at his scar.
Hermione and Ron quieted, and likewise turned to peer through the shadowy entrance.
An attractive, young boy was standing in the corridor beyond. He was wearing green robes
that contrasted handsomely with his black hair and pale features. He looked to be eleven at
most, though tall for his age, and he was watching all three Gryffindors with wary eyes.
They stared back.
"What are you doing?" The boy demanded in a high, petulant voice.
Raking a hand nervously through his hair, Harry remarked, "Nothing in particular, just
waiting."
The boy scowled, then, in an instant, his face became expressionless. However, his dark
brown eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Ron and Harry, as though trying
to spot the weakest link.
When his gaze fell on Hermione, it remained there, transfixed. And the longer he looked at
her, the more unnerved he appeared. He began to twitch irritably, as though trying to
displace an irksome fly.
All at once it felt like Hermione knew him as well.
She stood.
Then she crossed the Common Room quickly, placing a hand gently on the boy's sleeve.
At the contact, a sudden burst of white-hot electricity streaked through her body, making her
spasm and recoil. A temporary pain that disappeared the second her arm jerked away.
After blinking confusedly, she offered, "Can we help you? Are you lost?"
Now the boy's eyes grew clear and calculating. "Stay far away from me. There is nothing I
want from you, Mudblood," he said tonelessly.
"Oi! Don't talk to her like that," Ron shouted, "And this isn't your common room, so get out,
Slytherin."
The boy hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else. Then he hissed at Hermione, and
darted away. His small footsteps echoed down the hall.
Hermione snapped back at Ron, "You shouldn't have been so rough with him. He's probably
just a first year who came looking for directions."
She stepped through the portrait hole, saying, "I'll go help."
But the boy was gone.
Vanished into thin air like a Slytherin ghost. Only the shadowy stone passageway lay
beyond.
Hermione was about to give chase when her spine prickled. She glanced back.
Ron and Harry had left the sofa and were crossing to the opposite side of the Common Room.
Neither seemed to care about their strange visitor anymore, and were preparing to move on:
climbing the spiral staircase to the boys' dormitory.
Hermione clambered back inside to follow them, not wanting to be left behind.
Her shoe was on the first step when Harry stretched his slight forearm across the staircase,
blocking her path.
"Go back down, Hermione. You don't belong up there."

"What? Stop being so bullheaded, Harry," she retorted, trying to push past.
Ron was already part way around the bend. Seeing him depart made Hermione even more
anxious to ascend the staircase. She jostled harder. "We established this isn't actually
Hogwarts, so I'm pretty sure we can stop following dumb rules about separate dormitories."
Harry took her by both shoulders, gently but firmly guiding her back into the Common
Room.
"This isn't Hogwarts, meaning whatever waits for us up there isn't the boys' dormitory," he
explained.
"I figured that bit out myself, but thanks," Hermione grimaced.
Harry's green eyes glinted like gemstones. Twin emeralds. So bright, even after dying.
"I don't think you're ready to go up quite yet," he reflected with a sad smile.
Hermione was about to reply when Ron reappeared, standing halfway up the staircase, arms
crossed.
"Did you forget already?" he accused. "You promised to finish what we started and destroy
Voldemort above everything. That was your Vow. You're not done. Not like me and Harry."
Huffing, Hermione shot back, "There is no Unbreakable Vow anymore. None of us survived
the battle. I'm going up too and you can't stop me."
"Maybe there's no Vow, but it's still not time for you to join us. Not quite yet. There's
something else you need to do first. A person you need to take care of before heading
upstairs."
Now tears were flooding Hermione's vision.
"Please don't go without me."
The Common Room was blurring, dissolving, losing focus as the ramshackle furniture began
melting into the floor.
But Hermione continued to scramble toward the staircase, even as the world transformed
into a dark haze and she was violently dragged back down to the valley, plummeting through
the stratosphere. Even as she helplessly watched Ron and Harry disappear up Gryffindor
Tower.
Leaving her alone.
She reached up, swiping at the falling clouds with desperate fingers. Finding nothing to hold
onto but the scarlet sky.
Before they were gone completely, she heard their voices carry through the veil.
"You'll finish it for us, yeah? Thanks a million."
"We'll see you soon, Hermione."

The Siege of Hogwarts Part I
Chapter Notes
I’ll levy soldiers with the coin they bring,
And chase the Prince of Parma from our land
***
They were flying high above a lush, green moor. A patchwork of dark browns and greens.
The outline of train tracks glinted below them, winding through the grass and over hills like
an iron snake.
Hermione had never seen Scotland from this height. Never made the journey to Hogwarts
like this—soaring across the countryside on a broomstick.
She looked to her right.
Draco was flying beside her, leaning forward into the wind. Gaining velocity. Riding a black
and silver broom with his shoes pressed into its sleek, metal stirrups. She forgot the name of
the model he rode, but it seemed to be the same as Hogwarts. She recognized it from
Slytherin Quidditch matches. A Nimbus something or other.
He tilted his handle sharply upwards, and Hermione did the same.
And soon they shot into the low, wooly clouds, and her vision grew dull and hazy. She lost
sight of Draco as a solid mass of fog pressed in on all sides.
A minute later, she burst out in a blaze of moonlight. Flying high above swirls and turrets of
clouds, skimming a sea of white vapor, the sky a bright, endless midnight blue under a pearly
orb. It was a different world up here. As though she had ascended into a dreamscape.
She saw Draco emerge from the clouds twenty yards ahead, and sped to join him. It was
impossible to hear each other at this altitude. But when they were riding side-by-side, Draco
reached out a gloved hand to brush along her arm—a passing touch. Then both hands were
firmly planted on his handle.
His voice resounded through her head.
"I guess you really can ride a broom. I wasn't sure if you could get more than a few feet off
the ground. You finally look like a proper witch, Granger."
In spite of the heaviness on her heart, Hermione found herself replying, "If you like this, you
should have seen me ride a dragon out of Gringotts."
Draco laughed into the wind.
"You'll never stop surprising me."
Gravity hit Hermione once again, and she asked, "Are you ready?"
"Probably not, but I know you would have gone to Hogwarts regardless. And you are not
doing this alone," Draco repeated, shifting on his sleek Nimbus handle, readjusting his
position. Air rushed through his silvery hair. And his black cloak whipped out behind his
back like the wings of a fallen angel, billowing and dark.
Besides her voice, what else was in Draco's mind at this moment? What was he thinking as
they willingly flew straight into the fire? Raced toward death?
When the third brother crossed the bridge above the river again, he greeted Death as an old
friend, going with him gladly.
And so, Death took the third brother from this world as his true equal.
She saw the words forming in her mind, not from Draco, but from Beedle. From The Tale of
Three Brothers. The answer was always there.
To reunite the Hallows and become Master of Death never promised escape.
It meant acceptance.
A gale of cold tears streaked across Hermione's cheeks. And her thoughts returned to the
memory of falling through another sea of clouds—to that short period of twilight between
living and dying. To Harry and Ron, waiting for her in Gryffindor Tower.
Waiting for her to finish what they started.
So she flew, letting any doubts disappear in a rush of windswept tears. Somehow the
acceptance brought even more freedom than flying. And, for a few glorious moments, every
regret seemed to recede into nothing; insignificant in the vast, starry sky. It felt like she was
going home.
Movement made her glance back.
"HARD LEFT!" shouted Ginny from her rear. She was riding Harry's old Firebolt and
banking eastward.
She swerved, and Blaise followed her on his own broomstick, not looking particularly
comfortable this high above ground level. His shoulders were raised and stiff; his face a
sickly green.
Other shapes emerged from the clouds beneath them—Pangolin, Echidna, and Jag. All on
their own mounts and tailing Ginny, whose voice was drowned out by the flapping of cloaks
and violent wind. The sleek form of a raven drifted between the group, sharp eyes scanning
the horizon.
Then Ginny yelled, "DOWN NOW!"
Hermione angled her broomstick, Draco at her side. She was relieved to be descending; her
hands were growing numb on the wooden handle. And she wished she had thought to put on
thicker gloves; she was starting to shiver.
They altered their course every now and then according to Ginny's instructions. Her eyes
were screwed up against the gush of icy wind and haze that was starting to make her ears
ache.
Eventually, they dipped beneath the cloudline, spiraling into the deep, cavernous hollow of a
Scottish glen.
Glen Lochy.
The miniscule specks of humans moved across the darkening ground below. Hundreds of
resistance fighters assembling for the battle. Their brightened wand tips glittered like an
ocean of sparkling lights, reflecting off the hard metal of a fleet of helicopters, which were
positioned around the outskirts. Armed No-Maj soldiers were performing final checks on the
aircraft, reloading chain guns. And as they descended closer, Hermione could make out many
unfamiliar uniforms—the Order had enlisted foreign allies to reinforce the fight.
This truly was the end.
Their group carved a path toward a blur of crimson robes, landing smoothly on the grass.
Hermione dismounted her broomstick, swallowing any lingering trauma from coming back to
a place that haunted her nightmares. It made sense for the Order to gather at Glen Lochy
since it was only miles away from the castle. But it still felt like a burial ground.
A mass of distrusting eyes met them as they dismounted. Public opinion seemed hostile
toward Blaise and his "followers," who were seen as regime sympathizers. A militant faction
with methods too radical for even the Special Force.
Every fighter held back, keeping their distance. Shooting them distrusting looks and snarling
incriminations under their breaths.
Then people began to recognize Draco. And now half the crowd was raising their weapons,
aiming them at Undesirable Number One, ready to strike a war criminal who they spent years
fighting. A man who would always be their enemy.
The Council had agreed to a truce with Draco out of sheer necessity, informing the entire
Order about his change in allegiance. What had not changed was public opinion. The
decision was clearly unpopular.
Angelina appeared, brandishing her wand as she shouted, "What the bloody hell are you
doing here, Malfoy?"
Her Scottish squad was there in an instant, surrounding her and taking offensive stances. The
crowd began to coalesce around them, and the shouting intensified. At this rate, they would
never make it to Hogwarts. They would kill each other before reaching Voldemort.
Draco stepped in front of Hermione, but did not speak or lift his wand. The temperature
began to fall. The air chilled.
Angelina was still screaming, her own voice barely audible above the din of hissing, barking,
and cursing tearing through the battlefield.
"I'D RATHER LOSE THIS WAR THAN FIGHT WITH VOLDEMORT'S PARASITE!
YOU'VE MURDERED US FOR YEARS, AND NOTHING YOU EVER DO WILL ERASE
STIRLING! MURDERER!"
"GET THE HELL OUT!"
"WAR CRIMINAL!"
"NO FUCKING WAY! NO FUCKING WAY HE'S WITH THE ORDER!"
"GENOCIDER!"
Suddenly, Charlie, George, and Fleur split from the crowd.
All three were dressed in full fighting gear, chest plates shining, wands holstered. Charlie had
a rainbow of colorful chevrons on his muscled left shoulder that marked him as Captain
Ishida's chosen Second.
He signaled, and the crowd fell silent. The night air quieted. A quiet that could break in an
instant. A weighted tension. Like they were all just waiting for the cauldron to boil over.
Blaise stepped toward the trio, hand outstretched. Charlie shook it soberly.
"Weasley."
"Zabini."
Then Ginny was slamming into George, not even caring about the mutters and stares. The
crowd began to louden again, but neither noticed. They were both smiling; so happy to be
together. Charlie was with them in a heartbeat, and all three Weasley siblings were soon
tangled in a messy embrace.
Hermione hung back alongside Draco, watching from the sidelines and continuing to monitor
the hostile crowd.
Fleur approached them. Her golden hair was cropped short, yet her fair face was the same.
Fierce, beautiful, and unrestrained.
Draco eyed her warily and his arm hooked tightly around Hermione's waist.
Fleur addressed him first. Despite her severe expression, her tone was forgiving.
"Ginny, she is telling me 'ow you captured Gabrielle, but kept her away from the 'orrible
Revue. That you were the reason my sister is safe at home. You did not 'ave to, but you
rescued her from something worse than death. Thank you."
Draco's gaze became even more steely.
"I didn't help anyone, least of all your sister."
Now Ginny sidled up, throwing an arm around Fleur's slim shoulder and reflecting wistfully,
"Except you did, so you can stop denying it, you frigid asshole. Blaise connected the dots
months back. Figured out how you arranged to have Gabrielle 'gifted' to him during that
stupid Christmas party because you knew he could get her safely to the Order. Isn't that right,
Phlegm?"
Fleur laughed complacently.
"Yes. You saved her from the Death Eaters, and you are the reason we have a chance at
attacking 'Ogwarts tonight. A chance at destroying him at last. For my husband, Ronald,
'Arry, and everyone. I am proud to fight alongside you, Malfoy."
She turned to Hermione, who was watching the exchange, stunned, saying breathlessly, "You
also 'elped return Gabrielle to our parents. Even though she was not the 'ostage you went to
save. She is alive because of you both."
Then, quite unexpectedly, Fleur kissed Hermione smackdab on the forehead, making her
blush. She was about to do the same to Draco when a smooth voice called out.
"Weasley."
Four heads turned at the surname.
However, Ishida Ren's attention was fixed on Charlie.
The tanned, tall wizard was sweeping across the grass, flanked by an escort of guards. Their
wands were gripped tightly, as if ready to attack at the slightest sign of aggression; at their
superior's subtlest direction.
"Kingsley wants to speak with him before we move out," said Ren flippantly, gaze shooting
to Draco. "Since this entire mad arrangement was your idea, Weasley, you should be the one
to make the introductions. Follow me."
He turned to leave, heading toward the shadowy figures gathered at the west end of the field,
speaking with each other intensely. A light flared and she recognized Kingsley—the
resistance leader himself. Joining the ranks at last. Finally willing to stake his own life in a
fight.
Conflict shot through Hermione's veins like ice and fire. Her eyes narrowed. She was about
to tell Draco to keep far away when he said, "I'll be back soon."
Hermione watched him walk away, feeling restless. Watched him walk straight to the people
that had wanted him dead since the last Battle of Hogwarts.
But then, why had Kingsley never revealed the truth about Nagini? Why had he allowed
Charlie to convince the Council to protect a Death Eater? Even until the moment Draco
betrayed him, Voldemort had not known who destroyed his Horcrux.
It all still felt wrong and dangerous.
Hermione only hesitated for another second before she was stalking across the valley, pulling
out her redwood wand and clenching it in an angry fist. Her four remaining Basilisk teeth
knives were strapped to both thighs, holstered in a way so that they could be removed quickly
while not impeding her movement.
She kept one hand directly above the knives as she went to stand between Draco and Charlie.
Moody cleared his throat loudly, but did not object to her presence.
Meanwhile, Kingsley ignored her and continued to speak. His midnight eyes were locked on
Draco.
"We can't reach the castle until you break through Voldemort's boundary line. Our Scouts
have failed to get through for years. I know you can do it, Malfoy. I'm sure you've seen the
weak spots. Use your creatures and find a way to get us inside."
"Fine."
Kingsley's demeanor grew even harsher.
"I will repeat myself. This temporary alliance is not a pardon. Once Voldemort is gone and
the regime falls, we will hold you accountable for every life you took as his Necromancer.
Nothing you do will absolve six years of war crimes."
A sharp laugh.
"The thing is, Shacklebolt, I'm not looking for salvation," Draco said with a curled lip.
Kingsley sent him a glowering look.
"Then what do you want, Draco Malfoy? You've repeatedly refused to tell us why you
changed sides at the eleventh hour. Why you attacked the Dominion then fled Hogwarts.
Why you're here tonight."
They were accusations, not questions.
Draco replied callously, "Prove that your Council is not double dealing, and I'll consider
giving an answer."
Hermione saw Charlie's back stiffen, while Moody and Ren exchanged exasperated glances.
Kingsley did not respond.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Nevermind." He palmed his hawthorn wand, leaving the Elder in its
holster. Then he began to tense every finger bone until each joint cracked.
A flame ignited behind his gray eyes, cold and unrelenting.
"I'll clear the path."
***
The regime's anti-apparition boundary extended hundreds of miles farther than before the
occupation, nearly to Edinburgh. Aerial flight was similarly impossible with the skies above
the castle blocked by shielding magic.
So they went the rest of the way on foot. Following the train tracks across the moor until they
reached the tiny, dark platform of Hogsmeade Station. The carcass of the Hogwarts Express
lay abandoned at the platform, windows smashed; overrun by dust, mold, and creeping ivy.
The sight made the night air feel even darker.
It was pitch black—not a lit wand or Muggle flashlight amongst the approaching army.
Hermione could faintly make out Ginny's shadowy hood directly ahead and Draco walking at
her side, but nothing more. While Voldemort knew of their impending siege on his fortress,
they still moved quietly, stealthily, to disguise their numbers.
They weaved through the ruins of Hogsmeade Village, sliding through the blackness like a
ghostly procession. Nothing moved within the abandoned buildings, and they continued
unimpeded.
Whispers were passed back through the crowd, and Hermione heard something about "being
nearly there." It was so dark on either side of them, but now she recognized that they were
surrounded by thick trees. It had been so long since she had been in the Forbidden Forest.
The narrow path opened suddenly onto the edge of the Great Lake. And now she saw it.
Hogwarts.
Perched atop a high mountain on the opposite side, its windows glinting in the starry night
sky. A vast castle with many turrets and spires.
From this distance, she could not see the black hoods of Dementors floating between the
open corridors; could not see the hundreds of rotted bodies strapped to the pillars, or the
heads of prisoners impaled on iron spikes.
From this distance, and even six years later, it still looked like home.
Her gaze went straight to the sparkling minaret of Gryffindor Tower, feeling the terrible pull
that plagued her since recovering those dying memories.
She blinked back tears as Draco's glove wrapped around her own. Grasping her hand three
times, like he always did. However, this time he spoke the words.
"I love you."
And there it was—the answer he would not give Kingsley. His reason for being here tonight.
But Hermione could not force them from her own lips. Not now. This could not be their
goodbye.
So instead, she asked in a quiet whisper, "Do you have Harry's cloak?"
"Yes," Draco confirmed, peeling her glove back an inch, raising her hand to his mouth,
kissing it slowly. "As soon as the barrier falls, I'll come find you in the castle."
"I'll be waiting."
Draco seemed about to leave when he suddenly spoke again.
"Whatever happens tonight, I want you to make me a promise."
Hermione met his softened eyes.
"Promise you'll survive," Draco said. "I need to know that you'll live on for us both. Promise
me that, Hermione."
It was probably the most selfless request Draco had ever made. And it broke her heart.
So she finally lied.
"I promise."
Satisfied, Draco stepped back, his fingertips drifting from hers. Then he split from the crowd,
leaving the narrow path.
Hermione's hand remained outstretched for a moment longer, before falling loosely to her
side.
All at once, the temperature plummeted to the freezing low of mid-winter. Cold enough for
the surface of the lake to glaze over with ice.
The moon dimmed, darkened, and faded. Black creatures crawled through the gloom as a
solitary, cloaked figure returned to the shadows of the Forbidden Forest.
Draco was gone.
Hermione gripped her wand and kept moving forward.
This was not their goodbye.
Not yet.
Chapter End Notes

