Chapter Text

Her head breaks the water’s surface, and she gasps, greedily filling air into her lungs. She opens her eyes, her vision blurry and takes in the room. Grey, mouldy stone walls, one worn stool in the corner of the room and – The hand on the back of her head presses her face back down into the icy water, the lack of oxygen soon burning her lungs. She thrashes her arms and tries to kick behind her, but her hands are being detained, and she quickly feels her strength wane out as her blood starts to sluggishly move through her body. She really shouldn’t fight back. She knows it will only make her run out of oxygen that much faster as her body exerts itself, but she cannot help it; it’s pure instinct. Her entire body starts to tingle, and she knows if she doesn’t breathe fresh air soon, she will drown in this water. Her head is pulled back up again, a hand tugging mercilessly on her hair, causing some of her roots to disconnect from her scalp from the force. She sputters and coughs, her lungs expanding and pulling together in rapid succession with the desperate breaths she is automatically taking. She feels as though she is burning from the inside out, starting from her lungs. As the pressure on the back of her head increases slowly again, she thrashes once more. They are laughing at her, deliberately drawing the moment she connects with the water out to make her suffer as they watch her panicking more and more. She knows she can't take it much longer; her brain cells will abandon her if the men keep this up. They won't let her die; she knows this, she is far too important for that. But they might make it long enough for there to be permanent damage. The one weapon she truly has at her disposal, her brain, taken away from her.

Right before she meets the cold water again, she faintly hears a bored voice through the blood rushing in her ears drawl, "That's quite enough for now.”

The heavy hand pressing her downwards instantly leaves the back of her head, and she pushes herself back up using the rim of the basin. Her muscles tremble and she can only push herself up a couple of centimetres, her hands still shackled to the rim, before she almost collapses back into the water again. She tries to gather herself to assess whether the voice that saved her really belongs to the person she thinks or if her mind is playing tricks on her now. She attempts to turn her head but can’t reach back far enough to look directly behind her from where the voice came.

“Of course, sir,” says one of the men to her right and the other two mumble something similar under their breath nervously.

They are obedient to his man, and if she thinks too much about why this might be, her body locks up. It’s never a good sign when men fond of torture are reverent before another man. She hears footsteps, slow but sure, almost leisurely coming towards her, but halting a few paces away from her. She tries to look over her shoulders again, turning this way and that, but can only make out a hooded figure, large and ominous, standing behind her. Her vision is further obscured by the wet strands of hair hanging into her eyes.

“Hmm,” hums the faceless voice, “do you think we should free her of her binds then?”

“No, sir. That would be a waste, we were just starting to have fun with her,” laughs the man who had been pressing her down before.

“Please,” she whispers, her arms trembling severely. She can´t hold herself up much longer, and if her arms collapse, she will be at fault for her own death.

“Cut her loose,” demands the voice, now slicing coldly through the room.

The other men scramble to get her binds off from her mutilated wrists, where they were cutting into her flesh. She gathers her arms closer to her side, following the rim of the basin and finally pushes herself up further, straightening her aching back. She cradles them before her chest, seeking some semblance of comfort and warmth. She feels the man take three more steps towards her back, now standing so close, she can feel the heat of him radiate towards her frozen body.

“How have you gotten yourself into this mess, little bunny?” he whispers lowly, his breath fanning her neck.

She shudders and feels utterly exposed, vulnerable. She doesn't answer, her voice stuck in her throat.

“I asked you a question,” he suddenly bellows, and she flinches back from the voice, ringing in her ears due to the volume.

“I – I – I don't kn-know,” she stutters, her lips trembling from the cold and the fear running through her.

He clicks his tongue before answering gravely, sounding oddly disappointed, “Yes, you do. Has mummy never told you not to visit the fox's den?”

The other men laugh at that as though he had made the funniest joke of the century. She can only remain stock still, once again not answering him while simultaneously fearing the repercussions. God, she hates that she can´t see his face, cannot even remotely guess at what he might do next. It is almost worse than being pushed into the icy water repeatedly. As the silence stretches on, her panic increases. She can feel him directly behind her, but she cannot even hear him breathe. He is utterly silent. She has started shivering in the meantime, trembling from both the cold and the exhaustion.

“Merlin, you’re pathetic,” he finally scoffs.

A bolt shoots through her because no, her mind had not played any tricks on her, this is his voice. She is transported back to her eleven-year-old self at the sound, standing in the courtyard at Hogwarts while he throws slurs at her. Tears well up in her eyes, and not because of the pressure in her head due to lack of oxygen this time, but real, emotionally induced tears. She feels as though she can watch her heart being squeezed under the heavy boot of the man behind her. She swallows the lump in her throat and tries not to make a single sound. She does not move, hardly even breathes. This must be a dream, surely. Because how can this be happening, how is this her life?

“Take her to her cell. Someone will look at her later, or she will rot there; either way is fine,” she hears him say.

If it weren't for the familiarity of the scoff, she would not have thought it to be him. His voice sounds so different from how she remembers it. Cold and extremely distanced, uncaring, calculating. She still hasn´t seen him and takes one last desperate glance over her shoulder, only to see that he has already turned around and is striving towards the door. She did not even hear the swish of his robes. She turns back around and only just hears the click of the door behind him before the other men grab both of her arms roughly and yank on either side. She yells out at the sudden ripping sensation going through her arms, her shoulders, her neck. The men cackle, and one of them lets her go so the other can push her around her own axis, now facing the door. They give her a hard shove between her shoulder blades, so she stumbles forward, rowing with her throbbing arms for balance to catch her fall. She is scarcely standing again when they grab her anew and kick into the back of her knees so that her legs cave in and she hangs between them by their grip. Her arms scream at her in pain, and she scrambles quickly back to full standing.

She briefly thinks about fighting the men directly with her bare fists, considering that they have not bothered cuffing her again, but even though she is not the worst in hand-to-hand combat, she is still outnumbered, let alone way less muscly than they are. Add to that her already weakened state from the repeated drowning simulation, and there remains not a single chance of her beating these men. They finally stop jostling her around and simply drag her by her feet towards the dungeons now. She almost feels relieved when they put her back into the cell, she has been spending her last three days in.

She wants to weep at that, at being glad to be locked up, a prisoner. But at least no one has tried to harm her in her cell yet. It's only when she is taken out that she has to bear all kinds of torture. She looks down at her mangled hands, the fingernails of her left hand all missing after the previous day. Her mind slowly starts going over the events of the past hour, being dunked again and again into the freezing water until her face was completely numb and her lungs were screaming at her. It wasn’t worse than yesterday, though, so she is grateful for that. Still, how much longer would they have gone on if he hadn’t stopped them? Had he saved her from death or at least mental decline, as her brain cells would have died off one after the other due to lack of oxygen? Her mind is whirling. What was he doing here? Had he recognised her? Would he come back? God, she had thought he was dead or in another country by now; she had not heard from him in over five years. Maybe five years were enough to forget a person? It seemed that it was enough for him to forget her. As her thoughts kept spinning in her brain, she crawled to the right-hand corner of her cell, lying down on the cold floor covered in straw to find some comfort for her aching limbs. God, she was thirsty. Bit ironic considering she had just spent the better part of an hour with her head under water, but she had been too preoccupied with surviving to think about trying to drink.

She hasn't had any water since yesterday and feels entirely parched. She’s hungry too, her stomach squeezing in on itself since they have’nt given her food once since she arrived. She feels weak and lightheaded, and she hates it. There is a strong stench in the dungeons of unwashed bodies and – she shivers at the thought – rotting flesh; he was probably right, and they would just let her rot down here. The thought makes her even more determined than before not to give them any information; she would no longer be useful if she revealed anything to them, and they would surely kill her right after. The smell makes the nausea worse too, but nonetheless, she is at the point where she could eat anything, even moss off the wall if there was any. She curls in on herself and whimpers. She hopes the Order will find her soon and get her out. As she drifts off to sleep from exhaustion, she thinks about her parents and about them promenading on a beach in Australia. She pictures the sand under their feet and the sound of waves crashing against the shore. She cranes her neck a little, imagining the sun hitting her face and warming her chilled bones.  

Chapter Text

Draco

Draco was walking down the corridor from the common room, slowly approaching the Great Hall. He knew he should be glad for the evening's shenanigans; all his friends were psyched at having been able to smuggle alcohol back from Hogsmeade to drink tonight, increasing their already anticipated fun by doing something prohibited, but he was just dreading it. Theo and Blaise had told him that he had to ask Pansy out to this thing, or she would keep whining in their ears for weeks on end. And he, being a good friend and all, had finally relented. He had told her that he was asking her as a friend, though it was very doubtful that she had even heard him over all the squealing she was partaking in, as soon as he had gotten the question out.

For Salazar's sake, why did she keep insisting that she had a crush on him? He had told her at least five times by now that he wasn’t interested in dating anyone. And yes, it might have been his fault in the beginning that she had lingering hope when he was still fucking her in the hallways or letting her give him blowjobs in the library. But now? He had not touched her in over four weeks, instead going for some of the Beauxbaton girls who were visiting and apparently all too eager to test out whether French kissing only worked with French boys or if the Brits could also be taught. Not trying to brag or anything, but he had been a great student, maybe an even better teacher to some of them. Still, he was figuratively being dragged to this stupid ball with Pansy as his date, which probably made all his previous efforts of keeping her at bay futile again. 

He would have much rather taken out another one of the French girls and would have left the party a little early with her to do their own bit of celebrating. But even though he was a dick, he was also a gentleman – could one call him that at the ripe age of fifteen? – who would not abandon his date just because something prettier or more interesting walked by. So, he dutifully dragged himself closer and closer to the Great Hall in anticipation of an awful evening.

The lights were twinkling in an array of stars in the phantom sky above them, magical snowflakes slowly drifting down from the ceiling and disappearing two metres above the ground. He could not believe the idiocy of this decoration. If one wanted to have snow, they could not at the same time have clear skies and stars and really, one barf-worthy romantic scene was enough; one did not have to have two at the same time.

He turned his face back towards the circle of his friends, who were going on about some discussion on which Bertie Bott's Beans had the worst and which the best flavour, like some second years, while Pansy shot him indignant glares from his right. He had turned up a bit late and had missed the opening ceremony, walking straight to his group of friends by the wall to not have to walk through the likely heavily perfumed bodies. Due to his being late, Pansy had to come in without him, which, yes, he had to admit, was, in fact, not very gentlemanly of him. Though he had apologised twice already, she was still pouting. He sighed. This night was already too long, and it had only just started, but at least he had missed McGonagall’s speech. He could really do without the gushing over the soon-to-be heroes of the Triwizard Tournament, including bloody Harry Potter, who had smuggled his way in just to earn himself the status of double hero. As if he wasn´t obnoxious enough already. Draco sincerely hoped Potter would at least get beaten and kicked out in the second round. Would serve him right, the idiot. He could not fathom how Potter even managed to survive the first task. But he guessed the boy who lived was just one of those lucky types whom nothing would ever happen something truly terrible to if the scar on his forehead was any indication.

The dance floor was slowly filling up with couples, and when he glanced around at his friends the next time, he caught Pansy’s look, which to his utter horror was now filled with hope instead of annoyance. Oh, for the love of Morgana, he would have to take her dancing now to make up for his tardiness, wouldn’t he?
He turned to her, her eyes already glimmering with ill-hidden excitement.
“Wanna dance then?”
“Oh, Draco, I would love to,” she said while shyly combing a lock of raven hair behind her ear. He held out his hand, shot a long-suffering look at his friends who had gotten him into this situation, and slowly made for the dance floor. In this moment, he was glad for his upbringing and the countless dance classes he had been subjected to since childhood. He didn’t have to concentrate to not stumble over his own feet like some of the idiots surrounding him once he reached the dance floor. Instead, his body moved on its own accord, allowing him to zone out somewhat while still leading Pansy gracefully through a waltz. She smiled up at him, and her eyes shimmered with an emotion he would rather not identify. He let his glance slide around the room, away from Pansy, taking in the other couples and the losers on the sidelines who didn´t bring a date.
“The decoration is nice, don’t you think?”
Pansy’s question made him focus back on her.
“Hmm, sure”, he grumbled, “a tad much in my opinion.”
“For Salazar’s sake, you are so grumpy, Draco. Can’t you at least try to have some fun?”
“I am trying, the circumstances make it a bit difficult for me though,” he said and flinched at the sudden hurt crossing her face.
“The circumstances being me then?” she asked wobbly.
“No Pans, of course not,” he tried to reassure her, but he sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.
"You're such a git,” she suddenly snarled vehemently. “You are aware that you chose to ask me to this ball, right? Nobody fucking forced you to do it.”
“Not directly, no.” He mumbled under his breath and knew in the same moment the words were out that he should have just kept his stupid mouth shut.
“What does that mean?” she asked in a shrill tone.
“Nothing Pans, don't worry about it.”
“What did you mean, Draco? Tell me,” She demanded. “Pans please, let it go. I didn't mean anything by it,” He pleaded.
“Fucking tell me, Draco. Right. Now.” Despite her cutting words, her eyes were starting to fill with unshed tears, and he felt like an utter prick.
“Pansy, really, I would rather not. Also, I told you before, I was asking you here as a friend, so let’s just try to have a nice time and forget about it.”

“As a friend? Are you serious?” she shrieked, her voice steadily rising. He was aware of glances being shot in their direction. “Do you let all your friends suck you off?” Heat quickly rose to his cheeks, and he tried to slowly guide Pansy to the sidelines of the dancefloor.
“Don’t you dare touch me. I could be having a nice time, Draco, if I had gone with someone who actually wanted to be here with me! There are enough other boys interested in me, I will have you know.”
“I know, Pansy, I never said you shouldn’t go with them,” he tried to defend himself.
“You arsehole,” she choked and finally ripped away from him, fleeing out of the Great Hall.
“Fuck,” he mumbled and ran his hands roughly through his gelled her. He really messed that up, didn’t he? “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“I know you are not using that type of language at my ball, Mr Malfoy”, came McGonagall’s voice from behind him.
Oh, for Merlin’s sake, could he not have a moment’s peace?
“Sorry, professor, not having the best time.”
“Neither is Ms Parkinson, I am assuming”, she said and had the nerve to look mollifying.
“Yeah, no, I don’t think she is. I really gotta go, Professor.”
“I think you should, Mr Malfoy. I wish you luck, but I will have you know that 10 points will be deducted from Slytherin for your foul language.”
“Of course, that’s fine,” he said distractedly, already making his way towards the exit.
“That poor girl really has to go after the boy least interested in her in their entire year,” Minerva said under her breath while looking after Daco.

He rushed out of the Great Hall and into the corridor, but didn’t see Pansy. Shit, she could be anywhere in this bloody castle, and he had to find her if he wanted to set this right.
“If you´re looking for Pansy, she went into the gardens,” a female voice stated behind him. He turned around and found Granger facing him.
He took a moment to take her in. Since his unfortunate first, and second, and yes, third year when he had extensively bullied her, he had kind of warmed to her. Of course, it annoyed him that she was better in almost every subject than he was, except for flying. Especially considering his parents had told him from a very young age that Mudbloods were beneath them and him and any pureblood wizard, not as fast, beautiful, or smart as them. And while he couldn’t speak for her speed, the other two were anything but right.
Especially the “beautiful” part seemed utterly ridiculous at this moment. She was wearing a periwinkle dress and silver sandals. Her hair was constructed in a kind of updo with some soft curls falling loosely around her face, and well, she looked radiant. Her eyes were twinkling with excitement and happiness; she was clearly having a good time at this ball. Unlike himself. She smiled at him encouragingly, even though he knew that she didn’t like him. But honestly, who could blame her for that?
“Well,” she said, sounding amused now and bringing him out of his thoughts on... her hair??

“Aren’t you going to go after your girlfriend?”
For some reason, this irked him. Though it really didn’t matter whether Granger, of all people, believed him to be dating Pansy or not.
“Umm, sure, yes. But she is not my girlfriend,” he brought out.
“Okay, whatever,” she chuckled and turned back to the Great Hall. “Good luck.” She looked over her shoulder at him while walking away before facing forward again.
“Why is everyone wishing me good luck today, do I look like I need it that badly?” he grumbled, even though he knew that he did, in fact, need it that badly.
He made his way toward the garden with the sudden, uncomfortable realisation that he had just looked at Hermione Granger and had found her attractive. Merlin, something must have been in the water today.

The crisp winter air greeted him when he stepped outside, and he took a steadying breath to prepare himself for the discussion he would have in a moment. Though it was extremely cold, there was no real snow that could rival the magical substitute floating around in the ballroom, and his footsteps echoed clearly from the stone floor. Pansy sat on the brim of the fountain in the yard, her shoulders shaking from her sobs. She looked up as she heard him approach and hiccupped out, “Go away, Draco. I do not want to talk to you right now.”
“Pansy, come on. I'm sorry for what I said inside. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
She held his gaze and wiped away her tears, a hopeful expression stealing onto her face.
“You didn’t? Mean what you said that is?”
“Eh, no, I mean, not entirely,” he said. “So, you don’t just see me as a friend?” she asked, her expression slowly lighting up.
He flinched as guilt rolled through his stomach. This was worse than he had anticipated. He had let her down easily so many times by now; why was she not hearing him? It honestly frustrated him exceedingly, but his annoyance was no excuse to be mean or rude to her.
“No, Pans,” he sighed. “That was not what I was referring to. I just meant about the decoration and all that. You were right, it was nice.” That was a lie, but he was trying to get back into her good graces.

“Godrick, Draco, do you really think I care about the stupid decorations?” she shot back. “I was just trying to get you to talk to me.”
The plan with the good graces was obviously not working. Shit. She was his friend, and she was important to him, but he could not pretend to like her romantically.
“Pansy, please, I have told you numerous times before. I am not interested in seeing anyone seriously. You understand that, don´t you?” If he sounded like a fuckboy, then that was because he was, but oh well, you were only fifteen once in your life.
“But we don’t have to have anything serious, Draco, we can just keep doing what we have been doing all year,” she pleaded.
He felt worse now, like a proper asshole. “No Pans, you’re too good for that. Too good for me. I know, you don’t want to hear this, but we’re better off as friends. Also, there are enough guys here that want to date you who would deserve you more than me.”
She looked at him, her eyes turning glassy.
“I don’t want to date any of them, Draco. I just want to be with you.” Her voice started to waver. “Why don’t you like me?" She looked away at her last words, like she was too ashamed to meet his eyes, and her voice broke.
“Hey, hey, Pans. Please, hurting you is the last thing I want to do. Pans, please look at me.”
She turned to face him, at the sight of tears rolling down her face, his heart clenched.
“I love you so much, but I can only be your friend. I know how difficult this is for you to hear, but I cannot pretend to have romantic feelings for you. That would just mean that I would be leading you on, and that would be worse, honestly, it would hurt you worse in the end.”
“But maybe one day, right? You might have feelings for me one day?” she choked out.
Draco took a deep breath. He knew being honest won’t help him here and there was no need. In a couple of months or years at the very latest, she will have gotten over him, and what he said now would hardly matter. Still, it didn’t feel good when he said, “Sure, Pans, anything can happen.”
She sniffed, straightening her shoulders and putting on a brave face. She gave him the smallest smile before standing up.
“Alright, I'm going back inside. You coming?”
“Go ahead without me. I’ll just be a couple more minutes.”

He sadly smiled back at her before she turned around to walk back to the ball. The smile slipped off his face, and he sat down heavily on the icy stone of the empty fountain. He let out a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. Hopefully, this would be enough now, and he would not have to go through a similar talk again. Asking Pansy to the ball had been an even worse idea than he had previously anticipated. Not only had he been bored and not wanted to be there with her, but he had now also hurt Pansy and ruined her evening as well. These fucking assholes he called his friends were stupid idiots, and he decided then and there that he would never listen to a word they said ever again. He started to shiver from the cold, having gone outside without a coat and slowly pushed himself back up to go inside. Maybe he could get a bit sloshed if Theo and Blaise hadn’t finished their alcohol reserves already. He would not flirt with another girl tonight, though, he decided, even if alcohol always made him a tad hornier than he already was. That would just be disrespectful to Pansy, and there truly was no need to rub it in her face. Having a bit of fun with his friends now would be just the thing to forget about this awful conversation.
He pushed open the door to get back inside and decided to go to the loo before entering the lion’s den again. His steps passed swiftly by the Great Hall, and he was about to start climbing the stairs when there sounded a slight snivelling noise. Instead of finding Pansy sitting there as he had inwardly regretted, his eyes fell on Granger.
What the hell had happened to her? She was literally glowing not twenty minutes ago.
“You alright?” he asked, the softness of his own voice surprising him.
Nonetheless, she startled and looked up, obviously not having heard him walking through the foyer before. Her eyes were shining, though no longer with excitement but with tears.
“Yes,” she pressed out and roughly wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“What happened?” he asked in light of the obvious lie, again surprising himself. They had never really had a real conversation before, barely exchanging words except for insults for the past three years. What was he doing?

“Nothing,” she said, looking primly down her nose at him, even though she was sitting, and he was looming over her. Her gaze bored into him, and she obviously was just as surprised that he would ask her this question as he was himself, because she said, “Anyway, what do you even care?”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? He didn’t, not really, at least. He had been the reason that she cried more than a couple of times now, and he never cared then. But something about the sight of the deep black of her lashes, the depth and definition which only comes from tears, surrounding swimming eyes, has quiet rage simmering in him. He was mad, and he didn’t even know why. He had no right to, really.
“I don’t,” he lied. “But you look like you need to talk to someone, and since I am already here …”
She scoffed. “Oh, how merciful of you. Thank you, oh so great Draco Malfoy, for blessing me with your presence.”

The sarcasm was dripping off of her like thick honey out of a comb, and he hid a smirk. He never expected her to be this cheeky and forward. People generally treated him with respect and a bit of fear due to who his father was and the stories they had heard of his family in general. She, however, had never been afraid of him or even respectful, even though she technically was the odd one out. He had to admit that it was impressive.
“Come on, Granger, just tell me,” he coaxed. He didn’t understand it, but the fact that she didn’t just tell him made him want to know it even more.
She looked surprised again. “You really want to know? One crying girl in one evening isn’t enough for you?”
“Well, this crying girl isn’t my fault, so I don’t have to feel bad, which I do always enjoy”.
She rolled her eyes, but he could see her mouth twitching as though she were suppressing a smile.
He liked the sight.
“It’s nothing really,” she said and then halted.

He wanted to push her to say more since that was obviously not true, but could sense that it was just her way of downplaying what whatever happened meant to her.
“I got asked to the ball by Victor Krum, you know?”
The Quidditch player? He had not known that. It honestly shocked him that someone like Victor Krum would pay any attention to someone like Hermione Granger. Even though he had admitted to himself that he found her beautiful earlier tonight, he didn’t generally pay much attention to her, especially not now that all the Beauxbaton girls were at Hogwarts. If he was honest with himself, though, he could see the appeal. The French girls were exciting to him because they were novelties, not someone whom he saw every day for over three years. Granger was the same for Victor and looked beautiful tonight, so there must be some merit to the decision to ask her out.
“Umm, no, I didn’t actually but go ahead.”
“Weren’t you at the opening ceremony? I walked in with him, and we were on the floor for the first dance.” She looked curious now, her ginormous swot brain taking over and pushing her sadness into the background.
“I was late,” he said shortly. “Continue.”

“Right,” she cleared her throat. “So, I came with Victor and was having a good time. It was fun, honestly, and Victor is very nice and considerate. I took a break from dancing when I met you in the hall. When I came back in, I walked over to Harry and Ron to talk to them a bit since they didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves. I asked them how their night had gone, and honestly, I’m blanking a bit on how it got to the point, but Ron just seemed extremely angry. He started accusing me of “fraternising with the enemy” and told me Victor was only interested in me to get dirt on Harry, basically insinuating that no one could ever find me interesting for who I am as a person, not to mention for my looks.” Her voice was quieting, and she looked down at her clenched hands, but he still caught a lone tear running down her face. “I am being dramatic, I know, but it just hurts to hear this from one of my best friends. If not even he thinks I’m good enough, who will?”
Draco balled his fists. The Weasel was a prime idiot. At least Draco had only managed to make his own date cry, but he really succeeded in ruining the night of a girl who wasn’t even there with him?

“You’re not being dramatic,” he reassured her. “The Weasel is obviously pathetic and jealous that you went with Krum to the ball.” While saying it, he realised that this was probably true even though he had never noticed Weasley looking at Granger in that way before. But he also didn't really spend his time stalking the git, so…
“I know Ron is a huge fan of Victor’s, but it’s not like he would have gone to the ball with Ron. The ball is strictly girl-boy. A bit old-fashioned in my opinion, but what can one do? I also don't really think Ron is into men in general, but maybe he would make an exception for an international Quidditch player? Do fans usually do that kind of thing?” she asked.
Her rambling really made him question her sanity. This was supposed to be the brightest witch of her age? A girl who would rather put non-existent homosexuality on her friend, which he had to admit was priceless, than realise that he might be jealous because of her?
“Merlin no. You know that more than one bloke can be interested in you at a time, right?” He said very slowly, overenunciating his words. “I didn’t mean the Weasel was jealous that Krum was there with you, but that you were there with Krum.”
She looked up at him and blushed. A lovely sight, to be honest.

“What? No. No, Ron doesn’t like me like that. If he had, he would have just asked me to go with him to the ball,” she looked ashamed to say this and then mumbled under her breath, “seeing as I gave him plenty of chances.”
Draco looked at her in horror, his eyes widening as the deeper meaning of what she said registered in his brain. Granger fancies the Weasel? The Weasel, who was one of the daftest guys in school? This had to be a joke; it just had to be.
“Let me get this straight, Granger. You would rather have attended the ball with the flappy piece of ginger that goes by the name Weasel than with an international Quidditch player who half the girls of the school, if not half the girls of the wizarding world, are after?” he couldn’t suppress the incredulity in his tone; it was just too shocking.
If possible, Granger turned an even darker shade of red. “Don’t call him that,” was all she said in response.
“You cannot be serious right now,” Draco brought out.
“We basically grew up together. He knows me best and we’ve been through so much together, things you have no idea about,” she tried to defend herself and her chosen amore.
“He also isn’t that daft,” she continued, at which Draco could not help but both scoff and roll his eyes.
“He isn’t,” she said again with vehemence.
“Sure. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. That is exactly how you want to introduce a new man to the future in-laws. ‘Believe me, mother and father, he is not as daft as everyone says he is,’ laughed Draco, even though he found nothing about this situation remotely funny. Disturbing would be more fitting.
Granger took on a sour expression.

“First of all, contrary to your beliefs, one must not marry the person one dates in high school,” she lectured, holding her index finger in the air, which gave her a distinct air of swot despite the dress, the makeup, and the hair. He didn’t let her know that this was the furthest thing from what he believed. If it were, he would already have been married six times over. He had dated in the past, just not for very long or very publicly. “Second of all,” she continued, another finger joining the first, “Nobody and I mean nobody who is in their right mind calls their parents `mother’ and `father´,” she said the last three words with an overly posh accent, clearly trying to imitate him. “We don't live in the 19th century. And third,” she took a deep breath, lifted a third finger, and pierced him with her eyes, picking back up her tirade before he could even begin to defend himself “I realise that I should never have tried to have a normal conversation with you, but rest assured, I will never make that mistake again.”
She jumped to her feet, all the sadness from earlier gone and instead having been replaced with an angry, buzzing energy. Her eyes locked on his one last time before she turned around so quickly her dress twirled around her and walked up the stairs at a speed unknown to men.
Draco stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking after her and wondered what in Godrick's name had just happened. The only clear thought he could form was that he could now safely report back to his parents that Muggle-borns were also, in fact, not slower than Purebloods.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The next day, she wakes to the smell of food. Her mouth is already salivating before she is completely conscious. She scrambles from her lying position and stumbles over her own feet on her way to the tray, so fast is she trying to get there. Her knees meet the cold stone floor with a thud, pain ricocheting through them, but she doesn’t even pay attention to it, instead taking up the glass of water on the tray and gulping down the cool liquid, which tastes extremely sweet in her mouth after her own breath has turned her tongue stale and bitter. She tries to slow down, to savour some of the water for later, but her control is slipping; she is just so very thirsty. She manages to save two sips of water at the bottom of the cup and sets it back down with excessive care to not let it topple over and spill the precious liquid. Soon, she regrets drinking the water first and drinking so much of it in one go, as she can already feel the usual nausea coming on that arises when she drinks something on an empty stomach.

Even back in the safe houses, she had always eaten a little before drinking so that she wouldn’t feel nauseous, and she never had to go three whole days without food then. Her stomach grumbles, and she tries to push through the sick feeling to eat a little. She has to control herself as soon as the flavours hit her palate to not gulp down everything at once. A groan escapes her mouth at the taste, and she briefly wonders why they would give a prisoner they had not even bothered to feed for three days such nice food. Roasted vegetables, some potato mash and even a little sliver of meat with gravy. Even with her trying to restrain herself, the food is gone far too soon, quickly replaced by intense stomach cramps that come from her breaking her fast so recklessly. She really feels like an animal at this point, lacking control over herself and her body. She can also feel herself getting more and more filthy, her underwear being the same since she has been locked up. The thought of taking them off had crossed her mind, but she already feels too exposed as it is. She also doesn’t trust the men on patrol not to take advantage of that, considering the noises she has been subjected to before. Shivers overcome her at the memory.

Her lack of control regarding the food makes her feel extremely bad, especially since the arrival of new food is uncertain. But she had just been so hungry. She had already been slim before getting here. The war had ravaged the food supplies, people were starving, and the only ones rich enough to exchange their galleons for Muggle money and have their food come from the Muggle world were the ones who started this stupid war based on blood-purity in the first place; most of the damn sacred 28. She could scream at the hypocrisy and the unfairness of it all. Them being dependent and taking advantage of the thing they were trying to eliminate from this world.
Once she has calmed down a little and manages to breathe through her ongoing stomach aches, she is hit with a frightful thought. How is it that she didn’t wake from the tray being placed in her cell? She is an extremely light sleeper, which had come much to her detriment when she was sleeping in the shared bedrooms at Hogwarts. But it has served her rather well ever since she, Ron, and Harry had been on the run. On more than one occasion, her good hearing and instant wakefulness had saved their asses not just on the run but throughout the war as well. However, here she had not heard any movements outside of her cell, the tray being put down on the stone floor, or even the creaking cell door opening. A shiver runs down her spine at the thought of what else could have happened while she was unconscious. How was this possible? Had she really been this out of it? Her mind is whirring, finally functioning at normal capacity again due to the nourishment she has gotten. She feels a little more in control now and thinks she could probably fight against some of the torture they are bound to put her through today. It is better to fight back, she has learnt. If she doesn’t show much reaction, like she tried to in the beginning, they will just make it worse. They want her to suffer and to see it too. It could be any moment now that they will come to snatch her. The anticipation is almost worse than the torture itself. Almost.

She hates not knowing what time it is, as there are no windows that let any natural light in. There is always just the barest glimmer of light at the end of the hall she can see, likely from an old oil lamp and the occasional lumos from the guards. Thus, for all she knows, it could be three in the morning, and she could have just eaten a full-blown meal in the middle of the night. Since her sleep is so light, she could have literally woken from someone turning over in their sleep in one of the cells next to hers. She goes to start her workout routine, scrunches, sit-ups, planks, push-ups… Though the sweat makes her feel even more gross, it is better than being constantly cold, which she would be otherwise. And besides, she would rather smell and look disgusting than be unable to keep up when the Order finally rescues her. Since she is sure there are apparition restrictions here, she will need to be able to run and probably even fight. The exercises also help her clear her mind and not get stuck on one thought that loops in her mind, as she has been finding herself doing in this cell otherwise.
When she is panting and the pain in her muscles is becoming too much, she topples over on her side and slowly gets up to walk back to her little corner. She stretches her muscles to keep the soreness at bay and closes her eyes. Immediately after having been brought to this cell, she has started to construct an escape plan in her mind. She is sure the Order is looking for her, but she cannot just rely on them to get her. It’s always been difficult for her to trust others and their abilities or ask them for help; she was always the one people turned to for support and ideas. Not just Harry and Ron, but others too, since the war started. For years now, she has been part of battle briefs and strategising meetings, even though Kingsley had been reluctant at first to Remus´ suggestions to bring her. He had convinced him eventually, though, after discussing a possible attack in Basingstoke for which Hermione had come up with most of the used strategy in the end.

Now she tries to come up with a semblance of a plan. However, she doesn’t have much to work with. The guards come at odd times; they’ve not been the same once she has been here, so the likelihood of building any kind of trust with them is slim. Yes, they are Death Eaters, and they see her as dirt, but if she offers kindness to them, she could probably manipulate them one way or another eventually. She knows they are lonely and likely scared in the service to Voldemort; being a tool is never a good feeling, especially when your handler is willing to kill you for the smallest misstep. So, building enough trust with one of them to get information out of him and eventually indirectly getting him to help her escape would have been the easiest way, but if they change every time they come, that won’t be possible. She has tried to gather some sliver of an understanding of the layout of the prison, but they had impaired her vision every time she was led to one of the torture chambers, and so far, they have been a different one every day. Again, she wonders when they will come to get her today.
Though she tries to concentrate on her thoughts for an escape plan, her mind keeps drifting to Malfoy. She had been too exhausted the day before to ponder on his presence here much longer after having been brought to her cell, but now she cannot help but wonder what he is doing here. She had thought that he had been killed or fled to another country. Instead, he had risen before her like a fata morgana in a moment of need without helping her, in fact, making her situation more desperate than it had been before.

A moment after the thought passes through her head, the cell door is suddenly swung open, and a guard stands before her. She gets a severe fright at the sight, considering that she had not heard him and thus had not been prepared for him. How had she not heard him? He was wearing heavy boots, and usually she could hear every ring of the guards’ steps on the stone floors. She would have pegged it for her being distracted, but now that she focused on it, the silence outside of her cell was too deep, too severe, unnatural. Did someone cut off the sound on her cell? Could she really not hear any outside noises anymore? So, she hadn’t actually been that out of it when someone had brought her the food; she had just been unable to hear him or her. Hear anything. The thought is jarring. The best way to learn something about the workings of a prison was through eventual slips in conversations between guards, which she would have no access to if her cell had actually been put under a silencing spell. The adrenaline and fear that she had been able to keep at bay until the torture had actually started the last time was now already slushing through her veins at the sudden appearance of the guard, and she feels jittery and uncertain.
“Up with you, Mudblood,” he spits in her face, and she scrambles to stand so he doesn’t drag her off the floor.

He grabs her roughly by her arms and takes them in a punishing grip behind her back, quickly yanking them downward and laughing at the yelp she lets out at the sudden hurt that goes through her shoulder blades, made worse by her initial stiff posture. He ties her wrists together with a mild local binding hex and then mumbles an Obscuro, impairing her vision. All she sees is black nothingness. She feels him take her by her left arm and lead her out of the cell and down the hallway to their left. Hermione sighs at the feeling of her magic flowing through her veins again, returning to her like a thousand shimmering stars after having been repressed through a charm in the cell. Though she cannot use it much, especially without her vision, it reassures her and calms her, making the walk to her torture less dreadful. She counts their steps, though his are bigger than hers, and she has to scurry after him to keep from stumbling. After 257 paces, they turn right and after 59 more, they suddenly come to a halt as they turn to their left again.
“Got the precious Mudblood here. The Dark Lord has requested her.”

She flinches violently at the statement. Voldemort wants to see her. Her mind whirls at the atrocious things he could possibly want her for.
She hears a door creak open and another pair of boots step aside; a moment later, they're climbing stairs. She tries to focus and count the number of steps they are taking, but she cannot concentrate. The horror of seeing Voldemort soon has panic spiking in her and taking her mind in a vice-like grip. At least she might get a better understanding of her prison, seeing as she has never been upstairs before. This could facilitate her escape plans. That is, if she survives the next hours and could bloody focus for more than two seconds at a time.
At the top of a landing, another guard opens a heavy door, judging by the way metal creaks, and they step forward again. An odd tugging sensation fills her stomach as they step through the door, and she briefly feels dizziness course through her before they move on. Likely some kind of barrier charm to keep the prisoners from entering without permission. She had expected the air to smell better up here, but there is a sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh and saliva in the air. It’s almost worse than down in the cellar, and she nearly gags, feeling her own saliva rushing into her mouth at the sudden nausea that rises up again.

The guard leads her down several corridors, and she loses her understanding of the building’s layout. She feels as though this cannot possibly be the same building she had circled in the mission and which he had been placed in as minutes tick by, and they still keep walking. Or rather, the guard keeps walking, and she keeps tripping behind him.
Finally, after what feels like at least twenty minutes, they come to a stop again.
“Is this Potter’s Mudblood?” asks a male voice, sounding oddly raspy as though he smoked at least a pack of cigarettes a day.
“It is. Filthy looking, don't you think?”
“Well, I certainly don’t see what the fuss is about,” the other voice answers. “You’d better bring her in there, the Dark Lord has been waiting.”
As the door opens, a light gust brushes against her body. The smell intensifies so much that she cannot hold back a gag this time, though she had already been getting used to it on their way here. It was extremely intense in here, burning her nostrils and settling uncomfortably in her throat.
The Obscuro is taken off of her, and she blinks into the bright light that greets her irises. Her stomach rolls at the sight before her. Bodies are scattered all over the floor, some missing limbs, some fully intact, but obviously all dead. Blood builds a puddle around every one of them, covering the grey stone floor in a sheen of red which is already turning black at the edges. A huge snake is swivelling over the tiles and around the bodies, seemingly inspecting them. The snake looks oddly thick, as though she had just eaten, and Hermione would rather refrain from thinking about what its meal could have contained. The snake lifts its head at Hermione. Its entire underside is painted red as well, little droplets of blood falling to the floor as the snake keeps its head aloft. Hermione suppresses every instinct she has and raises her eyes away from the snake’s. She swallows and stands still instead of trying to run from this room as her body tells her to. She wouldn’t even be able to take two steps, she knows. The wall opposite the door from where she is standing is covered in stained glass windows, which let in a milky light of green and grey. There are skulls decorating the walls, and heavy, tarnished silver candle holders are placed between them. The air is thick, and the warmth of the room is suffocating, but Hermione still shivers.

Her glance slowly slides downwards from the walls towards a Dais on which a throne is placed, made of heavy black wood with intricate carvings that she cannot make out from a distance. On it sits Voldemort. She knows it's him. She has never seen him in person, and the pictures in the paper were not able to trap the abomination that is him. To her horror, she realises that the descriptions she had heard over the years, most often from Harry, had been more accurate. His face looks like it’s made out of wax, white and with an odd sheen to it. There are red veins visible at his temples, spreading out from his eyes, which have the colour currently painting the floor, the colour of fresh blood. His nose cannot be called that anymore but rather shows as two holes in the middle of his face. His mouth is a thin line that spreads over his face, papery and cracked.
Though the smell might as well be stemming from the rotting corpses at her feet, she knows it is he who is spreading the sickly odour. He is rotting in front of her eyes. He should seem weak for it, horrible but not intimidating, considering he is evidently decaying, but he is anything but. He is blood-curdling, terrifying.
Only when she is finished inspecting him, locked by his gaze like a deer before a werewolf, does she let her eyes drift elsewhere. She halts in shock when she sees Malfoy sitting on Voldemort’s right. His white hair gleams in the light of the windows, one of the beams falling directly onto him. His face is pale, his features intimidating and much sharper than when she last saw him. The soft line of his mouth is slightly turned downward, which gives him a frowning expression despite the smoothness of his forehead. Elegant black clothing covers him, bringing out his paleness even more harshly to the point that he looks almost white. From his boots to the cape over his shoulder, everything seems extremely expensive and heavy. His wand hangs loosely from the graceful, long fingers of his veiny left hand, seemingly harmless, but his entire appearance makes it clear that the impression is highly misleading. He gives off a cold air, and next to his master, who looks like the devil himself, Malfoy looks like an angel of death, deadly and devastatingly beautiful.

God, she has missed him. She swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat but seeing him alive after five years is too much to handle, even for her. The onslaught of emotions is overwhelming, crashing over her like a wave. She feels relieved to see him, having thought for all this time that he must surely be dead by now. Angry because she hadn’t heard from him, not even once. Worried due to the reverence with which the guards had treated him yesterday, and his seat next to Voldemort, which indicates his status, which, among these people, would only come with atrocious acts she does not even want to begin to imagine. Sad because she had missed him, missed him terribly, like an iron belt pressing around her ribcage every morning when she woke and every night when she went to sleep. And lastly scared because while his face didn't indicate that he had forgotten her, as she had briefly thought the day before, it showed a hatred so pure shooting out of his eyes while he looked at her that she could not help but flinch.
His eyes pierced into her, and the hatred on his face slowly mixed with disgust the longer he took her in. She was distinctly reminded of the way he had looked at her the first time he had called her a Mudblood out in the courtyard at Hogwarts. Oh God…what if they had altered or erased his memories and he didn't remember her from after? What if he still saw her as the personification of everything he detested? Her blood turned cold at the thought, and she felt like crying again. She could feel herself getting smaller and smaller under his gaze, lifting her shoulders to her ears and her spine slowly curling inward on itself to protect her from him. The fact that her body felt the need to protect itself from him, of all people, made her chest feel as though it were splintering.

Being subject to his inspection felt like an eternity, suddenly broken as a high-pitched voice, which still sounded distinctly male, croaked, "Bring the Mudblood closer, I want to get a proper look."
Her gaze shifts back to the centre of the dais as the guard takes the binding spell off her wrists and then pushes roughly between her shoulder blades.
"Move, you degradation," he snarls.
On their way forward, she notices for the first time the other people in the room, standing on either side close to the walls, shrouded in darkness and tracking her with their eyes. Among them are a couple of the Death Eaters from posters the Order has made. Those are the ones who like to hide in the Muggle world when they are not out in battle and covered by their masks. The order members are supposed to look out for them anytime they have errands to run in Muggle London.
Pain shoots up her wounded wrist as the guard harshly grabs it a few paces before the dais to make her stop, and she flinches. The slight distance from the floor to the platform makes her feel even smaller than she already felt. Goosebumps rise on her back as she senses Voldemort’s eyes piercing her, but she does not meet his gaze, fearing a sudden use of Legilimency.
"Kneel before the Dark Lord", orders the guard, kicking into the back of her knees.
They harshly meet the cold stone floor, and the left one feels as though her kneecap has slid out of place. She bites down on her tongue to make no sound at the pain. She cannot show weakness already. They are like vultures, she knows. Any little reaction from her will just make them act even rougher, hoping for another sign of pain.
Snickers sound around her, accompanied by the sound of people swallowing from glasses. This is their entertainment for the day, she realises, now, that the bodies surrounding her on the floor are already dead or close enough to it that they do not deserve the attention of the crowd anymore.
She hears Malfoy’s voice, so familiar but still unrecognisable in its harshness, cast a quick Scourgify over her, and she instantly feels better, not as sticky and smelly anymore, though still a bit grimy underneath at the lack of a proper shower.

“What?” snarls Malfoy at the guard who looks at him in surprise at the action "It's bad enough I have to look at the filthy thing, I don’t have to smell her too”.
A quick well of hurt stabs through her at the words, and she feels more certain that her earlier theory might be correct. He had only called her filthy until third year.
“Quite right, my boy,” chuckles Voldemort in his disturbingly high-pitched voice “, we will get her filthy enough again before she goes back to her cage.”
Hermione shudders at the words. Malfoy, sitting to Voldemort's right, accompanied by the words “my boy”, directed to him, has her reeling. How long has he been working for him, and for which crimes is Malfoy responsible if he has climbed so much rank? How many members of the Order has he killed? The questions press at her without her consent.
“Show me your hands, Mudblood,” orders Voldemort ", Let's see whether my people have done their job correctly so far”.
Her hands stretch forward; her long-sleeved shirt, which used to be a light grey colour, now a grimy brown at the edges, slides over her wrists, and she flinches as they rub over the mangled flesh. Her left hand looks odd to her without the nails. She takes it in as from a distance, as though the fingers do not really belong to her.
“Why only the left hand?” asks Voldemort, no one in particular. The guard behind her had not been the one who had removed her nails that day, and she could not make out her torturer amongst any of the bystanders.

She looks at Malfoy, whose gaze is locked onto her left hand. There is no indication of what he might think of the sight except for a slight bob of his throat. He probably thinks she looks disgusting without her nails. Dirt had started to gather in the wounds, and her nail beds were slowly beginning to look infected; red and swollen.
“Well, Draco, do you want to start? I hear you and the Mudblood were in the same year at that ridiculous school. You must have hated to see her there amongst you and your friends.”
She averts her gaze again at the words, certain that they will start looking into her mind soon. She quickly draws up her occlumency walls. Not too thick, so they won't notice the level of proficiency she has achieved since the war began, rather a slim film to keep them at bay a little at first and think she is trying to stop them from entering. She had been mediocre in school, good enough to fight off a direct intrusion, but she had been unable to sort her memories and pick out what she wanted others to see. It had bothered her to no end not to be instantly good at something; it had also made her feel extremely vulnerable. So, she had asked Snape to help her when the war broke out and had practised with him anytime he was in the safe houses with her or after Order meetings they both attended. She was good at it now, not perfect, but better than most.

She quickly sorts through her memories while being dimly aware of Malfoy responding to Voldemort's request. Though the words reach her ears, the meaning rolls off of her like raindrops off an umbrella; she is too deep in her mind now. She drags forward names and locations of old safe houses, places they had left due to destruction or because some of them had been penetrated by Death Eaters. The most important information, such as Harry’s most recent location, the fact that they knew Snape to be a double - actually triple - agent, and her parents living in Australia, she buries deep inside her mind. She is enormously grateful for the food she had this morning; without the nourishment, she would be unable to concentrate as well as she is currently doing, and her mind would likely fail her attempts at sorting it so efficiently. Once more, she ensures that everything is in its proper place and secure, and then she braces herself for the oncoming intrusion.

Malfoy plunges into her mind as though the little barrier she had built up was a water stream falling out of a shower head - taking no effort at all to breach. She is shocked for an instant before focusing back on her task. She cannot panic right now. He rips through the first memories she offers, moments on the battlefield, showing her and her friends killing off Death Eaters or being hit by spells themselves and spending the subsequent hours or days in the infirmary. He halts at two of her being hit by spells, and she shortly wonders if he was perhaps the one who had cast them. Five years since the war had broken out would surely mean that she had fought him before. He does not care enough to linger on them for more than a few seconds, though. He knows them to be distractions. She was not the only one who had improved her skills since Hogwarts. Malfoy was scanning through her memories with an efficiency that was frightening and so far from his attempts during school that she could not believe that it was actually him tearing through her mind and not Voldemort himself. However, his touch on her brain felt so familiar, unique like a fingerprint, that she would recognise him anywhere, even without having seen him before. A legilimens could never be impersonated by another.
The advance was slowing down now as he took the time to inspect the information offered by her on safe house names and little snippets of conversations that had been relevant at the time but were far past outdated now, while she tried to make them look recent. She hid her own naiveness and optimistic feelings from the beginning of the war and induced the memories with a little bit of a more sensible mindset, basically letting her thoughts and feelings during recent meetings infuse her old memories to make them seem more realistic to him.
After what felt like forever, she could feel him slowly retracting from her mind. He had not been as brutal as she had expected, but when her mind is free of him again, she is still shaking, and a headache pounds through her skull. Her gaze is blurry, and she has to concentrate to focus it again. The light has changed significantly in the room; it is much darker than before, indicating that more than an hour had passed. Nonetheless, the dull light hurts her eyes after such an extensive attack on her mind. She looks around herself through slitted lids and also notices that there are considerably fewer people in the room than before, and the ones still lingering seem bored and are engaged in discussions instead of looking at her.
Malfoy gives a debrief of what he found in her mind, answering Voldemort’s question, but she knows that he had not found anything of importance, so she lets her mind rest, fading out their voices.

Far too soon, reality slams back in as one of the guard’s feet meets her backside, toppling her forward until she slams against the floor.
“Now that she has proven a bit useful, let’s have some fun, shall we?” Voldemort exclaims.
Excited sounds and whoops are his answer, as well as reverent ‘we would be delighted, my lord’s’. She is suddenly very awake again after having let herself become unfocused and tries to breathe through the nervousness that accompanies any impending torture, a feeling she has gotten used to in the last couple of days.
“Who wants to start having their fun with the precious Mudblood of the Harry Potter?”
Feet shuffle behind her as though people were jostling to get to the front of the room.
“Please let me, my Lord, I would be delighted and would grant you a proper show,” comes the deep voice of a man to her right with dark hair falling into his face. He seems vaguely familiar to her, but she cannot fully place him.

“No, not you, Nott, you have had your fun with the prisoners for today. Let another one of my subjects have a go.”
He bows while saying, “Of course, my Lord, I am ever at your service,” and slowly retreats to the wall.
She remembers him now; he is Tiberius Nott, Theodore’s father. He had attended the Quidditch game at the beginning of his fourth year together with Lucius Malfoy and their sons. Already then, it had been evident that Theo was exceedingly scared of his father, and Hermione could only thank the heavens for the small mercy of saving her from the grasp of this man.
Voldemort points his bony finger and picks another man out of the crowd, the other huffing in frustration at not being chosen.
“How about you, Yaxley?” he asks.
“It would be my honour, my Lord,” says the man stepping forward now. He has pale hair and a brutal look on his face, which makes Hermione reevaluate her decision to thank the heavens. She looks around herself with wide eyes for anyone willing to help her, though she knows it is a futile endeavour.
Her eyes automatically find Malfoy again, and she looks up to him from her crumbled position on the floor, looking for anything familiar in his silver eyes, but all she can find is ice and the odd sheen she always associated with him using occlumency. The light is bad, though, and she cannot be sure. While she still tries to get a proper look, an Impendimenta is directed at her back, and her body slumps forward even further, immobilised. The floor is sticky and cold under her, the odour of blood and death penetrating her nostrils.
“I like them to thrash, but I do not fancy them hitting me. You understand, my Lord?” asks Yaxley with a deceivingly calm voice.
“Naturally, do with her what you will,” Voldemort answers with a benevolent wave of his hand.
“You. Bring me a chair,” orders Yaxley and a guard instantly shuffles over with a chair that he places behind her with a heavy thud.
“Place her on it.”

She is picked up like a rag doll and thrown onto the chair. Her arms are taken and placed on its armrests.
“Incarcerous,” booms Yaxley’s voice, and tight ropes snake around her already wounded wrists and her ankles, tying her to the chair. The pain is severe, but her body is unable to react. Once the ropes are secure, the immobilising hex is taken off of her, but she cannot find it in herself to be relieved; the torture begins almost instantaneously.
He doesn’t hit her with a Cruciatus as she had expected, given the Pureblood audience, but instead approaches her with a Muggle electrical shocker. Her eyes widen while he slowly approaches her, his grin becoming broader as he takes in her expression like a predator who had already trapped its prey but now intended to play with it.
“Mudbloods are wastrels, but there is one thing they are useful for, you know? They make excellent torturing devices.”
He places the device slowly, almost gently, on her neck, and she tries to squirm and reflexively bends down her head to deny him access. He tuts at her.
“No, none of that.”
His hand rushes forward, harshly grabbing her chin with one hand. He halts for a moment and then slams her head against the wooden headrest. Pain erupts at the back of her skull, and the pounding headache from earlier returns with a vengeance, accompanied by a slight ringing in her ears. She is still blinking to clear her vision when electrical shocks start rocking her entire body.

Chapter Text

Draco

They were sitting in the Great Hall with all the other students to finish their class work for the day. Or at least Draco and Theo were trying to do their class work, Blaise was flirting with Françoise Cartier, a fifth-year Beauxbaton whose family apparently traded in Muggle luxury goods, the marriage of whose mother had been scandalous at the time, seeing as that witch had come from a pureblood family. The mixed blood status of Françoise was, however, of little consequence to Blaise, who, as had Theo, had rejected pureblood ideals ever since Draco had known them. This was one of the reasons he was now closer to Zabini and Nott. Yes, he might be mad at them and vice versa, but with a look down the long table at Crabbe and Goyle, Draco was glad that he was no longer constantly subjected to these kinds of political affiliations, at least not in school. An added benefit was that both Theo and Blaise were much smarter and funnier than Crabbe and Goyle had ever been.

He let his gaze wander through the Great Hall, passing over the Hufflepuff table, the Ravenclaw table. Looking at but not taking in any faces in particular. When his eyes found the Gryffindors, huddled together like a pack of lions, they stopped moving. He had lost count of how often he had looked over there today alone.
He hadn’t spoken to Granger for the last seven weeks. This wasn't something new, particularly, seeing as they had never really spoken before, except to insult each other or Draco saying things like `Get out of my way, Mudblood´ in the previous years. But now it bothered him. Not only did they not speak, but she did not even look at him, which he only knew because he spent more and more time looking at her. By now, he could clearly make out that she had a thing for the Weasel but also enjoyed Victor Krum’s company. The attachment between the two seemed to grow, which not only he had noticed but the school as well, considering that Granger had been trapped as Krum’s to save in the Black Lake for the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. The Weasel did not enjoy that, Draco could tell, but the former’s jealousy over Krum just seemed to annoy Granger over time.
Nonetheless, she had forgiven him quickly enough after the whole Yule Ball debacle. Draco had seen the two of them together with Potter arm in arm, laughing while tripping down the hallway after potions class, not two days later. Great, so the Weasel was back in her good graces, any insult to her person forgotten, while she despised Draco more than ever, even though their conversation at the ball had been the first time in his life that he had actually been nice to her. He had always known that being nice was overrated. What made it even better was that it was probably his fault that she had forgiven Weasley this quickly, seeing as he had tipped her off on the little crush he likely harboured for her. The more he watched the two of them now, the surer he was that he had been right.

The worst thing, however, was that he noticed at all. He should not be watching them, and he should most definitely not care that Hermione fucking Granger, a girl he had bullied for three years just for his own entertainment purposes, was not looking at him. But ever since the ball, she had somehow nestled herself deeper and deeper into his brain without him really noticing at first. It had begun by actually listening to what she said in the classes they shared. He had known that she was smart, loath as he had been to admit it, but brilliant? She was brilliant. Then he started looking at her occasionally in the halls when they passed each other. Moments where he would usually have stopped to taunt her, he now stopped to look at her with a completely different set of emotions. Then came the study sessions in the Great Hall. More and more often, he would find himself watching her studying, basically studying how she studied as though she were an exotic animal. School was important to him and not just because it was important to his parents, but also because he wanted to prove that his family was actually better than everyone, not just because of their money, but also because of their intelligence. But in the past three weeks, he found Granger often to be more interesting than most of his subjects. Recently, he had started to sit with his back to the rest of the room so he wouldn’t be tempted to let his eyes wander. A form of intervention against his own thoughts to allow him to actually study or talk about the class assignments with Theo instead of following Granger’s every move with his eyes.

On top of all this, things were far from back to normal with Pansy. She had kept her distance ever since the ball, which was a good thing on the one hand since he did not need to go out of his way to escape her flirting attempts, but extremely bad on the other, considering that she was a central part of their group, and he missed her. Blaise and Theo were mad at him for how he had handled the situation with her at the ball, and though they were still hanging out with him while Pansy had turned to some of the other Slytherin girls, it was obvious that they were on her side. He was mad at them as well because, really, it was their bloody fault that they were in this position in the first place. All the tension between them had given their hangouts a particularly delightful atmosphere. In recent times.

His gaze returned to Blaise and the pretty blonde witch, Blaise leaning closer to her and whispering something in her ear. Françoise tried to suppress a smile, and a mischievous look stole into her eyes. It would take no longer than five more minutes before they would leave the Great Hall together, Draco was sure, suppressing a grin of his own. Yes, he was still mad at Blaise, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want his friend to feel the joys of life.
A moment later, another witch, evidently one of Françoise’s friends, stepped behind her and made her slide over on the bench. Françoise shot her an annoyed look but made room while Blaise withdrew to his own side of the table. Draco faced his homework again, now that the exciting part was obviously over. He had just started to understand the arithmancy problem before him when he heard a female throat clear. He looked up into Françoise’s bright green eyes. She was looking directly at him.
“Hey, Draco, right?” she asked.

He straightened and could feel Blaise’s eyes skipping from him to Françoise and back in rapid succession.
“Eh, yes,” he answered slowly, his voice going slightly up at the end, making it sound more like a question rather than a statement. What was going on?
“Have you met my friend,” Françoise swivelled her head to the black-haired girl who had just joined her, “Elodie?”
Draco let a breath escape him. Ah, good, she was trying to set him up. He could feel relief swoosh through him as he saw Blaise noticeably relax next to him. He really could not have used any more complications in his friendship right now, such as rivalry over the same girl or such.
He put on his most charming smile and turned to Elodie.
“Hello, no, I don’t believe we’ve met yet,” he extended his hand to her “, Draco Malfoy, a pleasure.”
She shook his hand while Draco took in her face more attentively. She was pretty enough, he supposed. Narrow, almost black eyes, which slightly went up at the end, a small nose and pale skin, nearly rivalling his. She had a lovely mouth, slightly rosy and small, but still plump. His focus drifted away from his homework as he took in this most interesting development of the day.

“Elodie Clairemont,” she breathed so quietly that he had to strain to hear her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve ‘eard a lot about you.”
She seemed shy, but he could work with that; at least she had approached him first and was obliviously interested in him.
“Only good things, I hope,” he stated cockily in light of these facts, winking at her. She blushed a deep red, and her accent became more pronounced in her next words.
“Yes, only good zings,” she breathed again.
From his peripheral vision, he could see that Blaise and Françoise had picked up their talk again. His textbook snapped shut under his hands while his eyes remained focused on Elodie, watching as an even deeper red coloured her cheeks and travelled down her neck.
“So, how are you liking the cold winds of our most charming England? I bet you don’t miss France at all,” he teasingly said in his most polished French, hoping it would bring her somewhat out of her shell so they could get to the good bits soon.
“Mais, j’adore,” she said brightly, “It is my first time being away from France wizout my family, and it is zo different from home. Though qui, il fait trop froid,” she exclaimed, imitating a shiver by rubbing her hands over her arms.
She now smiled at him, and he was glad that it was this easy to break the ice. Nonetheless, he had trouble hearing her due to her voice, which was still very subdued, even though the Great Hall was relatively quiet with his studious classmates. So it isn’t even a pick-up line – at least not really – when he asked, “Do you want to go somewhere quieter? I can barely hear you over the noise.”

