Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January 3, 2004          Hermione

Silence filled the space around Hermione as she dragged the edge of her pocket knife across her arm. A breath of relief escaped her lips as the flawless skin split along her right forearm. For a few seconds, the weight lifted from her chest, and the shame that cloaked her disappeared. She wasn’t struggling to stand upright; she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t unstable—that she’d never recovered.

Hermione’s forehead dropped to the wooden tabletop as she blew out air. The tickle of blood dripping down her arm made her lips twitch. Her grip on the pocket knife tightened, the urge to do it again rose in her chest. She needed the release after today. One more cut couldn’t hurt. After all, she’d been healed up hours ago in the infirmary. Her teeth cut into her bottom lip as she made another line below the first one, closer to her wrist.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as the ambient sounds in her lab quieted. Thump. Thump. Hermione’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she drew a ragged breath. Thump. Thump. The steady heartbeat made her own racing one slow. His steady pulse beckoned to hers to match it. There was a fuzzy awareness of his thoughts on the outskirts of her mind. His emotions rarely showed themselves, and anytime she caught images from his mind, they were mostly horrific. Without his emotions, it was difficult to believe the acts he carried out bothered him.

Hermione laid the pocketknife on the wooden table and let her palm rest beside it, forcing her thoughts to her well. The one he’d helped her learn to control better. In her mind’s eye, she pictured profound darkness. When her scattered, unfocused thoughts attempted to infiltrate the space, gnarled black roots sprang up from the void at her feet and rapidly grew around her, sealing everything and everyone off. She shuffled to the well, sparing a glance at the night sky above. Her lips trembled seeing his constellation twinkling at her, but she continued until her fingers brushed the stone of the wall of the well.

She peered into the moving abyss of the well. Hermione didn’t know how to describe the writhing mass that lurked inside her well, and at this point, she had no idea how deep it had become. Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the stones, pressing into the rough texture.

Thump. Thump.

It was strange that the simplest first bond felt the strongest to her. Or perhaps because it was the one she couldn’t fully block with her potions, pills, or occluding. His heart—constantly present—beat next to hers until it drove her mad with longing, unresolved anger, and occasional relief. Nothing about them had ever been simple. No clear path. Always so many obstacles that it seemed there was no path at all.

Hermione gazed a moment longer at her well before dumping most of the day’s events into it. She could deal with that in the morning. She needed to sleep, and her potion wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow night. If she didn’t open her skin, let out some of the stress, there would be no rest. From what she remembered, it had already been three days since she had slept. Tempted to reach into the depths of her well and pull him out, but she couldn’t handle the bittersweet memories right now.

Her eyelids fluttered open, checking the cuts on her arm. They still bled—good. It was easier to sense him when wounds were open. When it was quiet and safe, she allowed herself to slip, just a little. Hermione cleaned the blade of her knife and the table surface with her wand and shuffled to the bed in the corner of her lab. She had a room upstairs, but people would have questions if they saw her, and she had no interest in answering them. Not bothering to undress, other than removing her shoes, Hermione collapsed on the bed.

Thump. Thump.

Her fingers drifted to her neck and touched her pulse point. Her lids closed once more. Hermione’s body twitched when she felt his pulse alongside her own. Like his heart, slow and steady. Tears finally escaped her closed eyes, running down her temples. She had killed him, or at least the boy who loved her, destroyed him, and made a monster. Not on purpose. Not because of ill intent. He continued to exist for her, lived for her. So many were ready to sacrifice their lives for loved ones, but it was harder to live. So much more difficult to survive day to day.

Blurry images populated her mind as the last of her potion’s effects wore off. He was in his own potions lab, chopping, blending, stirring, focused on his work. In his mind, he mused over ingredients, timing, and...

Hermione stopped breathing. The memory of them in their library flooded her. She was too knackered to occlude the connection away—to block the memory. She saw herself through his eyes, working on their potion, talking as she worked. Her hair grew in size as time passed. He approached her playfully, teasing her with his words, his hands...his mouth.

Hermione gasped as emotion—his emotions took hold. It was rare to feel anything from him other than anger, resignation, bloodlust, and unwavering agony. Most of the time, he felt...nothing. She understood why he still heavily occluded, more than he had before.

Amusement. Contentment. Awe. Desire. Joy. The emotions occurred in rapid succession before they were shattered by a longing so potent she couldn’t get air into her lungs. If he was this unguarded...maybe she could talk to him?

Draco.

Her mental voice was muted, weak because they had practiced little before they were separated. Hermione had attempted several times over the years to communicate with him, but it had never worked.

His heartbeat changed pace, quickening. His pulse filled her ears with the rush of blood.

Princess?

Hermione sobbed, her fingers digging into her chest.

Are you alright? her mental voice whispered.

Are you?

Yes, I’m fine. Please tell me you’re not being hurt again, she pleaded.

Sometimes when he was tortured, some of his Occlumency walls failed. If she was between doses of her pills or potions, left vulnerable to their bond, they connected. She'd get glimpses of Voldemort or Bellatrix, cursing or maiming him. Never emotions. When Draco was tortured, his emotions were silenced. She guessed it was his way of protecting himself. If he sensed her with him, he’d shut her out immediately. He didn’t need to explain why. He’d never wanted her to know what his torture was like. Even at Hogwarts, he had only talked to her about it because she’d pressured him.

That was earlier. I don’t have much time. I took Dreamless Sleep. I...I miss you. Draco’s mental voice choked out the last words. He dropped the prepared ingredients into his cauldron. Similar to her small bed, he trudged to his in a corner.

I miss you. Small stings signaled she had broken the surface of her skin again.

I won’t...won’t let you go. One day I’ll come for you... His mental voice sounded sleepy, as if he was drifting off.

Don’t leave me, she begged. This brief contact was all they’d had in months. It couldn’t end yet. Hermione couldn’t see anything anymore. She guessed he’d closed his eyes.

I promise I’ll never leave you. Even half asleep, he spoke the words with such conviction. Warmth spread over her chest.

I’ll dream of you.

Those were his last words. It was difficult to explain how she knew, but their thoughts were separate again. She could best describe it as the absence of something that should be there, but wasn’t. Akin to losing a limb. The sensation of it remained, not the actual limb.

His heart and pulse had slowed to their regular tempo. Any lingering emotions dimmed until she only felt the faintest echoes of affection and yearning. Hermione uncurled her fingers that grabbed at her chest like a claw, digging at her heart. Each fingertip was bloody. She lifted her top, peering at the skin underneath. Great. Another wound to heal. She had gotten her hand under her uniform and undershirt to scrape at herself again.

Hermione lifted her wand, hovering it over her ribcage, and considered leaving the gouged sections of her flesh. This terrible habit of hers had become a liability because she couldn’t control her anxiety. Perhaps if she left the wounds to scar, she’d get a better grip. Her eyes flicked to her wrists that bore many scars from her digging at them often.

She swallowed as more tears leaked from her eyes. Her anxiety would never get better or go away, much to her friends’ concern, at least the ones who were aware of it. Not until this war was over. Not until he was with her. Not until they were free.

Draco Malfoy was both the greatest love she'd ever known and the most devastating mistake she'd ever made.

Chapter Text

January 3, 2004          Hermione

“Hermione?” Ginny’s voice reached her just before light filled the room.

Hermione grumbled and threw her arm over her eyes. She had slept for at least four hours overnight, which was a record without her potion.

“Sorry, but we have to debrief as a team about the mission.”

Hermione understood it was procedure. If it hadn’t been so late when they returned last night, they would have debriefed then. She and Blaise had already reported to Kingsley and Moody, but now they had to discuss what went wrong as a team.

“I’m... I’m sorry for losing control again,” Ginny said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione made a soft noise and motioned for her. Ginny scurried to her bed. They embraced, clutching each other tightly. Much was left unsaid between them, each holding onto reasons for not sharing everything, but they still understood each other. Neither of them knew the exact reasons the other suffered, but they recognized each other’s pain.

“I’m sorry I ran out of Tranquility before we went to battle. I know how much that helps you. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Hermione promised. Shame made her stomach twist. Shame was an old, enduring friend who refused to leave her. She knew exactly why she had run out of the special variation of the Calming Draught, which they called Tranquility, that she made Ginny regularly. The tiny twitch in her fingers signaled she needed some of that very potion before attending the meeting.

“I told you it’s alright. I shouldn’t need to have that every time before battle.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.” Hermione pulled back and stared into her friend’s bright brown eyes. “Everyone has their ways of dealing with things, Ginny. You don’t need to be ashamed.”

“I know you don’t judge me. You aren’t afraid of me. It’s just when Harry gives me that broken-hearted look—it still guts me.” Ginny’s voice wavered as she spoke.

Hermione rubbed circles on Ginny’s back. “Harry doesn’t understand. He never has. It’s part of why you aren’t together.”

Harry had been back at their base for the past week, which proved more challenging than Hermione initially thought it would be.

“I know, but you don’t either, not really, and you never reacted the way he did.”

“He can’t help how he feels about how we handle things in battle sometimes. He understands occasionally we have to use dark magic, but he’s never comfortable with it. And if he suspects someone is...slipping, he just...he doesn’t react well.”

Harry had no idea how much most of the Order used borderline dark or dark magic now. In the beginning, everyone resisted it. In Hermione’s opinion, far too long and after far too many deaths. They had lost their initial three bases because of it and were now dwelling either under Harry’s house at 12 Grimmauld Place or St. Mungo’s. They also had several safe houses that the fighters traveled to and from.

Hermione’s imprisonment and return had brought many changes to the Order, both good and bad. However, over the past three years, it took for the fighters to be sanctioned to use the killing curse. Their side had received devastating blows and were only now recovering. They were still only permitted to use it when there was no other option.

“Most of us still don’t use the killing curse,” Ginny said.

Hermione glanced at Ginny’s scar that ran from her neck up to her chin and crept up the corner of her lips. They had almost lost Ginny that day. Thankfully, Hermione had been with her and knew the counter curse.

“True, but many of us have become creative in getting the same results. I think it’s the brutality Harry can’t take.”

Hermione didn’t judge Ginny for how vicious she or her boyfriend, Theo, were in battle. She wasn’t stupid. The two of them working together were an unbeatable duo. Were they bloodthirsty? Yes. Could they be ruthless? Absolutely. But most importantly, they were loyal to the cause, good friends, and trusted.

Ginny released her hold on Hermione and gave her a knowing expression. “Do you think Harry is going to bring up using dark spells again? How we’re supposed to be better than that?”

She sighed as Ginny stood, her long fiery locks fanning out behind her. Hermione swung her legs over her small bed and ambled across to her clothes pile. “Probably. He hadn’t seen you use Lacarnum Inflamari before.”