Thank you for your patience as these chapters come more slowly. Work has been
burying me, so most of my writing happens at midnight and I don't want to rush the
ending.
But we are nearly there. Your kind comments and kudos have kept me going, and I truly
appreciate all the continued support on this eight-month journey that is nearly at its
destination.
The Siege of Hogwarts Part II
And reign sole king of all the provinces;
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war
***
Draco | Hogwarts, Scotland
Draco stood alone atop the raised, wooden stands of the Quidditch stadium. High enough to
view the entire field. The three golden hoops at each end appeared just as they did when
students filled the hundreds of empty seats, glimmering faintly under the thin moon. If he did
not look too closely, the shadowed pitch beneath him could have as easily been a dark green
sea, mirror smooth and quiet as midnight. He knew better. It was not either a field or a sea.
It was a mass graveyard.
Even without seeing the fresh mounds of earth or smelling the stench of rotting bones, he
could sense the bodies. They were calling to him like they had since that first night in 1998.
Whispering to him in soft voices carried by a haunted wind. In the beginning, he had not
understood the meaning, thinking that he was going mad. Poisoned by the thing carved into
his chest.
But their voices grew stronger and clearer the more he listened, eventually leading him here
—to a place that was once home to so many better memories. A place that the Dark Lord had
corrupted like so many others.
Every prior visit to Hogwarts, he had kept a wide berth from the stadium, knowing what so
many others did not: that they were all just one wrong move away from being buried.
No longer. Tonight, he came here for a purpose. A promise.
The trees of the Forbidden Forest swayed darkly behind Draco as he lifted a flexed hand.
The moon melted into a hellish color and Draco's red eyes clenched shut as he was heaved
into the waking nightmare. But this time, he went willingly. This time, he forced his eyes
back open to watch the Quidditch pitch come alive, writhing like a pit of eels as bodies were
dragged out of the hard-packed ground.
It was torture.
Draco sank down, kneeling on the row of benches. Collapsing under the explosive pressure
of a thousand minds. He had never before resurrected so many with a single command.
He had already died a thousand times over, and now he died a thousand times again.
And maybe it would have broken him, split his own head into too many shattered pieces, if
they had not all shared the same dying regrets. If they had not all been murdered by a fork-
tongued man masquerading as their savior.
Draco dug his nails into the splintered stands as he relived each and every execution.
His name was Cillian Elias Selwyn, and he was thirty-three going on thirty-four, although he
did not make it. He knew the end was coming; could see Death chasing him like a faceless
hunter, always only a step behind. Let up for an instant, and it would catch him in its teeth. It
did. He had sought out an Apothecarist in Knockturn Alley. An old hag who claimed she
could remove the Mark from his arm—he had been that desperate to escape. She lied. It
became infected, festering and swollen with fever. The others had noticed. Of course they had
noticed. So he died kneeling in the Great Hall, prostrated before the Dark Lord with a wand
pressed into the base of his neck. A laugh, then his arm stopped hurting, and he got his
escape.
His name was Augustus Nilsson Frey, and he was sixty-seven years young. His first
grandchild was born that winter. He had not met the child, who was a baby girl. His son did
not allow it, calling him a dangerous, bigoted fanatic. A grandfather who did not deserve to
meet his own granddaughter. It had broken his heart to do it, but he reported his son to the
Cabinet for treason. They killed his daughter-in-law first, then his son, saving the baby girl
for last. He never even knew the girl's name, because the next thing he knew, the executioner
was turning the wand on him. That's right. They always purged the entire bloodline. How
foolish of him to forget.
The drumming of heavy, leaden footsteps began to fill the night air. The gasps of lungless
bodies; the creak of unused limbs. Draco's head remained bowed as he descended the stairs.
And all the while, their names and memories tore through even his strongest mental shields.
Leonard Parish Gethin.
Zamor Omard Robertsole.
Maximillian Bilal Cantrell.
Rosario Bouges Gallagher.
Draco's eyes flickered as the next name entered his mind. And he already knew this one.
Her name was Bellatrix Druella Lestrange, and she was fifty-three years old. It was not her
fault. None of it was her fault and she felt no shame. Where were the rest of them when the
Dark Lord fell? Why did no one else attempt to find the Dark Lord when he vanished?
Nowhere. That she, who had spent many years in Azkaban for him, could be so easily
discarded . . . it had to have been a miscalculation. It was all Rodolphus's fault, her weak,
spineless husband. She never gave a damn about the rat. The Dark Lord had to understand
that it was all for show, all for him. The husband, the parties. But then Rodolphus had lost the
Veela bitch, and brought their house to ruin. But she was not to blame and it was not her
fault. She loved her master and him alone, and it was not her fault. It was not her fault. Those
were the last words on her lips.
Maryam Libby Branson.
Hassan Ayers Harash.
Aoife Verity Hodges.
Ismail Leo Poole.
Now Draco was walking across the roiling field, a hellscape of earth and whitewashed bones.
An army of the Dark Lord's discarded. He moved at their center, barely visible through the
mass of shadowy figures, climbing up the lightless, winding path like a line of vengeful
wraiths.
The gravel crunched beneath their stiff feet; a grating, foreboding noise that only grew louder
as they approached Hogwarts.
Then the Inferi at the front came to a sudden halt, arms and hands reaching out to push
against an invisible surface. A barrier.
Drawing the Elder Wand, Draco strode forward.
An iridescent film blocked his way, stretching up into the inky sky, higher than the eye could
see. Encircling the entire turreted castle like an enormous glass dome. Paper thin but
powerful enough to safeguard the Regime's stronghold. An amalgamation of ancient
enchantments and blood rituals.
Ranks of Death Eaters waited on the other side of the translucent barrier, standing in tight
formations, weapons raised and skull masks shining. All eyes locked on him.
On the Dark Lord's traitor.
One man strode right up to Draco. Only a thin film lay between them, but it was enough
protection for the man to flash a cocky leer.
"Malfoy."
"Carrow."
Amycus Carrow's doughy face appeared even more distorted through the shield. He said
callously, "The Savior knew you would come back eventually. There's nowhere else to go, is
there? Not for you. The Order will never allow you to live, you know that, Malfoy."
Draco did not respond or move a muscle. However, the innumerable dead at his rear
continued to slide in and out of the gloom; indistinct and shadowed. He could see the rows of
Death Eaters glancing at them nervously. See them shivering. Even without Legilimency, he
could read their thoughts of desertion. There was so little loyalty left this far into the war, and
they were scared of resurrection.
All of them feared it as much as death, and Amycus was no exception. The man's beady eyes
darted to the hordes of Inferi quickly, before returning to Draco.
He spoke again.
"You don't need to do this. Whatever bargain you made with Shacklebolt only ends with your
head on a pike. The Dark Lord will forgive you. It's not too late."
Pressing a gloved palm against the curved surface of the air, Draco intoned, "It's six years too
late."
The film began to vibrate at the contact. Inferi were slinking up the hillside to push against
the barrier. Decayed fingers were scratching, skeletal fists were pounding. Hairline fractures
began to vein across the sheer film separating them from the castle.
Amycus stumbled backward with the rest of the Death Eaters, retreating up the slope, faces
awash in dread.
"Don't, Malfoy."
Draco smiled darkly, voice even darker.
"Break it."
***
Hermione | Hogwarts, Scotland
Waves of sickness rolled across the shore, hitting Hermione in swells of nausea and fatigue.
The exhaustion went deeper than her skin. It was inside her soul. A rushing in her ears as
though of water, the roaring growing louder.
Hermione could see the Dementors from where she stood at the front of the formation. They
were gliding across the surface of the Great Lake, the dock, the boat house. Their black
cloaks billowing, hoods hanging over their shrouded heads. Hundreds of Azkaban guards
gathered to defend Hogwarts from an army waiting at their doorstep.
No Death Eaters waited on the other side. Not here. Only the Dementors, spreading their
poison through the night air like mustard gas.
She glanced to the side. Pangolin was hunched forward looking pale, and Ginny did not seem
much better. Nervous faces were staring at the sea of cloaks hovering before them. Separated
by only a faltering shielding enchantment.
A magically-amplified voice made Hermione spin around.

Ishida Ren was weaving through the formation. His wand was pressed to his throat as he
issued final commands. Kingsley strode behind him, hands clasped behind his back. Heads
rose to listen as they passed.
"The instant the shield falls, follow your instructions. Our latest intelligence confirmed that
Voldemort is sheltering in the Chamber of Secrets. The Infantry will engage as many Death
Eaters as possible, drawing them out of the castle to grant Shacklebolt and the Special Force
a direct route to the target."
Energized cheers began to spread through the crowd, wands raised higher and Patronuses
flared, brightening the Dementor-filled skyline. The army was rallying, emboldened by the
confirmation that Voldemort was hiding underground like a frightened roach, ready to be
exterminated.
Ready for them.
Now Kingsley's sonorous voice rang out, overpowering the shouting; cutting through their
raucous yells.
"An era of hate has dominated us for far too long. But out of that valley of misery,
hopelessness, and fragmentation we have found our way back here. Returned here, to the
place where it should have ended that first battle—"
Kingsley crossed before Hermione. There were deep lines in his brow and around his mouth.
The months had eaten at him like a cancer, and he seemed so much older than forty-seven.
Then his dark eyes found Hermione, holding her gaze. And she could see the fire ignite
behind them. The renewed strength.
In spite of everything, Hermione still wanted to trust the stalwart leader. His methods were
cruel, misguided. But he had kept the resistance alive when it could have fallen a hundred
times over. Dedicated his fortune to a cause that so many others had abandoned. And yet,
there was no forgiveness in her heart.
She looked away.
Kingsley continued to address his army.
"Out of that failure, the fire of opposition has burned once again. Stronger than before. Like a
phoenix clawing its way from the cinders to usher in an era of freedom. We are that phoenix
and we will rise to fight."
Now he was positioned at the head of their ranks, raising an arm for silence. The crowd grew
hushed. There was only the sound of Inferius screams somewhere far away; the swish of
Dementor cloaks drifting across the water.
"I will not underrate the gravity of the task at hand. This is a solemn hour, whatever the
outcome. There is too much loss to ever be truly whole. And yet, in this solemn hour, we do
not submit. No, we stand and fight. SO FIGHT! FIGHT! ORDER OF THE PHOENIX!"
As the last of Kingsley's words fell over the crowd, it happened.
The shimmering air burst apart in an explosion of brilliant white sparks, showering over the
Great Lake like falling snow.
The barrier was gone.
"ADVANCE NOW! NOW!"
Dementors began to surge forward at lightning speed. Descending like a cloud of vengeful
wraiths.
"WATCH OUT!"
Fighters nearest the shoreline were being hoisted into the air in a flurry of torn black cloaks,
lifted high above the water. They struggled and fought as their mouths disappeared beneath
hoods. Then the Dementors were dropping limp, soulless bodies into the lake, flying down to
catch their next victims.
"SUMMON PATRONUSES!"
Hermione ran the opposite direction—toward Pangolin and Ginny, all three making a straight
line for the distant outline of Hogwarts. The strawberry blond pointed, saying, "The others
are up ahead. We'll meet inside and go to the Chamber together. Shacklebolt isn't the only one
who gets a shot at Voldemort."
"Hell yeah!" snarled Ginny. Her hood was down and she was grinning maliciously. Her wand
was already scorching flames into the grass as she sprinted. "I don't trust them to finish him
off. We're not taking any chances tonight."
Hermione removed a Basilisk knife from her belt, gripping its leather handle tightly, ignoring
the stabbing pain that always accompanied the contact. Then, without slowing down, she
began to scan the moor for Draco.
"Where are you?"
No response. If the Death Eaters were still not here at the lake, it was likely they confronted
Draco elsewhere. He must be resurrecting and unable to find her voice amongst the others in
his head.
Hermione swallowed roughly, facing forward and trying to steady her breathing.
Then she saw it.
A soaring minaret jutting out of the castle, golden lights glinting behind its many windows,
its pointed roof piercing the clouds like a granite spear.
Gryffindor Tower.
It was the reminder she needed. Because the longer she stared, the more she envisioned Harry
and Ron standing behind those windows, watching her tear across the school grounds.
They were both up there waiting, she was unreasonably certain of it. And after she went to
fulfill a promise that she had nearly forgotten . . . after she killed Voldemort . . . she would go
there.
This time, she would not leave the fight. Not leave the tower alone. She would finally climb
that spiral staircase and be with them, all of them.
Harry and Ron.
Draco.
She lied to him. There was no after tonight.
***
They were darting through the corridors, hexes hitting the walls on both sides like the spray
of gunfire. Blaise yanked Jaguar beneath a blast of magenta light that almost cost him another
arm, then they both hurtled behind a corner. Ginny, Pangolin, and Hermione were already
there, catching their breaths. Echidna was missing—they had lost him in the chaos.
The castle quaked; and there was the sound of giants lumbering somewhere far away.
Blaise ducked low, gesturing for the squad to huddle up. Spider remained in her Animagus
form, flitting around their heads, keeping guard.
"The Chamber is accessible through the second floor girl's lavatory, right?"
Ginny bent her head in confirmation. "I've been there before. I'll lead the way."
"Then let's go."
The ground shook violently again, and there was an explosion overhead. They scattered as
massive chunks of rock fractured and dropped from the ceiling. A windstorm of smoke and
dust flew through the corridor.
"Something's up ahead. Stay sharp!" Ginny shouted, weaving between the rubble while she
swept the dirt from her uniform. They had all opted to wear their old bodysuits tonight.
However, the rest of the Knife was nowhere in sight, likely having taken a different route to
the Chamber of Secrets. It felt like a race to the finish line.
Once the air cleared, a swarm of dark figures emerged at the end of the hallway. The glint of
metal Death Eater masks.
Not giving them the chance to strike first, Hermione aimed her wand.
She pivoted like a coiling serpent.

Wicked, black fire shot out from Hermione's wand, carving a wide, blazing arch that licked
against the castle walls, incinerating the sconces. Blowing apart the massive stones. She
connected the nightmarish circle, and the black fire burned hotter, strong enough that its
edges turned a blinding blue.
Hermione took an offensive stance, pushing both palms out.
A pillar of black flames surged forward, faster than Fiendfyre, barreling for the Death Eaters,
who were shooting curses in retaliation. She felt her fire consume the closest man; felt his
flesh and bones melt as her eyes flashed vermillion.
Now a few of the Death Eaters were retreating. But Blaise dashed ahead, straight through the
inferno, the hook of his sickle slashing through the air.
A head rolled, then a second, and a third.
The passageway darkened and Hermione whirled to see Dementors descending from a hole in
the crumbling ceiling, drifting toward Pangolin. The witch had not noticed, too consumed in
the fighting.
Hermione closed her eyes, trying to think of something happy. It was so hard, and a white fog
was obscuring her senses, high-pitched screaming was filling her ears. Then the air grew
colder. And it was like she could feel his cold hand wrapped around hers while they stood in
the sand, beneath the fading sunlight. Wrists tied together by golden ropes, reciting their
vows.
"Expecto Patronum!" Hermione bellowed.
A bright, silver otter came bursting from her wand to hover before Pangolin, who sprung to
the side, barely avoiding the sharp claws of a Dementor.
An iridescent horse galloped down the corridor, cast by Ginny, who was directing the squad
toward the nearest moving staircase.
They mounted the steps quickly. Then they were on the second floor, forcing their way
through waves of Death Eaters. There were so many, and the squad was split apart.
Someone had summoned a great, black viper, which was slithering between the duelists,
striking at legs, biting with venomous fangs. Hermione sent a blade into its eye socket, but
not before it lodged its teeth into Ginny's thigh. She sank to the floor, writhing, and Blaise
tugged her behind a suit of armor to extract the poison.
Hermione was moving to help when a blast of smoke surged at her rear, suddenly reforming
and solidifying to become pursuing daggers. She dropped low. One scraped her cheek but she
was otherwise uninjured.
She was back on her feet a moment later, hissing, "Mortuspina!"

The attacking Death Eater hit the floor hard. His mask fell and he shrieked. His spine bowed
upward as he was pierced by invisible thorns, cutting through muscle and tendons. Impaling
him more brutally than a shrike. Blood spread out from beneath his heaving back.
Feeling very little, Hermione left him there, going to kneel beside her friends.
"Take the squad the rest of the way," Blaise said sharply. Ginny was on the verge of
unconsciousness, and he was pouring Dittany into the bite marks on her leg. "She'll be fine.
I'll get her to the healers and meet you all down there."
"Come on, Goldfinch! We need to keep moving," Pangolin cried. She was working with Jag
and Spider to fend off a man with long, yellow nails who closely resembled Fenrir Greyback.
There was a pack of barbaric werewolves appearing from behind a tapestry, snarling and
baring their rotted teeth.
Standing again, Hermione ordered, "Follow me!"
She led them into a hidden passageway, emerging across from Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
The bespectacled ghost was not inside. That was not the only change since Hermione's last
visit. The already-shabby lavatory had been gutted; stripped down to its bones. The worn,
wooden cubicles were gone, as were all but a single sink.
However, a few candles still flickered in a cobwebbed chandelier, revealing a large, exposed
pipe in the corner. Wide enough for a human to slide through. Relief flooded Hermione at the
sight—they would not need Parseltongue to access the entrance. While Ron had been able to
mimic Harry, it had been years since she heard that serpentine language. And she had not
been confident in her ability to use it.
The squad entered behind Hermione, pausing briefly to heal their wounds and swap out
weapons. Preparing for the fight that lay beneath.
Hermione was catching her breath, scanning the bathroom when she caught a blur of
movement. It came from a chipped vanity mirror, hanging above the one remaining sink.
She hesitated, then walked to it, entranced, hardly recognizing the woman in the glass.
Staring.
Her pale face was painted in blood, and her eyes were stained the same shade of crimson. She
looked so broken and lost. Wartorn.
This was also not her reflection from the Mirror of Erised. While her cheeks were gaunt, she
was still young. Unaged. There were no wrinkles yet. No lines left by smiles.
And there was no Draco beside her.
She needed him, she loved him. Neither was enough. There was no hope of becoming what
she saw reflected in that taunting mirror. No time where they grew old and gray. No time left
together. Maybe somewhere, but not in this future.
She was so tired of living.

Hermione reached out a hand to touch the grimy surface.
She spoke without words.
"Come find me in the Chamber of Secrets."

The Siege of Hogwarts Part III
Chapter Notes
Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp’s bridge,
I’ll make my servile spirits to invent.
***
Hermione was crossing to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets when a hand pulled her
aside.
"Let me go first," offered Spider. She was taking Hermione's position. "If it's an ambush and
Death Eaters are waiting below, I can fly back up the pipe."
Pangolin agreed, "Makes sense. But if you run into trouble and can't transform, just shout and
we'll slide down wands blazing."
Jag clapped a hand on Spider's willowy shoulder. "Watch yourself, Dolohov."
Before Hermione could object, the dark-haired witch was seated in the tube, prosthetic leg
clanking against the metal side. She pushed herself forward, then disappeared from sight.
Everyone stilled to listen.
A minute passed.
Two minutes.
Three.
Finally, Pangolin whispered, "No signal. That means we're all clear, yeah? My turn."
Only pausing to sheath both gilded scimitars in their chest holsters, Pangolin hoisted herself
onto the lip, then vanished down the pipe without a backward glance.
Hermione peered into the shadowy opening, seeing and hearing nothing.
She drew her head back. Jag seemed about to speak, so she said quickly, "You guard the rear.
I'm going next."
Then Hermione was lowering herself into the pipe, and launching downward.
It was like rushing through an endless, slimy, dark flume. She could see dozens of pipes
branching off in all directions, twisting and turning, sloping deeply downward. Her ears
popped as she fell deeper below the school than even the dungeons. Behind her she could
hear Jag, thudding slightly at the curves. Suddenly, the pipe moved up ahead, and she was
jerked to the left.
And then, just as her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, the pipe leveled out and
she shot from the end with a wet thud. Landing on the damp floor of a very narrow, stone
tunnel. Too cramped to even stand upright.
Hermione's stomach fell.
She had been in the Chamber of Secrets once before—during the First Battle of Hogwarts.
This was not that same tunnel. This ceiling was much lower and the shaft was tighter. Death
Eaters must have altered the entrance so that it diverted to multiple outlets, like a maze
carved out by ants. A way of preventing intruders from attacking in large numbers. And it
seemed to have worked since Spider and Pangolin were not here. Jag too had failed to emerge
from her same pipe. They had been separated.
It would be equally impossible for Draco to find her in this underground labyrinth. Even after
he came to the Chamber, there was no way for him to locate the correct route. No way for her
to get back up the pipe.
Entirely alone and with no better option, Hermione squinted into the dark tunnel, deciding to
move on.
“Frigus Incendio,” she muttered to her wand, and it lit the gloom with a flare of brilliant,
bluebell flames. The same ones she used to carry around in glass jars. As she walked through
the tunnel, she used the blue fire to sear marks into the slimy walls, leaving a trail of cinders
for only a friendly pursuer to follow.
The tunnel seemed to extend for miles, eventually widening barely enough to stand.
But she did not encounter anyone, and this section of the Chamber continued to look
unfamiliar. She pushed ahead, swallowing her gnawing discomfort. The shadows on the
claustrophobic walls looked monstrous in the flickering light cast by her fire. The
underground passage was as quiet as midnight, and the only sounds she could hear were the
crunch of rat bones beneath her shoes; the splash of an unseen waterfall.
Eventually she edged around a dark bend in the tunnel.
Her eyes gradually adjusted and she began to make out the shape of something huge and
curved lying right across the tunnel. She inched forward, heart beating so fast it hurt. Very
slowly, she lifted her wand.
The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty
across the tunnel floor. A skin shed by a Basilisk that must have been twenty feet long at
least.
A chill slithered down her spine as her wand brightened.