“Hold up, mate,” came Blaise’s drawl from his left before Elodie could even respond. “We were just leaving. Maybe wait five more minutes so we don’t get immediately busted,” Draco looked over at him and Françoise, who was eagerly rising from her seat, then thought better of it, leaned over to Elodie and whispered something in her ear. Elodie blushed and Françoise giggled before standing up again and striding towards the door in a very French way. Draco looked at Blaise again and grinned at him, swallowing his slight annoyance that he now had to keep Elodie entertained for longer before they could make their escape. But his friendship was quite frankly more important and precarious at the moment than some flirt.
“Have fun, Zabini and don’t make us look bad. Remember, you have a reputation to uphold.”
“Worry about yourself, Malfoy. I have never had any complaints.”
“Of course not,” laughed Draco, clapping Blaise lightly on the arm, “because they’re all scared of your family and would never dare say anything to your face.”
“Oh, zip it,” said Blaise as he raised his legs over the bench to follow after Françoise, but he smiled down at Draco while saying it.
“Report back how it went,” Theo piped in, finally tearing his gaze away from his class work and wiggling his eyebrows playfully at Blaise.
“I will do no such thing, you twat,” was Blaise’s final remark before he turned to leave.
“So, Elodie,” Draco said after a beat, turning back to look at the pretty witch and continuing his earlier conversation, “what so far has been your favourite part about coming to England?”
“Zhe boys, for sure, zey’re so much more attractive zan in France,” came her quick reply.
Draco looked at her in astonishment. He had not expected such a straightforward statement from the blushing girl across from him.
Theo laughed at that, now also turning to her. “Yes?” he inquired, “what makes them so much more attractive than French guys?”, a challenging glint in his eyes.
“Oh, je ne sais pas. Juste…,” she broke off, blushing again. So back to her shy self, damn it. Draco shot a look at Theo, who just grinned and held his hands up in an innocent gesture.
“Zey’re just more poli,” she finally brought out, the sentence sounding like it had cost her a lot of mental strain to come to this conclusion.
“Sure, sure,” Theo continued. “Our dear Draco and Blaise here are especially polite specimens. They could rival the Muggle Queen. Have you heard of her?”
“Ehh, non?” answered Elodie rather confusedly, her face looking slightly abashed.

Draco rolled his eyes. He really was not in the mood, nor did he have the time to listen to Theo’s obsession with the Muggle Queen right now. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody here knows anything about the Muggle Queen besides Theo,” he reassured her. “It’s really not common knowledge.”
Theo looked at him in mock outrage. “Do not listen to a word he says, Elodie. He at least should know, considering that I have talked to him about the Queen numerous times by now. Besides,” Theo took on a rather thoughtful expression, “I’m sure Potter and the other Muggle-borns would know something about her as well, having grown up with Muggle media and all that.” He laughed, “Granger probably knows more than me, considering you know, that she basically knows everything.”
Draco sat up at the mention of her name. Of course, Theo would bring her up now, when he had just begun to successfully distract himself from her. She was still sitting three tables over with the other Gryffindors at their table between the Weaslette and Neville Longbottom, and Draco had certainly not spent a significant amount of the first fifteen minutes of trying to do his class work glancing over there or regularly ever since. Now he raised his eyes to their table again, just in time to see Victor Krum standing behind her and leaning over her shoulder, seemingly inspecting her homework.

He quickly averted his gaze at Elodie’s “Oh, who is Granger?”, sounding indeed rather curious, “Is she in zhe same ‘ouse as you?”
Theo laughed at that. “No, no, not at all. She is in Gryffindor and way too noble to be associated with us.”
Elodie looked a bit shocked now, and Draco suppressed the urge to kick Theo in the shins. Why the fuck was this idiot trying to cock block him right now?
“Noble?” she asked, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “How do you mean? I zought Slytherins were supposed to be noble?”
Theo snorted, and Draco shot him another look. He would like to hex him at this point. First, the thing with Pansy and now this, was Theo actively trying to ruin his life?
“Of course, we’re noble,” he tried to reassure her. “Just in a different way. For example, we come from noble houses.”
“I see,” she said, looking very much like she was indeed not seeing. Considering there was nothing to see in his weak excuse, he couldn’t really blame her.
“Anyway,” continued Draco briskly, trying to seize the moment of Theo’s relative quietness. “Should we go somewhere else? It is rather stuffy in here, and I am honestly surprised old McGonagall hasn’t reprimanded us yet for not focusing on our class work.”
“Umm, sure,” breathed Elodie, slowly rising from her seat. “I’ll be there in a second,” assured Draco, seeing her puzzled face at him not standing up as well.
“Just trying not to make it too obvious we’re leaving together.”
Her eyes slightly widened, and Draco inwardly cursed. Fuck, had that been too forward? Nonetheless, she turned to leave, striding for the exit.
“Very smooth,” said Theo, encouragingly nodding at Draco like he was a toddler who needed praise for his first drawing. “I felt like I was watching your first attempt at getting a girl and not, well, your 30th.”
“Oh, piss off,” mumbled Draco, himself not understanding what had happened. His mind had still been a bit preoccupied with Granger, leading to a more than unsubtle way of asking the other witch to meet him in the hall. Bugger, he was more off his game than he had thought.
“Now, Draco, I also want you to report back. And remember, failure is just the next step to success,” chimed Theo in a very professorial way.
“Godrick, I loathe you,” said Draco while standing up and gathering his things to meet Elodie in the corridor.
“Nah, mate, you looove me.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” said Draco over his shoulder, already a couple of steps away from his seat. He quickly walked down the aisle, and his eyes automatically travelled over to Granger. His steps slowed as he saw Krum now squeezed in next to her, having an arm slung over her shoulder and whispering something in her ear. Something churned in Draco’s gut, and he shook his head, quickly looking away. What was bloody wrong with him?

He finally pushed open the door to the foyer, immediately spotting Elodie, anxiously standing next to the wall opposite. He sauntered over and tried to convey the confidence from earlier, which he had lost in the meantime. It wasn’t that he was nervous around Elodie, but something – he couldn´t quite pinpoint what – was not sitting right with him.
“Hey,” he smiled at her and leaned a bit into her space. “Sorry if I was a bit rash earlier, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
“Pas de soucis,” she said while shyly looking up at him. “I was just a bit surprised, is all.” She took a breath as though to gather her courage and asked softly, “So, where do you want to take me?”
He grinned down at her, noting her petite figure only now that he was standing directly in front of her and grabbed her wrist lightly. “Follow me.”
A giggle from her was his reward as she fell in step behind him.
When they reached a little corridor off the library, his steps slowed. There was a small bench there, and he sat down, slightly pulling on her arm to join him.
“’ere?” she asked, uncertainty tainting her voice.
“If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere else, but almost nobody ever walks by here,” Draco explained.
“No, ‘ere is fine,” is all the warning he got before she clasped the back of his neck and brought his lips to hers. Damn, these French girls really knew no pardon.
He closed his eyes and got accustomed to the kiss, slowly teasing his tongue out against her lips. She opened her mouth, and when Draco slid his tongue in, she let out a little moan. His cock twitched in response. She deepened the kiss and brought a hand up to his hair, lightly pulling on the roots, the other slowly making its way down his torso. His hands brushed lightly over her breasts before he could suddenly feel her hand over his right one, pressing it deeper into them. He was a bit shocked at the forwardness but welcomed it nonetheless, slowly losing himself in the experience. His mind turned off, and he let himself be guided by the noises Elodie made in response to his actions. When her left hand reached its supposed destination, squeezing his cock through his trousers, a stifled gasp escaped him and broke the kiss. They were still in the corridor, and a teacher could come by after all. Normally, he didn’t mind, but this was not the dungeons next to the Slytherin common rooms, and though it was rare, people did walk by here on occasion. He also normally didn’t mind the thrill of potentially being caught, but he only really did it out in the open like that with Pansy. They knew each other’s tells, and he also trusted her ears; she had incredibly good hearing.
He moved away slightly on the bench just so he could hear if anyone was approaching. To not seem like a total loser, he said, “So…,” slightly out of breath, “what did Françoise say to you before she left with Blaise? It looked intriguing.”
She looked at him, her cheeks turning rosy, and she averted her gaze.

“Oh, nozing really.” She seemed embarrassed, which made him want to know more. What could he say? He was a nosy fucker.
“Ah, come on,” he teased, moving his head down to her neck and kissing a slow trail downwards to make her more amenable. She took a hitching breath and slid around on the bench.
“It’s just,” she inhaled sharply as he kept working on her neck. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”
His tongue flicked over the spot right above her collarbone and mumbled, “You can trust me, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
“She just,” a giggle escaped her, and he gathered that she was a bit ticklish. “She said we should compare notes later and I should do my best to find out whezer what zey say about you is true.” He sat up suddenly, and she gave him an apologetic smile.
“Eh,” he brought out wearily, “and what is it ‘they’ say about me?”
She laughed, her rosy cheeks going round at the movement. “’Zey’ are my classmates from France and ‘zey’ say zat you ave a glorious dick.”
Mentioned dick sprang up at this, as though called to attention, and Draco now had to do his best not to blush himself.
“They do?” he asked gruffly, weirdly turned on by this appreciation of his cock.
“Hmm mhhm,” she murmured, leaning closer to him. “So, I just wanted to see for myself if it’s true. You don’t mind, do you?”
He didn’t mind one bit, but in an effort not to seem overeager, he only brought out, trying to keep the arousal out of his voice, “That’s fine.”
She laughed again. “I’m glad. Would ‘ave been such a pity not to see it.”
With these words, her hand landed on his bulge again while the other rested on his belt buckle.
“May I?” she whispered, and his head automatically surged forward to join their lips as arousal coursed through him, all thoughts of being caught forgotten. Their tongues tangled, and he grabbed her hips to pull her closer to him.

In a haze, he realised that she was now opening his trousers and let her hand drift slowly into his boxers. His eyes fluttered closed and then sprang open again when she reached his cock. His vision was a bit unfocused, and for a moment, he thought he saw something behind Elodie’s back. He startled as the something moved, and he willed his vision to clear.
Behind him and Elodie stood none other than Hermione Granger, looking him first directly in the eyes before her gaze travelled downwards, where he was sure she could see Elodie’s hand in his trousers. She gasped and turned around on her heels, fleeing in the direction she had just come from.
He ripped himself from Elodie’s lips and scrambled up, forgetting that she still had a hand attached to his cock, which had gone rather limp in the last twenty seconds.
“Fuck,” he cursed, stumbling a step. Elodie was dragged up involuntarily by the motion and scrambled to get her hand back quickly, her nails scratching him slightly in the process.
“I zought you said no one ever comes by ‘ere,” she shrieked, her accent becoming more pronounced as her voice rose.
Merlin, this was mortifying. He blushed violently and tried to close his fly and belt again.
“No one usually does, but of course, bloody Granger has nothing better to do than lurk around the library all day.” No matter that he had seen her not half an hour ago in the Great Hall. What the fuck was she doing here, and why did she have to come right then? Any progress of not thinking about her he had made by making out with Elodie evaporated in a flash.
“Ah, so zat was Granger?” mumbled Elodie, her voice having dropped to the usual whisper again.
“Yes,” he said tersely, “that was Granger. Bloody know-it-all now also knows where I go to snog girls.”
“Fuck,” he exclaimed again.

He heard Elodie laughing behind him and whirled around, “You think this is funny?”
“Non,” she gasped through another wave of laughter. “I mean, kind of? I ‘ave never been caught before, and zis wiz zhe infamous Draco Malfoy.”
He shook his head and said below his breath, “You should not be proud of that.”
It hit him how true the statement was. He may like to snog and shag a lot of girls, but he knew what being sexually liberated and being seen with him could do to a girl’s reputation. Not that it was fair like that, but that was how things still stood. At least he didn’t peg Granger for the gossiping type. She likely wouldn’t even tell Potter and Weasley about this. Also, hadn’t she been flirting with two guys at once for the past weeks? She really shouldn’t have reacted so severely; she had probably engaged in similar activities recently. Or hadn’t she? Maybe she was too prim and proper to touch Krum’s cock yet, but they were surely snogging somewhere, right? Krum was three years her senior. 18 years old, if Draco was not mistaken. Surely a guy in his prime like that wouldn’t be hanging around a girl who completely shut him off. Where would they be snogging, though? In a broom closet? Sneaking around the hallways or outside? Maybe she took him to her favourite corner in the library. Through his musings, he became dimly aware that Elodie was saying his name.
“Ehm, what?” he asked, looking sheepishly at her. She probably had been talking to him for the past minute, and he hadn’t heard a word she said.
“I asked where we want to go now or if you want to continue ‘ere.” She looked up at him and then at the bench behind them, her eyes still glimmering with humour. She likely hadn’t heard his earlier remark.
“Umm, sorry, love,” he brought out distractedly. “Not really in the mood anymore.” She pouted at him while he was already turning to leave.
“Another time zen?” she called after him.
“Sure, yes. Another time.” His voice sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears.

He reached the common room after a slow walk through the corridors. Upon stepping in, Theo, who had evidently finished his studying session, looked up from the sofa and gave him a puzzled look.
“Back already, mate? How did it go?”
“It went,” grumbled Draco. “And then Granger interrupted us.”
Theo looked at him, clearly trying not to instantly laugh in his face.
“Oh, this is priceless,” he brought out, losing the battle against the laughter rising in him. “What happened exactly?”
Draco was not really willing to disclose any information, but knew holding it back would just make Theo more intolerable than he already was.
“We were snogging on the bench in the corridor near the library when Granger materialised behind us and made an outraged noise at the realisation that not all of us wanted to die a virgin.”
Theo laughed again.
“Then she turned on her heel and marched away after having so brilliantly ruined the mood.”
“Well, did you ask her to join you guys?”
“What? No!” exclaimed Draco in shock.

“Probably where you went wrong then. She may have just felt left out.”
“You’re a twat,” said Draco, fighting the vision of him snogging Granger on the bench instead of Elodie. He could feel himself getting turned on again.
“This is the second time you guys have called me that today instead of praising me for my brilliant ideas, and I am finding it exceedingly ungrateful,” said Theo, leaning back into the sofa lazily.
“Can’t change the facts, mate,” answered Draco, focusing back on his friend and pushing any unwanted visions into the back of his mind.
“Well, how was she otherwise?” asked Theo, also changing the subject away from his twatiness.
“Dunno, we didn’t really do much anyway. She wasn’t too bad, I guess."
“So, you didn’t shag her?”
“No. I just told you, we were interrupted. Do you ever listen to me?”
Theo sat back up again and levelled an intent gaze on Draco. “Well, yes, but did you not finish after?”
“No,” said Draco tersely, “The mood was fucking ruined.”
“Hmm, you let a little Granger interruption ruin the mood? I would have rather thought that would spur you on. You know, show the lioness how it’s done.”
Draco slumped back on the sofa opposite Theo and draped an arm over his eyes, fighting the new vision of Granger watching while he fucked another girl. He groaned. “I suggest you stop talking. Nothing good ever comes out of your mouth.”

“You might be right there,” mused Theo. “Plenty good goes in, though.”
“Alright, I’m going,” said Draco, pushing himself back up from the sofa. “This conversation is officially over.”
“Oh, come on,” whined Theo. “I’m bored. You guys are such bores at the moment. I hope at least Blaise has something more exciting to dish than whatever failure you just presented.”
“If you’re so bored, go find your own girl to snog for Salazar’s sake.”
Draco couldn’t hear anymore what Theo called after him while he climbed the steps to the sleeping chambers. He was too busy not thinking about Granger’s amber eyes piercing into him for the first time in over seven weeks.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione awakes with a pounding headache. Her eyelids flutter open, and she groans, instantly closing them again, the blinding light stabbing her irises. She feels ill and bruised and wants to just keep lying there, unmoving. She tries to remember what happened, but only gets flashes. Her being led to the high-ceilinged room, which resembled a cathedral, meeting Voldemort, seeing Malfoy and him invading her mind, her being chained to the chair, all of that was relatively clear. Then flashes of her writhing on the chair, electrical shocks coursing through her body, the severe pain of burns at her arms and back, an iron glimmering red at the tip from fire suddenly crackling in the room, her being drenched in water so cold it burnt her skin, alcohol being forced down her throat, her gagging repeatedly until throwing up, and the insults. Her own mouth had made noises she had never heard before, her voice sounding almost animal. She could hear phantom cries still echoing through her skull. She can’t remember much more. Her surroundings faded the further the torture went, plus she was likely drunk at the end with all the firewhisky they had force-fed her. She could not remember being brought to her cell.  A shock goes through her at the thought, and the stabbing of her headache increases. Was she even in her cell?

She snaps up, her torso quickly rising off the floor, and her eyes spring open. She winces back at the light, and a wave of sickness comes over her. She barely manages to turn to her left before puking again, her eyes squeezing shut once more. She tries to keep her hair off her face and wildly gathers it with her right hand in the nape of her neck, a few strands nonetheless falling into her face and being sullied by vomit. Her left arm has started trembling violently as she leans on it with the effort of holding herself up, and she heaves three more times, nothing more coming out of her. Shivers start running down her spine, and exhaustion grabs at her, trying to pull her into darkness again. Her arm starts trembling so severely that she has to lie back down before it buckles under her weight. The stench of vomit, which is spread only centimetres away from her, penetrates her nostrils, and she tries to ignore it as she simply keeps lying there for a couple of moments. The feeling of dirt and disgust runs over her body, and another gag travels up her throat. She swallows heavily. Her mouth is utterly dry, and her lips are chapped; her skin is pulling tightly over them. The vomit has made her throat burn, and she feels even more thirsty.

She dimly remembers the glass of water that had been brought to her yesterday before she was taken from her cell and starts another attempt at sitting up. She slowly rises this time and carefully opens her eyes again. They sting from the light, but as they become accustomed to it, she realises with a sigh of relief that she is indeed back in her cell. She looks around her but still finds no direct light source. Her eyes are apparently so sensitive that even the dim light from down the corridor is too much. She focuses and looks around for the glass of water. It's standing in the right corner where she put it so it wouldn’t be accidentally – or purposefully – knocked over by a guard as soon as they stepped into the cell. She tries to gather her strength and slowly crawls over to it on all fours, more dirt gathering under her remaining fingernails. Her cell seems endless to her, and she is almost proud when she finally reaches it. She picks it up and then stills. White rims around the bottom of the glass are all that is left of the water. It actually takes her mind a moment to catch up, to understand that what she is seeing is lime; the water has wholly evaporated.

She shudders and looks around herself. How long had she been unconscious? A single night would not be enough to make the water dry up, though, granted, there had not been that much left. Still, it was extremely cold down here, almost freezing. At this temperature, it would take at least five days for that amount of liquid to have fizzled into thin air. She opens and closes her mouth in desperation, trying to fill it with saliva but is only greeted by a resounding dryness.

She sits back on her heels and focuses. If she had been out cold for five days, what had they actually done to her? How was her body still able to expel liquid in the form of vomit if there was apparently no other leftover in her body? How had she gotten here? How long had she actually been out? The thoughts and questions whirl through her mind, and her heart starts accelerating. Her hands shake, and even her legs feel unsteady, though she isn’t even standing. She slumps back onto her buttocks and presses her head between her knees as everything starts spinning, and she has to gasp to get any air into her lungs. Her eyes water, and in the next moment, she really feels like crying. What the hell was she doing? Who was she even trying to be strong for anymore?

Thick tears are starting to roll down her face, and she hiccups as her nose starts running as well. She knows she shouldn’t cry, is astonished that she even can with not having drunk water in almost a week, but she cannot stop. She cannot stop thinking about the room with the Death Eaters, cannot stop thinking about how she lives in a world where there are people who enjoy hurting other people, cannot stop thinking about the lack of humanity presented by those people, cannot stop thinking about that no matter what she does, it will never be enough. If these levels of atrocities exist, they will always exist. If there are people who enjoy seeing other people suffer, there will always be those kinds of people. Sobs are wracking her entire body as the thoughts keep attacking her. She had not thought herself to be naïve, not in a long time, but this, the scenes presented to her in that room, made her realise how optimistic she still had been while fighting for the Order. She had still believed that she could change something. Not just something, but the world. She had thought that by being good enough, she could erase evil, not directly as such but subconsciously.

She stops crying and starts laughing instead.

“Gods, you are such a fool. You are so stupid, Hermione, so stupid,” she says, accentuating her words by balling her hand and slamming the fist onto the cold stone floor on which she is sitting.

She tries to calm herself, but more and more thoughts are swirling through her mind, her desperation rising. It had seemingly only taken them a week to break her. At the thought, she loses all her remaining control and her body trembles. She had always thought that if she were tortured, she would never give in, would stay strong for her friends, her family, the cause of the war. She had secretly looked down on the people who would betray them when being caught by the Death Eaters. Of course, she had felt bad for them, but she just assumed that they lacked sufficient willpower and control. She had pitied them for that. And now look at her. Wasn’t she the same? She wanted to believe that even now, if they got her back into a torturing chamber or before Voldemort, she would stay strong and would not give them any useful information, but she couldn’t be sure. She no longer trusted her body; what was worse, she didn’t trust her mind anymore either. Her whole body ached and hurt, her throat, her hands, her neck, her joints, everything. And she misses her friends; she feels so lonely now. At the thought of them, she cries even harder. She drowns in her desperation when she realises she also misses Malfoy, the Malfoy she used to know. Tears roll down her face for him now, too, for the boy she had known and what had become of him. After a while, her breathing evens out and her tears fall more slowly down her cheeks. She raises her head, her shoulders and muscles aching. She flinches when she suddenly sees a figure before her.

Her eyes are still swimming, so she can’t make them out immediately. When she brushes over them to clear her vision, she sees a new guard standing in front of her, talking, but she can’t hear what he is saying. He is standing outside the bars, and his mouth keeps moving, then stops. He looks at her, first amused, then more and more angry. His features scrunch up the longer he stands there. His mouth opens wide and his eyes narrow; he looks like he’s screaming, but she cannot hear a sound. The cell bars shake as his fist hits them repeatedly, and she scrambles further back, her feet and hands quickly moving over the floor. She touches vomit. She looks down at herself and wipes her hand on her sullied clothes. Everything is disgusting. Nausea is rising up again, and she has to fight the urge to gag.

Suddenly, she is grabbed by the nape of her neck and ripped into the air, her feet dangling inches off the ground.

“I asked you a fucking question, you fucking filth!” screams the guard, who, only a second before, had ripped open her cell door.  

Her ears ring from the sudden noise, interrupting her cocoon of silence. The shock freezes her, and she doesn’t even turn to look at the guard.

“Answer me!” he bellows again, “you cunt.” She feels as though her eardrums will combust.

“I-I’m sorry,” she brings out, her lips trembling. She hates how weak she sounds, how intimidated. “I didn’t he-hear you.”

He drops her immediately, and she falls to the ground in a heap, her ankle twisting under her.

“Unbelievable,” mutters the guard, “why do we keep such cripples here?”

He takes his first steps to leave, thinks better of it and turns back around. Slow steps sound, making her automatically curl inward in horrified expectation before he reaches her, but it is no use. He lifts one of his legs and kicks her repeatedly in the stomach.

Pain shoots through her like a lightning strike, and she gasps.

After five kicks, her vision starts to darken at the edges. Mercifully, the guard takes that moment to leave off and walks away. All she can see when she opens her eyes are blurred boots receding from her line of sight, then the closing cell door.

She exhales, relieved to be alone again. Her eyes close, and she falls back into a fitful sleep.

The next time her eyelids flutter open, she is slumped against the back of the wall in her cell. Her legs are oddly laid before her, and her shoulders and neck ache terribly. She can feel the bruises on her side from the kicks and has trouble taking regulated breaths. She wonders if her ribs are cracked. As she comes to further, she realises that her wrists are shackled above her head. She stretches her neck upwards, seeing a chain hanging from the ceiling on which the handcuffs are attached.

“If you weren’t so dirty, this would be a lovely picture to behold,” comments a low voice.

Hermione’s head shoots up so fast at the crude statement, the walls in her peripheral vision become a faded grey. Opposite her leans a man against the bars of her cell, looking at her boredly while simultaneously managing to look greedy. It is an odd mixture.

“Blaise?” she asks, feeling hope for the first time since she opened her eyes in this room more than two weeks ago. The hope dies instantly as Blaise leans down, fury washing over his face in a way she has never seen before on his features, which are usually as serene as a summer evening in the countryside.

“That’s Lord Zabini to you, you dirty Mudblood,” he snarls, and her head rears back at the insult.

After taking a second to gather her bearings, she asks, “What is your favourite day of the year?” boring her eyes into his chocolate ones, looking for any trace that this is not really Blaise but just a poorly executed Polyjuice version of him. Something flicks across his eyes so fast that she has no time interpreting the meaning; she isn’t even sure if she saw something that was really there or if she was beginning to hallucinate.

“You dare question my person?” he bellows, only deepening her suspicion that this cannot be the Blaise she knows. He had never raised his voice at her, not even after the … incident. He looks the same, though, or at least how she thought he would look now. He seems slightly taller and much broader than before, which doesn’t surprise her—boys can keep growing until they are 22 years old. His face is still as handsome as it was during school, with lean yet strong features, sharp cheekbones, and slightly hooded eyes. She had always thought he almost resembled a feline in his grace, which he had already displayed at age 14. 

“I apologise,” she murmurs, but keeps her eyes locked on him. He is wearing full Death Eater Regalia, and his wand peeks out slightly from his robe, secured in the holster at his hip. It’s the same wand he had in school, a 13-inch, slightly red Elm wand with a Unicorn hair core, matching his reliability and stable character. When she had known him at Hogwarts, he had been loyal to a fault and would have done anything for his friends. At one point, she had thought that he saw her as such and would have done anything for her, too. Apparently, she had been mistaken; he wouldn’t even let her speak to him.

“I was wondering when you would go into our little Trap, Mudblood,” he muses. She looks at him in puzzlement, not quite understanding what he is talking about. “Oh,” he chuckles condescendingly. “Has no one told you yet, lion cub?” She freezes at the nickname, now almost certain that it is Blaise. No one else had called her that, not even Theo. Blaise doesn’t notice her change and prowls on, “Your whole ambush, the information you received from an inside source, your `spy´,” he snorted at the word, “all of it was planned by us. A little test to see if you still can’t follow direct instructions, or rather to see if you are still as predictable as you were in school. I am a bit disappointed you seemingly haven’t evolved, but then again, your stupidity served us well in the end.” He looks down at her mockingly while she tries to process what he is saying. “Makes one wonder, though, doesn’t it?” She raises a questioning eyebrow, not daring to speak, not really knowing what she would say to him with the lump building in her throat at his words anyway. “How you even managed to survive the war this long. Such stupidity should not be rewarded with survival, in my opinion.”

She swallows, trying to get rid of the tears building in her eyes. No one close to her had ever called her stupid before. She was the brightest witch of their age, for Christ’s sake, but now Blaise of all people, a person she had trusted deeply, was throwing her one vulnerability in her face. She knows she isn’t stupid, but she cannot help questioning her own intelligence in coming along for the mission. The memory envelops her, and she can see the scenes from that day running clearly through her mind.

“Hermione, wait for Merlin’s sake. The meeting will still be there in five minutes.”

“Yes, but we will be late. This seemed important. I don’t want to miss it.”

“This hardly sounded important. You didn’t even know the meeting was taking place,” Ginny huffed. As Hermione gave no response, Ginny continued, mumbling under her breath “, Not even on my days off can I fucking rest.”

Hermione continued to ignore Ginny and her panting breaths diligently, keeping her eyes on the end of the narrow hallway. They rushed together the rest of the way, pushing open the door to the meeting room. Ten pairs of eyes looked up at them at the sound of the swishing door. Hermione found Ron’s eyes, who just shook his head and evidently tried to suppress a smile but failed miserably.

“So good of you to finally join us.”

Hermione looked away from Ron and over to Shacklebolt.

“My apologies, sir. I was informed rather late that this meeting was planned.”

At the words, she glanced over at Ginny, who just rolled her eyes and strolled over to the empty seat next to Harry.

Shacklebolt looked at her mildly. “Ah, I wasn’t talking to you, Miss Granger. You are actually not privy to this meeting.”

Hermione’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Not privy? Pardon me, sir, have I done something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” he said reassuringly, his eyebrows going up and his eyes rounding slightly at the statement. “Not at all. It’s just that we don’t need you for this mission, so you weren’t invited. Quite on purpose, I might add.”

At his words, his eyes cut to Ginny, who now looks just as confused as Hermione feels.

“I didn’t know Hermione wasn’t supposed to come, sir. I just met her in the corridor and asked her whether she was coming, seeing as, you know, Hermione attends every meeting, no matter whether she goes on the mission or not. Also,” Ginny continued to defend herself. “Nobody even told me this was about a specific mission. I thought we were just debriefing.”

“Well, it’s no matter,” jumped in Remus softly. “Hermione, dear. If you would be so good as to leave the room. You can look over the plan for Glastonbury, if you like and don’t have anything else on your plate right now. It’s on my desk.”

Hermione scowled, her cheeks turning slightly red at the situation. Had she missed something? Somehow, all of this was a tad mortifying, especially since none of her other friends said anything. They didn’t even look at her. Especially Neville was using his tell-tale sign of discomfort, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the ground. “You actually want me to leave? Is there some classification I am not aware of right now? Last I checked, I was still in the highest classification rank under direct commandment, which is the same rank Harry, Ginny, and Ron have. I classify even higher than the rest of the people here besides you Shacklebolt, and Tonks.”

Remus started looking slightly uncomfortable. “No, Hermione, not at all. You’re still Lieutenant General.”

“Grand,” said Hermione, intentionally chipper though she didn’t feel it at all. Something was really wrong here. “Then, I think, I’d rather stay.”  She stalked stiffly over to the seat next to Ron and put her arms firmly on the table.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Actually, Miss Granger. I must command you to exit the room.”

Hermione looked at him incredulously. “What?” she pressed out between clenched teeth.

“Please exit the room, Lieutenant General. This is a direct order.”

Hermione took a deep breath to gather her bearings and not straight-out yell at Shacklebolt and Remus, who looked more uneasy by the second. She took another fortifying breath before answering as steadily as she was able under the current circumstances, “Under Articles 13(4)(a),(b) of the Statute for the Order of the Phoenix, every meeting is public, except if classified for certain ranks. No person shall be denied access to a meeting if their classification allows them attendance.” Remus looked down at his hands, and Hermione prowled on, “considering there are people in this room who are classified as much as two ranks below my own, I would like to make use of my Article 13(4)(b) right or,” she took a short breath, narrowing her eyes at her superiors, “receive a really good reason why I should not attend this meeting.”

She could hear Ron sigh beside her but didn’t even glance at him.

Shacklebolt held her eyes for three more beats before looking to the side resignedly.

“Please continue the meeting, General Lupin.”

“Right,” Remus coughed delicately into his fist. “As I was saying, we have received highly credible intel this morning on where the main HQ of the Death Eaters is currently located.”

Hermione glanced over to Ginny, who mirrored her shocked expression.

“The house is stated to be in Leverburgh on the Hebrides Islands, apparently in an old mansion belonging to the Notts.”

At the name, Hermione closed her eyes briefly.

“There are obviously anti-apparition wards surrounding the area. If our contact is to be believed, the wards extend as much as five miles from the actual headquarters. To enter the wards, one must have the blood of one of the Death Eaters, as well as,” here he paused slightly, “the right incantation serving as the password.”

“Luckily,” Shacklebolt cut in, “we just secured a prisoner in our latest mission whose blood should allow us to open the wards.”

“However,” Remus interjected again, “Our contact informs us that there are two incantations. One for entering and one for sounding the alarm. We will have to wait for Snape,” Remus slightly curled his lips at the name, “to tell us the password in order to actually pull through on the mission. I would like a faster approach, using legilimentic, but none of us are as skilled as Snape is himself. Moreover, the password reportedly changes every three days at the latest, rendering our prisoner’s intel useless in any case. Snape is scheduled to return in five days. We should try to work out a proper plan until then and establish a team for the mission.”

He looked around the room at these words. “Harry will be in charge and will lead the mission in the field, seeing as he is the only one who can sense if He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is also residing at Headquarters.”

Shacklebolt, taking over from Remus, turned to Harry, a severe look on his face. “Mr Potter, I will not have to tell you that this mission is of the utmost importance. Though you will only investigate the property to get an overview of the structure and layout, this mission is likely more dangerous than most we have conducted in the past five years. Therefore, I implore you to pick your team wisely. The risk of injury or death is enormous, but then again, this is war, and an opportunity like this will not soon present itself again.” Shacklebolt glanced around the room once before landing on Hermione. “Miss Granger, since you are already here, you can develop the strategy for this mission together with Mr Weasley if you so choose. You may not, however, attend this mission as part of the task force.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione brought out, even though, after the events of the past thirty minutes, this should not have come as a surprise to her.

“You heard me. As you know, I despise having to repeat myself,” he responded calmly, which only made her that much angrier. She could feel her blood starting to boil.

“And why, might I ask, may I not attend this mission, which no doubt will include both of my best friends?” she pressed out testily.

“Let’s just say, we can’t lose all three of you in one go if anything were to go awry,” responded Shacklebolt, sounding almost bored.

“If you assume someone is going to die on this mission, shouldn’t Harry stay here? Just logistically speaking,” she added speedily, and looked apologetically at Harry, who had given an incredulous scoff at the question. “He is the one who can actually defeat Tom Riddle once we have found him.  Wouldn’t it be wiser to keep him home, if anyone should stay home at all – which is not what I am saying by the way – and wait for the location to be analysed before sending him as easy fodder?” Again, she glanced in Harry’s direction, who was now squinting his eyes at her and mouthing What the hell are you doing?

Sorry, she mouthed back.

“Mr Potter will lead this mission, and that is final. You, Miss Granger, will remain at one of the safe houses or go on a different mission. We are still looking for people for the Canterbury attack.”

“Fine,” she hissed, “just tell me why I cannot go. A real reason, preferably.”

Shacklebolt looked her over almost pityingly. She was about to jump from her chair and strangle him if he kept that up. “This is not up to you, and I do not owe you any explanation. Your inordinate insolence today is shocking, and if you keep pushing like that, you will lose your rank and join your comrades’ status here,” he said, bringing his arm out in a half circle in a gesture to include Neville, Luna, Cho, Seamus, and Fred. “Understood?” he queried, raising an eyebrow.

She looked down at her hands on the table, which were balled into fists. She opened and closed her hands forcefully, so her fingernails cut slightly into her flesh. Then she looked up again, presenting a face full of scorn. No, she would not be the bigger person and act as if this behaviour toward her was justified, but she also wasn’t stupid. She knew when a battle was lost, and it was time to retreat. That didn’t mean the war was over by any means. So, she nodded, “understood”.

“Alright then,” Kingsley said, looking jovially around. “Meeting adjourned.”

Hermione pushed from the desk and strode out of the room without looking back.

“Mione, wait,” she heard Ron say behind her, but she kept walking. A hand grabbed her by the wrist, and she turned her around, looking into Harry’s green eyes.

“Just wait with your question round until we’re not watched by everyone,” she said vexedly, seeing Remus eyeing her warily from the door. Harry nodded, and they kept walking in silence until they reached the room she shared with Ginny, feeling their eyes burn into the back of her neck all the way there. Once she heard the door click closed behind her, she turned around.

“Hermione, what the fuck was that?” asked Harry, his face scrunched up in a slight scowl.

“Yes, exactly. What the fuck was that?” she threw back at him.

Ron stood slightly behind Harry and looked away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know.” At her face, he repeated with more emphasis, “I don’t. They didn’t tell us anything. When Remus told us of the meeting, he simply said not to mention it to you specifically and that you were not allowed to come. When we asked why, he didn’t say anything more and just left. We were confused, of course, but we do follow the orders we are given, usually.”

She huffed a breath. “Do not act like such do-goodies with me. You have been breaking every possible rule and order you’ve been given ever since bloody first year.”

“That was different,” Ron spoke up from behind Harry. “Then it wasn’t our life which was on the line.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperation flowing through her. “Don’t be so dramatic, Ronald. I do not think Remus would have used the killing curse on you two if you had told me of the meeting.”

“You know what I meant,” grumbled Ron.

“No, I don’t, actually,” she shot back. “And besides, that is also complete and utter bullshit. Your life was much more on the line every time we broke the rules at Hogwarts compared to how this situation could have brought about your untimely deaths.”

Harry threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, Mione, we are sorry that we didn’t tell you of the meeting, but we honestly didn’t know any more either, and you would have just nagged us endlessly with questions-“He held his hand out, stopping her already opened mouth from speaking. “Uh uh, I wasn’t finished. We are sorry for not telling you, but the way you acted was equally shitty. Why were you trying to get me taken off this mission?”

Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I-I’m sorry, Harry. That was not what I was trying to do. I just wanted to point out the illogicality of his argument. How could I ever be of more value than you?”

“Stop it, Hermione. You are just as valuable as I am, and you know it.”

“No, Harry, that’s not true. I might be good at strategising-,”

“The best,” piped up Ron.

“- And I might be good at fighting-“

“-Decent.”

She rolled her eyes again but continued, “-But I cannot kill You-Know-Who, and neither can anyone else here. So no, Harry, we are not equally valuable.”

“She has a point there, mate,” said Ron.

Harry looked uncomfortable as always when the subject came up and straightened his glasses in a nervous tic.

“Either way,” he stated, “You are right in that it was a weird situation and a flimsy excuse at best. Something is going on with this mission.”

He combed his hand through his hair thoughtfully. A knock sounded at the door, and before Ron could properly move, Ginny stepped in.

“For Godrick’s sake, Gin. One is supposed to wait before opening the door. Otherwise, one would not have bothered knocking in the first place,” exclaimed Ron.

“Oh, hush, you big baby,” Ginny responded before looking at Hermione and Harry. “Everything alright here? You guys just took off.”

“Yes, fine,” sighed Hermione, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Stop lying,” scolded Ginny. “You’re talking about the meeting, I take it?”

“Yes,” said Harry, stepping next to Ginny and curling an arm around her waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“That was fucking weird. Any idea why Kingsley and Remus were behaving so oddly?”

“Not a clue,” admitted Ron, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” asked Ginny, looking directly at Hermione.

“You are going to take me with you on that mission,” she stated, slightly raising her chin in defiance.

“Ohh, breaking the rules, I like it,” said Ginny, rubbing her hands together. Harry, next to her, took his glasses off and rubbed a hand down his face. “Of course we are,” he groaned.

“You do know, though,” objected Ginny, “that the most important asset a soldier has, more even than being able to fight, is to follow orders, right?”

“Well, that’s just a very British approach,” lectured Hermione. “The Germans, for example, developed a system in the Muggle wars where every soldier, even the lowest ranks, were expected, employed even, to use their own brain and make logical decisions.”

Ginny scoffed, “Yeah, and how well did that turn out for them?”

“Not that well,” said Ron smugly, proud that he knew Muggle history well enough to contribute to the conversation.

“Yes, well,” admitted Hermione. “Not, in the end, but it gave them an advantage for a long time. But it doesn’t matter; forget the analogy. If I am given an order, I want to receive a reasonable explanation for it. I am risking my life every day for this war; that is the least they owe us.”

All three of her friends nodded and grumbled something in agreement.

“So, are you going to take me on this mission?”

“Obviously. We would be lost without you,” said Harry, giving her a warm smile. Though she could see in his face that he wasn’t happy with the decision.

She is pulled from the memory as Blaise keeps talking. “Well, I won’t kill you,” he glances down at his hand, seemingly inspecting his fingernails as though Hermione being cuffed to the ceiling is one of the dullest sights he has ever had to endure in his life. “Not yet at least.”

He looks up and raises a taunting brow at her, “Kneezle got your tongue?” As she still doesn’t respond, he scoffs lightly, “Well, it was delightful to see you, Mudblood. Enjoy your meal.”

Only then does she see the food standing next to his feet, dry bread and a glass of water. Typical Muggle prison food and miles off from what her first meal in this cell entailed. God, that was almost a week back; no wonder she felt so light-headed. She realises that with cuffed hands, even if the food was closer to her, it would be almost impossible for her to eat it.

“But how-“she starts.

“I am sure you’ll figure it out, what with being the brightest witch of our age and whatnot,” he responds. He turns to leave, a dark laugh spilling out of him.

“See you,” he says in an oddly high singsong before disappearing through the cell door and leaving her behind.

She waits until he is out of her line of sight before she ponders the tray with food.  She stretches her legs out as far as they will go, even pointing her toes in an attempt to reach the tray with the food, but she cannot get there. A frustrated huff of breath escapes her before she looks up to assess her range of movement, now predetermined by the chains holding her to the ceiling. She pushes her pelvis slightly forward and already feels the stretch in her arms from the movement, but it still doesn’t suffice to reach the tray. Hermione looks up again. If she goes too far with her manoeuvring, she may lose her balance and tip back, causing her more pain, potentially dislocating her shoulder. Also, without her arms as stabilisers, she could be stuck in the spot, lacking any leverage to push herself back up again. She would hang in that excruciating position until another guard came by to grace her with his presence, and even then, it was unlikely that he would help her get up again.

She ponders whether it is worth it, the food, but knows that she doesn’t really have a choice anymore. Her body needs water to survive.

She craws forward inch by painful inch, stretching her arms further and further and putting additional strain on her wrists, which had slowly begun healing with the five days’ respite from torture. After what feels like an eternity, her pointed toes touch the metal of the tray, and she is grateful for her years of dance lessons during her time at primary school for training her arch. Slowly, so as not to lose her balance, she pulls the tray closer to her with her foot, her face pulled together in concentration. The closer she pulls the tray, the more she backs up again until she is right under the point where the chains connect to the ceiling, forming a ninety-degree angle with her outstretched legs.

Angling her left foot, she pulls the tray even closer until it is at the level of her knees, slowing down her movements deliberately despite her thirst, which has increased exponentially since she has seen the water, so as not to spill any of the liquid. She lowers both her knees around the cup and locks it between them, lifting the cup off the tray. Pain shoots through her side in a white flash, making her gasp. The water sloshes precariously in the cup the closer she gets, and she engages her core to keep from shaking. When she feels as though she can’t bring it closer to her upper body, she points her toes once more and presses them into the floor, stabilising the cup so she can bring down her head slowly. Both her feet start cramping, no longer being used to the movement, and she almost drops the cup in reflex, wanting to extend her legs and flex her feet in response. She fights against the urge and closes her eyes, breathing through the cramps which increase with every moment. Desperately, she brings her head forward, but the angle of the cup is wrong; it needs to be slightly tipped towards her so she can actually drink. The cold rim of the glass finally greets her lips, and she locks her teeth behind it to tip it slightly. As the first drop of liquid touches her dry lips and tongue, she lets out a contented sigh. She tips the cup further, and cold liquid runs down her throat, moistening it. She tries to push her neck further down to tilt the cup more as the water becomes less and less accessible. This time, she doesn’t try to save any of the water; she has learnt from her mistakes. As the last drop touches her tongue, she smacks her lips slightly and lets the cup drop from between her trembling legs.

She straightens her back to alleviate the ache slightly before looking down at the bread. It is a single dry slice lying flat on the tray. She will have to pick it up with her toes somehow and slide it very slowly between her legs upwards. She looks down at her dirty feet and legs and is resigned to eat dirt. Just another way this war – or more accurately, Voldemort – has managed to disgrace her. She sighs before focusing back on the bread, readying herself for another round of pain. Only then does she realise that the vomit from the floor is gone. Had Blaise cleaned it up for her? Had this been the one act of mercy he had shown her? The interaction puzzles her, more even than her meeting with Malfoy.

She was almost certain that Blaise must have forgotten who she was. She had never called him Zabini, not to mention Lord, only ever Blaise, ever since getting to know him. His demanding her to call him by his title was more than a little odd, especially since, in comparison to the encounter with Malfoy, there had been no witnesses here. But there had not even been the slightest sign of recognition from Blaise, except, of course, the lion cub. Could they have obliviated him like she had done her parents so that he didn`t recognise her at all? Maybe they hadn’t done it properly, and so the nickname was associated with her face. He hadn’t found it odd, calling her that, or at least his face hadn’t indicated as much. Perhaps the name had just sprung up in his brain, and he had thought it an appropriate way to taunt her Gryffindor heritage. However, if they had really only obliviated him insofar as to forget their friendship, why hadn’t he been executed or lowered in rank? Amongst Voldemort’s ranks, any deliberate contact with a Muggle-born was surely considered treason, even if it had happened years ago. But if they had seen into his mind, they would have also seen all the other circumstances surrounding their friendship, which would have surely gotten Malfoy killed and not promoted him to the second in command. None of it made sense. Because, again, she concluded her looping thoughts, if Blaise had really believed all that he had said, then why would he clean her cell for her? But then again, he might have just wanted to be subjected to the smell for the duration of their conversation. She shook her head. Further pondering was currently useless, but she knew that something was not adding up. She simply lacked crucial information.

She focuses back on the task at hand. The bread feels rough against her toes as it is enclosed by them. It slightly scratches her naked feet, leaving little red marks in its wake as her right toe pushes it upward. She turns her left foot over, so it lies flat on the floor, building a sort of plate for the slice of bread. With the next movement of her toes, the bread plummets back onto the tray. She huffs an annoyed breath and starts a new attempt. The bread slides around on the smooth surface, allowing almost no purchase. It takes four more attempts before the slice shows itself cooperative again and is lifted once more. The same tactic, just more slowly and with more concentration, rewards Hermione. Her right foot pushes the bread until it meets the inside of her left knee, which lies turned out on the floor. She twists her hips so she is angled sideways and entraps the bread between her knees, as with the glass of water from before. Flecks of dust become visible on the piece of bread when she raises her knees closer to her face. A shudder runs down her spine. At the moment, the bread slides out between her bony knees, having no fat to stop it after the involuntary two-week fast Hermione had to endure, and falls to the ground.

“Shit,” she curses and suppresses tears of anger and frustration. She sits for a minute contemplatively, looking at the new position her food is now located in. She bends her knees, her outer leg at a 45° angle, her feet pointing in the same direction. Her pelvis raises off the ground, and her feet slowly glide under her, the material of her jeans scratching against the stone floor. When her legs form a V-form, her feet tucked under her bum, she brings her knees further together until they are flush. Her right leg extends, and her foot meets the slice of bread. The rough floor allows for more purchase than the tray. Any more inhibitions about bacteria make no sense since the bread is now fully covered in dirt after its time on the floor, so she curls her toe around the edge of the bread and grips it tightly.

Slowly, ensuring that the grip of her toes is tight, she brings the right leg around herself in a half-circle until it parallels her left one. In a simultaneous movement, her bum lowers to the floor, her back arches further so that her arms are not stretched out too far by the chains, and her legs move to either side of her. Her left leg returns to its initial position, lying flat on the floor. With the slice of bread tucked in her toes, she lifts her right leg and places the bread delicately onto the inner side of her knee again. As her knees jointly bring the dirtied bread closer to her face this time, her ab muscles lock to avoid any tremors. Once again, she lowers her head, and her mouth finally meets the edge of the bread. If she bites into the piece, it will likely break and crumple, seeing as it is so dry.

Her tongue darts out and she licks the parts of the bread she can reach, moistening it to make it softer. The taste of dirt lingers on her tongue as minutes tick by, in which she continues spreading saliva over the bread. More time passes, and her stomach growls. She nibbles carefully on the rim of the bread, breaking a minuscule piece of it off. The bread stays intact, and a small smile spreads on her face. She did it. Incredibly slowly, she continues the process for the rest of the bread, shifting it slightly between her knees the further she gets. The last crump falls to the floor, but overall, it was a success. Her stomach still rumbles, and after receiving the first bites of food in almost a week, demands more. She tries to get back into a comfortable position, leaning against the wall she woke up against, but the ache in her shoulders increases by the minute. Again, she manoeuvres her legs in the same way as before to come to a standing position. Once standing, her back meets the wall, and her hands hang before her, still shackled but more relaxed. The metal is not as tight this time, and it only chafes against the wounds on her wrists when she moves too much. Why she is even in handcuffs, seeing as she is already in a cell, she does not know. It is likely just another way to humiliate her and rub her current state of being a prisoner in her face. She closes her eyes resignedly and lets her thoughts drift away.

Chapter Text

Draco

He quickly gathered his books and slammed his wand and quill into his bag while rushing out the door. He took two steps at a time down the stairs into the common room when his robe got caught on the banister.
“For fucks sake,” he exclaimed, pulling his sleeve off the stone.
As if he wasn’t already late enough. Where was his stupid notebook? He was sure he had put it in his bag yesterday, but it wasn’t in there. His eyes darted around him, and he released a relieved sigh, seeing it lying on the coffee table. On his rushed way over to the table, the sling of his bag slid off his shoulder. He violently pushed it back up and gave it an annoyed look as he kept walking. His shins forcefully met the edge of the sofa, him having miscalculated the leftover distance. He must have grown recently; he was sure his steps were usually smaller than this.
“Damn it,” he pressed out and scrambled around the sofa towards the coffee table, one hand already reaching for his notebook, when something gave him pause. His gaze narrowed in on the paper lying on the table next to his notebook. Granger’s face defiantly looked back at him as he picked it up. On her left was a picture of Victor Krum, on the right a shot of Potter seemingly right before the second task of the tournament.

Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache

Despite the time, Draco skimmed over the article, gathering that Granger was supposedly toying with the hearts of Victor Krum and the infamous Harry Potter at the same time. He was confused. Had he gotten it wrong? Was it not the Weasel but Potter himself who was harbouring feelings for Granger? He shook his head. No, that couldn’t be. While he had not known at the Yule ball, never really having paid attention to her until that point, except to humiliate her, he was certain now. Potter only saw her as a friend, surely. And more importantly, she only saw Potter in that way, too. They were just making her out to be scandalous in the paper, which was somewhat true, but firstly, with the wrong guy and secondly, it was hardly her fault if two guys had a crush on her. She surely was not the type to actively lead them on, as was claimed in the article anyway. Still, some uncertainty lingered at the wording of the article. It said sources close to her confirmed the statements. He sighed and laid the paper back down on the table. There was no point listening to this kind of tattle; he should know better, having a family whose business was constantly spread for all the world to read in the society pages.
The big grandfather clock next to the fireplace ticked, indicating his ongoing tardiness. He quickly took his notebook to rush out of the common room. Shit, he really was late.
He sprinted up the stairs and out into the main courtyard and came to a halt next to his friends, who, thank Merlin, had become more relaxed since the Elodie/ Françoise incident. Zabini probably had only needed a decent fuck, and Theo some entertainment. To Draco’s surprise, Pansy was standing next to Theo, having joined their little circle, and Theo first looked at Draco meaningfully and then nodded to her, while she was looking in the other direction.
Draco cleared his throat, “Hey, Pans, good to see you.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t look at him, “You see me every day, Draco, and you’re late.”
Right, still pissed off then. He looked at Theo, who just shrugged and gave him an apologetic smile.
“Everyone here now?” came Hagrid’s deep voice from the front of the group, and some heads nodded in response.
Blaise just scoffed and looked away, still not a morning person.
“Alright, class, today we are going down to the forest for a little surprise. Follow me.”
Chatter erupted as soon as Hagrid turned to lead them down the hills towards the woods. Draco and his friends were at the back of the group. He spotted Granger and Potter in the front, chatting to Hagrid. Had she seen the article yet? His eyes drifted over the other students. Glances were shot in Granger’s and Potter’s direction, accompanied by whispers. Of course, they were talking shit behind her back now. The golden girl with the boy who lived, what a spectacular pairing to gather attention.
He caught Lavender Brown leaning over to Susan Bones, the pair of them walking right in front of him and his friends.
Brown’s grating voice rose in a stage whisper, “Can you believe anyone would go for such a mouse? And not just Victor but Harry too. She must be amazing in bed.”
Draco’s blood heated, and he narrowed his eyes at them. Before he fully knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and conspiratorially said, “How about you mind your own fucking business, you gossips?”
He withdrew and took in their shocked expressions, a smug grin on his face. Both of them blushed furiously and started walking more briskly, turning around to glance back at him three times on their way.
He smiled to himself before noticing his friends’ silence. All three Slytherins were gaping at him.
“Right, so, what the fuck was that?” asked Blaise finally, while raising an eyebrow at him.
He wiped the smile off his face, doing his best not to look caught.
“What was what?” he responded innocently, turning his eyes back to the front.
“Your little rescue session just now,” stated Theo. “You were defending Granger.”
“Granger?” he scoffed. “No, I was just annoyed at their voices. It’s too early for Brown’s babbling,” said Draco, keeping his features smooth and controlled.
Had he defended Granger? No, he had always despised gossiping, had nothing to do with Granger whatsoever.
“Hmm, sure.” Blaise kept eyeing him sceptically.
The others looked equally unconvinced; especially Pansy’s eyes were burning into him from the side. He turned to look at her, trying to seem assured, but she just narrowed her eyes at him as though to look into him instead of at him. He could feel himself wanting to squirm under her gaze and quickly turned back to the front.
The group suddenly came to a stop, and Draco was rescued from any more questions aimed at his person by Hagrid, who gave instructions on the Nifflers, who would engage in a competition to find the most gold in the next thirty minutes. A sort of ridiculous activity, the merit of which was unclear to Draco, but he was not about to complain when he didn’t actually have to do anything during class. He took his Niffler and was glad when the animal sauntered off, away from his friends. With an apologetic look in their direction, he quickly followed the creature. It came to a stop a couple of steps away from Granger, and Draco tried his best to look aloof. She, however, was not even looking at him but rather crouching down to her own Niffler and petting its snout.
“Now, you know what you have to do,” she instructed it gently, “while your friends are just strolling around, you will focus and find the most amount of gold. Understood?”
A smile spread over his face, and he took a step closer.
“Always with the competition, Granger,” he tutted. She quickly turned to him, her expression going from calm but focused to annoyed.
“Malfoy. That is the whole point of this exercise,” she stated curtly. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
He swallowed at her obvious annoyance but simply said, overenunciating as though she were a bit slow, “I’m in this class, Granger, have been for the past two years. As have you, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t worry if you can’t remember though, I will get a medic for you. I’m considerate like that.”
She huffed an irritated breath and turned back to her Niffler. “I didn’t mean what you were doing in this class, you idiot, but right here. Is the wood not large enough for you?”
“What, you think I wanted to be right next to you?” He pointed accusingly at his Niffler. “He brought me here; I just follow him wherever he goes.”
Draco realised that he had taken on a rather flirty intonation, but couldn’t help it. It also didn’t matter, seeing as Granger did not seem to notice at all.
“Also,” he continued as her silence stretched on and he feared that she would not deign to give a response, “We ought not to go into the woods. It’s dangerous, you should know that.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic for God’s sake.” After the words had left her mouth, she stilled and looked up at him, almost scared. Draco, puzzled by her look, just kept going.
“I’m not dramatic, Granger. Do you want me to get lost and eaten by a giant as a snack?” Her scared look turned in a second, and fire seemed to shoot out of her eyes at him. Shit, what had he said now? What had he actually said?
“Giants are extremely gentle creatures and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Your bigotry and misconceptions are highly embarrassing, and I suggest you read up on magical creatures before spreading such nonsense in the future.”
She crouched down, picked up her Niffler and had already started walking when she turned around. “Also, if it’s true that you have been in this class for the past two years, you should know that that Niffler,” she pointed a finger at his Niffler sniffing around his shoes, which incidentally had little gold ornaments on them, “is a female. The white fur below her chin should have tipped you off.” With these words, she stalked away, joining Potter a few paces ahead.
Draco shook his head in bafflement. This was the second time he had gotten his arse handed to him for trying to be nice in as many conversations. With the same girl. If his father could see him, he would probably yell at him for not defending himself, but really, what was he to do? Granger was right. The Niffler was a female, and frankly, he didn’t know that much about giants. But come on, not everyone just walked around with excess knowledge on every possible subject in their brain.
Defeated, he leaned down to the little Niffler, which was still sniffing his shoes and petted her head.
“You’ve got the right spirit,” he whispered to her. “Now, we just have to work on your execution.”
He gently picked the creature up and placed it closer to Zabini’s animal, who seemed to have found a track in the opposite direction from which Granger had just gone. Blaise himself was sitting with his back against a tree trunk five meters away and had his eyes closed.
“Mind if I join you?” asked Draco.
Blaise just wagged his hand, and Draco sat on the moss, closed his eyes and leaned his head back next to Blaise’s.
“What a shit morning,” he mumbled.
“Every morning is a shit morning,” was all Blaise said.