The image of the small group of Death Eaters screaming in agony as their cloaks went up in flames reverberated in her mind. Ginny had become deadly with her ability to use fire spells, improving them, or rather, the effects of them. Using Lacarnum Inflamari along with Petrificus Totalus was brilliant in itself. Theo body bound the enemies, and she lit them up. The intensity of the flames...that was really where Ginny shone. She made a simple fire spell five times stronger than it should be. No one survived Lacarnum Inflamari if Ginny cast it, and that was one of the more subtle fire spells she used.

Ginny’s shoulders sank. “Theo told me that Harry was furious because we needed the intelligence, and I ruined it by killing them all.”

Hermione sniffed at one of her black long-sleeve shirts, deciding it was clean enough, pulling her uniform top off before she replaced it with the shirt. She clenched her hand into a fist to stop the slight shaking of her fingers.

“He’s not wrong. It would have been okay if I hadn’t...” Hermione shook her head and faced Ginny. She wasn’t quite ready to face the fact that she had murdered a Death Eater in cold blood, because she feared for Draco. Draco’s message to Theo, which he’d relayed to her, was clear: None could survive that battle. Naturally, she didn’t share that with anyone in the Order. Her entire life was a great web of lies. It was exhausting to keep up with all of them. Guilt made her stomach ache.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s frustrated because things aren’t great with our resources. Kingsley told me that Harry will leave in a few days, so avoid him until then.”

Hermione attempted to make her tone soft and reassuring, but she hardly remembered what her voice sounded like using that tone anymore. Ginny narrowed her eyes at her. Hermione turned to the pile and picked out a pair of leggings to change into, attempting to escape Ginny’s scrutinizing. It had been a while since they’d talked about anything for longer than a few minutes, and she worried Ginny noticed her behavior was off.

She needed her potion or one of her pills. Everything would be fine in a few minutes. She’d take a few drops of Tranquility and be back in control again. Hermione could keep up the same appearance she had been for years. The ache in her chest would disappear.

Thump. Thump.

Her eyelids drifted closed. She would forget about him again, at least for a few hours. No, not forget. He was never far from her mind, heart, or soul. But the connection would dampen, allowing room for focus. Hermione bit her tongue, trying to block the steady thrum of his pulse, both a curse and a blessing to her existence.

“He saw you use curses, the dark ones. You know that, right?” Ginny’s words were cautious.

Hermione nodded. “I’m sure we’ll have a row about it. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m certain Moody’s had a word with him.”

Harry didn’t understand this part of the war—he never had. For all his resistance to dark spells, the rest of them couldn’t hold the same line, especially not her. When she returned, her view on dark magic had shifted drastically from his. Even before she’d vowed to herself, she’d already decided she would tarnish her soul before letting Harry sully his.

Hermione thought of when he’d broken down, crying in her arms about how difficult it was for him to resist the lure, how much he wanted to use dark magic. Because of his previous link to Voldemort, she finally grasped his avoidance and disgust for the dark arts. Harry couldn’t use it. It would ruin him. Hermione refused to break her best friend, not like that. So instead, she allowed him to be angry and worried, to judge her for her occasional use of it. It gave him an outlet for the rage that most couldn’t take from him.

To everyone else, Harry had changed little since the beginning of the war. Perhaps he now held wisdom he shouldn’t have acquired at such a young age. Experienced more horror than any child should have to survive, but he still had aspirations and thus gave others hope. When they were alone, Harry was honest with her in a way he wasn’t with others, letting her see the devastation, rage, and hopelessness he hid. Sometimes he was almost cruel towards her, but she understood Harry needed at least one safe person for his sanity, and Hermione was nothing if not a dedicated friend.

Thump Thump.

Her lips almost curved up, knowing he was alive. He was breathing. Her most guarded secret filled her with longing, anger, horror, beauty, shame, and undefinable love. The metallic taste of her blood coated her tongue from the wound she’d created, reminding her of their bond—of him.

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s body jerked in response to her name. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized she’d gotten lost in her head again. Damn it. She needed her potions to be finished.

“Sorry, I’m still knackered,” she mumbled as she grabbed a fresh pair of knickers that she hadn’t bothered to put away from the fresh laundry pile.

“It’s alright, sometimes I do that. Usually, when we’ve been waiting too long at one of the safe houses or here.”

Hermione hummed in agreement as she moved behind her potions table, changing her knickers and leggings. She peeked at the potions, checking the coloring and consistency. Only a few more hours.

“I know last night didn’t work out how they wanted it to, but I’m glad we did something. It was so quiet it was scaring me.” Ginny stared out of Hermione’s conjured window.

“It’s always calmest before the storm, but we still don’t know what Tom’s next move is.” Hermione breathed out in frustration.

After months of investigation, they were no closer to his next plan or figuring out how Voldemort survived and defeated Harry years ago. Even with Draco’s help, they hadn’t found the answer.

That wasn’t the complete truth. Harry lost the Battle of Hogwarts because he’d been unwilling to use the killing curse. Harry survived the encounter because Hagrid gave his own life to get Harry to safety. If both Harry and the Dark Lord had used the killing curse—Voldemort would be dead. Harry would have survived because of the stone, but the Dark Lord would be gone. Thankfully, it seemed no one else except them understood that. To the Order, it was only another piece of proof that Voldemort was invincible.

Chapter Text

January 3, 2004          Hermione

“Yes. I’m certain they have no idea where we are. We’re safe,” Hermione stated again.

Harry sat across from her with his arms crossed. She knew he was upset because Kingsley and Moody, in the end, had sided with her. McGonagall supported Harry’s position because, while she was one of the most formidable witches, Hermione knew she detested the use of dark magic. They had spoken about it more than once over the years, and McGonagall was one of the last to cave about allowing the killing curse.

“We’ll meet on Friday to go over the supply run. Weasley, Greengrass, make sure your inventory reports are up to date.” Moody smacked the table softly as he hobbled out. His limp had become more pronounced as time passed.

McGonagall, via floo connection, disappeared. Percy and Daphne spoke in hushed tones as they left the room. They handled all the supplies, save medical, for the Order. Even with Hermione’s suggestion of using some Muggle medicines and food supplements, they needed basic items. Hermione had been periodically stealing Muggle birth control to allow the other girls to use the potions for years. Some of them had switched over to the pill to save the potion ingredients. Her daily diazepam was a bit tricky to find and get. So far, Hermione’s luck had held out. Both in procuring and hiding it from everyone else.

Everyone else filed out, leaving Hermione and Harry. Ginny cast a worried expression as she followed Theo. Hermione stayed back, knowing Harry needed to let off steam.

“Turns out those chocolate shakes and bars that remind me of dirt aren’t awful,” Harry said with a chuckle.

Nutritional drinks and meal replacement bars were easy for Hermione to find, procure, and supply to both bases. Muggles had them in bulk, and as long as they paid for them, it was a quick, simple way to keep their members fed. Voldemort continued to tighten his reins on them, making even the most basic things difficult to get. Or rather, through Draco, he restricted them more and more. She needed to talk to Theo, but that would have to wait until after Harry left.

“I’m glad. I told them to get a variety of flavors so everyone could find what they like best.”

“The chocolate brownie ones are my favorite.” Harry sighed as his posture shifted, her best friend temporarily disappearing. “You probably already know what I’m going to say.”

“I have an idea.” She lifted her sleeve and picked at her wrist. Her fingers slid along the old, stained green hair tie. She needed to replace it, but had lost many, and she refused to put new ones on until the others were destroyed or frayed off.

Harry got up from his spot and perched next to her. She frowned. These moments were the worst. Harry appealed to her, part friend, part Order member, part...something she couldn’t define, but it made her uncomfortable.

“This war has gone on too long. I look around this table and I barely recognize anyone anymore. It’s...heartbreaking.”

“War changes people, Harry. There’s no way to avoid it.”

“I understand that, believe me, I know. I accept some people losing themselves to it, to the desolation.” Harry faced her. “But you and Gin...I can’t...”

“We’re alright, I promise.” She wouldn’t lie and say they were doing well. No one was, but they were surviving to fight another day. At this point, it was all anyone could do.

“No, you’re not!” Harry smacked his fist on the table. His anger over the last few years was akin to the type Ron had carried. Harry used to be the more patient one, with Ron being the one who lost his temper at the drop of a hat.

Ron.

Her heart constricted in her chest with pain. She never moved on from his death. They never found his body, figuring the Death Eaters had taken him, probably tortured to death, if her own experience was anything to go by. His death had been so close to the Battle of Hogwarts. He was just another casualty. Except to her, his family, and Harry. The pain of his absence had gutted them.

“’ Mione”, can you not see what’s happening? You can’t be this blind! I know you’re not. You’re the brightest witch of your age.”

Oh, how she hated those words, that and being called the “Golden Girl” as she’d been labeled in the past. Those monikers burned her now, scalded her because she wasn’t worthy of them. If Harry knew how foolish and tarnished she was...

“And what exactly is that?” she snipped. The irritation of hearing him calling her that roused her indignation. “Are you going to compare us to them again? Tell me that Ginny and I deserve to be with Tom because of our actions?”

“Gods no! I would never say that!”

“You more or less have!”

“I‘ve never told you to join the Death Eaters! Either of you! Why would you say that to me?”

“You’ve directly compared us, Harry.”

“Not like that! I said that if you and Gin kept dabbling in the darkness, it would take hold. That you’d be forever changed, that—”

“I remember your thoughts on it, Harry,” Hermione cut him off. “Once someone chooses darkness, dark magic, there’s no coming back. It taints their soul forever. The best they’ll ever be is...grey.”

Harry’s eyes widened at her mention of their conversation so long ago. He sat back and traced the wood pattern on the large table.

“But it turned out you were wrong. Snape was loyal to Dumbledore, to the Order, until his last breath.” Her voice softened at the end. The cavern of grief inside her opened once more. “Perhaps he was grey, but in the end, he chose the right thing. He gave his life for us.”

“No, he gave his life for my mother.”

“Maybe that was his motivation in the beginning, but at the end of his life, things were different. He was different. Snape cared about us, or some of us anyway.”

Harry let out a breath, his shoulders rolling inward. “I know what Snape did for us, for all of us.” He turned his watery eyes to her. “But he started in a bad way, found the light, got lost, and eventually made the right choices. You and Gin...you are the light Hermione. If you both turn grey...we don’t have...there’s nothing to guide us anymore.”

Her best friend sounded broken. Losing Ron haunted him, even on the best days, and his breakup with Ginny had almost ended him. If it wasn’t for their longstanding friendship, she wasn’t sure Harry could carry on and be the beacon of hope they desperately needed him to be. It was why Hermione had lived in her secret shame, why she wouldn’t allow him to see the ugliest parts of herself—probably why Ginny hadn’t either—he needed them. He needed both of them to fuel him so that, in turn, he gave them all the fragile hope they clung to. It was an awful, destructive cycle, but Hermione didn’t know how to fix it.