Black figures were strewn over the ground. Bodies shrouded in the close-fitted, sleek
uniforms of Knife fighters. Their hoods were askew and their eyes were vacant and fogged
with death. None moved.
Hermione weaved between a ransacked graveyard of unnaturally bent arms and legs,
recognizing the faces as belonging to Angelina's squad. The witch herself was slumped in the
corner, leaning against a stone column with her eyes shut. She could have been sleeping. She
was not.
There were no survivors. Inexplicably, there were no signs of any struggle besides the bodies,
which appeared whole and undamaged. No curse marks burned into the wall or weapons out
of holsters. It all put her on edge.
Then she saw it: a sudden movement at the shadowy end of the Chamber.
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand and went to it, discerning a mass of dark blue robes
spilled across the stone floor; the glint of a gold earring. Rich, umber skin that was growing
bloodless.
"Kingsley—"
She dropped to her knees beside the man. His black eyes drifted to her slowly, painfully.
Using every ounce of energy to focus and not slip away. His chest barely fluttered as he took
shallow breaths. Unlike the other bodies, there were deep wounds in his chest, and the floor
around him was sticky with blood.
"Who did this?" Hermione asked, frantically scanning the empty, lifeless room, finding
nothing but blank stone walls.
Kingsley did not answer.
So Hermione began to sweep her wand across the length of his body, casting a bright blue
healing incantation, then another. Every time she closed the injuries, they instantly reopened.
And he was losing too much blood—more than her charms could replenish. His skin was
growing cold and sallow.
But Hermione kept trying, feeling her anger slowly fall away with each failed attempt,
replaced by desperation. At this moment, all she saw was a dying human. A man who spent
hundreds of hours teaching her to think and plan. A mentor who took a fledgling under his
wing and gave her a voice at his table. A leader who had lost everything to the war.
Kingsley's voice came in soft whispers that were barely audible over the sound of water. She
leaned in to listen.
"It . . . is not fair to ask of others . . . what you are not willing to do . . . yourself."
Hermione's brow tightened, but she did not draw away. She recognized that Kingsley was
reciting the password to his old study, but did not know why.
"I don't understand."

Now tears were leaking from Kingsley's dark eyes.
"It was supposed to be . . . me . . . not Potter."
"What are you saying?" Hermione asked in a very lost voice.
Kingsley released a deep, ragged exhale. "The valley . . . Glen Lochy . . . I was going to be
Potter's double. . . . I should have died in his place."
A ringing silence fell.
Hermione was stunned. The walls were spinning and her head pounded. She knew that
Kingsley proposed the idea of using a double himself, but never imagined he was the
unnamed volunteer. Never imagined that he intended to take Harry's place until she made the
Unbreakable Vow and changed his plan.
Shaking, Hermione gripped Kingsley's limp hand, saying brokenly, "I think we all failed in
this war."
Kingsley's voice became even softer.
"My greatest failure was in you, Hermione—"
Her skin grew cold. She faced away, saying, "I know I've disappointed you for years. That
was never my intention."
But it was like the man did not hear her, or could not listen. He was staring straight up at the
ceiling. Eyes locked on something in the shadows only he could see, already halfway through
the veil.
"The Unbreakable Vow was meant to be your cage . . . a permanent reminder of where you
belonged . . . I thought it would keep you away from the fight. That if Potter died, you would
. . . finally stay back at the Council table . . . I wanted to keep you safe and hidden. I was
wrong—"
Every gasped syllable burned into Hermione's skin like fire, and she wept. Truly wept.
"—I never had a family, a child. But after Hogwarts fell and we moved to Shell Cottage, I
saw myself in you, Hermione . . . I saw so much potential in your mind and spirit. You were
the daughter I never had—"
His eyes were not tracking. He was fading.
"—I failed you."
Hermione's throat burned as she stared down at Kingsley in disbelief, seeing his eyes turn to
glass. There was only pity within her soul now. Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling it
slowly stiffen.
She reached up to pull Kingsley's dark eyelids shut. Burying this grief with a hundred others.
Suppressing the ripples of confusion and regret tearing through her mind until there was
nothing.
She gently laid his head on the floor and stood.
More fallen Order members were scattered ahead. She followed their black-clothed forms
deeper into the Chamber. Using their bodies like breadcrumbs as she searched for unknown
attackers. Not a single person was breathing.
The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Hermione's body was screaming; her
spine was prickling in anticipation. She wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what she would
find when it did. And then, at last, she crept around a final bend, leading to a doorway carved
with a pair of entwined serpents, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.
She stepped forward, recognizing this ancient stone room, which was long and dimly-lit.
Towering stone columns bedecked in snakes rose to support a ceiling lost in the darkness,
casting long, black shadows through the ethereal, greenish gloom that filled the air.
Heart beating very fast, Hermione rose, listening to the quiet. There were no bodies here. No
movement. However, yellowed Basilisk fangs littered the floor.
She aimed her wand and inched forward between the serpentine pillars. Every careful
footstep echoed loudly off the walls. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be
following her movements. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, she thought she saw
one stir.
Then, as she drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue of a wizard high as the Chamber
itself loomed into view, standing on a raised platform against the back wall. She craned her
neck to look up into the giant face above: it was timeworn and monkeyish, with a long, thin
beard that fell almost to the bottom of his sweeping stone robes. Two enormous gray feet
stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a crumpled figure.
"Mad-Eye," Hermione muttered, sprinting to him and dropping to her knees.
She grabbed Moody's shoulders, and heaved him upright. He looked very much like she had
found him in the Lestrange Château. White as plaster, his head lolling hopelessly against his
chest. And like then, there were no visible signs of trauma, not even bruises. Only old scars
riddled his pitted skin, and his electric blue eye was locked in a fixed position: black pupil
staring into the gloom directly above their heads.
Hermione hastily scanned the empty room, then looked up at the ceiling, trying to discern
what Moody was seeing.
Something hard jabbed into her torso.
"Don't try anything."
She froze.
WHAM
Hermione felt herself slammed flat into the hard ground; her face was pressed into stone; the
mildewed smell of it filled her nostrils. She did not resist. All the breath seemed to have been
knocked out of her; her head was swimming so badly she felt as though the ground was
swaying like the deck of a stormy ship.
Now a rough hand wrapped tightly around her neck, choking her until she coughed into the
floor. To hold herself steady, she tightened her grip on the two things she was still clutching:
the poisoned Basilisk blade and her redwood wand. But she felt as though she would slide
away into the blackness gathering at the edges of her vision if she let go of either. And her
chest hurt with every small, stolen inhale.
A torrent of sound deafened and confused her ringing ears; there were voices everywhere,
footsteps, yells . . . She remained where she was, her face screwed up against the noise, the
choking, biding her time as her oxygen dwindled.
Then a second pair of hands seized her roughly and turned her over. The glaringly bright tip
of a wand flooded her vision until all she saw was white light.
"It's Granger. I knew she couldn't stay away."
A silver mask glared down menacingly. Pale blue eyes that pierced into her as sharply as the
knife digging into her skin. Tilting the edge of the blade back and forth so that it slowly
wedged deeper into her ribcage. She could feel hot blood leak onto the floor.
"Where is he?" the Death Eater snarled.
His knife angled upward to pierce her right lung. She spit blood.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
She vaguely registered the noise of Moody limping across the platform, the dull clunk of his
wooden leg echoing around the Chamber.
"WHERE THE HELL IS MALFOY?"
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Down the limestone steps . . .
"She's not talking, Mad-Eye. Knew this wouldn't work. Better to kill her."
"NO!"
More voices. The swish of black robes. The once deserted underground room was flooding
with motion. Hermione continued to gasp shallowly, watching her blood curl and twist on the
watery cavern floor.
"No. Even if she won't tell us how to find him, the Dark Lord will still want Granger. We'll
keep her locked up like his parents, and put him back on the leash. So keep her alive, but just
barely."
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
"She's already bleeding out. Can't we just let her fucking die and pretend we didn't? Damn
devil summoner wouldn't know the difference or care."
Clunk.
"No. Macnair, go help Yaxley heal the girl. I'll interrogate her myself. She knows me, and I'll
get her singing."
Rough arms yanked Hermione up, dragging her off the platform. She blinked slowly, seeing
that the entire Chamber was alive with Death Eaters. Voldemort was not amongst them.
Clunk. Clunk.
"Drink."
Hermione heard a vial uncorked and felt smooth glass being pushed against her lips.
Someone forced her head back, tipping the stuff down her throat. She coughed, a peppery
taste burning her lungs. The damp ceiling came into sharper focus, and so did Moody
himself. He looked as waxen as he did when feigning death, and his electric blue eye was
swiveling around the room, surveilling the mass of surrounding Death Eaters.
"You know how this ends, Granger. The same way as the last time. Your friends are even
farther from killing the Dark Lord than at Glen Lochy. What we've created goes beyond the
sacrifice of one stupid, Mudblood girl."
Hermione refused to answer, staring at a stalactite jutting out from the ceiling, focusing on a
bead of water flowing slowly down its stone side and collecting at the tip.
"I want you to cooperate," Moody said quietly. "He isn't a cruel master. If you tell us where to
find Malfoy, I promise that both of you can survive past tonight."
She did not respond, caught in thinking.
Her head screamed that this must be a trick, or that this was not the real Alastor Moody. But
even as she fought against the truth, it was clear that something was fundamentally wrong
with the ex-Auror. It was visible in his frenzied expression, the trembling in his scarred
hands.
Moody growled, "If you don't talk willingly, I'll take what I need regardless."
Silence.
"This is your last chance, Granger."
Hermione clenched her eyes firmly shut. There was no Hogwarts, and there was no Chamber
of Secrets. No betrayal. No traitor threatening her with something uglier than murder. There
was only the labyrinthine tower of her own design.
"Three . . . "
She walked through the maze of hidden passageways, and doors that led to nowhere.
"Two . . . "
Her skin grew cold as she strode past the cloaked Dementors forever plaguing her soul,
sliding between the iron bars of her mental cell, sitting with her back against the frozen
Azkaban wall.
"One . . . "
Moody widened his leathery mouth.
"Legilimens!"
Every muscle in Hermione's body stilled as Moody invaded her mind. Slipping inside as
easily as a seabird diving beneath the surface of the ocean. She felt him edge cautiously
through the narrow crevice of her gates and enter the twisting passageways. Felt his uneven,
wooden steps clunking through her maze of dark corridors, hidden corners, staircases that
dropped into the sea. Dead ends that led to nothing.
Then the intruder was there—in the secret place that only Draco ever entered—seeing the
broken bird locked within, sitting on a rotted bed, and waiting. Waiting for him.
Moody's magical eye began to swing wildly. He inched between the rusted iron bars, which
were already bent open in welcome. He went to stand before her, wooden leg slipping on the
wet stones.
For a heartbeat, there was only the slow drip of water from the ceiling and the far-flung crash
of waves.
Then Hermione's eyes flashed open.
And suddenly, the cell bars snapped back into position, sealing them together in an iron
prison.
The cage of her creation.
Moody spun to stare confusedly at the reformed cell bars at the same moment that she surged
forward, quick as lightning, stealing the wand from his hand.
"My turn."
He whirled around in time to see Hermione aim the wand and smile.
"Legilimens."
Chapter End Notes

Two more chapters left before the end of this battle. Then a time skip and epilogue that I
am currently writing :)
I appreciate every single one of you for following, commenting, and interacting. When I
started this story last year, I didn't know if anyone would want to read it at all. So the
fact that you're here means the world.
Now let's finish this <3
-HeavenlyDew
The Siege of Hogwarts Part IV
Chapter Summary
A fourth and final visit to Glen Lochy, where it all began.
Chapter Notes
Thou damned wretch and execrable dog,
Bred in the concave of some monstrous rock,
How dar'st thou thus abuse a gentleman?
***
May 2, 2002
"Get him out, Granger!" Alastor Moody roared, magical eye whirling down from the hills
above to fix on the girl—hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak but easily visible to him. "The
snake isn't here! Get to Potter and retreat now."
At the command, Granger sprang from where she knelt beside a fallen Order member, drew
her wand to burn the body with a hasty "Incendio," then disappeared into the smoke.
The moment she was gone, Alastor began dragging himself forward to follow, wooden leg
sinking down into the sodden earth with every heavy step. He was moving too slowly, but
Granger still had a chance of reaching the boy before Voldemort.
They had to get Potter out—he was still important, not just to Alastor himself, but as a
symbol. A rallying point. To have allowed Potter here at all was a miscalculation. Just
another of Shacklebolt's many questionable decisions over the years. The man was crumbling
under the responsibility of carrying an entire war on his shoulders, and taking the rest of the
Order down with him.
At the same time, Alastor knew that he could do no better. There was no playbook or
endgame in sight. Only stabs in the dark, like the desperate bites of a cornered, dying animal.
That's what the Order was now.
"Reducto!" Alastor snarled, throwing the curse at the robed back of a Death Eater who was
hardly more than a teenager. He collapsed, falling sideways onto the wet grass beside the
body of a witch whose neck was broken—her throat covered in the Death Eater's red
handprints.
Alastor did not blink as he sent the killing curse into the man's heart.
He continued onward through the valley, magical eye guarding his rear, flitting rapidly
between faces and masks, while his other remained on Granger, who was similarly carving a
bloodied path deeper into the center of the massacre. Fighting her way to Potter. She would
get there first. Get him out and back to Headquarters, making Glen Lochy a heavy loss, and
not a final stand.
The girl was getting so close. If anyone could force Potter to leave, it was her. She would—
A quiet voice.
"Dormienti Maledicere."
At the words, Alastor stilled. Wooden leg piercing the mud like a spear, shoulders hunching
forward, wand dangling loosely between stiffened fingers. It was as if something leeched
every ounce of energy from his muscles, or gravity had suddenly increased tenfold. He could
not move. Could barely think. Even his electric blue eye froze in its socket.
"It actually fucking worked," the voice said incredulously. And now a hollow, gaunt face
materialized in his narrowed field of vision. Rodolphus Lestrange was crouching on the wet
ground before him, cloak pooling around their feet, staring up with a delighted expression.
Death Eaters were encircling the man, holding off the few Order fighters still alive and
dueling.
Rodolphus reached up a jagged fingernail to slice a long cut into Alastor's cheek, smiling
darkly when the man didn't flinch. "To think we could leash the Council's Mad Dog the same
night we kill Potter."
"What the hell did you do to him?" another man asked. "It's like he's asleep."
"I didn't do anything to him that wasn't done years ago," Rodolphus said, standing. "I only
helped him remember what was lying beneath the surface. A thoughtful, dying present from
an old friend. From Crouch."
Rodolphus snapped his fingers, and Moody straightened, grizzled face pointed forward but
eyes as frozen as the rest of his body.
"So let's test it out."
As laughter began to split the air, Moody tried to look inward—he had spent the better part of
eleven months under Barty Crouch Jr.'s control, and knew how to resist Unforgivables. How
to break free. If he could find that thread choking his mind, forcing him into submission—
But this was not the Imperius Curse.