Draco kept the good mood stemming from his successful conversation with Granger for the rest of the morning, nigh the rest of the day. During lunch, he gloomily looked over at her table but noticed that her spirits also seemed rather low that day. Maybe she felt bad for how she reacted, overreacted, really, seeing as Draco had barely done a thing? He shook his head and scoffed at himself. He stopped being self-centred as he remembered the article from the morning. She probably was not used to that type of slander and was likely upset because of that. Maybe she had seen it in the morning and was already annoyed before he came to speak to her. Yes, he would go with that even though she had seemed rather calm with that Niffler.
Eventually, his friends called him out on his broodiness, and Draco pulled himself somewhat together. He tried to make an effort thereafter, which was especially important since this was the first time since the Yule Ball that Pansy had sat with them at lunch. There was still some tension there, but he tried to be nice without seeming too considerate. Pansy detested pity of any sort. Blaise and Theo had been their regular old selves, dissipating some of the tension naturally.
The classes after lunch pulled him back down a bit, though. Snape was in an especially foul mood today, throwing insults at anything that moved too much. Divination was fine but boring as always, and Granger had sat in a different spot than usual, making it much harder for Draco to track her movements. The only good thing about that was that she had chosen not to sit in her usual spot next to Weasley but instead next to Lovegood. Maybe things weren’t quite right between them. Or she had just chosen to sit next to Lovegood because she was especially good at divination, while – as Draco had gathered over the last couple of weeks – Granger rather despised the subject.
Now that classes were finally over, Draco made his way back to the common room and sat heavily on the sofa. The younger students who had gathered there threw him wary looks and slowly left the room, but he was too preoccupied to notice. He was still trying to figure out what exactly had gone wrong that morning. The paper was lying in the spot from earlier on the coffee table. Leaning forward on his knees, he grabbed to pick it up again and read the article more attentively this time.
Yes, granted it wasn’t good, but was it really so bad that she had to be in a mood about it to such a degree? He continued to read, flipping the page over to see if any other stories could distract him from his annoying thoughts. The face printed on page three did ring a bell, but he had to focus to recognise it, his thoughts having wandered from his efforts again. After a moment, he realised that it was a picture of Hagrid, looking especially large next to his small hut he called a home. His unruly hair was springing wildly around his head, more so than usual, and his normally calm face had taken on an angry expression. Draco has to admit that it looked a bit scary, but he knew how the vultures from the media were. Hagrid had probably been caught off guard, not usually being subjected to that sort of thing. He didn’t like Hagrid particularly, found him a bit daft and too rough around the edges, but he could understand the situation, nonetheless.

Half-Giant at Hogwarts — How Safe Are The Students?

read Draco and scoffed. What was this bullshit? The article described Hagrid as hairy (fair), big (also fair), and potentially dangerous (not so fair). His lineage was apparently connected to giants who were made out to be dangerous creatures, associating Hagrid with them all the while. Dumbledore was called out for his poor judgment in hiring the man, who supposedly posed a threat to the students. Draco leaned back from the article. Of course. Granger’s switch in attitude made sense now. Her anger, her defensiveness, her calling him out for his ignorance. If there hadn’t been an article about herself, her reaction might not have been as strong. But like this? Both she and her friend - though how she could be friends with Hagrid still confused Draco somewhat - had been attacked in one go. And, as far as he could tell, she was always a bit more protective of her friends than herself; she seemingly put them even above her own well-being … Gryffindors. It was stupid of her, naïve. She should care for herself first, then come to her friends’ rescue. There had been enough other students talking badly about her behind her back, and he was sure she had noticed, but she had not said a word to them in her defence.
No, instead she had yelled at him even though he had insulted neither Hagrid nor her, had been completely oblivious to the smear campaign against him, really. He rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Merlin, not hating Granger anymore, was bloody exhausting. He should stop it.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The days drag on almost monotonously. Waking up, finding nothing to eat or drink, passing the hours thinking about her imprisonment, any clues given as to what might be going on, torture, back to the cell. On the third day, they let her off the chain that bound her to the ceiling, even after returning her to her cell and handed her a bit of food and water. Still the same, though, dry bread instead of the extravagant meal that she had received the first time. By then, she was so starved that she did not even care anymore, and having the luxury of lying down finally allowed her to sleep again. A guard had shortened the chain on the day after Blaise had come by her cell, and so, she had not even been able to sit down and lean against the wall anymore. Sleeping and standing did not work well together, she found out, as her knees broke away under her every time sleep finally came to take her. Pain had erupted along her arms and shoulder blades at the sudden drops, waking her up instantly. The third time that had happened, her already slightly injured ankle had twisted with the movement, adding to the ailments that plagued her fatigued state.

Now, she was sitting on the straw in the corner of her cell, inspecting the swelling and bruising around her ankle, running her fingertips lightly over the wounds. The torture today had been especially gruesome. The Cruciatus combined with Incarcerus, so her body had thrashed against the binds, leaving red marks all over her body where the ropes had been located. They surprisingly had not used Cruicius on her all that much before today, instead opting for more muggle torture methods.  The couple of times had been more than enough, though. With the loss of fat, the contact with the ropes was especially close to the bone, making the whole ordeal even more painful. Only her head had been unbound, leaving it to hit the floor repeatedly with the tossing and twitching. It felt like it was bursting at the seams, and she feared that she had started to bleed internally or gotten a concussion at the very least. Though the headache was excruciating, and she still feels nauseous, the other symptoms associated with internal bleeding of the brain are not necessarily met. A small mercy. Nausea could also just be caused by the other pain running through her body and the lack of nourishment she is subjected to. The same goes for drowsiness and weakness. As long as she is not slurring her speech or becoming confused about her state in the cell, forgets her own name or the like, she decided she will not worry more than she already does by mulling over an injury that would lead to her death. Though death is not too far off anymore anyway, judging by her ever-slimming frame. Hair had started falling from her scalp in heaps; she feels weak, tired, and often finds herself unable to concentrate. Small snippets of conversation, overheard during the torture sessions, slip her mind when she is back in the cell, even though she is certain that they are crucial for her escape.

She wonders why they bothered torturing her anymore at all, as merely existing has become torturous enough. They have gotten nothing out of her so far; nothing has slipped from between her tongue. She is very proud of herself, though it is the least she can do for the Order now. All the information extracted by the one instance of legilimency is furthermore useless to them as it had been outdated. Still, that was the only time they had actually found something out, so it was more than bewildering that they had not repeated the treatment. She is glad about it, of course, she is. There is only so much information outdated enough to come at no detriment to the Order when disclosed, but not so outdated that the Death Eaters would instantly know that she was leading them on. Every further use of legilimency on her would therefore be a challenge, and any new attempt at tricking them a gamble for her. Presenting false information to Voldemort would likely not be tolerated, and she is not willing to die just yet. So, even with the agony of the daily torture, she is glad. They have gotten no real information incriminating her friends, nor the Order and thus, the war effort as a whole has been preserved, at least by her.

She stops running her fingers over the swollen ankle and leans back, lying down on the straw. It is surely late enough now that she can go to sleep, though time doesn’t really mean anything anymore to her. Nonetheless, the routine is precious to her, and she wants to function normally immediately when she is saved by the Order. Ever the optimist, this is still a `when´ and not an `if ‘in her mind. She simply cannot allow herself to give up hope. It is all that still sustains her. Her head nestles into the straw, which forms a slight cushion together with her hair. The sour smell of ammonia rises into her nostrils, but she has gotten used to it by now. Naturally, they wouldn’t change the straw, though the mould growing within will likely make her sick soon. Frankly, it is a wonder that she wasn’t already, considering her likely weakened immune system. The moment before her eyelids fully shut, a figure emerges before her. Still not used to receiving no noise from the outside world, she almost screams at the shock and reflexively scrambles for her wand, the absence of which hurts like a ripped-off limb. If she still had wandless magic, it would be manageable but there is no trace of magic in the cell, thus fully suppressing her own, leaving her feeling as though her heart had been cut out of her chest, but even more severe, more agonising. The pain at the loss is worse than the torture, but she won’t allow herself to drown in it.

Hermione rips open her eyes and can make out a small figure standing above her with yellow-golden hair and piercing green eyes. She knows that face.

A small pause follows in which the other woman runs her eyes over Hermione’s form, seemingly inspecting her.

“No time to lie around now, you can be lazy another time,” says Astoria Greengrass harshly, but Hermione doesn’t move, her brain working too sluggishly to actually understand the insinuation.

“Are you deaf? Up with you, Mudblood. Now.”

Hermione sits up from her position and then raises fully. Her movements are glacial, the pain slowing her down. Her legs tremble from the weakness or the torture; she isn’t sure anymore. Once she is at full height, her eyes directly meet Astoria’s. The other witch grabs her arm and moves her roughly towards the door. Hermione is surprised at her strength. Though truthfully, she had likely been equally as strong when she was first imprisoned here. The lack of food had reduced her muscles to a phantom of what they used to be, even with her rigorous training.

“Obscuro,” comes a whisper from her side, and the tip of a wand presses lightly into her temple. Her vision darkens and finally flickers out completely. The click of the cell door sounds behind her, and then they start walking. Once they are out of her cell, Hermione can feel the magic buzzing in the air like an electrical current. She would only have to reach out and take it. But she has no wand, so even though Astoria is not as strong as the guards, she is now surely stronger than Hermione, and Hermione’s wandless magic is not advanced enough to beat any wizard or witch in possession of a wand. Also, she is currently blind.

All she hears now is the whisper of robes swishing against the stone floor and the click of heels, indicating the delicate steps Astoria takes in comparison to the heavy footsteps of the guards. They move at a swift pace, but Hermione counts the steps nonetheless. At the place where they would usually turn right to go to the various torture chambers, as she has deduced by reducing the number slightly to account for the smaller steps, Astoria leads them to the left and immediately takes a flight of stairs leading downwards. They move through various corridors, turning left and right so often that Hermione loses count. Then they are in front of the stairs again, and Hermione almost falls, but Astoria`s hand catches her and pulls her back up.

“Careful.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at the warning that obviously comes a bit too late but doesn’t say anything. When reaching a landing, they halt.

“Miss Greengrass, delighted to see you,” says a high voice, sounding distinctly like a boy going through puberty. There are children playing guards for Voldemort here in the hopes of eventually receiving the mark, most likely. Hermione shudders slightly at the thought. Do they even know what they’re doing to themselves? But then again, do they have a choice, or has their path been orchestrated by their parents since the day they were born?

“And you, Connor,” responds Astoria warmly, her voice almost sounding as though she were smiling.

“Who do you have there?”

“Oh, I retrieved the Mudblood. I am preparing her for tonight.”

Tonight? What was tonight? Hermione had already gathered that this was different from the other times she had been retrieved from her cell, even different from the one time she had met Voldemort, merely due to her being retrieved by Astoria rather than a regular guard, but she hadn’t thought that there was anything that she had to be prepared for.

“You had to retrieve her, Miss? Why didn’t you send one of the guards? I am sure someone would have been happy to help you. I … I would have been honoured to get the Mudblood for you, Miss. You shouldn’t have to spend more time than strictly necessary with such dirt,” says the boy, who was obviously quite taken with Astoria. A pearly laugh sounded.

“Oh no, this was no bother at all, but I am glad to hear that you are so eager to help Connor. I will keep you in mind for my next errand.” A slight pause in which no one says anything follows, and Hermione shifts uncomfortably from leg to leg.

“Soo, are you letting us through, or do you need a password?” laughs Astoria flirtatiously.

The guard clears his throat nervously. “Oh, of course, of course, Miss. My apologies.”

A door swings open. When they pass it, Hermione can feel the tugging sensation in her stomach that she first felt when meeting Voldemort, as well as the brief wave of dizziness, but it quickly subsides, and they are moving again, climbing even more steps. The staircase seems never-ending, and Hermione counts 228 steps before they come to a stop. Another turn left and right, and then they stop in front of another door.

“Finite Incantatem.”

As the spell is taken off of her, soft, golden light floods Hermione’s irises. They are standing in front of a wooden double-door, Astoria still behind her. The door is painted black with intricate carvings of flowers and bees, silver ornaments are attached to it, and the doorknob is an elaborately made silver dragonfly. Every line of its wings and every facet of its body and eyes are visible. It almost looks life-like. Hermione stands in awe and raises a finger to touch it. As her hand connects with the metal, the dragonfly comes to life and hovers in front of her. Hermione just blinks at it in wonder. It has been a long time since she has seen anything so beautiful. The wings of the creature are see-through, and the golden light reflects in its body. As she still doesn’t say or does anything, the dragonfly moves closer, almost touching her nose.

Astoria’s arm pulls her further back as she herself steps forward.

“Iusus fructus metet,”[1] says she in a calm voice. At the words, the dragonfly immediately attaches itself back to the door and stills, all indicators of life gone. Hermione has to suppress a scoff at the password. Voldemort’s followers cannot seriously believe themselves to be just, can they?

Astoria reaches her hand out and twists the doorknob slightly to the right. Both wings of the door open simultaneously, giving way to a room roughly double the size of the living room in Hermione’s childhood home. The room is much lighter than she expected. It is a corner room, old baroque-style windows cover two of the four walls, while the wall to the right leads to what seems to be an en-suite bathroom, as could be seen from the open door. The walls are painted in a light pastel green colour, slightly lighter than Astoria’s eyes, and decorated with golden stucco. The décor too is held in the same colour; there are two bookcases, blending seamlessly into the wall, next to a sitting area made up of two armchairs and a chaise longue. The wall leading to the bathroom depicts a clearing in a wood, the light replicating the softness of a spring morning. The trees are covered in delicate rose-coloured flowers, petals of them falling to the ground. Hermione automatically steps nearer and inspects the mural more closely. There are little fairies painted on as well, which shimmer and move through the wooden landscape as though they were real. It is unbelievable that this can be found in the same house in which Voldemort resides. The lightness of the décor is so at odds with what Hermione saw in, what she now believes was the property’s private church. She turns and takes in the rest of the room. In the middle of the wall opposite is a canopy bed; the bedding looks so soft and plush that longing creeps up on Hermione. When was the last time she slept in a real bed? When was the last time she slept in a bed that was comfortable and not an emergency make-shift bed made for the war? She does not remember. Next to the door through which they just entered is a large fireplace, entirely made of white marble with two gold-green candelabras and a golden mirror placed on top of it. A small glass carafe sits on top of it filled with what looks like floo-powder. Hermione looks at it greedily for a second, but then she blinks, and the carafe has vanished. She turns her face away and up in an attempt not to look caught. Various vines are hanging from the ceiling in a way that makes it look like they have been integrated into the ceiling instead of just being attached to it. In their middle hangs a golden chandelier with pink roses and various smaller flowers held in gold and white. The room is breathtaking.

As Hermione finally rips her gaze away, she notices Astoria still standing in front of the door, not having moved an inch, though the door has seemingly closed in the meantime. When she looks at Astoria, the other witch studies her for a couple more beats without saying anything, then gestures to the bathroom.

“Let’s get you in the bath before my whole room smells like a pigsty.”

Hermione follows Astoria’s regal figure, stepping into the bathroom and halts for a moment. The bathroom is almost more beautiful than the bedroom – if one chooses to call it that – with dark green and white marble tiles forming a chess pattern on the floor. The walls are white and decorated with the same gold stucco from the bedroom, but here, there are candle holders attached to the wall. The candles give off a shimmering light as though fairies were constantly flying around them. There is a double sink made of delicate porcelain, and Hermione briefly wonders whether Astoria shares the bathroom with anyone she knows. The central piece of the room is a white claw-footed tub standing on gold feet, easily fitting two people. The tub is already filled to the brim with bubbles, and there is a faint floral scent emanating from it, which Hermione cannot wholly identify. Was it lilies or violets, perhaps? Astoria silently hands her a soft towel and then moves toward the door.

“Don’t try to drown yourself, the water won’t let you. Oh, and,” her eyes swing to the balcony in which direction the bathtub faces, “don’t try to jump either. There is a barrier charm that will only cause you severe psychological pain, but nothing deadly.”

With these words, she shuts the door behind her, and Hermione is alone again. She stands for a minute, just taking everything in, then moves towards the balcony. Her first step outside is hesitant as she fears the barrier will already be installed here, maliciously hindering her from breathing fresh air, but she comes through unharmed. Slowly, she advances until she stands right in front of the railing. She takes a deep breath until her lungs fully expand, then holds it. The air smells like crisp apples and freshly mown grass. She closes her eyes and imagines herself at the burrow in the summer before their fourth year. She can almost hear Ginny screaming and Fred and George running after her. A slow smile spreads over her face, and she bathes in the moment a second longer. Then she takes in her surroundings. The house stands on a field surrounded by woods that seem to be 200 yards off. Everything is lush and green, and summer must truly be here, judging from the way the light looks and the air feels.  The glow of the setting sun fills the field and catches on the flying pollen, making it glow. A Caispa butterfly flutters around Hermione before moving on. Everything is so beautiful. The longer she stands there, the more severe the contrast becomes to what she’s seen in the recent weeks. How can people live in a world that offers such beauty and awe and choose to distort it daily? Nature can be brutal, even cruel at times, she knows, but it is never grotesque, so where does the desire for the grotesque in humans come from? She shakes her head to rid herself of the meek thoughts and looks around some more. The building she is in stretches to the right further and further, and she can make out that she is on the fourth and final storey, above her only the roof. There is no indicator as to where this mansion may be located, but there is one thing she knows for certain. This is not the house they had surveyed on the eve of her last mission. They had moved her.

How had she not noticed that she’d been relocated? She was conscious all the way to her cell, and though they had already robbed her of her vision on the first walk there, she would have felt if they had apparated her out and somewhere else. The cell also looked exactly the same as the one they had placed her in on that night, so how was this possible?

She turns on her heels and walks back to the tub, gingerly undressing out of fear that Astoria may come back to mock her. Though she is turned away from the mirror over the sink, she catches a glimpse of herself when turning to enter the tub. She looks like a corpse. Her ribs are clearly visible, and her face looks gaunt and sunken. There are red lines visible all over her body, slight scratches and deeper wounds coiling around her like a snake about to cut off her airways. Her eyes are deep-set in her skull, surrounded by dark shadows. She has never looked so ugly and unruly, and that’s not even taking into consideration the awful state of her hair. She wonders how she will ever get the knots out. She lowers her eyes and lifts her leg to step into the tub. As her foot passes through the bubbles and connects with the water, she lets out a gasp at the now unfamiliar sensation and the heat. Cautiously, she lowers her foot lower and lower until it connects with the bottom of the tub before following with her other leg and finally the rest of her body. Her head rests against the brim behind her and a contented sigh escapes her as the heat sinks into her bones. Then she lowers her head until she is wholly covered in water and bubbles and holds her breath. One, ten, twenty seconds she stays before she feels a nudge by the water and slowly comes up again before it pushes her out on its own. She wipes away the suds covering her face and then opens her eyes. There is a tub shelf before her, suddenly loaded with shampoo, conditioner, a hair mask and body wash, as well as shower oil and a cup of tea.

“Does Miss require anything else?”

Hermione lets out a stifled scream and turns her head quickly to the left and to the right but doesn’t see anything. She turns her torso around to look behind her, but the space is also empty.

“Oh, Lika is sorry. Lika did not mean to scare Miss,” says the same high-pitched voice, and Hermione realises it must be a house elf.

She looks over the rim of the tub and indeed, a small house elf, dressed in a delicate summer dress made of white cotton, stands before her. Hermione’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. Did Astoria give the dress to the house elf, and if so, why hadn’t it left yet?

“No worries at all, I was just startled,” Hermione tries to reassure, seeing as the big eyes of the elf are already filling with tears. The house elf doesn’t respond, so Hermione softens her voice even more, “Lika, was it?” The house elf nods and shyly takes one of her big ears into her mouth. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Lika.”

“Lika brought Miss things for her bath, does Miss require more?”

“No, no, this should be more than enough, thank you,” responds Hermione, taking in the abundance of products displayed on the tub shelf.

“Lika will let Miss Greengrass know when Miss Granger is ready to come out. Lika will wait here,” says the little elf and promptly sits herself down on the marble floor.

Hermione blinks down at her in astonishment. The elf looks back up at her unblinking.

“Is Miss sure she doesn’t want anything else? Lika would be delighted to help Miss with anything she requires.”

Hermione, understanding that Lika would stay on the floor and watch her bathe whether she wants her to or not, shakes her head and settles back into the tub. Her hands wrap around the teacup, and she inhales the heavy fragrance of bergamot and black tea before taking a healthy sip. Merlin, she had missed this. The cup is empty in two more sips but immediately refilled. She empties two more cups and can practically feel her nerves settle more and more with each sip.  Nonetheless, now that she knows that the house elf is there, she almost feels as though she can sense Lika’s eyes boring into her side. It takes some light occluding before she can continue her bath. She begins by lathering her hair with shampoo and massaging it into her greasy scalp before rinsing it out again. At the second round of shampooing, her hair already feels much cleaner and easier to massage, and she is grateful for this moment, though apprehension for what all this might mean still flows through her like an underwater spring. While waiting for the hair mask to sit, she takes a soft cloth and spreads body wash over her legs and arms, careful not to be too rough on her wounds. She doesn’t stand up to wash between her legs, torture and imprisonment have raised her inhibitions again, making her as insecure as she last felt at fifteen about her body. She finishes off with the conditioner but has not had time to rinse it out yet, when Lika’s tiny hand becomes visible over the rim of the tub. It looks like she is raising her hand in school, and Hermione smiles at the adorable gesture.

“Does Miss require a shave?”

“Oh, um,” what would she need to be shaved for? Fear stabs through her like an arrow, and she lets the sentence hang in the air unfinished.

“Miss does not have to, of course, it is only if Miss wishes.”

Her armpits do feel rather itchy, and she supposes building bacteria could be held somewhat at bay there as well as in other places if her hair were not as long. Though it was unclear whether she would be returned to her cell, Hermione does not assume that from now on, she will have free access to bathtubs and the like, so she nods before realising that Lika can likely not see her.

“Only the armpits. For the rest, just a light trim, please, if possible,” she whispers, unreasonably ashamed of the request. Immediately, she can feel the smoothness below her arms while the rest of her remains somewhat hairy.

“You can tell Astoria, I will be done in a minute. I am only rinsing out the conditioner.”

Hermione hears a light pop of apparition, and then she is alone. Quickly, she rinses out her hair and rises to drape the towel around herself, which is incredibly thick and soft. The door swings open before she closes the towel completely, and she hears a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes snap up, and she locks eyes with Astoria, who stands frozen in the doorway; Lika, standing next to her, automatically grabs her hand. Hermione rapidly closes the towel and steps out of the tub.

“Lika, get a healer in immediately,” says Astoria, her voice slightly shaky.

Hermione wants to protest, but the house elf has already apparated away, and Astoria just shoots her a scolding look, shaking her head. Unbelievable, as if Hermione wanted to be tortured. As if she wished to look and feel like a shell of the person she used to be. Astoria’s people had done this to her, her friends, her family and even her. Even if she didn’t order the torture directly, any support of Voldemort validated his behaviour. Surely, she must realise that.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hermione can’t help but snap at her. “This is your doing.”

Astoria looks abashed and takes a slight step back, then she shakes her head again, this time resignedly as if to stop herself from saying something. She simply lifts her wand, and Hermione’s hair dries in an instant, soft curls falling down her back.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Astoria mumbles and walks out of the room.

Hermione is shaking again with the water cooling her skin since her body has no cushions to warm her any longer. Her teeth start clattering, and she quickly dries herself off with the towel before she follows Astoria.

The witch is rummaging in a drawer of her wardrobe, takes something out and walks over to Hermione. She hands her two items before averting her eyes, arm still outstretched, waiting for Hermione to relieve her of the garments. It is soft white cotton knickers and a simple white bra without padding; the cups are made from what seems to be muslin and are supported by wires underneath. The muslin is soft but thin. Without padding, everything will be see-through. Astoria steps away and turns her back to Hermione, obviously waiting for her to don the underwear.

Hermione keeps one hand on the top of her towel, holding it fast while trying to step into the knickers. She wobbles as her leg lifts and almost falls but catches herself in the last second. One foot through, she lifts her other leg to repeat the procedure, then quickly slides the fabric up her legs until they cover her. The feel of them against her is marvellous, clean, and soft. She bets they smell good too. She then moves onto the bra, turning her back to Astoria herself. Though she hates not being able to see her enemy, she doesn’t want to risk her seeing her breasts either. She drapes the towel over her shoulders and leans forward. Her hands guide the ends of the bra around her midsection, where she closes the last of the three rows of clips. She turns the bra around and slides her arms through the straps and the bra snaps against her flat chest. Then she turns back around to Astoria and lets the towel drop. At the sound of the towel hitting the floor, Astoria flinches almost imperceptibly.

“Ready?” she asks softly.

“Yes.”

Astoria turns around and her eyes go wide, a hand flying to her mouth as if in shock. Hermione ignores her; there is nothing to say.

“Is it okay if I resize you?”

At the question, Hermione looks down at herself. The knickers are hanging dangerously low on her narrow hips, and the bra hangs loose as well, the cups standing centimetres away from her chest. The wounds and bruises are clearly visible too, and Hermione looks up again, not wanting to look at them longer than strictly necessary. She just nods.

“Reducio,” breathes Astoria, shrinking the garments until they lay snugly against Hermione’s skin. She wonders briefly why Astoria is being so nice to her. She had not been nice when she went to retrieve her from the cell, but well, she probably felt guilt and pity now. It’s hard to remain distant when confronted with one’s own wrongful actions as severely as Hermione was doing for her now. A pop sounds next to Hermione, and she turns to look at Lika and an elderly looking wizard she had never seen before. Her hands rush up her body to cover herself from intrusive eyes, but she drops them soon enough. Any healer would likely ask her to get undressed anyway if she wasn’t already standing in merely her undergarments.

“Miss Greengrass, delighted to see you as always. How are you doing?”

“Good, thank you, Healer Morter. How about yourself?”

“You know me, I cannot complain,” says the healer with a smile in his words. “Ah, this is the patient, I take it?” his robes swish over the wooden floor as he steps closer to Hermione.

“Yes, that’s her. Will you be able to help her?” Astoria sounds surprisingly anxious.

“Of course,” chuckles the wizard. “Not to worry.”

He takes another step closer, inspecting her. “Has she had food yet?”

“Oh, Merlin, no. How could I have forgotten? Lika, quickly, go grab any food you can find from the kitchens.”

Lika was about to bow and apparate, but the wizard raised his hand. “Not so hasty, young elf. She has been fasting for a long time, judging from her condition. Introducing heavy, solid foods would lead to strong stomach aches and other digestive issues. Get her some herbal tea and anything liquid. Bone broth, smoothies, light soup.”

“Yes, yes,” responds Lika, nodding vigorously, “I will get the Miss all the liquids.”

The pop of apparition sounds, and Lika is gone.

“I am Healer Morter. What is your name, young Lady?”

“Hermione Granger,” she answers dully, the warmth of the bath lulling her and making her eyelids droopy.

“Would you like to sit, Miss Granger?” he asks soothingly, as he looks down at her legs. They were shaking. She nods faintly, and he simply points to one of the armchairs in the corner. Her legs move on their own volition, and she sits down heavily in the armchair. It’s very plush and comfortable; soft velvet brushing against her skin.

Healer Morter kneels in front of her, surprising given his advanced age and casts a quick diagnostic. He purses his lips in concentration while reading the charts and then narrows his eyes as he looks slightly below her breasts.

“Looks like you have an AKI. We will get that fixed in no time,” he says and takes his wand between his wrinkly fingers. He speaks an incantation Hermione has never heard before, making a figure eight motion with his wand.

“What’s an AKI?” she asks curiously, tracking his wand movement.

“An acute kidney injury, usually caused by severe dehydration. The kidney’s function drops quite rapidly, stopping it from filtering waste. This is obviously not an ideal condition, but easy enough to fix.”

Hermione nods while listening attentively. Astoria hovers over the healer’s shoulder, observing him in his work, but does not comment on it one way or another.

“Episkey,” murmurs Healer Morter, moving his wand from one wound to the next, making them fade slowly but surely. He puts his wand next to him and starts going through his multiple robe pockets.

“Aha,” he says triumphantly, pulling out a silver container and holding it up as if it were the Triwizard cup before opening it. A strong smell of sewage and brackish water assaults Hermione’s nostrils, and Astoria starts gagging from behind the healer.

“Well, yes, not the most delightful scent, but very effective,” he lectures, taking a little bit of the bright purple paste on his finger. His rough calluses move over Hermione’s skin in the places where her wounds were already fading. With the smell, she will have to take another bath once he is done with her if she is to actually smell good for whatever will happen tonight. As though reading her thoughts, Healer Morter explains, “Once the effect takes fully, the odour will become less pungent and more floral, towards the end it will smell rather like a nice lavender field.”

A loud crack echoes through the room, and Lika lands in a heap only inches away from Astoria, multiple containers falling from her small hands and scattering on the floor. She quickly picks herself back up and brushes her dress down.

“Lika brought the liquids for the Miss Granger. Lika is sorry for the noise.”

“That is perfect timing, Lika,” praises Healer Morter. “Would you be so kind as to bring it to me so I can inspect what would best suit Miss Granger?”

Lika rapidly gathers the containers which threaten to tumble out of her arms again due to the sheer number of them.

“Hmm, yes,” hums the healer, while taking two of them off of Lika. “You can set the rest down, please.”

Hermione inspects the container Healer Morter hands over. “A bone broth will be the best to start, I reckon. Lots of nutrients and kinder to the stomach than a lot of fructose, as present in the smoothies and soups.”

He nods at her encouragingly, and Hermione twists the top open. A warm, fragrant scent of savoury broth enters her nose, and saliva gathers in her mouth immediately. She inhales deeply before taking her first sip. An explosion of flavours bursts on her tongue, which had gotten used to the stale, bitter taste of her own breath and the occasional bland taste of dry bread. She gulps down three greedy sips, her eyes closing from the sensation of taste, and a little moan escapes her.

“Not so hasty, or you will lose the food rather faster than you would like if you understand my meaning,” reprimands the healer softly. “Let’s slow down,” he hands her another container, “and break with a little bit of herbal tea to prevent potential nausea.”

The container holding the tea transforms into a delicate porcelain cup, oddly matching the room’s design, white porcelain with light green, pink, and gold designs. The tea is minty but also has notes of bubotuber, and fennel. Hermione hates fennel in any form, but swallows obediently. A clink sounds as she sets the empty cup on the small golden coffee table beside her.

“How are you feeling?” asks Astoria, looking intensely at her. Hermione doesn’t want to respond, feeling oddly petulant about her current situation, especially seeing as nobody has told her what this whole ordeal is even for. She meets Healer Morter’s eyes, who looks at her questioningly, one white eyebrow slightly raised. 

“Fine,” she grumbles.

“Splendid. Do you want to continue with the bone broth or would you like some of the smoothie?”  Lika steps forward at the mention of the smoothie, holding a bottle filled with a muddy-looking liquid. Her face is hopeful and eager to please. The nausea is not so bad that she can’t take a sip, so Hermione encouragingly nods at Lika, who goes up on her tiptoes to hand it to her.

“It’s mainly calunda berry, very good for regaining strength, also mundane berries like aronia and blackberries. Lika also included some acunite root, mundane spinach, and apples. Lika put in some flaxseeds and ground almonds for it to be more nutritious for the Miss as well,” rattles Lika on proudly.

“Thank you, Lika, that was very considerate,” assures Hermione before raising the beverage to her lips and taking a sip. Nausea rolls up her stomach at the contact, and she gags, effectively losing the smoothie as it dribbles on the wooden floor in front of Healer Morter’s shoes.

“Oh, no,” shrieks Lika. “Lika promises she did not include poison. Lika swears. Oh no, oh no, Lika has been a horrible elf. Lika is sorry. Lika must be punished.”

Tears sting Hermione’s eyes, and she is still leaning over on the armchair, but tries to gather herself and look up. Thudding sounds echo through the room as Lika hits her head repeatedly against the floor. Healer Morter looks bewildered and helpless while Hermione weakly hangs in the armchair.

“No, please,” she says faintly.

“Lika, that is more than enough,” scolds Astoria, her voice sounding very harsh. As the house elf continues to bang her head against the floorboards, Astoria grabs her by the arm. “Stop this at once, that is an order.”

Lika looks up to her mistress out of huge, rounded eyes, searching for forgiveness.

“How many times have I told you not to inflict harm on yourself?”

“Five times, Miss,” says the elf, looking down at her feet.

“I expect you to listen to an order the first time it is given to you. I will not repeat myself, and I demand that you hear me. If you resort to self-harm one more time, I will have to let you go. Family Greengrass will no longer be your place of employment,” says Astoria sternly.

“Oh no, please, Miss,” wails Lika, sobs breaking out of her and tears swelling immediately in her eyes. “Lika is sorry, Miss. Lika will never anger the Miss again. Lika will not impose self-harm, Lika promises. Just please, Miss, please let Lika stay with Miss Greengrass, please …please,” she sobs, hiccups now disrupting her speech pattern.

Astoria crouches down to the house elf and gently pats her head. “Lika, I will not let you go now, but you must realise that I cannot accept this behaviour. You will not disobey this order, understood?”

Lika nods gravely in reply. The whole interaction is baffling. The fact that Astoria evidently cares so much about her elf is very odd and unexpected. Hermione doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Go, and rest now. I will call you when Healer Morter is ready to leave,” says Astoria, gently taking Lika’s hand in her own for a moment. The house elf nods again and then apparates away. Astoria clears her throat and rises, turning back to Hermione and the healer.

“My apologies. Please carry on, Healer Morter.”

“Ehhm, right. Where were we?” mumbles the healer while looking around, before spotting the sick Hermione had spilt on the floor.

“Ah, yes.” With a flick of his wand, the remains of the smoothie vanish. “How are you feeling, Miss Granger? This time, I would prefer an honest answer,” he says sternly while still sounding nice through and through.

“Fine,” she brings out, straightening her torso before slumping back into the armchair. “A bit nauseous.”

“Yes, I gathered that. Well, seeing as you won’t be able to receive much food in the future, considering how your condition has advanced through outside sources,” Hermione’s eyes narrow at his choice of words, beating around the bush like that. “And, seeing as you are not in a state that will allow you to get in much more nourishment at the moment, we will have to resort to potions for now.”

Again, he rummages through his robe, pulling out six or seven vials from the pockets. The first vial is filled with a red liquid, the hue of the red indicating that it’s either Pepper-up or Invigoration Draught. Considering the circumstances, probably Invigoration Draught. The other six are filled with a swirling, teal-coloured liquid with little streams of red running through it that stayed separated from the rest, even with vigorous shaking. Hermione shudders at the sight of the Nutritionis, a strong nourishment potion which could meet a patient’s caloric requirements for up to a week with one single dose. The taste and smell were disgusting, though, and the side effects of the potion were strong nausea accompanied by suppression of the patient’s gag reflex for up to five hours after the patient had finished swallowing the potion to ensure its effectiveness.

Hermione had only resorted to using it once before and had been plagued by nausea as strong as she had never experienced before or ever since.

“Ah, no. I’d rather not,” she declines as the healer offers the Invigoration Draught and one of the Nutritionis to her.

“Miss Granger,” comes the stern reply. “You are starving. Your body is deteriorating and shutting down its functions. If you do not take these potions or get on a regular diet within the next two weeks, you will die.”

She gingerly wraps her fingers around the Invigoration Draught and pinches her nose to swallow the potion after uncorking it. The pinched nose helps to ignore the taste, though the bitterness still burns her tongue and nose, and a cough crawls up her throat. Once the last drop is swallowed, the sensation of plummeting down to earth makes her stomach drop, but the side effect only lasts a couple of seconds before it lets off, the potion leaving Hermione much more energised and focused. Now sitting erect, she meets the healer’s eyes squarely as he hands her the Nutritionis. She shakes her head slightly, resulting in a strong scowl from Healer Morter.

“Granger, you need to drink this,” says Astoria.

“Why?” asks Hermione testily. “Why bother with any of this? I will be dead soon, and I don’t see any reason to follow your orders if you’re not about to torture me. I am not your house elf, I don’t have to answer to you.”

Astoria sighs as though extremely tired and rubs a delicate hand over her forehead. When she looks back up, her face is stern again. “Yes, you do answer to me. You effectively have to answer to anyone in this house except for other prisoners, and you might even have to answer to those if we wish it. You are a prisoner here, and not following direct orders will lead to punishment in one form or another. So do yourself a favour and listen to Healer Morter.”

Hermione looks back defiantly for two more beats before acceding. Astoria was right. She would rather die than do what they tell her to do, but she would rather not be tortured or `punished´ than follow orders. Any punishment from these people would be a fate worse than death, she is sure of it.

“At least, tell me what all this is for,” she pleads, burning to gain any knowledge of her current situation.

Astoria turns to the side and starts walking away, and for a moment Hermione fears that she will not answer her at all, not even to deny her the request. The chaise longue dips under Astoria’s weight, and she turns her gaze back to Hermione.

“You will find that the less you know, the better,” Astoria speaks so quietly that Hermione has to strain her ears to hear her.

“You really don’t know me at all, then. That has never been a viewpoint I could align myself with.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I will tell you once Healer Morter has finished his treatment.” She waves a hand, signalling for the healer to continue, who brings the potion closer to Hermione’s face, which still rests in his outstretched hand, waiting for her to take it.

Her fingers close around the glass vial, and with the other hand, she takes off the stopper, letting the foul smell into the room. She gags but plugs her nose again, bringing the liquid to her lips. Her stomach revolts, and it feels as though a plank has been pushed through her oesophagus, preventing her from swallowing. Her teeth slam shut, and she forces herself to swallow thickly until the potion has settled into her stomach. She shudders. God, that was disgusting. Even as she formulates the thought, nausea rolls through her so severely that she is sure to expel all the liquids she had swallowed in the course of the last hour, but she cannot gag. Her body's failed attempt to rid itself of the potion thrums against her again and again and leaves her utterly depleted in spite of the Invigoration Draught. Once more, she slumps against the headrest of the armchair and closes her eyes.

“Alright, Miss Granger, that should help you along. Once the nausea subsides a little, I recommend more herbal tea.”

“And the rest of the potions?” she asks, trying to ignore the feeling of food lodged in her throat, “aren’t I to take them?”

“Oh no, no, no. That would wholly overwhelm your body. This potion will give you enough calories to sustain your body for up to a week. With your frail frame, even longer as the measurements are based on a relatively healthy witch who consequently burns more daily calories.”

“So then, what about the other potions?”

“I will have a short discussion with Miss Greengrass, and she can fill you in afterwards.”

Hermione, somehow doubting that she could trust Astoria, opens her eyes and looks at the healer. “I’d like you to tell me now, please. I am your patient after all.”

Healer Morter shifts uncomfortably and then looks at Astoria as for confirmation. She gives a subtle nod. “The remaining potions will be concealed in your clothes. Since you are here and Miss Greengrass will take further care of you, I am assuming it will be a gown or any kind of formal evening dress. Hidden in your clothes, you will take them with you into your cell to hold you over for the next six weeks at least. There should be a significant weight gain after the third potion, and by the sixth, your previous weight should be almost restored.”

“But why?” she asks, for now ignoring the `gown´ in his statement.

“That is none of your business,” declares Astoria, and Hermione could see Healer Morter flinch at her stern tone. “For lack of a better reason, just assume that The Dark Lord needs you alive.”

“He could just feed me,” retorts Hermione, her eyes glittering with rage.

“That would be a complete waste of resources.”

“Potions are notoriously more difficult to brew and attain, and therefore way more expensive than a few more slices of bread. I would like to hear a more reasonable argument,” says Hermione, trying to sound controlled.

“I don’t owe you an argument, an explanation, or anything of the sort, whether reasonable or not. Healer Morter, a quick word?” says Astoria, turning her attention to the healer, ignoring Hermione’s further attempts to gain her attention.

“Miss Granger,” says the healer, reaching for her hand to shake. “I was delighted to make your acquaintance. One potion a week should suffice, preferably in the afternoon after your daily… well, sessions, so your body does not have to strain too much to absorb them. I hope you will improve soon and, for your sake, that we will not meet again.”

“Thank you, Healer Morter, you’ve been a great help.” He nods and turns to Astoria, before glancing back and swishing his wand in Hermione’s direction. She can feel her teeth being cleaned and almost sighs at the feeling of freshness. She smiles at the healer, who nods again and then steps up to Astoria, who leads him by the arm to the other end of the room, where she casts a privacy shield around them.

Hermione has never been great at reading lips, but she tries, nonetheless. Astoria’s back faces her, and she can barely see the healer’s head bobbing over Astoria due to his crouched figure. He is also leaning closer to her as though he were speaking lowly, so the only words Hermione thinks she can identify are `master´, `order´, and what looks to be `little more time´, the last accompanied by a pleading expression from the healer. Before she is able to ponder on this, the privacy shield is removed, and Lika pops up next to Astoria.

“Lika, please be so kind as to bring Healer Morter back.”

“Yes, Miss,” says the elf and takes the healer by the hand before disappearing with a slight pop. Interesting, so the wizard does not live in the mansion and also does not have clearance to apparate or floo in.

“Up with you, Granger, we need to hurry. We’ve already lost way too much time on all this.” Astoria is now standing right in front of Hermione and motions for her to stand up. She follows Astoria over to a vanity and sits down on a plush velvet stool.

“So, are you going to tell me what you are getting me ready for, or do I have to ask again?”

Astoria sighs and brushes a lock of hair from her face. Hermione’s curls slowly get lifted and assembled in an artful updo with Astoria’s wand movements. A few more minutes tick by, and Hermione starts to jiggle her foot vexedly.

“There is some sort of dinner tonight. The Dark Lord has ordered me to get you ready for it.”

“But why, what will actually happen at this dinner?”

“I don’t know,” responds Astoria with a slight edge to her tone.

“You must know something. Is anyone else going to be invited, will other prisoners be there?”

“Yes, there will be other prisoners, but I don’t know who exactly. We are obviously expected to attend as well, and I have heard whisperings that some foreign diplomats will join, but I can’t tell you more.”

“Can’t or won’t?” asks Hermione, even though she knows she is treating dangerous waters now. It’s surprising Astoria even told her as much as she did.

“In this case, it’s the same thing,” says Astoria harshly, while softly planting tiny crystals in the updo she had previously made out of Hermione’s hair. “It’s not like I am privy to the Dark Lord’s plans; I am not his second in command.”

Hermione snorts at that. “No, that’s Malfoy. How did he end up there anyway?” she asks, feigning nonchalance though her heart speeds up in her chest at the question.

Astoria’s hands still, and she peeks down at Hermione, who meets her gaze calmly. “Hermione,” Astoria sighs while shaking her head, seemingly the only answer she is willing to give.

“What?” Heat rises in her cheeks, and she tries to look away.

“Don’t act stupid with me, you know what. I will not disclose this information to you. As I said, the less you know, the better, and” Astoria places a hand on her jaw, holding it closed, “this is not my story to share anyway, so drop it, Hermione.”

At the second mention of her given name within a minute, Hermione narrows her eyes, frustration curdling in her stomach from the lack of information she is given and the vagueness of the whole evening.

“Oh, it’s Hermione now, is it?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “I thought it was Mudblood or Granger at the very least.”

Astoria doesn’t respond but only closes her eyes for a moment before continuing her ministrations. Next, she opens a drawer on her vanity and mumbles some kind of spell. She turns to leave, and Hermione cranes her neck to look after her when something starts attacking her face. She turns away quickly, raising her arms in defence.

“It’s just the makeup, relax,” she hears Astoria’s muffled voice from behind her. It sounds like the other witch put a ball of cotton in her mouth.

Slowly, Hermione lowers her arms and turns back to the mirror. Multiple little brushes immediately fly into her face, and her eyes close on their own. Instantaneously, the brushes are on her lids, under her eyes, on her cheeks, her lips, and even her forehead. The sensation is odd, especially since she hasn’t put on any proper make-up since the war began. There simply wasn’t any real occasion. She hates that she is now dressing up to face a bunch of Death Eaters. Suddenly, there is mumbling behind her, which sounds like two women talking, but the second Hermione tries to open her eyes to look, brushes poke into her eyes, almost blinding her. With a frustrated huff, she closes them again, waiting for the make-up to be finished. The mumbling continues rapidly behind her, but she cannot make out a single word. Finally, the brushes let off, and Hermione turns so quickly on the stool that she nearly topples off. The only thing she sees is the door clicking shut behind a figure dressed in black robes.

“Who was that?” she asks Astoria, who is almost back at her side, a gown hanging over her left arm.

Astoria looks around innocently before looking back at Hermione. “No one, there was nobody here.”

“I saw the door close behind someone.”

“Oh, yes. Silly me. That was the maid. She brought the dress.” Hermione’s eyes narrow as they take in Astoria, who had likely spent the last ten minutes in the closet to get the dress herself. It’s obviously a lie, alone for the fact that purebloods do not have maids, they have house elves. They would never spend time with lesser wizarding folk, not even to hire them as their employees and house elves were usually enslaved and thus didn’t cost a Knut, so it was simply not done. But why lie? There is probably nothing Hermione could do with the information, but she still wants to know. Briefly, she considers using Legilimency on Astoria just to see what she was hiding, but that would be a colossal waste of strength Hermione did not currently possess and which she would likely need later at this dinner. Astoria might also be a legilimens and/or able to occlude, making her notice Hermione’s attempt, which she would certainly not take lightly.

Astoria is smiling placatingly down at Hermione, and she returns the smile somewhat icily before nodding.

“You look lovely, by the way.” Astoria pauses and pulls up the dress, so it hangs from her outstretched arm. “Here is the gown for this evening.” Hermione ignores the additional lie. She knows she doesn’t look lovely. Even with the makeup, she looks cadaverous. It’s all a façade and not a very good one at that.

“It’s a bit difficult to put on, so I will help you real quick. Please stand up.” Astoria swings her wand in a twirl, and the gown glides over Hermione’s figure like a second skin. She strokes her hands over the material of the skirt and then looks up into the mirror. The dress inexplicably fits her body, and though she is too thin, too pale, too everything, the dress still looks lovely on. The whole garment seems to be made mainly of silvery, white tulle. While the bodice is more fitted, for the skirt, the tulle swings lightly around, connecting to the cape made of the same material that starts at the back of the shoulders and flows downwards until it reaches the floor. The bodice is cinched at the waist and covered in embroidery. Small light pink roses with sage green leaves cover it, especially the bust area to conceal her breasts, but the middle section is left out, so a bit of skin shows through the thin fabric. Whereas there seems to be less embroidery on the midsection of her legs, letting some skin lightly shimmer through, the pattern continues more heavily again at the bottom of the dress, making it look like the flowers are climbing upwards. Little crystal embellishments finish off the look. Together with the wide tulle cape, the gown makes a distinct A-shape, much broader at the bottom than at the top, and the amount of tulle, which partly covers her arms, makes her look like she is part of the dress and as though she is floating above the ground. If it weren’t for her starved look, she would resemble a fairy with the soft ringlets that escape her updo, framing her face.

“Oh my, this is gorgeous,” Hermione breathes in awe, her eyes still travelling over the gown.

“Yes, it is,” comes Astoria’s response, barely audible. Hermione looks up to see tears standing in Astoria’s eyes, which she quickly blinks away.

“Right, so,” Astoria says, lightly clearing her throat. “We’re almost done. I will now glamour you so that you look more…well, filled in. Then you will have to drink one last potion.”

The tickling sensation of a glamour was beginning to settle on Hermione’s skin and when she next looks in the mirror, her face is much more plump, her eyes not as sunken, her body looks healthy again though her breasts look smaller than they used to be when she was not starved and her arms are slightly bigger than she has ever seen them on herself. Still, she looks beautiful. Bitterly, she reminds herself that she is made up like this for the pleasure of Death Eaters who don’t want to be reminded of their actions over a dinner by one of their prisoners looking as close to death as they made her to be.

“What does the potion do?” she asks, taking it from Astoria’s outstretched hand.

The sickly-sweet smell Hermione associates with Polyjuice wafts into her nose, and she instantly feels sick again.

“It works similarly to Polyjuice,” Astoria replies, confirming Hermione’s fear. “You will have to add a little snippet of one of your hairs for it to work effectively. Now that you are glamoured, it will pick up on the glamour and make it more convincing as well as more durable.”

Intrigued, Hermione rips a piece of her hair off and drops it into the potion, where it sizzles and then disappears. “How does it work exactly?”

“The potion deceives itself basically. With a strand of your hair in glamoured form, it will assume that you actually look like what the hair presents to it at the moment it was taken from your body. So, if you were glamoured to look like a troll, you would continue to look like a troll for far longer than a glamour can usually hold. Also, as I am sure you know, glamours always seem kind of blurred at the edges, making it relatively easy to spot once one pays proper attention. With this potion, the edges become crisp, appearing as though there were no glamour at all.”

“Genius,” murmurs Hermione “, I didn’t even know there was something like this on the market.”

“Well,” says Astoria, suddenly seeming a bit shy, “there isn’t really. This is an original creation.”

“You made this?” Hermione is aware of how incredulous she sounds but can’t help it. Astoria never really stood out in school, and this was quite an accomplishment.

“I did,” Astoria responds, a blush colouring her cheeks. “Well, you better drink up.”

“Cheers,” says Hermione sarcastically, raising the potion before bringing it to her lips. The lilac colour of the drink was wildly misleading. As the potion touched her tongue, Hermione would have gagged at the taste of burnt sugar and earth if it weren’t for the Nutritionis she had taken before. The sensation that follows is extremely uncomfortable. It feels as though each particle of her skin lifts for a second and then reconnects against her tissue in a wave, a ripple going through her. The feeling is similar to what she imagines a snake shedding its skin must feel like.

“Great, that looks like it worked. You can sit down while I get ready really quickly, but be careful with the dress, please. You can sit down but be careful when you stand up so it doesn’t rip. If you need anything else, just summon Lika.”

Hermione walks over to the armchairs again to sit down, but thinks better of it, her eyes catching on the books behind them. The two bookshelves go from floor to ceiling and are almost entirely filled. There are mainly books on potions. Brewing them, their effects, their history and approaches by different masters. There is no cauldron here, though, so this is likely not the place where Astoria keeps the majority of her books. Hermione’s fingers reach out to graze the worn leather spines lightly as they trail over the books. She pulls one out on wizarding history she has never heard of, even though she read all the ones available on the subject in the Hogwarts library. The book opens as she pulls it out, and the smell of dusty, old pages envelops her. It smells like comfort. The open page shows a wasteland on which magical creatures tread at a time when witches and wizards didn’t exist yet. There is a rumpet and what looks to be a nebulous, though these are always difficult to identify. The text of the book looks faded and suggests that it has been read many times; the letters almost completely rubbed off in certain parts. She carefully puts it back and continues to inspect the other books. There is also some fiction there, some wizarding classics such as Clandestine by Lavuro or The Surilians by McNair, as well as, Hermione halts as her eyes snatch on a copy of Wuthering Heights. She turns around to look at Astoria, who is standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her robes.

She is wearing midnight blue wizarding robes with a star and moon design embroidered in gold string, which must be enchanted as the stars seem to swell and retract, giving them a blinking quality. Astoria’s blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, but part of it covers her head in a crown-like braid. Through the braid, more golden and crystal elements are woven, which enhance the effect of a crown. Hermione turns one more time to look at the cover of Wuthering Heights to ensure that it wasn’t a trick of the light when she hears steps coming towards her.

“Alright, I am ready, let’s go down,” says Astoria, with still half the room between them. Hermione turns again and takes in her ensemble, now that she is facing her fully. She looks beautiful, yes, but very much less extravagant than Hermione herself.

“But this dress looks distinctly Muggle,” states Hermione, pointing down at her own gown.

“Was there a question in there?”

“Did you get this from a Muggle store?”

“Not a store necessarily. The designer is a Muggle, yes, but the dress is from his Haute Couture collection; you do not simply buy these at a store,” lectures Astoria.

“Who is the designer?” asks Hermione in the absence of a better question at this confusing information.

“Paolo Sebastian. He is amazing.”

“If you think he is so amazing, why are you not wearing one of his designs?”

“The Dark Lord likes to see us in more traditional clothes. He finds Muggle clothes vulgar.”

“So, you dressed me in Muggle clothes so that he has even more to mock me for?”

“That’s not what,” Astoria halts and takes a deep breath. “That’s not what I am doing, Hermione, he-,”

“Do not call me by my name,” interrupts Hermione, anger building up in her like a tidal wave. This whole situation was a joke. She was dressed and made to look pretty for a group of people who despised her, wanted her dead. She was to look healthy even though they made her sick, more and more every day. Now, she is to wear Muggle clothes so they could point out her differences and mock her for it, and Astoria was acting as though they were friends?

“I’m sorry. What would you like me to call you?”

“Considering that you will have to call me Mudblood as soon as we are in company, I suggest you start employing that, lest you slip up and call me Hermione in front of them. Whatever would they think?” says Hermione, indignation coating her tongue.

Astoria does not respond, and as the silence stretches on, Hermione barrels on, “Come, don’t be shy now, Miss Greengrass, you said it already multiple times earlier today.”

“Alright,” Astoria takes a pause, “Mudblood. Let’s go down, we are already late.”

[1] The one who is just, will reap the benefits.

Chapter Text

Draco

He had not stopped not hating Granger. In fact, things had gotten preposterously worse. While a couple of weeks back, he had only thought about Hermione Granger – mostly, anyway - when she was in his line of sight or somewhere in his proximity, for the past five or six weeks - he couldn’t be sure anymore -, he found himself thinking about her constantly. Everything about her was fascinating, or worse, adorable, sexy, or unique to him. The way she put her hair up in a bun, often using her wand and then looking for it when she would inevitably need it a few minutes later. The way she pursed her lips when she was scribbling down her notes during class or in the Great Hall, when all the students were supposed to do their class work. Even the way she raised her hand and puffed an annoyed breath when she was not called on to give an answer.

Meanwhile, Granger seemed to spend more and more time with Victor Krum, and who could fault her for that, realistically? Krum was a Quidditch star, brooding, mysterious, foreign. He was older than her and a contestant in the Triwizard tournament. Multiple times now, Draco had spotted them together in the library. Granger buried in her books, doing research for an assignment or other, Krum sitting next to her, brushing her hair back behind her ears and twirling curls around his finger. Draco did not even want to begin to analyse what that particular move did to him. In the beginning, he was sure that he hadn’t been jealous. It couldn’t be jealousy simply because he was Draco Malfoy, and really, there were a hundred girls at his disposal, so why would he be jealous in the first place? If anything, people should be jealous of him. Then, however, he became more realistic. If there was one thing he was proud to say of himself, it was that he didn’t lie to himself. The twisting feeling in his gut, which increased every time he saw Krum touch Granger, eventually could not be defined as anything else. That was fine, though, he decided. So what if he was a bit jealous? Other people had crushes all the time, and yes, his was a bit unlikely, and if his friends found out, they would probably never let him live it down, but crushes came and went, right? Just because he wasn’t used to the feeling didn’t mean that it wouldn’t work for him as it did for everyone else, and he would be rid of it soon enough if he just kept out of her way.

Now, however, he wasn’t so sure anymore of that either. He had tried to keep out of her way, he really had, but somehow fate – if one wanted to believe in such a thing – had brought them together again and again.

Draco was sitting in class, his eyes slowly drooping despite his best efforts, at the monotonous rumblings of Professor Binns going on and on about Morgana as he tended to do when no one bothered to interrupt him and pointed out that they had already covered her extensively in second year. Sometimes, Draco’s attention would shift to Granger even though he tried not to look in her direction at all, but it was the only thing that could speed up the blood pumping into his brain enough that he could start to focus again. She was sitting on her stool, the only student of the class who was listening attentively, nodding along as though this was one of her favourite bedtime stories. It probably was, honestly. Sometimes, her lips would part like she wanted to add something, but the professor would just keep talking, his students all but forgotten. Then she would frown, an adorable crease forming between her eyebrows, and her leg would start to bounce under the table. At her third failed attempt to add something to the history Professor Binns was retelling, she leaned over to Potter and whispered in his ear, probably to let at least him know the correct version of events. Potter, however, was as far gone as the rest of the class, his head almost hitting the desk in front of him, as low as he had it resting on his hand. When Granger had finished and leaned back to look at him expectantly, gauging his reaction, he didn’t so much as nod. The idiot.

Indignantly, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, bringing her blouse closer together and granting the slightest hint at her chest area. Suddenly, Draco was wide awake. With rapt attention, he observed as her fingers trailed absentmindedly on the top rim of her blouse, going up three buttons and down again, then repeating the movement. He imagined little goosebumps forming on the skin her fingers accidentally grazed with the motion. She leaned forward slightly to scribble something in her notebook, apparently having found something between the lines of Professor Binns’ speech which she hadn’t heard before, and a curl fell into her face which had come loose from her bun. In an effort to keep the hair out of her face without having to move, she puffed a breath, but the stubborn lock only moved incrementally. At the fourth try, Draco was on the edge of his seat, ready to run over and brush the lock behind her ear himself.

“Why are you so jittery?” drawled Blaise from beside him, seemingly having roused himself from his beauty sleep at the best moment. Really, what the fuck was wrong with him? He had almost made an utter fool of himself in front of the entire class, not to mention Granger. If he had so much as breathed on her hair, she probably would have hexed him into oblivion. Draco struggled to keep an unaffected face and not look like he had been caught in the oddest fantasies of his life.

“Nothing, just can’t wait for class to be over, this is so bloody boring.”

“Well, yes, but just take a nap like everyone else and be done with it. It’s not like old Binns is gonna give you detention for it like Sprout or Sinistra, even though, given that she teaches mostly at night, one would assume she would be more lenient with letting one rest one’s eyes from time to time.”

“Yes, Blaise, I know what you think of Sinistra. We’ve had this discussion numerous times.”

“Sorry for not being my most entertaining today, your highness. You may want to be lenient with me, seeing as I just woke up and all.”

Draco rolled his eyes, keeping them fixed to the ceiling as though praying to a deity he didn’t believe in. “Please, Salazar, give me strength.”

Blaise’s elbow met his ribs, and he glared at him in return before attempting to bump his own elbow into the side of his friend. Unfortunately, Blaise, who, rested from his nap, had very fast reflexes, moved back in the chair so that Draco met nothing but air, and his momentum propelled his upper body into Blaise’s lap. Blaise snorted, and Draco could feel the vibrations of his suppressed laughter against his body while he tried to scramble back up into a sitting position and preferably his own seat.

“Well, mate, you should have just said something,” said Blaise through his laughter. “I am sure I could have found one wizard or other who would have been more than welcoming toward your advances.”

“Shut it, you pillock,” hissed Draco, still not fully erect again.

“If the gentlemen in the back are done, I would like to assign the groups for the projects,” announced Professor Binns. Heat rose into Draco’s cheeks, and he looked up, first locking eyes with Granger, who scowled at him and Blaise as if they had personally affronted her.