“Ginny isn’t grey, Harry. She’s using fire spells, mostly. It’s only, she’s so powerful when she casts, they are much stronger, and sometimes she can’t control that.” Hermione left out any spells Ginny used that were darker. Harry had never witnessed the curses they’d practiced together with Theo. Her words seemed to pacify him.

“Alright, I suppose you’re right. When she’s with him, she’s not herself, she’s unhinged. They feed off each other. It’s...it’s unnatural.”

Hermione didn’t comment because what he said was true when Ginny and Theo were together on the battlefield, she wasn’t the Ginny Hermione had known most of her life. Theo brought something out in her—or perhaps he tapped into a part of her that had always been there. They were a deadly pair, so in sync that it was a thing of beauty to behold. Hermione couldn’t help but notice that, unless Harry was around, after Ginny and Theo fought together, they both seemed calmer. Almost serene for days afterward, not even needing their potions to stay level. At peace in a way she couldn’t seem to reach.

Harry turned to her and took one of her hands. She pressed her lips together. She was picking at her wrist, and he’d ruined it. “Even if I stop my objections about Ginny, that doesn’t change my concern for you.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Condescending wanker.

Wait. What? It was true sometimes Harry spoke to her in an almost parental way, but...Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. She needed to get back to her potions, and she also needed another dose of her medicine.

Draco? Her mental voice whispered. As awful as the timing was, she would give anything to speak to him again. Faint tremors spread over her skin. Still no emotions, but she sensed him on the outskirts of her mind. She bolted out of her seat, her breath puffing from her. Harry stood and picked her hand back up. Hermione’s lips trembled when his absence spread through her consciousness again.

“You don’t need to be worried about me. I’m fine.” Her tone was confident, though her insides shook. Her mind debated whether to take her Tranquility potion. If she continued like this...they could possibly talk to each other. The logic tamped down on her wayward emotions, reminding her what an awful idea that was and how unstable she was without medication or potions.

“I don’t believe that for a second. You still won’t talk to me about what happened when they had you.”

Hermione ripped her hand from his grasp. “I’ve told you everything you need to know. I had to repeat it for the Order more than once. Why you think, me, reliving some of the most horrible experiences of my life, will benefit me in any way is beyond me.”

Her time with the Death Eaters hadn’t been all terrible, but she couldn’t admit the truth. Draco had made her swear not to reveal his part in her return to the Order. That he’d been meeting with Theo for years, he was their source of information that helped the Order. That he’d made sure they got the supplies they needed, because she was with them.

Draco made it clear to Theo that if she wasn’t part of the Order, he would do nothing to aid them, therefore, she couldn’t reveal his help because he refused to support them. He, like almost everyone else, thought Voldemort was undefeatable. Draco did what he could to benefit her and his friends, nothing more.

She’d told the Order and Harry about the torture, how she thought there were parts of her Voldemort stole from her mind that she’d never get back. Hermione had made sure, regardless of what she revealed, everyone understood she was damaged, but not broken. Never broken. She clenched her jaw. Draco had splintered her, broken her, but only because he had to—just as she’d shattered him.

Harry would never accept their relationship and certainly wouldn’t understand their dynamic. The best she hoped for was that they all survived the war, and then she’d worry more about the fallout. If things didn’t turn around soon, it wouldn’t matter anyway, because they’d all be dead.

“I don’t mean it like that, but I know you haven’t told anyone the truth about it. We’ve been friends since we were eleven. I know you, and I know when you’re keeping secrets.”

As guilty as she felt, it was still hard for her to keep a straight face. She loved Harry. Loved him with her entire being, but he didn’t know her, not as he thought. She withheld many things from him. Carried countless secrets inside. If she had her way, he’d never learn of her betrayal. With Ron gone, he wouldn’t be able to take it, and she refused to be the one to destroy the Chosen One. Harry needed her as much as she needed him.

“If I’m keeping things, it’s because they don’t matter to the Order and they’re too painful to talk about.”

Harry approached her, sliding his palms over her arms until he held her wrists. “I’m not pressuring you, but Hermione, you need to talk to someone. We’ve always been honest with each other. I tell you things I never even shared with Ginny or Ron.”

That was a low blow. Ron was dead, or he would‘ve been the person Harry confided in, and they both knew it. Harry had tried to share things with Ginny, but the strain of the war, the time between visits, Ron’s death, and each fighting their own demons had been too much and divided them. He was only this candid with her because there wasn’t anyone else he trusted as much. She wasn’t even the runner-up choice, and it hurt so much. She had admitted to Draco years ago how much Harry’s preference for Ron and then Ginny pained her.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She forced herself to hug him because she couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. “I just...I can’t, Harry. Maybe when this is over, but there isn’t space or time for me to take a moment to sort out my feelings about anything right now. We have to survive. We have to defeat him.”

Harry hugged her tighter. “I hate when you talk that way. You’re just as important as anyone else, especially to me.”

Hermione clenched one of her hands that rested against his back into a fist. She was only important because he didn’t have a choice. She was convenient. Ron’s affection was similar during their year on the run. There were times she was positive he had feelings for her, which made things uncomfortable because she was still confused about Draco. However, the moment she and Ron’s relationship seemed like work, even as friends, he backed off. She wasn’t worth the effort. Then he had abandoned them for weeks.

Harry’s fingers trailed down her back. “Do you remember when we were alone during the hunt for the Horcruxes?”

She stiffened because she’d been thinking of that moment seconds before. “Yes.”

“That was the first time it had ever been only the two of us. It was the first time I think I really saw you. I understood I hadn’t been a very good friend before that. I tried to be better. I did all I could to see you, to know you. You caught that, yeah?”

“I...Yes.” Hermione scrunched up her face. She hadn’t thought about it then, but he had been more attentive after that. During the hunt, she was drowning in guilt and shame. She barely managed day to day.

“I was so ashamed of myself for not paying attention before. I listened to you whenever we had to face a challenge or about schoolwork, but not much else. I called you my friend, and I meant it...but it wasn’t until then I realized. You were my friend and I...I cared about you.”

Hermione pulled back, but Harry held her tight against him. “What are you saying?”

“I never apologized to you, and I should’ve, right then, when I realized. In that tent, I should have told you I was wrong. You were always my truest friend, and I hadn’t appreciated you.”

“I know you appreciate me. I don’t understand what you’re saying.” His confession confused her.

“I...The things we talked about then, when we were alone, even when Ron...” He cleared his throat. “Even when he returned, I didn’t tell him what we talked about.”

“Oh.” Hermione didn’t know how to reply because she was certain this was extremely difficult for Harry to get out and there was a point he was getting to, but what it was—she had no clue.

Harry finally loosened his hold, but didn’t completely release her. He pulled back, his green eyes moving over her features. “I see your pain, like you see mine. We have to keep each other from losing ourselves to this war. It isn’t the dark magic that scares me with you. It’s every time I see you, a little more of you is gone. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Hermione cupped his cheek. “You won’t, Harry. As long as we have each other, we can’t completely lose who we are, right?” she said, saying the same words she had to him in the tent when Ron had left. Harry had been struggling with Voldemort in his head and felt like he couldn’t fight him anymore.

He pulled her against him again, squeezing her. “You’re right. You’re always right.” His fingers stroked her back again. “We’ll find Ron, and when we do, we’ll bring him home together.”

Chapter Text

January 9, 2004          Draco

A man was screaming and writhing on the floor. Draco understood he knew him, but didn’t recall his name. Voldemort cackled beside him with delight. The man bent backwards so much it appeared he’d broken his back. Draco wondered what time it was as he ended the curse. He wanted something to drink.

“Should I end him, my lord?” Draco attempted not to sound monotone as he spoke, but couldn’t muster up enough motivation.

“Are you in such a hurry, young Draco?”

“No, my lord, but there are three others you requested today.” Draco stared at the prone man and then at his own fingers. Strange, he couldn’t quite feel his grip on his wand.

“Mmm...yes, I suppose you’re right. He is of no more use.” Voldemort waved his hand dismissively.

“Avada kedavra,” Draco said in a bored tone. Firewhisky. That’s what he wanted to drink. The man stilled on the floor.

Voldemort waved to the masked Death Eaters to remove the body and frowned at Draco. Shite. He should’ve put more emotion into his voice. Voldemort hated it when Draco didn’t appear excited enough when casting. Bellatrix once mentioned it deeply bothered Voldemort how casually Draco cast the killing curse, as though he were having a conversation over tea. One only had to mean it, not be emotional about it.

His anger at himself cracked through the haze in his mind. Only a minuscule fracture, but enough that Draco would sound more enthusiastic when casting the next one. Draco knew he had to pull back on his Occlumency or Voldemort would discern how deep he’d gone. Although Draco was confident, he could keep Voldemort from finding out the truth. The agony of having Voldemort tearing through his mind was something he wanted to avoid. Voldemort knew of Draco’s Occlumency, but believed it was only as advanced as Bellatrix’s had been. Which wasn’t much.

Draco blinked. Lee Jordan was the man he’d been torturing and then took the life of. It had been years since Draco had seen him last, but that wasn’t why he did not recognize him. It was the Occlumency. The fissure lengthened as Draco’s ire towards himself rose. He had to remove a few layers from his mind, or all of this would be in vain.

As soon as he removed three walls, he sensed her. The faintest thrumming in his veins, a tiny ba-dump, next to his heartbeat. Draco’s jaw locked as he paid little attention to the next prisoner brought before them. There was crying and begging as usual, but he only heard the distant rhythm of her heart.

Voldemort cackled again as the man on the ground screamed and wet himself. Draco was relieved that the other general was in charge of this death. He was running out of time. She had dug past his interior walls. There was no way he could continue without making a mistake. His pulse picked up—no, hers did. His continued its steady beat. Given how occluded he spent his days, his heart rarely changed its tempo regardless of the situation. But when he felt her inside him, it broke through his walls—as she always had.

Draco didn’t hesitate and was much more emotional as he cast the next two curses, pleasing Voldemort so much that he dismissed them only thirty minutes later. He raced to leave, growing more and more agitated when he was stopped no less than four times with concerns that could have waited.

Once he was away from the Dark Lord’s headquarters, Hirsel Estate, and inside his room, Draco re-warded and silenced his surroundings. Stumbling to his bed, he dropped his knees on the mattress and collapsed on his pillow. Her pulse raced as her heart hammered in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the worst. Draco wasn’t positive, but from what he had gathered, most of the time when this happened, she was in a battle.

Unless he was deeply occluded, he couldn’t concentrate well when he was aware she was in danger. Until her heart slowed and her pulse regulated, all he thought of was her. He’d been the one to do this, because she wanted it—because he needed it—but he hadn’t understood what it would be like when she was gone. When he had to die all over again. Unlike the last time, when he’d killed that part of himself to survive, and carry on as a stranger in his own body. This time, he was all too aware of his existence.