It was more sinister magic, more permanent. A dormant parasite deep in his subconscious
just waiting to reactivate. A directive.
He came to that horrible realization at the same moment Rodolphus voiced the command.
Ensure Potter dies —
And suddenly Alastor was compelled forward by a terrible force, a hookworm tunneling into
his thoughts and blighting his free will. Before he knew it, he was charging through a
sneering crowd of Death Eaters, who parted to let him pass like a black-cloaked sea.
Alastor stumbled, hobbled at a furious speed, not even reacting as hexes hit his arms and
legs, ripping him to shreds like gunfire. Moving with zero control. He could not hear
anything, only muffled shouting. And his sight grew incredibly tunneled, as if he was staring
through the wrong end of a telescope.
Then he saw the boy. He was standing thirty yards away battling an unmasked Death Eater,
completely unaware of his surroundings. Unaware that the Dark Lord was gliding through
the valley toward him with murderous, scarlet eyes. It would be over very soon.
Alastor's blood went cold even as the parasite in his brain sang with glee.
A flash of silver motion drew Moody's attention.
There she was.
Granger was right ahead, tearing across the field beneath the Invisibility Cloak, concealed
from anyone but him. Following a wide arc to intersect Potter as instructed. If she hid him
beneath the Cloak, it was possible to escape from the Dark Lord.
Ensure Potter dies —
He had to stop her.
There was only pity in Alastor's heart as he swung his wand like a scythe.
"Diffindo."
A white streak of light cut through the air, propelled forward.
Struck, Granger tumbled roughly, snapping her wand cleanly in half on impact. At first,
nothing happened; she seemed uninjured. Then bright, red lines blossomed on both ankles.
Wide slices to the tendons. So deep that they went clear through to the bone. He must have hit
her arteries—the blood was coming out that fast. He was always an ace shot and still was
despite his narrowed vision. The ground beneath the girl was more gore than grass. And even
the magic of the Invisibility Cloak faltered as the silver fabric was drenched in her blood.
She would not survive.
Alastor stepped over the dying girl, then scanned the field again.
Potter was running. He was shouting, his thin face contorted in rage. He was raising his
wand at the Dark Lord. Casting a disarming spell.
The foolish child.
A cruel, high pitched voice stung the air.
"Avada Kedavra!"
It was over.
***
This room was not the underground pit that Crouch had kept him in for a year, and this time
he had not been secreted away in a trunk. No, he had walked off that Scottish glen himself—
he remembered as much. Remembered touching a Portkey and being flung to a large, white
mansion. A French-style Château. Remembered hearing them—his handlers—say it belonged
to the Lestranges.
Say he belonged to the Lestranges.
Decades ago, this room must have been beautiful. The architectural bones were there—the
skeletons of fine wainscotting, crown molding, and bespoke shelves. But cleaning charms
cannot remove every stain. And the rot of decaying bodies has a way of getting into the
grains. Into the walls, cracks, and crevices. Even after he died, Alastor doubted the house-
elves could remove his stench.
And somehow the former stateliness of this new prison made it viler than the trunk—a
reminder of what was taken. Like a starving man biting into a cake, only to find it stuffed with
maggots instead of cream.
Before the war, the Department of Ministries had played with the laws of nature in the Time
Room. A place filled with beautiful, dancing lights. Clocks on every surface, large and small,
grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks
ranging the length of the room. He had visited that place once, though he had not stayed
long. The busy, relentless ticking of clocks had assaulted his ears like thousands of minuscule
marching bands, driving him mad. It was a disturbing place, and there was a rumor that the
Unspeakables had even discovered how to slow down time.
So had Barty Crouch Jr.
Or at least that is what it felt like to Alastor, trapped in a body he could not control. He
would lay on the threadbare mattress, staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper, the festering
curtains. There were only necessary movements. Just enough to eat, sleep, and survive.
Nothing more. For two years that seemed like two hundred years, he lived life in stagnancy, if
you could call it living.
He did not recall being tortured for information. However, there were dark periods that he
could not place. That is probably when the Legilimency happened. He would awaken in his
shabby room with a pounding headache and less brain than before. Left only with vague
flashes of confessing details about the Order's Secret Keeper, leadership structure, and
Special Force. Information spilling from his mouth like a drooling dog. The dormant curse
paralyzing both his body and mind left him with no resistance. No willpower.
At some undetermined future point, the Lestranges began to show off their war prisoner. He
was a proud man, Rodolphus Lestrange, and took great pleasure in having Alastor hobble
around the dining room with the house-elves. They would clean and dress him; doll him up
like a ventriloquist dummy, then parade him through the Château to entertain foreign visitors.
Eventually, they even had him wait on private meetings. It was not an unreasonable
complacency, considering he had shown no sign of fighting the dormant curse. He obeyed
every command, no matter how cruel. Most of his fingers had to be regrown from biting them
off with his own teeth on Bellatrix's sadistic orders. It was a slow and painful existence. A
hell disguised as stasis.
Today, he was hovering behind Rodolphus like a well-trained manservant. A pressed napkin
draped over one arm, face shaven, and mind numb. Some small part of his brain—the part
that had not wholly succumbed to the directive—recognized that this was a rare meeting of
the Cabinet of Advisors. One where Voldemort himself was not present.
Rodolphus was seated at one head of a long table, with his wife taking the other. Between
them were Amycus Carrow, Corban Yaxley, and Theodore Nott. In spite of having an Order
member serving their meal, the inner circle did not seem concerned with keeping their
conversation private, talking openly. Almost bragging.
Alastor was also not the only prisoner in attendance. A young girl, Gabrielle Delacour,
similarly hung in the shadows, holding a dinner tray between trembling fingers. She was not
Imperiused or under another curse. However, there was metal fastened to her jaw and
padlocked shut. She was shaking. Theo's feral eyes had not left her once the entire meal.
Yaxley spoke.
"The plan remains unchanged. Nott has been instructed to execute Bill Weasley at midnight,
two weeks from tonight, December twenty-sixth. We'll be positioned to attack the instant the
Fidelius Charm falls. Without its nerve center, the Order will be a bird ready for slaughter.
Headless and bleeding. Gone by January."
Rodolphus set his wine glass down on the table and leaned back, his hands upon the arms of
his chair, smiling into Yaxley's glowing face.
"Pleased with that plan, aren't you?" Rodolphus said stiltedly. "I see several problems. For
one, and in case you forgot, they have safe houses buried in every corner of Britain. Some
even farther. Smoking out the main hive does nothing to destroy the network." And now
Rodolphus cocked a dark eyebrow expectantly at Yaxley, whose smile had sunk into a scowl.
Tension fell over the dinner party, and for a while there was only the clink of cutlery on
porcelain. The splash of Alastor and Gabrielle obediently refilling water goblets.
Then Carrow cleared his throat gruffly. His eyes were fixed on Alastor as he said, "So we'll
return the Mad Dog to its owner."
Rodolphus picked up his drink again, sipped it, and asked, "Why the hell would I do that,
Amycus? The Dark Savior gifted Alastor Moody to me. I am the only one who decides how to
use him."
Alastor was using a metal scraper to clean the crumbs from around Bellatrix's plate. And
even in his current state, he could tell that she was chewing on her tongue in frustration,
resisting the impulse to speak. She had been unusually mute during the entire exchange,
practically docile. From the little he saw of Bellatrix over the course of his imprisonment, it
was obvious that she had been chided to submit to her husband; to remember her position as
the lesser half. He had heard Rodolphus strike her on multiple occasions. In spite of her
fanatic loyalty to Voldemort, at the end of the day, she was still a woman in a regime that
hated women. A regime that was as steeped in custom as it was blood purity.
But the bitterness leaked out of her like mustard gas. It was in the way her eyes darted to
Rodolphus, and the twitching of her spindly hands around her wand. Nonetheless, she
remained silent.
Carrow responded instead.
"During the chaos after the raid, we'll release Mad-Eye and make it look like he escaped.
Barty's curse doesn't show on Imperius readings, so they won't know anything is wrong. He'll
be our puppet sitting at Kingsley's right hand."
Rodolphus considered. "Everyone knows we have Mad-Eye. Releasing him will make us look
vulnerable."
"Then we fake an execution. We'll instruct him to stay hidden after returning to the Order.
The larger public will never know he's alive. And we'll reveal the truth once the terrorists are
dead."
The tap of Rodolphus's redwood wand drumming against his soup bowl. A spark shot out,
searing the tablecloth and burning into the knotted wood.
"Stupefy."
Without warning, Gabrielle dropped her dinner tray and crumpled, unconscious. Her head
was bleeding into the ornate rug.
"Crucio!"
Now Alastor's knees buckled and he hit the floor hard. It was pain beyond physical torture;
his very bones were on fire; his head was splitting along his many scars; his eyes were rolling
wildly in his head; he wanted it to end . . . to black out . . . to die.
And then it was gone. He was sprawled limply beneath the dining table, looking up into the
dark eyes of Rodolphus. The room was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters’ laughter.
"Fine. Fine, we'll do as you suggest, Amycus. Mad-Eye here couldn't break out of that
command if he tried, not that he's trying. If anything, Crouch was thorough, God rest his
black soul. We'll 'execute' Mad-Eye during our Christmas masquerade and return him to the
Council."
"NO!"
Bellatrix had leapt out of her chair. She was breathing fast, storming across to Rodolphus.
"Hand-delivering Moody to them will still make us look vulnerable. Even if the rest of Europe
thinks he's dead, the Order will see his recovery as a sign of our frailty. They'll think that the
Dark Lord is losing strength."
Theo sighed loudly. "Moody would hardly be the first captive he's lost, Auntie. Think of it as a
power play."
Bellatrix walked around the table, and stopped when she reached Alastor, who was still lying
prone on the floor. She stared down at him through her heavily lidded eyes, then slowly
pressed the heel of her boot into his temple. Blood began to pool beneath the pointed tip.
"You are making the Dark Savior sound weak, Theodore. Watch your tongue," she hissed.
Gaze still locked on Alastor. Shoe pressing harder.
A dry snort.
"Some say he is growing weaker. There's talk the Mouth surpassed him years ago and is
simply waiting to act. At some point, we need to consider the future, and I think—"
"WATCH YOUR TONGUE!"
BANG
Bellatrix had sent a burst of fire across the table, and Theo danced out of his chair to avoid
the explosion. He was unhurriedly dabbing a napkin against his burnt evening shirt.
"That is ENOUGH," Rodolphus snarled, yanking his wife across the room; shoving her into a
chair. "Do not speak again. We will discuss your behavior in private."
But Bellatrix's breasts were still heaving, face twisted, pushed beyond her thin facade of
sanity. She was roaring, "THE DARK SAVIOR IS STRONG. HE, WHO CAN SPLIT HIS
SOUL SIX WAYS, CAN NEVER BE SURPASSED."
"Seven," said Theo.
Every head turned to look at the auburn-haired man. Even Gabrielle was staring, her dinner
tray dangling loosely at her side.
"He split his soul seven times," Theo continued, smirking. I read the report of Potter's death.
Potter was a Horcrux, an unintended one. The Mouth discovered what Potter really was
when he resurrected him at Glen Lochy."
Now Bellatrix was rising from her chair, slapping away her husband's hand like an irksome
fly.
"Then—then that only proves how resilient the Savior is," she said with a gloating smile. "If
he can remain this strong after destroying a piece of his own soul—"
"Maybe he didn't."
"Didn't what?" Bellatrix demanded.
"Destroy his soul."
This time, Rodolphus spoke, mouth agape. "What do you mean? Potter is alive?"
Theo began studying his fingernails, taking his time answering. They were all hanging on his
every word, and he knew it. Enjoyed the attention. "Of course Potter's not alive, fucking idiot.
We all saw him die. All I'm saying is that Dear Aunt Bella is wrong. We don't know if the
Dark Lord is affected by losing another Horcrux because it's possible he didn't lose one. At
least not that we can tell. Potter only felt the fragment leave, not break."
The barely-conscious part of Alastor's brain was screaming. However, he was not the only
one stunned by Theo's information.
"So what does the Mouth believe happened to the fragment in Potter's body?" Rodolphus
asked Theo, then sent his wife a worried expression. She was scratching at her skin and
looking pained.
"The Mouth doesn't know a damn thing about Horcruxes, otherwise he wouldn't have sent a
house-elf to deliver the report," Theo boasted. "Easier to intercept than the Prophet and far
more interesting. I didn't know he could read dying memories at all. A useful tool that's
wasted on a coward who won't even show his fucking face. But it makes me wonder what any
of it means."
A wild curiosity overtook Theo's dark eyes.
A hunger.
"I really do wonder what it means—"
***
"Goldfinch!"
Hermione's eyes flew open.
She was flat on her back with no memory of having gotten there; she was also panting and
covered in cold sweat. The shadowed ceiling was above her, still dripping water onto the
floor of the Chamber of Secrets.
She turned—Moody was crumpled to her right, eyes frozen, not breathing.
A moment later, a hooded face flooded in her vision.
Blaise.
He was dragging her to the side of the Chamber, through the chaos of fighting. In her
peripherals, she saw Pangolin dashing into a crowd, scimitars dancing gold slices across
stomachs. Curses shot through the air, and Jag yelled something to Spider, who was clawing
at eyes and unmasked faces. Red-robed Infantry dueled amongst them, driving the Death
Eaters toward the raised stone platform.
BANG
A stray hex struck the foundation pillar only a foot away, and it exploded. Sending a shower
of dust and rock toward their heads.
Blaise deftly rolled them both to the side to avoid impact, then stood and carried Hermione
deeper into the Chamber. He cast a shielding charm around them.
"You're injured," he stated, reaching out a gloved hand to wipe something warm leaking from
her nose. "Tell me what happened with Mad-Eye. It looked like they were torturing you."
When Blaise withdrew his glove, it was covered in bright red blood. Her blood. And now she
remembered using Legilimency on Moody. How long had she been in his mind? Time was
impossible to track in the sunless Chamber. But it had been long enough for the squad to find
her down here.
Hermione's head continued to pound with the afterthrows of that extended mental invasion.
With thoughts and memories she could barely understand. As Blaise began to cast a healing
charm around her battered head, she ran through each disturbing revelation.
Moody had attacked her at Glen Lochy, using his eye to see her beneath the cloak. However,
he had not been in control of his actions, not since that horrid day. It also explained why
Rodolphus had never carried out his execution on Christmas Eve, and why he looked
uninjured. The Lestranges had wanted him healthy enough to be released to the Order. Their
planted spy.
And now he was dead.
Dead before she finished hearing that damning conversation—
"Ginny's safe," Blaise offered stiffly, breaking off her dark introspection."She's with the
healers."
Despite the news, Hermione shivered, her skin pebbled, and she realized she was cold,
terribly cold.
She sat bolt upright, staring at Blaise intensely.
"Where is Voldemort?
He checked over his shoulder, then shifted them farther behind a stone column, concealed
from view. The fight was intensifying and now cloaked Dementors were descending into the
Chamber from a chasm in the ceiling. The room darkened as wand lights flickered and went
out. A moment later, silvery Patronuses began to swoop through the damp air.
"The Dark Lord was never down here," Blaise responded sharply. He paused to duck out
from behind the pillar, and sent a killing curse toward a charging Death Eater. "It was a trap
the whole time. They lured the Knife in, then sealed the entrance. It took us an hour to find
our way through this fucking maze."
Hermione struggled to her feet, but her vision swayed and she wiped a new trail of blood
from her nose. Her whole body was slick with sweat and she was shaking.
Blaise scowled. "You've done enough. Malfoy will take care of the rest."
"I need to find him," Hermione insisted. "Right now."
She tried to stand again, but Blaise took her firmly by both shoulders, forcing her to kneel. "I
won't let you do that," he insisted.
"Why the hell not?"
She twisted harder, clawing at Blaise's hands, but his hold only tightened. So hard that he was
digging nails into her shoulders, locking her in place. Horror began to chill Hermione's
already frozen veins as she realized that there was no leaving.
"I promised to keep you away," Blaise said, "That I would watch out for you if something
happened to him. That was our deal, and I'm not breaking it this time."
"What happened?"
A rueful look shadowed his dark face. It pushed Hermione over the precipice of self-control.
Now there was only desperation.
"No. I need to leave. Let me fucking find him!"
"I won't do that, Granger."
The Chamber was shrinking. Compressing on all sides. She could not breathe. Could not
even form words, let alone an explanation. This was true torture.
"Can't stay here—"
Blaise's black eyes hardened as he stared down at Hermione, who was still fighting to break
free. His grip was unrelenting. His voice, too calm.
"Malfoy didn't want you to see this part."

Chapter End Notes
We've reached the penultimate chapter of the final battle, so I thought I'd take the
opportunity to share a bit about this story and myself since I've gotten the chance to
learn so much about you all these past 84 chapters.
1. I had zero clue what I was getting into writing my first story, and never planned for it
to be close to 285K. Like many of us, I fell deep into the ACOTAR, Throne of Glass,
and Dramione pit and got the itch to try writing myself with the premise of a mental
connection. I've learned so much the last eight months, and it's been a sleepless but
amazing experience.
2. In terms of drafting process, I had the major plot twists outlined before diving in, but
not the details. I write on Google Docs, mostly on my phone, and am currently on my
tenth and final doc. When they get too long, they start crashing lol. I keep a backlog of
6-7 chapters before I feel comfortable posting, so I have enough time to catch typos and
edit.
3. Some of my best memories are of my dad reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's
Stone to me in our local bookstore in Hawaii, back when it first released (I'm dating
myself).
4. My day job is a lawyer. Very different sort of writing and not nearly as fun.
5. My corgi is named Ginny after a certain redheaded Weasley.
6. I have a replica Mirror of Erised in my office, which arrived around the same time I
wrote it into the Paris Arboretum. What mine shows is a secret.
7. After romanticizing Tenby and Grenoble so much, now I want to visit. They're on my
bucket list.
8. I'm a Hufflepuff, and proud. My partner is a Slytherin (because of course he is).
9. I wrote this work to belong to a three-part series. The other two are being written
concurrently, and can be read in any order. You'll understand more why I did this after
the epilogue ;)
10. You are truly the funniest, cleverest, and kindest community, and I'm eternally
grateful that you're here.
The best is yet to come.
-HeavenlyDew
The Siege of Hogwarts Part V
Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want?
***
Hermione hunched forward onto her knees, pressing palms to her eyes.
Eventually Blaise's grip on her shoulders loosened as he felt her stop trying to resist.
However, he kept his want pointed toward her ankles, ready to cast an Incarcerous spell if she
tried to escape.
He leaned against the stone column, speaking darkly.
"Believe me, Malfoy is the last person I expected to act brave. I didn't want this anymore than
you."
The din of fighting began to diminish as the Order overwhelmed the last few straggling
Death Eaters. The Chamber grew quiet, and now there were only the sounds of exhausted
knees hitting the stone floor, and the dripping of water. Every droplet struck Hermione's
eardrums like an explosion. Her skull pounded.
She repeated, "Let me go."
Blaise glared at her. "No fucking way."
Anger was coursing through her veins like fire. It was an effort to keep her voice steady.
"Try and stop me."
Then Hermione hoisted herself off the floor and slowly went to retrieve her wand. She slid it
into a holster, making no sudden movements. Blaise did not react, so she resheathed her other
weapons.
Once her belt holsters were loaded, she straightened, looking back up at Blaise. Seeing the
Sectumsempra scars carved into his face only strengthened her resolve to do whatever it took
to leave. Fighting her way out wasn't off the table.
She took a step back.
Blaise twisted his wand. "Imperio!"
Hermione leapt to the side, dodging the Unforgivable.
She drew her wand, aiming it directly at Blaise's head, taking another step toward the exit
tunnel.
Blaise spoke.
"I already broke one promise to Malfoy. Don't make me break a second."
At the piteous statement, Hermione's mind went to the old oak tree in his faroff vineyard. The
confession he made about Draco's parents. She knew the depth of his guilt.
It didn't matter.
"I made promises to him too. I married him. But I don't get to keep him, and there's still no
good option. At least let me say goodbye."
Pain shadowed Blaise's dark face. His ivory wand was shaking violently in his hand. It
remained pointed at Hermione as she slowly crossed through the Chamber.
And left.
She darted around the twists and corners, finding only dead ends and dead bodies. Endless
corridors that faded into the blackness like the depths of a very dark ocean. Tight
passageways that led in circles, never ending staircases.
And as she ran, half of her mind was not in the Chamber of Secrets anymore. Half of her
mind flew to a bright, stone corridor high up in the castle, the warm air streaming through a
wall of arches open to the sky, walking with a heavy and purposeful tread. Black cloak
floating across the floor, wraithlike and shredded—
***
The Fat Lady was not in her portrait. The circular door swung open for her, and here she
was, in a round, tapestried room with many sunlit windows. Two spiral staircases wound up,
leading somewhere out of sight. Then she was striding deeper into the Gryffindor Common
Room in a body that was not hers.
Ramshackle furniture and aged rugs lay about, and the visage of a magnificent lion head
stared down from above a fireplace. A log cracked and creaked behind the metal grate. A
blond man was leaning over it and stoking the dying embers. His black robes were crusted in
dried blood, and his skin was ghostly.
He did not look back, but just kept tending the dwindling flames.
She sat in the cushioned chair behind him, and a voice issued from her own mouth that she
did not recognize. A high, cold voice empty of any human kindness.
"I knew you would come back in the end. Like a starving dog returning to its own vomit, you
would never stay away."
Draco replied without turning.
"You always know, My Lord."