Blaise seemed rather nonchalant about the whole situation and waved a hand as though to let the professor know that he may proceed if he so wished. 

“Wonderful, so let’s see. Mr. Finnigan with Mr. Potter please, Ms. Brown with Mr. – “as it became clear that the professor actually intended to assign groups and not let the students pick their own partners, the usual protests arose, claiming that they were all surely old enough now to work responsibly with a partner of their own choosing while Granger advocated against group work as a whole, saying that the students must learn to work independently to prepare them for the realities of work life.

Blaise’s whisper distracted Draco from the exact shape the discussion was taking, but he sincerely doubted that the professor cared at all about the students’ opinions on the matter. “What’s the project on?”

“No idea,” answered Draco at normal volume, seeing as whispering would have been futile in light of the increasingly louder discussion around them.

Blaise leaned back into his own chair and responded at equal volume, “What? I thought you were paying attention.”

“Whoever claimed I was paying attention? There was nothing to pay attention to.”

“But you looked so focused when I woke up,” claimed Blaise, now looking suspiciously at him.

“I wasn’t, though, okay? Just ask your partner when you get assigned,” answered Draco testily, trying to cover up that he had, in fact, been focused, just not necessarily on the class.

The discussion around them died as Professor Binns’ voice boomed through the classroom. “This is final, there is to be no discussion. Moving on, Mr Zabini with Mr Weasley, Mr-“

“Great,” mumbled Blaise, looking over to a ruffled-looking Weasley, “There goes my chance of finding out what the project is about from my teammate.”

“Tough life, you lead,” said Draco in mock sincerity.

“Ms Granger with Mr Malfoy.”

Draco’s head shot up, and once again, his eyes found Granger’s in a split second. His heart started beating rapidly, and for some reason, his hands turned a bit clammy.

“What?,” Blaise’s voice sounded muffled through the blood rushing through his ears. “How is that fair? You get the nerd, and I get the tagalong?”

Draco ripped his gaze away from Granger, who was looking at him disdainfully. “That’s Karma for you, having fallen asleep in class.”

“You fall asleep in this class all the time, too; that hardly makes sense,” responded Blaise darkly while packing his satchel. Draco shrugged his shoulders and turned to pack his own bag. When he resurfaced from the floor to grab his wand, Granger was standing in front of him. He swallowed thickly, trying his best for an unaffected facial expression.

“Granger,” he drawled. “Good to see you.”

“You’ve been seeing me. I’m in this class.”

“I’m aware,” he ground out. Too aware.

She shifted on her legs and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked supremely annoyed. “I wanted to talk to you about the project.”

“I will do the same. Let’s see what my good friend Weasley will have to say about it,” said Blaise, rising from his chair. “Granger,” he nodded to her before turning to Draco “, Later, mate.”

“Be my guest,” said Draco, gesturing to the chair Zabini had just vacated.

Granger turned around and pulled over a chair from the desk in front, now directly facing Draco. Of course, she wouldn’t just follow his suggestion. Spiteful witch.

“I would propose that I take over the Muggle part of the project and you the part from the perspective of the witches and wizards, seeing as we might have better access to the respective resources. Maybe you could owl your parents to ask whether they have any original journals from affected wizarding folk from the time. I might get an exception from McGonagall to visit the Muggle library for this project since the Muggle side plays such a crucial role in this project. I’d say we both write up our own parts and then compare how they fit together. If your notes are good enough, I will just build the presentation on them and let you know how to present later.”

Come again? If his notes were good enough? He had never been bossed around like that for a project; he usually held the reins himself, and he certainly had never had someone make the presentation for him and just give him the notes on how to present when the time came.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked indignantly. “I think you are mistaking me for Potter or Weasley. I will certainly not have you make the presentation on behalf of me.” He didn’t even know what the project was on exactly, but that was beside the point.

“I can assure you,” she stated primly, “I am more than capable of making a presentation which will be satisfactory for Professor Binns, even though I am a Mudblood. That particular fact is rather useful in this instance, even you should be able to recognise that.”

Mudblood? Who had said anything about her being a Mudblood?

“What?” Draco shook his head in an attempt to clear it and understand what was actually happening. “I will not have you make the presentation by yourself. Not because I don’t think you’re capable, we both know you are, but because this is a group project, emphasis on group.”

“Yes, well,” answered Granger, flourishing her hand and rolling her eyes to indicate the pointlessness of his argument. “What really matters in the end is that we present together. Nobody will know that we didn’t actually work together beforehand,” she leaned forward conspiratorially at her last words.

The action lured him in, and he found himself also leaning forward. “Tell you what, Granger, we will simply work together on this and then you won’t have to lie to our dear old professor,” he appealed to her Gryffindor side. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, practically begging her to work on a school project with him. Maybe he was losing his mind?

“Fine,” she snapped, gathering her books and pulling the strap of her satchel over her shoulder. She cast a quick Tempus, and her movements became a bit frenzied. “Shit, I have to get to my next class, but I expect you to be in the library at 4 pm sharp, we will discuss this nonsense then.

“Granger, Granger,” he tutted. “You calling a school project nonsense. Well, I never thought I’d see the day.” 

“It’s not the project that is nonsense, it’s you insisting that we should work on it together.”

With these words, she rushed out of the classroom, leaving behind a Draco who was smugly grinning to himself before reality caught up to him and he realised that banter was probably not the way to flirt with a rule-following Gryffindor, and the smile slipped off his face. 

His satchel was hitting his leg with every step he took as he ran down the corridor to the library. Granger had said 4 pm sharp, and it was now two minutes past. She would probably have his head. The door flung open under his hands, and his gaze jumped around frantically looking for a head of auburn curls. Brown eyes found his, and he shivered while rushing forward. Was there such a thing as brown ice? If yes, it was currently trapped in Granger’s eyes as she hurled it in his direction.

“You’re late,” she clipped.

“Keen observation,” he responded, slightly out of breath. Towers of books surrounded Granger; her hair was in the form of disarray, which it got into when she put it up into a bun because it irritated her and then pulled on the front pieces absentmindedly while reading through complex texts, resulting in a little halo of curls around her face.

“How long have you been here?” he said with a raised eyebrow, taking in her obvious progress evident in pages upon pages of notes scattered around her.

“Oh, this?” she asked innocently. “Well, I had a sudden free period, you see, so I decided to start early.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she quickly looked down at her notes. Hmm.

“How come I don’t believe you?”

“That’s your prerogative, I’m just telling you how it is,” she said primly while not meeting his eyes.

“You’re lying, Granger. You didn’t get the period off suddenly, admit it.”

She flung her hands in the air, an exasperated breath escaping her. “Yes, fine. My class ends at 3 pm every Tuesday, but I got really far with the research, so there is no need to be mad at me.”

“How many times do I need to tell you this? This is a group project,” he said, still standing and towering slightly over her while he pressed his hands flat on the table. “Do you not get the concept of what group work entails? It means that you do not work on the project by yourself.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Malfoy. It’s really not that big of a deal. I usually finish group projects by myself and then let my teammates know their parts well in advance so they can properly prepare. We usually practice together before the presentation, you know? As a group. So there, there is the group part you’re so crazy about.” A slight blush had crept into her cheeks, and her eyes looked like sparks were flying out of them. Even her hair looked like there was magic pulsing through it, and he found himself wanting to touch a strand.

“What? Is something on my face? Why are you staring at me, Malfoy?”

He cleared his throat and looked away quickly. “I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this, Granger. We can split up the work, obviously, but I don’t think it would hurt to have regular meetings to ensure we’re on the right track. That’s how I do it for my projects, usually, and they have all turned out to get the highest mark. I am not doubting that you didn’t get equally high marks, but I don’t want you getting me my marks. When I graduate, I would like to know that it was actually my doing and not someone else’s,” Draco tried his best to sound bored but also assured.

Granger looked momentarily stunned, and her eyes had gotten kind of glassy. Was she not listening to him?

“Right,” she coughed delicately. “That works, I guess.” She glanced down at her notes and then back up at him. “Are you still fine with how I split up the work, or do you have any other suggestions?”

Ah, yes, the work. He had sort of forgotten that he still didn’t know what the project was on again. He lifted a hand to his neck and delicately scratched it, looking over Granger’s shoulder.

“What was the project on again?”

She gasped, and he reluctantly turned his eyes back to her. “Are you trying to tell me that you just spent the last ten minutes arguing with me about a project; telling me how you are more than capable of doing the work yourself while,” her voice got seemingly shriller with every passing second until he felt like he was facing a howler instead of a girl, “you didn’t even know what the project was on?” The last part assaulted him in such a high octave that Draco was tempted to cover his ears.

“Shh, Granger,” he pulled a chair opposite her out and sat down delicately while looking around himself at the other students whose faces looked anything from intrigued to annoyed. “We’re in the library. You’re supposed to be quiet.”

Her face turned an even darker shade of red, and Draco was scared that she was about to explode. She closed her eyes, and he thought that he saw little puffs of steam coming out of her ears as though she had taken a badly brewed Pepper-Up. Her shoulders were moving really slowly up and down with the deliberate breaths she was taking, and Draco thought it advisable not to say anything else at the moment, though he was tempted to let her know that she was probably the only person in the entire class who knew what the project was on.

Finally, she reopened her eyes, her gaze boring into him. “The project,” she said, overenunciating every word, “is on the 16^th-century witch burnings with a focus on the Netherlands and England in particular for the two of us.”

Ah, now he knew why she wanted to visit a Muggle library; that made sense.

He ignored her fiery look, which was close to making the library the location for the next witch – or rather wizard-burning – and bravely spoke up again. “Right, yes, must have slipped my mind. No reason to get so testy. But yes, that works fine for me. How about we get together on every, let’s say Thursday? When did you say the project was due again?”

“I hadn’t,” she snapped. “But it’s due in three weeks, so we can do two Thursdays and then practice the presentation on the Monday before. Also, preferably another time in the break before class on that Tuesday. You can skip lunch, right?”

His stomach gave an indignant growl at the mere mention of skipping lunch, but he ignored it dutifully, not wanting to anger the witch across from him even further.

“Sounds good, yes. Same time for the Thursdays, or do you also only have class until 3 pm then?” his eyebrow rose slightly at the last part. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair sulkily.

“Same time works for me,” she mumbled, seeming like she would rather be sucked dry of all of life’s joys by a dementor than share any more details of her schedule with him.

“Delightful,” he said, bringing some sarcasm into his voice to not sound too sincere. “Then let’s start researching, shall we? Have you found anything you would like to share with the class already?”

Her eyes lit up a fraction, and she leaned over one of the humongous textbooks placed in front of her.

“Yes, so I had some knowledge of witch-hunts from my time in primary school, though this was all taught from the Muggle perspective, obviously. The teacher mainly presented the view that witch hunts were used as a tool to suppress women by the church at the time, which is still true, but Muggles teach it in a way that ensures that students understand that witches and wizards don’t actually exist and have never existed. Shows the effectiveness of the Order of Secrecy, which obviously was developed as a reaction to these witch hunts, and ordained folklore being stolen from Muggles by wizard kind and rigorous use of obliviation spells,” she seemingly took her first breath before continuing in the same dizzying tempo.

She hadn’t even given Draco a chance to snort at the information that muggles thought witches and wizards didn’t exist.

“Anyway, the focus in school was very much on how certain phenotypes were used as the main basis to accuse someone of being a witch. I say `witch´ here instead of `wizard´ because, as you know, the main target group were women and girls. This was part of the church's scheme to reduce the impact women could have on society. Yes, so,” she turned a page, pointing her finger at a paragraph, “the characteristics associated with demonic spirits, aka witches and wizards, were old, ugly women with warts and hairy teeth, whatever that means. Young women were also targeted, especially when they had red hair. However, this was one of the main movements in Germany rather than our countries in the 15^th century, leading to the death of over 45,000 red-haired women, not all of whom were witches.  Ron mentioned something like this in passing once. How, almost his entire family, which has German and Irish roots, was wiped out due to the hunts at the time, as the Muggle and wizarding world were way more interdependent at the time, and there was no clear barrier for wizard kind to hide behind. Now, what our teacher in primary school didn’t mention because, well, she doesn’t actually believe we exist, is that as a response to the pressure exercised on wizarding kind, a new genetic phenomenon had developed amongst us. Shapeshifting.” She looked up at Draco with a face full of awe, and Draco could feel a smile spread over his face at the sight.

“Can you believe it? Shapeshifters, more precisely Metamorphmagus, didn’t exist before witch-hunts, and then suddenly, some people’s magic expanded in such a way as to allow them to take on a completely different appearance. Of course, these were the witches with the most intense magical print, meaning that, ironically, the Muggles never caught them. The witches and some wizards who had the ability would usually turn themselves into young boys, around the ages of 13 to 16. At the time, children over 13 would no longer be admitted to orphanages, so they didn’t have to worry that someone would send them there. This also spurred research into developing the skill of becoming an Animagus, which hadn’t really been an interest before. However, for those wizards and witches who couldn’t shapeshift, they acquired the skill by developing the magical formula for it. With the end of the witch-hunts in the 18^thcentury, the ability of Shapeshifting as a Metamorphmagus became increasingly rare, passed on through genetics but skipping certain generations or getting lost in some families completely. Animagi also became rarer since the need to shapeshift dropped away and the skill sort of fell into oblivion.” Her verbiage slowed, and she looked at him, her eyes alight. The sun was setting behind Draco, and golden light was streaming through the library windows, catching Granger in a soft glow. Her eyes looked like the golden snitch was fluttering behind them, and Draco had to restrain himself not to lean in more to inspect them further.

“Fascinating, right? She probed at his lack of a response.

“Yes,” he said, still somewhat lost in her eyes. “Fascinating.”  

Draco was making his way to the Quidditch field, his broom grabbed in his palm while he simultaneously tried to get his breastplate back into the right position with his other hand. He must have tied the straps too loosely. The cold air was blowing around him, the temperatures still close to freezing in the evening, though it was already May. The Quidditch field lay before him desolate; at this hour, most students were busy with homework or had already settled in for the night in their common rooms. He climbed up the stairs of one of the Slytherin watching towers and laid down his bag containing a water bottle, a snack, and a towel to wipe his face. His broom felt steady in his hand as he swung one leg over to mount it, placing his feet on the metal supporters. A second later, he was pushing into the air, the wind whipping around him gloriously. He could smell the cold air and the freshly mown grass of the lawn surrounding the Quidditch pitch, and he inhaled deeply, savouring this moment.

Before he had lowered himself into the field, something caught his peripheral vision. There was movement in one of the Gryffindor towers. His broom hovered under his hand, and he narrowed his eyes as he slowly flew closer. A figure was sitting there, a thick winter coat, a beanie, and gloves covering most of them, so it was difficult to make out who it was at first. As Draco came closer, he could see wild curls spilling out from under the beanie and the person`s nose being buried in a book. Granger. His robe fluttered in the wind and made a whipping sound at which Granger raised her eyes and her wand in one swift movement. Gods, she was paranoid. She still hadn’t seen him, though; he was hovering too far to her right.

“Calm down, Granger, it’s only me,” he said while flying closer to the centre of the tower.

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying his form as she slowly rose.

“Malfoy?”

“Obviously,” he drawled, kind of peeved that the one person he wanted to clear his head off was now ruining the exercise by showing up herself.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought it would be rather obvious,” he answered, looking down at his broom. “Flying.”

“Yes, I can see that,” a flash of white appeared as she rolled her eyes. “I meant, why are you here at this hour? It’s nearly curfew.”

“Well aware, Granger,” he stated, drawing out her last name in false mockery. “But unlike you, I have a broom and can be back at the castle in no time. I am also using the Quidditch field for its intended purpose. What you are doing here, on the other hand, is much less clear.”

“I thought it would be rather obvious,” she threw his words back at him while nodding at the book in her hands, “Reading.”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Cheeky,” he stated drily, one of his eyebrows rising incrementally. “I can see that, but I meant, why are you reading in the Quidditch stands when one, you don’t like Quidditch, two, you could be reading in the library or anywhere else where it’s not freezing, and three, it’s nearly curfew as you so attentively observed?”

“Who says I don’t like Quidditch?” she asked, diligently ignoring his other two points.

“Please,” he scoffed. “Anyone who has two eyes and half a brain can tell that you don’t like it.”

He was flying closer now, one of his feet resting on the opening of the tower, until she was sitting directly below him. She had to crane her neck to look at him.

“I went to the Quidditch World Cup finale in August,” she protested.

“Yes, well, you were probably dragged there by Potter and Weasley.”

At the lack of a comeback, he smiled to himself.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you reading here and not inside the castle?”

She mumbled something that sounded very close to `I wasn’t aware that I owed you an explanation´, but then looked up at him, meeting his eyes. A little jolt of electricity went through him, and her gaze felt like fingers brushing over his skin.

“At least have the decency to come down here, Malfoy. I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

Eagerly, he complied, dismounting his broom right next to Granger. Her face showed a slight grimace of disgust as she looked at the little space left between them.

“God,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean land on me. Take a step back.”

“Bossy witch,” he muttered to himself, but obliged. He plopped down on the cold bench, setting his broom between his thighs and looked over to her. She followed suit and recast a warming charm on herself.

“So?” he asked, flourishing his free hand slightly towards her. “Why are you reading here?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she sighed. “It’s just a bit crammed in the library, is all.”

Hmm. He narrowed his eyes. That had never bothered her before. Or had it? No, he was fairly certain that he had seen her on multiple occasions so engrossed in her studies that she didn’t even look up when the other students were rushing by her. Just last week, the Weasley twins had pulled one of their idiotic pranks on the Weasel right next to Granger, and she hadn’t even flinched.

“So,” she quickly added. “Why are you flying by yourself? The next game isn’t for a couple of weeks, right?”

He raised his brows, slightly annoyed with her for prowling on like that, but then decided to let her change the subject for now. “Yes, no, the next game is in four weeks, but I’m not exactly practising.”

“You’re not?” The curiosity in her voice was evident. “Then why are you flying?”

He chuckled. Even after almost four years at the school and with her two best friends part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she could still not fathom that people liked to fly on brooms, it seemed. Her lips pursed in annoyance, and he cleared his throat quickly to cover up his chuckle.

“It’s fun,” he simply stated, shrugging his shoulders. “And it helps me clear my head.” Fuck. The last part had just slipped out; he had not meant to say that.

“Clear your head? What of?” she asked because, of course, she would.

“Nothing,” he quickly said, scrambling for an excuse.

“Hmm, that doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

“It’s none of your business, Granger,” he shot, still not having found a good enough explanation.

“Fine,” she snapped, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “You’re the one who flew over to talk to me, not the other way around, but fine, I’ll just go.” She rose to stand, and his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist through the coat. He didn’t want her to leave, and more importantly, he didn’t want her to leave with her being mad at him. Again.

“No, stay, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Her jaw went kind of slack, her whole face painting one canvas of surprise, but she didn’t sit down again, so he kept talking. “It’s just,” he took a deep breath, committing to the next part, “life at home is a bit difficult at the moment.”

That wasn’t even a complete lie, but certainly not reason enough for flying around the Quidditch field with 2°C out. No, that was all thanks to Granger. The witch in question looked even more surprised than before.

“Oh?” was all she breathed in response.

“Yeah,” he shook his head and then looked up at her, tugging slightly on her wrist. Reluctantly, she sat back down, further away than before. Now that she was sitting again, he couldn’t wait to change the subject, not really wanting to discuss his parents and their political views with her at the moment.

“What are you reading?”

Her eyebrows furrowed a bit, and her head reared back slightly at the whiplash of the quick subject changes, but she quickly gathered herself again, looking down at her book once more.

“Persuasion. It’s by one of my favourite Muggle authors. It’s about a woman who had made a choice due to the influences around her, but which she didn’t really want to make.”

“I know Jane Austen, Granger,” he said, one of his hands finding her gloved ones automatically over the back of the book. He quickly pulled it back again, only realising what he was doing when it had already happened.

Her head swivelled to him. “You do?”

He simply nodded, looking at her intently.

“But how?”

“The Manor has a very big library.”

“But … she’s a Muggle,” she stuttered, confusion evident on her features.

“Yes, well,” responded Draco, smiling slightly at her bewildered expression. “The Manor library is old, and I guess I had some rebellious ancestors.”

“Have you read anything by her?”

“Let’s see. Pride and Prejudice, obviously, Emma, and,” he lowered his head towards her book, “Persuasion.”

Granger gasped and pointed a finger at him accusingly. “You like her.”

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t respond but just kept looking back at her. Her nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold, her lips slightly chapped, and her eyes glittered, whether from the cold or the revelation that Draco Malfoy read Jane Austen, he couldn’t pinpoint.

“You like her,” she repeated, this time seemingly to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. “Which one is your favourite?”

“Persuasion,” he said, once again glancing down at her book.

“Is it?” she asked, her brows rising slightly. “I would have thought it would be Pride and Prejudice.”

“What, because it’s the most popular choice? I’m not that boring, Granger.”

“And how would you know what the most popular choice would be?”

“I know things, alright?” He didn’t have to tell her that he had discussed the matter with Theo and Blaise, who were much better versed in Muggle culture than he was.

“Hmm,” she mused, looking at him curiously. He constrained himself not to squirm under her inquisitive gaze. Suddenly, she shot from her seat next to him. “What time is it?” she rushed out. Her hands dug through a little beaded bag that was slung over her shoulder before Draco had even time to respond. Her arm was reaching lower and lower until it became clear that she used quite an impressive extension charm on the bag. Who would have thought that the golden girl would go so directly against the law? Unfortunately, there was no time to tease her for it amongst her frenzied search. “Damn it, where is it?” she exclaimed, her head now almost swallowed by the bag. Draco began to look for his own pocket watch and realised that it must still be in his bag on the Slytherin tower.

“Accio bag,” he called, holding one hand out to catch the bag that whizzed towards him. Quickly, he buried his hand in the side pocket, pulling out the watch.

“It’s eight more minutes until curfew, come on, Granger, jump on my broom real quick.”

Sadly, there was no time to enjoy the innuendo. A head of curls emerged from the beaded back with a gasp. “What? No, no, no. I’m not getting on that broom.”

Draco was a tad insulted. This was the newest model.

“There is nothing wrong with my broom,” he said primly.

Granger looked exasperated. “It has nothing to do with your broom. I’m not getting on any broom, period.”

The broom was already settled securely between Draco’s thighs, and they were losing time rapidly.

“Come on, Granger,” he urged. “We only have seven minutes left to be in the castle, preferably our common rooms, so we don’t get caught by Filch. We really don’t have time to argue right now.” Her eyes shot around frantically until she pressed out, “I can’t.”

“Why not? For Merlin’s sake, you will never make it back in time on foot and will be locked out of the castle. Come on. Now.”

Coaxingly, he held a hand out to her, but the witch remained standing stubbornly, even crossing her arms over her chest.  A sudden idea came to him as he realised that he was in the company of a control freak. “I’ll let you fly, alright? We just have to get going.”

He probably had a death wish; Granger surely hadn’t flown a broom since the first-year mandatory class. But apparently, it was working. She took a step closer, eyeing his broom.

“I’ll guide you if you lose control, but we really have to leave now, alright?” he asked, a slight note of panic creeping into his voice at the time ticking in the back of his mind. A relieved sigh escaped him as she took his hand and swung her legs over the broom in front of him. A second later, they were airborne. His arms slung around her torso, and her back pressed into his upper body. Tendrils of her hair flew into his face and his mouth when he was about to say something, so he quickly shut it again. Besides the smell of cold air, he could now make out the scent of her shampoo. Bergamot, sandalwood, and something floral. Despite their current predicament and Granger’s atrocious flying, his eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply, savouring the scent.

His stomach swooped at a particularly steep dip. Granger yelped, and Draco leaned close to her ear to be sure she would hear him. “I’m taking over,” he growled, no longer entertaining her antics. A quick nod was all he needed before he grabbed the broom tighter and steered them more securely in the direction of the castle.

Soon, they landed in the courtyard, and Draco quickly jumped off the broom. Granger looked as though she was shaking, and her face had taken on a slightly greenish tinge. She was still hovering over the broom, which was trapped in a white-knuckled grip between her hands.

“Alright there, Granger?” The question seemed to stir her somewhat out of her thoughts, and she looked at him, eyes wide and round, the whites showing around her irises. He took one of her hands, carefully removing her fingers from the broomstick and entwining them with his. “Let’s go, we need to get inside.”

With his other hand, he took the broom and then led her toward the big doors, steadying her slightly. The door closed behind them with a loud groan, indicating that curfew had started, not twenty seconds after they had gotten inside.

“Do you need help getting to the Gryffindor common room?” he asked softly, looking down at her shell-shocked state. She slowly shook her head, her eyes slightly glassy. “No, it’s fine,” she murmured, her voice shaking a little, and removed her soft hand from his. The sense of loss spreading through his chest was odd and completely unwarranted, so Draco quickly shook himself to get rid of the sensation.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, more assuredly this time and took a step away from him. Her knees wobbled slightly, and he wanted to reach out again but pulled his arm back to his side. She had said that she was fine.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Good night, Malfoy.”

He looked after her receding form, a tad wobbly on her legs, before he whispered. “Sleep well, Granger.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

After having walked three flights of stairs, still a bit unsteady from fatigue and wrapped in nausea as though it were a thick blanket, Hermione stops abruptly and watches Astoria’s form recede in front of her, before she realises that Hermione is no longer by her side. She turns around, puzzled.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“Why aren’t we apparating there?” Hermione asks. She had been too preoccupied with her imprisonment and the brief escape from it, which, for once, didn’t result in torture, to have even noticed until now. But suddenly, it didn’t make sense at all anymore. Why would Astoria walk through this huge mansion instead of just apparating, especially since they were late, as she had pointed out in her rooms?

“Come on, Mudblood,” she says, the last word still sounding as though it only reluctantly rolls off her tongue, while she beckons with her hand. “It’s not much further.”

Hermione doesn’t move an inch, suddenly not caring what will happen to her. She just wants to have an answer to one single question. Nothing makes sense anymore, and she needs something to make sense. She needs an answer. Desperation claws at her, the reasons for this completely eluding her, but she feels as though she will suffocate if Astoria doesn’t reply to her question.

“Please,” she breathes, aware of how weak she sounds. “Just tell me.”

Something in her tone must have tipped Astoria off on the turmoil she is feeling because she simply sighs and looks pityingly at Hermione. Echoes from her heels sound on the marble floor as she approaches, slowly, as one would approach a wounded animal. “It’s better you do not know.”

“Just tell me.” Hermione’s voice is nothing but a whisper. “It can’t be worse than what’s been done to me already.” As the sentiment sinks in, Astoria swallows heavily before straightening her features and looking at Hermione. “When bringing you somewhere, we are to walk. You are not to experience any privileges or sensations associated with having magic, seeing as you are not a real witch but rather a mutation which should have been killed in infancy for snatching something out of the void that wasn’t meant for her.” The delivery of the last words is cold, detached, as though memorised and stupidly rattled down without internalising their meaning. As if what she just heard didn’t tear at Hermione’s entire being.

“Right,” Hermione nods stiffly. “Let’s keep walking then.”

She moves before Astoria can reply, ignoring the concerned and pitying look from the other witch as she keeps going.

A delicate hand wraps around her upper arm, but immediately releases her again when Hermione flinches.

“Sorry, but it’s this way.”

They steer to the right, into another dark hallway, barely illuminated by what seems to be the same sort of light which Astoria kept in her bathroom. On closer inspection, however, Hermione realises that, unlike in Astoria’s en-suite, the lights actually consist of a cluster of tiny fairies kept in cages that were attached to the walls every couple of feet. Fairies had fought in the first wizarding war on the side of the light, which made sense considering that they were a source of light themselves. Evidently, Voldemort thought otherwise and had them captured and held as slaves as a means to teach them a lesson. Sorrow is a constant emotion one must feel if one has an ounce of empathy when walking through this mansion, but the Death Eaters likely do not. Slaves and prisoners surround them every day, so they presumably have forgotten what the real world is supposed to be like. Free, equal, just. It’s naïve, Hermione knows, but letting go of such principles and associated expectations is hard when that is all one feels it is worth living for. It’s unbearable looking at the small fairies, clinging to the bars of their miniature cages with open mouths as if they were screaming but couldn’t make a sound, so Hermione keeps her eyes trained downwards, ashamed of her own cowardice. She is surprised that the fairies are silenced, seeing as the Death Eaters seem to revel in the sounds of torture their victims usually expel if Hermione’s treatment is anything to go by, but she is glad for it. The high whining of the small, helpless creatures probably would have pushed her over the edge, snapping the little thread she is so desperately clinging to in order to keep it together.

Astoria and her don’t exchange anymore words for the rest of the way, using stairways that go up and down, corridors that seemingly twist around themselves until it feels as though they are utterly lost. Finally, they come to a stop in front of a big ebony door. There is no guard here to let them in or keep them out. Instead, Astoria raises her hand, whispering an incantation and drawing something in the air that glows against the wood a moment later as though the door is burning. A rune, Hermione realises. Such a severe security measure for a simple dinner with a couple of guests is an alarming discovery. It would be almost impossible to get in for an outsider if this were applied to the entirety of the house. Hermione stores the information, locking it away to assess later. The order would have to know about this if they ever attempted to break her and the other prisoners out. At least, there didn’t seem to be blood magic involved, which was a minor relief.

The doors open with an eerie silence, which is immediately broken when they step into the room, evidently having breached the Muffliato shield enveloping the space. Voices mingle together at such a high volume, they could be classified as shouting. Most of the people in the room are seated at an enormous oak table, that looks as if it can accommodate at least 80 people. Some seats are empty, free from their designated guests who are standing beside other seated people, chatting to them. For a Death Eater dinner, the atmosphere is surprisingly lax. Hermione’s gaze wanders and she realises that both the head and the foot of the table are vacant. On further inspection, Voldemort is nowhere to be seen in the room, which would explain the relatively relaxed atmosphere as well as at least one of the empty seats. As she and Astoria enter further into the room, silence spreads, heads turn toward them, and eyes lock onto her. The wizards and witches scattered across the room wear expressions ranging from simple curiosity to evident disdain as they take her in, travelling from her head to the hemline of her dress. There has never been this much attention directed at her at once, especially not since the war started, and her skin prickles as though the stares were a physical thing prodding at her skin. Astoria leads them closer to the centre, and right to a couple which Hermione doesn’t recognise. They greet each other and exchange pleasantries in an oddly sweet tone that sounds thoroughly false. Hermione is being introduced to the pair who look at her with unveiled interest and nods at them. They’re dressed entirely in black wizarding robes, matching in colour with most of the other guests. The ones who are not wearing black are decked in a similarly dark colour as Astoria is, making Hermione stand out like a sore thumb and drawing even more attention to her. Her eyes soon wander around the room and away from the witch and wizard in front of her, taking in as many details as possible, looking for anything that could be useful information. The room, or rather hall, is so enormous that she would suspect an extension charm if it weren’t for the overall size of the mansion. To both sides of the rectangular table huge expanses of space are left, which seem to be reserved for dancing and end in platforms, slightly elevated from the ground. There are no windows despite the height of the walls. Instead, the light would presumably come through the ceiling during the day, since it’s entirely made of glass. Formed in a dome shape with a pattern of spikes going upwards, likely giving the impression of towers from the outside, the glass is black from the night sky, interrupted only by the stars, which are so clearly visible and so numerous that any artificial light must be miles away. The room overall reminds Hermione once again of a cathedral, and she wonders how many cathedral-like rooms can exist in one single building, which wasn’t itself a cathedral if the architectural structure she had worked out over the past weeks is anything to go by. The walls are made of sandstone, ornamented with various mouldings, depicting all kinds of magical creatures. The walls seem to have recently been cleaned or maybe this is a new addition to the house as they’re not yet darkened with soot and thus surprisingly light for the company it currently holds. The floor is made of black marble, taking away some of the cathedral-like feeling and reflecting the light of the brightest stars which reaches through the roof. The room if topped off with sandstone pillars assembled in regular intervals around the room, some of which people are leaning against.

All the guests are holding some sort of drink, and when Hermione looks down again, she realises that she herself is holding a glass as well. The liquid has the colour of champagne, but there are no bubbles rising to the surface. The idea of alcohol alone makes her feel queasy again, and she holds the glass further away from her, not even wanting to smell the scent of the beverage. She wonders where the glasses came from, considering there are no house elves or any other kind of slaves distributing them; they seemed to just magically appear, but that the guests would have to conjure their own drinks is highly unlikely. For a formal dinner, however, she realises after a couple more seconds, there is surprisingly little food. In fact, there is none at all. No little trays with hors d’oeuvres floating around, no sideboard with snacks, no food on the plates. Granted, not everybody’s sitting or has even arrived yet, but it’s still odd. Astoria touches the small of her back, taking her out of her musings and guides her away from the couple closer towards the table.

“I would appreciate it if next time, you could at least try to make some small talk. They asked you at least three questions, and you didn’t even grunt,” hisses Astoria into her ear.

“I’m sorry, I’m not on my best behaviour. I didn’t grow up in society events the way you did,” shoots Hermione back, who frankly hadn’t noticed that she had been spoken to. The sheer number of people overwhelmed her after being locked in solitary confinement for over two months now. Not just that, but the light, the cacophony of sounds, everything is overwhelming, and she had already felt exhausted after the session with the healer in Astoria’s rooms.

“Well, get on it. Purebloods don’t take very kindly to being ignored. I would rather not see you get hexed or tortured before the dinner even begins.”

Hermione just nods mutely in response, too drained to give a proper response.

“That’s exactly what you are not supposed to do,” chides Astoria, sounding rather worried now, but Hermione can barely hear her through the rushing of blood in her ears. On the opposite wall, nipping at their drinks and gazing listlessly around the room, stand Theo, Blaise, and Pansy Parkinson as inseparable as ever. The only one missing from the quartet is Malfoy. As though they can feel her stare, all three of them simultaneously raise their eyes and look at her. They hold her gaze for three seconds before Theo’s mouth moves, and like puppets commanded by a puppeteer, they all lower their gazes again. Hermione swallows heavily, and a shiver runs down her spine. Their looks had been so blank, there had been no flicker of recognition in any of them. They had also been assumed to be dead. None of them had appeared on any of the posters made by the Order; there had never been a report after a battle which mentioned them as participants. Granted, the Death Eaters wore masks, but over the years, almost everyone was assumed to have been identified if their person had been known before. Almost the entire Order had attended school with these three, and no one had seen them since the beginning of the war? For this to be possible, they must have stayed out of conflict for the entire time, which was highly unlikely amongst Voldemort’s ranks. Anyone who wasn’t willing to fight for his cause would likely be killed on the spot. So how were they here? She had known of Blaise already and had briefly wondered about it but had been more preoccupied with his changed demeanour than how she had never heard of him in the past five years. But for all three of them to be alive and flying under the radar of the Order? It was almost unfathomable and made Hermione seriously doubt the intelligence the Order had on the status of the war.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Astoria brings them to a halt again. The wizard standing in front of Astoria and her now is no other than Yaxley, appraising her from head to toe. Hermione goes cold with fear. She had not even thought about the possibility of meeting one of her torturers here, too absorbed with thoughts about how she would have to see Voldemort again and the general questions running around her brain at the onslaught of information, as well as the lack thereof.

“I see, you recovered well from my ministrations, Mudblood,” purrs Yaxley, leaning into her space. “Care to try for another round? I would so love to see you break.”

Hermione shivers, her tongue feels locked in her mouth, and her throat makes a clicking sound as she swallows nervously. Surely, he wouldn’t torture her right here in front of everybody? There were diplomats here, and she was a guest. Admittedly, a prisoner-guest, but a guest, nonetheless.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little,” Astoria says cajolingly, laying a hand softly on Yaxley’s arm, and his eyes travel to her, taking in her form in a similarly unsettling manner as he had appraised Hermione before. “The Dark Lord hasn’t even arrived, and you know how he loves a good show. You wouldn’t want to deprive him of that, now, would you?”

Yaxley looks slightly abashed before his features contort into a leering grin. “Of course not, Lady Greengrass. If I just may? You look lovely tonight. Would you honour me with a dance later?”

“Oh,” Astoria laughs pearly. “I would be delighted, but unfortunately,” she purses her lips and draws her eyebrows together, giving her a pouting look, “I have to watch the Mudblood tonight. Regrettably, I won’t be able to dance at all.”

Swiftly, not awaiting a response, she takes Hermione by the arm and presses by Yaxley. Hermione looks over her shoulder and sees him eyeing Astoria with a disappointed expression, an odd look of hunger hidden underneath. She shudders and turns back around.

“Vile prick,” mutters Astoria and marches on until they are in front of the table.

Astoria sits down wearily and motions for Hermione to follow her example. In the last 10 minutes, more and more people have sat down, and the seats are now almost completely occupied, bar for the odd one here and there and the remaining head and foot. Hermione realises with a start that she is sitting dreadfully close to one of the concluding seats. Would Voldemort want to sit so close to her? It seems unlikely that he would seat himself in proximity of such filth as her, but he was unpredictable after all. Suddenly, the doors swing open, and Nagini’s head swivels in, followed by the rest of her body as well as the floating figure of Voldemort. His smell envelops the room instantly, and goose bumps rise on Hermione’s neck in response, a shudder of disgust running through her. How could a person smell so much of death and still roam amongst the living? Behind him trailed Bellatrix and Fenrir Greyback, who had recently escaped from the Order as prisoner in his wolf form, turning three Order members in the process.

The other witches and wizards in the room rush to their seats, looking up obediently as soon as Voldemort reaches the end of the table, luckily, the one on the other side. Maybe the seat would stay vacant? Two more seconds pass during which Hermione’s brain lies as in a slumber before it clicks that Malfoy is not here, and as the second-in-command, he would surely have to be. The seat is for him.

“My beloved followers,” says Voldemort, the words feeling like slime running down Hermione’s arms. “I am delighted to see you all here today to celebrate together and to make new alliances. For those of you who have been working restlessly abroad, ensuring the cooperation of other countries, you have been successful. I would like to welcome the diplomats of Italy, Sweden, Japan, and Croatia, in particular, as our new allies. Moreover, for those who have not yet heard, the notorious Order of the Phoenix, which has been terrorising our cause for the past five years, has recently gone into a well-designed trap, formulated by my second-in-command, Draco Malfoy.”

Cheers erupt around Hermione, pressing her deeper into the waves of despair she feels at the information. Malfoy had been behind the trap; the trap that made her end up in the fangs of the Death Eaters. Despite his rank, she couldn’t believe it. Her brain was rebelling fiercely against it, unable to align the image of Malfoy in school with the man he had become while they were apart.

“His absence deeply saddens us,” Voldemort carries on when the cheers and claps die down, “But the impact of his work will be presented to you today, making up for it until he can join us himself. The trap secured some of the most infamous members of the shameful Order of the Phoenix, amongst them some of Potter’s closest friends.”

Voldemort pauses again, and Hermione cannot help but sigh in relief. She had assumed that they had not caught Harry, seeing as the war was still ongoing, and her lasting status as a torture object and the need for further information on the Order would have been superfluous if he had gotten to Harry himself. Still, she hadn’t been entirely sure and worried right until that very moment. Voldemort’s wording, however, made it clear that Harry had slipped through their grasp. If Harry had actually been captured, Voldemort would not have bothered making any other declarations, but would have immediately announced the death of her oldest friend.

“His little Mudblood will join us tonight as a guest,” all eyes find Hermione at Voldemort’s next words, taking her in. “Let’s see how her friends,” he giggles briefly at that “, like her when she actually holds the position of power, they want to elevate her to when they themselves have nothing.”

Dread fills Hermione, and she looks around, trying to see if her friends are held somewhere beyond this room in chains, tortured, having to watch her eat and be jolly with their torturers, but she can’t see any hidden room. Nothing indicates their presence.

“Let’s eat.”

The moment his final words leave his mouth, clapping erupts again as cages, which Hermione is sure had not been there before, lower from the ceiling; each of them containing one of her friends.

The metal cages are high enough for everyone to stand erect, but so narrow that even the smallest movement would lead to banging some body part against the bars. The guests watch with rapt attention as they descend lower and lower, laughing in the faces of her friends while Hermione sits there in stunned horror. As the first cage hits the floor, a loud clank fills the room as the metal meets the marble, and Hermione flinches. Ginny’s cage is followed by Luna’s, then by Neville’s, by Fred’s, Susan’s,  Dean’s, and by Fleur’s. One after another, they hit the floor either on the side of the table in front of or behind Hermione, like marbles being thrown by a child. Her friends look well-fed, and there are no evident marks of torture on them, no bruises, or scratches, no open wounds, but she is sure that at least part of it are glamours. They are wearing grotesque court jester costumes in green and black, short balloon shorts which barely cover the girls’ butts, corsets which push the breasts of the girls so high that they nearly spill out, white collars, and hats that bend over on the side, ending in little bells, which seem to depict human bodies. Their mouths are painted a deep red. The boys are also wearing shorts, but theirs are tight and made of some sort of leather material; their upper bodies are almost fully exposed, only covered by tiny straps that run around them. They look like horrible versions of Muggle strippers.

In the time that the guests were occupied with ogling the surprise prisoners and entertainment for the night, their plates had been magically filled with various types of foods, a different meal on each plate. Astoria’s plate is filled with broccolinis, a small lamb filet, and a little square of layered potato covered in truffle shreds. For the man facing Hermione, a steak, roasted pumpkin, green beans, and wrapped sausages of some sort. Hermione herself got a salmon filet, roasted potato and grilled zucchini. On and on it goes, with not once the same meal in sight. The guests make exclamations of wonder and awe as if such a simple display of magic were anything revolutionary. All this work had been conducted by the house elves, and they were acting as though the Dark Lord had personally prepared their meals. Hermione looks back at her fellow prisoners and Order members who, as she can now see, stand oddly slumped in their cages, their expressions dazed, and most of them wearing an odd smile. The cages remain closed, and they just stand there, not making any sounds except for the occasional giggle. People haven’t started eating yet, too consumed with the sight of their entertainment, but then a ripple goes through the table, and Voldemort’s voice orders, “Eat.”

Soon, the prisoners are forgotten, and conversation flows around the table, brushing up against Hermione like water against a rock, eating away at it and leaving it a mere shadow of what it once was. She cannot think about anything but her friends, cannot even look at the food or anyone at the table, her eyes constantly drifting between Ginny, Neville, and Fleur, who are visible from her seat at the table. Even Astoria’s subtle kicks and elbows poking into her side can’t rouse her from her thoughts. She feels as if in a trance, stuck in a nightmare made of her worst fears. Some of the people she cares most about in this world, presented on a platter to a room of Death Eaters and Voldemort zealots, and they were not even looking at her. She knows she should pay attention. The conversations at this table could turn out to be crucial intel for the Order once they free her and the others, but she cannot. She also feels unsure now whether the Order will come at all. Ginny is here, and Harry has not come to get her. He was surely trying; he wouldn’t leave her here, but the fact that he had obviously not been able to do so until now made her doubt whether he ever could. Time passes, and after multiple appeals, then demands from Astoria whispered into her ear to eat something, Hermione forks one piece of grilled Zucchini, which tastes like ashes in her mouth, before setting the fork back onto the table. Eventually, the plates are cleared, and dessert magically appears on gold-ornamented crockery. Once again, the deserts differ vastly, each one of them seemingly uniquely fitted to every individual guest.

Hermione’s gaze lowers to a black-looking pudding topped with raspberry sauce. It reminds her of blood on dirty floors. Of dead people scattered in a room filled with Death Eaters and a snake that gorges on the corpses. Bile rises in her throat and tears prick her eyes as she forces it back down.

“Miss Granger, right?” asks the woman next to her, an old witch Hermione has never seen before. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time,” she says conspiratorially, and for the first time this evening, Hermione perks up. Could this woman be a hidden spy for the Order? Yes, Hermione had the second-highest security clearance, but she was not given all the information available; it would be too much and would likely lead to forgetting important details over time. Hope flashes through her hard and fast, and she struggles to appear neutral when she turns to the woman and lowers her head slightly to indicate that the woman had identified her correctly.

“You know,” chuckles the woman, “in my day, they would not let just anyone attend a Wizarding school. You had to have at least one parent who was a wizard or witch.”

Hermione’s stomach sinks, and she scolds herself for letting herself hope. Ridiculous. Of course, there weren’t any spies she wasn’t informed about. She was just another form of entertainment for the woman, an oddity which she had never seen before.

“Because you see,” the witch continues, her voice hardening with every word, “Mudbloods would not actually know what to do with the powers which weren’t theirs to have, and they would go insane, often ending up where they belonged all along, in psychiatric wards or what you lot call them.”

She takes a lock of Hermione’s hair into her papery hand and lets it run through her fingers. Hermione holds herself stiff as a board to suppress the urge to knock the woman’s hand away, reclaiming her hair.

“It really is fascinating. You look normal enough from the outside, but I do wonder. Would your insides show the evil that sits inside you? Magic which you have taken from witches who are left with nothing? Is your blood a regular red or black from the rot that must flow from your heart?” She yanks on Hermione’s hair, and without the months of torture, Hermione likely would have yelped, but now she just sits still. She had expected something of the sort, though the words still puncture something inside of her that she cannot pinpoint. The old prejudices had been thrown at her again and again, but it hurt nonetheless that people existed who thought that something which intrinsically made her who she was, wasn’t hers to have. The ignorance was also astonishing. As if Hermione could take away magic from witches so they became squibs if she hadn’t had magic to begin with. If magic could simply be taken, wouldn’t their precious `Dark Lord´ just rob all of the Muggle-borns of their magic? It made no sense, but people still walked around spewing such utter rubbish.

The old witch laughs cruelly, oblivious to Hermione’s thoughts, “Maybe the Dark Lord will let me find out tonight. He can be quite benevolent, you see?”

The taunt is obvious, but Hermione doesn’t let any reaction appear outwardly, waiting for the woman to get bored with her.

“Are you deaf, girl, or just lacking in intelligence?” hisses the witch, evidently getting irritated at the absence of a reaction.

Suddenly, a delicate arm reaches across Hermione, and a soft hand wraps around the old, wrinkled one of the witch.

“My apologies, Esmeralda,” chirps Astoria. “The Mudblood has been tortured well and proper just before I got her ready. By Salazar, she was a fright to look at and had bumps all over her head,” Astoria laughs as if she were delighted by the thought. “She must have lost some brain matter and the ability to respond in the process. I will teach her a lesson later.”

With these words, she pulls Hermione’s chair closer to her own and smiles apologetically at the other witch. She turns her head over her shoulder, seemingly to inspect the prisoners and whispers in Hermione’s ear, her voice strained with tension. “What did I tell you about not responding to the purebloods? If you don’t watch out, you will be punished by one of them, and there will be nothing I can do about it.”

She turns back around and faces the woman in front of her, not giving Hermione a chance to respond. Anger bubbles up in Hermione. Anger and indignation at the expectations set for her when she is the one constantly treated like dirt. She waits a couple of minutes, fury rising in her all the while, until Esmeralda is engaged in conversation with other people, and Astoria stops talking to the wizard across from her, before she leans into Astoria’s face again.

“This was hardly small talk,” she presses out. “She was throwing every possible bias against me she could think of, and finished the conversation off by promising to cut me open at the end of the night. How exactly do you want me to respond to that politely?” She leans back and looks at Astoria expectantly with a mocking expression.

All colour had drained from her face, and she was very still. The reaction was rewarding but a little extreme. This could hardly have been the first time Astoria had been subjected to such pleasant fantasies in connection with Muggle-borns, seeing as she lived amongst Death Eaters and was likely one of them herself. Only after studying Astoria’s still form for a couple more moments does Hermione realise that something else has happened, and she raises her eyes to where Astoria’s rest together with those of the other guests at the table, who, however, look more delighted than disturbed.

The doors of the cages holding her friends are all open, and some are already empty, while from others her friends stagger out, several of them losing their balance and laughing while falling to the floor. With a start, Hermione understands that they’re all drunk or drugged. The ones who fell down make multiple attempts at getting up, while the others stagger toward the table, looking at the guests like they are good company instead of their enemies. A couple of the Death Eaters have turned around on their chairs and greet the prisoners with open arms. Ginny stumbles into the chair of Walden Macnair, laughing as the repulsive man pulls her down on his lap and immediately starts to kiss his throat. Hermione shudders. What was happening? Fleur and Neville behave similarly, getting close to one of the witches and wizards at the table and immediately running their hands down their bodies and smothering them in open-mouthed kisses. Neville’s tongue lashes out against Alecto Carrow’s throat, and he grinds against her unrestrainedly. They must have been given some form of lust potion along with the other drugs they got administered. There was no other explanation for such a blatant show of sexual behaviour. The other guests look on in fascination, some with disgust, some with jealousy, as the Death Eaters enjoy her friends. Ginny is close enough to Hermione, sitting just four seats down the table on Macnair’s lap, that she can hear her moans and whimpers as she explores Macnair’s body. She grabs at his robes, trying to push them off him, seeming almost desperate for it. His hands roam over Ginny’s breasts and then slowly down to her hips.

Hermione wants to look away, but she can’t as Macnair guides Ginny’s hips up and down over his pelvis. Ginny gasps and grinds her upper body against his, leaning toward him and whispering something in his ear. He laughs and nods. She stands up and pushes his chair further from the table before turning around and bending over at the hips, circling them in the air. Macnair slaps her bottom, and she keens, arching her back. She wiggles closer to him and begins to give him a lap dance, grinding her arse against his, undoubtedly hard, cock over and over again. A wizard next to Macnair reaches out and squeezes one of her boobs, and she moans before giving him an encouraging smile. At her reaction, he turns his chair towards her and scoots closer, running his fingers over her breasts in circular movements until finally pulling her top down to expose her nipples. Ginny moans loudly as the cold air hits them and they immediately pebble. The man scoots his chair even closer while Ginny continues her lap dance, facing away from Macnair. Macnair’s hands are wrapped around her hips and sometimes drift to her butt, squeezing or slapping the flesh over the thin material. The other man now faces Ginny directly and attaches his mouth to one of her nipples. Ginny cries out wantonly. Neville and Fleur are in a similar state, and from the sounds, so are the rest of her friends. There is no music in the room, and as the other guests are watching in rapt attention, no other sound exists but the cries and moans of the Order members under the ministrations of their enemies. Hermione is ready to puke and finally rips her gaze away from the scene. She wants to jump up and yell at them to stop it, to stop touching her friends. She wants to scream at her friends in outrage, think about Harry, think about Bill, about Hannah, she wants to tell them, but she knows this isn’t their fault. The sounds crescendo, and when Hermione next looks over at Ginny, Macnair’s hand are sunk deep in her bottoms while she lifts her hips to meet his hand in rapid movements, chasing her orgasm. She is slumped in his lap now, and he kisses her neck while the other man is still busy fondling her boobs. Neville has disappeared from view, presumably kneeling below the table when Ginny and Luna, by the sounds of it, reach their orgasm in cries of elation.

As more screams of ecstasy fill the room, Hermione turns to the side and actually loses more of the liquid she consumed earlier, heaving onto the floor. Before anyone can notice, Astoria vanishes the vomit and pulls Hermione back up, so she sits up on her chair properly.

“You need to keep it together,” she whispers urgently, an undertone of fear evident in her voice. Hermione looks up at her from huge eyes, which are threatening to overflow with the tears that have gathered there.

“Why are they doing this?” Hermione chokes out in despair.

A calming hand is placed on her thigh, and Astoria looks deep into her eyes when she says, “This is for your benefit as much as it is for the other guests. They want to see you fall apart, but you cannot let them, understood?”

Hermione nods weakly, too wrapped up in the state of her friends and the sorrow she feels on their behalf to wonder why Astoria would care that she kept it together.

“Some food for the slut?” calls out Macnair suddenly, tightly holding Ginny to his chest, who seems to lose some of her drowsiness at the mention of food. Various plates appear on the table, all in front of the prisoners who are done for now with their sexual performances. Hermione doubts, though, that this will have been it for the evening. As soon as the plates fully materialise, they lean over the table and gorge on the food, grabbing it with their hands and stuffing it into their mouths like animals. They must have been starving for at least two weeks to react like this. Voldemort’s voice cuts through the sounds of gulping, chewing and slurping, more alcohol instead of simply water, but her friends don’t seem to care that this will make them even more drunk. They are too far gone.

“Look at these creatures,” his voice slithers around the room like his pet snake. “Look at the wantonness with which they consume, chasing their own pleasure, not caring for any form of decorum. This,” he points his finger accusingly at her friends and then at Hermione, “is what happens to good witches and wizards when they sully their blood with the presence of abominations such as the one sitting before you now. She has brought this on them. Though her façade is strong tonight, she and any Muggles and Mudbloods do not know the meaning of restraint. They take and take from the Wizarding society. Jobs, food, partners, and worst of all, magic. So tonight, to give my followers a well-earned reward and show my appreciation for your relentless eagerness to stop this thing from spreading her disease amongst the Wizarding world, I give you the blood traitors. You can now take from them whatever you want, showing them what awaits them if they keep up their dangerous ways of support for something that wrecks all of Wizarding kind from the inside.”

Cheers erupt once again and at least temporarily block out the noises emanating from the eating of her starved friends. She doesn’t even want to think about what they must look like below the glamours. Because, of course, Voldemort wouldn’t present them in their actual state, showing their likely skeletal-like bodies and bruised skin to explain their behaviour. No, this is another way to shift fault to the Mudbloods, who seemingly undermine years of good breeding by merely existing in proximity to other people

“And lastly,” Voldemort continues giddily, interrupting the applause while looking over to Hermione once more, “I am delighted to tell you that the Mudblood is included in the offer. I am eager to see what you will come up with to pay for what she and her kind are doing to us.”

The applause that roars up in response is so loud it is deafening, and the screeching laugh of Bellatrix fills the air, making a shiver run down Hermione’s spine. Despite the raucous laughter and sounds of glee among the Death Eaters, she can hear a sharp gasp from her left side, and as she looks at Astoria, she sees her white-knuckled hold on the armrests of her chair, accompanied by an expression of such severe horror that one would think Voldemort had just ordered her to be raped and tortured instead of Hermione. Because of course, this is what the announcement really was: an order for his followers to rape and degrade her. Hermione just stares and stares at her, willing her to stop acting so shocked. This cannot be a novelty to Astoria. She turns away from Astoria and ignores her pointed stare directed at the side of her face. There is nothing she can do or say that will make this go away. The only thing that will help is complete disassociation. Hermione takes a heavy breath and sinks deeply into her mind, concentrating on only the feel of her own lids against her eyeballs as she closes her eyes. She goes deeper and deeper into her occlumency, and when she next opens her eyes, there are mountains between where she is and what she sees in front of her. It is as though she were seeing the scene before her in an old Muggle black-and-white movie. So far removed from her reality, which is her mind, that it does not concern her in the slightest. The people she sees unfamiliar and irrelevant.

Over the sounds of the crowd, no one hears the door open again, and all heads only turn when Voldemort’s voice rings out again. Hermione slowly moves her head towards him as well, seeing a meaningless figure clad in black wizarding robes, the skull so prominent, it looks as though the skin were pulled over it forcefully. Red eyes look around the room, and a pale and bony hand indicates to another figure standing beside the first. The figure looks familiar, but no clear association comes to mind, so Hermione looks on, almost boredly.

“Ah, finally,” calls the man over the table, the voice ricocheting off the walls and even seemingly the marble floors, accented by an amplifying charm. “My esteemed guests, let me present to you my second-in-command and leader of the Dark Forces on the battlefield, Mister Draco Malfoy.”

The man who is also wearing black robes, which are considerably tighter fitting than those of the first man and which really rather looks like fighting gear than evening wear, is tall and has such pale hair that the moon, shining through the roof, reflects in it. His face is angular and looks, for lack of a better word, expensive. Hermione didn’t know that people could look expensive before she saw this person. Still, unaffected by this observation, she looks directly into his eyes, whose shine is such an odd tone of grey that they appear silver. They look cold, she thinks. Like steel. The eyes are locked onto her, and she would likely feel uncomfortable, but she didn’t really care about anything at all at the moment. Despite their severity and the odd expression evident in them, she just sits there and stares back, no ounce of feeling coursing through her. It’s like standing on the other side of a thick plexiglass when someone tries to tell you something. Though you could see the words forming on their lips, you could not understand the meaning; nothing of consequence reached through to the other side.

The first man speaks up again, but his words barely reach her; have no meaning to her at all anymore. Something about his second-in-command having first pick amongst them. Hermione turns away from the people, looks down the table at the other faces. There are individuals in odd stages of undress; her gaze moves on. People whispering to each other while looking at the two men at the top of the table; her gaze moves on. A person to her left sits there, looking at her with a severe expression on her face, moving her mouth quickly, but once again, Hermione’s gaze moves on. Time might pass, or it might stand still. Some sensation is on her leg, and she watches a large, hairy hand on the top of her dress, pushing the material upwards. She finds no meaning in it, so her gaze moves on again. Beyond the people, there is no movement, so she rests her eyes there while being dimly aware of air hitting her legs and tulle gathering around her hips.

Suddenly, the air is gone, and she is covered in fabric again. Shrieks reach her ears, but the words warble together as Hermione wanders through her mind, walking down dimly lit hallways and opening the occasional door to peek inside, getting lost in rooms which seem familiar and yet strange, as if she had seen the things happening there a long, long time ago. There is commotion around her in the background of her mind, a chair clanks to the floor, and a person towers over her, quickly after accompanied by another and then a third. She looks up, inwardly annoyed at the interruption. This room had been interesting, but now the people inside it aren’t moving. She has to concentrate on them again to make them continue what they were doing before. There is no time to sufficiently focus, as she is pulled up from her position and is abruptly standing next to the people who interrupted her. There is a man with silver-blonde hair and silver eyes, a woman with wheat coloured hair and eyes the colour of a plant seedling, wearing a dark blue robe, and a broad person with a red face and thick eyebrows. Some words are exchanged, hissed with an undertone of possession, Hermione can’t quite grasp the meaning of. The third person turns even redder and then apologises to the man with the silver features, mumbling about how he hadn’t known that the Mudblood was reserved. The conversation disrupts Hermione’s concentration, and she is irritated by how much it gets in the way of continuing her current activity. Her eyes flutter shut to hone in on the room again, but an urgent grip on her upper arm makes them snap back open. She is looking at pure silver, burning into her as if it should mean something to her, but it doesn’t. There is more hissing. It sounds like being in a snake pit.