His eyes burned behind his lids. He walked and talked and did whatever the Dark Lord asked of him, but he wasn’t truly alive. He was a walking corpse. Draco wasn’t even sure if his actions counted as surviving anymore. It was only when he was delirious from lack of sleep and alone that he allowed himself to enjoy feeling her, to get lost in her.

The sound of her voice the other night had unraveled him. Ruined him. They never had the chance to master speaking mentally. Unfortunately, given their current circumstances, it didn’t make sense to figure it out now. If he lost focus for a second around the Dark Lord, it could cost him his life, and she had too many things she managed for the Order.

Based on the brief things he’d witnessed, Hermione had many roles in the Order and constantly worked. He doubted either of them slept much. It was tempting after speaking with her to let a few layers drop so he could be with her instead of a memory of her, but it was too risky.

Instead, he let one more wall fall to see if he felt more of her, or rather, her emotions. This, too, came with risk, but less so. His witch didn’t share her emotions often, or rather, if she did, he wasn’t aware of it. Even though they needed their bonds, they both struggled with them, too.

He sighed when he felt nothing. The tempo of her heart had slowed, along with her pulse. That hadn’t lasted long, not long enough to indicate a battle. Not short enough to be a row with someone. He clenched his jaw. There could be other reasons that made her blood pump.

Draco dug his palms into his eyes. He refused to consider anything else. Sod it all. He reached for the Dreamless Sleep potion and chugged it. That was the second one this week. He needed to slow down or the side effects would occur again. His eyes slipped shut as his mind filled with images of bouncing brown curls, bright amber eyes, and the best sound in the world, her laughter.

January 18, 2004          

She was a disease. He’d been infected since the day he first saw her, but at the time, he hadn’t realized his demise. How she destroyed him, reduced him to nothing—hollowed him out until he was only a faithful servant to his master because there was no trace of what he could have been. Nothing but the spiteful, ambitious, cunning bastard he’d always been. The exact image he had cultivated in his childhood, what she had thought him to be for years.

No, she was a poison—one that had burned through his veins, strengthening his hate until it burned with a fury he couldn’t control. Forced actions when he was supposed to be distant. Stronger than the adder’s venom, he’d made part of his daily routine for years. Ruining him from the inside out.

Draco’s fingers twisted the black ring that adorned his left ring finger, a habit he meant to break. He couldn’t afford to draw the Dark Lord’s attention. No one saw the ring unless they were looking for it since it was charmed to remain hidden, but if he continued to reach for the space, it would catch his master’s gaze.

The ring was a simple black metal band that looked unassuming, while his others were more decorative to draw attention, further keeping the black ring hidden. While its purpose had changed since he created it, the ring was far more precious to him now. It no longer absorbed the blood of his enemies to use later to track them, wound them, curse them, or kill them. The band only held her blood—and only hers forevermore—a piece of her he carried with him always. The only piece of her he could hold.

Her phantom thrum of a heartbeat next to his. Draco rubbed his chest. She was nervous or excited. He thought she was angry because of the sudden surge in her pulse. His eyes drifted closed as he remembered his lips on her pulse point, the whimpers, and gasps in his ear. He shook his head to clear the ghostly remembrances, but it made him dizzy. He had barely slept. Once he’d peeled away his layers of Occlumency with the venom, he was left raw and exposed.

He rubbed his eyes. Desperate to know she was alright, he couldn’t close himself off until he was positive whatever danger was plaguing her had passed. Draco bit his lip to hold in the bitter laugh. She might not have even been in danger. She could be fucking someone else, cutting Draco out from inside her again.

No. She’d sworn she was his. It was why they’d done the rituals over two years ago, and the longer the empty days and nights came and went, the less he had hope. Draco pressed his thumbs into his eyes, willing the tears away. He’d been desperate for the connection, for her to feel him, the way she tormented him internally for years.

Draco had tried to forget her. Ignore the ache in his chest. Bury her. Cleave her out of his system, but he couldn’t bleed her out of him, even if he wanted to. There was no one else, there never had been—there never would be. The years of self-hatred because of his attachment to her were half of his life. He couldn’t love her if he didn’t equally hate himself and maybe her a little too. That wasn’t fair. Draco hated himself for more reasons than could be listed, unless he had a lot of parchment and a vast amount of time to be thorough.

She had been the only salvation he’d ever known since the nightmare of his teen years began. Every interaction with her had also been laced with pain, but it had been real. Every excruciating moment was more real than anything else in the pathetic excuse of his life.

Th-thump. Thump.

Draco let his imagination wander. His day would be long and filled with grotesque tasks carried out for the Dark Lord. For a few minutes, he’d allow himself to remember the feel of her soft skin, the press of her lips against his, how she called out his name, writhing against him. His gasp caught him by surprise, as did his hand reaching for his cock.

Frustration lanced through him. If only they’d had more time then. He might have been able to reach her now, talk to her properly. His heart picked up pace as he stroked himself. Her now golden-amber eyes stared at him, sparkling in the low light as she reached for him.

His fingers clutched his wand as he cast a weak diffindo on his bare chest, near his heart. Draco hissed from the pain, lifting his hips and speeding his hand movements. She clutched him so tightly, whispered his name over and over, her nails cutting into his flesh.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

His breath caught in his throat when her pulse raced with his. His heart thundered alongside hers, and he hoped she wasn’t having a row with someone. Draco wanted to pretend she was thinking of him, too, touching herself. Fuck, he needed to believe that.

#####

“Oh gods, Draco,” she panted.

“That’s right, Princess. I’m your god now.” He chuckled against her neck.

“Prat,” she snapped.

Draco paused his fingers. He was amused at her defiance, given he could stop and leave her wanting. He was the one in control, not her.

“D—don’t stop...please,” she stammered.

Draco loved when she begged. “Look at me.”

Her lust-filled gaze locked on his as he curled his fingers inside her. She raised her hips and moaned.

#####

How stupid he had been. How naïve. Still, the memory filled his senses and danced across his skin until he was sure he felt her breath against the side of his face. Certain he heard her moans and his name over and over until he groaned out his release.

Hermione Granger was a poison that had seeped into his veins long before he realized he'd been infected. She was a slow, consuming ache—a disease that hollowed him out and reshaped him into something unrecognizable. In a lifetime steeped in misery, she was the only wonder he had ever known. His witch was a contradiction: the weakness that brought him to his knees and the strength that kept him standing.

Chapter Text

January 28, 2004          Draco

Draco adjusted his mask, making sure his team was in the correct position. As much as he detested this, they needed a win today. He’d notified Theo hours ago that they were coming. During their last meeting, he made it clear the next time they came, it would be a slaughter and to send those deemed less-than to die.

Bellatrix, Captain of London, was dead. Draco’s master was in a foul mood because of it and ordered the attack, blaming the Order for her downfall. Draco knew who took her life, but that secret would stay buried inside of him and out of the Dark Lord’s knowledge. He was quite relieved and happy she was gone.

The only reason it had been so easy to get to Bellatrix was because she angered the Dark Lord and had been demoted from a general to a captain. Truthfully, Voldemort didn’t care about her death, only that he lost another zealot. As close as they were to obliterating the Order, the Dark Lord’s failing health, over-extending their forces in other territories, and lack of insanely devoted followers had Voldemort...depressed. Naturally, he couldn’t be depressed, so instead he raged, punishing his followers even more with his cruelty.

Everyone’s morale was shite, and Draco had to deal with their surly or paranoid attitudes. His master further irritated him by telling him that before they left for battle, he would need to take over his aunt’s previous duties and manage London. That, on top of the battle, he was planning to take London from the Muggles. Voldemort had decided in his insanity, he would show the world their superiority. This summer, they would no longer work from the shadows to achieve his goals.

His fucking idiot of a master planned on exposing witches and wizards to the Muggles when they took London to then move their base of operations there. Voldemort was growing increasingly impatient with his “allies” in other countries. While they had provided resources, troops, and various supports, he wanted more. He wanted them to publicly declare his greatness and their loyalty to his asinine cause.

Gods, Draco hated this war and most everyone involved with it. He recalled Theo once asking him about happier times, Hermione helping him find one solid good memory. He shook his head. The only positive memories he’d ever had were with her or with her and his friends. Everything else before her was fragmented and not strong enough for a Patronus. After that one time, with her, he’d never been able to cast one, even when he was entrenched in memories of her.

“Flint! What the fuck you doing?” Draco snapped and stomped to the lazy rotter. Flint was sitting on the ground, as though he were bored.

“They are late! So late, I don’t think they’re going to show. I’m relaxing.” Flint lifted a shoulder.

“Listen, you useless sack of shite, we don’t relax on assignment for the Dark Lord. Get up or I’ll make you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re so important now, High Commander.” Flint grabbed the tree trunk next to him to hoist himself up.

Draco didn’t miss the sarcasm. He blamed himself for Flint’s insubordination. Flint had a tough time when his wife was killed, and Draco allowed him a couple of weeks to try and right himself, but as always, allowing these miscreants an inch of compassion was a mistake. One thing the Dark Lord had correct about his followers, they could only be ruled by fear. He would have sighed, but his Occlumency didn’t allow for such dramatic reactions.

“Crucio,” Draco said without looking at him. He didn’t even aim his wand. He could cast this and any number of painful or deadly spells in his sleep. Flint collapsed to his side, rolling on the ground and screaming. Draco snapped his gloved fingers at the closest Death Eater and gestured to Flint. They got the hint and silenced him. Draco waited until the last second before causing lasting damage to let up.

Crouching down next to his old classmate, he slapped his cheek to gain his attention. “I’m in an excellent mood today. However, if you disrespect me again, I’ll end you, and I won’t be using the killing curse. You know how I prefer to rid myself of vermin.”

Flint whimpered and curled into himself. Perfect. Draco stood and checked the time. Perhaps his message caused too much internal conflict for Theo, and the Order wouldn’t show. He hoped not. He had no interest in taking any of their lives, but he also didn’t want to return with news of failure. What he’d done to Flint would look like child’s play to what his master would do to him.

Pops sounded around the building, signaling the Order had arrived. Draco scanned the wooded area around the dilapidated house. It was almost beautiful with the fresh snow littering the ground, making everything shine. Images of the grounds at Hogwarts, years ago, when he stood in the Astronomy tower and gazed at the grounds, suddenly filled his mind.

You remind me of winter, fresh snow, and warm fires, perfect for staying in and reading.

The diamond wall shattered with her words. The memory of her birthday melted his steel wall and cracked the granite one before him. His witch was fighting to escape the confines of his mind, out of his well, out of their library, destroying his walls. Fuck. Draco wasn’t sure why she felt so close, but it tore him apart.