Anger pulsed within her chest as she continued to watch Draco, and he continued to watch
the dying fire, kneeling in a pool of flickering light. And she could see it through her
serpentine eyes—could see the pitted, pilfered wand held in Draco's fingers.
She studied her own hands curiously, which were long-fingered and white as though they had
not seen sunlight for years, looking like large, pale spiders against the dark fabric of the
chair. They were empty.
"I do not blame you," she said in that hard, cruel voice. "You have been weak since the start.
A lamb, not a lion. Lashing out like your viper of a mother in spite of my patience. However,
there are betrayals even I do not understand. Why steal from me? Why leave knowing that it
could only spell your ruin? Yours, and countless others. I am many things, but I am not
wasteful. So at least tell me that you see your mistakes."
She strode forward, going to loom above Draco, casting a long shadow across his back, a
dark cloud passing the sun. Looking down from a greater height than usual. This near, she
could make out the tears rolling down the angular slopes of his cheeks, falling onto the
granite hearth. He gave no answer in words, and yet there was such sadness within his
expression, loss and other griefs that she had no means or desire to comprehend.
So she smiled, extending that white hand.
"Take it, Draco. You have done me wrong in this. But no matter. We begin again from today.
You have my forgiveness."
The kneeling man bent into himself. Now his face was a stone mask; the absence of anything
thrown into sharp relief by the firelight. His reddened eyes drifted to her proffered hand.
"Take it. You will be alive and by my side, as it should be. We will leave the ruins and build
something far better. Something perfect."
He did not move a muscle; did not accept the olive branch, and now venom shaded her cold
voice.
"You belong to me. You are an extension of me. What are you without me?"
For a moment that spanned many heartbeats. There was a suffocating silence. The fighting
was so far below them in Gryffindor Tower that it had ceased to exist, and there were only
two cloaked men in this minaret seated high above the battlefield.
"What are you without me, Draco?" she repeated pitilessly.
Then, the firelog cracked. Draco's face darkened as he swung the Elder Wand violently
behind his back.
"I'm fucking done."
Suddenly, she had no hand. It dropped from her wrist, laggardly, as if time itself slowed.
Bright, thick blood curled in the air in a ribbon of crimson spirals, hitting the rug and
soaking wetness into the worn threads.
She was stumbling backward, catching herself on the slippery border of a chair, her severed
arm pouring out blood faster than a waterfall. Screaming in disbelief as Draco rose heavily
and strode across the room, which now felt too tight. Too small. The fire extinguished in an
instant, and the temperature pitched to a deadly low. Spiked veins of ice raced across the
floorboards and up the stone walls.
The sun dimmed.
Draco was towering over her. His stormy eyes had become calm, crimson oceans. Filled with
an unnatural stillness that promised only oblivion. Only nothing. A ferryman dragging her,
flailing, begging, screaming, across Death's river.
He slashed the wand again, striking gashes into her body like a wooden rapier barbed with
thorns. A thousand small and large cuts, each deeper than the prior. Whip-like and burning.
Nothing except a dark, cutting agony. And she was collapsing on the ground as the world
erupted into glass and blackness overtook her vision.
***
Hermione woke up on the clammy ground screaming. She could still feel the screams leaving
her mouth. Her throat was on fire, cold sweat beaded her brow, and her face was pressed to
the hard Chamber floor. The walls compressed around her once again, nauseating and
shadowed. For what could have been minutes or hours, she did not know where she was, let
alone who she was.
Then she knew.
And now she was back on her feet, struggling to stay upright, sprinting at a desperate speed.
Listening to a soul that was never hers. Letting that dark fragment guide her to him like a
compass through the claustrophobic labyrinth of tunnels, her heart pounding like a kettle
drum. Pulsing hard and fast, as if trying to break free of her chest.
Then she was standing in front of a jagged crevice in the walls that was barely more than a
slit. Candlelight filtered in from the corridor beyond, making her squint after prolonged
darkness.
Her stomach plummeted as she crawled through it and emerged into a place that was not the
second floor lavatory. No, this was a long, windowless passageway that she recognized as the
dungeons deep beneath Hogwarts. It was so drafty and damp that her breath rose in mist
before her as she sprinted. As she bound up the nearest staircase, then another, and a third.
She ran so fast that her lungs burned with acid.
She crossed through giant oak front doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit
with flaming torches. Chunks of dislodged rock and mangled remains obscured the
magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors. There were gouges on the stone
walls and part of the ceiling was missing, as if torn off by a rampaging titan. Stiffened human
legs and feet were crushed beneath boulders, faces buried. The entire area was a lifeless
cemetery, but the faint thrumming of battle continued to shake the ground like the castle's
beating heart.
As Hermione ran up the marble staircase, encountering no one save coats of armor, she
caught movement through the open windows. Saw the black dots of far-flung Death Eaters in
the distance—fighting the Order near the Great Lake. A strong, golden sun was blooming
above the horizon, shimmering on the water in the reflective mirage of daybreak. She felt the
morning heat against her skin as she raced toward Gryffindor Tower.
At last, she reached the elevated corridor that she had traversed so many times over the years,
and found herself staring inside the Common Room.
Draco was there.
Alive.
Silhouetted through the circular portrait hole, kneeling in front of something shadowed and
dark. Streaks of crimson blood were splashed across the rug and his pale face. The black
robes cascading off his shoulders contrasted harshly with the sunlit chamber. And he looked
terribly misplaced.
But the rest of the Gryffindor Common Room was as it should be, and just as in her
memories. The fire crackled merrily behind its grate and a painted lion above the mantle
hung over Draco like a sentry, watching the Slytherin house intruder.
Hermione's entire body shook as she climbed through the entrance hole. Draco did not look
up, wholly entranced by what lay before him. Then the sharp tang of blood hit her nose, the
blood-curdling sound of an infant crying stung her ears. She moved closer to the fireplace.
Her eyes widened in horror.
She saw it. Had found the thing that was making the sickening noises. It had the form of a
small infant, curled on the ground, its bare skin raw, rough, and flayed-looking. It lay naked
and shuddering, half-covered by the silver cloth of the Invisibility Cloak. Crying weakly and
struggling to breathe, to live. Its emancipated ribcage convulsing with every ragged inhale
and exhale.
Hermione was afraid of it. Some small part of her wanted to comfort it, but the idea repulsed
her. Helpless and wounded though it was, she did not want to approach the bloodied bundle.
Nonetheless, she drew slowly closer, ready to flee at any moment. Soon, she stood directly
behind Draco, who was still hunched over, head bowed as if praying.
He spoke.
"I attacked. Cut and ripped him apart into this. I thought it was over. The end. It wasn't even
hard because of the Hallows, or maybe he wanted to die. But—" Draco's voice sounded
empty as a plundered grave. "I couldn't kill the Dark Lord."
She watched Draco swallow hard before meeting her gaze. And his eyes were stained the
deepest shade of vermillion. Even his black pupils were discolored. It was like his eyes had
been scraped open and were bleeding.
Hermione knelt on the rug beside him, resting tiredly against his shoulder. Feeling pressure
on her crown as Draco's head dropped atop hers. Watching the flayed child together.
"I'm the reason you can't kill Voldemort," she whispered.
Draco looked up, peering into her face. His own was haunted.
She answered brokenly.
"I knew I came back a different person, and I've seen you both for years. But lately—lately
I've had visions of only him. I didn't understand why until now, even though the signs were
there since Glen Lochy. The headaches and dreams, exactly as Harry described. How easy it
was to sense Nagini."
The sunlight became unbearably hot and stifling. Hermione glanced to the side, hiding the
tears as she felt Draco's cold hand take her own. She spoke quietly, voice barely audible over
the crackling fire.
"I have a soul, but it's not yours."
She looked to the window, where the white clouds were bathed in sunshine. A log shifted in
the fire, splitting open with a snap.
Draco released a haggard breath. "No. No, that isn't right. Everyone knows that the Dark
Lord was too weak to split his soul another time. Something else went wrong."
"He ended Harry, but not the fragment within him. The Horcrux," Hermione whispered,
studying the cluttered Common Room through wet eyes. So little had changed over the long
years, as if it was preserved in a time capsule. A sanctuary from the war.
She continued, "Harry understood when the three of us met here after dying. He knew that
Voldemort ended the wrong soul, and only his own crossed through the veil. It's the same
reason we had to strike Nagini twice—to ensure we destroyed both her and the Horcrux. That
didn't happen at Glen Lochy. Voldemort killed Harry with a single curse, leaving the outcome
to chance."
Shaking his head Draco replied, "None of that makes sense. Why couldn't Potter survive with
a fragment?"
Hermione spoke wordlessly.
"You resurrected me the moment I passed. When Voldemort killed Harry, his fragment may
have lingered for a while, then went to me because I was so near. Or because of the
Unbreakable Vow. Because I swore to take his place and finish this for him. I don't think we'll
ever truly know why, but I must have had that piece when I died. My soul faded, and the
fragment would have moved on again, except you revived me immediately—before it had the
time to leave. I had a soul and you returned my body. It's the reason I didn't come back as a
true Inferius."
The Common Room grew quiet.

Draco released her hand and stood. He began pacing back and forth in a mad repetition, dark
robes streaking blood across the stone floor.
"Then we'll figure out how to remove it," Draco decided. "Conceal the Dark Lord under the
cloak and run away unnoticed. No one will ever know we survived. We'll go searching for
something to help you. There must be a book, a person, who knows how to fix this. To get it
out."
"No. If we do, I'll be like the others you revived. Soulless and mindless. An empty shell. And
I don't think either of us want that."
Draco raked both clenched hands through his hair in panic. He spun to glare at the flayed
child, spitting, "There has to be another way. A solution. Maybe if we kill it, you'll return to
normal."
"There isn't another way."
The child cried again, skin bleeding, twisting and turning beneath the glinting fabric of the
Invisibility Cloak. Hermione watched the creature, feeling no pity. Staring at what must be
the remnants of Tom Riddle—a soul with a broken vessel, rendered as helpless as he was in
Albania.
And now Hermione remembered another child: the young Slytherin boy lurking beyond the
portrait hole. Dark-haired, lost, and waiting. Of course he would be there as well, if a piece of
him was already with her during that in-between. Even then, she was permanently chained to
that boy. Until her life ended, he would live on in some form. Only passing when she did, and
not a moment sooner. And Draco—
He would die right after.
Hermione's eyes resumed their journey through the circular tower. Tears falling like a
sunshower, hot and burning. And eventually, her gaze landed on the granite dormitory
staircase, spiraling up and out of sight. Leading to that place where Ron and Harry waited.
It was time to stop fighting.
She could finally choose death with a clear conscience, because staying would be far too
selfish.
"I'm sorry, Draco. There's no solution."
The silence was thunderous.
He glanced away.
Hermione's fingers went to the weapons holster strapped to her waist, wrapping around a
white knife as a familiar pain radiated through her palm at the contact. And now she
understood that the fragment must sense Basilisk venom, and the destruction it promised.
One slit throat then it would be over. But she did not want Draco to see it happen.
Feeling half-asleep, she stood and crossed the room. Walking in a trance. She was ascending
the spiral staircase when he called her back.
"Wait, Granger."
She turned.
Draco was standing at the base, backlit by the sun pouring in through keyhole windows, dark
cloak spilling off his shoulders like the tattered plumes of a raven. Face painted with sorrow.
His words echoed off the stone walls.
"You were a thorn in my spine. One I couldn't even look at without seeing red. You were a
walking contradiction. A girl meant to be less than nothing who always placed first. Always
surpassed me and I hated you. You were a weak, dirty, disgusting Muggle who stole from me
and my kind, and I hated you for ten years. I hated you, Hermione, until one day I didn't. And
that's the day I loved you."
He climbed the first step, continuing, "You saved me. You may be the prince in that childish
story, but you saved me from drowning. When I had no one left to listen, you answered and
you kept answering. You were the voice in my head who taught me to breathe. You are
beautiful and strong, and you are my air."
His jaw clenched and he climbed higher, drew closer.
A second later, they were both on the narrow staircase, and she was swept into his crushing
embrace. His chest, his racing heartbeat, hurt worse now than ever.
"I wish I could have loved you for longer," she whispered. "In a better life, next week would
have been your twenty-fourth birthday. We would have been the same age, at least for a little.
I imagine we would have wasted the whole day together, talking and fighting, making love in
the sand. I would have fallen asleep in your arms listening to the sound of the ocean—" Her
voice broke. "But that's not the life we were given, and we both need to leave."
"I know, Hermione. I'm sorry we didn't get more."
For some time after that, they just stood. Tangled in each other. Partway up the steps. Hidden
from all cruelties. Memorizing this feeling, and trying not to crumble.
It was a goodbye.
Hermione closed her eyes, trying her damndest to quell the hope for anything more. Stilling
her harrowing thoughts as she searched for the Azkaban within her soul. The cage that she
could finally leave. The freedom. And there was no flayed child in that cramped prison cell.
No war, no chains, or forgotten vows.
No Gryffindor Tower.
But Draco was still there: the person who first heard her voice, then made a bargain. The one
who always swore to tell the truth. Asked her questions that kept her living, and fell in love
with every answer.
The man she married.
He was always there, and it was not enough time.
Hermione released a choked sob, reaching for the staircase railing, clutching it like a
mountain tether.
Draco leaned back, gazing into her eyes. And his own were laced with more promise than the
song of a siren. Deep red tides dragging her from land and into the water.
Then he was gently tilting her head to the side, capturing her with half moon lips. Forever
tasting of peppermint and the ocean. Leaving her with a slow, languid kiss that spoke of more
than tomorrow. It sang of months, years, perhaps even decades.
And suddenly she was not ready to leave.
Not quite yet.
So when the music ended, Hermione asked her most selfish question.
"I told you once I wouldn't run away together. Is it too late to change my mind?"
Draco studied her expression, reading the shadows of indecision. The hope.
His head dropped back and suddenly he was laughing. Truly laughing. He pressed their
foreheads together, kissing her blood stained skin.
"Never."
Hermione smiled through bittersweet tears.
"Then let's make another bargain."

Epilogue I: The Far Shore
Chapter Notes
I've been promising a happy ending from the start, and now it's time to pay the piper.
The only way I've been able to write a story with so much heartache is by having this
epilogue in the back of my mind to keep me from spiraling into a sad black hole of
writer's block. That's also why I included several flash forwards throughout. The good
news is that those visions are all true, and don't just exist in Hermione's head.
However, I'm a firm believer that happiness isn't black or white. It's complicated. Messy.
And after a war that ostensibly didn't end for these two characters, or at least not in the
same way as for the broader world, it's realistic to experience the lingering effects of
trauma. The consequences of hard choices and impossible situations.
Hermione has been an unreliable narrator since her death and resurrection in the first
chapter, and will never be entirely whole. So in this three-part epilogue, we'll be
exploring how happiness can come in shades of gray and with hints of bitterness. This
first part of the conclusion will hurt more than the next two. But taken together, they'll
lead to an ending I hope you consider happy, even if not "happily ever after."
Even if not saccharine.
That was cryptic, I know. Basically, I'm going to rip your heart open and sew it back
together a few more times before setting you free. So grab some tissues.
HeavenlyDew <3
I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command,
Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere,
Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.
***
Meanwhile, the second brother returned to his own house, where he eked out a lonely
existence. There, he pulled out the stone, which had the power to recall the dead, and turned
it thrice in his hand. To his astonishment and delight, the woman he had once hoped to
marry, before her untimely demise, appeared before him.
Yet she was sad, empty, and cold. Not the lover he once knew. For while she had come back
to the mortal shore, she did not fully belong in it, and suffered. In due time, the second
brother, driven mad by hopeless desire, hung his lover then himself, so as to join each other
on the distant shore.
And so, Death claimed the second brother
***
Five Years Later
June 4, 2009
They strolled along the blinding white pavement, hands clasped and eyes squinted. It was so
bright in June that the ground reflected more light than a mirror.
"We should stop counting," Draco said. "It isn't healthy or doing either of us any good."
Hermione looked up at him. His pale skin was already turning pink.
She smiled.
"I'm not counting. Not quite."
Draco looked as leery of Hermione as the pelicans were of a class of school children playing
on the nearby sandbank.
Sighing, he pointed out, "I've seen the stacks of calendars you keep in the kitchen pantry.
You've never been the best at hiding secrets from me, Granger."
It was Hermione's turn to eye him cagily, despite the grin tugging at her lips. She changed the
subject. "When are you going to stop calling me Granger? In one decade, or two? And I can
list on my fingers how many times you've used my first name. At this point, I know you're
doing it on purpose."
Draco glanced away as he choked back a laugh. "Would you prefer I call you Mrs. Greenhill
Road like the neighbors?"
"I guess it's an improvement on what you used to call me at Hogwarts," said Hermione,
mouth pursed.
"And you'll never let me forget it."
"Never."
"If you have such a perfect memory, then you don't need to track the date," Draco observed,
steering her back to their original conversation.
Hermione let the air between them grow silent, and they both listened to their rhythmic
footsteps and the soft lapping of waves. If heaven existed, it was walking hand-in-hand like
this. Sometimes their life did not seem real, or like it could disappear far earlier than
expected. And she did not want to ruin it by arguing about the future.
So instead she reminisced about the past.
"Years ago, when you let me see your memories, you even thought of me as Granger in your
mind. What about now?"
Draco seemed to admit defeat in the face of her stubbornness, and answered the question in a
subdued voice.
"You were Granger to me before anything else. If you haven't noticed, I don't like change."
The air grew quiet again, and for a while Hermione was content just to follow the familiar
path back home.
But once they reached it, Hermione's eyes fell and she confessed, "The calendars aren't meant
to remind me of the date. They're meant to keep away the guilt."
Draco considered, then pulled her across the lawn and through the paneled front door.
"Never feel guilty for choosing this, Hermione Malfoy."
Hermione beamed as she crossed the threshold of the beach house.
"I can count the number of times you've called me that on two thumbs."
"Because I thought you didn't like it. That's why I haven't said it since our honeymoon. But
worth another shot every few years. See if you've come around."
They entered the living room, which was as warm as the garden. The sunlight streaming in
through the dormer windows reflected waves across the floorboards, shifting and fracturing
in a watery kaleidoscope.
Draco reclined on the sofa, kicking both feet up and throwing a pillow across his face like a
sunshield. Settling into the cushions for a nap. His eyes closed.
After plucking a paperback from the shelf, Hermione perched on the windowsill bench,
musing, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been loose when it comes to
names, Lucius Malfoy."
Only the lower half of Draco's face was visible beneath the pillow. The corner of his lip was
twitching. "Won't ever let me forget that either, will you?"
"Definitely not."
A chevron of seabirds caught Hermione's eye, and she looked up from her book to peer at the
waves rolling into the shoreline, the white foam they frothed against the rocks reminded her
of cotton candy.
She was still staring out the window when Draco offered coolly, "How about if you toss the
calendars, from here on out I'll call you whatever you want? We could even rotate depending
on the day of the week. Tuesdays, for example, you'll be Mrs. Malfoy, while Wednesdays
you'll be Mrs. Draco Malfoy. Then the day after that, Mrs. Draco Lucius Malfoy. And Fridays
I'll call you—"
The paperback flew across the room and hit Draco squarely in the mouth. He jerked, swore,
and sat upright, glaring at the windowsill. But it was already vacated—Hermione was now
beside him on the loveseat.
She dug a finger into the fleshy spot between Draco's ribs, grousing, "If it wasn't your
birthday tomorrow, I would have thrown something pointier than a book. Stabbier. More
knife-shaped."
Draco spasmed again, catching both of her wrists and winding them together out of jabbing
range.
"Once a terrorist, always a Fucking Terrorist. I think we have you sorted out for Fridays."
Hermione rolled her eyes as she tried to free her arms, quipping, "That's rich coming from
Undesirable Number One."
"I'd have you remember I've been desirably dead for half a decade," Draco smirked, releasing
her wrists to thread fingers through her hair, "and so have you."
The mad fell out of Hermione as he began untangling her wind blown curls, which never
seemed to agree with the salt and moisture. She leaned into Draco's chest, feeling the cold
stone that lay within it. Centuries of ancient magic trapped in a single person. But to their
Muggle neighbors, he was simply the mildly standoffish Mr. Greenhill, and she his bookish
wife.
If they only knew.
Silence took up residence in the living room, and for a while, she simply listened to the ebb
and flow of her favorite ocean. A natural symphony of waves drumming against the
breakwater wall; the songs of seabirds. The sound of Draco's beating heart. And it was finally
enough.
It was not enough.
***
When he woke, Granger was gone. The sheets on her side of the bed were creased but
abandoned. He extended a palm to brush along the cold fabric. She must have left hours ago,
as soon as he fell asleep.
Draco sat up, feeling blindly around the nightstand, pulling at the knob and removing the
hawthorn wand from its drawer. Then the bedroom lights were on and he was striding
through the hallway, not even pausing to find a shirt.
The sitting room doors were flung wide open to the night, glass rattling loudly with every
strong gust of wind. He leapt over the threshold, moving at a fast pace when he could not find
her on the veranda or surrounding stone wall. He scanned the dark horizon, seeing only a
cascade of stars.
Now he was running across the sand, calling out to her, shouting her name into the roiling
sea. Panic rising inside of his chest like a serpent, slithering and poisonous.
Nothing.
Nowhere.
Then he saw it: her curly brown hair whipping violently in the breeze. The mane of his little
lioness concealed behind a dune of shifting sand.
Draco extinguished his wand and approached quietly, making no noise so as not to scare
her.
There she was.
Staring out at the midnight blue ocean; at the waves crawling upward, so close that the water
caressed her toes before receding. Dressed only in a thin nightgown that offered no
protection, fluttering behind her like a black veil. She was holding both knees tightly against
her in a pitiful position that destroyed Draco to see. Seeming more shadow than woman,
already halfway to the far shore.
To death.
There was a white knife clutched between her fingers, its point sharper than he recalled. He
could have sworn he threw the last one away months ago, but she must have hidden it like the
calendars. The moonlight glinted off its jagged edges as she turned it over again and again
and again and again and again. A never ending repetition. Like she was winding an invisible
kite string around the blade. Her palms were red and angry from the friction.
As Draco drew near, he made out the carcasses of yellow birds scattered around Granger's
feet, feathers sparse and eyes milky. Even from where he stood behind her, he could tell they
were dead. The goldfinches. He could only guess if she summoned them lifeless, or if it
happened after.
They were being taken away by the tide one by one, and Granger was watching them leave.
He could feel her jealousy. The longing to join her birds as they were pulled out to sea.
And the entire time, Granger was turning the knife in her hands again and again and again.
Thinking and thinking and thinking.
Draco called out to her voicelessly.