Before she can close her eyes again, she is moved, dragged along downwards to another seat at the table. She lands in the lap of a man who still looks somewhat like a boy. Again, the impression that she has seen him before, but she doesn’t have the energy to think about where she might know him from just now. She wanders further down the corridor and opens a door which hangs loosely on its hinges and opens up to a green plane with a playground. There is a girl there. She looks beyond and outside of the girl, seeing a table filled with people sitting in a room so big, a floor so dark that it looks like it should be its own world. Both the man in front of her eyes and the girl behind them have brown, curly hair. She feels lips pressing against her neck and hands roaming over her before she focuses back on the girl in her mind. She is sitting on a swing, her short legs dangling in the air as a tall man behind her pushes her. The girls’ eyes are wide with excitement, and her shrieking laughs fill the air. As Hermione watches her, her mind settles and becomes calm, like the feeling she gets after a good cup of tea. She watches the girl contentedly, who lets her head hang backwards over her neck, looking back at the man who pushed her.

“Daddy,” she calls to him, and he laughs, happiness so clear on his face, it looks like the sun itself is pouring out of him. Hermione’s heart swells, and she suddenly feels sad without knowing the reason. The door to the room squeaks on its hinges as she shuts it behind her, turning left to move further down the corridor. While walking down it, she becomes aware of her surroundings beyond her mind and glances down the table she is sitting at.

Hands are still roaming over her, and the occasional kiss can be felt on her neck. Though the hands press into her, squeezing her boobs, her hips, her legs, she cannot feel more air on her than before, her dress still in place. She looks to her right, where a woman with jet black hair, black robes, and black-red lips sits, her skin so pale, she likely has never stepped a foot outside. The woman looks at her inquiringly, and Hermione feels like she should know the meaning behind the look, but her focus is pulled back into the corridor, where she has reached the next door. This one is made of wood, painted a deep shade of red, which must once have looked happy but now is chipped in places, making water stains visible on the wood. The silver handle has spots indicating its age and sits rather loosely. As Hermione opens the door, she is greeted by the smell of fresh cookies. The warm light of a fire envelops the room, which holds a sofa, a TV, bookshelves, a comfortable-looking rug, and a Christmas tree. The fireplace is decorated with garlands, and above the door on the other side of the room hangs a mistletoe. A girl runs into the room, her hair wild and curly, her cheeks rosy and powdered with flour. She giggles as she runs, trying to lick her hands in the process, which are covered in cookie dough.

“Come here, you little thief,” calls a woman, though her voice is warped with laughter. She runs after the girl and lifts her into the air, twirling her around in a circle. The girl yelps and puts the cookie-dough and saliva-covered hands on the breasts of the woman, which are luckily protected by a red-and-white striped apron. Nostalgia rushes through Hermione, and she misses what she sees in front of her, though she isn’t sure how she can miss something that she has never seen before.

Something disturbs the scene, and the people freeze, locked in their embrace. Hermione moves to the door and closes it behind her with a soft click, shutting out the Christmas carols that had filled the air. Beyond the corridor, she is aware of someone who reaches out two hands and grabs her by the hips, pulling her over the lap of another man and into his own. The man has strong, dark hands, perfectly manicured fingernails and smells slightly of smoke. The smell is familiar. A hand strokes through her hair, and lips graze her ear, words are whispered into it, but they have no meaning. She looks down a table with people who, she is sure, when she last saw them, were less flushed and whose eyes didn’t glitter as much. Some people in black robes sit by themselves, some wrapped up in people who are naked or wearing little clothing with a check pattern on it. At the end of the table sit two people with platinum hair, one long and flowing, the other falling in short, soft-looking strands. The one with the long hair is wearing check-patterned clothes, while the other is decked in tight-fitting black clothes. Both have pale skin, which seems to merge as they entangle, appearing like two moons circling one another. As her gaze travels to them, two silver eyes are already locked on hers before hers move on, beyond them, back into the corridor.

The door before her now looks even older. A two-winged glass door, as is common for Muggle kindergartens or primary schools. It looks rusty, and the windows are dirty. The door is heavy and difficult to open as if it wants to keep her from going inside, and an ominous feeling rises in Hermione, but she presses on, too nosy now to let herself be deterred. Inside, there is a girl again, and though this is at least the thirtieth room she has entered now, this is the first time she realises that they are all the same one. How had she not noticed before? She crouches down before the little girl, who looks even younger than in the previous scene and is sitting in a small orange room, with bookshelves covering parts of the walls. Beside the girl, who has five books strewn around her and one in her lap on, what looks to be the simple version of the history of England, little cartoon knights and kings adorning the pages, there is no one else in the room. She puts a hand on the book, and the little girl looks up, an open smile on her face.

“Hi,” Hermione whispers and the girl’s smile becomes wider, turning into a small-toothed grin. “Hi,” whispers the girl.

Hermione wants to ask what the little girl’s name is, but something interrupts her again. Some sound. It sounds familiar. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to concentrate to make the girl move again, but the sound brushes against her again and again, coated with urgency. She cannot focus. The sound becomes more insistent, worry evident in it, and now she actually tries to listen. Maybe someone needs her help?

“Granger… Granger…Granger,” she hears, accompanied by a small shakes that rattle her physical body. “Granger, you need to come back now.”

The words echo around her skull, laced with panic and make the image of the girl tremble. Still, she isn’t sure what the words mean and is reluctant to help now. She was having a conversation. She grips the vision before her tighter, holding on while looking at the girl again, willing her to keep moving, but she is still frozen. Maybe if she were to ask her for her name, the girl would start moving again. Hermione wants to open her mouth, but her head is flooded with another salve of words.

“Hermione,” it rings out, making something inside her flinch and the scene before her quiver heavily. “Hermione, come on. Hermione, you need to get back, or you’ll be lost. Hermione…Hermione…Hermione.”

The last word is a yell which rips her out of the orange room and yanks her backwards through the corridor. The doors she had looked into before fly by her, becoming flashes in the dark. More and more light surrounds her as the corridor becomes more modern-looking and more lamps are attached to its walls and even the ceiling. She gets blinded by the brightness and tightly shuts her eyes again to ward it off.

“Granger. Hermione, come on.” The voice pulls her out of her mind and her memories, as she now realises, and she takes a deep gasp as if she had been submerged in water for too long. The sudden disconnection from her Occlumency or its previous heavy usage instantly has a headache gripping her head in an iron fist of pain, and she crumbles to the side before she can even open her eyes. She keeps them shut, mentally taking stock of what happened. She had occluded to forget the dinner, but had plunged too deeply into her mind too fast. She had never gone this far before, and the abruptness of her plunge had made her forget what she was looking at, that what she had been viewing were her own memories, and she was the little girl within them. Her breath shudders in and out of her, and tears stream down her face as she comprehends that if she had gone any further, she likely would have been lost in her mind. The last memory of Hermione had been her in kindergarten, looking around two years old. Hermione herself had only a very dim recollection of this moment, and another memory further would likely have been completely unknown to her. She would have merged with the girl in it and lived her life through her form. She would have been stuck in her mind for over 20 years until there would have been no more scenes to replay, ending at the moment of Voldemort’s dinner.

Panic threatens to close her throat at the realisation that she almost drowned herself, when she feels a soft hand on her cheek. “Hermione,” someone whispers, and she knows the voice. It used to mean comfort and warmth.

“Shh, you’re okay,” someone else says, and this voice, too, is familiar and connected to a time when she was happy. Briefly, she wonders whether she is still in her memories and just thought she had come up, but then she opens her eyes and the faces she used to know intimately show signs of ageing she had not been privy to.

“Blaise?” she croaks. “Theo?” They nod, and she flings her arms around them, holding them tightly to her chest. They envelop her and squeeze her just as tightly. “Oh my god,” she sobs, while they stroke her back. “I thought I would never see you again.” She takes a deep breath. “I thought you were dead,” she says the last word accusingly and pulls out of the embrace to look at them.

They look at her apologetically, guilt and heartbreak evident on their faces. “We know, lion cub,” Blaise says, sounding slightly choked, “we missed you too.”

“You gave us quite a fright there,” Theo says, running his eyes over her as if checking that she was actually okay.

“What happened?” she asks, now more soberly, trying to understand the situation. They were in a dark hallway, not unsimilar to the one in her mind, but while that one had been a deep brown, this one looked almost black.

“You must have gone too deep into your occlumency, and we couldn’t get you out. Blaise noticed when you briefly lost consciousness, and your head dropped to his shoulder. We made up an excuse, said we didn’t like voyeurism and would enjoy you in the next room before someone else could have you. We dragged you from the room to pull you out of your mind. It was clear that whispering didn’t work anymore, so we brought you here to yell at you,” Theo finishes, looking frightened as he retells what happened.

“But how did you notice?” she asks, still confused, not really understanding everything Theo said. “You weren’t sitting with me at the table.”

They exchange an uneasy look and blush before looking at her, the guilt from before even more starkly visible on their features. Blaise rubs a hand over the back of his neck, his head slumping downward. “Draco brought you to me and Theo to act as though we were `using´ you so no one else could. First, Theo had you, and when others came to request you, we said you were reserved for me.”

Draco. At the mention of his name, her heart stutters. Since when was Malfoy at the dinner? Pictures of silver eyes flash through her mind, which feel recent, but she cannot recollect where she saw them. She can’t ask about him now; she already feels too vulnerable and confused.

“But Blaise…” she stops uncertain on how to continue.

He looks up, dread twisting his features as if he already knows what she is about to say. His deep chocolate eyes heavy with grief.

She swallows the lump in her throat and pushes on. “I don’t understand… you – you tortured me,” she finally brings out.

“I-,” he stops and closes his eyes. Theo rubs his back and Hermione’s arm in support, connecting the three of them. “I know,” he says weakly. “I had to.”

“You-you had to?” she stutters uncomprehending.

“I needed a good alibi to see you. Our minds are regularly checked, and your cell has heavy detection charms. If they knew I went to you, they would want to know the reasons, and often a simple explanation is not enough to convince him.” There was no need to ask who `him´ was. Only one person would regularly make their supporters suffer through a Legilimency attack to ensure their loyalty.

“But,” tears well in her eyes as she remembers what he did, what he said to her. “You were so cruel to me. You acted like you despised me.”

Blaise looks up at her in horror. “Hermione, no. I could never. I needed to see how you were, needed to know what they were doing. I didn’t mean anything of the things I said or did. You have to believe me.”

She wants to, but it’s hard. She hasn’t seen him or Theo in over five years, and she knew that while her basic beliefs were the same, she had drastically changed in that time. The war had changed her. It must be the same for them, and who is to say that they didn’t change entirely? How can she know that they have not adopted Voldemort’s views? They must have, surely, if they have been living with him for all this time.

Theo studies her face, and hurt flashes over it as if he can read her thoughts. “Granger,” he whispers. “You have to believe us. We’re doing all we can at the moment.”

She swallows and nods. She knows them. They would never hurt her. Not voluntarily. Right? As she musters up another question through the blur of her emotions, the clicks of heeled shoes on the stone floor disrupt her, and Theo and Blaise quickly pick her up off the ground and push her against the wall.

“Sorry,” Theo mumbles before burying his face in her neck and pushing up her dress up her thigh. “Play along,” murmurs Blaise and grabs her around the hips. Neither of them actually touch any part of her skin. The heels sound closer, and Hermione looks around the dark with wide eyes, trying to make out who is coming.

Theo moans into her neck loudly while Blaise says, “Yeah, Mudblood slut, needy for it aren’t you?” and though she knows it’s just an act, she flinches at the words.

“You guys can stop. It’s just me,” says a woman behind them and though Hermione can’t see anything, she knows it’s Pansy.

Instantly, Blaise and Theo retreat, taking a large step away from her.

“We need to bring her back. You’ve been gone for too long, and others are requesting her.”

“No, please don’t,” whispers Hermione, suddenly remembering the scenes from the hall. Her friends drugged on multiple substances, acting as sex slaves for the Death Eaters. She can’t look at that again.

Theo turns around and faces her, sorrow evident on his features. “We have to, or the Dark Lord will be suspicious. I’m sorry.”

She instantly knows that he’s right, so she just lets her tears fall freely, not saying anything else. Theo wipes her cheek gently and envelops her in another hug. “It will be fine, eventually,” he whispers into her hair. “I promise.”

But he can’t promise anything. All this is just an act as much as her being used by Theo and Blaise was. None of them know what will happen, and even if they have come up with the best plan imaginable to get her out, Voldemort will still be there. It’s not his fault, though, and he is likely lying as much to himself as he is to her, so she ignores her anger at his statement and just nods against the side of his head.

“Let’s go,” Pansy’s voice cuts through the moment, and Blaise takes her gently by the arm to deliver her back to hell.

They’re almost at the door when Pansy stops in front of her and turns around, looking at Theo and Blaise. “You know what we have to do.”

Silence stretches, and the longer it goes on, the more certain Hermione is that she knows too. But they can’t really mean that, can they?

“No, please. Don’t. I promise, I will keep this away from them,” she twirls around to look at Theo and Blaise pleadingly before either of them can respond or worse, whisper the spell.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, you can’t promise that right now. Your mind is too weak at the moment; it would be much harder to build a strong barrier around this memory. We simply can’t risk it. You just have to hold on a little longer,” Blaise tries to calm her, but she is panicking. They don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t know what she did to her parents, and that now, it can never be undone.

“No!” she exclaims, trying to sound steady and reasonable. “This is dangerous. You-“

Before she can say anything else, the tip of a wand softly brushes her temple.

“Obliviate,” whispers Pansy.

Hermione’s eyes zoom out and then in again, focusing on the people before her. She is standing in a dark hall, two tall men tower over her, and she looks up to see their faces.

“Blaise? Theo?” she asks. They nod, and a cruel smirk spreads on both their faces, making them unrecognisable.

“I see, you are back with us, Mudblood,” leers Blaise while Theo’s eyes lasciviously move up and down her body. “I must say, I don’t understand why Malfoy made such a fuss about you. You’re not even a decent fuck.”

She shudders, horror creeping up her spine.

“Well, she was unconscious, but you’re right. This was highly unsatisfactory,” Theo says with a slight frown as though disappointed by her. She feels confused. Something is missing from this situation. How did she end up in the hall? Hadn’t she just been at dinner with the Death Eaters? She tries to remember what happened, but her brain hurts with the effort.

The confusion must show on her face because Blaise continues talking, “Oh, you’re wondering what we did to you?” He laughs condescendingly. “You were right,” he says while turning to Theo, “These Muggle party drugs do work a trick.”

The cold spreads around her body as she takes in the meaning of the words, and she thinks this is what the people must have felt like when drowning in the icy water surrounding the Titanic after it hit the iceberg. She cannot feel any of her limbs. They had drugged her and likely raped her. Blaise, she knew, had changed, and it had broken her heart, but Theo too? Her friends?

“What?” she chokes, her brain struggling to keep up. It hurt so much to try to remember.

“Oh, little pet, don’t you worry,” coos Theo, “we will bring you back inside, and everything will be fine.”

“No,” she chokes, images of the evening flooding her mind. This must have been before the party drug. “Not inside, please.”

Is this what she has come to? Begging her rapists not to bring her to other people because those people will be the rapists of her friends? She begins to shake and breathes raggedly.

“Maybe you should occlude if it’s so hard for you to stand it,” drawls Blaise.

Thoe lets out a sharp laugh, turning to Blaise before looking back at Hermione sceptically. “I doubt she is good enough at occlumency to manage that. An amateur like her would likely be careless in such a situation and get lost in her mind if she manages at all.”

An amateur like her? What were these people all suddenly on about, calling her stupid and inept? Did she land in an alternative reality where all her traits are perceived to be the opposite? Just when she is about to respond defiantly, she can hear voices swirl through the air; one female and in such a low whisper that she cannot make out a single word. The other a hissed whisper, male and deeply familiar. She strains to listen, picking up every couple of words.

“Why …dress …like that? Everyone ..looking at her. … torture me? … can’t protect…”

“Right,” cuts a female voice through the air and Hermione yelps with shock, adrenaline coursing through her body at the sudden sound. She twirls around and takes in the sharp features of Pansy Parkinson. Had she been watching while she got raped? Why else would she be in the hall right now?

“Let’s go.” She takes Hermione by the arm, throws a glance over her shoulder back at Theo and Blaise and opens the door to the dining room in the same manner Hermione had watched Astoria do earlier.

“We’ll be there in a minute,” says Theo, sounding like he used to sound. Soft, almost like a boy.  Pansy nods without looking back at him before strolling inside with Hermione.

They enter, and the scene is so different from what it was when she entered this room for the first time that she has difficulty merging the two versions of it in her mind. The difference is staggering. How a single event can be so sophisticated in one hour and so depraved, grotesque even, the next is mind-boggling.

People are naked, openly engaging in orgies, scattered around the room. Some plates and dishes from the dinner lay shattered on the floor, evidently having fallen from the table when it was cleared to continue the sexual exploits taking place everywhere in the room on it. Everyone looks extremely drunk; there is loud music, moaning, and laughter filling the air, attacking Hermione’s senses. She feels sick again. The only thing that is as it was when the dinner started is Voldemort, sitting at the head of the table, looking benevolently over the scene, an unsettling smile etched onto his features. Bellatrix sits next to him, also rather sober-looking, but gazes at his face with such evident hunger that Hermione’s stomach turns. Pansy guides her through the bodies, and Hermione spots the faces of Fred, Dean, and Fleur in heaps of bodies on the floor. They look barely conscious, bruises and scratches cover their bodies, even visible through the glamours that are undoubtedly still on them. 

They pass the seats she and Astoria were sitting in, but the blonde witch is nowhere to be seen. Wasn’t she tasked with keeping watch over the `Mudblood´? They round the table, passing the empty seat at the foot of it. So, Malfoy didn’t show up after all. Hermione simultaneously feels disappointed and relieved at this observation. They come to a stop further down the table. Pansy sits down and indicates to the seat next to her, which is also unoccupied. Hermione lets herself drop onto the chair and can feel eyes resting on her. As she turns to look at who is watching her, she finds the red eyes of Voldemort staring into her like lasers. Quickly, she averts her gaze, not feeling strong enough mentally at the moment to fight off a potential Legilimency attack. She turns to Pansy expectantly, waiting for some sort of explanation, but Pansy has her eyes pointed forward stoically as if waiting for time itself to speed up.

Finally, Hermione cannot wait anymore and blurts out, “Do you want to tell me what happened out there?”

“I certainly do not want to tell you anything.”

“Pansy, please.”

The other witch whips her head around so fast; her hair becomes a curtain in front of her face before falling back down.

“How dare you call me by my name, filthy Mudblood. Who do you think you are?”

After she finishes speaking, she turns her head around to see if anyone heard her, giving a slim smile to the woman across from her who is watching on curiously. Hermione freezes at the reprimand, though why the words shocked her is unclear. Some of her best friends were ready to rape and torture her, so why would Pansy Parkinson not call her a Mudblood? She’s never liked Hermione. Still, she is determined to find out something about this evening. There had been too much subliminal information scattered throughout the day to go out without any clearer idea of what was going on. Before she can say something, she notices movement in her peripheral vision and looks to her left. A man sits there, blonde, with light blue eyes and a broad chin and nose, flushed with drink and looking disgustingly like sex. His eyes are fixed on her, a look in them that reminds her of syrup. Sticky.

“Mudblood,” he purrs in a suggestive tone. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet. My name is Elof Aberg, and what is yours?”

Ah, Swedish. Likely one of the diplomats invited tonight. She looks at his outstretched hand with evident aversion, too exhausted to play along with false niceties, and his face twists cruelly.

“Have they taught you no manners at your Wizarding school?” he snarls.

“Diplomat Aberg, delighted to see you,” says Pansy politely, stretching over Hermione’s body and shaking his hand in her stead. “My apologies about the Mudblood, but we put a Silencio on her. The constant babbling about her political views really made us want to hex or avada her, but we all have to show some constraint in the name of peace, right?” Pansy laughs while winking at the Swede. What was Pansy on about? Neither had they silenced her, nor had Hermione even uttered as much as a single word about her `political views´ in the last two months. She would be dead if she had.

“Ah,” says Aberg, sounding appeased. “I understand, yes. You’re doing a delightful job of it. Well,” he pauses with a broad smile in Pansy’s direction, “that’s no bother at all. She doesn’t have to say a thing. I will just take her with me like she is. In fact, it’s better. She might be tempted to moan the name of some Muggle boy when I take her, and that would rather ruin the mood, yes?”

Hermione feels the blood drain from her face and shoots a panicked look at Pansy, who is, however, not even glancing in her direction. She won’t seriously let this man take her, will she? The thoughts run through her mind, and Hermione reluctantly understands that she most likely will. She had not said anything when Blaise and Theo had raped her, so why would she now? But to her surprise, Pansy looks apologetic and shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, diplomat, the Mudblood has been reserved for General Malfoy. An old school rivalry, you understand. He has some lessons to teach her.”

Hermione awaits the answer of the wizard with bated breath. Malfoy wasn’t even here, so she would concern herself with him if and when he actually showed up. Right now, she needs this man to back off, or she might just faint, and these people certainly are not the kind who mind if their victims are unconscious. Mr Aberg looks around and then regards Hermione with an unpleasant grin while speaking to Pansy.

“Yes, I see, but the General is not here at the moment, is he?” He looks back at Pansy with an innocent expression. “I will merely need a minute with her. I will be back before you know it, and General Malfoy can have her for the rest of the evening. Deal?”

If the situation weren’t so tense, Hermione would have laughed. Had this man really just openly confessed to `merely needing a minute´?

“Ms Parkinson is not in the business of making deals on other people’s behalf,” says a sharp voice behind Hermione, and all three of them turn around.

There stands Malfoy, his eyes sparkling with suppressed rage. His face looks even sharper than she had thought, having only seen him from further away that one time, over a month ago. His black robes form a strong contrast to his otherwise pale features. He is dangerously beautiful.

Next to him stands Astoria, a hand lying placatingly on his upper arm. Hermione’s stomach twists at the sight, and she tells herself that it’s not jealousy. She cannot be jealous over a man whom she hasn’t seen in five years.

“O-of course not, General,” stutters the Swedish wizard, “my sincere apologies.”

“I suggest you leave,” states Malfoy coldly, his eyes blazing down on the other man.

“Draco,” laughs Pansy. “There you are. No need to get so testy. I would have defended your little slave in your absence.”

“No, no, he’s right,” mumbles the diplomat while staggering up from his seat. “I should go. Pleasure to see you, General. Ladies.” He bows to Pansy and Astoria before shuffling away quickly.

Malfoy has his eyes turned away from her, and she feels the absence of his gaze as a physical thing. He looks at Pansy meaningfully, but Hermione cannot make out what he is trying to convey. Again, she feels sad. There used to be a time when she was as familiar with every expression of his face as she was with the palm of her hand, and now, when she looks at him, she barely recognises him; he seems so changed.

Hermione rises from her seat to come into his line of vision, though he is still considerably taller than she is. He even seems to have grown.

“Where do you want me, then?” she says, accepting the inevitable. She tries very hard to be brave about this, but it’s so difficult, it’s almost too much for her to bear.

A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond; he merely looks at Astoria, who yawns delicately and lays her head against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her yawn. “I’m so worn out. I think I will go to bed.”

“Of course,” says Malfoy, looking at her with something like concern in his eyes.

“You know,” she continues, “I was supposed to watch the Mudblood and bring her back to her cell, but now I feel bad, you haven’t even had time with her tonight. Do you want me to leave her here with you, and you bring her back yourself later?”

Malfoy pauses as if to think, then shakes his head, not even glancing at Hermione, though the question directly concerns her. “No, that’s fine. I will have her another time. She is not important enough to have the Dark Lord get angry with you.”

Hermione’s relieved at the words, but her heart twists, nonetheless. When did she become so irrelevant to him that he can’t even bother hating her anymore? It’s almost worse than him being cruel to her; at least that would have meant that he still knew who she was. He was acting like she meant absolutely nothing to him and never had.

“Alright,” Astoria says, rubbing her hand over Malfoy’s back as if to console him. From what, Hermione wasn’t sure.

“Come on, Mudblood. Goodnight, everyone.”

She takes Hermione by the hand and guides her away from Pansy and Malfoy through the people in the room, who have noticeably dwindled in the past thirty minutes. When they reach the door, Hermione again feels the sensation of someone looking at her, and the hairs in her neck stand up. She turns over her shoulder and looks at Voldemort, whose gaze is, however, directed away from her at another person. Before she can find out who has been staring at her, Astoria pulls her through the door, which shuts silently behind them.

They walk in silence down the corridors. Hermione is too tired and her mind too preoccupied with the images of the night to bother asking a question to which she will never get an answer. At a threshold, Astoria stops, takes out her wand and mumbles an Obscuro, taking any vision away from Hermione before continuing. Eventually, the air turns musty and cold, her stomach flips, and Hermione knows that they are back in the dungeons. She draws back her shoulders, not wanting to give the impression that the cold still affected her, had in fact become a physical enemy that crept into her joints and bones and made her immobile. She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her hunched, not even Astoria. They stop again, and she hears something being mumbled which Hermione can’t decipher before a key turn in a lock. There is a creaking sound, and the Obscuro is taken off her. Hermione obediently steps into the cell without Astoria even saying anything. She just wants something familiar, and the only thing familiar in this mansion is her cell. She is glad to be back here; it feels safe. Still, without saying anything to Hermione, Astoria conjures a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a thick wool jumper along with a fresh pair of underwear and thick socks.

“You’ll need to get changed out of your clothes,” says Astoria quietly, without looking at Hermione. She turns around and lifts her hand as if to inspect her nails. Hermione doubts she can see anything in the darkness of her cell. Astoria is used to light, dependent on it in a way that Hermione no longer is. Quickly, she takes the potions out of the dress and hides them under the straw that makes up her bed before Astoria can change her mind and take them away from her. As she lifts some of the straw, she notices the smell. It smells fresh, spreading the heavy scent of a summer day in the countryside. She is startled and wonders who bothered to change it. Either way, she is glad of it and hurries to step into the Muggle clothes Astoria gave her so she can be alone. The jeans are comfortable and would have been her size before she was put on Voldemort’s special diet. Now they hang loosely, but she doesn’t mind since she needs to sleep in them as well. The shirt and jumper are soft and smell like fresh laundry. It’s the first time she feels close to her old self since being imprisoned.

“Thank you,” she says and hands Astoria the dress, who turns around at Hermione’s word.

“Don’t mention it,” she mumbles before turning back to the cell door. Hermione thinks she will leave without another word, but then she stops shortly before closing the door. Without looking back, she says, “Hold on, Hermione.”

Before she can ask what she means by that, the door shuts, and Astoria is gone.

Hermione goes over to her straw bed, puzzled, with a plan to think about the evening, but as soon as her head hits the fresh straw, sleep pulls her under like an old friend.

It is only the next morning that she realises that there are no signs or feelings associated with sexual assault on her, and her dress had sat undisturbed on her body when Theo and Blaise had let her go in the hallway, not a strap out of place.

Chapter Text

 Draco

It was five minutes to four, but Granger would already be there, so he rushed. Almost a week had passed since their encounter on the Quidditch field, a week in which they had not exchanged a single word. Draco hurried down the hall in anticipation. The doors to the library gave way under the push of his hand, and he stepped in, scanning the room. The familiar smell of warm dust and old parchment enveloped him, and he immediately felt somewhat comforted. It reminded him of the library at the Manor, though that one was more stone than wood and usually held considerably fewer people. Students were scattered around the place, some focused on their readings, some using the library as a pretence to look as though they were studying when in reality, they were gossiping or flirting. There was no wild head of curls, no body being so obscured behind a pile of books that one could barely make out the person behind them, so he ventured further into the library, checking the pathways between the shelves. As he advanced into the room, he caught more people snogging rather than studying, but fortunately, none of them were Granger. In the second-to-last row before the restricted section, at a table next to one of the big windows, he finally found her. He was about to say something in greeting when he realised that she was not alone. Her torso was twisted away from Draco to the seat closer to the window, in which no other than Victor Krum sat, idly twirling one of Granger’s curls in his right hand while stroking her jaw with the other. Draco’s stomach twisted at the sight, and the string of his satchel got crushed between his fingers. Someone bumped into him from the side, and he got knocked sideways a little. His usually slightly bent seeker legs had been arrow-straight with the rigidity that had come over him at the sight of Krum touching Granger, making the impact seem harsher. A string of apologies followed from the Ravenclaw idiot who had bumped him, but Draco barely heard him. The sound of hasty apologies made Granger turn around, and at the sight of him, a mixture of confusion and, was that relief? crossed over her face before she raised a hand in greeting as though he wasn’t standing mere meters away from her.

“Malfoy, there you are.”

She looked far more pleased by the fact that they were working together than the last time they had met in the library. He sauntered over, breathing in deeply to get rid of the odd feeling coursing through him.

“Granger,” he said, lifting his eyes to her before letting them wander over her head. “Krum,” he nodded curtly.

“Malfoy,” came the equally curt response. He was still holding a string of Granger’s hair as though keeping her on a leash.

“Victor, I’m so sorry, but as I said, Malfoy and I are working on this project together, so you have to leave.”

Draco couldn’t see the expression she was wearing as her back was turned to him, but she didn’t sound as sincere as her words made her out to be.

Krum frowned and leaned closer towards her. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Come on, Hermy-own, you will hardly notice I’m here. I will not say a word.”

“No, sorry, there is barely any space as it is, and we will need some more books.”

“Okay,” sighed Krum, sounding resigned. “I will see you later, though?”

What were they going to do later? Blood rushed through Draco’s veins, making his limbs feel heavy, and he had the sudden urge to punch something. Maybe something Bulgarian?

“We’ll probably need quite a while, so I can’t promise anything,” said Granger, her back still turned to Draco. He wished he could see her expression.

“Alright, my little nerd,” chuckled Victor. “Tomorrow then?”

This time, he didn’t wait for Granger’s response but instead leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips before straightening and brushing his hand over her cheek one more time. It felt as though someone had stabbed something into Draco’s heart. 

“Ehm, yes, tomorrow,” responded Granger, clearing her throat.

Victor took two big strides and roughly brushed into Draco’s shoulder while passing by him.

“Sorry, mate,” he chuckled, not sounding the least bit sorry about it.

Draco didn’t say anything in response but just clenched his teeth. Hermione turned to look after Victor, her cheeks covered in a light pink from her blush. Draco grabbed his satchel even more tightly and walked to the seat Krum had just vacated.

He hadn’t even sat down properly yet when the words tumbled out of his mouth unbeckoned. “So, you and Krum. Dating, are you?”

Granger bristled slightly as she turned back to him.

“Frankly, that’s none of your business, Malfoy.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, an ironic smirk forming on his face, “By all means, I am delighted for you. Didn’t think you had in you to pull an international Quidditch star.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Nothing at all, just surprised that you would go for him.”

“I feel like we’ve had this type of conversation a million times by now, Malfoy. Don’t you get bored with it?” she snapped.

Had they had this conversation before? He couldn’t recall a conversation with her where he had been so seething with jealousy that he had lashed out towards her, but maybe he had just repressed it?

“I am not a `real witch´, a star player like Victor could not possibly be interested in a person with such dirty blood as mine, I am an annoying know-it-all and extremely boring,” she counted on her fingers. “Which one will it be this time?”

“I actually said `surprised that you would go for him´, not the other way around.”

She paused at that, narrowing her eyes at him as to figure out his meaning. “Ah, I see. So, you’re surprised that I, being unpopular as I am, would try to get someone with international acclaim, opening me up to even more scrutiny of the press?”

“That about sums it up, thank you,” Draco said in lieu of a better response. What was he supposed to say exactly? She was obviously dating Krum; nothing he could do about it.

“Predictable as always,” she said, but he imagined seeing a flash of hurt cross her eyes. He wanted to comfort her and, at the same time, hurt her in the same way that Victor’s casual kiss had just hurt him. “Anyways, great we covered that part of the conversation, let’s actually start working then, shall we?”

He leisurely indicated to the mountain of books before them with his hand, “Let’s shall.”

She turned away, facing the books. The rustling of paper sounded as she turned a page. Draco screwed his eyes shut forcefully, regret and a peculiar sort of despair coursing through him in a surge. He took a quiet breath, pushing the emotions away from him before opening his eyes and looking at Hermione.

“Yes, so, I actually found something rather interesting about the use of protective runes during the witch hunts,” he said as she turned back to look at him, her face blank.

“Come now, Draco, don’t be such a bore. It will be fun, I promise.”

“Your promises mean little to me, Nott. I don’t want to go.”

“Pansy,” Theo pointed at the witch across from him. “Tell him it will be fun.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but obediently turned to face Draco. “Just agree, Malfoy, alright? Otherwise, we will have to listen to Theo whine for the rest of the evening, and I would much rather just sit here and enjoy my tea.” 

“Hey,” whined Theo. “I don’t whine.”

A booming laugh sounded at that, accompanied by two chuckles.

“Yes, you do,” said Blaise, still recovering from his laughter. “But don’t worry, we love you either way,” he hurried to say, taking in Theo’s sulking expression.

Deciding not to let the taunts of his friends raise his hackles, Theo turned back to Draco with renewed vigour. “There will be alcohol,” he warbled, lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

“Fine,” grumbled Draco. Maybe he should get a bit drunk. At least then, he wouldn’t be stuck thinking about a certain curly-haired menace who continuously decided to misconstrue his words. “Two drinks maximum. We have transfiguration tomorrow, and that’s a fucking pain with a hangover.”

“Agreed,” nodded Blaise severely with a faraway look, seemingly recalling some specific memories.

“Yes, but,” interjected Theo, “we have first period off, allowing us to sleep in, so we can have at least three drinks.”

“We’ll see, Theo,” Pansy said, getting up from the common-room sofa and brushing her legs. “I’ll have to get ready then. Can’t let the other houses think that I usually run around in such a dishevelled state.”

Blaise snorted inelegantly, having roused himself from the flashbacks of hungover transfiguration classes. “You hardly look dishevelled, Pans. Your lipstick is as crisp as ever.” He paused, looking at her contemplatively. “Now, that I think about it, you haven’t looked dishevelled in quite some time. Want me to find you a bloke who can fix that up for you tonight?”

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him while hissing, “No, thank you, Zabini, I’ll be just fine by myself.” Her eyes darted over to Draco for a second before she quickly looked away again. “I’ll see you idiots later.”

With these words, she spun around, flung her hair over her shoulder and disappeared up the stairs to the sleeping chambers.

“Should we also get ready?” asked Theo excitedly.

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning further into the sofa cushions to show his unwillingness to get up any time soon.

“Fine, grumpy,” murmured Theo, standing up himself. “We’ll pick you up later then, hopefully in a better mood.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” mumbled Draco, closing his eyes while letting his head fall against the back of the sofa.

“At least brush your teeth, mate,” said Blaise, hitting him lightly in the shoulder as he walked by. “I won’t be seen with anyone who doesn’t exercise basic hygiene.”

“You wanted me to come,” called Draco, hearing the receding footsteps of Theo and Blaise as they made their way to the boys’ rooms.

“No, that was all Theo,” called back Blaise, a note of humour in his voice.

“Whatever,” grumbled Draco, stretching his legs out on the sofa now that his friends were gone. Maybe a little nap would solve his issues.

The Three Broomsticks was stuffy and hot, smelling of teenagers and underage drinking. Apparently, the whole school had decided to go out tonight for whatever reason. Normally, Draco would be annoyed at the smell, the noises, the warmth, but right now, he didn’t mind it all too much. Everything felt mellow, nice, and soft. Even the light from the grimy lights overhead, sometimes consisting of just a single bulb, where the owner hadn’t bothered to buy an actual lamp, seemed rather like a glow. Nice, cosy, a bit hazy, but hey, who cared about that, really? 

“Isn’t that right, Malfoy?” asked Theo next to him, bumping one of his huge limbs – Draco couldn’t see which one as everything looked like it was put into a kaleidoscope – into Draco’s side, making him almost tip over. Good thing Blaise was sitting next to him, or he would have probably landed face-first on the dirty cushion next to him. Blaise caught his near-fall with his big upper body and Draco let his head, which had somehow fallen on Blaise’s shoulder, rest there unceremoniously. Hmm, this felt nice. Like a pillow.

“You’re so soft, Zabini,” lilted Draco, closing his eyes. “Like a nice cushion.”

“Alright, I think that’s enough for you,” responded Blaise, trying to pry something from Draco’s firm grip by laying his big hand on Draco’s and tangling with it. Draco’s eyes trailed down to look at what he was holding on to. Hey, there was a Butterbeer in his hand. He liked Butterbeer. Was Blaise trying to steal the beer from him?

“Greedy bastard,” he brought out, despite his tongue sitting sort of heavy in his mouth. “Buy your own drink, you have money enough.” He lifted the glass to his mouth and took a hearty sip, smacking his lips before going back for another swig.

“Good,” was the eloquent statement he made, directing it directly at his beverage of choice for the evening. Sadly, the establishment had run out of firewhisky, as Theo had told him some time ago after he had sent him to get another round of shots. But Butterbeer would do just fine for now. He went to take another sip, ignoring the voices of his friends around him, saying something about tenth drink and enough and get him to bed. Greedily, he opened his lips, awaiting the sweet tanginess of the Butterbeer, but nothing came. After he kept his mouth ajar for a couple more seconds, a single sad drop fell onto his tongue, doing practically nothing to quench his thirst. Frowning, he stared into his empty glass. He could have sworn it was full not ten minutes ago. Planning to inspect the bottom for holes, he lifted up the pint, almost knocking it in his face as he suddenly got swayed forward by an unknown force. Theo’s hand took the glass off him and set it firmly on the table.

“Getting another round,” Draco slurred while struggling to get up. “Who wants something?”

He tried to focus on his friends, but his vision made it a bit difficult. It took twenty more seconds before the images became one, and he could clearly take in their worried expressions. They were rightfully worried. What if they ran out of beer in the time it took them to decide?

“Hey,” he looked around in confusion as he noticed that they were the only ones beside him at the table. “Where’s Pans?”

Theo sighed next to him, and Blaise, looking suspiciously sober, said, “She went home an hour ago, Draco. Don’t you think we should leave?”

“Don’t tell me about leaving now. I saw you trying to steal my Butterbeer, but I will get you one now, don’t worry,” he slurred, feeling rather generous.

Theo was in his way and didn’t really seem to make space, so he lifted one leg in an attempt to climb over him. However, gravity or whatever it was, was evidently working against him. He stumbled and almost landed in Blaise’s lap before feeling two warm hands at his back, pressing into him. He grinned and turned around, losing his balance again slightly, but the grip around his waist kept him upright. “I knew you had a thing for me, Zabini, but as long as feelings are not reciprocated, one should not try to grope the other person. That’s sexual harassment. I’ll let it slide, though, because you’re a good friend to me.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and took his hands off his back. “I’m not into men, Draco.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered, lifting a finger to the proximity of his mouth. “You can tell me.” He turned around fully and leaned down to Blaise, swaying back and forth in an attempt to keep relatively upright.

Blaise just rolled his eyes at him. Bit rude, actually, considering Draco had given him a way to open up. That was fine, though; he could tell him another time. First, beer, then confessions. Blaise seemed too sober, so maybe he was shy about it? Draco could fix that for him. He straightened his back again, patting Blaise on the cheek in encouragement, who flinched and closed his eyes at his loving pats as though they were slaps rather than pats. He was ungrateful today, Zabini was. “I’ll get you a drink and then you can tell me.”

Blaise stood up, opening up space for Draco to sliver past quickly. So maybe he was not as rude today. At least he didn’t make him climb over him as Nott did. Bodies and sound enveloped him, and Draco strode – or rather stumbled - towards the bar with determination. Someone called his name; the voice sounded like Zabini’s, but it was fine, he would be back in a flash and with a drink. That would lighten his spirits, surely. He was almost at the bar when something caught his eye. In the haze, there was something, something whipping up and down. He stopped abruptly, narrowing his eyes and willing his vision to focus.

Brown curls, shimmering slightly golden in the light from the lamps above, were bouncing around wildly as the girl beneath them was engaged in a seemingly heated debate with another witch. With a boom, the evening came crashing down on Draco, as he realised that he was actually not in a silly, jolly mood, but that he had been sulking before he got here because of the witch he was now facing. Her face was flushed, whether with alcohol, the excitement of the argument she was ostensibly wrapped up in, or the heat of the Three Broomsticks, which suddenly became too much for Draco, he wasn’t sure. The hair on her head had expanded, making it seem almost sentient as it twirled around the faces of her friends, who appeared to fight it off of them with increasing annoyance. Her eyes were shining with excitement and mirth, and dimples were showing in her face as a laugh broke out of her. She threw her head back, exposing her neck and her pink palate surrounded by pearly teeth. She was beautiful. Draco swallowed and made his way over there, feeling a sudden urge to talk to her.

The rest of their session in the library had been fine; they had gotten a lot done, actually, but just because she hadn’t really spoken to him and only hummed and nodded if he made a suggestion or read something interesting from a book to her. So actually, it had not been fine. He felt like he should apologise. For what, he didn’t remember, but seeing her made him sad for her, even though she seemed good now. Maybe if she were in a good mood, she would like to talk to him? As he came closer, the rest of the table, which had previously been obscured somewhat by the other patriots in the pub, came into view. Luna Lovegood was sitting across from Hermione, evidently the witch with whom Granger had been in a debate. Next to her were Potter and Longbottom, while the Weasel was facing him, sitting next to Hermione. His brain had barely caught up, wondering if they were back to being more than friends, when he realised that Krum sat on her other side. He almost bumped the table as he stepped closer, trying to see whether they were touching anywhere. And indeed, Krum’s arm was curled possessively around her waist, the prick.

He staggered slightly, taking the last step towards the group surrounding the table. A sneer spread over his face as his eyes jumped from Granger to Krum and back. “Well, well, if it isn’t the hottest couple at Hogwarts,” he said menacingly, trying his best to enunciate properly.

Several heads swivelled around, looking up at him, but he only had eyes for Granger, whose laughter had suddenly died, replaced by a fire in her eyes as she looked back at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” asked Potter, as always assuming that everything was about him.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Potter,” spat Draco, letting his eyes trail over his childhood nemesis briefly before finding Granger again. Merlin, she really looked so beautiful even when she seemed like she wanted to strangle him. Would be merciful of her, really. Then at least, she would have to touch him. He could live with being strangled by her.

He leaned closer to her, propping up his hands on the back of Longbottom’s and Potter’s chairs to support himself and stop swaying on the spot. She was dancing in his vision, and it was hard to concentrate with all the lights around her, catching her in the most entrancing ways, but it was worth it. “How long have you two been going steady then?” he continued, since his previous statement hadn’t really given him any information.

“That’s hardly any of your business,” the Weasel said while Lovegood murmured something below him, which he could hardly make out and also didn’t really care about hearing.

He raised one of his arms in surrender, throwing him slightly off balance. “Just a friendly inquiry is all, I’m sure everyone is eager to learn about the chosen lover of the golden girl.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” said Krum, rising from his seat.

A smug grin spread over Draco’s face as he watched his arm leave Granger’s side. Good, he wasn’t touching her anymore. His eyes narrowed as Granger’s hand curled around Krum’s wrist in an attempt to tug him down. “Stop it, Victor. He’s not worth it.”

Krum was still facing him, towering over him with his big, built, a bit too broad for a seeker, really. “I said. Fuck. Off.”

Draco tutted, not the least scared of the Bulgarian. “Couldn’t find a slag in your own country to shag?”

Instantly, he regretted what he said as Hermione might misunderstand and think that he thought her a slag, but he just kept going, hoping it would clear up later, when he told her about his true feelings for her. Surely, she wouldn’t be mad at him then. But first, he had to get rid of Krum.

“How dare you?”

“You fucking prick!”

“Oh, I’m gonna punch him.”

“Arsehole!”

Multiple voices intermingled, and it suddenly got crowded as three more wizards rose from their seats, circling Draco and making it more difficult to take in Granger. He pushed the one right in front of him back down into his seat, so he could see her again, but staggered with the motion and almost fell into the table.

A rough hand pulled on his shirt and dragged him backwards. Draco, on instinct, swung his fist in the face of the offender, connecting harshly with a jaw, resulting in a cracking sound and pain shooting through his hand.

“What the Fuck, Draco?” yelled someone. Theo?

“Sorry, lads, he has had a tad too much tonight,” said a voice that sounded like Zabini’s, but it was a bit garbled as though there was liquid in his mouth.

Draco’s feet stumbled as he got pulled back further, quickly losing sight of the table. He made one last attempt to look for Granger. Her eyes locked on his, an expression of such severe disdain written on it, that Draco felt like he was going to vomit.

“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, won’t happen again,” said Theo to the table before turning around and following Draco.

Seconds later, the cold night air assaulted him, and he felt better for approximately three seconds before puking violently onto the gravel road.

“By Morgana’s tits,” sighed Theo behind him, patting him hesitantly on the back.

The moment he was done vomiting, Zabini was in his face. “Malfoy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Obviously, he wasn’t,” responded Theo drily.

“No, really,” Blaise said, holding up a hand towards Theo as though to stop him from interrupting before grabbing Draco harshly by his lapels. “What were you thinking, mate? You don’t even know Krum personally, and the first thing you do is try to get into a fistfight with him? A professional athlete? Why?” Blaise sounded furious and completely dumbfounded.

Draco didn’t really listen to him; he could only think about the look of loathing on Granger’s face as he caught her eye and Krum’s arm around her waist, his hands in her hair, and his lips on hers.

“Why is she with him?” he slurred, a whiny undertone creeping into his voice. “He doesn’t deserve her in the slightest.”

Blaise suddenly let go of him, and he almost fell face forward into him.

“Oh.”

“Wait, who are we talking about?”

“Her hair, have you seen her hair?” Draco sighed against Blaise, leaning onto him now. “And her eyes, there is such fire in them.” He took a fortifying breath, recalling that she was taken. “Why did she choose him?”

“I can’t tell you, Draco,” Blaise responded, slowly stroking his back. “It’s going to be fine, though. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Hey, fellas, can someone please fill me in here? I haven’t the slightest what or who we’re talking about.”

“I think I’m in love with her,” slurred Draco, his voice laced with despair as he closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to spill over.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay, Draco.”

“Seriously, what in the hell is going on?”

“Draco is in love with Hermione Granger,” Blaise stated soberly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and for Draco it was.

“Ah,” breathed Theo, sounding slightly stunned before clearing his throat. “Of course he is. Surprised the bullying didn’t tip me off.” 

As another wave of nausea came over Draco and he leaned sideways to empty the rest of his stomach, he missed the worried and disbelieving looks the two wizards who held him upright shared.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione has been dwelling on the night of Voldemort’s dinner for the past six days and nights. Since then, she’s taken another one of her Nutritionis and can feel herself gradually filling out again, her body recovering from the lack of food and water. She feels constantly full, stuffed even, and hates the sensation, but it’s better than feeling starved, better than feeling as if her own body was eating her up from the inside out, so she is glad. Since the dinner, she’s been left alone; no one has come to take her out of her cell to torture her, no one has come to bring her food and water. She wonders if she would already be dead if it weren’t for the healer’s potions, which raises the question of what the point in keeping her a prisoner had been all this time. Naturally, she’s relieved that she hasn’t been subjected to further torture, but it’s also leaving her to sit with her own thoughts. She’s beginning to fear she might go insane with it. So, she spends day and night reviewing her memories, trying to recall exactly what happened, but the more she tries, the more details seem to slip away.

Focusing on small moments to understand their significance feels like a drill boring into her brain and gives her such severe headaches that it feels as though her skull will explode. Her body is fighting against her, against her finding out some of the things that have happened. Is it because what she experienced was so traumatic that her body wants to shield her from it? She read about this in Muggle psychology books once. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t she have completely forgotten about it, not wanting to know more? The opposite is true, leaving her more confused than ever. Especially the last hour of the evening is an onslaught of question marks Hermione last felt the likes of which when they had been hunting the horcruxes, and everything could have been a hint or, on the other hand, meant nothing at all. Then, as well, she’d felt as she does now, like she’s missing a vital piece of the puzzle, that’s right in front of her, but which she is too blind to see.

She huffs a frustrated breath as she revisits her conversation with Blaise and Theo. Something hadn’t seemed right, and it wasn’t just the fact that two of her best friends had raped her, but she couldn’t find any evidence of this afterwards. It was something else, something in their looks, but she didn’t know what. She recalls that they had looked at her with disgust and as if she were something to be used, which had made her feel so very cold and utterly alone. But there was something more to their behaviour – was it when they looked at was it something she noticed when they had looked at each other? She curses as her mind struggles to pinpoint the details. She simply doesn’t know. Pansy too. Where had she come from? The witch had suddenly appeared behind her, yet despite knowing how little Pansy liked her, she couldn’t imagine her being spiteful enough to watch her being raped by her friends. Theo and Blaise had been nothing like they had been in school during that night, so something must have changed them, changed something intrinsic about them.

But Pansy? She had seemed largely the same, somewhat harsher and more inclined to curse at Hermione, but otherwise unchanged. The relationship between the three of them seemed to be the same as well, and Hermione, for all of Pansy’s faults, couldn’t see her watching on as her friends changed so drastically. She had always called them out if she felt their actions were not following her moral compass or were simply stupid. Would the war have altered that?

Then there is the whole matter of her interaction with Malfoy. No, not just Malfoy but Astoria too. Malfoy hadn’t even been able to look at Hermione, but something about this thought felt incorrect. She feels as if he had looked at her, yet she can’t recall a single moment when he had done so. Was her mind so muddled that she was mixing up their past with the present, making wishful thinking appear real in a desperate attempt to create familiarity? On the other hand, he had appeared just in time to rescue her from Aberg, but was his appearance even meant to rescue her? He also had supposedly `reserved´ her but hadn’t looked at her, not to mention touch her once the entire night. Or maybe he had touched her, and she simply couldn’t remember, but that was unfathomable. There was no world in which she would not remember when he touched her. So maybe he had just reserved her so Astoria could keep watch over her more easily?

No, that also seemed unlikely. But what was the logical solution here? Still, he seemed oddly protective of Astoria, even tender towards her. Were they together? Were they in love? If so, had he told her about Hermione and himself? She couldn’t imagine he had, seeing as such a history would likely have cost him his rank within Voldemort’s circle. Likewise, she doubted Astoria would have treated her so nicely as she had if she knew. But then again, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise and all knew about the past, and she couldn’t imagine none of them had never mentioning it to her over the course of the years. She had also been with them at school, so she must have heard something, right? So maybe she acted this nicely, a relative term, but true given the circumstances, because she pitied Hermione? For her status, but also for being discarded by Malfoy.

Because that was what had happened to her. He had discarded her, abandoned her in a moment when she had been at her weakest, and now, wouldn’t even acknowledge her when standing directly in front of her, basically shoving his displeasure with her into her face. It was fine, though that he was ignoring her; it wasn’t important, she decided. Because, though she had briefly felt like his ignoring her was worse than being tortured by him, she knows it’s not true. In the moment he began torturing her, he would be just another Death Eater after all. She knows that there would be more torture anyway, and soon, it would make her break, so any person not doing it to her was one person less to potentially make her fail her mission. If it was him or another, it didn’t matter, so he was just that now. Another person.

She decided that she would get over him now. Not in the way she had told herself she was over him in the last years, but properly. This had been the closure she had needed all along. Seeing him be a Death Eater, enjoying it, climbing rank, gaining status. He was no longer the man she once knew because that man had only been a boy, and he obviously wasn’t that anymore. What she had once told him, in the library, about forgiveness, not needing to forgive, it no longer held true. This time, he had chosen it. Had chosen it above her. So, she decided, she would do the same to him as he had to her. Forget him and make him a thing of the past, she no longer even recognised. She could do it because she had to. So far, her mind hadn’t let her down, and she wouldn’t allow it to start now. So, with all her might, she concentrates on her occlumency and pushes Malfoy so far back into her mind that the memories feel like things that never happened. Stories that somebody told her but that had no impact on her life, didn’t concern her in the slightest. Seeing him would likely trigger something in her which would make them reemerge, but once again, practice would make perfect, and eventually, she would do what she always did. She would excel. Someday, she would not even notice when he stepped into a room.

Lastly, there were her friends, her fellow Order members. Hermione tried hard not to think about them, feeling like she was going to panic anytime an image flashed through her mind of the situation they had been put in. For all that Hermione had suffered in the last weeks, it felt like nothing in comparison to what her friends had had to go through. Even if they made it out alive of this hellhole, which felt increasingly unlikely as time went on, Hermione doubted they could ever recover from what they had experienced. She briefly wondered why she was the one who had been spared, sitting at the dinner table instead of being paraded in a court jester costume as a prostitute, but then she had recalled Voldemort’s words and had realised that he wanted them to resent her for getting away with her status. Instead of being made an example in front of the Death Eaters as could have been expected, he flipped the coin and made her look elegant, sophisticated even, sitting amongst their enemies in fine clothes, eating and drinking their food seemingly without a care in the world while her friends, people who were standing up for her and those like her, were tortured, raped, degraded. They would never forgive her for this, she felt. And why should they?

She can’t imagine living through such an experience, and she’s not even in a committed relationship. While she was violated, yes, she did not initiate any of it. It had been done to her, and she had been passive at best. She fears the moment Ginny, Neville, Fred, and Fleur wake up, recalling that they had thrown themselves at Death Eaters, not only depraving themselves but betraying their partners in the process. She doubts that any thought that it wasn’t their fault, that they had been drugged, basically forced, would be enough to convince them of their innocence. Hermione feels sick on their behalf, but then again, she feels like she’s felt sick for the past months, every day bringing another horror that she can barely stomach.

She had thought that the war had hardened her, but apparently, she had been mistaken. The only hope she has, the only thing she can think about to calm her mind, even if it’s a lie, is that they might not remember. She couldn’t remember large chunks of the evening, so what was to say that they would? She could not even remember being in close proximity to Blaise and Theo, meaning her brain had to have shut down considerably before the drug had entered her bloodstream. So, with any luck, based on her own experience, anything from that night might also be wiped from the brains of her friends. The hope was there, but she also knows Voldemort. It was highly doubtful that he would allow them to forget when the whole evening had likely been orchestrated just for them to remember. Otherwise, what would have been the point in doing all of this? She was already surprised that he would let her forget most of it, which brought her to the next piece of the puzzle that was missing.

Why? Why would he bring her to this grand dinner, let her sit next to Death Eaters who could insult, torture, and rape her, have her watch on as her friends received the same treatment, and then let her forget the majority of it? Was it even on purpose, or had someone else allowed her to forget? Was it simply her brain protecting itself, or had it been done by another person? Had she been obliviated? The thought made her shudder in fear. If that evening had been erased, what else had been destroyed in the process? She doesn’t feel like there are any big gaps in her memories, but maybe they erased memories so far back that she would only notice if she went to look for them, which could become quite dangerous. Still, not having them there would likely impact her mind sooner rather than later. So yes, maybe something important had happened, maybe she had figured something out, and Voldemort had noticed, so he himself had made her forget in order to keep her from exposing him. But that too was unlikely. Voldemort seemed like the type of person who was a strategic genius up until the point where it came to his own failings.

Even if she had overheard some crucial information, he was likely too cocky, too conceited and overconfident to even consider that she would eventually be able to break out and get back to the Order to pass on the information. While he used her kind to pose as a threat to the whole Wizarding world, it was very unlikely that he actually regarded her as a threat to him. He thought, of this she is sure, that the mansion he had built was almost impenetrable, and more importantly, that he could never really be bested. Unfortunately, the confidence was likely not even exaggerated. The rune blocking way to the banquet hall alone was such a severe security measure that she could not imagine what else he had conjured around the premises to keep intruders away. Anti-apparition wards most certainly, but likely also blood magic, other runes, protective wards, and more. Such measures took time to install, which made the likelihood that this had been their actual headquarters instead of the location they had been given by their `inside man´very high. This, however, comes as no surprise. Blaise and even Voldemort had explicitly said that the mission they had gone on had been a trap. That was an outrageous thought considering the security measures that had surrounded the other location as well.

She also wishes she knew who the inside man was, who had given them the location for the headquarters of the Death Eaters. Likely, the Order no longer took any hints from them, no longer trusting their advice or the fact that they were actually working for them, but then again, she couldn’t be sure. The man or woman passing on the information was probably highly persuasive. Otherwise, the Order would never have trusted them in the first place. In all likelihood, a Slytherin, but so were most of the monsters here, so that was no criterion to narrow down her search. Even if the information is useless to her now, she just wants to know for herself, so she can look at them and despise them. They had likely laughed behind her back about her and the Order, pointing at her with his or her friends and saying, `Can you believe the Order could be so gullible? Bunch of fools, they are.´ Voldemort had mentioned that Malfoy was responsible for planning the trap, but she doesn’t believe that he is indeed the inside man. There are lines not even he would cross. At least that is what she hopes.

Back she is to Malfoy and thinking about him, which leads her to Theo and Blaise, bringing her to her friends being raped, which leads her to Voldemort, triggering thoughts on the war at large, which leads her to death, and what it’s worth dying for, more importantly, what it’s worth staying alive for. Around and around her thoughts go, circling until she feels dizzy from it.