Both sides of the property lit as spells were shouted. A small group had arrived. Originally, they were supposed to be Potter’s personal contingent of guards, but thankfully, Theo must have convinced them of the impending attack. The Dark Lord’s fury at not yet capturing Scarhead was...difficult for his followers to navigate. Upon return, Draco would take his torture as he always did, without complaint. It wouldn’t be as severe if there were no survivors, hence the need to end them all.

Draco smirked as another Death Eater fell to the ground, unconscious. He left them and moved closer to the battle. The Order never learned. Still stunning and not killing. Fools. It was why their numbers declined, and Voldemort’s losses were only a fraction. Some of the Order members had adapted. It was always more invigorating battling with them. There was a chance they’d put him out of his misery.

Draco clenched his jaw. No. He wasn’t allowed to have thoughts like that anymore. He’d sworn he’d stop. He would endure. Draco looked at another body of a Death Eater as he passed. He knew Theo’s calling sign. Like himself, Theo liked to get his hands or knives on his enemies. Using a wand to Avada, someone was fine. If one needed to be stealthy, but he closely related the killing curse to the Dark Lord. So more often than not, when given the choice, he killed in other ways. That body was not Theo’s kill, it was someone else's.

Someone who liked their victims to suffer before they died. They had used a nasty curse, the twin to one he and Dolohov had co-created. Theirs created boils that covered the skin and exploded, which infected anyone near them. Once the boils exploded, the curse would eat through their skin to their bones. They had designed it to be slow and not attack the major organs until the end. To prevent any chance to save someone, but to prolong the agony. If someone healed the wounds, they stayed that way for twenty minutes before returning and spreading quicker. Each time they were healed, the effects spread faster. At the time of creation, there was no counter curse, so it didn’t matter that it was slow acting. The Death Eater before him was similar, but the flesh had melted off as well.

“One move and you’re next,” she spoke behind him.

Her voice. The cracks spread through the granite wall. It collapsed. His iron wall buckled from the heat, threatening to melt before he even laid eyes on her.

“How did you know about this house?” she seethed.

His pulse raced as his heart thundered in his chest. Hers matched his and made his chest warm. Fear, confusion, and determination flooded him. Her emotions, those were her feelings. He struggled to speak.

“Drop your wand and turn slowly,” she demanded.

Draco smirked. He didn’t need a wand to kill someone. He didn’t even need it for a number of spells. The wand slipped from his fingers as he faced her, taking her in.

His witch was breathtaking, even though she was far too thin. Her uniform and coat draped her, amplifying her frail figure. Her curls were gathered into plaits that wrapped around her head, drawing attention to her delicate facial features. Hermione’s lips parted as she filled her lungs with the frigid January air. Her eyes widened, the luminous amber irises filled with recognition, regardless that he wore a full-face mask.

“Impressive curse, Princess.” He tilted his head to the dead Death Eater.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

January 28, 2004          Hermione

Hermione’s mouth was dry as she gaped at Draco. He was in his full Death Eater regalia. It had been years since she’d seen him in person so close. The Death Eaters had changed their masks to skulls, and it had made them more intimidating than they already were.

His robes were the same black ones with intricate skull and snake embroidery, except now, there was also some type of insignia designating his rank. His full-face black skull mask seemed out of place with the snow surrounding him. The light reflected off of it and drew her attention to his eyes. They weren’t the dead fish eyes she expected. While they weren’t his clear silver ones, more the color of ashes in the snow, he wasn’t fully occluded.

No part of his skin was visible, another subtle change to the Death Eaters. Not all adhered to the dress code, but most did, and it made it even more difficult to distinguish them from one another. Draco had black gloves on, his hood pulled up, hiding his white blonde hair. He’d even put some type of makeup around his eyes. The visible space surrounding his eyes matched his mask. It effectively blended his skin with the black mask. He looked like a death god, coming to collect souls. He already owned her damaged soul. He owned all of her.

Draco stepped closer. “Why are you here?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’m part of the unit that was sent.”

He knew she sometimes was in the field. She was supposed to reset the wards at this safe house because they had been dismantled—probably by him—and they needed to use the location for an upcoming supply run.

Although Draco didn’t move a muscle, she envisioned his jaw clenching as anger filled him—no, her. She blinked. His fury. She felt his emotions. Stupidly, a smile broke out over her face.

“You’re not supposed to be here. Leave.”

“I can’t leave...” she answered, but was distracted by his rage that flowed through her. His heart pounded beside hers, his pulse raced with hers. Tranquility was still in her system, but evaporated the longer they were in proximity.

Behind her were explosions, screams, and the heat of flames? Hermione craned her neck to see what was happening, but was pulled away to a cluster of trees. Once her back pressed against a large trunk, he tilted her head up, locking his intense gaze on her.

“You can’t be here.”

Ignoring his words, her hand raised, her fingers tracking over his skull mask, the cool metal made her already-freezing fingertips sting. Her suffering prince, her monster, was alive and with her. They were together. It was only when they were together that she didn’t hate herself. His eyes...there was a spark of life, a flicker of him, the real him. He was surviving on the inside, holding on for her as he promised.

“You need to leave.”

“I know I should hate this”—her eyes continued to move over his mask—“but I think...I prefer it over your other mask.” Some might view what Draco did to her in her captivity as wrong or cruel, but to her, it was a sacred memory.

Draco's left hand raised, and the mask vanished into black smoke. His expression was regretful. She studied his drawn features. His cheekbones were still sharp and high, his jaw that of a statue with full lips. He kept glancing at the battle every few seconds. The black smudges around his eyes must have been enchanted make-up because they were applied too well. Again, seeing him like this should have disgusted her, made her ill, but, because it was Draco, it didn’t.

“Hermione? Are you alright? Your emotions are...chaotic.”

She almost laughed. He had no idea how erratic they were. It was part of why she had developed Tranquility. As much as she wanted their bond, he had enough on his shoulders and didn’t need her overwhelming emotions and a mess of a mind complicating his fragile state. When they had finished the rites, she thought she’d recover, be strong again. She hadn’t realized then, she was irreparably broken.

“I’m just confused and excited to see you.” Her words were true. Only she’d left out the rest of her thoughts. “Kiss me.”

“I can’t.” He looked over her shoulder again.

“Lacrimae et sanguis, unus participatur cor.” She tugged him closer.

Draco slid his mouth over hers, her heart danced in her chest. The sounds of the battle died away until she only heard the rushing of their blood in her ears and their hearts pounding. His gloved fingers gripped her chin and neck, tilting her head up to deepen their kiss. She wrapped her arms around his torso, arching into him.

“Tua laetitia, mea; tua dolor, meus,” he said against her lips.

She moaned into his mouth, her entire body tingled. Everything was alright. She was safe. She was home. Their mouths devoured each other with desperation, created from distance, longing, and knowing their time was short.

“Pulsum unum, cor unum,” she rasped.

Draco pressed her into the tree until the bark dug into her back through her coat and uniform. He nipped at her bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth. His fingers dug into her hair at the back of her head.

“Go, Princess. Right now,” he said as he broke their kiss.

“I can’t...I have to...” It took her mind a minute to catch up with herself, and she couldn’t reveal why she’d been sent specifically.

“We’re almost done. There won’t be anyone left. The only one who saw you was the one you killed. Go east, fifteen meters.” He jerked his head in that direction. “You can apparate from there.”

Hermione’s body jerked against his. Almost done? “What?”

“No one is walking away from this—except you.”

She tried to pull away, to run to the other members. Guilt and shame slammed through her, taking her breath away. She was snogging him when her people were dying.

“Leave now.”

“No,” she hissed at him.

His features locked in irritation as his eyes shifted. Damn him! He occluded more, putting his forearm against her chest and pinning her to the tree. Lifting his left hand, black smoke lingered in front of his features until he waved his hand in front of his face. The full-face black skull mask was back in place, as well as the Death Eater who bore it. Draco was gone.

“Leave, or I’ll make you watch the last two die painfully. Then I’ll execute every single Death Eater in ways that will give you nightmares for months.”

“Damn you,” she bit out.

“No need. Every day of my life is damned. Are you going? Or are you unleashing your monster?”

She clenched her teeth, envisioning him quirking an eyebrow as he did when he challenged her. Hermione hated it when he put her in this position. He’d told her more than once that she was the only one who could control him if she chose to. As much of a monster as he was, if she bid him to, he would be more terrible than anything anyone had encountered. More horrific than the Dark Lord.

She had never considered allowing this part of him out into the world. Hermione didn’t need to see the atrocities that she knew he was capable of. Nor did she ever need to be the one to ask him to do them. He’d never survive her unleashing him. She carried him like a burden on her back, just as he did for her. Always pushing and pulling. Neither allowing the other peace nor true separation, but also unable to show healthy love for one another.

Hermione had made him promise when he freed her that he wouldn’t give up, that he’d survive for them. He would do whatever it took to survive. Regardless of what the Dark Lord asked of him, he would do it, so they had a chance.

“I’ll...go,” she whispered. Because she’d promised the same, the same awful thing, and right now, for her to survive so that they had a chance—she had to leave.

He released her. “I’ll make it as painless as possible for them.”

She nodded, wanting to say more, but he moved away. With a lingering last look, he stomped back into the fray, calling out orders. Hermione used the distraction he’d created to scamper off. She fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself as she sobbed. She needed to apparate, but the guilt, the crushing guilt, crippled her.

Hermione knew even if Draco hadn’t told her to leave, she wouldn’t have been able to save the last two Order members. There were too many Death Eaters. She’d have perished alongside them. Still, her old instincts screamed at her to return and try. The war had, for the most part, stripped all of them of their heroic behaviors and ideals. Most individuals thought heroes won wars, but it was the tireless minor acts of everyone that won wars. No one person was the reason a conflict on this scale was victorious. Harry was the Chosen One, and one day would defeat Voldemort, but it was the support of the Order that would allow him to have his moment of glory.

Learning strategy with Moody and Kingsley taught her much, and one of the harshest lessons was that sometimes you had to make tough calls. Sacrifice the few for the many. The cause was the most important directive, and everyone was replaceable. Draco understood that, too, but he refused to believe that about her. He told her he could watch every other living being die, and as long as it wasn’t her, he didn’t care.

Hermione stumbled and fell to her knees again after arriving outside the wards at Grimmauld Place in the back garden. Would she watch everyone die if that meant she could be with him? Was her soul so black now? Her breaths heaved as she pressed her palms into the dirt. Harry had been right. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t stand to hear his words. Hermione lowered her forehead to the dirt as her body shook. She’d never be anything now, but grey. Just like his eyes.

Chapter Text

February 18, 2004          Ginny

Ginny’s stomach twisted. Hermione mumbled to herself, staring at her bubbling cauldron. She hadn’t been right since the last battle at the safe house, where she was the only survivor. From what Ginny had been told, the High Commander was there, which meant none were left alive. Hermione had been stunned and left for dead, which is why she got to safety.