"Remember our bargain."
Granger's shoulders tensed, she tilted her head ever so slightly, then she resumed playing with
the Basilisk knife as if she never heard him.
He spoke again.
"You promised to stay here longer, and I don't need calendars to know it's still too soon."
Another stride forward had Draco kneeling before her in the wet sand, the tide lapping
against his trouser legs. The graveyard of scars on his chest softened by the darkness.
"We haven't even made it to our fifth solstice yet," Draco said, stretching out a hand, his
thumb ghosting lightly across her cheekbone. "Come back to bed, Granger. You need to stop
doing this every night."
She had been crying.
There was salt crusted on her face from hundreds of hours of it. Deep lines on her face from
five years of crying. The lines that only appeared when she came here to consider ending her
own life. The lines that were gone by morning, and reappeared by evening. Fading with the
sun. Returning with the night. It was like being married to two people.
She spoke hauntedly.
"Almost no one knows we survived, let alone the lies we told. The lies we're living. The
things we've hidden from the world. The way we've trapped ourselves here to stay close to
him. But every day they could find out what we've done and bring him back again. And I'm
suffocating, Draco. Every day there's less air. It was wrong to make the bargain, and we never
should have left that tower — "
Her voice broke. "I don't think I can do this anymore."
She sounded so broken. And Draco did not need to enter her mind to understand that she had
locked herself back in that damp prison cell. She looked so tired.
Throat catching, Draco replied, "Then let's take it one day at a time. One question a day, and I
promise to tell the truth. How's that?"
When she did not answer, he coaxed, "And since I'm feeling generous, you can go first. So go
ahead and ask, Miss Granger."
She continued to stare out at the waves, face blank. In the daytime, he could occasionally find
the honey-colored speckles on her nose, browned by so many afternoons spent swimming or
bathing under the hot sun. They were not there tonight. Her skin was pale.
He was reaching out to touch her, when Granger surprised him with a question. And, of
course, it was the worst one.
"Why did you wear the blindfold?"

Draco breathed out, and watched the condensation vanish into the sky. He inhaled to the
count of ten. Exhaled to ten.
Finished, he extended his legs to sit alongside Granger. Watching her as she watched the
ocean. He kept his voice steady with great difficulty.
"I was allowed to visit my mother in Azkaban. She was the one who gave it to me. Tore the
cloth from her sleeve and told me to wear it. To stand tall and look away. To imagine that the
people I hurt weren't real. I was never that creative, so I found a curse that took my vision.
Their names still appeared in my dreams, but not their faces."
He bent forward, burying his hand in the wet sand as he went on,"You asked me once about
that raid on the Irish swamp. Why I killed Greyback to help you and Creevey. The entire truth
is that I was frightened. Scared of seeing your dying memories when I left and returned as the
Mouth. When I was forced to resurrect people who used to be my classmates. I didn't love
you when I pulled you out of that water. I didn't even like you. But I saved you out of guilt,
warned you to escape, then came back wearing the blindfold for the first time. After that, I
couldn't take it off. It was my crutch, and eventually I learned the cost of using it. Not a day
goes by when I don't regret what happened."
Granger's fingers were skating up his bare forearm. She was tracing his Dark Mark, which
had not burned since Hogwarts. However, the ink had not faded.
"You asked your question, so here's mine," Draco said, leaning down to kiss her temple,
whispering in her upturned ear, "Are you happy?"
And even as Draco asked, he feared the answer, because he had decided long ago he would
never force Granger to stay. Because as greedy as he was, as much as he loved her and
wanted to be together, she deserved more than a gilded cage.
He repeated, "Tell me you're happy."
Granger did not say anything, which was the worst answer.
He braced the base of her neck, ordering quietly, "Lie down and look away."
He took the knife from her hands.
Then he was guiding her into the sand as her eyes fluttered closed, and he kissed her.
Consuming her sorrows like bitter wine. Untying her satin slip and letting it fall loosely from
her shoulders. Her hair spilled wildly around her in an angelic halo of curls, and he leaned
down to breathe in the aroma of fresh jasmine.
His hand snaked down the curve of her shoulder. The length of her grainy body, her peaked
breasts, pinching and circling. Her stomach and the warm valley of her thighs. Fingers
trailing upward to explore a place that was only his, and even warmer. A steady rhythm,
toying with and teasing her with a curled thumb. There was no cold here.
She gasped faintly, and Draco smiled. At least she felt something. When she let out a low
moan, he muffled it with his lips, drinking in her pleasure. Kissing her endlessly. She tasted
like dried tears.
His chin slid into the dip between her throat and collarbone, resting there as he ruined her
neck with a million small bites. The noises she made were ambrosia to his ears, sweet and
lilting.
When he felt her catching fire, his hand moved faster, more precisely, and he was looking for
them—the angles that made her move in response. The deep and shallow points that had her
gasping his name. Studying her with eagle eyes as his fingers wound that coiling tension. The
heat and humidity.
Her breaths grew shorter, more rapid as he kissed her slowly.
Her eyes flashed open, and he felt her tighten, then release around him.
"Good girl," he said quietly, withdrawing his hand, dropping both elbows in the sand to frame
her head, which was turned to the side. Her eyes were fixed on the stars, the hurtling comets.
She was already drifting away again.
"Maybe it's time we do something new," he said. "Maybe it's time for a family. We haven't
tried to start one, not really. It might help. I'll even let you choose the name."
Now she spoke hollowly.
"We can't. I can't. The piece of him that's in me could pass on. We've gone over this a hundred
times. It's too dangerous and it wouldn't be fair. I don't want that for an innocent child."
Draco's jaw tightened, knowing she was right. Always right. That it wasn't an option, though
he harbored far more selfish reasons for agreeing. Without the Horcrux, even this pale shade
of her would be gone.
He smiled sadly as he cast a wordless charm over her abdomen, breaking apart her knees.
"Just the two of us then, Hermione, and I get you all to myself."
***
"Where the hell are you taking me?" Draco demanded, his scowl visible even in the dim
moonlight. "And why the hell do I need to wear this thing?" He was tugging at the necktie
Hermione had secured around his eyes like a silk blindfold. She at least had the foresight not
to choose a red one.
"Leave it on! No peeking. It would spoil your birthday surprise."
Hermione continued to lead him by the hand, following the Medieval stone wall through the
town, laughing as Draco stumbled over unseen rocks and shells, like a captured sailor being
forced to walk the plank.
When Draco almost lost his balance on a sandy sidewalk curb, he swore venomously, "I
thought we agreed not to celebrate. Besides, this feels more like torture. I'm taking it off."
Hermione smiled broadly, "Don't you dare. Suck it up for another half mile, then you can take
it off. I promise you'll like your present."
While she could not see it, she just knew Draco was rolling his eyes beneath the blindfold.
Sense his irritation bubbling like candle wax.
They rounded a bend, then ducked through a crooked sidestreet, Draco threatening violence
the entire way; Hermione did not take him seriously. Maybe she should do this more often. It
was entertaining.
She had Draco planted firmly on a tipsy wooden stool before she reached up to loosen the
necktie, ruining his perfectly-combed hair as she slipped it over his head. Blond strands fell
messily over his blinking, narrowed eyes as he glanced around the beachfront pub. He shook
his head at a table of Muggles shouting in the corner. There was a football match playing on a
prehistoric Telly, and most of the pub was cheering and placing bets.
Facing forward, Draco sent Hermione a heartily disapproving glower, then busied himself
reading a chalkboard menu hanging behind the bar. "Waste of time. Should have stayed
home. This is so fucking stupid, Granger."
"She never had a talent for plans, especially when it came to you. Always changing them at
the last minute and driving me mental."
Draco froze as a dark hand grabbed his shoulder, giving it a painfully tight squeeze.
He whirled around.
Blaise was standing behind him, eyes dancing. Smile wide as a river and just as twisted. He
gripped even harder, then released Draco's shoulder with a dramatic flourish as he claimed a
barstool. His hair was shaved nearly as short as their school days, but his face had a healthy
fullness that had not existed during the war and suited him handsomely. His Sectumsempra
scars had softened over the years. Though his prominent cheekbones remained sharp as
daggers.
He smirked at Draco again, saying, "It's been a while. Happy twenty-ninth, old man."
Deep creases formed across Draco's brow in response, prompting Blaise to reach out a finger
and prod at his forehead. However, now he addressed Hermione, adopting a doctoral sort of
tone.
"Your husband is aging like cheap milk. Best start applying sun cream or he'll look like shit
by thirty. Gotta keep him pretty for as long as possible, Goldfinch. I know you like 'em young
and nubile."
Draco choked on his drink.

Hermione cleared her throat, regretting the decision to invite her former Second-in-
Command. Then she whispered stiffly, "I hope we didn't keep you waiting, Blaise. When did
you Portkey from the vineyard?"
Blaise paused poking the white-blond bear to speak in a low voice, "Didn't Portkey. Used the
Railroad's Floo connections. Probably for the last time since it's not needed anymore and
we're thinking of sealing the network permanently."
He paused to waive down the barkeep, ordering something fruity off the summer menu, then
continued, "Ginny would have come too, except she's puffed up bigger than a blowfish. Can't
fit in proper shoes, let alone crawl out a fireplace. Still, she would have followed me if she
knew where I was going. Nothing a sticking charm and well-timed visit from her brothers
couldn't fix. Course, when I get home and she finds out what I've been up to, she'll skin me
alive.
He twitched his nose, looking worried.
"And why would the Weaslette want to see me for my birthday?" Draco asked skeptically.
"Obviously she doesn't give a fuck about you. Only cares about this one," Blaise said, jerking
a thumb toward Hermione. "But you lovebirds are joined at the hip. Can't see one without the
other."
Hermione's face brightened. "How far along is Ginny? It must be her second trimester by
now, right?"
Blaise accepted his drink from a server, swirling the perspiring, blueish glass. "Third,
actually. Baby's due sometime mid-August. She's hoping you can come visit Italy since she's
housebound for the foreseeable future. Would get me out of hot water if I went back and said
you finally agreed. You can even come back with me through the network and surprise her."
A knot formed in Hermione's stomach, and Draco also glanced to the side, suddenly very
interested in studying the bartop. Neither spoke.
Sighing banefully, Blaise responded, "I don't understand why neither of you will leave home
for more than a few hours. Don't get me wrong, I love a good beach holiday, and I get the
whole 'Confunded into oblivion' thing, but you can afford to hide in a different place. Can
stay safe and anonymous anywhere else."
Now Blaise was speaking too loudly, sweeping an arm around the pub. "It's so boring in this
sodding town I fell asleep on the five-minute walk over. Not to mention how every single
local is a fucking arsehole to strangers. Pembrokeshire has nothing on the Sicilian coast—"
Nearby Muggle patrons began shooting the trio appalled looks as Blaise lambasted their
hometown, thoroughly offended.
Hermione nodded at them apologetically, then reached past Draco to yank on Blaise's sleeve,
hissing, "We like it here, so there's no reason to leave. We keep busy. Draco worked out how
to manage the estate through a proxy, and I started writing. Might even self-publish. We're
also in talks about taking over a flower stand at the farmer's market once the owner retires. To
you it might sound dull, but to us, it's — it's fine."
Blaise yawned and flapped a dismissive hand.
"I guess if it makes you happy."
This time, Draco answered, but his gray eyes were locked on Hermione. The crowded pub
faded into the background and she knew he was speaking to only her. No one else.
His voice was firm.
"It does. We're both happy."
Her heart fell. She looked away.
"Right."
Epilogue II: House at the End of Greenhill Road
I think my master means to die shortly,
For he hath given to me all his goods
***
"Adoption?"
"Yes."
They were seated at the kitchen table, Kreacher puttering around to fix breakfast as they
sipped coffee. Despite their discouragements, the aged house-elf insisted on cooking, though
he apparated home to Grimmauld Place in between meals. It seemed to lend his life some
structure and purpose, so they let it be.
"Say that all again one more time," Draco cautiously replied.
Running a fingernail along the rim of her mug, Granger explained, "Reneé wrote yesterday.
She knows a family of Death Eaters who the DMLE found hiding in Bulgaria. The parents
were given capital sentences because they were high up in the regime. The Ministry executed
them for war crimes, and now their children are being placed with new households."
Draco's brow tightened.
"In what world would the Ministry give one to us? We don't exist, remember? And if we did,
we'd both go the way of those parents."
"The Ministry doesn't have the youngest child. She's with the Railroad in Tuscany. A baby
girl: three months old and already orphaned. They destroyed her birth records so it's like she
doesn't exist. Reneé thought it would be better to find her a home without the government's
involvement. Without so much publicity. She offered the infant to us."
The cracks and sizzles of bacon frying filled the kitchen, and Draco drew a hand through his
hair, staring up at the coffered ceiling.
"I still don't know."
Granger jumped in quickly, "We need this, Draco. We need her. It feels like she was meant to
complete our family."
"It's not a good idea, especially since — "

"Master is wanting two or three?" Kreacher croaked, interrupting Draco. He glanced down,
seeing that the house-elf was pointing at the strips of bacon in the frying pan. Requesting an
answer.
Draco was about to give it, when he wavered.
His gaze moved to Granger, who was waiting as well, discolored eyes consumed with hope.
He had not seen that look for many years.
He shook his head, smiling.
"Let's make it three."
***
They were resting on a blanket spread over the warm sand. Hands tangled together; listening
to the ebb and flow of the tide; faces angled toward each other instead of the bright summer
sun. Hermione was slowly closing her eyes, drifting off to sleep, when Draco leaned over and
lifted her jaw.
Her eyes flickered open and she smiled as she took in his devilish grin. He ran a smooth
thumb over her parted lips, then reached down and locked her in a breathtaking kiss. Every
muscle relaxed and her whole body seemed to melt into the molten ground.
He pressed harder while his other hand slithered under her back, arching her closer.
Something electric hot stirred deep within her core as she was pulled into his firm arms.
Now his mouth and hands traveled downward, and she could sense even the faintest caress of
his tongue on her throat. Feel the scrape of each and every grain of sand as his long fingers
traced teasing circles around her pounding chest.
Then his white-blond hair loosened and fell forward, tickling the skin along her neck, and her
sighs dissolved into laughs.
Draco propped himself up on his elbows above her, glaring at her as she choked back giggles.
He yanked a curl on her head, and twisted it around his finger with a mean smile.
"Quiet, or you'll wake her up," he scolded, pointing his chin toward the top of the blanket.
Hermione stifled her laughter at once, then slid up the blanket and gently lifted a swathed
bundle, propping the infant's tiny head against her arm. Folding the fabric away from her
sleeping face.
"It's your fault you know," she said. "You promised we were just coming out here to take an
afternoon nap. I should have known better than to believe you, liar."
"I never lied."