Then there is the fact of her clean cell, which is a minute detail but leaves her wondering. Not only had the straw been changed, but the entire cell was cleaner than she had ever seen it; cleaner even than when she first arrived. The floor and the walls spotless without moss or dirt. It also inexplicably felt warmer, but this could just be her imagination. Of course, cleaning her cell would only need a swish with a wand, but still, who would come and do this for her? It could not really be one of the guards because they were on constant rotation, none of them knew her, thus none of them cared for her either. On the other hand, it had to have been one of them, seeing as there really was no other option. Maybe one of them was secretly not so bad, had been pushed into this world, but didn’t actually believe its doctrines.

She would certainly do it for the prisoners if she were in the shoes of a guard, even if it meant risking her own life, but finding even an ounce of decency here was something almost unimaginable. It doesn’t matter in the end because, since being on Nutritionis, she has started her workout regimen again. Her clothes, especially her underwear, reek of old sweat and grime. It’s disgusting, but better than being weak. The thoughts about the clothes lead her back to Astoria. She doubts that the witch had been permitted to give her the Nutritionis; otherwise, they would not have had to do it in such secrecy. But what was her gain from it? They never used to talk in school, and she barely knows her. And while cleaning a cell might be excused by a guard by mentioning the smell or a general benefit to themselves instead of her, giving her potions to sustain her longer, make her stronger, could certainly not be justified in the eyes of Voldemort if he ever found out about it. It was a considerable risk, and it did. Not. Make. Any. Sense.

God, she’s so frustrated. She feels like her brain is letting her down, but it really doesn’t have much to work with here. What would really calm her would be a good book, but she doubts that that would help her solve all these questions. There were limits to even the best of tools.

When she thinks for too long, the thoughts become like water in her brain, the headache making them slosh around in it without any form or meaning. Still, she continues, hoping, looking, praying for an answer. She hasn’t prayed since she was a child.

Chapter Text

Draco

When Draco’s eyes opened the following morning, he groaned and instantly shut them again to shield himself from the blinding light that had a headache pound through his skull.

“Morning sunshine,” sing-songed Theo, who was sounding oddly close. The smell of coffee wafted around Draco, and he felt like puking.

“Gaah,” he made, turning around on the bed, burying his face in the pillow. “What’s that smell?”

“I brought you coffee to get you up and going,” said Theo, a pout practically audible in his voice.

“I hate coffee, you know this,” grumbled Draco.

“It was a nice gesture, you prat.”

The arm lying over Draco’s eyes was pulled away, and even with his lids closed, the brightness stung him.

“Say thank you and then get dressed. We have transfiguration in ten.”

“Tell them I’m sick,” moaned Draco. He felt sick.

“You’re not sick, just hungover.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” challenged Draco, recalling Theo’s persuasive work from the night before. He didn’t recall much from the Three Broomsticks itself, so Theo had probably drugged him.

“Not mine, love. I told you to have three drinks, not ten.”

At the mention of the number of drinks he had allegedly consumed, Draco groaned again, and a wave of nausea hit him, which he diligently tried to ignore. Ten drinks? He must have been barely conscious.

“Anyways, I can tell them you’re sick, but then you’ll be dragged to Madame Pomfrey, who will immediately know that you just had a drop too much. Or rather a gallon.” 

Fuck, he would get detention for that.

Draco struggled to get up, but none of his limbs were actually moving. Exhausted, he closed his eyes again.

“So, either you get ready now or face Pomfrey and later Snape in detention. I have a little something for you if you open your eyes again,” Theo tried to lure him.

“I don’t want your coffee,” mumbled Draco, still struggling to establish control over his body.

“It’s much better than that.”

The distinct smell of hangover potion filled Draco’s nostrils, and he gagged but stretched his hand out, nonetheless.

“Potion first, please,” he said, his eyes still shut.

“Fine,” huffed Theo, placing the vial in Draco’s hand. “You need to hurry, though; no time for your usual antics.”

Draco swallowed the disgusting potion and instantly felt better. His torso shot off the bed, and his eyes snapped open. He narrowed them at Theo while standing up. “Antics?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” said Theo, gesturing at Draco’s hair.

“That’s hardly antics,” scoffed Draco, taking his uniform out of his chest and pulling on a new pair of boxers. “Not everyone wants to walk around looking like a mop.”

He looked meaningfully at Theo’s own hair, who merely smirked in response.

“Ah, but I’ve heard you quite like the look, don’t you?”

Draco was caught so off guard, he stumbled, one leg in one of his trouser legs, the other outside of it and almost fell into his chest of drawers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, nothing at all. Hurry now, we have to be there in three minutes. If you’re not ready in one, I’m leaving without you.”

Draco shook his head and quickly dressed the rest of the way. He cast a scourgify over himself and a dens percutientium, cleaning his teeth, before grabbing his satchel and rushing with Theo out of the common room and to class.

The day dragged on, and despite the hangover potion, Draco could feel a tension headache creeping up on him. In class, he was barely paying attention, instead preoccupied with figuring out what had happened the evening before. He only remembered the first part of it, and that had been fine. He had been a bit grumpy at the start, but after his fifth drink became considerably looser. After the eighth, his memories started to become a bit blurry. Now, he was sitting here, not recalling how he had gotten to bed the night before. He couldn’t remember ever getting this drunk before, and that on a school night. Merlin, he was lucky his mother wasn’t here. Or worse, his father.  

Finally, while sitting next to Blaise in DADA, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He leaned over to Blaise and whispered, “So, what actually happened yesterday?”

His friend gave him a cautious, slightly incredulous look. “You really don’t remember?”

Draco’s cheeks heated slightly, embarrassed to have to ask for his own memories back, but here he was. He simply shook his head, not wanting to directly say so.

“Well,” Blaise whispered, a distinctly uncomfortable expression etched on his face. He was looking away from Draco, staring at a score in the table. Gods, this must be really fucking humiliating if Blaise was making such a big deal out of it.

“You were already pretty drunk, and Theo and I had tried to get you to go home for almost an hour when you went to get another round for all of us.” Draco flinched, embarrassed as he imagined himself ignoring Theo’s and Blaise’s prompts to leave and instead trying to get even more drinks into his alcohol-soaked body.

“I tried to stop you and called after you when you wanted to go to the bar, but the crowd was so thick yesterday, and for some reason, you just slivered past everyone while I had to fight my way through. When I got there, you were standing in front of Potter’s table, this close to getting into a fist fight with Krum, Weasley, Longbottom, and Potter at once. Unfortunately, I missed what you said that made them react that way, but they were all furious. I didn’t even know Longbottom could look this mad. We dragged you away from there. You punched me in the process, by the way. Thanks for that.” Blaise smiled at him mockingly and rubbed his jaw as if it were still hurting.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry,” said Draco, flinching again. Merlin, what had gotten into him?

“Nah, it’s fine. Pomfrey gave me some ointment for it, which smells like cinnamon, so nothing to complain about. I was just pulling your leg.”

Draco nodded, distractedly, wanting him to get to the end of the night quickly so he could forget it all ever happened. On purpose this time.

“When we got you outside, you were quite out of it. I was trying to figure out why you wanted to fight Krum.”

Draco had a pretty good idea why, but was now busy staring at the score that had previously held Blaise’s attention in order not to have to look at his friend. Blaise had stopped speaking, and after a while, Draco could feel his eyes on him. He looked up and found Blaise looking at him with an oddly soft expression. The look scared him, though Draco couldn’t say why.

“Why didn’t you tell us that you were in love with Granger?”

Draco froze and looked at Blaise disbelievingly. Had he said this to her? Was this why they had wanted to fight him? Maybe she had said something back and he wouldn’t accept it, making her friends and her – probably boyfriend – jump to her defence? Could he be so dense as to tell her while people he barely knew were present, witnessing it? His eyes found Blaise again, who still looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Still now, despite having seen how careful Blaise was with him, he couldn’t help but expect him to laugh at Draco. Being in love with a girl he had bullied for three years, had he lost his mind? Who did he even think he was to deserve her? But though he knew he didn’t deserve her, he still felt riddled with guilt for even allowing himself to have feelings for her.

“I don’t think I even knew myself,” he mumbled, because it was true. He had not actually admitted that the feelings had become such a big part of him, all-encompassing, really, but hearing the words from Blaise, he knew that it was true. He was in love with her. He loved Hermione Granger.  

The rest of the day and Friday passed as in a daze for him. He went to class but tried to stay out of the common spaces in the castle where he could stumble across Hermione. He already dreaded seeing her in class on Tuesday again. She would likely ignore him, but he would have to talk to her on Thursday at the latest when they met in the library. Maybe until then, he could find a good way of apologising for something he actually had no recollection of.

He spent the weekend inside, not even accompanying Blaise when he asked him to go flying with him. He just sat in the common room studying, or in his bed, the curtains drawn, reading novels or coursework.

He took his meals in the common room too, having Theo and Blaise bring him something from the Great Hall and sitting with them by the fire while he had his after-dinner dinner. Neither of them said much, but he knew that they were waiting for him to speak. He just didn’t know what to actually say to them. Like anyone else who had a crush, he had wanted to talk about it with them before, but like anyone else who was in love, he was protective of it now. His love was a vulnerability that he could not even bring himself to share with his best friends, even though they already knew about it. So, he continued to say nothing, and the dinners passed in silence.

Since the night at the Three Broomsticks, he also hadn’t seen Pansy again, even though they shared a common room, and not seeing her should have been rather difficult to manage, but the witch was nowhere to be seen. When he asked Blaise about it, he had simply shrugged and turned to Theo, who gave Draco a thin-lipped smile but didn’t say anything else on the matter. Draco thought he knew what that meant, but didn’t want to be presumptuous. He also didn’t want his suspicions to be true. Ever since seeing Granger with Krum, he knew what it was like not to be wanted, and he felt even worse now for ever having made Pansy feel that way. He could understand her now, and he never had wanted to understand that. He also realised how big of a hypocrite he had been, and if she was mad at him, he couldn’t even blame her. Because now, it no longer held true that he didn’t want to date anyone. He wanted to date more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, it just still wasn’t her. So, in the end, she had been right, and he had been wrong, and wished with all his being that it wasn’t so.

As Monday rolled around, Draco was so covered in self-pity and dread that he was sure people must be able to smell it on him. He trotted through the halls, following his friends, trying his best to improve his mood so that they wouldn’t become too annoyed with him. If any of them acted like he was right now, he wasn’t sure he would be so kind. So, he tried to pull himself together, have conversations, and crack a joke every now and then. All the while, he was thinking about how he could best manage to start a conversation with Hermione. How could he make it clear that he would never, ever want to insult or hurt her again, without making a fool of himself and basically hurtling his feelings - which were no doubt unwelcome – into her face like a blabbering idiot.

Tuesday came, and he woke with a pit in his stomach, nervous energy coursing through him with the knowledge that he would have to see her today. First period was a horror; he couldn’t concentrate on a word that was being said. He wasn’t even able to still his nerves when Theo finally shot him an annoyed glare and asked him if he could stop his fidgeting in this lifetime or if he was waiting for Theo to die, as death was obviously the only place where he could expect some peace. Draco tried to joke that he could join their good friend Professor Binns in the afterlife, but it didn’t really land. Theo went back to his notes and Draco back to his fidgeting. If he kept this up, Granger would be at fault for his failing his end-of-the-year exams. Brilliant.

Without a single thing mentioned in class stuck in his brain, he made his way to second period like a man about to meet his untimely death. His feet dragged over the floor, and he hung his head. Blaise appeared next to him, linking his arm through Draco’s elbow and beamed at him.

“Excited for class?” he asked, and Draco had to do his very best not to let out an unbelieving guffaw.

“Surely not,” he responded lowly.

“Well, I think it will be fun.”

Draco looked at Blaise sceptically, “You hate this class, Zabini. Hate it. Who are you trying to fool?”

Blaise just shrugged and grinned wider yet, even having the nerve to wink at Draco. “Can’t a wizard be in a good mood?”

That was suspicious. It was still quite early for Blaise to go prancing around like this. Usually, he only really became himself after lunch or with five coffees in his system.

“Are you on drugs?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at him and looking him up and down.

Blaise glared back defensively and pulled his arm away. “Don’t be an idiot, Malfoy. I’m just in a good mood, okay? Don’t ruin it.”

“Alright, okay,” said Draco, forcefully pulling Blaise’s arm back between his. “Any special occasion?” he asked distractedly.

His thoughts were still with Hermione, but if Blaise had anything good to share, he wouldn’t mind hearing it. Anything to distract him from the pounding beat of his heart in his chest would be welcome right now. They continued walking down the corridor until they reached the class, Draco so lost in his thoughts and immediately sitting anxiously down, staring at the door, waiting for Hermione to appear, that he didn’t even notice that Blaise never answered his question. 

Hermione rushed in two minutes before class started, her eyes shining, her hair in wild disarray, her uniform sitting not quite right. Draco squinted when she sat down, looking more closely. Her lips were red and puffy; she looked properly snogged. At least he hoped that it was simply that and not more. It was only the morning after all, and she was Granger. Surely, she wouldn’t this early in the day…would she? Resignation rose in him, and he wondered why he even bothered. What would really be gained from his apologising to her? She didn’t need his apology, probably didn’t even want it. She had a boyfriend, and she had the Weasel if she got bored with Krum, though the ginger chap had recently been seen with more and more girls who weren’t Granger, according to rumours, many of whom Draco had…well. At least, the Weasel came after him and not the other way around.

So really, what was the point in apologising except to make himself feel better? Was it probably even selfish to apologise to her? He shook his head. She was a Gryffindor; they basically got off on apologies. He was just being cowardly and scared of what she would say. He knew that she wouldn’t say what he wanted her to say, so he tried to rationalise not doing it for himself. But he would do it. He just had to find a good way.

In the afternoon, he wrote a letter to the Manor.

Thursday morning, he woke groggily. He had only just drifted off a few hours ago. The beating of his heart had kept him up, his thoughts running away from him and dragging him along like a bolted horse would a three-wheeled wagon. He felt rumpled, and his eyes stung. He lifted his legs out of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold stone of the dungeon floor, pushing enough of a shock into his body to snap him fully awake. He buried his head in his hands, propping his arms on his knees and groaned before standing up to take a shower. Of course, he was being quite dramatic; he knew this. There was nothing between Granger and him, everything was just constructed in his head, but he felt that if he spoke to her and she wouldn’t accept his apology, he would lose her. He shook his head under the cold stream of the shower.

“You don’t have her, you idiot. Shut up,” he mumbled before stepping away from the water, drying and getting dressed.

Again, the day dragged on. Pansy sat with them for lunch for the first time since last week but didn’t say anything. Neither did Draco, so Theo and Blaise were engaged in conversation, trying to ignore the other two of the group who were so successfully ruining Theo’s perfectly fine day, according to Theo at least.

The later it got, the more time seemed to run and crawl simultaneously, and Draco could feel himself starting to sweat. He shook with disgust. Perspiring was unacceptable to him unless one engaged in a physical activity like duelling or Quidditch.

Finally, the last class of the day arrived, and Draco packed up ten minutes early, feigning nausea, which promptly got him excused. It probably helped that his stomach was actually rolling, but rather with nerves than with sickness. He rushed to the common room, cast a scourgify over himself, roused his hair so it fell just like so, checked his robes in the mirror, grabbed the parcel, and bolted towards the library.

The days were getting longer and longer, the air warmer. When he entered the library, it smelled no longer just of dust and old parchment but of warm paper, blotchy ink and heated wood. The library was built so that at any time of the day, the sun could flood the room, the books only prevented from yellowing through protective enchantments, regularly checked by Madame Pince. This time, Granger was sitting quite close to the entrance. Her hair fell over her shoulder in loose curling strands; her head leaned down. Soon, she would put her hair up in a bun so it wouldn’t bother her while studying. She must have just arrived. His heart sped up, and his steps faltered. Gods, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? He felt like his ten-year-old self again, becoming uncertain and jittery around a girl. Or worse, probably like the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors his own age felt. The offensiveness of the thought had goosebumps raise the hairs on his arms, and he shook himself. No, that simply wouldn’t do. Breathing in deeply, drawing his shoulders back, he ordered his nerves to calm and took big strides towards Granger. Before he could reach the table and say hello to her first, at least having the advantage of maybe startling her out of her thoughts, she looked up at the sound of his feet on the wooden floor. Her eyes immediately found his, and his heart slowed to a painful thud in his chest, which he could feel all the way in the tips of his fingers. She narrowed her eyes at him, making him almost falter in his last three steps. 

“Malfoy,” she said sharply, lowering her eyes back to the book instead of waiting for an answer.

He sat down to keep his legs from trembling.

“Granger,” he nodded, though she wouldn’t look at him again. He cleared his throat, suddenly desperate for a sip of water.

“How’s it going?” he asked lamely.

“Brilliant,” she snapped, without looking up.

“Brilliant,” mumbled Draco, at a loss as to what to say now. Hadn’t he practised this conversation? Where were the words he had practised to say?

He stared at the bookshelves behind Hermione’s head, trying to find the words there. After five minutes had lapsed, Hermione’s head shot up, annoyance written as clearly on her face as if it had been printed on a piece of paper. “Aren’t you doing anything? This project is due next week.”

He just looked at her, trying to read her expression. Would she really want an apology from him?

“Fine,” she hissed. “If you’re done doing your part, leave. I can finish this by myself. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

This pulled Draco from his reverie.

“No,” he said, slightly too loud, and Hermione winced, looking around the library as if to check if anyone had heard. He had to put quite a bit of willpower into not doing the same. She straightened again and gave him a challenging look, gesturing to the table between them.

“Then get going, will you?”

“Yes, of course, I, umm,” he closed his eyes for a moment and breathed. More calmly, he said, “I just wanted to give you something first.”

She looked at him inquiringly but didn’t say anything else. He pulled up his satchel from the floor and took out the parcel, handing it to her. She stretched out her hand, her fingers lightly brushing his, and he recoiled, almost dropping the parcel. A cold look passed over her face, but she tried to temper it down, merely raising an eyebrow at him before looking at the parcel.

“Am I meant to open this?”

“Yes, that’s usually how people treat gifts,” he said mockingly before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes again and scolded himself. He was not trying to be mean, but damn it, she really had a way of getting under his skin.

“Oh, this is a present, is it?” she said in mock delight. “What have I done to deserve this great honour?”

“Just open it, Granger.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t comment further, instead gingerly unwrapping the parcel. As the paper fell away, she gave a little gasp, her eyes trailing over the leather, quickly followed by her delicate fingers. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but opened the book instead. Again, a quick intake of breath, her eyes shining.

“Malfoy, what is this?” she whispered, reverently brushing her fingers over the first page. 

“It’s a first edition of Emma,” he said casually, soaking in the sight of her obvious joy.

“I can see that,” she said, sounding disbelieving. “Why are you giving this to me? This is priceless.”

“I,” he hesitated shortly, and she looked up at him, making it even more difficult for Draco to get this out properly. “I wanted to apologise for last week,” he brought out. Not very elaborate, but it would have to do.

She looked at him incredulously and then kept looking as if waiting for something. Finally, she put the book down carefully before flaring her hands, suddenly angry.

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “You think a little book can fix this? You cannot buy my forgiveness, Malfoy. I’m not one of the Slytherin socialites.”

What? How was this happening again? He could feel a headache creep up on him and suddenly got very annoyed. He had put a lot of thought into this apology, and she was ruining it.

“Why are you constantly twisting my words?” He asked exasperatedly but also panicked. This was not going like he had hoped it would.

“Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?”

Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead, the stress of finding the right words making him jittery.

“No, no, it’s not, I -” he paused, taking a deep breath.

What else would she want to hear from him? What could he say so that she would know he meant it?

“I just wanted to say that I am sorry for - well, for whatever it is I said to you on Thursday. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“If you don’t remember, how do you know if you meant it or not?

“Did I insult you? On Thursday, I mean.”

“Yes,” she said shortly, her expression closing again. It looked like she was going through what he had said to her in her head.

He didn’t want that, so he quickly rushed out, “Then, I know I didn’t mean it. I find nothing about you worth insulting.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, her mouth pursing in an impatient and disbelieving gesture.

“Well, the past years would prove the opposite, and isn’t it true that drunk people say what their sober selves think?”

“Yes. Yes, I know, but just trust me when I say that I would not say anything to hurt you anymore. I don’t think like that anymore. And whatever I said on Thursday, I probably didn’t even direct it at you but at Krum.” He looked down, “Merlin, I can’t stand him,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Hermione asked.

“Nothing, just. Do you trust me when I say I didn’t mean to insult you?”

She looked impatient now, waving her hand. “Yes, yes, Malfoy, it’s fine. Let’s just get this project over with and forget about it.”

But Draco didn’t want to forget about it. “So, you forgive me for Thursday?”

“Yes,” she hissed, her attention already drifting to her book again. “Don’t worry about it anymore, Malfoy.”

He still wasn’t sure if she was satisfied. Maybe he had gone wrong with the book after all. Though he had been so sure.

“Do you not want the book?” he asked cautiously

“What?” she asked sharply, eyes flicking back to him. Her hand automatically flew to the book.

“Who said I didn’t want it?”

“No,” he said, now noticing his miscalculation and almost chuckling at the obvious possessiveness she felt towards an object she hadn’t owned five minutes ago.

“I just thought you didn’t look super enthused, and maybe you would like something else.”

“No,” she said quickly, grabbing the book even tighter, lifting it to her chest as if he were about to lunge and take it from her.

“So, you like it?” he teased. The answer was obvious, but he still wanted to hear it.

“Yes,” she said, looking down at the book in her hand. “How did you know it was my favourite of hers?” she asked quietly.

Triumph coursed through him at the question. So, he had been right.

“Just a lucky guess,” he said. Shrugging his shoulders as if it were nothing.

“Well, thank you. I – I don’t even know what to say. This is priceless.”

“No need to thank me,” he said, and he meant it. He was just glad that she had forgiven him and that she was happy with the book.

“Where did you get this anyway?” she asked, curiosity evident on her face.

“Well, wouldn’t you like to know,” he said lowly, leaning forward slightly.

She looked at him with calculation in her eyes.

“This was at the Manor?” she finally asked.

“You are a quick study,” he said, half impressed even though he knew he had told her that they had copies of Austen at the Manor.

“Always have been,” she said smugly and turned back to her work.

He smiled and took his own notes out of his satchel. The words were blurring in front of his eyes as the conversation replayed over and over in his head. Well, this had gone rather well.

Chapter Text

Hermione

On the twelfth day, her luck runs out. They come to get her again. It’s a regular guard, not Astoria or one of the higher-ups, so she knows, as she had expected for the past week, that the torture will recommence. They obscure her vision, and she is led out of her cell. Again, the rush of magic like a drug filling her system, which she still cannot access as they cross the suppressing charm. Her muscles have slightly strengthened since she began her workouts again with the Nutritionis, but this was barely two weeks compared to over two months of malnutrition and lack of exercise. So, she is docile, going with the guard, though she dreads it now, more than ever. In between, it had become bearable; she had become almost numb to it over time – humans can get used to anything after all. But ever since the soiree, something has shifted, and she cannot process the idea of being subjected to more torture. She realised over the past couple of days, filled with horror at her thoughts, that she cannot see the point anymore. That she wouldn’t mind dying. That she would, in fact, prefer it. She knows she should hold on. Harry and Ron, the Order, they might still come to rescue them. It had only been a little over two months, and with the amount of security measures surrounding the building, it was probably extremely difficult to locate them. They hadn’t managed to find the headquarters of the Death Eaters in the five years of war after all. But that was exactly the problem. She didn’t doubt that they were looking; they were, she knew it. Probably with more determination than they had ever done anything before.

Kingsley knew that without Ginny, Harry would become almost unusable. He probably wasn’t following any orders right now; she could practically see him lashing out in her mind’s eye, only focusing on rescuing Ginny, her, and the rest of the members of the Order. Consequently, if he were smart, Kingsley would put their resources into finding them first. Still, Hermione doubts that they even can succeed and while the thought leaves her feeling numb, she hopes that they will stop looking. Focusing their resources on finding them automatically makes them weaker, more predictable, and more open to planned attacks by Voldemort. She wishes that they would focus on themselves and on winning the war.

Of course, she doesn’t want this for the others, but their chances of finding them and being rescued were so slim, and if they simply stopped looking, she would not have to feel bad anymore for wanting to die. It’s only been a couple of months here, but inexplicably, time feels different. Instead of months, she feels like she has been here the same number of years, and it is crushing her spirits. She tries to fight it, but recently, the thought of suicide has become like a game for her, which she can take out and play. The game is dangerous, but appealing, as are a lot of things. Scheming her own death: she never thought it would come to this, but now here she was, reaching a new low with every passing day, thinking about what she could do or say to trigger one of the Death Eaters to release her from this life, from the burden of having to keep on hoping. She feels bad for losing faith in Harry and the Order so fast, but how could she explain to them that it doesn’t feel fast at all? That she’s doing all she can to keep it, but that faith has become a slippery thing that keeps running through her fingers whenever she thinks she has gotten a hold of it again? Thus, this and escape plans alternate in her brain, but while the escape plans were vague at best, considering the lack of necessary information, the other plans – the new ones - are almost tangible. It’s another way of distracting herself from the questions she couldn’t find an answer to, and possibly the only thing in her life at the moment that she could possibly control. If she plays her cards right.

Only when they climb stairs, instead of descending them, does she realise that they are not bringing her to the torture chambers. So, where then? Is there another event, another location entirely, or is it back to the room where she first met Voldemort? With the steps they are taking, now, that Hermione is paying attention, she becomes more and more certain that it’s the latter. Again, they halt and talk to a guard, insults about her are thrown around, before they move on, down a long hallway, coming to a stop before another guard, who lets them into a room where conversation becomes audible as soon as the door opens. The sickly smell of blood, saliva, and rot fills her nostrils again, and she gags before the Obscurois taken off her. The scene before her looks almost identical to when she first came here. Blood flows like rivers over the dark stone floor, though she cannot immediately see any bodies, she knows the blood is fresh and that it’s human. As her eyes quickly track up towards the windows, she realises where it’s coming from. At least twenty people are suspended in the air, their blood dripping out of their open wounds, which range from cut-off limbs to disembowelments. Most of their eyes are open and milky, the light of life having already been squeezed out of them, but some seem to still be alive, though close enough to death that she hopes they can’t feel their own pain anymore. Briefly, she wonders if this is what they do every day here, killing Muggles as entertainment. She averts her gaze from the dead and dying and sees Voldemort sitting on the dais, piercing her with his eyes.

Once again, spectators are standing in groups on either side of the room, leaving the puddle of blood in front of Hermione, which becomes bigger with every passing second, for her to navigate. A guard firmly presses a hand between her shoulder, and her shoes squelch when she walks through the blood, covering her in the sticky liquid before she comes to a halt in front of the dais. The seat next to Voldemort is vacant this time, no Bellatrix and no Malfoy. She’s glad for it. Though he has been pushed back very far into the back of her mind, thoughts on him persist and seeing him now would likely have destroyed any progress she’s made. She tries to be lenient with herself; it hasn’t even been two weeks since she started her exercise, and often, she’s been preoccupied with thoughts about death, but it still frustrates her that she even notices that he isn’t here. Briefly, she wondered if she should, instead of pushing them into the back, bring the memories of him forward to expose him if she ever were subjected to Legilimency again, but if he were the one to penetrate her mind and see them, he would likely ignore them. On the other hand, if someone else saw them and told Voldemort, which, undoubtedly, they would, he would surely be executed, and though she didn’t doubt that he had changed, had become a monster, had engaged in atrocities beyond her imagination, she couldn’t do it. He still hadn’t actually harmed her, and though he betrayed her first, this betrayal on her part would be too big to excuse to herself. She didn’t want him active as a Death Eater, but that didn’t automatically mean that she wanted him dead.

More importantly, while she might hate him now, or wanted to, she did not want to hate herself. Not more than she already did that was. Furthermore, he knew of their past and, therefore, knew what kind of risk she posed to him, and still, he hadn’t killed her. She had been grateful for that and wanted to pay him back for it, even though now she was beginning to think that to kill her would have been more merciful.

Suddenly, she gets ripped from her thoughts as she’s kicked in the back of the knees and falls forward, kneeling before Voldemort.

“Mudblood,” he says. “How good of you to finally join us.”

He acts as if she were tardy, as if she could go anywhere without being explicitly taken there.

“I bet you’re bored down there in your room, and it’s a pity you missed the entertainment”, he continues, using words which are so far from her reality, she wonders if he is even aware of her situation.

“But, you see, we have been rather busy and couldn’t afford to worry ourselves about you. Now, however,” he waves benevolently, “we are most delighted to continue focusing our attention on you.”

Laughter erupts around Hermione, though what is funny about this, she isn’t sure. They likely only laugh to not be the next ones kneeling before him. She looks at him and is still trying to anticipate what exactly he will do to her first when he already plunges into her mind.

The sensation is so different from what she is used to by Snape and Malfoy that she cannot help but gasp. It’s like ice spreading over her brain; the cold is so severe it burns, and she is certain that this is what a dementor’s kiss feels like. The ice makes her freeze, and though she had organised her mind before and had built up a little wall to help her arrange her thoughts once an attack started, he enters as if there was no barrier at all. The control she holds over her thoughts and memories, usually an almost liquid thing spreading in all directions of her mind, solidifies like a droplet of water turning to ice and crashes down, breaking into thousands of pieces. She scrambles to rebuild it as the pain in her mind rises and rises, making her feel simultaneously wounded and numb, her movements sluggish and slow. Already, she feels Voldemort ripping through her memories, tearing through the ones she had put at the front to distract any attacker so fast, she barely notices as they vanish into mere smoke and steam. If his attack is like ice, he himself is like fire.

Her frozen memories basically evaporate under his hand so quickly, it’s like they never existed in the first place. Dimly, she is aware that she’s screaming in agony but knows that she must focus. The Order depends on her; they are counting on her to protect them and their secrets. They trust her to keep them safe. As she fights against the ice, gathering the pieces of her control and puzzling them back together, the pain becomes so severe, she thinks she will lose consciousness. But she barrels on, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, she pushes against Voldemort’s frozen attack. The memories become warm again, and incrementally, she can control them. The ice is slowly melting, and Voldemort is unable to go through them as quickly as he did before. Hermione is so relieved she could weep and is incredibly grateful to Astoria for providing her with the Nutritionis; without it, she would have been completely lost and would not have been able to fight him at all. If he had continued at such speed, he would soon have reached the memories which were not intended as distractions. Now, she could shield them better, burying them deeper, making it more difficult for him to find them. To continue with her shuffling, she throws other memories as distractions at him, trying to make them look relatively recent.

Abruptly, the attack stops, and she finds herself crouched over in front of the dais. She looks up to see what happened, coming eye to eye with Voldemort. Her vision swims but as it focuses, his face is a stark grimace of rage, and he screams at such a high pitch that her weakened brain flinches.

“Who taught the Mudblood to occlude?” he screams, addressing his followers as if they could give him an answer. “Who?” he screeches, and Hermione winces.

She had not been careful enough, it seemed; he had noticed her organising her mind while she was doing it.

“She showed me memories of safe houses and locations which have been deserted for over a year,” he says, suddenly calm again. The calmness frightens her almost more than his outrage. He chuckles and looks down at her.

“You think you can trick me, little girl?”

His eyes narrow, his pupils suddenly looking like slits instead of round. He looks like a serpent. Then his face relaxes even more, and he looks almost kind, as far as that is possible with such a nightmarish face. He lifts his wand slowly and sings, pointing the tip at her almost boredly, “Crucio.”

Pain erupts over her entire being, lifting her up and out of her crouching position, stretching her and spreading her over the floor in a twitching heap of limbs. She’s being put on a burning fire, being flayed alive, being ripped apart limb by limb, acid spreads through her veins, and nails are being driven into her skull. Every possible pain she can think of, she feels and more. It goes on and on, and she fears that it will never stop. It seems to her like she has been lying here on this stone floor for centuries, like she will lie here for all eternity and beyond. The pain is so all-encompassing that it erases her. She only exists as pain.

When she eventually opens her eyes, she cannot move. Her eyes are glazed as they look upwards to the bodies hanging over her. Blood spatters her skin, dripping onto her, but she cannot feel it. She can’t feel anything anymore. Two pairs of hands grab her on either arm and lift her up so she hangs between the two men holding her. A sharp fingernail grazes below her chin and raises it. Her eyes are unfocused, but she’s aware of the pale person before her, whose red eyes lock onto hers before they whisper in a voice that will haunt Hermione’s dreams forever, “Legilimens.”

This time, the ice is like a flood, filling every crevice of her mind. Her control is a thing of the past. The only thing protecting her now are the steel walls she had built around the most important of memories over the last years while training her occlumency. She is a spectator in her own mind, watching as Voldemort cuts like hot iron through ice blocks, melting away her memories, leaving them split open, crushed, or evaporated. He becomes fire itself and everything burns, burns, burns. The distractions long eliminated, she watches on in horror as he comes closer to actual locations, which are in active use, snippets of conversations that hold relevance and show how much the Order knows. In his rage, he misses some things, she thinks. However, slowly but surely, she gets the sense that he is looking for something specific, something other than intelligence on the Order. Though he paused at two of those memories, he is now moving through moments, memories, and thoughts so quickly, she struggles to even understand where exactly in her mind he is.

Suddenly, he stops and inspects a memory which is more than inconsequential for this war, some moment in the forest of Dean where Harry almost tripped over a tree stump which suddenly disappeared from view. She had thought at the time that the stump must be another magical creature she knew nothing about and had to read up on, but she never did have the time once the war properly started. This memory doesn’t even really allude to the Horcrux hunt, so there is really nothing there that could be of consequence to him. Before she can ask herself why he would bother watching it, he moves on again, continuing his rampage through her mind. Eventually, he looks through her thoughts and feelings from the past two weeks, especially the dinner. She can feel his fury when he realises that she doesn’t remember most of it and wonders what he is looking for in these memories that he can’t find anywhere else. Finally, he retracts from her mind, leaving smoking piles of ash and burn marks in his wake. At some point, the guards must have let go off her because she lies on the floor again, her stomach and cheek pressed against the stone. She feels simultaneously desperately cold and scorching hot; her throat is raw with screaming or the heat that comes out of her mind, she isn’t sure which.

Dimly, she hears Voldemort start to announce to the room that he has found actual locations in the Mudblood’s mind and that they should alert General Malfoy to plan an attack as soon as possible. Then he laughs and says that they have almost broken her.

“She wants us to kill her,” he cackles. “She has been plotting her own death for the past two weeks,” his voice wobbles around in her ears.

Laughter erupts, but she also hears a gasp. First, she thinks that she gasped herself, but why would she? This comes as no surprise to her.

Every breath hurts.

Slowly, she turns her head to the other side, looking from where the sound came. Her eyes trail around until they find the dark green eyes of Pansy Parkinson, who looks at her in shock, even horror. Hermione turns back her face, agony wracking through her spine. She must have imagined it. Pansy Parkinson does not care whether Hermione gets raped; she doesn’t care whether she gets tortured or whether she lives or dies. Slowly, she closes her eyes, hoping this will end her. Voldemort’s voice rips her from her drifting thoughts as he speaks to his followers again in a commanding voice.

“None of you are allowed to kill the Mudblood. I am not done with her, and we cannot give her anything she wants, and right now, to die is her darkest secret and her greatest wish. The desire is stronger than she dares admit to herself. It has surpassed even her wish to see her little friends again or to win this war, though she tells herself that this remains her highest priority. But this is what Muggles and Mudbloods do. They lie. Even to themselves. Their weaknesses make them so. But we will not give it to her. Yet. She has to suffer a little more. She has to comprehend that this was never her world, that she was never supposed to be here. Understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” a chorus of voices declares ceremoniously, and tears of desperation start rolling down Hermione’s cheeks as her dreams shatter with every word he speaks.

Chapter Text

Draco 

Draco had thought that it would get better after the apology, since he thought that it had been something that stood in the way of him getting over her. After all, she had been angry at him, and he hadn’t even known what exactly had happened. He had thought that after she forgave him, he would understand on a deeper level that she is nice, a good partner in a team project to have, reliable, but also very much in a relationship and morally, as well a, in regard to a multitude of other aspects, miles out of his league. He would see her occasionally, and every time, he would accept more and more that she was not his to have; never would be.

Instead, it had gotten worse.

They had finished the project, given a presentation and had handed in the portfolio, had gotten the best mark out of the class – unsurprising – and then parted ways. Now, after the project and the apology, she seemed to have some sort of respect for Draco, even seemed to like him to a certain degree. When they would meet in the hallways, she would wave and smile, even in the company of other people. The first time this happened, Draco felt like his heart would stop. He had stopped walking and just stared after her, standing like a humongous fool in the middle of the hallway, as other students passed around him. It had been pure luck that his friends hadn’t been there to witness it. They would never have let him live that one down.

The third time it had happened, she was flanked by the two idiots who copied her homework and ate her food. Draco had become used to her smiling at him, or as used to it as he could be, meaning not freezing to a statue but being able to actually keep on moving in a relatively natural manner. He had still turned around to look at her, clearly hearing Weasley say, “Did you just smile at Draco Malfoy?” the incredulity dripping from his tongue.

He hadn’t heard what Hermione had said in response.

Now, after almost three weeks of this, he had become addicted. He would traipse through the corridors, trying to run into her by `accident´ between classes, even if his next class was in an entirely different wing from where Gryffindor’s standard classes took place. In the afternoon and on the weekends, he would be in the library even though he usually preferred to study alone in a secluded space, normally an unused classroom or even his desk in the Slytherin dorms. He would walk down the aisles of the library, pretending to look for specific books until he found her. Often, she would be so engrossed in her studying that she wouldn’t have noticed if a unicorn had galloped through the room, but sometimes he was lucky, and she would look up when he passed. Then she would smile at him, her lips lifting, her eyes crinkling, before looking down again. If he was especially lucky, he got two Granger-smiles in one day.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but notice that she looked strained. Her eyes had a feverish quality to them, different from the usual fire that he liked so much, and she had gotten a bit thinner. He would have been worried, but he knew that it was likely just exam stress. Even before he had noticed her properly, people talked about the frenzy Granger was in at the end of the year. Now though, exams were basically over, and Granger still looked the same. He wondered whether it was connected to Krum. He had seen less and less of the Bulgarian, even though Draco himself had gone out of his way to see more of Granger. Could they have split up? The thought delighted him, but he also didn’t want her to be hurting.

He was walking down the corridor to the library once again, hoping for a glimpse of her, ignoring that his friends had already teased him that he never used to be there with them before. Now, he would come every day, talk to them for a little while before leaving again. He knew they were suspicious of him; they probably even knew why he was there, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. They already knew that he was in love with Hermione, though none of them had ever mentioned it again. Today, he walked over to their table first before finding Hermione because he could hardly pass them without saying hello to the fuckers. They would hex him in the back.

“Hello, Darling,” said Theo, looking up from the last DADA assignment of the year. “Care to join us?”

“Hmm, no,” responded Draco, his eyes flickering around the library in search of a brown head of curls. “Just stopping by to say hello.”

“Granger is in the fifth row,” Theo whispered conspiratorially and winked at Draco, who straightened and frowned.

“So what?” drawled Draco, trying to hide how irritated he was that Theo would break their beautifully maintained equilibrium. “Came here for a book.”

“Course you did,” mumbled Blaise, not even looking up from his Arithmancy notes.

“Yes. Well, I’m going to get it now. See you later.”

“And what book might that be?” asked Theo mischievously.

Merlin, what was up with him today? He was being even more of a menace than usual.

“Aren’t you busy?” asked Draco with a cocked eyebrow.

“Never too busy for you, love. I have an open ear, you know.”

“Well, close it,” said Draco, turning away and hurrying down the main aisle.

When he almost reached the fifth row, he heard Granger’s voice distinctly, rising into a whisper-yell. “I don’t know Harry. They really could do anything.”

She sounded annoyed, but more at herself than at Potter.

“It’s fine, ‘Mione, you can’t figure out every task. You’ve already been such a great help thus far. I doubt any of the other participants get as much support as you provide me with.”

He could hear Granger sigh and then the Weasel. “Well, Krum certainly doesn’t anymore.”

So, they really had broken up. Draco realised he was eavesdropping, but the conversation had just gotten interesting.

“Remind me again, why you broke up with him? We could have gotten tickets for the next game.”

“I told you already, Ronald, we were never together. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

They had never been together?

“Oh, come on, ‘Mione,” came Weasley’s whingy voice. “You can tell us what happened. We’re your best mates.”

“Christ, Ron, nothing happened, okay? There is nothing to discuss, and we really need to focus on this. The last task is only two days away, and we’re not even remotely prepared.”

“Fine,” huffed the Weasel, obviously less than happy with keeping his mouth shut.

Draco stealthily turned around and walked back down the aisle toward the exit of the library, a grin splitting his face that widened with every passing second.

People were sitting with bright banners in the house colours and the flags of pale blue and red of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang around Draco, as Dumbledore’s voice boomed through the stands. There was paint on some of their faces, moving pictures of the lion and the badger on their respective house colour backgrounds, jumping over cheeks and the backs of people’s hands. On Draco’s left, who was entirely dressed in black, sat Blaise, Theo, and Pansy, all of them listening to Dumbledore explain the rules of the third and final challenge of the Triwizard Tournament. It was mandatory to attend because, of course, it was. As if anyone really cared about four people running around in some hedge maze. Draco had done that since he was two. Okay, the maze at the Manor wasn’t necessarily cursed, but these were almost grown witches and wizards. Surely, they could figure it out.

The sun was setting, and it was getting cold, despite it already being late June. Summer would probably suck this year with the way the weather had been developing, full of rain and stuck between 15 and 20 degrees. Draco frowned just thinking about it.

People were cheering when Potter and the others entered the maze, which immediately swallowed them up, obscuring them from the view of the audience. Great, so they would sit in front of a humongous maze for however long it took for one of these idiots to find the cup and win the game or send a help signal into the sky. Even that would be boring, Draco reckoned.

“How long do you think this will take?” he asked Blaise, who rolled his eyes and said, the annoyance evident in his tone, “Who knows? Has there ever been a more stupid thing than this tournament? We really could only see the first task, and even then, Potter managed to ruin the fun by taking off. They could be doing Godrick knows what in there, sucking on lollies, or braiding friendship bracelets, and we would be none the wiser. I really hate mandatory school events.”

“What happened to you?” asked Draco, surprised at the flood of negative energy from his friend. “Weren’t you in a good mood only yesterday?”

“This has nothing to do with my mood. You can’t honestly tell me that you find this interesting or want to be here.”

Draco scoffed, almost offended that Blaise would even suggest such a thing. “Of course not, we’ve talked about this. The Triwizard Tournament is a whole lot of nonsense. They could have at least done this during school hours, but no, we have to sit here in our leisure time and stare at a hedge maze placed in the Quidditch field.”

“See? One’s mood can’t be good when thinking about that,” said Blaise, looking rather pleased with getting Draco on his side.

“Aren’t you excited to see who will win?” some girl with yellow stripes on her face and a batch with Cedric Diggory’s face on her uniform asked, leaning forward and almost bumping into Draco’s and Blaise’s shoulders. Blaise looked at her in offence, slightly curling his lip at the evident lack of awareness and appreciation for personal space.

“Do you mind?” he asked, brushing the top of his shoulder as if to get rid of her, even though she hadn’t actually touched him.

Draco was still hung up on the fact that the girl hadn’t even bothered changing out of her school uniform… some people really were baffling.

When no other response came, the girl huffed and retreated to her friends, who looked at her in pity at having so obviously been snubbed. 

“Merlin, you would think we would have built up a reputation by now, but people still insist on trying to be friendly and hoping we will be too.”

Draco snorted. “You can’t really blame her; you run with a different girl every week. If she were prettier, you wouldn’t have been as rude to her. You likely even would have flirted and feigned interest in the tournament.”

“Yes, well. It’s not my fault she obviously doesn’t own a mirror. Also, I haven’t been running around with different girls for quite some time.”

He looked over at Draco with something like hurt flashing in his eyes.

“If you weren’t so busy thinking about Granger, you might have noticed.”

Draco looked at him, puzzled at the statement and the way Blaise’s eyes rested on him. Was he mad at him? It seemed so. Draco didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, Blaise, I didn’t realise. Are you seeing anyone?” he asked, not actually believing that it could be so without him having noticed.

Yes, he had been a bit preoccupied for the past couple of weeks, but surely, he would have noticed if Blaise had a girlfriend of some sort.

“Don’t act as if you care on my behalf,” said Blaise, sounding rather put out.

“I do care, I’m sorry if I haven’t asked, but why didn’t you just tell me?” Merlin, how often had Draco apologised for something in the last two weeks? He was not usually the apologising type, but somehow, he kept ending up in situations where it seemed like the necessary thing to do.

“I tried to tell you a couple of times,” scoffed Blaise, clearly irritated. “So did Theo, by the way.”

“I did,” piped in Theo out of nowhere, as always, not helping the situation in the slightest.

“But you didn’t really listen to anything we said. Always stuck thinking about Granger,” Blaise continued, hurt creeping into his voice.

Fuck, had he really been that bad? He knew that he had been thinking about Hermione more than he should have. He was admittedly quite worried about his grades. But this? Not paying proper attention to his friends? He felt retched.

“I’m sorry, Blaise. I really am,” he said earnestly. “I honestly don’t know what is wrong with me.”

“You’re in love, it’s fine,” sighed Blaise, no longer seeming as mad.

“But so are you,” said Draco, not particularly finding that to be a good excuse. He also didn’t really want to talk about it anyway.

“Are you?” he asked, not sure if he was jumping to conclusions.

If Blaise were in love, it would be shocking. Draco hadn’t even noticed that he was seeing anyone. He didn’t have the faintest idea who Blaise could be with. And Blaise had never been with any girl for more than one night, evening, afternoon, whatever have you. Just generally not longer than a couple hours.

“It’s unrequited with you, so it’s different,” answered Blaise, waving his hand as if to indicate the irrelevance of his relationship for Draco.

Draco ignored the stab of pain that went through his body at Blaise’s words. It was true after all.

“So, you actually are?” asked Draco incredulously. He couldn’t believe that this was happening.

“I am.” A smile had appeared on Blaise’s face, while Draco had problems keeping his jaw from dropping to the floor.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to seem too affected. “Who is it, do I know her?”

Blaise looked at Draco and then stared down to where the Beauxbaton girls were sitting, an odd shimmer in his eyes. “Do you remember Elodie?”

The name did sound strangely familiar, but Draco needed a couple of moments to realise it was the girl he had snogged earlier in the year in the hallway when Granger walked by.

“That’s who you’re going out with?”

The shock in Draco’s voice must have been evident because Blaise gave him a chastising look, but for Salazar’s sake, that girl had been soo boring. Not at all what Draco had expected would attract Blaise’s attention, much less keep it. The reason Blaise never had a girlfriend was that he was unbelievably picky. Even with the girls he had sex with, but there were just more pretty girls than handsome guys, so he still had plenty to choose from, and it didn’t really seem that way. Draco, however, knew better.

“I certainly am not,” scoffed Blaise. “No, but I just wanted to jog your memory. It’s her friend. Françoise.”

A faint glimmer of a face appeared before Draco’s inner eye. Dark blonde hair, fine feminine features, light green eyes. She was rather stunning if he recalled correctly.

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Draco said, now searching for the witch amongst the stands. “Rather pretty. I’m happy for you, mate.”

He looked over at Blaise again, who seemed almost to glow.

“Are you happy?”

“I am,” he beamed, white teeth flashing in the glow of the floodlights. The sun had fully set by now, the castle in the background a black shape in the dark. Draco looked towards the entrance point of the maze and saw that there was some commotion. The Beauxbaton candidate had been picked up from the maze. He seemingly had missed the red flash, but, oh well, this was more interesting anyway.

“Why have I never seen you two together? I mean, yes, I haven’t been the most attentive friend, and I am sorry for that, truly, but not once have I seen you with her in the library, in the hallways or anywhere else.”

Blaise shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. “Apparently, her parents are rather suspicious of English wizards due to our history with Voldemort. Mind you, this is not limited to the previous Death Eaters, just a general scepticism because our society let it come that far. So yes, not the best starting point, and they don’t even know who my family is. They would be less than thrilled.”

“But her parents aren’t here,” stated Draco, ever the observant friend.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “I know, but their headmistress is quite strict. It’s a purely girls’ school, and they don’t really tolerate dating at all. If the headmistress saw something, I reckon she would report it directly to Françoise’s parents, so we’re being a bit secretive about it. But,” he shrugged again, a mischievous grin spreading over his face, “I rather like it to be honest.”

“Of course you would,” Draco chuckled.

He looked back at the maze and this time saw the red flash shoot into the night sky, indicating that another candidate was stepping out of the game. He was surprised. How bad could this maze be, realistically, that already two people had eliminated themselves?  He looked around the stands while one of the judges went to get the candidate from the maze. His eyes moved a bit further, locking onto Hermione. He had spotted her before the game had started, sitting next to Weasley and the other Gryffindors. Her cheeks had been flushed with excitement and nervous energy. She was likely a bit concerned about Potter, but the excitement had won out, her eyes shining, cheering with the others when the candidates had entered the maze. Now, he could barely see her. The darkness had spread, and the floodlights were pointed at the maze, waiting for the champion to emerge, making it difficult to make out anything that fell out of the ring of light.  

Krum stumbled out of the maze, closely followed by one of the judges. He looked haunted.

How was Harry Potter beating Victor Krum in some maze? Draco was truly shocked. Krum moved over to his headmaster, shaking his head and mumbling. Two of his friends were there in a flash, clapping him on the back consolingly and leading him up to the stands to watch the rest of the game.

“So, when will I meet her, Zabini?” asked Draco, wiggling his eyebrows at Blaise.

Blaise smiled, happy that Draco actually seemed to care. Draco’s stomach twisted with guilt, but he tried to ignore it. He would be more attentive in the future. He would make it up to them.

“You can meet her after this if you’d like?”

“Sure, would love to.”

Blaise conjured a piece of paper, scrawled something on it in his illegible script and transformed it into a paper hummingbird before sending it off with a flick of his wand. The bird flew through the stands, finally coming to a stop in front of a girl. She turned around and immediately found Blaise’s eyes, beaming at him, before plucking the bird out of the air. Her friends leaned in as she opened the bird and read the message. Squealing erupted from her friends, and she turned around again, a deep blush covering her cheeks before she nodded shyly and then quickly turned back towards the maze. Blaize grinned and looked meaningfully at Draco.

Suddenly, cheers and music erupted, and Draco’s eyes quickly looked back to the maze. Potter’s face was pressed into the earth, his body in an odd crouching position, but he was clearly alive. He looked as if he were shaking, likely from exhaustion, but it was hard to tell from so far up. The music went on, a cheery tune, and people were waving the Gryffindor flag.

Draco really didn’t think he would have it in him to win, but of course, he had to, being the boy who bloody lived and all that. Merlin, he would be even more insufferable next year. Just as Draco wanted to turn back to Blaise to continue their conversation, Potter lifted his head off the ground. Tears were flowing from his eyes; his face was contorted. Draco’s stomach twisted with an odd sensation that felt uncomfortably close to dread, though Draco didn’t know why. Potter was yelling something now and then moved slightly, revealing the body of Cedric Diggory below him. Within an instant, the music died, and a heavy silence fell over the Quidditch pitch, only broken by a piercing cry.

“No!”

Someone was running over the field. A middle-aged wizard sinking to his knees in front of Potter, who went to move and revealed even more of Diggory.

“NO! NO! Cedric! My boy! My boy!” the man sobbed while leaning over the body splayed on the ground, who was clearly dead.

Draco had never seen a dead person before, but somehow, he knew.

The audience started screaming, people began running around, but Draco sat frozen, grabbing Blaise’s arm, who looked equally as shocked next to him.

Draco’s eyes flashed back to Potter for some reason, trying to find an explanation, though he felt like he already knew. This was the moment he had been prepared for since he was born.

Potter had come to stand and now leaned into Dumbledore, saying something over and over again. Draco squinted and, after a couple of minutes, was sure what Potter was saying with an icy certainty. He is back. Voldemort is back.

Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t think, he just sat on the bench like someone had fired an Immoblus at him. The second he realised what Potter was saying, he knew that it was true. Knew it in his bones. He could practically feel it. His father had been saying this would happen for as long as he could remember, but it had gotten increasingly worse over Christmas. He was sure the Dark Lord would return, and kept drilling Draco that they would have to be ready. He talked of nothing else. Draco had laughed at him, had called him delusional. He didn’t want it to happen anymore after befriending Theo and Blaise and realising that what Voldemort would bring was not wealth and glory like his father had once believed, but destruction. But he knew now that he couldn’t stop it, that not his father had been delusional but him. He looked back at Potter, searching for some kind of explanation because this couldn’t be happening. However, he could only see Potter’s receding form as Dumbledore was now leading his only source of information away, down the field in the direction of the castle.

He started suddenly, becoming frantic. He jumped up, his eyes tracking the Quidditch field stands. He looked everywhere, but she wasn’t there anymore; she was gone. He made a noise that sounded like something between a sob and a laugh. What would he have done anyway? He couldn’t protect her. She was what He wanted to annihilate, and Draco would not be able to stop him. Nonetheless, his eyes searched for her frantically, wanting to make sure that he hadn’t immediately come here and snatched her away from him. Fear clutched at him, and his eyes became wider and wider.

“Draco! Draco, come on!”

Someone was tugging on his arm, but he kept looking around the stands for a wild head of curls for a few moments longer before he could bring himself to turn his head.

Theo was pulling on his arm the second he looked at him, and Draco stumbled down the path of the benches and up to the exit of the stands after him.

Chapter Text

Hermione 

With every nervous step she takes, the cell seems to shrink around her, caging her in more and more, making it harder to breathe. She’s been walking back and forth for at least four hours only today, trying to dispel the nerves coursing through her, but to no avail. Her freshly regrown fingernails have been chewed into oblivion, her hair has become a frazzled mess from how often she has run her hands through it. None of it has helped. The thoughts keep twirling through her mind, moving like boomerangs. She pushes them away, but they return faster than she can get rid of them. The images mount in her head, and she screams again. Her voice hoarse from overuse.

In her mind’s eye, she sees the Order’s headquarters being attacked, her friends killed, or worse, taken as prisoners and tortured. She sees children born in times of war being taken by Death Eaters, their mothers raped, their fathers flogged. The images pile and pile, becoming a wall that she cannot surmount anymore. The scenes are so horrible that she wonders how she can even come up with them, but this is what the war has done to her; this is what she’s learned to fear since being imprisoned. The worst part is that she knows that she isn’t being too imaginative; she knows they will find worse ways to punish their enemies. And all of it would be because of her, because she hadn’t found a way to keep Voldemort out, a way of keeping her promises to the Order and, more importantly, to herself. That she would always protect them. That she wouldn’t betray them. That they could count on her.

It was all false, a farce, and she’s never felt more horrid in her life. If Harry were captured, they wouldn’t kill him immediately. They would torture him in ways that would make her treatment here seem like a holiday in the Maldives. They would make an example out of him. Voldemort would likely look into his mind in a similar manner as he had done to her and would make sure that all of Harry’s worst fears would come true, and it would all be Hermione’s fault. She sinks down and cries. Two days. Two days have passed since she experienced the worst pain she’s ever felt in her life, only to be plunged into an altogether different sort of hell. She remembers that Voldemort had gotten so enraged that she showed him false information, that he had ripped through her memories like a tornado made of fire. He had found locations of the Order, important intel on their intelligence as well. And the worst was, she didn’t know what it was exactly. The locations could range from places that had been used when she was still actively fighting and not yet a prisoner, but which had by chance been left behind by the Order for strategic reasons, to the headquarters and the most recently established safe houses. The fallout of the former would be slim to none. The fallout of the latter would likely be a war lost, five years of hope and fighting gone in an instant because of one lose link. And that link would be her.

She bangs her head against the stone floor and ignores the pain that wracks through her skull on impact. She deserves it. Blood crusts her face from earlier such instances, and she faintly knows that she’s destroying her already injured brain. She doesn’t care.

The memories which have been left by Voldemort, shattered to pieces, burned to ashes, they adorn her mind like tombstones a graveyard. She knows, every minute she spends not attending to them or repairing them is a minute which makes full recovery less and less likely for her. Destroyed memories are a delicate thing. She read about this extensively before obliviating her parents, to see how she would be able to restore their minds once the war was over. The deadline passed last summer for her parents; they would never remember her. The day she was no longer a daughter, she cried for so long in Harry’s arms, she thought the world would drown in her tears. Ever since making the decision to spare her parents by erasing her from their minds, she had been extremely careful with obviation spells, paranoid, really. The mind was the most valuable thing in people’s possession, whether they realised it or not. It was what set them apart from animals, made them a society rather than a pack. But now, she didn’t care anymore. Her mind was falling apart around her; she could practically hear its walls crumbling, its wood floors groaning with the strain of keeping the structure erect. For her to fully heal again, she would have to take extensive care and time, likely three full days, judging from the gaps she felt, to regenerate them and repair any damage done.

But she was tired, she was bone-crushingly exhausted. Most importantly, she simply didn’t care. Why bother at all? What would a functioning mind serve her if her friends were dead, her parents didn’t know that she had ever existed, and the war was lost? All the reasons for her to go on, to keep fighting, had been detonated. The only thing to keep her going was the uncertainty of it. There was still hope, a silver lining, slimmer than a hair’s breadth. So, she swayed between holding on to it, telling herself that the Order had found a way to survive, that what Voldemort had found was not as bad as to render them completely at his mercy, and sinking into pits of despair where all that was left for her to do was rid the earth of her presence.

If only she could know with certainty. Nevertheless, even if by now the Order had found a way to defend itself, she wasn't sure if she wanted to survive. It had become more and more clear to her that dying, while being the easy way out, would also best serve her friends. The ways in which she had wronged them were stacking up every day without her being able to stop it.