It was one of the worst losses they’d had in a while. They lost five new recruits, two veterans, and almost Hermione. Ginny shifted her stance, wondering how to approach her friend. They had been through so much, lost so much, everyone had. Hermione was one of the strongest people she knew, but she’d been falling apart since that snow-filled day.

Ginny’s lips pressed together. After talking with Theo, she could no longer ignore what her instincts had been telling her for over a year. Hermione had a problem, and it wasn’t the type that she or Theo had. They had to take the potions because they...couldn’t stay in control otherwise. Ginny lost control of her vicious bloodthirst, her need to exact vengeance, how and when she saw fit.

As is your right, Little Killer. I’m with you until the end, Tom’s voice smirked in her head.

Shut up.

Admit it, you missed me. You always miss me.

I do not miss you. You’re an arsehole. The fact I hear you only means I’m late taking my potion. You’ll be gone soon enough, she spat at him in her mind.

You don’t feel whole without me, he insisted.

Not true, rotter.

Is this about that git again? He can’t give you what I can. We’re meant to be. You and I have known it since the day you started talking to me. We’re written in the stars. His voice slithered over her, equally taunting and revolting.

Don’t talk about him. We aren’t anything! You’re not real!

I’m as real as you are. I’m never leaving you. Take all the potions you want. Eventually, they won’t hold me back. I’ll always come for you, Little Killer.

I hate you! Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. He‘d go away as soon as she took her potion.

You wish you hated me. Go talk to your Mudblood. I won’t interrupt. His tone shifted as it sometimes did. It almost sounded tolerant, kind, even with the use of that awful slur. Tom made no sense to her. She supposed it was because she was mad and most didn’t understand their insanity. Ginny still had not admitted to anyone other than Theo that Tom still lived in her head.

Hermione stumbled and gripped the edge of the high countertop, swaying against it. She shook her head and smacked herself in the face, blinking rapidly. Ginny didn’t wait any longer and pushed her door open.

Her friend’s brows pinched as she checked the clock on the wall. “Did I miss a meeting?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you.” Ginny padded over to the small bed Hermione kept in her lab for when she was too tired to go upstairs to her room.

The sleeves of Hermione’s shirt were pushed up as she stirred her potions. Her hair was in one of her green elastics, which she used constantly. Ginny checked her wrists and found each one still had a dark green elastic around it. Ginny couldn’t remember a time since the war started that she didn’t have those around her wrists.

She attempted to not stare at the fading scars on Hermione’s arms. But her friend was running on empty and hadn’t remembered to glamour herself, so Ginny was seeing the flesh in true form. Ginny felt awful for not noticing how unwell Hermione was. She was thin, but without her illusions and layers of clothing, it was obvious how emaciated she was. Dark purple bruises under both eyes made her amber irises stand out even more.

Ever since the cursed artifact had backfired and almost taken Hermione's life, her eye color had been different. The irises appeared to glow with an eerie light due to the remnants of the curse. Hermione had trapped the broken piece of the curse in her body, but couldn’t remove it. The dim glow in her eyes showed the curse was still active, but contained.

Everyone in the Order was littered with scars, but some of Hermione’s were self-inflicted and others...were a mystery that she refused to talk about. Ginny knew any that were by Hermione’s own hand were always healed when she saw them. However, the fact that the scars were still present as the years passed told her that Hermione had never stopped. The red ones on her forearm were new, only recently healed. Typically, her friend would’ve hidden those with a spell until they appeared properly aged.

Hermione pushed the stray curls away from her face. Her light olive skin, paler from so much time spent underground. “What did you want to talk about?” Her voice was steady, but her movements were shaky and a little jerky.

“The battle.”

Hermione paused her movements and peered into her steaming potion. “I’ve already debriefed.”

“I know. I don’t want to talk about that part of it.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to her. “There’s nothing else to talk about.”

“There is. Hermione...we’ve respected each other’s privacy.” Ginny wasn’t sure how to approach this subject with her friend. They were closer than ever, and yet neither of them had ever admitted to the boulders strapped to them that pressed them down, crushed them.

Ginny and Theo recognized each other’s pain and violence. It bonded them, gave them a safe harbor in each other. She and Hermione had something different. They carried shame and guilt that seemed akin to their trunks at Hogwarts from years past. Huge and filled to the brim. Ginny wasn’t even sure how she hadn’t recognized it for what it was before now. She couldn’t imagine anything Hermione had done that warranted her burden, but she was willing to listen.

“We have, so let’s leave it at that.” Hermione busied herself preparing another potion.

Ginny straightened her back. Alright, the only way for them was through it. Time for them both to find that Gryffindor courage, so they could support each other. “I love Theo.”

Hermione paused and looked at her. Curiosity cocked her head to the side. “I know you do. He loves you equally as much.”

Ginny lifted a shoulder. “Maybe more honestly. But I...know he has problems, that we both do.”

“Ginny, just because you both need potions does not mean—”

“It’s more than that.” Ginny cut her off. “This war...I hate it so much. We’ve lost so much.” She took a steadying breath. “But the thing is, I don’t know if Theo and I...we might not be able to go back to how things were. Not now.”

Hermione put her wand on the tabletop. “Why?”

“Because the parts of us that are broken...we can’t be with normal people anymore. It’s alright, I don’t care about that.” Ginny waved dismissively at Hermione, figuring out how to say what she needed to. “We have each other and others who understand us, to some degree. I’ve told Theo things...about me I’ve not shared with others.”

Hermione chewed on the corner of her lip. Her mind was working, but she still leaned against her potion station, which meant she was dizzy.

“Sometimes the pain, the noise, is so much and the only way to make it go away is if we...take the lives of things, people...” Ginny peered at her lap and blinked her burning eyes.

“Ginny...”

“Part of me is alright with that as well, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Theo understands and he...he loves me despite it.”

Hermione grimaced and slid toward the end of the counter, causing Ginny to look up. Hermione paused when she saw the floorboards.

“I’m telling you this so you will feel more like you can trust me with your shame. I see it and I have said nothing because...we agreed. I know we didn’t talk about it, but we agreed.”

Hermione nodded. “We did. So why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you need to hear it. I don’t judge you. I swear I don’t, but I’m worried about you. I know you’re hiding everything, but...you’re slipping and I...you know they will pull you from duty if they find out how bad your potions are. How much you can’t...can’t get through the day without them.”

Her friend inhaled sharply and stumbled toward the center of her workstation. “So this is why you’re here? To tell me it’s obvious?”

Ginny tilted her head, trying to read the tone in her voice, but as it often was, it was monotone. Which, from what Ginny had put together, meant her potion was still flowing in her veins. “It’s obvious, to me anyway, when you’re on Tranquility. Except that I think yours is stronger than mine.”

Hermione's hands shook as she balled them into fists on the top of the counter. “I haven’t got the new batch properly formulated yet. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

Ginny stood and approached her slowly. “You won’t. I don’t know what you’re running from, but you're trying to bury your shame. Maybe if you tell me, the load won’t be so heavy.”

Hermione’s body locked up as she shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long does Tranquility last when you take it now?” Ginny asked.

Hermione blanched. “I have to take it twice a day now.”

“And it’s stronger than mine?”

Hermione averted her eyes. “Yes, almost triple the strength now.”

Ginny wrapped her hand around Hermione’s thin bicep. Her whole body was trembling. “Are you shaking because you’re nervous?”

“N-no. It’s the bloody side effects. They keep getting worse.”

Ginny bent her head to catch her friend’s eyes. “You can’t keep upping the doses. You told me that, yeah?”

She chewed on her lips. “I know—” her voice cracked. “It’s...the last battle...”

Ginny crept closer and rubbed Hermione’s back. She hadn’t lied. Everything was shaking. Ginny wondered if she’d been hiding the tremors before. If Moody or Shacklebolt saw Hermione like this, they’d pull her from missions and force her to take a break from everything.

“Tell me,” Ginny whispered.

“They all died, and it’s m-my fault.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Hermione’s shoulders rolled in. “You have no idea how many deaths—how much blood is on my hands.”

“It can’t be worse than my own. There are times...Theo covers for me, because of a lot of reasons.” Ginny’s own shame for her bloodlust blanketed her.

Hermione gave her a soft smile. “I know he does. You have your style and he has his, but I don’t draw attention to it. You’re not hurting people who don’t deserve it, Ginny.”

“Theo tells me that, too.”

“M-maybe one day I can tell you. I can’t imagine ever being free of this burden. It’s my p-penance, but perhaps I'd understand better if I talked it out. S-soon.” Hermione patted Ginny’s hand that rested on the countertop.

“Do you mean that? Because I’ll keep quiet about your potions, but only if you promise to open up soon.”

Hermione’s fingers tapped against the wood. She appeared to be working things out in her mind. “Yes, I promise I’ll tell you, b-but only you. I’ll need you to make an Unbreakable Vow if I do.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. Whatever secret Hermione had was serious, as she’d never heard her friend speak of unbreakable vows before. “Alright. First, though, tell me what you did to Tranquility. I want to know what changes you made.”

Hermione grimaced again. “You w-won’t like them.”

“It doesn’t matter. If you accidentally take too much and end up in the infirmary, someone has to know why you’re there. Right?”

Her friend grumbled. “Of course, you’re correct. I’m not actually t-trying to end my life. We still have to win this war.”

“Exactly. So what did you do?”

Hermione’s posture relaxed since she was now in educational mode. She loved to explain things. “The b-base is the same, the key ingredients are from the Draught of Peace and Calming Draught. Except I had to m-modify them like yours using more crocodile heart than called for to make it longer l-lasting. I also had to use slightly less peppermint oil, which didn’t improve the flavor, I might add. The t-trickiest part has been the Hellebore Syrup, or rather the Hellebore.”

Her friend scooted to where the pink-purplish flowers sat. “As you know, these are very p-poisonous unless handled properly. I c-continue to use the syrup, but I’ve found adding powdered p-petals has empowered the potion. It’s l-longer l-lasting and the effects are more profound. I haven’t t-tired the stems yet, b-but—” Hermione’s body shuddered as she twitched.

“Powdered Hellebore is poison!”

“N-not if it is heated c-correctly and added at the exact r-right moment.”

Ginny moved to her friend’s side. She'd never question Hermione’s intellect, but the side effects of this potion, well, several potions, it sounded like, made Hermione’s mind foggy and forgetful. Ginny wasn’t sure how, but Hermione had become a master at omission. She didn’t outright lie, but she was skilled at evading or leaving out crucial pieces of information.

“Did Neville show you how to grind up the Hellebore?” Ginny asked.

“No...I l-learned it a f-few years ago. It doesn’t matter, the p-point is that—”

“The point is, you’ve developed a high tolerance for Tranquility or whatever you’re calling this version of it.”