Hermione snorted, then glanced worriedly down to see if the sound was enough to shake the
child out of her slumber.
"I don't think I'm very good at this whole motherhood thing," she confessed. "It's the same as
magic—I can read a million guides, but practical application has always been the problem."
"I'm sure you'll still be better at parenting than me, just like you came first at everything in
school. That's not what I worry about the most."
Sitting up straighter, she searched Draco's gray eyes, and asked, "Then what worries you?"
He lowered his hand toward the infant, brushing a piece of wispy black hair off her warm
forehead. "I'm not looking forward to the day our child asks why she doesn't look like either
of us."
"So we tell her the truth," Hermione said, and passed the sleeping bundle to him. He
nervously held the infant against his chest as she continued. "We tell her that, regardless of
blood, we love her just the same. We tell her that she is still a part of both of us."
"And what if that isn't enough?" Draco asked warily.
Instead of answering right away, Hermione turned to watch the cobalt waves slowly roll into
the sandy shore. Midsummer was so beautiful.
"It will be, because she'll remember every single time we say her name."
"Lucille Jean Malfoy," he replied, eyes softening.
"Little Lucy," Hermione smiled, leaning her head against her husband's shoulder. Reaching
out to hold their daughter's cheek.
And an overwhelming feeling of peace flowed into her soul.
***
The full moon was enormous, suspended in the sky like a pearl at the bottom of a dark ocean.
Draco blinked at it for a very long while through the paneled window, before he registered
that she was gone.
He tore from the mattress, confirming the crib was empty before he exited the bedroom,
tugging a robe over his shoulders and draping a second across his arm.
Tonight he found Granger easily, since she was in her regular spot: perched on a seawall
overlooking the inky shore. However, the Basilisk knife rested atop a pile of skipping stones,
its white surface gleaming in the water-reflected moonlight. Instead, she was cradling the
infant in her arms.
No dead goldfinches.
Draco's shoulders relaxed. He crossed the lawn in a dozen long strides, going to sit at her
side. But she did not turn to look at him, eyes remaining on the waves lapping gently against
her sandy, bare feet.
"You're out here more than in the room. I'm thinking we move our bed set to the back
garden," Draco remarked flatly. "A little cold, and the neighbors will call us crazy, but we'll
pretend it's camping."
It was as if Hermione did not hear him, or was in a trance. Her voice was strange.
"A long time ago, when I was in the Common Room beyond the veil, Harry told me
something I can't seem to forget. At least not since the Pensieve helped me remember."
While he distrusted the direction Granger's thoughts were leading, Draco had to ask.
"What did Potter tell you?"
"Don't you already know?"
"Not too depressed to give me a hard time," Draco snorted.
Granger replied, "Right. The Occlusion. Or did you actually Obliviate those memories?"
"Nevermind," Granger dismissed tiredly, repositioning Lucy's head so she was nestled in the
crook of an arm, sleeping soundly. Draco spread the spare robe across them both.
Rocking back and forth, Granger said, "Harry told me it wasn't my time. How there was a
person I had to take care of before moving on. I know now that he meant Voldemort. I
promised I would end it, end him, but it's been seven years and here I am. It's all wrong and I
don't belong here — "
The tears were falling, soaking into Lucy's swaddled blankets, turning the checkered cloth
translucent.
"We belong together," Draco reassured, voice breaking. "Isn't that enough? And you don't
even know if Potter meant the Dark Lord. He could have meant me."
Draco held a hand to the infant's chest, feeling the tiny heartbeat. "He could have meant her.
You need to stay here for her. We both do. If you're gone, so am I, and it would be wrong to
orphan her again."
Closing her eyes, Granger confessed into the air, "I don't deserve either of you or any of this.
I'm a coward."
"You're brave."
"I'm selfish."
"You're human."
***
Another Five Years Later
May 4, 2014
Hermione | Hogwarts, Scotland
The procession poured out of the castle's entrance hall like a black-clothed stream, winding
across the moor toward the Great Lake. An extraordinary assortment of people walking two
abreast; shabby and smart, aged and young. Most Hermione did not recognize, but a few she
did, including government officials and members of the Order of the Phoenix.
Minister of Magic Ishida led the contingent, wand outstretched and flickering like a funeral
candle. He looked far older than Hermione remembered, and was trailed by so many
unfamiliar faces. They were all holding umbrellas, the summer rainstorm spilling off the
canvas in miniature waterfalls. Falling thick and fast as if the sky itself was mourning. Crying
into the earth around their feet.
The castle ghosts were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when
they moved, shimmering insubstantially against the flooded air. There was movement among
the surrounding trees. The centaurs had similarly come to pay their respects. They did not
move into the open, but remained standing quite still, half hidden in shadow, watching
cautiously, their bows hanging at their sides.
Then there was a soft, splashing noise, and a group of Merpeople broke the rippling surface
of the water to watch the ceremony. The scaly creatures had long since returned to repopulate
the lake, although it was rumored that Inferi continued to crawl in the depths. But they were
not visible, and a chorus of Merpeople was singing in a haunting language she did not
understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair falling lankly around their slimy
shoulders. The music made the hair on Hermione's neck stand up, and yet it was not
unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of despair.
"Move in closer. Your shoes are showing," whispered Draco, drawing Hermione's attention
from the Merpeople and to her husband. He was holding their daughter in one arm, the other
wrapped around her waist. They were jammed together beneath the Invisibility Cloak,
protected from the rain by the overhanging boathouse roof. Tucked out of the way and unseen
by the amassing crowd.
Heeding the warning, Hermione pressed flush against his chest, near enough that Lucy
playfully blew hot air into her face.
Hermione smiled, puffing back until she had the toddler giggling. The girl was very ticklish.
"They're still showing," Draco pointed out, eyes fixed on Hermione's shoes, which,
admittedly, looked like two detached penny loafers. "Someone will see and come over to
investigate. We shouldn't have come in the first place. It's too dangerous."
"No, you're just too tall," said Hermione. "It doesn't matter how close we wedge together,
they'll always be sticking out. Do us both a favor and squat."
"DO IT! DO IT!" Lucy urged, black eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Shhhhh, darling. Quiet voice."
"And why the fuck did we bring her?"
"Language, Draco! For heaven's sake."
"What is that big thing?"
Their squabbling was cut short by Lucy, who was sticking her nubby finger through the cloak
toward the center of the field. A large, stone obelisk stood there, dark and towering as high as
a castle minaret. The rainwater streaming down its black granite veneer reflected the
surrounding mountains like a black four-sided mirror.
As they watched, ceremony goers began splitting from the procession to approach the black
obelisk, placing bouquets of flowers at the base. Some knelt down in wordless prayer.
Now Lucy asked, "What are they doing?"
Hermione replied, "Today is the ten-year anniversary of the end of the war. We're all here to
grieve the people who didn't survive and remember how much they sacrificed for us to keep
living. That's a memorial to the fallen."
Perhaps it was bad parenting to explain so much loss to a child, yet Hermione could not
stomach the idea of speaking down to her daughter, having resented as much when she was
young.
After refolding the cloak shut, Draco added tersely, "It's like the one for your grandparents
back home at the cemetery."
Hermione looked up, catching a streak of ice in Draco's tone. His expression was masked.
Cold. And she realized how much harder it must be for him to be present, given his history.
His part in the bloodshed. She should have known better than to drag him here. But she
couldn't stay away, and they couldn't be separated.
Hermione took his hand, squeezing three times. While the muscles in his palm remained stiff
as wood, he returned the gesture.
Silence fell between them. Lucy too sensed the tension and quieted. For a while after that,
they simply listened to the mourning song of the Merpeople, and the drumming of rain on
black umbrellas.
Eventually, an austere witch in bottle green dress robes went to stand before the obelisk, and
the mourners around her turned to listen. Hermione could not hear most of what she was
saying, standing so far away. But some words floated back to her over the hundreds of heads.
"Nobility of spirit" . . . "indelible contribution" . . . "commitment to freedom” . . . They did
not mean very much, but still had Hermione biting back tears.
Draco tightened his hold around her waist, saying nothing.
However, Lucy's small face grew troubled. She plucked at Hermione's sleeve to interrupt the
crying with a question—a habit the girl had picked up from Draco.
"Where are we?"
Hermione wiped her eyes, explaining, "This place is called Hogwarts. It's where your father
and I went to school when we were just a bit older than you."
Brows furrowed, Lucy decided, "So I will too."
"Will what?"
Looking quite determined, Lucy insisted, "Go to Hog Wars."
"It's pronounced Hogwarts," Draco corrected sternly, but his gray eyes were gentle. "And you
can't, darling. It isn't a school anymore. No one has gone here for a very long time."
"Oh — " Lucy's gaze dropped from the far off ruins of the castle to her lap, disappointed.
Hermione lifted a hand to sweep the girl's silky, black hair behind her ears, assuring, "Maybe
one day it will reopen to students. If it does, you'll be the first through those doors."
"Promise?"
"I promise," Hermione agreed with a nod.
Draco coughed, all coldness replaced by amusement.
"Not so fast," he said to Lucy. "I'll only allow it on one condition."
Hermione glared at him dangerously.
"Don't you dare, Draco Malfoy."
He smirked.
"Promise to be a Slytherin."
***
They were on the sidewalk overlooking the Tenby cove, leaning against a rusted railing.
Fingers weaved together and eyes squinting from the brightness.
"Which one is she?"
Hermione scoffed. "You can't even recognize your own child?"

She pressed both palms against Draco's mildly burnt cheeks and forced his head sharply to
the side, pointing his face toward a class of school children making sandcastles down the
beach. Lucy was playing amongst them, her olive skin glowing in the summer sun. Her short,
dark hair was braided into two pigtails, and she looked as cute as she did messy.
"See her now?"
Draco rubbed his temples. "Yes. I simply wasn't looking in the right direction. That doesn't
mean I'm an absent father, and I don't appreciate the insinuation."
"No, your eyesight is just failing—that's what happens after thirty. I'll make you an
appointment with the optometrist next week. I think spectacles would suit you. Give you that
intellectual sort of look. Like Harry."
"Not happening," sneered Draco. He checked his wristwatch, adding, "How much longer till
parent pickup? The flower shop will close if we're late and I promised Mrs. Audrey we would
stop by this afternoon. You know she wants to say goodbye before retiring."
Understanding how important this particular meeting was to him, Hermione relented, "Fine.
I'll go down and fetch Lucy now. If she throws a tantrum over leaving class early, I'm going
to blame it on you — "
Hermione's words faltered as Draco shoved her roughly out of the way and vaulted over the
railing bars in one smooth motion. Landing on the beach in a flurry of yellow dust. Then he
was racing across the harbor to scoop up a startled Lucy, who began flailing wildly. Kicking
and screaming about her abandoned plastic bucket. Draco ignored her, throwing the kid over
his shoulder and marching back up the beach.
He deposited Lucy on the elevated sidewalk before Hermione, who was doing her damndest
not to laugh. A few giggles leaked out regardless.
"Take it down a notch, Mr. Greenhill," she tittered, crouching low to straighten Lucy's
overalls and wipe her dripping nose. "She's a human, not a Snitch."
"Didn't — didn't — finish sandcastle," Lucy sniveled, tears welling up in her crinkled eyes.
"Rebuild — Hog Wars. Didn't — finish."
"We'll make another Hogwarts tonight," decided Draco, "at home. A better sandcastle than
that hovel you had going with your friends."
But Lucy was still throwing a fit, so Draco lifted her off the pavement, perching her atop his
shoulders like a wiggly scarf. Bracing her legs with both hands. "Let's go," he ordered.
Hermione followed behind them, nervous. Though Draco had never dropped the girl,
carrying her so high up stirred some deep-seated jitters. She kept a hand in her purse,
wrapped around the wand concealed inside it. Ready to cast a cushioning charm at a
moment's notice.
However, they journeyed without incident. No cracked skulls. And Hermione was once again
struck by how very dissimilar the pair appeared. Draco was practically translucent compared
to their rich-skinned daughter, as contrasting as winter and summer. But he didn't seem
bothered by it anymore.
As they walked ahead, Hermione also took the chance to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Detecting a frustrated sort of tenderness in his voice she'd never heard.
She smiled.
Draco was still speaking quietly to the sobbing girl.
"It's not Hog Wars. It's Hogwarts. Like those nasty bumps the postman gets on his fingers.
Try to say it again."
"No!"
"For Merlin's sake, why are you always so stubborn? It's not even hard to pronounce. At least
try."
"Noooo — "
The waterworks escalated. Now Lucy was practically bawling. Smearing her tears on the
back of Draco's head—an act of vengeance.
He grimaced, jerking to the side. "Then can you pronounce cerulean? It's the color of the
ocean. Cerulean."
"Cer . . . rule . . . lun. Ceru . . . No."
An exasperated sigh.
"We'll keep working on it. How about cobalt? It's the most vibrant shade of blue and my
favorite color. Go on. Give it a go."
Lucy hiccuped, "Coba . . . cobalt."
"Perfect. That's perfect, sweetheart."
***
Five More Years
September 2, 2019
The letter arrived in the middle of the night. Hermione was still awake and sitting alone in the
darkened sunroom when a barn owl swooped in through the open veranda doors.
It landed smoothly on the mantle, hooting down at Hermione, who dropped the journal she
had been holding. She retrieved it from the floor, then went to greet the bird.
A crisp envelope was tied around its leg. When Hermione removed it, she saw the name
Professor P. Smith was stamped into a gold wax seal. This must be it: the top secret report
they had been waiting for the last twenty-four hours.
A grin blossomed on Hermione's lips. After giving the owl a grateful pat, she rushed into the
hallway then up the stairs. Bursting into the bedroom, shouting, "Pangolin wrote! Owl — owl
just came — must be to give us the news."
"What?"
Draco sat up in a flash, hawthorn wand in his hand, searching for intruders. When he found
none, he eyed Hermione, saying, "You went down to the beach tonight again, didn't you? You
need to start sleeping, Granger. Mind Healer's orders."
"No, actually, I was writing downstairs," Hermione replied. She went to sit beside Draco on
the bed.
"Fine. But at least try to sleep at normal hours," he pressed.
Not engaging, Hermione inched the front flap open, placing its coin of wax on the bedspread,
slipping a parchment from the envelope. That got Draco's attention. He leaned over her
shoulder to read.
Hermione inhaled sharply.
"Ravenclaw?"
"Fucking Ravenclaw."
Draco fell dramatically backward into the pillows. "It's entirely your fault she turned out a
bookworm. The girl never stood a chance." He sighed, reflecting, "At least she's not a
Hufflepuff. If that was the situation, I'd have disowned the brat immedia — OUCH!"
Hermione had pinched him, berating, "If Lucy really wanted a different house, she could
have told the Sorting Hat. Obviously, she didn't choose Slytherin, despite your years of
brainwashing. Painting her room green. Buying her that ball python for Christmas. Sending
her off with a trunk full of Slytherin robes! Bit overconfident, weren't we, Malfoy?"
Frown lines were forming around Draco's mouth—ones that seemed increasingly permanent,
as Blaise was keen to point out during every visit. However, his light eyes were smiling.
He yanked Hermione down so roughly that the parchment flew into the air, fluttering to the
carpet. Then she was sandwiched between him and the headboard.
Draco slid an elbow beneath her neck, easing her onto his chest like a firm pillow. Entwining
their legs together beneath the sheets.
He exhaled slowly.
"It's strange not having the little demon here. Like losing a limb."
"You miss her, don't you?"
"She's only been gone a day," Draco remarked coolly.
"And you already miss her."
A mean tug on Hermione's cheek.
"Maybe," he admitted, staring into the shadows of the coffered ceiling; the ocean dancing
blue light across the rafters.
She snuggled in tighter. "So next year we won't send her to school with the Zabinis. We'll use
Polyjuice or the cloak and see her off at King's Cross Station ourselves."
"Whatever makes you happy. That's all I want, Hermione."
The sound of waves tumbling toward shore overtook the quiet bedroom, dulling her mind.
Her guilt. And for once, she felt drowsy. Lulled by a soft, rhythmic music. Gently carried
toward that evasive landscape of dreaming. Perhaps sleep would come easily tonight, and she
would not go to the beach. Perhaps she would stay right here, with him.
Draco's eyes were closed, his breathing steady, when Hermione spoke again. Her voice was
barely more than a whisper.
"I am happy."
And now it was true.

Epilogue III: The Little Seabird
Chapter Notes
The end of physics is our body’s health.
Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain’d that end?
***
Thirty Years Later
December 25, 2049
Today was one of the rare mornings when Hermione woke first. Or perhaps she had never
truly drifted off. However, the bedroom air was so bitingly cold that she did not consider
rising, instead sliding down deeper into the blankets.
There was a crick in her neck, so she rolled to the side.
Draco was fast asleep, head submerged in a feathery nest of pillows. Beneath the weak light
filtering through the dormer window, his hair appeared pure white, not blond, and reminded
her of the peacock that once wandered the Manor gardens—Amros, that was the exotic bird's
name.
Her eyes swept slowly downward, reading the timelines written across Draco's face. Even
caught in sleep, he could no longer hide behind a smooth mask of stone. Could not erase the
decades from his storied skin. The fine crinkles around his eyes spoke of too many long
nights spent on the beach, holding her as she cried into his sandy shoulder. Sun-kissed
blemishes from miles of traversing the harbor path for school pickups. And the wrinkles left
by frowns mixed with the ones left by smiles. An atlas of emotions was carved into that cold
stone, permanent and deepening as he neared seventy.
He was still so beautiful.
A long exhale. Then Draco opened his eyes, finding her with his silver gaze.
She beamed.
"I'm sure it will be."

The creases around his mouth melted. He reached out to tug on her cheek. She leaned into his
playful touch. It felt achingly familiar.
Then he was pulling fingers through her graying hair, which was as wild as ever having never
adjusted to the seaside moisture. It had become something of a routine over the years: starting
off the morning by combing through the chaos, and ending the day with the same. She did not
even own a proper hairbrush.
As Draco worked through her tangled mess of curls, her eyes wandered around the bedroom,
not remaining too long on any one place. Taking in the white, rattan ottoman, which they had
to repurchase several times because of the way ocean brine eats at wooden furniture. The
cluttered bookshelf, which was always stuffed to the brim and prone to dropping hardbacks in
the middle of the night. To the wall of framed family portraits, one per year, arranged like a
moving puzzle of memories. They captivated her attention so much more than the window.
Hermione was staring at the portrait of their silver anniversary vow renewal when Draco
spoke, voice softened by age. And it was like he had read her mind. He probably had.
"As much as I hated hanging all those pictures, it was worthwhile." He leaned down to kiss
her wrinkled forehead. "No need for dreams or mirrors."
The couple in the charmed photo smiled down at them in agreement, even as the current
Hermione did the same.
"Not anymore," she said. Then, unable to resist a chance to tease, she added, "But in case you
forgot, old man, I hired a contractor to mount the gallery wall while you did nothing more
productive than take a nap."
Draco got his revenge with a yank on her hair. "I can never impress you, can I?"
A choked laugh left Hermione's mouth, quickly hushed when she said more seriously, "What
did you see that day?"
The lines on Draco's brow puckered.
"What day?"
"The day we found the Mirror of Erised in Paris. I never thought to ask, but you must have
seen your reflection as well. So what did the mirror show you?"
"Ah," sighed Draco. He withdrew his hand and slowly sat up. Easing off the mattress with
great difficulty—his muscles weren't what they used to be. "I was going to wait until later.
The perfect moment and all that nonsense. Of course, you're impatient as always, so I guess
you'll get it right now."
Draco was crossing the room and rifling through a dresser drawer, searching for something
inside like a human-sized Niffler.
As he did, Hermione pointed out smartly, "I'm not impatient. I told you what I saw in the
mirror ages ago. More than thirty years, when you threatened to drug me with Veritaserum
unless I confessed. Still can't believe you did that, you evil little — "
Her words were cut short when Draco tossed a small, round jewelry box toward the bed. It
landed in her lap with a tiny thud. Her eyes widened. She glanced up, surprised.
She stuttered, "I . . . I thought we weren't doing presents this year, considering we won't . . .
need them any longer." Her face fell. "Or did you change your mind about the bargain?"
"I haven't changed my mind about anything, and you shouldn't think of it as a Christmas
present," Draco replied, sitting on the edge of the duvet. He reached out to reclaim the box,
continuing, "Think of it as something I should have given you when I first proposed."
He smirked, making him look so much younger. Then he was flipping the box open; gently
taking her hand. "You deserve a symbol more permanent than a ring made of paper. Though I
still won't get down on one knee."
Hermione glanced down, and a delicate, two-stoned ring looked back at her. Twin emeralds
entwined in a circlet of silver vines.
Draco slid it onto her wrinkled finger, explaining, "The very first question I asked you in
Azkaban was your favorite color. Do you remember your answer?"
"Green."
Nodding, Draco said quietly, "Emeralds represent eternal life, so I thought it was perfect for
what's in store."
Tears welled in Hermione's eyes, hot and burning. "You shouldn't have bought this. It will
only be wasted. Ruined," she said softly. "Gone by tomorrow."
"It's not a waste, Hermione."
"But it is. We swore that in forty-five years — "
"I remember what we promised at Hogwarts," Draco interrupted, wearing an exasperated

expression, "and I don't need calendars to know it's time."
"Then why would you give me an engagement ring now? It doesn't make sense. After all — "
Her lips were still moving when Draco pressed into them, sealing them together like the end
of a sentence and ending her protests.
"Marry me, for one last day."
***
Draco was already in the kitchen when Hermione climbed down the stairs, joints creaking as
much as the floorboards. He immediately noticed the rectangular parcel in her hands, which
was wrapped in simple, brown parchment.
His eyebrows rose. "I thought we weren't doing presents? Being a bit of a hypocrite aren't we,
Granger?"
Hermione joined Draco at the table, not responding. Instead sending a cheery "Merry
Christmas" to the house-elf doing something in the refrigerator—Willa, an elderly female
wearing a flowery dress, who had replaced Kreacher when he passed two decades prior.
Since neither Hermione nor Draco were inclined to cook, they had long since agreed to
employ professional assistance.
The elf gave Hermione a polite little bow, before resuming her breakfast preparations. "Miss
is wanting the usual morning oats?"
"Yes. Thank you, Willa."
Draco cleared his throat grumpily in Hermione's direction, displeased with being ignored. He
repeated, "I thought you said no presents."
"It's not for you," Hermione clarified. "It's for the grandchildren. But I wanted you to read it
first."
Reaching to take the package, Draco asked, "So why did you take the effort to wrap it?"
"For heaven's sake, quit arguing and open it!"
He coughed coolly as he obeyed. Then he studied the cover of a hand-bound storybook,

reading out loud, "The Little Seabird and Other Fairytales, by Hermione Malfoy."
Hermione grinned. "Took longer than I should have, but I finally finished writing it. And I
think you'll like this one better than The Little Mermaid. At least, I do. In fact, I decided it's
my new favorite."
Draco's eyes narrowed and he asked, "Hermione Malfoy? You're not using your pseudonym?
You've been H.J. Greenhill for every other book you've authored. It's dangerous to use your
real name, not for us anymore, but for Lucy. Especially my surname. Why change now?"
"Because," said Hermione, "this one won't ever be published. It's meant only for our family.
It's all about you and me."
"I still don't think it's a good idea."
Hermione shifted her chair closer, flipping open the cover. "Just read the damn book," she
ordered.
Another annoyed cough. However Draco at last relented, turning to the very first page.
While he read, Hermione watched him. Studying him like she always did. Seeing his hands
begin to tremble. Seeing the tears blossom on his long eyelashes like dew on grass.
And she smiled.