She doubted Neville and the others would be able to forgive her for not stepping in, doing something, anything on the night of the dinner. The rest of the Order, if they had been able to fight back and win against an attack Voldemort planned based on the information he had gotten out of her, and they found out that it was she who had betrayed them, would never be able to trust her again. If they kept her amongst them, Ron, Harry, and the rest of them would shut her out, likely never speak to her again, and Kingsley would never send her on another mission or let her strategise. If she were this useless, would they send her back to the Muggle world? Could they do that? There was nothing there that linked her to it anymore, but her ways of proving her worth in the Wizarding world were running out like sand in an hourglass. Every way she looked was a dead end to her usefulness.

Still, every time she began banging her head against the stone floor, determined to bring an end to all this, a little sentence arose from somewhere within her, sounding as if it were being whispered directly into her ear 'What if?’

She didn’t have an answer to it, but lets off every time, nonetheless, raises her head again and comes stumblingly to her feet. She resumes her pattern – five steps down the cell, five steps up - though over an hour ago her feet had started to hurt. The blood from the wound on the top of her head has been flowing down into her eyes since she first cracked open the skin; her vision is tinted slightly pink, but in the dark, it hardly matters.

By now, her cheeks are flushed from the exercise as well as the thoughts running through her head. Her mind keeps searching for a solution, finding nowhere to go, which prompts her body to move in its stead. She feels hot and cold simultaneously and slightly light-headed, but that may as well be from the blood loss. In an attempt to cool down her face, she presses the backs of her hands to her cheeks, but lets them drop back down immediately, feeling that they’re equally as hot. Still, she shivers. She walks to the back of the cell and lays her left cheek against the stone wall. It’s cold; little rivulets of water run down it, wetting the side of her face. As she closes her eyes and inhales, the smell of moss, old stone, and wet dust fills her nostrils.

Gods, she is so tired, but she cannot sleep. This time, however, it’s not due to an uncomfortable position or a wound that just won’t heal. No, it’s her own mind which holds her hostage, not allowing her to drift off even for a second. The stone wall makes her jumper ride up her back as she slowly slides down against it, coming to a sitting position on the cold cell floor once more. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. Tears are rolling down her face, splattering in thick drops on her hands, which are folded in her lap. There is no point in trying to stop crying; no one is here to see her, and even if they were, none of the people here are any of the ones she cares about any longer. She used to once, of course, but that feels like an eternity ago; a whole different life. Her thoughts drift to Theo and Blaise again, the night of the dinner, the faces, the way they had leered at her. Her skin prickles before she lets out a humourless laugh.

“They don’t care about you,” she scolds herself.

She hits her head repeatedly against the wall, revering in the sharp flashes of hurt that light up her skull with every thud. At the tenth forceful repetition, she feels warm liquid running down her neck and in between her shoulder blades. She smiles and keeps going.

Suddenly, her vision lights up bright red, and she briefly wonders whether bleeding in the brain can lead to blood flowing into the eyes before she opens her eyes and then quickly shuts them again. Due to constantly being held underground without any real light source, she’s become rather photophobic; pure light now feels like knives sinking into her irises repeatedly.

“What the hell happened to you?” asks a familiar voice, and she tries to open her eyes again to make out who is in her cell, but all she sees is blinding white, and she flinches back, hitting her head against the wall, this time, accidentally.

She feels a hand circling her arm, making her lean forward. The arm lets go and brushes her hair away from her face. There is a slight tugging as strands of her hair rip free from the crusted blood surrounding the edges of the wound on her forehead and dried streams of blood undoubtedly covering the rest of her face.

“Merlin, what have you done to yourself?” The same voice again, but she doesn’t bother trying to open her eyes. She knows who it is. An Episkey is mumbled, and for the second that it takes for the spell to work, blessed darkness surrounds Hermione. The skin on her forehead knits together in an instant, and a moment later, the cell is filled with light again.

“Have you come to take me to him again?” she asks, noticing for the first time that her voice sounds raw from all the screaming and crying. The question remains unanswered. Instead, hands busily turn her from left to right, likely inspecting whether there are any other injuries.

An irritated breath sounds before another Episkey seals the fresh wound at the back of her head, stilling the blood that was still flowing from it.

“Anything else I should know about?”

Hermione shakes her head in defeat, too tired and too stubborn to answer.

“I knew I should have come sooner.”

“You don’t need to bother now,” croaks Hermione in response. “It will all be over soon enough.”

She’s stopped taking her Nutritionis again and hopes that they will leave her alone long enough that her still not overcome malnutrition will catch up to her.

The hands remain busy, a wand tip is laid against Hermione’s face, and she feels the sticky blood on her face dissolving. The same sensation follows quickly after at the back of her neck and down her spine, where the blood had flown, as she is tipped even further forward to allow for easier access.

“Can you open your eyes yet?”

She feels like she’s gotten used to the light now, at least the soft, red-tinted version flooding her brain.

“Will you hold your wand in the other direction, please?”

The moment she verbalises her request, the red becomes less bright and saturated, and she slowly opens her eyes, rapidly blinking to not be exposed to too much light at once. Her vision flashes black to white to black as she flutters her lids.

Gradually, her blinks slow down until she’s able to keep her eyes fully open. She looks up at Pansy, who regards her with an impatient expression.

“Get up, we don’t have much time.”

“Where are we going?” she asks, hopeful at the unusual chattiness of the black-haired witch.

Pansy, evidently tired of Hermione’s dallying, grips her by the elbows, firm but not harshly, and pulls her up until she is face to face with her.

“Come on,” she says, still not answering any of her questions.

“If you’re bringing me to him now,” says Hermione with a vitriol she didn’t think she still held in her, “you can just kill me here and tell him, you found me bleeding out in my cell, and that you were too late to save me.”

Pansy doesn’t respond but simply tries to drag Hermione, who has rammed her feet into the ground, towards the cell door. Panic surges in her and almost cuts off her airway. She is ready to die, but under no circumstances can she face that monster again.

“Please,” she begs, “it’s the least you can do.”

At the words, Pansy freezes for a second before whipping around and hissing vehemently, “I’m not going to kill you for fuck’s sake. I’m getting you out of here. So, please shut up for once in your damn life and bloody cooperate.”

Hermione stills, all fight going out of her at the words and tumbles forward as Pansy keeps pulling on her arm. Then she locks her muscles again, more confused than ever. Her heart is thundering in an unsteady rhythm, and the particular hope she had held of ever escaping this place, a hope she had assumed extinguished, rears its head like a Phoenix rising from the ashes.

“Wha-What do you mean?” she stutters, sure she misheard.

“Can you move?” Pansy presses out between clenched teeth. “You can ask your stupid questions later.”

Hermione’s brain kickstarts, and she willingly follows Pansy out of the cell, the door clicking shut behind them. She cannot believe that this will truly be the last time she hears this noise; everything feels surreal. Briefly, she wonders if she’s stuck in a dream, but the feeling of her filthy clothes against her dirty body, the sensation of Pansy’s hand wrapped around her wrist, the smell of decaying bodies, and cold stone, everything is too vivid to be a dream. Questions rush her mind and beg to be released. She presses her lips together to stop herself from asking them, knowing that Pansy would only get more irritated and likely would not even answer any of them.

They hurry down the hall, her feet stumbling after Pansy’s rapid steps, and for the first time, Hermione sees the other faces which stare at her hungrily, trying to understand why she gets to walk around with her eyesight, without being shackled. She now realises with a start that she had been in the last cell in the hall, as she’s never seen anyone pass by except for the guards on patrol. The faces rush by and become a blur until there’s a flash of red between the brown, blonde, and black of the hair colours. If it weren’t for her trained eyesight, she likely would have missed it, but now she’s sure that there was a person with red hair in one of the cells they just passed. She tries to stop and cranes her neck, but Pansy, feeling her reluctance to go on, simply pulls harder on her arm.

“No time,” she simply says.

“But-“

“Granger, I swear. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Pansy, you have to let me go back. We have to get the others -”

Pansy whirls around so fast that Hermione’s eyes have trouble following the motion. A slim, cold hand presses over Hermione’s mouth, and eyes which are so dark in the light, they almost look black, flash at her meaningfully, but Hermione cannot decipher what she’s trying to convey. She stills, nonetheless.

Then she hears it too. Heavy bootsteps hurrying down the corridor that crosses with their own, the person could be coming from either the right or the left side. Pansy turns her back to Hermione and holds her wand readily in her hand, taking on a duelling posture and letting go of Hermione’s wrist.

The footfalls become louder, and Pansy visibly tenses. Hermione feels like a coward as she steps behind the other witch, but knows that she would only minimise their chances of winning against an attacker without her wand. The only offensive spell she’s ever mastered without a wand is Bombarda, as it doesn’t need too precise an aim, but that would be extremely ill-advised in such a narrow space with low ceilings. Casting it would as likely kill Pansy and herself as their opponent.

A flicker of blue flows out from Pansy’s wand and builds a protective shield around her and Hermione. A moment later, the person coming down the hallway rounds the corner, but before they are even fully in the same corridor as them, a powerful Expelliarmus rips the person’s wand from their grip and makes it hurtle toward Pansy, who closes her other hand around it with casual assuredness.

“Lady Park-“

“Stupefy,” cries Pansy, and another red flash exits her wand, bringing the other wizard down as the spell hits his chest.

Pansy stashes her wand in the holster on her hip and quickly grabs Hermione before hurrying down the corridor until they reach the man now lying on the floor. Almost gently, she lays his wand down next to him before leaning over and obliviating him. Hermione bites her tongue to keep herself from commenting on it.

As if Hermione was the one who had slowed them down and not a roaming guard, Pansy looks over her shoulder, scorn filling her eyes and whispers forcefully, “Come on.”

When they reach the intersection of the corridors, they take a left instead of the usual right and pass by the flight of stairs she used on the one occasion Astoria had picked her up. They take more and more turns until the corridors, which had been quite dim to begin with, get even darker, and there are no cells on either side anymore. Finally, they come to a stop in front of a short stairway that leads down to an old wooden door with a circular metal knocker and metal plates attached to it. Pansy moves down the stairs, Hermione directly behind her, but before they can open the door, a large white hand rams against the door and holds it shut. Hermione shrieks and flinches back from the sudden movement of the hand, her back colliding with someone standing directly behind her.

“Pansy, what the fuck?” says Malfoy emphatically, who doesn’t even glance at Hermione, after she turns around to look at who stopped her escape.

“Oh, Draco, hi. I thought you were in Hogwarts until tomorrow,” says Pansy, sounding oddly calm considering that Malfoy looks like he would like to strangle her.

“I was,” he snarls, and Hermione watches on in fascination as his face contorts with rage. “Do you know how far I just had to apparate to get here?” His eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment, Hermione wonders whether he would ever actually hurt Pansy. “So again, Parkinson, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Hermione glances back at Pansy, who suddenly looks equally as enraged as Malfoy.

“I am getting her out,” she says hotly, her voice rising with every word. “I am getting her out for you,” she almost screams and points her finger accusingly at his chest.

The words ring in Hermione’s head. For him? What would he gain by getting her out? She looks at him with wide eyes, but he’s still not meeting her eyes; instead, he looks over her head at Pansy, his face suddenly very calm. He takes a step back and then opens the door. Without saying another word, Pansy turns and walks down the last step before continuing into the room. Confused, Hermione remains in place, simply looking after Pansy. She feels Malfoy hovering behind her, his presence heavy like a cloak hanging on her shoulders. She wants to turn around and look at him again, understand what is happening, make him explain it to her.

“Come along,” Pansy says, now facing Hermione again and waiting impatiently at the base of the stairs. Hermione furrows her eyebrows but follows the command. What alternative is there for her, really? Both of them have a wand and are physically in way better shape than her. If she wouldn’t come willingly, they would just make her, and anyway, anything is better than going back to the cell or facing Voldemort.

She hesitantly steps into the room, taking in the bare stone walls, the large plain wooden table surrounded by wooden stools, and the kitchen stove in one corner. On the opposite side of the room is another door. Two narrow windows on the top of the right-hand side let in a little light, just enough not to leave the room in complete darkness. 

She looks at the door again, longingly, and wonders whether this might be the way out of this wretched place.

The door clicks shut behind her, and she whirls around at the noise. Now standing a couple of feet away from her, she can better take in Malfoy’s appearance. His hair is dishevelled as if he had spent an hour running his hands through it. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and there is a bead of sweat running down his right temple. Likely from apparition exhaustion. His robes are black and hang straight down, revealing nothing but well-cut dragonhide boots, which peak out at the bottom, also in black.

He isn’t looking at her.

“What happened to her?” he asks, his eyes presumably locked on Pansy, who’s still standing behind Hermione. “She looks extremely pale.”

“She has spent three months in a cell without any sunlight. What do you want her to look like?”

“Her lips are basically white, Pansy,” he says irritably.

“She lost some blood,” Pansy responds calmly, both of them acting as if she weren’t in the same room as them.

“What?” snarls Malfoy. “What happened?”

“It’s fine, Draco. I fixed it.”

“Has she had a blood replenishing potion?”

“No, I don’t exactly carry them around with me,” drawls Pansy, sounding extremely bored. Hermione feels on edge. Two minutes ago, she had thought she would finally escape this place, and now she is stuck here with two people who are talking about the status of her health?

“You should,” grumbles Malfoy, sinking one of his hands into a breast pocket of his robes and pulling out a vial with a blood-red potion. He carefully sets it on the table instead of giving it to Hermione and then says to the room at large. “Drink.” 

Hermione scoffs and crosses her arms. What a wanker.

A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t look at her either.

“You should drink that, Granger, you lost quite a bit of blood,” Pansy says to her, more gently than she had spoken to her this entire time.

Hermione is already tired of being surrounded by manipulative Slytherins, but, recalling the power imbalance, she reluctantly steps closer to the table and picks up the potion. As she tilts back her head, she can see Malfoy take two steps back, moving closer to the door, in her peripheral vision.

She sets down the empty glass vial and scoffs again, piercing Malfoy with her eyes before turning on her heel and rounding the table to sit down on one of the six stools surrounding it. A slight blush rises to her cheeks from the potion, and she can feel her heartbeat in all of her limbs at once for a moment before the side effect lets off. Now, on the other side of the table, facing the room, she looks at both of them, awaiting any form of explanation for what was going on.

“You want to explain to me what happened ?” asks Malfoy, looking at Pansy and suddenly sounding very tired.

“You’ve been gone a couple of days, Draco. A lot has happened,” responds Pansy, shrugging her shoulders.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean,” he says furiously, flurrying his hand in Hermione’s direction, the tiredness gone in a flash.

“You fucking can’t do this, Pansy. You know that. I’ve been working on this for months and haven’t found a way. How do you not know that you can’t just get her out like that?”

“She wants to die, Draco! Did you know that she wants to kill herself?”

Malfoy stumbles back a step, his expression and whole body looking like he got sucker punched in the throat, the little colour that he had gotten from the apparition exhaustion draining from his face. Then he stills and stares at Pansy, his eyes wide with something akin to horror.

“What?” he brings out. “No,” he says as to himself, shaking his head vehemently.

“The Dark Lord requested she get sent up again and interrogated her himself. He crucioed her and then went into her mind.”

Malfoy flinches with every sentence as if he were getting repeatedly hit by a whip. Hermione cocks her head at such a curious reaction. She got tortured every day after all.

“He said that her greatest wish now is to die,” continues Pansy softly, who had slowly gone over to him and was now rubbing his back soothingly. Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

“I didn’t want to believe it either at first,” she says in response to Malfoy, who had gone back to adamantly shaking his head.

“But then she looked at me, and I could see it in her eyes. So, do you understand why I had to get her out? Everything else, we can worry about later.”

Some time passes in which no one says anything.

“You want to die?” he asks, and Hermione takes a second to understand that he’s now talking to her, his eyes clearly locked on hers.

She cannot read his expression.

She tilts her head to the side, trying to make out what it is that he wants, but then gives up and simply nods.

He takes in a sharp breath, still gazing at her, and the intensity of his eyes on her is almost too much to bear.

“Why?” he croaks.

She laughs. Really laughs this time and ignores his wince and his face crumpling.

“Why?” she brings out between laughter, which sounds hysterical, even to her own ears. “Are you joking?”

She flares her arms and then roughly shoves her hair from her face.

“Why? Yes, why would a person want to die who is getting repeatedly tortured, had to watch her friends get raped and wasn’t able to stop it, had hope rising in her when she saw her old friends again, only to be sorely disappointed, then got raped by those very friends, had her memories violated, which led to the take-down of an institution she has worked for for years, in order to win a war against her kind, losing that war and consequently everything that has ever mattered anything at all, and finally,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Seeing her old boyfriend again and knowing with certainty from the way he looks at her that he despises her and would kill her if he could. Yes why? Why would anyone who has gone through any of that not want to live anymore?”

He looks away again and swallows before saying, “That’s not how it is.”

“It’s not?” she asks harshly. “How is it then? Please do enlighten me.”

“I can’t do this right now.” He looks at Pansy, who’s still standing next to him, her arms wrapped securely around his shoulder. “We have to get her back to her cell.”

“What?” shrieks Hermione. The blood rushes from her face, and she feels as if she’ll faint. Something lights up in her brain and swallows her whole. “No! You can’t! You can’t! Please don’t. No. No. No. Please.”

Dimly, she’s aware that she’s crying. Hands rest on her shoulders from behind her and press gently down.

“Breathe. Please breathe, Granger.”

She can barely hear; she’s crying so much.

“You c-can’t - take me back th - there. P- please don’t take m - me back there. Just le-let me go. No one will have t-to know it was you. J-just let me go. Pl-please!”

The hands now wrap around her, pressing her back against a warm, solid structure before turning her around on the stool. Eyes, the colour of the North Sea, collide with hers, the pupils so large, there is only a thin rim of it left.

“You need to calm down. Breathe with me. Hermione, come on.”

She looks at those eyes, which were so familiar to her once, which have haunted her for years. Seeing them makes her feel like she’s in a dream. They flit over her face, and she follows the movement. Her breathing is rapid and uneven, her fingertips tingle, but those eyes calm something in her.

“That’s it, Hermione. Breathe for me. In ….and out. In ….and out.”

She nods. The voice is familiar, soothing.

“Here is a glass of water. Do you want a sip?”

She realises that she is really thirsty, has been for some days. She nods again faintly, and though her hands don’t touch glass, she can feel the cold sensation of it against her lips and then a trickle of water passing past them. She swallows. Her breathing has slowed, and she blinks to clear her mind, finally looking up into the concerned face of Draco Malfoy.

She retracts on the stool, bringing some distance between them. His eyes harden slightly, his features rearrange in some way, and he, too, retreats, coming to a standing position and looking down at her.

“How about we try this the normal way, Draco?” asks Pansy from the other side of the table.

His eyes leave Hermione’s face, and he looks up, cocking an eyebrow at the other witch.

“You know, by explaining it to her instead of threatening to bring her back to her cell immediately after I told you that she wants to die.”

“Seems like a novel approach,” he says and it would sound like he was making a joke if his voice weren’t shaking.

“Do you want to sit?”

“Sure,” says Pansy, walking over to the stool on his right.

Both of them turn to Hermione and look at her calculatingly before glancing at each other.

Hermione doesn’t know what to expect, but figures the best way to get the most information right now is not to say anything. They might reveal something she wouldn’t even think about asking if left umprompted.

“Right so,” says Malfoy finally, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “What do you want to know?” His gaze is fixed on the door; he looks like he would rather be anywhere but here in this room with her.

His signals are so mixed that she’s having trouble tracking his mood. Everything is so confusing; she doesn’t even know if they’re trying to help her or if this is some elaborate plot to hurt her even more.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you think is relevant? I’m sure you are considerably better informed than me to the point where it would almost make no sense for me to ask questions into the void,” she says, trying to sound controlled, and ignoring that her breath is still somewhat uneven.

Pansy mumbles something that distinctly sounds like `Such a Slytherin,´ which both Malfoy and Hermione ignore.

Malfoy swallows and then looks down at his hands, which are folded on the top of the table.

“The mission you went on when you got captured,” he begins quietly, “was to the headquarters of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters at the time. There was no trap, but for some reason, some of the Death Eaters knew The Order was coming and prepared to attack. I made it look like it had all been planned in advance so that the security issue in the Dark Lord’s ranks didn’t become too obvious.”

Pansy scoffs at the words, but Malfoy doesn’t even glance her way and keeps talking.

“After it was clear that the Order of the Phoenix had the coordinates for the location of the Headquarters, the prisoners,” he swallows thickly and clenches his hands.

“The prisoners were brought to the cells, and once asleep, were stupefied. The whole Movement got relocated to the current location, an old mansion owned by the Greengrass family.”

Already, Hermione would like to ask so many questions. What had happened in the five years before? Who was the Order’s spy? Where was the Greengrass property located? But she was frankly quite surprised that he was giving her this information willingly in the first place and pushing for more would likely lead to her being brought to her cell with as little information as she had now.

“The Grengrass property is extremely secure. Ignatius, Astoria’s and Daphne’s father, has always been exceedingly paranoid, and since the Movement has come to stay there and made the property their new headquarters, security measures have increased even more, though most of them already existed when we got there. After you and the other members of the Order woke up in the prison, they started the torture to get information. It’s been ensured that crucial information would not come out using systematic obliviation.”

This was already too much without further explanation. “What do you mean by that?” Hermione asked tensely. “Who got obliviated. By whom?”

Malfoy swallowed again and looked at Pansy, who simply nodded.

“The members of the Order of the Phoenix. They-“

“They were obliviated?” Hermione could feel a cold sense of dread rising in her. “Why? What do they even remember?”

“It was necessary to ensure that the current locations of the Order of the Phoenix and its intelligence don’t get revealed to the Dark Lord. It was a last resort, but a necessary one. They remember everything but the most delicate information. For most of the members, there did not have to be an extensive intrusion as a lot of them lacked the necessary security clearance to be well informed, but –“

“But Ginny,” Hermione says with horror. “Ginny has lost a lot of memories, hasn’t she?”

Malfoy nods stiffly. “It was necessary. But as I said, only the most important information got erased.”

For such a precise obliviation, the caster had to be extremely skilled. She eyes him suspiciously.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asks. “You obliviated the members of the Order.”

Malfoy sighs deeply and again nods. “It was necessary,” he repeats.

“But why didn’t I get obliviated?” She didn’t want to be, of course, but it was a better alternative to what had happened now. Her potentially having betrayed the whole war effort.

Malfoy looks at Pansy again with an expression Hermione cannot read, then he keeps his face turned away, glancing up at the windows.

“It was known that you were relatively skilled in occlumency; there was no real need,” says Pansy simply.

“Oh, wasn’t there?” Hermione asks, letting out a humourless laugh. “On which basis did you decide this? When we were in school, I was hardly good enough at Occlumency to keep out Voldemort.”

“Stop saying his name,” hisses Pansy, suddenly enraged again.

Hermione jerks back from the severity of Pansy’s chastisement. She’s close to apologising, but indignation at the whole situation has her clenching her teeth.

“Pansy,” says Malfoy lowly, and it sounds like a warning.

Pansy sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes before facing Hermione again.

“Let’s just say we were informed of your improvements. We knew that you could keep off a simple attack.”

“That’s the whole reason?”

“Of course.”

Hermione doesn’t believe her. Why go through all the effort of obliviating the members of the Order one by one, a task that takes considerable time and effort when done as precisely as Malfoy had made it seem in this instance, and then not go to the extra length of doing the same with her? It seemed like an unnecessary risk.

“That makes no sense,” she responds, but leaves it at that after seeing there will be no further explanation. There are other things much more pressing to know than why they decided not to erase her memories specifically.

“So, you are what? Spies for the Order?”

“Hardly,” scoffs Pansy

“Then what?”

“I, for one, am nothing,” says Pansy haughtily as if that were something to be proud of. It also doesn’t seem to be true, considering she was sitting here with Hermione and had tried to help her escape.

“And you?” she asks, turning to Malfoy, who’s looking at the door again.

He looks over at her as if surprised that she’s speaking to him.

“Me?” he asks.

Hermione feels the urge to roll her eyes, but simply replies, “Yes. You.”

“I do give information to the Order on occasion, yes.”

“On occasion?”

“When it’s feasible,” he responds, turning away from her again.

She hums. “So, you are on the side of the Order then?”

He purses his lips slightly, studying the door like it may tell him the answer to her question.

“Sure,” he finally responds.

“Sure?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes, sure.”

“Fine,” she brings out between clenched teeth at the non-answer. This line of questioning obviously wouldn’t get her very far.

She suddenly remembers the most pressing issue and is shocked that this was not the first thing she asked them. “And the Order still exists? They haven’t been wiped out yet, attacked?”

“Why would they be wiped out?” Malfoy asks, his brows narrowing in confusion.

“Because of the interrogation, of course. I’m sure Volde-“ Pansy shoots her a hateful look, and Hermione stops herself. “I’m sure Tom Riddle found something on the basis of which the Order could be easily attacked.”

Malfoy looks sharply at Pansy, his eyes boring into her.

“I haven’t heard anything,” she says. “If he found something useful, he likely is waiting for your return to plan an attack.”

“He hasn’t summoned me yet,” Malfoy responds, absently rubbing his left arm. Hermione’s eyes snatch on the movement. So, he’s taken the mark, then. Of course, he had. He wouldn’t have the status he holds now if he hadn’t.

“I will report to him shortly and see what it is he found.”

He looks at Hermione again as if trying to solve a puzzle. She tries not to squirm under his gaze, but his eyes have taken on a strange quality since she last looked at them. They gleam almost silver, the edges sharp like a blade again, and she feels as if they are actually physically piercing her. For a moment, she fears that he’s using Legilimency before remembering that she would feel it if he were.

“What?” she finally snaps, no longer wanting him to look at her like that.

“What did he do to you exactly?”

She’s taken aback by the question. She doesn’t want to tell him, as that means reliving the entire experience again.

“I’m sure you can imagine,” she quips.

There was no way Malfoy could be second in command without Voldemort ever having interrogated him, tortured him, and violated his mind. He was way too paranoid to trust anyone blindly and cruel enough to regularly mistreat his own followers. Even the Order had started using Legilimency on their members recently, after suspicions arose about a spy amongst them. So, Malfoy had likely experienced something very similar to what she had gone through. And even if he hadn’t, he had been there for her first session, had participated himself, and she surely wasn’t their first victim.

“That is not what I asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Malfoy. I don’t answer to you, so use your imagination.”

“You do actually. You’re still a prisoner here.”

She guffaws in shock. She had wondered why he was interested in helping the Order, why he was explaining all this to her. It clearly wasn’t for her benefit. He really didn’t care about her anymore.

“Malfoy,” Pansy warns, but he ignores her, his eyes never leaving Hermione. He cocks an eyebrow at her.

“He went into my mind. Then he crucioed me when he realised I was controlling it and went back in again. He tore through it like an ill-behaved child would tear wrapping paper. Happy?”

“Not even a little,” he says, his expression remaining stoic. “So, he has destroyed some of your memories, the structure of your mind?” he asks as if they were discussing the weather.

“Yes,” she responds testily.

How was it that he could still bring her blood to a boil? He should not be able to provoke any emotion in her, yet here she sits, close to snarling in his face.

“Have you had a mind healer look at it?”

Again, a puff of air leaves her mouth. This man was truly something else.

“I didn’t realise working for a deranged lunatic would make you delusional,” she says loftily. “No, of course I didn’t have a mind healer. Who would even send one to me?”

For a brief moment, he looks at Pansy before turning back to her.

Without responding to her insult, he asks, “Have you attended to your mind in another manner then? Have you been able to fix the damage?”

“Judging from the extent of the injury, it would take me at least three days to fix it, and it’s only been two since the interrogation.”

“Well, have you started at least?”

She raises her chin, her eyes becoming hard. She doesn’t owe him anything, not even an explanation, so she simply says, “No.”

“No?” he asks in bewilderment. “That’s it? No? Whyever not?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business. I frankly don’t see the need.”

His face scrunches up into something very close to rage, and he is already opening his mouth when Pansy leans toward him and whispers something into his ear. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes flicker before they settle back on Hermione.

“You will have a mind healer shortly,” he states. “And I suggest you start repairing it in the meantime. I’m sure I don’t have to explain the repercussions of a prolonged healing period to you.”

“It’s none of your business,” she enunciates slowly, as understanding dawns on her that he means to keep her locked up. If she can’t escape, everything else doesn’t matter anymore.

He takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists again before slowly releasing them.

“You will-“

“Stop being so stubborn,” interrupts Pansy. “Just get your mind healed, or have you suddenly stopped caring about your oh-so-big-swot-brain?”

Hermione just blinks at her.

“We’re on your side, Granger, whether you can see it or not.”

“Oh, you are?” she asks, sarcasm dripping off her tongue like syrup. “Well, however could I have missed that? Silly me. I, too, always let people get raped by their previous friends when I’m on their side.”

From the corner of her eye, it looks like Malfoy is flinching again, but she keeps her eyes on Pansy, burning into her.

“For Merlin’s sake. Blaise and Theo didn’t rape you,” Pansy exclaims as if it were obvious. Hermione stares at her in confusion.

“What?” she asks quietly.

“They never raped you. They would never rape you.”

“But – but that’s what they said.”

“Was it?”

She tries to remember, scrunching up her face in concentration. Everything from that night was so murky. Now, even more than before, since Voldemort had inspected every little moment from that night and then proceeded to rip his flaming fingers through it. But she thinks she can hear their words clearly, talking about how she was a disappointment to them. How she wasn’t worth it. Had they ever said that they raped her? No, not in so many words, but it was implied, and who would ever actually say that? The perpetrators surely wouldn’t classify their own behaviour as rape. However, she remembers too that she hadn’t felt anything afterwards, that indicated violence or any sort of force. But that didn’t make any sense.

“Then why did they drug me?”

“They didn’t,” Pansy says.

God, Hermione could scream. Did she have to drag everything out of her?

“Then what happened?” she asks through clenched teeth, making a considerable effort not to yell the words. “Why would they imply that they did that if it never happened? And how do I not remember what happened if they didn’t actually drug me?”

“Hmm, I thought you would have it figured out by now,” muses Pansy.

“Pansy,” chastises Malfoy, and Pansy rolls her eyes again.

Their dynamic was very odd, had definitely become something else entirely since their days at Hogwarts, as they seemed to take turns with keeping each other in check.

“We obliviated you,” Pansy says drily.

“Excuse me?” shrieks Hermione. She must be kidding.  

“It was necessary.”

Oh Christ, if she had to hear this one more time, she would strangle one of them.

“You cannot be serious right now,” she brings out, fighting for control. “How can you sit there and lecture me on the importance of getting my mind healed when you went and obliviated some of my memories? Do you know how dangerous a procedure that is?”

Again, Pansy rolls her eyes. “I’m good at obliviation spells, Granger. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“There can be long-term consequences you have no idea about!”

“I wasn’t planning to have it remain that way. I was going to eventually restore the memories.”

“When?”

“At the right time. After the war.”

“You have told me basically everything now. Restore them now.”

Pansy shoots Malfoy a look, who warily looks at Hermione and then shakes his head at Pansy.

“Let’s worry about this later,” he says, turning back to Hermione. “Do you not have any other questions?”

Of course, she had other questions. Barely anything made sense with the information she had, but she didn’t want to move on from the topic so fast. They were acting as if obliviation was the panacea, seemingly throwing it at everyone in every situation.

“How could you just obliviate me?” she asks, still shocked.

Malfoy sighs deeply, and Pansy just rolls her shoulders as if to get Hermione off her back.

“Would you rather have had The Dark Lord find the memories of what really happened that night in your mind? Blaise, Theo, Draco, Astoria,” she swallows, “and me, we would all be dead now. You as well, most likely.”

Astoria too? How was she involved in any of this? Hermione still remembered the witch giving her the Nutritionis, but it didn’t seem, from the way Malfoy and Pansy were acting, as if Astoria had been punished for that. What else had she done that night that would cause her execution?

Hermione wants to argue but knows immediately that Pansy is right. She can’t really say that she cares about their safety too much anymore, but she seemingly still lacks the most important information. If Theo and Blaise had really just played their part and hadn’t actually wanted to hurt Hermione, would she want them to get killed? No. She didn’t want this for any of them, though she didn’t know any longer what it was that she wanted when it came to them. She didn’t trust them anymore, because how could she? They had hidden themselves for more than five years, had completely vanished from her life without so much as a note. But, while she didn’t love them anymore as she used to in school, fiercely, with her whole heart, the way she loves Harry and Ron, she also doesn’t want them to get harmed.

“Alright,” she breathes. “So, what happens now? Will you help me and the others escape?”

She feels like she already knows the answer, but she has to hear it from him. She has to look into his face when he condemns her to remain here.

“No,” he says, but he doesn’t look at her. His gaze is turned to his hands again, which still lie on the table in front of him. She awaits his next words with bated breath. Surely, he means to explain this?

“Not yet at least.” He lifts one hand and rubs the back of his neck

“Why not?” she asks quietly.

“There is,” he interrupts himself and looks up at the door again. “Do you remember the Trace?”

“From school? Yes, I remember it. Harry almost got expelled because of it.”

“Yes, I know,” he says, and it feels strange to her to talk to him about this. A time when everything was so utterly different. Their younger selves would likely break down crying if they could see them together now.

“What about the Trace?” she swiftly moves on, pushing the thought aside.

“You know how it keeps track of every young wizard and witch who uses magic when underage outside of the premises of Hogwarts.”

“Malfoy, I just said I know what it is. It’s not really something one forgets about.”

“Yes, right. My apologies,” he stops for a moment.

“Go on,” she says, impatiently wagging her hand.

“The Dark Lord. He’s developed something very similar, let’s say. The way it works is if you ever leave the cell, he and his second-in-command can track you wherever you go. You wouldn’t even need to use magic. Currently, only I get notified as the Dark Lord is otherwise occupied and has relayed the task of tracking escapees to me, but he doesn’t plan on it remaining that way.”

Hermione blanches as the repercussions of what this means immediately crowd her mind. This was awful yet genius in two ways.

“So, it ensures that I can never escape, but if I manage to do it, he will know immediately where I am, and since I and anyone from the Order would first try to get to HQ, he would be able to locate it instantaneously upon my arrival.”

“Yes,” Malfoy says, and then silence stretches out between them.

“Does everyone have it?” Hermione finally asks.

Malfoy nods, “Every prisoner has received the Shadow.”

“The Shadow? Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes.”

“But how? How was he able to develop this? The making of the Trace is highly confidential. No one but certain Ministry employees know how it works, not even the Hogwarts professors.”

“Yes, we know, but the Ministry is not what it used to be. There’s a lot of corruption, and some Death Eaters have climbed rank there as well. Already with Umbridge, we could see a shift, but it’s spread, and The Dark Lord has one of his followers in almost every department in the highest ranks.”

Hermione feels as if she’s just been kicked in the stomach. The meaning of what Malfoy just disclosed feels like an infection in her brain. The Ministry corrupt? This would mean the entire war effort was corrupted. Hermione had told him repeatedly not to do it, but to her knowledge, Kingsley still reported regularly to the Ministry, informing them of the developments and new intel on Voldemort. But she couldn’t worry about that now. One step at a time.

“How do I get rid of it then, the Shadow?”

Malfoy shoots a glance at Pansy, who just looks at him in annoyance. The irritated `What?´is so clearly written on her face, it is as if she actually said the words.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for some time now,” Malfoy finally says angrily.

“We all have, Draco. But clearly, we’re taking too long,” Pansy replies while gesturing to Hermione.

He presses his head into his hands and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I am aware.”

“What have you tried so far?” asks Hermione. She can feel some of the intellectual intrigue coming back to her, her mind ravenous for something to do that isn’t thinking about her friends never forgiving her.

“We haven’t really tried anything yet. We’re not exactly in the experimenting phase yet, but still rather firmly stuck in the research phase.”

“Okay. Do you have the documents which show how Voldemort developed the Shadow?”

“No, he keeps them very close to him, if they even still exist. He knows how to do it, has explained the spell to me as well, seeing as I was the one to put it on some of the prisoners.”

“Did you put it on me?” she can’t help but ask.

“No,” he simply says without offering any further information.

“Alright, so you don’t have the documents which show the development of the spell, but you know how it works, right?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Did you gain access to the documents the Ministry has on the Trace?”

“Still working on it.”

Hermione hummed. What she’s hearing is that they really didn’t have much to go on. Retracing the development of a spell simply by knowing the incantation and the wand movement was more than simply difficult. It was almost impossible.

“Is the spell very complex?” Hermione asks.

“Draco,” says Pansy before Malfoy can respond. “I really don’t see why we’re having this conversation. It’s not like she can help exactly. If you really think it’s the best course of action, we need to get her back now before anyone notices that she’s gone.”

Irritation floods Hermione’s every vein. This was her life, the life of her and her friends, and Pansy wouldn’t let her help.

“I can help,” she snaps indignantly.

“Oh, can you? How riveting. Do tell,” retorts Pansy crisply.

Hermione swallows. She doesn’t have a wand or any resources, and even if she did have a wand, she wouldn’t be able to use it in her cell. She knew there was a magic suppressant on the cell; she could feel it every day. She didn’t know exactly how that worked, seeing as both Pansy and Blaise had used magic in her cell, and some of the guards, too. The suppressing property of the cell must be linked to either the Shadow or her being Muggle-born. The first option was much more likely, as none of the other prisoners had Muggle parents. However, this would also mean that the incantation for the Shadow was much more intricate than she had first assumed. It would have to be a spell that made linkages possible and could be extended with other forms of magic. Her mind was already whirring with all the possibilities.

So even if she didn’t have a wand, she was sure she could help in some way. She also had to. Nothing would be worse now than sitting idly by and letting others figure out her problem. She realises that they wouldn’t let her die. They were planning to keep her alive for some reason, which she was still trying to figure out, but that meant that she would be sitting for who knew how long in that cell, being subjected to more and more torture while knowing that Malfoy and the rest of them were trying to crack a spell which they didn’t even have on them.

“You can bring me books; I could help with the research.”

“Granger, that would be extremely dangerous. Just don’t worry about it, we’ll figure it out,” Malfoy says.

“Don’t worry about it?” she asks in a dangerous whisper. “You cannot be serious right now. I need to help. I need something to do! You don’t want me to kill myself?”

Again, he flinches slightly at the words, and Pansy grips his hand in a comforting gesture.

“Then let me help! Let me do something! I’m going crazy down there. There is nothing for me to do but think about all the things I’ve done wrong. I need something else to think about.”

“Alright,” he says in defeat. “We will look into it.” 

“No, let’s think about this now. It’s best if I start researching as soon as possible.”

She can hear the desperation in her voice, but she doesn’t really care anymore. She is desperate after all. 

They both look away from her and at each other, again with an expression on their faces that Hermione can’t read.

As they don’t respond immediately, she keeps talking. “You can bring me books and documents to the cell. I’m sure I have much more time than any of you do, so I could really research all day. The guards don’t come as regularly anymore, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to work on this. I think, at the moment, there is some sort of noise-blocking spell on my cell. I can’t hear when anyone approaches, but one of you could lift that, and then I could hide the research in time before a guard enters my cell. The echo of the boots carries rather far, so it wouldn’t be an issue to hide everything in time.” She takes a breath and looks at them expectantly.

Malfoy looks sort of guilty, his eyes firmly locked on his hands again, while Pansy is staring beyond Hermione with pursed lips.

“What?” she asks suspiciously.

“Umm, yes. I can remove the Quies,” Malfoy finally concedes, still not looking at her.

She eyes him. His mask is good, better than it was during school, but something familiar strikes her, and she gasps.

“You? You were the one who put the Quies on my cell?”

He looks up for a second, grey eyes finding her and nods.

All the times that she has been caught off guard by someone entering her cell, all the information she wasn’t able to gather, it hits her like a brick.

“Why?” she breathes, momentarily stunned. She really doesn’t understand, so she isn’t angry exactly, just puzzled.

“The noises down there, the sounds the prisoners make…” he clears his throat. “I thought it better you didn’t hear them.”

“I’ve been living in a war as long as you have, Malfoy. Why did you assume me too delicate to be able to stand this?”

She didn’t want to have to listen to the sounds. They were disgusting, and since having learnt that some of her friends were in her neighbouring cells, she was even gladder that she didn’t have to hear the sounds before. But he didn’t have any right to protect her anymore. It also confused her. She really couldn’t see his motive in any of this. Therefore, all this simply felt extremely patronising, as though he saw her as a child.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, and his nostrils flare angrily.

“I didn’t think you were too delicate, but I assumed you didn’t want to listen to other prisoners being raped. I apologise for overstepping,” he says viciously.

“I never asked you to do that,” she argues, though deep down she is grateful.

However, showing her gratitude somehow feels extremely vulnerable. She is still missing too much information, and the relationship between her and Malfoy is like an old wound being ripped open every time she looks at him again. It feels too raw to let anything else poke around in it.

“Fine,” he snarls. “I also knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep with the noise, so that’s mainly why I put it. I didn’t realise it would make you feel so bereft. But again, apologies for interfering in your life. I shall never do so again.”

She’s momentarily stunned into silence. He remembered that she is a light sleeper?

“Draco,” says Pansy calmly, laying her hand on his upper arm. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes for a moment. Hermione coughs delicately, and his eyes snap to her again.

“Are you sick?” he asks harshly.

“No, sorry,” she mumbles before straightening her shoulders and looking at Pansy, determined to get back to the original subject.

“Since I haven’t really been sleeping for the past weeks, I assume removing the Quies will not pose as much of an issue.”

Again, Malfoy closes his eyes but then nods.

“Alright, I’ll remove it.”

He conjures a glass of water and takes a deep sip before continuing. “Most of the research we have done so far is based on family heirlooms such as the Malfoy rings and the Nott necklaces. Both have a kind of tracking magic built into them, which allows the party wearing the counterpart to track the other person. There are books and old scriptures on this kind of magic in the Nott and Malfoy library, and Astoria has also found some books in her library, indicating that such magic was once used in her family, but the heirlooms were lost. So far, we haven’t found much on it, though. The spells are strictly linked to magical objects, and extending them to a person is almost impossible. It also doesn’t share any obvious qualities with the spell for the Shadow. However, the spells for the Nott and Malfoy heirlooms are wildly different. We hope to soon retrieve similar documents from Pansy’s estate since her family used to be a big advocate for tracking magic in magical heirlooms until the 19^th century.”

“We used them not only for spouses but for children as well,” interjects Pansy. “Though the tradition was lost, I am sure that I will find quite a bit on it in the library at our estate if the bastard would let me in again.” The last part was grumbled.

“Yes, Beowulf Parkinson has thrown Pansy out a while ago and won’t let her onto the estate anymore. Blaise and I are still figuring something out to enter it and then retrieve the documents from the Parkinson library,” explains Malfoy.

Hermione nods, trying to figure out the best way to go about this.

“Who all is working on this?”

“Mainly Blaise, Pansy and I. Astoria and Theo are still busy developing various potions for the Dark Lord.”

“But you’re gone quite a bit, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he concedes. “I work on it when I have the time.”

Pansy looks angrily at Hermione but doesn’t say anything else. If looks could kill, Hermione would have been dead ten times over with the way the other witch has regarded her alone today. She doesn’t understand what she’s doing wrong, but there is really no time to ponder on it. Still, Pansy Parkinson is terrifying, and Hermione would like to not constantly provoke her, though she doesn’t seem to be very good at that.

Hermione tries to ignore the look and lets her eyes drift back to Malfoy, who’s already studying her.

“We have a lead or something of the sort, nonetheless,” he says, looking meaningfully at her. “We know that there is something that can hamper with it temporarily, but removing it is, of course, more extensive and would be more complicated than merely blocking it.”

Hermione nods, uncomfortable at the repeated reminder of their shared past. “Yes, of course. Do you know how he did it?”

“He never told me,” Draco says, frustration lacing his words. “And now he is dead.”

Hermione blinks, stunned, but doesn’t react otherwise. She doesn’t ask who killed him. He was a horrible man after all.

“Can you show me the incantation for the Shadow?” she asks, changing the subject back and trying to remove herself from the past, a time when she knew everything about him.  

“I’ve written it down in the notes. We will make copies of them for you and bring them to you along with books,” he says shortly.

“The wand movement then?”

“But you don’t even have a wand,” Pansy argues.

“Really? I had hardly noticed,” she says before swishing her hands to get rid of her own sarcasm. This was not the time. “It helps me understand the interconnectedness of the spell with other forms of magic.”

“What are you talking about, Gryffindor?” asks Pansy, irritation lacing her words.

“Well, it’s just a theory thus far, but the cell doesn’t allow me to use any magic whatsoever.”

“Yes, well, you don’t have a wand,” interrupts Pansy.

“It’s not just that,” says Hermione, slightly annoyed at the interruption. “I can feel the absence of magic when I enter the cell. Even if I had a wand, I couldn’t use it.”

“But that makes no sense. I was able to use magic just fine,” butts in Pansy again, while Malfoy just looks at Hermione attentively.

“I am getting to that,” Hermione brings out between clenched teeth.

“Fine,” says Pansy, raising her hands in mock surrender.

“As I was saying,” she says, shooting a look at Pansy, who stares back calmly at her. “My magic is suppressed in the cell, and I assume it’s the same for all the other prisoners. Though the war hasn’t left much time, we all know some wandless magic, most of it defensive or offensive spells. If the others could access their magic, I am sure there would already have been at least one dead guard, and one prisoner escaped.”

Pansy scoffs. “There might have been a dead guard, yes, but don’t for one second believe that a prisoner could escape here without the help of a Death Eater.

“What do you mean? I realise that this manor might be difficult to penetrate, and escaping would likely sound an alarm, but if one managed to cross the anti-apparition wards, it should be manageable.”

“We’re not in the manor,” Pansy says and comes to a stand.

“Excuse me?” Hermione asks, suddenly feeling nauseous without really knowing why.

“We’re not in the manor,” Pansy repeats and walks over to the door opposite the one they used to enter the room.

Hermione is too stunned to speak. Pansy beckons with her hand, and slowly, Hermione rises, dread filling her entire body. When she comes to a stand next to Pansy, she can feel Malfoy hovering behind her again. A sense of Deja Vu comes over her until the other witch opens the door, which is completely made of iron, with a groan.

Wind whips Hermione’s hair into her face so fast that she closes her eyes before she can even look around. The wind is strong, too strong for the meadow she saw when standing on Astoria’s balcony. She smells salt and the distinct scent of cold water and minerals.

Quickly, she gathers her hair in the nape of her neck and opens her eyes. The wind billows around her, the sound like a howling wolf, but that isn’t what grabs her attention. 

One step behind the door lies an abyss so steep that she dares not move forward. Beyond it, all she can see is water. It keeps going and going and going, no rock, no ship, no cliff interrupting it until the line of the horizon.

For a brief second, she thinks that she’s in Azkaban, but she has seen pictures of it, read descriptions. Though the tower is located in the middle of the ocean, cliffs and rocks are visible from all three sides. They don’t connect to the mainland, but they are there. Azkaban is also not in the hands of Voldemort; she would know if it were.

“What is this?” she finally asks so quietly, she doubts either of them can hear her.

“This is Sphaera,” Malfoy responds grimly.

Chapter Text

Draco

Rain splattered against the large window. The water gathered and rolled in droplets down the glass. The sky was crying, had been for weeks. Beyond the glass, puddles grew with every passing second, seemingly striving to merge and transform into a lake, obscuring more and more of the gravel underneath.

Draco leaned his head against the cool glass, tracing a slim, pale finger down the windowpane, following one of the drops until it reached the bottom. The rain came more quickly, and the drops raced even faster to the bottom of the window where they would gather in the rubber seal before spilling over and falling down the side of the Manor. Draco exhaled, and a milky oval shape appeared on the glass. The world outside was equally as milky. Everything in subdued tones of grey, brown, and green. The sky covered in clouds, the flowers in his mother’s garden dead, their roots drowned with the onslaught of water from the heavens. It had been like this for seven weeks, a constant stream of water falling from above. Two more weeks and he would be back at Hogwarts without an ounce of reprieve from studying, no moment of sun. This year would mark the first year in his life when he would be glad about the return to school. He also dreaded it more than he ever had before.

When he was younger, he had looked forward to every holiday, every moment he could get away from school, as they had consisted of exciting experiences. Places he visited with his mother and father, new food he got to try, delightful weather to enjoy. In more recent years, Theo and Blaise, sometimes even Pansy, had come to the Manor, or they had gone down to Blaise’s family estate in southern Italy. They would spend weeks there, just lounging by the pool. Eating grapes, drinking expensive wine, they were too young to consume, but having no one to look over them who cared enough to stop it. This year had been different, though; there had been no games, no exotic food, no friends, no lounging around even for a second.

“Come on, dear. It’s time for your lesson.”

Draco didn’t respond. He simply lifted his gangly legs off the windowsill where they had lain spread out and swung them down, coming to a stand next to the window. With a last look at the outside world, he followed the receding form of his mother out of the drawing room and towards the duelling hall.  

“Draco, how good of you to join us. Master Hughes has been telling me that you have still not managed an Unforgivable. Do you want to explain to me why that is?”

Draco dropped his head before looking back at his father and the professional dueller standing next to him. He was a spindly man, his figure slightly crouched. His old hands, his face, his neck, and on the few occasions, Draco had seen them, even his arms were leathery. The tan of his skin didn’t hide the sunspots left on him by spending years outside doing Gods only knew what. Probably killing innocent creatures. The remaining strands of his salt and pepper hair were gathered in a low bun in the back of his neck. Through the gaps in his hair, his scalp was visible, this too covered in sunspots and liver spots, sentiment to his old age. The hair he had lost over the years had seemingly returned and was now sprouting from his nostrils and ears, was covering his knuckles and the back of his hands. He looked a little gross and unkempt, which made his appearance even less intimidating. He wore old robes in tan and black, a lot of them so threadbare, they seemed see-through. His small eyes were kind and a warm brown colour. Anyone looking at him would think him harmless, an effect that was only amplified by how mediocre his face was. Not ugly exactly, but thoroughly boring.

When Draco had first met him, in the first week of the summer holidays, he had grinned winningly, sauntering over to the old, pitiful-looking man with a cockiness that he had since then lost. He had come to the lesson with a certain confidence and let the old man babble without really listening.

He had come to pay for that.

By now, he listened to every word out of the man’s mouth, could read his body language like his life depended on it, because, frankly, it might. He had been so mistaken, so wrong about him. He doubted he had ever been as wrong about a person in his life, and that included his previous misled prejudices about Granger. Master Hughes was neither pitiful nor kind. He was ill-tempered and ruthless and in the foulest mood imaginable whenever Lucius was not wholly satisfied with the way Draco was progressing in his lessons. Master Hughes took this as a personal affront to his work, and Draco had sufficient fresh scars to prove it. The tattoo on the inside of Hughes’ left arm, marred by thick scars and somehow more faded than Draco’s father’s, proved the fact of his character to anyone who didn’t understand it within first meeting him. Apparently, he had been a grand dueller in the first wizarding war, especially adept in casting the Unforgivables and killing any type of creature that had the gall not to follow Voldemort’s call. Draco had never heard of him before, but then again, the war was not discussed as much as it should be in Hogwarts; the divide was still somewhat tolerated, and people were aware that there were Death Eaters amongst them who had never been imprisoned. Draco knew this because, after all, his father and most of his parents’ friends were among them.

After the war, Master Hughes had gone into hiding, and everyone had assumed him to be dead, according to his father. How Lucius had found him, had gotten him to teach the Malfoy heir how to kill properly, Draco didn’t know.

With the information Draco had on him, which was not a lot but enough to be wary, it was unsurprising that Master Hughes’ temper was a force to be reckoned with, and Draco spent every day now doing everything in his power to stay in his good graces. Today, Draco could tell, would not be such a day.

“I apologise, Father, I will do better.”

“See that you do,” Lucius responded firmly but still friendly. “You know what is expected of us.” He clapped him on the back once, letting his hand linger heavily for a beat too long, and exited the hall, taking Narcissa with him.

“I am sick of suffering fools,” snarled Master Hughes the moment the door fell shut behind them and he had cast the privacy shield around him and Draco as was his habit.

“Your father is disappointed in you. Do you not care about your father anymore?”

“Of course I do, sir, I apologise.”

“And your mother, do you not care about her?” Hughes went on as if Draco hadn’t spoken at all.

Draco’s chest clenched, and at the same time, a nervous sweat broke out over his hands and under his armpits. “I do, sir. Of course, I do.”

“Then. Why. Are. You. Not. Acting Like. It?” bellowed Hughes, every word accompanied by a hex that felt like whips on Draco’s body. His hand started to shake as he tried to conjure a protective shield.

“We’ve been at this for almost two months. I doubt I have ever met anyone less talented at duelling than you.”

It was very improbable that that was true. Draco was good at casting any sort of spell; his wand work had improved greatly, and he would likely be the head of the class when returning to Hogwarts, beating Potter in his position in DADA. Draco no longer cared for that, though. These old rivalries now seemed childish to him, knowing that he was currently being trained to eventually kill and torture people in the name of Voldemort, though he didn’t believe in any of the prejudices anymore. Draco had the suspicion that his father had also lost some of his passion regarding pureblood ideals, though he couldn’t say what would have swayed him. It didn’t matter, though, because Lucius still expected him to be outstanding in his duelling, have the best intellect, and be obedient, all to serve the Dark Lord. Lucius had gotten angry before and yelled at Draco, but only if his mother was not in the room. And on one of these occasions, approximately three weeks ago, something had flashed in Lucius’ eyes that made Draco realise why he still expected Draco to succeed, to honour the family name, and serve Voldemort. His father was scared, terrified even. Once this became clear to Draco, he viewed all previous instances of his father praising blood purity in a different light – most of it seemed like an act now that he had put on, though it still wasn’t clear in whose favour. The only people in the Manor besides Lucius had always been him and his mother, but the way he spoke, it seemed almost as if he felt himself being watched constantly. Since Voldemort’s return, this had increased substantially. His father would talk of almost nothing but politics, but his speeches sounded empty, like a bad actor saying his lines.

“Two months and you have not cast an Unforgivable!” exclaimed Hughes.

Draco didn’t say anything; there was nothing that he could say in his defence.

“Well, we’ll begin with something easy for the poncy Lord then,” said Hughes, now sounding frighteningly calm.

He conjured ten rings made entirely of fire, the diameter the approximately the length of half a standard door. They were aligned in a circle in the middle of the room with a spacing of ten metres, hovering directly above the ground. Hughes took Draco’s arm in a punishing grip that was much tighter than one would expect of such an old man and pulled him over to one of the rings, another in their back. The fire was so hot, Draco could feel it on his face even though they were still standing five metres away from it. Suddenly, something growled behind Draco, and he turned around, looking into the predatory eyes of a Wampus Cat. The feline looked at Draco and slowly sank into a crouching position, while baring its fangs.

“If I were you, I would start running,” said Master Hughes lightly.

Draco turned to the opposite side of the room and started sprinting, but after just one metre, he collided with an invisible force field, which pushed him back in front of the ring.

“Ah, ah,” tutted Hughes. “Through the rings, my boy.”

Hughes himself was now leaning against the door, Draco’s parents had left through, taking in the scene before him with an evil glint in his eyes, the satisfaction evident on his face.

Draco turned around, looking at the Wampus Cat again, which looked more and more ready to pounce. There was no point in running away, and apparating was not part of this lesson, so the Ministry would be alarmed if he did it, and he would get expelled. It had been impressive at first, how Master Hughes could block and manipulate the Trace, allowing Draco to cast any number of spells without being detected by the Ministry. For years, he had wanted to use proper magic during the school holidays. Now the manipulation of the Trace seemed to Draco to be the best weapon at Hughes’ disposal, as he and only he could determine what kind of spells Draco could use and when, making Draco feel like a puppet on Hughes’ strings.

He faced the rings, looked back once more, and then started running. Speed was his ally here, he knew, so he tried not to hesitate before hurtling through the ring. Nonetheless, the fire lapped at him, singeing his clothes and hair. Once through the ring, he kept running, hearing the snarl of the wild cat behind him. Turning around would only cost him time and would be pointless. He knew that he was being chased. Adrenaline spread through his veins and made him faster, but the fear had him stumbling, and he almost fell. Just when he had righted himself again, a severe sting shot through his left side. He turned his head to see what had attacked him on instinct. Master Hughes grinned at him from his position against the wall, raising his wand as if preparing for the next hex.

“This is a duelling class, young Malfoy,” he exclaimed over the roar in Draco’s ears.

“Oh, is it? I thought I was embroidering cushions,” Draco managed to yell out.

“Truly funny. Then how about you duel?”

He was about to conjure a shield around himself while trying to keep running so as not to be tackled by the Wampus Cat when he had already reached the next ring of fire. Already, his steps were heavier, and his breathing quickened. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long. When jumping through the ring, his left hand grazed the fire, which seemed to come alive and chase after him. He cried out at the pain and tucked his hand into his side. Frantically, he looked back, the Wampus Cat now mere metres behind him. He cast a quick bombarda, and the cat was thrown back. Before he could check whether the animal was dead or already back on its feet, another hex hit him in the side, followed by another. They were coming in rapid succession now, a clear demand for him to conjure a protective shield. The next ring appeared before him as his feet kept moving forward on instinct. He raised his wand, but the shield he cast immediately collapsed as its structure was hit by two successive hexes.

“Cast. A. Shield. You. Imbecile.”

Five hexes in quick succession without a sufficient shield, and Draco’s side was so sore and burning that it felt like he had fallen off his broom repeatedly and then got hit by a bludger to top it all off.

He passed through the next ring of fire without further injury, but the rapid pattern of his breaths had him inhale sharply just as he was passing through, making it feel like his lungs, too, had been set on fire.

A roaring behind him made him aware that the cat had now almost caught up with him and was even less inclined to keep him alive than before. Blindly, he cast a Stupefy, an Incarcerous, and a Deprimo, but none of the spells seemed to hit their target since there was no thud behind him, indicating that the animal had gone down. The Deprimo caused the room to shake, and the hole that resulted in the spell spread cracks through the floor before the Manor healed itself again, making it seem as if Draco had cast nothing at all.