Hermione huffed, but didn’t argue, which was telling in Ginny’s opinion. “I haven’t changed the n-name. I only added the n-numbers, 91979, to the label so I know it’s m-mine.”

“Your birthday?”

Hermione stirred the brewing potion. “I d-didn’t want to overcomplicate it. Sometimes the c-combined side eff...it’s easier for m-me to keep t-track of it that way.”

Ginny eyed the vials that occupied her table and glanced behind her to the stocked shelf, where more bottles bearing the number sat. Her friend continued talking about the slight modifications, none of which were nearly as concerning as the Hellebore. Ginny shimmed closer to the potions and snatched one into her pocket. She was going to have Theo and Neville examine it, but not tell them what potion it was. She trusted Hermione, but Hermione wasn’t self-regulating well and still hadn’t told Ginny what caused her shame.

“Unfortunately, b-because of the s-s-side effects, I occasionally have to use my m-modified Restoration potion.”

“That’s the one based on Pepperup, Invigoration Draught, and...Focus Potion?” Ginny asked, remembering her friend’s experiments.

“Yes, that’s t-the one we issue if we know a b-battle is near. It h-helps get everyone f-focus and handle things b-better.”

Ginny had witnessed the difference with her own eyes. Restoration rallied the troops, and they did better in battle after taking it. The downside was that once it wore off, the person was exhausted and needed to rest. So it helped, but it was time sensitive, which is usually why they carried it with them to the site.

“I m-miss Snape. He would have had this f-figured out ages ago,” Hermione said in a sorrowful tone. Ginny knew her friend missed the potions master. He‘d spent time over the years on and off teaching Hermione things to help the Order.

“What happens when you run out?” Ginny dared to ask.

Hermione’s body stiffened. “It’s n-not...g-good.”

“Will you end up in the infirmary? So I know what to tell them if it happened?”

“No, I...m-make s-s-sure we don’t run l-low on ingredients.” Hermione’s fingers shook so badly she could barely ball her hands.

“I know you try, but Riddle keeps tightening his grip on the supply lines. We can’t assume we’ll always have access to what we need.” Ginny based her words on what Percy constantly complained about and stressed over.

“I have a...b-backup. It’s f-fine.”

“What is the backup?”

Hermione smacked her palms on the wood tabletop, gasping several breaths in and gritting her teeth together. “Enough. I’ve b-been candid, I can’t...I’m done for today.”

“I’m not pushing you about this, but I need to know what’s going on. You’re the one who lectured me and Theo about Tranquility. Warned us of the side effects, what could happen if we were on it for too long, how we might not ever...be without it.”

“That could c-change if you both saw Mind Healers when this is over. From what I’ve r-researched, some things might be b-better if you talked them out with a p-professional.”

“Regardless. All those warnings are for you too, perhaps more so. I recognized your side effects because of ours. I know I’m more aware of them than most, but I’m trying to help. If I see them, others will too.”

Hermione faced her. “Are you telling me you’ll hide them with m-me?”

Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, if you’re honest with me and stop being evasive.”

“So I tell you what’s going on and...you m-make sure no one figures it out?”

“As best I can, yes. Theo will know. He probably already does, but we haven’t discussed it.”

Hermione tapped her lip. “Fine. Get Theo on b-board too. It will probably give me enough time to w-work out these new k-kinks in the formula.”

“Alright.” For now, thought Ginny. The longer she spoke with her friend, the more concerned she grew about her health. Until Theo and Neville reviewed what Hermione brewed, she wouldn’t know for sure how bad it truly was.

Hermione pulled her hair down and then re-gathered it into a low ponytail again. The elastic snapped against her fingers and made her stare at a wall for a few seconds.

“So with Tranquility, number 91979, increasing some ingredients has created more pronounced confusion, memory loss, dizziness, tremors, and nightmares. However, I’ve had nightmares for years, so I don’t count that. The memory loss I’m able to circumvent with our—the potion I made in sixth year at Hogwarts. The part that is plaguing me is the dizziness, tremors, and confusion because those are difficult to hide.”

Hermione gazed at the ceiling as if it had answers. “This, combined with the problems, Dreamless Sleep Morte is irritating.”

“Dreamless Sleep Morte?”

“The modified Dreamless Sleep potion. You sleep like the dead,” Hermione gave a dry laugh. “I don’t use it often, but a witch has to sleep sometime.”

Ginny stared at her friend. Once she’d opened up, she was very forthcoming about the potions. “Aren’t you upset telling me all this?”

“No. Part of the benefit of Tranquility. I might be a mess later, but for now...” She shrugged.

Ginny approached Hermione and tugged her into her arms. “You mean as much to me as any of my family. I know I’ve been...hard to handle sometimes since the war started, but I’m here for you.”

Hermione spoke over her shoulder. “Same goes for you. You can always talk to me, Gin.”

“Theo should be back. I’ll check in with you later. If you need me because you’ve got the shakes or something, send me one of those messages on the phone.”

She was still getting used to what a cell phone was or what it did. Only certain members of the Order had been given the devices on Dean’s recommendation. They were messaging on an electronic device. Eventually, they planned to get more of these phones to use for communication that the Dark Lord would never intercept. Her father had been right. Muggles really were quite clever with their magic, which they called technology. Her chest constricted at the thought of her father. It had been over five years since she’d lost her parents, but the pain didn’t fade.

Ginny left Hermione’s lab and typed out a message to Theo. It reminded her of their parchment messages. She still preferred those. It took quite some time pushing each button to type her message. She smiled when she pushed the button to send it.

Chapter Text

February 23, 2004          Theo

Theo tapped out a song with his wand on his leg. Although he took his damn potion earlier, he was nervous about meeting his friend today. Hermione had been shaken up after seeing him. They still had to sit down to talk about what had occurred. Theo had attempted to keep her from the safe house, knowing Draco would lose his mind if she were there, but that was one stubborn witch. By the time Theo was aware Hermione was leaving, there was no way to notify Draco.

He wasn’t sure if Draco would strangle him today or not. Theo was proud of himself. Years ago, he might have considered angering Draco that much on purpose to see if he could get Draco to kill him. Now, he had things to live for. His Firebird being the most important, but also Hermione, as he was her Knight, along with the Order, he supposed.

“Nott.” His deep voice said as he rounded the corner.

Death Eater uniforms were sick. Theo couldn’t tell the Order, especially Pansy, but since most of them were purebloods, they had more refined, attractive uniforms. The embroidery was impressive. The quality of the cloaks was superior, too.

Draco snapped his fingers in front of his face. When had he taken his glove off? Damn it. All of a sudden, Theo wasn’t sure if he had recalled taking his potion or not.

“Did you hear anything I said?” Draco asked.

Theo chuckled. “Not a word, mate.”

Draco sighed and pushed his hair off his forehead. “I thought you said they had you on a potion?”

He changed the song he was tapping out to a faster-paced one. “They do. I may have forgotten to take it.” He shrugged.

Draco’s face tightened with what appeared as irritation, but Theo knew better. His friend felt guilty about him going mad. Draco took it personally, as though he were to blame. Theo didn’t hold him responsible. He was fairly certain he might have already been insane, but when they were at Hogwarts and things were simpler, it wasn’t as obvious. Draco always blamed himself for everything that went wrong in his friends' lives.

“I’ll be brief then. I don’t know the next time I’ll be able to meet with you.”

“But you’ll send messages, right?” Theo asked.

Draco nodded before he began again, “The Dark Lord...he’s frustrated with how things are progressing.”

Shouldn’t he be dead? Haven’t you been poisoning him for months?”

Draco’s jaw tightened again. “I told you, we aren’t discussing that. Things are taking longer than I hoped. The methods must be untraceable.”

Theo hummed an acknowledgement and bounced on the heels of his feet. “Hope the rat poison helps. Rotter won’t expect that.”

He burst out laughing. Moldy Voldy done in by a Muggle poison for rodents. It’d serve him right. Theo knew Draco’s concoction was more than the rat poison he’d contributed, but it was part of the overall formula and amused him to no end.

“Perhaps, but even if he does, it will weaken him so someone can finish him off, even Saint Potter, if necessary.”

“That would make the Orderlies happy.” If their patron actually did in the old man, then everything they fought for would mean more to them. His Fireheart would feel vindicated for all of her supposed wrongdoings.

Theo was delighted at how the conversation was going. Draco seemed almost...animated. When compared to Draco being heavily occluded, sometimes struggling with awareness of everyone and everything around him. His general affect reminded Theo of speaking with a corpse, for the lack of spark inside his friend during those times.

“We can only hope. More bad news. Because Bellatrix ruined...It doesn’t matter. She’s dead.” Draco rubbed the side of his forehead.

“Dead? Is that why she hasn’t been terrorizing the Muggles of London for the past few weeks?”

“Yes. Now that’s another delightful duty I have. Although he won’t expect much since I’m heading up a siege.”

“No pay and having to do three jobs now? Think it might be better with the Disorder, the food’s decent. Unless we don’t have any.”

“Why don’t you have food? I sabotaged the attack on your supply run.” Draco’s voice took a dark turn, as did his mood.

“Calm down, that was before. We’ve been alright since you helped, and Hermione got us Muggle food. It’s a little dry, but it tastes alright. Not sure why Muggles want their food in bars, though.” Theo scratched his head. He kept meaning to ask Hermione about that, but always forgot.

“Anyway. The reason I summoned you here is because this summer, the Dark Lord plans on taking London fully. He no longer feels the Statue of Secrecy pertains to him. As I am to lead this attack, we will be successful. I know the Order has been working on things for months, years at this point, but now is the time. They need to figure their shite out now. They can’t allow me to take London. If I do...” Draco stopped speaking and stared into the distance.

“Bloody hell!”

If Voldemort broke the Statute of Secrecy, the Wizarding World would be in chaos. None of the foreign governments showed public support for the Order. Outside of England, they were considered terrorists. France had been their closest ally, but now the country was being pummeled by Death Eaters daily until they eventually gave in.

“Talk to Granger! If you can motivate her, she’ll kick their arses into action. I don’t want her heading this, but those idiots need to strike before we do. He’s growing weaker by the day, some others have noticed. It won’t be long until they try and strike him down from within. Your people need this win.”

“You need this to be over,” Theo replied. He blinked. His mind felt sharper and more focused than it had been in a long time. “I hate this stupid war, but only because we’re not on the same side.”

“If we were both Death Eaters, you’d be fucking happy?”

“No, I can’t work for a twat like that.” Theo waved his hand dismissively. “I only meant if it was a different kind of war. Over land or some other such nonsense. Not sure if me or my phoenix can manage in the mundane anymore.”

Draco cocked his head to the side. “So if we worked with the Disorder, you’d be content?”

“Ah mate, think of the fun we’d have! Me, you, Fireheart, and Hermione on one team! Hunting down Death Eaters—best job in the world.” Theo’s smile was so wide it hurt his face.