***
The sun was setting as they walked, arm-in-arm through the back garden, descending the
steps toward the beach. A light layer of white snow powdered the sand. Yet the skies were
cloudless and the ocean was a calm, smooth looking glass.
Willa was already positioned at the water's edge beside a sailboat, which was floating gently.
Bobbing up and down with each flow and ebb of the water.
While Draco untied the mooring ropes, Hermione knelt to speak with the house-elf.
"Lucy knows exactly where to find the cave and what to do there, but please make sure she
gets our Christmas present before leaving. It's underneath the tree. And finally, please tell—"
Voice faltering, Hermione ended softly, "Tell Lucy that we couldn't have been blessed with a
better daughter, and regardless of blood, we wanted her with everything in our hearts. Every
single day we chose to stay with her. Tell Lucy that it was a privilege to have loved her for
this long."
Willa ducked her head in silent understanding.
"It's time, Hermione."
She rose.
Draco was standing at the side of the sailboat, black robes billowing around him in the water.
Gray eyes solemn. Hand outstretched in invitation. And she was struck with the vision of a
dark-cloaked ferryman waiting to guide her across the ocean.
Hermione wiped her face and went to grasp his cold palm; climbing up into the vessel and
trying to maintain her balance as it swayed. Draco waded through the breakwater, pushing
them deeper into the waves before hoisting himself inside.
Then they were being pulled out to sea. Drifting away from the coastline. Sailing farther into
the frozen water until their beach house became nothing more than a tiny, white speck far
across the waves.
Once they reached the deep ocean, both reclined to lay on the bottom of the sailboat,
shoulders touching. Faces pointed toward each other rather than the descending winter sun.
The current rocked them from side to side, and there was a perfect stillness, one that was as
quiet as it was peaceful.
And a profound sense of relief filled Hermione's soul. It felt like she could finally sleep after
years of exhaustion. Drift away and see them. All of them.
Her eyes flickered shut, and now there was only the gentle sway of the waves beneath their
boat. The faint rustle of Draco's cloak as he removed the Elder Wand from his pocket.
Yet he did not voice the spell right away. First, he asked a question.
"We had more than goodbyes, didn't we?"
Hermione nestled in closer, saying happily, "We did. But this isn't a goodbye. It's another
chapter, or maybe we're starting a whole new story."
Draco's fingers tangled in her hair as she went on, "One that we're reading together. You can't
get rid of me quite yet. In fact, in the next life I'm planning to be an even worse thorn in your
spine. So don't you dare think of escaping."
His silver eyes creased. He took her wrinkled palm in his, the Elder Wand held between
them, slowly running a thumb over her emerald ring.
"Never. There is no place you can go where I won't follow, Hermione Malfoy. On this shore
and the next."
Hermione smiled, clasping his hand three times for the last time.
"Then I'll see you soon, Draco."
***
Lucille | Tenby, Wales
Lucy stood beneath the lengthening shadows of the beach house roof, gaze fixed on a far off
sailboat as it coasted over the ocean horizon. She was holding her breath.
Suddenly it happened.
The boat was engulfed in a tower of violent, red flames. Fiendfyre that roared and consumed
everything it touched in a pack of blazing lions, sending a coiling serpent of smoke and ash
into the cold air. So brilliant that, even from miles away, the sight hurt Lucy's dark eyes and
she glanced down. Staring at the grass beneath her feet instead of her parents' funeral pyre.
The enormous crimson flames were still raging as the sailboat fell off the edge of the earth.
Fading out of existence like a light.
They were gone.
Lucy let out a choked sob, crouching low to the ground as her body was wracked with grief.
Shaking as the sun dipped below the skyline and the beach house's Fidelius Charm shattered
in a shower of sparks.
Darkness overtook the veranda, and for a while Lucy remained there, unmoving, listening to
the waves break against the seawall as she struggled not to break apart. Letting her tears
freeze where they fell.
But eventually, she stood. This was not the time to mourn.
Not yet.
Willa was in the sitting room, shuffling her tiny feet nervously. There was pain in the aged
house-elf's expression as she offered Lucy a handkerchief and relayed Hermione's departing
words.
Lucy took a moment to blow her nose before Willa pointed her toward the Christmas tree in
the corner, squeaking, "The cloak, knife, and book is all there for Miss to be taking with her.
Miss is knowing how to use them?"
Lucy nodded tiredly.
"Yes. I've known what to do my whole life, as long as I can remember. That still doesn't mean
I'm ready to do it."
Willa's face clouded. She offered, "Maybe the Zabinis can be helping?"
"No, no," Lucy reassured. "My folks never wanted anyone else to know the secret except our
family. I'll finish it for them myself."
Lucy lifted the bundle and strode from the room.
"It's my responsibility."
She only paused in the front garden to throw the Invisibility Cloak across her back,
disappearing in a swath of shimmering fabric.
She drew her wand and pivoted.
Darkness pressed against her with unbelievable gravity, and she cried. Truly cried. Bawled as
she was carried through the crushing black disapparition. The tears flew off her cheeks in a
whirlwind of saltwater.
However, when Lucy rotated back into being, her face was dry; her eyes, clear.
She could smell brine and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled the cloak as she
looked out at the moonlit sea and starry heavens. She was standing upon a high outcrop of
dark rock, waves foaming and churning below her. She glanced over her shoulder, discerning
that a soaring cliff stood behind her, a sheer drop, black and faceless.
A few mammoth chunks of rock, large as the one upon which she was standing, looked as
though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a bleak,
harsh view, the sea and the rock naked of a single tree or sweep of grass or sand.
Goosebumps pebbled Lucy's skin as she inched to the very edge of the rock where a series of
jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay partially submerged in water.
It was a treacherous descent, though she was not the first to take it. No, this same path had
been ventured by Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore long before, and her parents half a
decade after that.
Now it was her turn.

The lower rocks were slippery with seawater. Lucy could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting
her face, even through the cloak. When she reached the boulder closest to the cliff face she
whispered, "Lumos," and a thousand flecks of golden light sparkled upon the dark surface of
the water a few feet below where she crouched; the black wall of rock beside her was
illuminated as well.
She squinted, quickly locating a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling. An
eerie quiet emitted from its mouth.
Taking a deep, long breath, Lucy swan-dived into the sea. The water was so icy that it
numbed her muscles until she began to swim toward the dark slit in the rock face, her lit
wand held between her teeth.
The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that she could tell would be filled with water at
high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the
passing light of her wand. A little way in, the passageway curved to the left, and Lucy saw
that it extended far into the cliff. She continued to paddle vigorously, following the route
committed to her memory since childhood.
Then she climbed out of the water ahead, her silver cloak dripping onto the stones. After
casting a drying charm, she found steps that led into an enormous cave.
A spine-deep coldness made her shiver. She crossed to the far wall of the cave, caressing it
with her fingertips. She extinguished her wand, drawing it across her palm.
"Diffindo."
A clean slice formed in her skin, and blood began to flow. She tilted her hand downward. The
rock face was peppered with dark, glistening drops.
Then there was a powerful light, and the blazing silver outline of an arch appeared in the
wall. The blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into what
seemed to be total darkness.
Lucy walked through the archway, relighting her wand hastily as she went.
An eerie sight met her eyes: the one her parents had described in detail countless times. She
was standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that she could not make out the distant
banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling stretched out of sight.
A misty greenish light shone far away in the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the
completely still water below. The greenish glow and the light from her wand were the only
things that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though its rays did not penetrate as far as
Lucy would have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness.
Lucy went to the edge of the lake, her footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow
shelf of rock that surrounded the water. The surface of the lake was a shining black mirror. At
least until she knelt and slid her bloodied palm inside.
With a noise like an explosion, the water was no longer mirror-smooth. It was churning, and
everywhere Lucy looked, slimy white heads and hands were emerging, men and women and
children with sunken, silver eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of the dead rising
from the black lake.
She spoke in a commanding voice.
"My true name is Lucille Jean Malfoy. I am the daughter of the man who summoned you to
protect this place, and I have come to fulfill the promise made by my parents. To finish what
they started." She sniffled, adding, "If only a little late."
For many long heartbeats, the Inferi stared at her with their waterlogged faces. Then, one by
one, they slowly lowered back under the surface, leaving deep ripples.
In their stead, a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths
of the water. Lucy went to take it, yanking with all her might. Pulling something from the
depths of the black water.
The ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and floated,
with barely a ripple, toward the place on the bank where she stood. She climbed into the boat
carefully, which began to move at once.
There was no sound other than the silken slosh of the boat’s prow cleaving the lake; moving
without her help, as though an unseen rope was pulling it onward toward the light in the
middle of the cave. And as she passed, the white faces of the dead gazed up at her from
beneath the water. A pang of loneliness struck Lucy as she met their familiar gray eyes. Her
father's eyes.
Minutes later, the boat came to a halt, bumping gently into a small island: an expanse of flat
dark rock, with a basin, rather like a Pensieve, set on top of a pedestal. A terrible wailing
noise was coming from the pedestal, loudening as she drew near.
Then Lucy was standing directly above the basin, looking down at the flayed child lying
within. Its flesh was peeled and bloodied, and it was writhing as if burned. It looked
inhuman.
Feeling no pity, she wrapped two hands firmly around the white Basilisk knife.
And plunged it into Riddle's heart.
***
The moon was high up in the sky when Lucy apparated home to the Wiltshire estate. The
wrought iron gates swung open to admit their rightful owner with a deafening creak.
As Lucy traversed the long country lane leading to a fine, manor house that once went by
another name, but was now called Greenhill Hall, she plucked her mother's book from a
pocket, scanning the pages. She laughed through her tears.
Hermione had always been the wizarding world's best gift giver, and this was no exception.
The kids would love it.
A house-elf greeted Lucy in the marble grand entrance. He took the cloak from her shoulders,
saying, "Master is still at work, but he is coming home shortly to celebrate together. Children
is in their room asking for Miss to tuck them into bed."
"I won't be long," Lucy confirmed.
Though it was midnight, nearly the witching hour, both the boy and girl were awake. Sitting
up against their headboards, waiting.
Their small faces brightened when they saw their mother. She ruffled their dark hair and took
the rocking chair between their beds.
"Sorry I'm so late. It's been a rather hard day." Lucy folded open the book, remarking, "But
I'll make up for it by reading you something very special for Christmas. The perfect bedtime
story."
The boy looked peeved at the disappointing apology. He slid beneath the sheets, grumbling.
However the girl's eyes rounded with excitement. She asked, "I've never seen that book
before. What is it?"
Lucy smiled.
"It's the story of your grandparents."
***
The Little Seabird
By Hermione Malfoy
In a year not so long ago, on a not so distant shore, there lived a happy young woman. Her
youth was frittered away in classrooms, libraries, and written words. She loved to learn, and
it was enough to fill her days and nights. She was content, needing nothing more.
However, a vile darkness came to infect the land. Spreading its poison, stealing the sun.
Blighting everything it touched until her world decayed like an unplucked grape on a vine.
So the woman at last ventured outside, though rather unwillingly. Leaving her family.
Trading her books for swords that she never wanted, yet took up because she was brave.
Soon her days were lost in war, while her nights were spent burying the dead. It was the
ugliest way of existing, but the young woman thought herself fortunate to be alive when so
many others had fallen. However, the woman could not evade fate forever, and the time came
when she fought in a terrible battle. One where her body was torn into pieces and she
perished.
A selfish young prince fought in that same battle, although he served the darkness. The
prince happened upon the lifeless woman. Yet he refused to save her, for he knew nothing
except hatred. Thus, the woman was cursed by sinister magic to return from death not as a
human, but as an animal.
A little seabird.
Still, she was not whole in this new form. Her wings were clipped and she could never fly.
Therefore, the prince carried the seabird from that battlefield, locking her in a secret room. A
place where only he visited.
A cage of iron.
The selfish prince spoke to the broken seabird in that cage, reminding her that she was once
human, for she was prone to forgetting. Asking her questions that reawakened her
transformed mind, even though he could not heal her body. Telling her of the outside world,
which only grew crueler with time. And the seabird sang for the prince. Beautiful, sweet notes
meant for him and him alone. Music that taught the selfish prince how to love another
person.
A year passed, and the prince continued to confide in the seabird because she was trapped
and could not spill his secrets. However, the seabird never recognized the prince as the man
who put her in that cage. Never truly understood the prince as both her captor and
companion.
Then the time came when the seabird had the chance to escape, and the prince allowed it.
Flinging open the door himself as she was snatched away. For the prince had fallen
hopelessly in love with the seabird, and knew that she deserved a life beyond confinement.
The seasons changed with a tortuous slowness for the prince. He was lonely, having no one
to speak to in that empty cage. The seabird was equally lost. Her wings remained broken so
she wandered the earth aimlessly, trying to forget that she was ever human. Staring up at the
star-strewn sky and longing to fly toward the quiet embrace of death. For while she had
returned to this world, she did not truly belong in it and suffered.
The day finally came when their paths crossed in battle again, and this time the prince
rescued the seabird then let her go, though it stung his soul. Yet the seabird kept returning to
the prince because she had also grown to love him as her protector. Her soulmate. The
seasons went by and she continued to seek him out again and again.
At last, the seabird learned the key to curing the plague on her homeland: to end the darkness
and break her curse, she must perish a second time, never to return. The seabird was not
saddened by this discovery because it promised the freedom she had dreamt of for many
years.
She could become human by dying.
Nevertheless, the seabird could not abandon the prince. For as selfish as he was and despite
his betrayals, she deeply loved the prince and they belonged to each other. So the seabird
vowed to remain in her cage for another forty-five summers and winters. To grow old before
she left this world for good. The prince agreed, vowing the same. And so they both stayed on
this near shore, finding happiness for a very long lifetime.
Only once they achieved a great, old age did the prince release the seabird from her cage,
taking her in his arms. Carrying her into the cobalt blue ocean to fly toward death together.
And they were finally free.
So remember, every time you hear a pelican singing to the moon, the waves crashing against
the rocks, or the tide returning to shore, it is them. The prince and his seabird. Calling out to
the other through the salty wind. Speaking from the first light of dawn till the green flash of
sunset. Asking for all eternity. Coming undone with each answer.
Falling in love over a thousand more lifetimes.
Forever without end.

Chapter End Notes
And our little seabird can finally rest.

I hope you found peace in this ending as well. Nothing can make me cry cobalt blue
tears more than two people who deeply love each other living a beautiful life, growing
old together, and being blessed enough to pass with dignity. That Draco would be the
one to end Hermione's life was foreshadowed in Chapter 16 when he first takes her to
the Manor. There, Hermione asks, "Why don't you just kill me now?" He answers, "One
day I think I will." They indeed paid the price of the Resurrection Stone, suffering the
fates of the second Peverell brother and his lover. Of course, a lifetime of joy happened
in between.
As promised, Draco and Hermione are currently falling in love all over again in Parts II
and III of this reincarnation series. Without spoiling too much, here is a line from their
dance in Burned Hands and Dragon Tears, which will hopefully ease some of your
heartache: "As much as she was loath to admit it, he was an expert lead, guiding her
effortlessly across the tiled stone floor. Slow steps gradually easing into the steady
rhythm of a Viennese waltz, steering her into each turn and dip, never faltering. Each
movement was flawless, precise, and predestined. As if he could read her every thought
and she his. As if they had been dancing this waltz together for many lifetimes."
Of course, if you're hoping for an even darker love story told from Draco's perspective,
then I would direct you to Year of the Lioness, which tackles blood prejudice at
Durmstrang.
A full description of this reincarnation series can be found here.
Below are a few questions I didn't get the chance to answer in this epilogue, but if you
have any more, feel free to ask in comments or on Instagram.
Q. Does Hermione reunite with Harry and Ron? A. Yes. She ascends the spiral staircase
and finds them waiting. A seventy-year-old Hermione has had the time to grieve, but
still missed them and so many others. The entire time, Ron and Harry watched her make
questionable romantic choices. That said, they're happy she had the chance to grow old
for all of them. Draco does not ascend the staircase with Hermione, having never
belonged in Gryffindor Tower. Nonetheless, they have the promise of finding each other
in the next life.
Q. How did things work out for Ginny and Blaise? A. Wonderfully. They're still dueling
and drinking wine in Toscana, Italia. They ended up having three kids, one of whom was
Lucy's classmate. Tony Albero also lived out the rest of his life in the vineyard, and was
the world's best Muggle grandad.
Q. What happened to Charlie? A. He returned to Baile Herculane, Romania, which was

always where his heart belonged. He found peace again at the Dragon Sanctuary.
Q. What subjects did Pangolin teach at Hogwarts? A. An experimental course on

Magical Human Anatomy (that was promptly cancelled after a single semester due to
parent complaints). She then went on to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, expanding
the curriculum to cover other weapons beyond mere sticks of wood (e.g. enchanted
scimitars).
Q. How did Draco and Hermione spend their forty-five years of borrowed time? A.
Draco continued to handle the Malfoy estate affairs through a silent proxy, slowly
transferring all assets, including Malfoy Manor, to his adoptive daughter Lucille Jean
Greenhill. He found true rest living in Tenby, spending most days on the beach building
sandcastles with Lucy, and afternoons wandering the market. He kept a habit of visiting
his parents' graves every weekend, though was never able to handle speaking to Lucius's
portrait directly. Meanwhile, Hermione became a quietly successful author under the pen
name H.J. Greenhill, writing mostly fairytales for children, including the one you just
read. She eventually saw a trusted Mind Healer referred by Renée, who also sought
mental health treatment. Although Hermione still spent too many lonely nights on the
beach contemplating death, she ultimately stayed the entire promised forty-five years for
Draco. In the end, he loved her enough to die selflessly, and she loved him enough to
live selfishly.
Finally, every single read, kudos, and comment genuinely helped me finish this story,
and I appreciate you dearly. Though I didn't plan it, this 88-chapter story began exactly 8
months ago to the day, and I never felt like I was writing into the void thanks to all of
you.
The best is yet to come. I also hope to see you in the next lifetime.
HeavenlyDew <3
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These Selfish Vows

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These Selfish Vows

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These Selfish Vows

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50681989.

She will answer one question a day and never lie.

*This work is complete*

You can find me on Instagram.

Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy the journey.

Translation into Italiano available: These Selfish Vows by Rose_tortora16

Where art thou, Faustus?

Wretch, what hast thou done?

The man she loved.

Hermione smiled through her tears.

It was not enough.

"Do you want to go back to sleep, little jailbird?"

"No, Malfoy. I don't."

He lifted her chin, locking her in a dark and punishing kiss.

Two Years Earlier

Glen Lochy, Scotland

"I would have preferred the set undamaged when he arrives."

"And the rest of you are next."

This was no victory. This was no Death Eater's retreat.

"Ginny, we need to go to the Portkeys! NOW."

She registered someone pleading nearby.

"Get out now!" someone screamed.

"HE—HE'S HERE!" another voice shrieked.

No one had escaped in the past year.

"But . . . I'll stay until the end."

The Dark Lord's Mouth.

The moon turned blood red and the transformation began.

"No. Stop. Don't go."

Harry straightened stiffly, and departed.

Ripping and biting.

A fresh wave of screams rolled through the valley.

Her eyes fell shut.

And there was no pain.

His voice spoke again.

And at their center, the Death Eater resumed walking.

Head tilted curiously to the side.

Red blindfold watching her.

What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemned to die?

A serpent slithered past her head, still pressed to the floor.

She curled into herself and cried.

The guilt of her failure.

They lost so many during that nightmarish battle.

And Hermione was pulled off the front lines.

All until this final battle.

They were wrong.

Harry's reinvigorated corpse and colorless eyes.

Her eyes becoming as dead as Harry's.

No, breaking was never about her body.

It was about her mind. Her spirit. Her soul.

But to what end?

She had nothing.

Voldemort said to break her. Maybe he already had.

Breaking was a mercy.

"I couldn't save you," the man cried out.

The voice. It was to her right. The cell to her right.

"I can't do this anymore."

"I… I'm here."

"You can hear me?"

She heard his hollow voice echo through her room.

This work is complete