Another hex hit him, this one more powerful than the previous ones, and he was flung to the side, connecting with the forcefield surrounding the circle of rings, which immediately pushed him off again, making him fly back in front of the rings. The move made him lose his momentum, and starting to run again took more effort than before. His legs were weak and felt slightly wobbly, his lungs and throat were dry, and his side was aching. Another hex hit him, this time in his right side, but he ignored it in favour of getting away from the predator behind him, which was advancing rapidly. He turned around frantically, meeting the eyes of the cat once more, before firing another Stupefy, which caused less exhaustion than the other two spells he had tried before. This time, the spell hit its target, and the animal fell to the ground with a thud. Draco, knowing that such a big creature with strong magical properties would not be stopped for long by a measly Stupefy, kept running through the rings, more and more of his flesh and hair getting burned in the process, until he was in the space between the rings on the opposite side of the animal in the circle. Eight more hexes had hit him, and by now he almost felt light-headed with the pain. Quickly, he cast an Incarcerous, binding the animal in case it woke before finally conjuring a relatively stable protective shield. With the Protego in place, which was strong enough to keep off the onslaught of hexes coming from Master Hughes now that Draco was standing still, he cast an Os Comprimens, a spell that he had learned in this class and that was the most magically draining out of the ones he had used today. The bones of the animal were crushed with a loud crunching noise, and its large body slumped, but it kept breathing. Good. Draco didn’t want to kill it. He just didn’t want to be killed himself.

“Why won’t you kill it?” Master Hughes demanded.

“I thought,” Draco responded, breathing heavily. “That you wanted to keep it alive. It’s your pet after all.”

“I don’t care about the useless creature. Kill it now.”

Draco looked at the animal, now lying unconscious with broken bones on the floor of his home. Helpless. No longer a threat. It would be dishonourable to kill it in this state.

Hughes saw him hesitate and crept closer, rage painting his features. He fired hexes and more severe spells towards Draco, who now scrambled to keep his protective shield in place.

“Your opponents will not let you off so easily,” he said warningly. “In a war, they will either kill you or take you captive and torture you until you wish they had killed you. So, either you are willing to torture this beast once it awakens, or you will kill it now.”

“But there is no war,” Draco cannot help but argue.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” Hughes says, keeping his wand trained on Draco.

“There is no war yet. There will be one soon enough, and you will want to be on the winning side, trust me on this. And how often do I need to remind you that a protective shield is the first thing to cast? Why are you still so late to conjure it? In a real battle, you would have been dead ten times over!”

It was true. Draco knew this. A war was coming. Anyone who could read between the lines of the papers could tell you as much, but he didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want his childhood to end. Most of all, he didn’t want to fight for something he didn’t believe in and fight against the right side. A side, he had come to acknowledge in the past year, he would do everything for, even if it was just to save her.

Draco turned to look at the animal on the floor, ignoring the reprimand for not casting a good protective shield. He himself couldn’t figure out why this simple thing still gave him trouble. Looking at the Wampus Cat, he couldn’t help but feel as restricted and bound as the animal would once it awoke. Killing it would be kind, humane. More so than letting it wake and be at the mercy of the monster now facing him.

“Reducto,” he cried, pointing his wand at the Wampus Cat, which burst into a firework of flesh and blood as the curse hit it.

“You were supposed to use the killing curse,” shrieked Master Hughes in rage. “This animal wanted to eat you, and you cannot even bring yourself to kill it like a real wizard?”  

With one quick wand movement, Draco’s shield, which had seemed so stable to him, crumpled, just before Draco himself hit the ground, met with the force of an especially vicious Cruciatus from the wand of the duelling master.

Blinding pain enveloped him, and even though he kept up a decent fight, had thought that he had gotten used to it by now, his brain, in an effort to protect him, soon pulled him under into unconsciousness. 

As he came to, he could tell by the heavy feeling of dissociation that it hadn’t been by natural reasons but that he had likely been rennervated. He looked up into the concerned face of Lutin, his personal house elf, before he slowly sat up, clutching his head at the pain that shot through it.

The duelling room was completely empty, all traces of the lesson gone. If it weren’t for the pain and similar occurrences in the past, Draco would have thought that he had dreamed up the whole thing, victim of a particularly vivid nightmare.

“Master Draco is late for his lesson with Lady Malfoy,” Lutin informed him, looking apologetic.

“Please tell my mother that I will be there shortly,” Draco said, coming to a stand with a groan and staggering slightly. Besides his head, there wasn’t much wrong with him. The burns on his hands were gone, as was the bruising on his side, judging by the lack of pain. Master Hughes didn’t like the Malfoys to be unreasonably concerned, so he usually healed any type of injury Draco had gotten during his lessons.

“Does Master Draco wish a glass of water?” the house elf asked with obvious reluctance to leave Draco behind.

“No, thank you, Lutin. Please simply inform my mother.”

The little elf bowed before silently popping away. Draco looked around, making sure that Master Hughes didn’t linger in some corner, before swiftly leaving the room and taking the stairs down to the cellar. He was almost running through the dark corridors, taking one turn after the other before taking another little set of stairs down and yanking open a dark wooden door, leading to a room filled to the brim with herbs, liquids, and vials. He walked over to one of the tall shelves and stretched to reach for one of the vials on the top. Quickly, he let the little glass bottle sink into one of the pockets of his tailored robes before making his way to the sitting room his mother favoured for their lessons in the east wing of the Manor.

Next to the double-sided door leading to the sitting room, hung a mirror that stretched from the wood-panelled floor to the gilded ceiling, enveloped in a silver-ornamented frame. He peeked at his own reflection before reluctantly calling for his house elf. Lutin appeared with a silent pop, looking Draco up and down.

“How is Master wishing Lutin to serve him today?”

Draco looked down at himself and then back at the mirror.

“Please fix anything out of the ordinary,” he said, unable to do it himself with the Trace back on him. “I don’t want Mother to be worried.”

Lutin looked at him sadly before brushing his bony fingers over Draco’s robes, fixing any burn holes. He cast a quick Scourgify, and in the mirror, Draco could see the soot painting his cheeks vanishing and felt the dried, sticky sweat clinging to his body vaporising. His reflection grew its hair back to the previous length, until the tips almost fell into his eyes, no longer scorched by the fire. Lastly, the elf bent over slightly, tapping his finger against Draco’s trousers until they reached his ankles again.

“Master must stop growing so fast,” Lutin murmured, a nostalgic look passing over his face.

 “I’ll try,” assured Draco.

The growing had become too much even for him. It felt like every day that he woke, his clothes needed to be adjusted. He was almost eight centimetres taller than at the beginning of the summer, and the backs of his knees were constantly aching as his body pushed for more and more height. The elf, who had been small to Draco ever since reaching the age of seven, now seemed minuscule to him.

“Thank you, Lutin, that would be all,” he said, turning to face the door behind which his mother waited.

As a last step after the elf had bowed, Draco reached into the pocket of his robes, curling his hand around the tiny vial. He untoppered it, tipped his head back, and quickly swallowed its contents. It was cheating in some way, he assumed, but didn’t much care as the pain in his head evaporated like mist. He let out a relieved sigh as he pushed open the door and stepped through.

His mother looked up from her book, closed it and put it next to her on the cream chaise longue. The room was extremely warm, a fire cackling in the hearth just how his mother preferred it. The bouquet of baby’s breath, white lilies, roses, and peonies, which sat atop the mantelpiece, was likely charmed to withstand heat. Otherwise, they would not have looked so perky in the stifling heat.

“Do come in, dear.”

Hesitantly, Draco closed the door behind him, shutting the outside world out from the cream and light-blue coloured room that he had come to detest in the past five weeks. He used to like sitting here with his mother before, though it always was a tad too hot for him. They would sit here reading together, or taking their tea, talking, or playing chess.

Slowly, he walked into the room, carefully sitting down in one of the light blue armchairs next to the steaming tea service. Narcissa waved her hand in a gesture to indicate him to serve himself.

“Do you want a cup, Mother?”

Narcissa shook her head daintily and simply watched as Draco poured his tea, adding a splash of milk and five cubes of sugar into his tiny cup. She pressed her lips together as to keep herself from commenting before giving him a little smile.

“How was your lesson with Master Hughes?” she asked after he had taken his first sip, a contented sigh escaping him. The question made him tense again, and he set the teacup down on its saucer before turning to look at his mother, schooling his features into a mask of indifference.

“Good, yes.”

“Did you make any progress?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly strained.

He looked at her, the regal posture with which she was sitting on her chaise longue, and thought about lying to her for a moment before realising that she would likely see it for herself soon enough.

“No,” he answered crisply.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Draco thought for an instant that she looked almost relieved before she straightened herself again and gave him another indulgent smile.

“I’m sure you’ll manage soon,” she tried to encourage him.

It took all he had not to lash out at her then. Before this summer, he would have been glad to sit here with her like this, conversing idly. But now, he knew that none of this was idle. All of it was a farce to distract him from what they were about to do, as if he could forget. It haunted him at night.

He sighed wearily, the anger dissipating as he remembered that she was doing this for him; he had consented to it after all. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the memory of that day five weeks ago play in his mind.

“Draco, dear. What are you thinking about?”

He startled, looking into the clear blue eyes of his mother. Right, they were having dinner, just the two of them tonight.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

Narcissa’s eyebrows drew together as she studied him.

“What were you thinking about just now, Draco?”

He swallowed, looking down at his roast dinner, which lay almost untouched on his plate. He pushed a potato around, avoiding looking back at her.

“You don’t have to tell me, of course,” she tried to assure him, lowering her head in an attempt to catch his eyes. “But I may be able to help.”

A barked laugh tumbled out of him before he quickly shut his mouth. He looked back up at his mother, embarrassment painting his cheeks red.

“Apologies, mother, I was not laughing at you.”

“Naturally,” replied Narcissa calmly. “I’m sure, I didn’t hear a thing. It’s not like there was anything for you to laugh about.”

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Do you want to try this one more time?” she asked, gently but firmly.

“Try what?” he asked. Merlin, his mind was scattered all over the place. What were they even talking about?

“Telling me what it is that is bothering you.”

“Nothing is bothering me.”

“Draco,” she said sternly. “I may be merely Lady of this manor, but don’t for one second think me stupid.”

“I- I’m not. I don’t,” he scrambled to say.

“Then why are you lying to me?”

He sighed and looked down at his plate again.

“Is it school?” she asked carefully, lifting her wine glass and taking a small sip.

“No,” he said. They had received their results back via owl, and although they weren’t quite as good as last year’s, they were still decent enough. He had expected worse, considering the little studying he had actually done the past three months while at Hogwarts. He would pay more attention next term, and all would be fine.

“A girl?” his mother continued, and Draco froze. Godrick, why was it that they were facing a war which was creeping up on them slowly but steadily – a war which they would very much be a part of – and his mother was thinking his troubles were about girls? Worse, why was she right?

She smiled softly at him, understanding clear in her sapphire eyes.

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

“No,” Draco quickly responded, feeling retched the next moment as he saw his mother flinch from the clear rejection. “I don’t want to talk about it at all.”

“Why not?” she asked inquiringly. “I’m sure we could arrange something. Our family is well-connected.”

Draco didn’t even try not to laugh at this.

“Right,” he said sarcastically.

Narcissa bristled, indignation settling on her face.

“Why don’t you want me to help you with this? I’m sure it would be most easy, and the girl would have to marry at some point anyway. We could have a party. Not exactly an engagement party yet, but just a little get-together to present her and you to society. It would be appropriate to prepare for a union.”

“Mother, please,” Draco groaned, putting his head between his hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Draco, don’t be so dramatic. You’re sixteen, it’s not too young to think about marriage.”

She paused only for a second, not enough time for him to argue with that before continuing. “Is it Pansy? You two always did get along so well, though she is a bit opinionated, but then again, so was I when I was younger, and Lucius didn’t mind one bit. In fact, I think, he rather enjoyed it,” Narcissa laughed.

“Or the younger Greengrass?” she mused when Draco didn’t answer. “Astoria, wasn’t it? She was a delightful little girl, much more lively than Daphne but lacking some propriety. I’m sure she’s grown out of that by now. Oh, you two would make a darling couple.”

As Draco still didn’t respond, she kept prattling on. “It’s not the Weasley girl, is it?” she asked carefully. “Not that there is anything wrong with her. Frankly, I’ve never met the girl. But their family is just so …loud. I didn’t think you would find red hair attractive, Draco. But, of course, we could manage with-“

“Will you stop talking?” Draco interrupted vehemently. “It’s not any of your purebloods. It’s Granger.” He breathed heavily at the confession, immediately wishing he could take it back.

“The – The Mudblood?”

“Don’t call her that,” he hissed viciously.

“Alright,” Narcissa said, placing her cutlery delicately on the table but cocking an eyebrow at him all the while. She cleared her throat daintily before taking another sip of her wine. Gently, she placed the glass back down on the oak table before looking at Draco intently.

“Don’t you hate her?”

“Not anymore, obviously,” groaned Draco.

“Well, it’s not the end of the world, my darling,” she said finally, in great effort not to sound too shocked or outraged. “Just a little infatuation. We don’t have to tell your father, and then with time, you will have all but forgotten her.” 

“I’m in love with her, Mother,” Draco responded after a short pause. “I love her.”

He met her gaze calmly, seeing the colour drain from his mother’s cheeks.

“Oh, dear,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he responded drily.

“Your father, he – he cannot know.”

“I am aware,” came Draco’s clipped response.

“Oh, sweet Morgana,” his mother exclaimed, rather uncharacteristically, raising a hand to her mouth at the implications of the dinner-revelation became clear to her.

“The Dark Lord. If he ever found out. He would kill her, kill you,” her voice broke on the last word, and her eyes were swimming.

“I know,” Draco sighed.

“Draco, is there no way for you to get over this, forget her?” she asked him, pleadingly.

“There is not, mother. Believe me, I’ve tried. I never meant to fall for her. Merlin knows there is no point. She doesn’t even like me. Rather hates my guts, I reckon.”

Narcissa closed her eyes and took a steadying breath at the information that her son had gone and fallen in love with a girl who did not even like him one bit. And a Mudblood to top it off.

“And Voldemort will kill her if he ever found out, I know he would. I’ve tried to forget her all summer. Please believe me.”

“Well, it’s only been three weeks,” she responded, the effort to sound unaffected evident in her voice.

Draco looked at her blankly, and she cleared her throat uncomfortably. She took the wine glass in her hand and raised it one final time, emptying the rest of its contents. When she put it back on the table, she regarded him with a determined expression.

“Are you quite certain?” she asked in a last attempt to change the situation she was currently facing.

“I am,” he said resignedly.

She nodded, trying to steady herself. “What are you willing to do for this girl?” she asked because it seemed to her that, for the first time in his life, this was a discussion where another person’s well-being would give Draco a greater incentive to act than his own.

“Anything,” he immediately responded, and Narcissa had to put all her strength into not visibly flinching. She wished it had not been so. But he was a Malfoy man after all. Once they were in, they were all in.

“I expected as much,” she sighed, nonetheless. There was a slight pause as she thought about how to phrase her next sentence.

“There is something you can do that will be able to protect her from the Dark Lord, protect you,” she couldn’t help but add. It was the only thing she really cared about after all. She had never met the little Mudblood, and though she didn’t personally agree with Voldemort’s views, she had grown up with these ideals and didn’t necessarily care one way or the other. She didn’t hate Muggles or Mudbloods, but she also hadn’t met enough to be able to say that they were important to her. With the way her husband had decided to spend his youth, chasing after pureblood ideals, she had been unable not to go along with it, though she had been sort of relieved when Lucius’ heavy views had lessened. Now, with the Dark Lord back, Lucius was forced to take them back up and stand up for them, and if that was what it took to survive, to save her family, Narcissa was glad to go along.

But now? The past ten minutes had shifted everything. She had assumed that Draco was even more supportive of Voldemort’s ways than even Lucius had been, with the comments he would make while home from school during the holidays. That evidently was no longer the case, and the ideals which were able to serve her family beforehand now seemed to endanger and hurt it, hurt her son.

Realistically, though, she knew that now, there was no backing out of it. Her husband bore the Dark Mark, was bound by it, and Draco would be expected to follow in his footsteps. The wheels had already been set in motion, and nothing short of Voldemort’s death could stop the events from unravelling now.

She looked at Draco, sadly. Seeing his potential, the way life could have been for him, while realising that with his feelings for the girl, none of it would come to fruition. He had ruined his entire life with this, and he didn’t even know it. She contemplated obliviating him for a moment, a breach of privacy and his trust so severe, she knew he would never forgive her if he ever found out. It was a price she was willing to pay for his safety, but at the same time, she knew, it would not be enough. Whatever had sparked those feelings in him, they would come back, even if she obliviated the girl completely from his memory. Time worked in loops, and fate was real, she knew. Draco would inevitably see her again when going back to school, and a part of his body would remember that he loved her. They would be in the same position as they were now, just that her son had damaged memories, and their relationship would be in tatters.

So, she regarded him with a calm expression on her face, the path which must be chosen clear before her as she asked, “Have you ever heard of Occlumency?”

“I don’t really want to sit here any longer than is strictly necessary,” he said. “Let’s just get it over with, yes?”

Narcissa looked taken aback for a second before nodding stiffly.

She stood up and walked over to him. His eyes found hers, and he steeled himself, building up his walls rapidly, one brick at a time.

“Ready?” she whispered.

He nodded, his throat feeling tight and dry with the nerves. “Yes”

Her expression was soft, loving as she peered into his eyes. He hated it.

“Legilimens,” she said, her voice barely audible as iron fingers clawed at his walls, making his head feel as though it were bursting.

Blood was running from his nostrils, coating his lips and chin and had stained the cream-coloured Persian rug below him in poppy-splotches. A warm trickle of the sticky liquid came out of his right ear. He righted his posture, took a pristine white handkerchief out of his breast pocket, wiped the blood away, stood up, and left the room without another word.

His wand arm was shaking, and he was sweating profusely, the salty liquid dripping from a front strand of his hair and into his eyes. Still, he couldn’t move, just stood frozen, arm stretched out at the target, which was now lying on the floor in heaps, breathing raggedly. Yes, he hadn’t killed the creature, but he had tortured it and wasn’t that almost worse? After another minute of this, the rest of his body had started shaking as well, and he was standing in the middle of the room as stable as a leaf in autumn rattled by the wind, about to leave the home it had known for months to tumble to its death.

“Well, it took you long enough, and that was rather weak if I do say so myself, but I think that is sufficient for now. I dare say your father will be glad you have finally managed, and just in time too.”

Draco could barely hear the raspy voice of Master Hughes through the feeling in his chest, his mind wholly concentrated on it. It felt like something was tearing, and he looked down at his chest but couldn’t find any blood seeping out of it.

“You can lower your wand now, Mr Malfoy. I don’t remember my first time, but they tell me it is rather taxing, so maybe take an Invigoration Draught and,” here he scrunched his nose, taking in Draco’s appearance more closely. “A bath as well.”

Draco lowered his arm, but that was as much as he could do.

“Right, well. I’ll be seeing you at Christmas then,” were the last words out of Master Hughes’ mouth before the duelling hall’s door shut behind him.

Draco let out a shaky breath before slumping down. He clutched at his chest and then hugged himself, anything to keep his body from tearing open. He was still shivering, but somehow, he was hot like he was burning through a fever. The sweat was coming faster, dripping from his temples and his hair down onto the floor. He felt like he would pass out. Weakly, his mind turned before catching on the creature that still lay on the other side of the room, recovering from the Cruciatus curse Draco had fired at it.

He looked at it in utter incredulousness. Now that it was over, he couldn’t for the life of him remember how he had done it. He had to have meant it, had to have wanted to torture this creature. Why? It hadn’t hurt him or any of his family. It had simply taunted him, running around him for almost an hour, reading his most secret fears and singing them back at him, but he was the only one who could hear the creature, so he hadn’t done it to keep his secrets from being spilt in front of Master Hughes. No, he simply had gotten annoyed, then enraged, then vicious, then vengeful, until suddenly he had snapped. Looking back at it, his reactions seemed wholly disproportionate, though he had resisted as long as possible. Eventually, though, he had listened to the little voice in his head telling him to just make. the. creature. shut. up.

He had listened in the worst way possible, as the red curse left his wand, almost breaking in reluctance to carry out the spell, he could see, actually see with his own eyes, a piece of his soul detaching and burning to ashes in the red curse before it hit the creature.

It was a Saliphi as he had learnt from Hughes. He had never heard of the creature before, but something in their magic made the other person’s blood boil. The Saliphi would taunt their prey as long as it took for it to attack, the moment of which the creature used to sink its long teeth into the prey’s neck, killing it instantly. While luring their prey, the creatures would expel some sort of gas, which would heighten one’s emotions of anger and rage. Most victims they chose were not wizards, or at least not those who had been trained in casting Unforgivables for nine weeks straight. The creature was unlucky, but so was Draco. He had never meant for this to happen.

He lurched, and bile hit the marble floor, goose bumps raising the hairs on his flesh. Heat, quickly followed by a freezing coldness, went through his body, and he shivered once more.

Weakly, he looked up again before his mind started whirring somewhat reluctantly. It was difficult to think; everything in his body felt like an ill-oiled machine, moving slowly, creaking.

“Lutin,” he finally called out weakly, and his house elf stood next to him not a second later.

“Master Draco, is you hurt? Are you needing assistance?” the little elf asked immediately as he took in Draco’s slumped form on the floor.

“I’m fffine,” Draco slurred, another violent shiver wracking his body.

“Master is not being fine,” Lutin said heatedly, reaching out to touch Draco, likely to apparate him to his quarters.

Draco shrank back and shook his head adamantly.

“No, wait. I am,” he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but he felt like he was burning up. He ripped open his black shirt and heaved a couple of heavy breaths. “I am fine,” he said through gritted teeth, sweat covering his entire body. He thought he could even see the top of his hands glistening with it.

“Lutin, I need,” he heaved another heavy breath, and Lutin handed him a glass of water, which he must have conjured in the time Draco took to gather himself. The water eased something in him for a mere moment as he emptied the glass in one gulp before he started shivering violently again. It felt like the cool water was spreading out and growing like ice in his veins, cracking them open. And his chest, why did his chest feel like the cracked hole in the sheet of ice covering a lake?

“I need you to take it away and – and cccare for it. I-it nnneeds to b-be t-tended to,” he stammered, weakly pointing to the Saliphi lying on the ground.

“Lutin will care for the Saliphi, Master,” the elf answered, laying a calming hand on Draco’s soaked shoulder. “But Master Draco needs medical attention. Lutin is sorry.”

Before Draco could ask why Lutin would have to be sorry, he felt the tug of apparition in his stomach and then the harsh landing as he plunged to the floor in his bedroom, still in the crouching position he had been in in the duelling hall.

“Lutin is being most sorry, Master Draco. Lutin will be going to getting help now.”

A pop sounded, and Draco was alone in the room. He felt ill. He closed his eyes and sank to the floor fully, laying his cheek against the cold stone, the part which wasn’t covered by the rug. The cold was a relief as another heat wave enveloped his body and more sweat rushed out of him. It felt like he couldn’t breathe, so he just lay there, heaving against the floor. Three other elves appeared before him a moment later, but his vision was rather blurry, and he couldn’t make them out properly. He could feel himself being magically raised and hovered over to his four-poster bed; the cool silk sheets a relief against his burning body.

“Master Draco is burning up. Go for a Calming Draught and a Dreamless Sleep Potion, Pally,” a small voice ordered, and he recognised it faintly before his eyes fell shut.

“The – The Saliphi,” he slurred into the room, addressing no one in particular.

“Lutin is being attending the Saliphi, Master Draco. Master Draco must not be worrying. Master Draco must be resting,” the voice said sternly, but he could hear the mothering undertone.

A sliver of magic went through him, and the ice in his veins didn’t feel as severe; the heat on his skin lessened.

Faintly, he could hear his door opening and then rapid footsteps nearing his bed.

“What happened?” a voice asked, clearly in distress. His mother.

“The Master Draco casted an Unforgivable curse. It was being the Master’s first time of using the Dark Magic,” another house elf replied, who was doing something in the corner of his room. His mother gasped, but he didn’t have the strength to open his eyes and look at her.

“But why is he reacting so severely? Surely, this is not normal. I have seen others cast the Unforgivables before with no such reaction.”

“The Master Draco was not truly willing. The Master has been being pushed to casting his magic for a long time now, but the Master was not truly ready. Using the Dark Magic when unprepared and unwilling has the Master’s body revolting. His soul was being split, but his body was not prepared to be letting go because the Master himself was not willing to be losing himself.”

“But–but then how did he cast an Unforgivable without actually meaning to? That is not possible.”

“The Master Hughes,” the voice of the tiny elf sounded repulsed. “The Master Hughes was being using a Saliphi.”

“What’s a Saliphi Dora?” Narcissa asked sternly, clearly irritated with how little she knew about the situation.

A small pop sounded, and before the conversation could continue, Draco was forced to drink two potions in quick succession. He scrunched up his face at the bitter taste of a Calming Draught. His lids, though they were already closed, felt impossibly heavy, as did his entire body. He tried to fight it for a while in order to understand why he was so weak, why he had to be the wizard who was unable to cast Unforgivables properly, but it was to no avail. Sleep pulled him under like a siren song pulling sailors into the deep sea.

The next time he awoke, he was achy, empty, and still cold but no longer shivering. Something had cracked in him; he could feel it, doubted that he would ever not feel it, but it wasn’t actively tearing him apart anymore. He opened his eyes in a flutter to his mother sitting on his bedside, a strained expression etched on her face.

She reached her hand out and softly brushed through his hair, but he flinched back, and quickly, she pulled back her hand as if touching him had burnt her. She looked at him, her expression heavy and somehow sad, but he didn’t care. He rolled over, turning away from the windows, facing the other side of the room, so he didn’t have to see her any longer.

“I spoke with your father,” she said after five minutes had ticked by. “You will not be seeing Master Hughes any longer.”

He slumped slightly with relief but tried not to let her see it. The past weeks had been hell, utter hell for him, and he wondered whether one could wholly stop enjoying life in a span of nine weeks. Sure, he was extremely good at duelling now and last week, his mother had seemed relatively satisfied with his occlumency, but at what cost had he honed these skills? He didn’t feel like himself anymore. The boy from last year was gone, and in his stead stood someone he barely recognised. The relationship with his parents, a thing he had cherished all his life, was strained, almost broken. He used to admire and respect his father and love his mother fiercely. Now, he couldn’t help but see them for what they truly were. People who would do anything for this family line to be carried on, no matter the cost.

“Your trunks are packed,” she finally said after he still hadn’t responded. “We’ll be leaving for the station in twenty minutes from the entrance hall.”

It took him a full minute to understand what she had said to him.

He would be leaving for Hogwarts.

It was Monday.

He had been sleeping for three days.

A short moment, he felt disappointed, then relieved. He had wanted to speak to his mother one more time in peace before going, without the pressure of strengthening his Occlumency skills, but maybe it was better this way.

He still didn’t say anything, and though he could sense her wanting to hover until he responded, she eventually got up, walking to the end of his bed and looking down at him. He didn’t turn to look at her.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, her voice tight. Guilt swelled low in his stomach at the thought of his mother standing in his room, crying because of him. But they had done this to him, to them. So, he didn’t look up at her, didn’t console her like he would have done under any other circumstances. He just stared blankly at the wall, waiting for his bedroom door to shut.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione feels sick. The wide expanse of the ocean seems like a hole that one could stumble into and never crawl out of again. If one were to die here, she doubts they would ever be found.

“What is Sphaera?” she finally asks.

“The Dark Lord’s high security prison.”

“How long has this place existed?” she asks quietly, stepping closer to the edge.

Malfoy’s hand snaps forward and circles her wrist. It’s the first time he has touched her in over five years, but she barely registers that fact, too busy glancing over the threshold of the door.

“It’s relatively new. Was installed three months before the mission you were captured on took place.” His voice sounds strained as if he’s holding himself back from something.

Hermione hums and takes another step towards the abyss, her free hand finding the door frame. Malfoy’s hand tightens around her bony wrist to the point where it almost hurts.

“Hermione,” he warns, but she ignores him, taking another step forward until her toes touch the edge of the threshold. If it wasn’t so daunting, she would have called it uncreative to put a private prison on the top of what is clearly the North Sea when another one already exists, but as it is, she can find little humour in the situation.

She looks down. Contrary to what she expected, it’s not a wall that goes straight down which greets her, as would be the case in Azkaban. Instead, the wall looks almost rounded; she can only see a bit before the view of the wall cuts off completely, and there is only water. There seems to be no wall connecting to the bottom of the ocean or an island, either. At least, she cannot see any waves hitting an obstacle of any sort. She looks up, and the same view greets her. A short wall and then the dark grey sky, but she cannot help but feel that where her view cuts off is not actually where the wall stops. She recalls the Latin name of the prison, Sphaera. The wheels in her brain turn faster and faster. She knows this word, but it’s somewhere hidden in her brain. She scrunches her eyebrows in concentration. Eventually, she takes a step back and feels a gust of air at the nape of her neck. For a moment, she wonders if it was Malfoy’s breath or the wind which has picked up even more. She looks over her shoulder at Malfoy, who is staring intently at her.

“It’s an orb, isn’t it?” she asks him.

He swallows and nods.

“Are we even touching the water?”

He shakes his head. “No. Sphaera is suspended just above it.” His eyes flicker over her before settling on her face. “Will you come back from there?”

She turns her head back around and looks at the ocean spreading out before her. Dying here would be so easy; it would take almost no effort at all. She is close to taking a step forward again before she remembers the Shadow. Dying would, while serving her friends before, now be extremely selfish. If Malfoy and Pansy let her, she could help figure out how to lift the spell. It might even bring her friends and the rest of the Order to forgive her for what she’s done before. It might be the opportunity to redeem herself. Still, her foot twitches forward, but before she can take a step, the hand on her wrist lets go, and strong arms encircle her shoulders from behind like an iron cast and pull her back into the room. The door falls shut, and the room sinks back into silence that seems eerie after the loud howling of the wind.

Immediately, the arms release her again, and Malfoy steps away from behind her. Calmy, she turns around, acting as if nothing happened, and walks over to the table to take a sip of her water.

She looks at Pansy, ignoring the way Malfoy’s eyes are still boring into her from the side.

“So, how were you actually planning to escape this place? I’m assuming there are anti-apparition wards installed.”

Pansy huffs a breath. “Of course there are, and I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to apparate directly here even if the wards would let me through.” She eyes Malfoy for a second, who doesn’t even glance in her direction. “The way from anywhere to apparate here would be way too far, immediately resulting in extensive apparition exhaustion,” she says, but it sounds more like a reprimand.

“Alright,” Malfoy suddenly snaps. “We get it, Pansy. I, too, would like to know how you were actually planning to escape here without sinking the whole thing. You were headed to this room after all, and I don’t exactly see a floo connection here.”

Again, Pansy scoffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“This was obviously merely a stopover. I wasn’t planning on taking that lovely exit,” she says while pointing to the door leading into nothingness. Then she pulls a vial out of a pocket of her robes and lifts it into the air like it answers all the questions Hermione and Malfoy could possibly have.

“Polyjuice potion,” Pansy eventually says after meeting the empty looks of both of them.

“You were planning to Polyjuice her? Into whom, if I may ask?”

“Yes, of course, Draco, you may,” says Pansy lightly. “Seclesio is currently sleeping somewhere in my bedroom and won’t wake for a couple of hours.”

“Seclesio? The guard?”

“Yes. Granger would have turned into him, and we would have taken the corridor to Astoria’s home.”

Slowly, things were starting to make sense. Though why she didn’t just Polyjuice her in her cell was less clear, but then again, there were more pressing questions, and she didn’t want to risk Pansy hexing her just now.

This floating prison, through some form of magic Hermione had never heard of before, was connected to the Greengrass mansion and likely some other places, judging from the way Pansy had just phrased her sentence, through something similar to a floo channel. She recalls the tugging sensation and the dizziness she experienced on the occasions she hadn’t simply been brought to one of the local torture chambers but other rooms instead, when going to the Soiree and when meeting Voldemort the first and second time. So, this prison had a mixture of apparition and floo connection? It did make sense to some extent, but the implications were mind-boggling. However, it also explained the size of the place. She had always thought, even after seeing the outside of the Greengrass mansion, that, while walking through it, the place felt too big for a single building. She had been right; it was multiple buildings connected.

“And what?” Malfoy asks sternly. “To hell with the other prisoners?”

Pansy rolls her eyes, her voice suddenly extremely annoyed. “First of all, I wasn’t going to take this exit, as I said, but go through the mansion. I don’t think it would happen then. And don’t go all goody two-shoes on me now, Malfoy. Don’t tell me you suddenly care about them so much that you wouldn’t be willing to risk their deaths.”

Hermione furrows her brows. Why would the other prisoners die only because she escaped? Were they not planning to come back for the others?

“It’s not about that,” Malfoy argues. “We don’t know what will happen if she leaves the entire network. It might still crash. It would also show an extreme security breach. How would Hermione have escaped without help? Not to mention, the Dark Lord would be furious for months if his prison were to sink so soon after he installed it!”

“Sink?” Hermione asks. “Why would it sink?”

They turn to her as if they just now remembered that she was also in the room with them.

Pansy looks at her calculatingly and finally says, “In case of a successful escape by one of the prisoners, the prison drops into the ocean, effectively killing all other prisoners and guards therein. It’s completely made of stone and metal, so it would likely hit the bottom of the ocean in less than five minutes.

“It would sink?” Hermione repeats, this time sounding slightly hysterical. “And you what? Didn’t care that all the other prisoners would die? All the people from the Order?”

“I thought you knew,” drawls Pansy, seemingly unimpressed by Hermione’s emotional outbreak.

“I thought all prisoners got informed so that they’d have even more of an incentive not to try to flee. Most prisoners here are Gryffindors, and we all know how much you lot like to go through the worst just to save your friends. Or what you believe will save them anyway. And either way, we don’t actually know if it will sink if one escapes through one of the connected houses”

“But you were willing to risk it. You really were risking all of their lives to save me?” Hermione asks incredulously. Surely, this could not be true. 

Pansy turns away from Hermione as if she were sick of hearing her babbling. Her eyes narrow to slits as she looks at Malfoy.

“Don’t look at me like that, Draco. Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the exact same if you had found a way to lift the Shadow.”

“Yes, but I would have waited until I actually had found a fucking way to lift it!” he bellows.

“How often do I have to tell you? It would have been too late then. All our efforts would have been in vain!”

Hermione rouses herself from the shock she had fallen into at hearing his confession.

“Why would you do that?” she yells, interrupting their fighting. “Why the hell would you help me escape from here and thereby condemn all other prisoners to death with or without lifting the Shadow?”

“Yes, why would we do that?” asks Pansy, her narrowed eyes still honed in on Malfoy.

He glances away for a moment before turning to Hermione, his irises starkly silver.

“You’re one of the most valuable assets the Order has. You do all their strategising, no?”

“Yes, but-“

“Then there is your answer,” he says curtly.

“That’s not a reason. I am no better of an asset than Ginny, Luna, Neville, and the others combined are for the Order. Almost all of them can fight better than I, and Dean is also very good at strategising.”

“You might think so, but this is the reason. I guess you’ll just have to trust our word for it.”

Hermione scoffs. She wants to scream; she wants to shake him and his cold exterior, break him out of it. She wants to hex him.

“That’s a shit reason. I’m not even an asset at all anymore. At this point, I have likely caused the Order more harm than good. And I don’t have any grounds to trust you.”

He looks at her coldly, a derisive smirk adorning his face. “I don’t see that you have any other choice.”

It’s hard to breathe. Though she knows that there is now a slim hope of actually escaping and, more importantly, helping her friends escape, walking back to her cell feels like she is suffocating.

Pansy is walking swiftly in front of her, taking turns assuredly, without saying anything or even glancing at Hermione. The possibility for a real escape had felt so close while she was following Pansy down these corridors the first time that she had almost been able to taste it. She keeps telling herself that it will be different now, she will have things to do, she will have a plan and goals to occupy herself with.

But she will still be tortured.

She will still be alone.

She will still sit in the dark, not knowing what will become of her friends.

Malfoy and Pansy told her that they were doing everything in their power to alleviate their conditions for them and had been doing the same for her. Considering how she still had wanted to die, that thought didn’t comfort her as much as they might have thought it would, though. Especially knowing that they were willing to let the other prisoners die to get her out made her question the sincerity of the promise. She was also scared, knowing that she had a very limited time window to figure out three intricate problems, the likes of which she had not solved since the Horcrux hunt. She needed to figure out how to lift the Shadow. She needed to figure out how to escape the prison without it sinking. And she needed to figure out how to get her friends out as well.

All she had to do  sooner rather than later, but the worst part was that she didn’t actually know how much time she had to figure all this out; it might all be over in a day, or it might be another three months.

Though she had argued with them fiercely, had become rather hysterical, had likely scratched Malfoy in the process, they wouldn’t budge. They would erase her memories of this day if she were brought before Voldemort again.

She had told them that it was dangerous, that repeated obliviation caused brain damage, that she needed these memories to survive. They had cared little about her arguments. Malfoy had scoffed at her when she had raised the concern about damaging the brain, citing her admission that she hadn’t tended to it since Voldemort’s mental attack. They had also told her that it wouldn’t much matter if she wanted to live or not if she was brought before Voldemort with her memories intact, as he would surely kill her, along with her friends, as well as all of the involved Slytherins, if he saw her memories of the past three hours.

They were right, but that hadn’t stopped her from arguing with them, yelling at them. It had felt good to blame someone for her situation who wouldn’t kill her or torture her immediately for lashing out. She also needed a scapegoat. It was wrong of her to put all her anger on them. She knew this, but it somehow had turned out to be the only way that allowed her to properly process everything and deal with the situation. They hadn’t been happy with her about it, of course. Malfoy had left shortly after, reminding her again that she would see a mind healer if she wanted to or not, but that he wouldn’t hesitate to obliviate her if it was necessary. Then he had apparated back to where he had come from, ignoring Pansy’s warning about apparition exhaustion. Since then, Pansy has only said all of five words to her and is now walking so swiftly in front of Hermione that it feels like she’s running away from her rather than leading her back to her cell. After walking through so many corridors, Hermione wonders how she hadn’t realised before that she was in a circular building, but the hallways weren’t rounded, so it was harder to detect, she reasons with herself.

They pass the guard, who is still knocked out on the floor from Pansy’s attack, and Hermione briefly fears that someone might have seen him, but Pansy seems unconcerned. She crouches down and whispers something before moving on. As they round the corner, Hermione glances over her shoulder, seeing the guard slowly come to and looking around himself, his wand now firmly clutched in his right hand where Pansy placed it a minute before. They walk deeper into what Hermione now realises is the centre of the orb. No wonder there are no windows here. The walls don’t shut the prisoners off from the outside world but from each other, row after row of corridors holding nothing but cells and rooms intended for torture. Gradually, there is more light again, which seems contradictory to the structure of the building, but this might just be to confuse the prisoners if they were ever planning their escape. Make them even less prepared for what would expect them on the other side of the walls.

As they come closer to the hallway in which Hermione’s cell is located, she looks intently at every single cell. Faces stare back at her, which she has never seen before, old faces, young faces, children younger than her, until suddenly, something familiar strikes her, and Hermione comes to a stop behind Pansy, who is still walking. A face sprinkled with freckles and green eyes. Hair as bright as a flame. Ginny. Ginny’s mouth opens, and she says something, but Hermione cannot hear. She steps closer, trying to figure out what Ginny’s saying, but a hand grabs her arm again and pulls her in the direction of her own cell.

“We don’t have time for this, Granger.”

“But we need to tell her something. She needs to know that we’re getting her out.”

Pansy quickens her step until they’re in front of the last cell. She quietly unlocks the door using her wand and waits with a lifted brow for Hermione to enter before following after her and shutting the door.

“We don’t need to do a thing. What we especially should not do is give her some kind of hope that will never be realised.”

“That’s not true, Pansy. You have no idea what this is like. You were shocked that I wanted to die, wanted to kill myself or better yet, have someone else do it, so I didn’t have to feel guilty anymore? Do you know why it even came to that point? Because hope is all we have left to keep us afloat. Once it’s run out, there is nothing else, only darkness. And if there is nothing else, why not embrace it fully?”

For an instant, Pansy looks stunned before she swiftly turns around, inspecting Hermione’s straw bed on the floor.

“Are you hearing me, Pansy? Please tell her we’re doing everything we can to give her something to hold on to. Ginny is stronger than I will ever be, but everyone has their limits.”

Pansy sighs, and her shoulders slump incrementally with the movement. She still has her back to Hermione, looking at the corner of the cell where the straw lies.

“I cannot do that, Granger. It increases the likelihood of us getting caught, and frankly, I am unwilling to take that chance.”

“How is this a bigger risk than getting me out of this prison without any real plan?” Hermione almost shrieks, incredulous in face of the illogicality of the argument.

“It’s different,” is all Pansy replies.

“How is it different?”

Pansy turns around, suddenly looking very tired.

“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yourself, especially since it’s staring you right in the face. It’s neither a novelty nor is it unexpected, but maybe you don’t even want to see it anymore. Either way, it’s not for me to tell and frankly, none of my business.”

Hermione’s heart jolts for a second at those words, but she ignores it, continuing on her argument. She needs real answers for once, not some riddles presented as answers which are left for her to solve. God knew there were enough of those already.

“I don’t know what you mean, and it seems to be very much your business, considering how involved in all of this you are.”

“You could never understand my motives in this,” Pansy hisses furiously. “You don’t know anything about what happened to us in the last five years.”

“So, explain it to me.” Hermione spreads out her arms, exasperated with the lack of information she has.

“While that one thing may not be any of my business, this is none of yours. We were never friends, Granger; we never will be friends. So, don’t expect me to treat you like one.”

Hermione looks at her, the wheels in her head whirring. When they were in school, Pansy had been hopelessly in love with Malfoy. It was clear as day for everyone to see. Hermione had been too preoccupied with everything that was happening in the past days to pay attention, but maybe Pansy was still in love with him. Was she doing all this just to serve him in some way? Was she hoping she could win him back from Astoria with this? Hermione couldn’t see how that would help. It was also true. They had never been friends, and Pansy would never see her as such, so Hermione doesn’t ask any further questions, knowing the other witch would only respond sarcastically or not at all to any inquiries about her relationship with Malfoy.

Pansy turns back to look at the straw contemplatively before murmuring some spell which seemingly binds the loose stems together and makes them float to the other side of the room in a compact package that holds the shape of a slim mattress.

The floor underneath where the straw had lain is dark with dampness and specks of black mould.

“You really shouldn’t keep sleeping there,” Pansy says, and though Hermione can’t see her face, she knows that Pansy’s lip is curled in disgust.

“Trust me, I don’t exactly want to.”

“No, what I mean is you need to move the straw regularly so that bacteria cannot develop as fast. I will get you new straw when I bring you the books.”

“When will that be?”

“In a day or two, I reckon. I have to see whether the Dark Lord requests my presence for something.”

With a swish of Pansy’s wand, the floor becomes speckless and dry, a light grey colour compared to the previous dark, which was bordering on black.

“Were you the one who cleaned my cell during the Dinner?”

Pansy pauses before responding, “How would I have done that? I was in the room with you the entire night of the Soiree.”

“I wasn’t even conscious the whole time,” Hermione argues.

“It wasn’t me.”

“Who then?”

Pansy ignores her, bending down to inspect the stones more closely.

“I’m not sure how much of Sphaera is even penetrable by magic. It might well be that the Dark Lord has made any interference impossible, but we may as well try.

Mutatio,” Pansy exclaims, swinging her wand in a rectangular movement.

First, nothing happens, before a little crack appears in the floor.

Pansy looks at it contemplatively, bringing her hand to her chin.

“You might want to try 'Mallei'. It’s used for transforming stone specifically.”

“What’s the wand movement for it?”

“I can show you,” Hermione says, tentatively reaching a hand out for Pansy’s wand.

The other witch takes a step back, eying Hermione suspiciously.

“You really don’t have any magic here?”

“I don’t,” Hermione responds vehemently. “If I had, I would have already found out how to reach the edge of the prison, though I will admit that fully fleeing would have been more challenging than I would have expected, and I’m not sure I would have managed that. As it stands, there is no magic in this room accessible to me.”

Earlier, when they had calmed down from their fighting and the revelation that Hermione was floating mere metres over the water, ready to fall to her death at any moment, Hermione had explained her hypothesis of a connection existing between the cell’s restriction on magic and the Shadow to Malfoy and Pansy. It doesn’t seem as though Pansy had been convinced.

She takes a moment longer, inspecting Hermione as though she could look into her brain and assess her true motive before relinquishing her wand with a sigh and a grumbling `fine´.

Hermione reaches for the wand eagerly, hoping, in spite of herself, to feel the familiar rush of magic she can sense in the corridors amplified by a wand, but there is nothing whatsoever. The wand feels like a regular wooden stick, and for an instant, Hermione remembers her younger self being bewildered by the imagery that had offered itself to her in Diagon Alley when she visited it for the first time. All those grown-ups walking around with little sticks in their hands, cradling them as if they were their whole lives.

Hermione understands them now, and her wonder and bewilderment from then seem like a lifetime ago.

She swallows her emotions and looks critically first at the wand, then at Pansy, who eyes her warily as if expecting an attack at any moment.

“You pulse the wand like this,” she explains while moving the wand incrementally up and down. “And finish off with a slight S-movement before directing it in the shape you want to carve out of the stone,” she finishes off, indicating the movement with the wand.

“Okay,” Pansy says, curling her fingers to order Hermione to return the wand to her.

Pansy repeats the movement, her brows creased in concentration. “Like this?”

“A bit more pronounced on the S-movement and smaller pulses.

Yes, good. Do it once more before using the incantation.”

Pansy follows the instructions, her wand glowing lightly at the tip with restrained magic.

“Don’t curl your S as much and hold the wand a bit steadier.

Alright, that looks good. Now use the incantation and be careful to direct the wand on the area you want on the floor.”

A line appears in the floor as Pansy murmurs the incantation while swinging her wand in the instructed manner, followed by another line and another until a rectangle appears. As the lines touch, the stone crumbles to dust within its borders.

“Evanesco,” Pansy says, directing her wand at the dust and standing up straight again as the dust vanishes, leaving a square-shaped hole in the floor that seems to go down at least thirty centimetres.

“Good,” Hermione comments while peeking inside the hole.

Pansy conjures a wooden plank which she lays down on the wood to see whether it covers the whole completely.

“Alright,” she says, lifting it again. “You can put the documents in here and cover them up with the straw. Now you will need to keep lying in that corner, but if you remember to turn over the straw regularly, the mould shouldn’t become a problem as fast again.”

She swishes her wand, moving the block of straw over to its original spot, effectively hiding the wooden plank before bringing her wand down swiftly, untying any holding spell on the straw so it loses its mattress shape and tumbles around in loose stems. She turns to Hermione, looking at her sternly.

“You need to move the books into the hole and cover it up at any sound. Don’t hesitate and wait until you’re sure the guard is coming to you. I don’t care if you have to put away the research forty times a day. Convenience is not worth getting caught.”

Hermione’s eyes roll up into her head on their own accord, and a scoff escapes her.

“I’ve been in this war as long as you have, Pansy.”

“Well, yes”, the other witch quips. “But unlike you, I have never been captured by the opposing side.”

Before Hermione can respond, Pansy turns to the door, inspecting it. She mutters a detection spell, and the sound shield becomes visible as well as protective spells, which Hermione cannot identify in the time before Pansy drops her wand, and the shields become invisible again.

Pansy mutters another spell, and though nothing concrete is audible, Hermione can sense that the Quies is gone. It is as if Sphaera were breathing, and Hermione can hear its breath in her cell for the first time in months.

“Alright,” Pansy says, holstering her wand and brushing her hands over her clothes as if to clean them.

“I’ll be back within the next seventy-two hours. Try not to get yourself killed.”

She’s about to open the cell door when she turns back to Hermione and casts a quick Scourgify at her.

“You smell,” she says in an explanation nobody asked for before stepping through the door and locking it behind her.

Pansy’s receding steps can be heard for at least three minutes before the only sounds left are the quiet dripping of water and the moaning or coughing of the other prisoners. After so many months of complete silence, the echoing sounds are extremely loud in Hermione’s ears, making any type of sleep in the near future highly unlikely for her.

Hermione walks over to the corner of her cell, sinks onto the straw and spreads out her legs, her eyes becoming glassy as she reviews the events of the day.

Chapter Text

Draco 

He was lying on the grass beside the Black Lake, the cold from the earth seeping through his clothes, his eyes shut and covered with his left arm, his wand hanging loosely from his hand. A heavy exhale escaped him, and then he sat up, looking out onto the still surface of the lake, one of the few occasions in the past five weeks when it had not been disturbed by raindrops piercing the water, disrupting it over and over again and sending tiny ripples through it. He stood and slowly walked over to the edge of the shore, the small waves stemming from the movements of the sea creatures below almost lapping at the tips of his boots. His pale and gaunt face looked back at him warily, clearly reflected in the deep black mirror that was the lake. Anew, he closed his eyes, breathing in the clean air, filled to the brim with fresh oxygen and pregnant with the scent of rain that’s been falling almost non-stop for four months. Merlin, he really hated going to school in Scotland. The landscape was beautiful, of course, but the weather was worse even than it was in Wiltshire.

Without warning, a stabbing sensation went through his chest, and he gasped, pressing a hand to his sternum and curling in on himself. His wand dropped to the floor as his other hand covered his heart, feeling the rapid pounding of it through his thin black shirt. He tried to regulate his breathing, which was coming raggedly now, only worsening the pain in his chest and lungs. Desperately, he focused on it to have something to cling to, counting his inhales and his exhales until they slowed and the pain in his chest slowly subsided. He bent over and retrieved his wand, stashing it in his holster and put his hand in his trouser pockets, raising his shoulders until they almost touched his ears. Suddenly, a heavy hand settled on his back, and he didn’t even have to turn around to know that it was Blaise, coming to pick him up like he was a toddler who had stayed out playing in the gardens too long. Gods, he hoped Blaise hadn’t seen him when he had his attack.

“It’s almost curfew,” he said lowly from behind him, as if scared to startle Draco, although he was already touching him.

Draco looked up at the darkening sky, the clouds building again in their relentless feat to soak the earth, making the sky much darker than it should be at this hour of the day.

“I’ll be right there,” Draco responded in hopes it would get Blaise to leave and go inside.

His friend didn’t move an inch, apparently having forgotten how to take a hint. Draco sighed again, weakly, trying to suppress the sound in order not to make it too obvious that he didn’t want Blaise to be there, wanted to be alone just a little bit longer. Since coming back, he had been made Slytherin prefect because of his still somewhat good grades – first Slytherin in every class still -, his good behaviour in the last year, and likely his presence on the Quidditch team if he had to guess. At the end of last term, before the final challenge of the Triwizard Tournament, he had been excited about the prospect. Now, he didn’t think there was anything that annoyed him more. The measly benefits that came with the position, such as having one’s own bathroom and getting to ride in a designated carriage on the train, were far outweighed by the negative aspects. He was responsible for making rounds, ensuring that other students would respect the curfew, a fact that seemed rather ironic, seeing as Blaise was now here to get him inside, not the other way around. At the beginning of last year, he had almost fantasised about the position, hoping that if Pansy also became prefect, they could take advantage of checking the rooms to be free of students and potentially staying in some rather longer than was strictly necessary. With the crush she had developed on him, this fantasy had quickly vanished, and he had hoped that she wouldn’t also become prefect if he was chosen. Selfish, yes, but he was a Slytherin after all. Now, they were doing rounds together, and it was still awkward between them, but Draco couldn’t find it in him to care enough to attempt polite conversation. His mother would be appalled at his behaviour. Then there was the fact that he actually had to roam through the castle, hunting students down just to send them to bed, and he didn’t care about that one bit. He was also tasked with showing around the new students on the first day, and while the little faces were endearing, he couldn’t help but feel crushed. For some reason, he didn’t believe that the following years would be a good time to be a student at Hogwarts.

The benefits were also a curse in and of themselves. A prefect’s carriage on the train and a shared bathroom meant he had seen Hermione right after escaping his home and going back to Hogwarts. The juxtaposition between how he had felt at home versus how he felt upon seeing her again was almost jarring.

She had sat in the coach with Weasley, the two of them snuggled up next to each other with a spread of tea, cookies, and card games before them, chattering excitedly, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though he was sure, due to multiple conversations he had overheard last year, that Hermione spent at least part of every summer at the Weasel’s home. He told himself that he wasn’t jealous when he saw them together. At the end of the previous school year, it was more than obvious that they weren’t in a relationship and were no longer interested in one another if the way the discussion on Krum had gone in the library was anything to go by. But a lot could happen in nine weeks, as Draco had discovered first-hand this year. Maybe they had spent the whole summer together, and the spark that had existed between them in February had rekindled? He ordered himself not to dwell on it. It was none of his business. Even if they didn’t have feelings for each other, he would never be with her, not just because she would never feel for him as he felt for her, but because he was dangerous. He wouldn’t even allow himself to look at her for too long and had worked on his Occlumency during the train ride instead, scared that some of the other Slytherins might notice him looking and tell their parents, who would then tell Voldemort. It was extremely irrational and stupid, but his thoughts had developed a tendency to spiral, which he could hardly control.

He had encountered her in their shared bathroom once before and had startled so severely that he had turned on his heel and left with a grunt after her short greeting. Her hair had fallen down her front in wet ringlets, her cheeks slightly flushed from the temperature of the room. She had looked like a goddess. The summer had done her good; she had filled out slightly, had grown a little as well, and her face had become even more beautiful, freckles painting it in various constellations. Since the incident in the bathroom, he had gone back to using the Slytherin bathroom for his baths again, knowing that at least there, he wouldn’t have any (un)welcome surprises. Now, if he saw her in the hall or during classes, he would regularly just occlude, working to keep his mind focused on class while blending out everything else. It was a particularly difficult way to occlude, keeping focus on some parts but not others, really controlling, directing his brain rather than the other way around. It was taxing, and after class with Hermione, he would often be drained. But it was worth it if it would keep her safe, he told himself. Nonetheless, he missed her terribly in the moments when she wasn’t there, and he didn’t occlude. He wanted to speak to her again, hear her voice, see her smile.

Then there was the fact of Umbridge. He doubted he had ever known a more vile, psychotic person besides his aunt, if one could believe his mother’s accounts of her life. And even her, he had never actually met but only heard stories of. He wouldn’t mind if it remained that way forever. Though his mother admitted that she missed her sister from time to time, it was clear that Narcissa herself actually had no desire to see her again. Her more manic streaks only came out after pubescence, meaning that his mother had good memories she shared with Bellatrix, but rationally knew that she was no longer that person. So, his aunt was merely a distant individual in his mind, someone he would tell his friends about when they were younger to scare them. Compared to Umbridge, who was constantly in his face, she seemed almost harmless to him.

He hated every inch of Umbridge, dreaded every moment that she would next open her mouth to spew her undignified nonsense. Her pink clothes and violently sweet, flowery perfume gave him headaches that lasted all day. Her high, grating voice drilled through his skull anytime he heard it, even in the merciful moments when she didn’t use an amplifying charm. Furthermore, she had taken over teaching DADA this year and wouldn’t let them use any spells, which was complete and utter bullshit, as basically everyone agreed. Not only was this bad for the students, as they would be unable to defend themselves against Voldemort, as Potter quite rightly pointed out, but it also made him fall behind in his training.

He now had to sneak around and would often split from Pansy during their prefect rounds to hide in one of the classrooms and practise on targets he would conjure. It was exhausting and mentally draining. He feared he would be caught eventually, and no rush of adrenaline made it remotely fun. He didn’t want to practise duelling, but he had to, he knew. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to practise the Unforgivables, but he did improve in the other spells, and it was much more enjoyable in the end than his sessions with Master Hughes. He also simply couldn’t be caught by Umbridge. Though his father had told him that lobbying in the Ministry was working quite well, he was sure that she really did not believe Voldemort to be back. Nonetheless, she supported pure-blood ideals and was an important pawn in his father’s plans, whatever they might be. Thus, Draco didn’t go out of his way to please her, but he also was careful not to be too opinionated in her presence.

In actuality, though, he truly hated her. At the beginning of the week, she had confiscated one of Blaise’s letters from Françoise, implying that inter-sexual relationships were not permitted on school grounds. After that, he had wondered whether she was even trying to make sense. Françoise was no longer a guest at Hogwarts; there were no relations on school grounds whatsoever, but she still hadn’t given back the letter. Theo had joked that she might be a pedophile and just got off on letters from pretty young French girls, but neither Draco nor Blaise had laughed, and Theo had quickly conceded that it wasn’t really funny, and that Umbridge truly was completely deranged.

All this added to the hollow feeling in his chest, the memories of what he had done this summer, the constant onslaught of pain that had him wondering whether he might be dying without anyone knowing, had made him retreat from his friends again.

He was pulled from his musings by the sound of a throat being cleared behind him.

“I don’t know what happened, Draco, but I know something did. Please, if you’re ready to talk, I’d be happy to listen. It might help.”

Draco stared straight ahead, battling with the emotions coursing through his chest. He felt horrid. Just last year, he had sworn to himself never to neglect his friends again after the thing with Blaise and Françoise, but now here he was, ignoring them. Worse, actively trying to avoid them. He knew he didn’t deserve their friendship. Knew he needed to be honest with them. But he was sure that they would end their friendship if they ever found out what he had been doing all summer, falling back into old habits, living according to views they had never supported, never would support. He shook his head. He was being a coward, again.

“I will tell you, I promise,” he whispered, thinking that a promise would mean that he would have to keep his word, mostly to himself. “I just – I need a little bit more time.”

“I know, mate. I’ll be there. We all will.” With these words, he patted Draco on the shoulder before turning back to the castle, leaving Draco to stare out onto the lake for some time longer.