Draco crossed his arms. “So the problem is me.”

“Exactly!” Theo raised his hands into the air.

His leg vibrated, tickling, and almost made him laugh. Then he remembered it was his cell phone. Or it could be referred to as just a “cell.” The phone folded in half and had a mesmerizing, tiny colored window. No, wait, Hermione told him it was a screen and that the phone had a tiny computer inside. Theo had never seen this machine, a computer, but he was told it was intelligent and could do things for him.

Hermione, Dean Thomas, and Anthony Goldstein taught most of the Muggle Technology classes since they had more knowledge about such devices. Theo found it fascinating that they all knew about different types of technology, and somehow, it all worked together. The only thing they learned this week was how phones were connected by a network or some sort of air magic. It reminded him of unseen threads of magic that existed everywhere. They didn’t call it air magic, but that’s what Theo called it, and it resonated better with the other witches and wizards leaning.

The “messaging” reminded Theo of the parchment he and Draco had created, except the words didn’t disappear. Next week, lessons were about learning pictures and calling. He didn’t quite grasp the calling part, but they explained it was like a Patronus, but with your voice only, no glowing animal. It made Theo want to laugh. The Muggles didn’t call their technology magic, silly people.

“I have something for you. It won’t work at his headquarters. Too much magic interference. But when we meet in places like this, or if you are alone in a place like this…” Theo took out the cell to give to Draco. Draco leaned forward and peered at the strange device. “It’s a cell phone. Remember our parchment? The messaging is similar, but it’s, ummm, digital.”

“Digital?”

Theo was ecstatic to know about something Draco didn’t. He repeated the phrases Hermione had used to explain the magic of the phone, recalling where to emphasize the unfamiliar words he’d learned. He was quite impressed with himself.

“So they want me to message with this device?” Draco asked, turning it over in his glove.

“Yes. Once I’ve learned more of its Muggle magic, I’ll show you additional...features.” Features was the word he thought was correct. “This is safer than owls and can send coded messages because he can’t track this.”

Draco grumbled, but ushered Theo to walk him through how to use it. He seemed just as taken with the flip feature and tiny screen as Theo was. Theo practiced messaging with Draco until he was comfortable. Theo told Draco that the only other person with his number was Shacklebolt and showed him the contacts, so he could tell who messaged.

“So Shacklebolt will message me?” Draco frowned, gazing at the small phone.

“Yes, that’s why I showed you the volume button and how to make it vibrate. You’ll have to hide it well and also find a place to charge it. Most Muggle coffee shops have...outlets to...plug into.” Theo grinned at himself for using the correct words again.

“This is the part that goes into the wall?” Draco pinched his brows, viewing the plug skeptically.

“Yep, and this part goes in this hole here, remember?” Theo re-showed him how to plug in the charging cable. Hermione would be so proud of him. “Later, when you figure it out and it’s safe, we‘ll message again to make sure you’ve got it.”

“This is...smart.” Draco stared at the silver device in his palm. “The Muggles value their communication as much as we do, perhaps more, since you said most Muggles have these?”

“Well, not all of them, but more and more adults carry them. Dean said they are working on the talking pictures…er...umm…putting the talking pictures on them, eventually.”

“Talking pictures?”

“Like our moving ones, but with sound.” Theo lifted a shoulder. They were still learning about talking pictures. Dean called them shows, but Hermione called them videos or movies. He wasn’t sure which word was right, so he stuck to “talking pictures” for now.

“Fascinating,” Draco mumbled and touched the buttons again. “And Shacklebolt will only see the number if he or I message, and not know it’s me, correct?”

Theo nodded. “Your father was right for making you learn what you did about Muggles, to be more prepared to battle them. But he was also wrong, because when you learn of their magic er...their technology, it’s pretty amazing. They are equal to us, just different.”

“If this cell phone is any indication of their...technology advancements, then yes, we’ve greatly underestimated them. Making this war even more inane.” Draco rubbed his temple. “I have to go, but get the Disorder back on track. They need to strike before summer. I’ll tee things up, but they need to be ready when I provide the opportunity. No more planning, no more hiding the Chosen One. Scarhead needs to live up to his name and destroy him for good.”

Theo stepped closer to his friend. “Alright, listen, with things wrapping up soon—Shacklebolt and Moody will find out you’re our informant, and actually, they might already know, because McGonagall feels confident it’s you. Not sure how, though, I haven’t said anything.”

Draco frowned and glared at the phone. “No one was supposed to know. I don’t care if they have theories, but my name is supposed to stay out of it.”

“Why? Why can’t the Disorder know you’ve been saving their asses all along? That if it wasn’t for you, their Chosen One wouldn’t have made it out of the Battle of Hogwarts?”

“That wasn’t something I planned!” Draco snapped and threw his hands in the air. “That was purely coincidental. I wasn’t trying to save him.”

Theo rolled his eyes. Semantics. What difference did it make if that was Draco’s intent or not? No one knew what his intent was, especially since the git had sworn them all to secrecy. Shacklebolt hadn’t given up on the mystery of how so many members of the Order of the Phoenix were taken to safety via Draco’s portkeys. However, with everything else that had happened since the start of the war, it was a low priority to find the answers for.

“And the rest of the time?” Theo asked.

Draco turned his face away. “That’s different. You wankers were supposed to fuck off to France, as planned. You’re the idiots who stayed here.”

“France is under attack now, too.”

Draco’s head snapped back, his teeth showing. “While that may be true, you lot could‘ve lived in relative peace for over five years. Not only that, you would’ve realized what was coming and could have fucked off somewhere else before the conflict got to you. Now I have to constantly make sure you tossers...Never mind.”

“Don’t act like all the shite you do is for us. Sure, some of it is, but this isn’t about us. Never was. It’s her. Always comes back to her. You’re helping the Disorder because she’s part of it.”

“I’m making sure she survives!”

“Then let us help to make sure you do as well.”

“Don’t you ever tire of this old argument?” Draco seethed.

Theo pushed his curls from his face and sighed. “You’ve no idea, mate. If it wasn’t that somehow when we talk about this rubbish, my mind actually works properly, I’d be done with it. Your stubbornness wears me down.”

“My stubbornness?”

“I’m tenacious—you’re a stubborn arse.” Theo winked.

Draco appeared to be debating whether to hit him. Theo’s skin tingled in anticipation. That odd manic energy swept through him at the thought of violence. His mind definitely wasn’t normal. To think only a matter of years ago the idea of violence would have made him piss his pants. Now it only excited him, made blood pump in his veins.

His friend took several deep breaths. “Get them to attack, alright?”

“I’ll do my best. I am pretty talented at riling people up.” He chuckled.

“Touché.”

“Can I tell her I’ve seen you? She already knows we meet.”

Draco shut his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t reveal my secrets or anything that puts her life in danger. I know telling her about the attack this summer will get her worked up, but it’s too far out to have her charging in just yet. Do not make me out to be some savior, because I’m not.”

Theo grumbled, but agreed. He was already thinking of ways to tell Hermione without breaking the rules.

“Message me later, don’t forget,” he called out to Draco just before he disappeared.

Chapter Text

March 01, 2004          Hermione

Hermione leaned against her workstation. She’d been without sleep for days, finishing her supply of potions, as well as Theo’s and Ginny’s for the month. Truthfully, she knew Ron’s birthday was today, and Harry was never in a good place when the date rolled around. Would Harry have mourned her like this if she had died?

She didn’t have the energy or emotional capacity to support him the way she should. So she opted for sleep deprivation, which in the past, worked similarly to her earlier versions of Tranquility. Existing in a superficial calm, but also distanced, she chose her actions and words carefully. It didn’t matter whether they were honest, because what she had found was that most people didn’t want the truth about anything. They were content to accept whatever lies, half-truths, and omissions someone offered as long as it went with the story in their head.

She had been an upfront person, but over time became more of a people pleaser. Perhaps that was a lie, too, and she’d always been that way. Except when she lied, now, it was so others didn’t look too closely or ask too many questions. If she played her part right, the other person didn’t even notice her lack of engagement or that she said little in the conversation, steering topics to the other person.

The dizziness was persistent, and the nausea, tremors, coordination issues, and occasional hallucinations were sporadic. All of that just to exist. To serve in the Order. To appear strong and mentally sound. She was loyal to a fault. Although some might disagree and call her a betrayer, maybe she was, but she was still loyal. First to Draco—although she hid such an allegiance—then to Harry, and then to the Order.

Hermione’s fingers brushed against the cool metal on her finger. She had continued to keep it hidden over the years, as no one would understand why she had it. When she returned that September, she had kept it around her neck for the first few months because it was too painful to feel it every day. To see it at night when the charms wore off before she cast them again.

Her devotion to Draco and their relationship had re-shaped her—transformed her. It was a curse and a blessing, one that gave her strength while simultaneously slowly strangling her to death. Reminiscent of Muggle cancer, aberrant cells that mutated and duplicated, there was no cure. No return to what she had been. That person had died years ago. If things were different...in another lifetime...their bond would be the cause for joy, not suffering.

Her faithfulness to Harry was unceasing. Her guilt over her betrayal only amplified her steadfastness to him. She would do anything for him, to protect Harry, to show she loved him—even if it meant driving herself to near madness. There were no limits for Harry, ever. Perhaps before, when Ron was alive, she wouldn’t have been as devout, but now there was only her, and Harry needed her.

Her allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix was out of necessity, but she would have joined their cause even if she weren’t a Muggle-born. Voldemort was evil, and if no one fought against him, he’d destroy everything good and just in the world. Hermione could have been born pureblood, and she still would‘ve stood staunchly by the sides of those who surrounded her.

She frowned...that was an ignorant thought. As much as she meant the intent...like Draco, she may not have had that choice. The pureblood Slytherins who had defected to the Order were just as hunted as they were. Their own parents turned against them. Theo had made it clear what his father would do to him if he ever caught him, and death was the least of his concerns. The only difference between the Slytherins in the Order and Draco was that they didn’t have loved ones who could be used against them as he did. None had taken the Dark Mark as he had.

“Hermione?” Her workroom door creaked open. Harry poked his head in.

She took a deep breath, rallying. Desperate to be there for Harry—for Ron—for today, even if she didn’t think she’d be successful. Ron. Her heart cracked again. It had been six years since they’d lost him, but it felt fresh. In part because both she and Harry couldn’t completely let go.

“Harry!” Hermione pushed herself to sound eager, or what she remembered excited sounded like coming from her, and rushed to his side.

Harry wrapped her in his arms and spun her around in the small space, breathing her in. “Gods, I’m happy to see you,” he said into her mass of curls.

“How long are you back for?”

“Not long. I needed to meet with Moody and Kingsley, and then I have to go again.”

“Alright.” The sadness in her tone wasn’t hard to conjure. As challenging as it was when Harry was at their headquarters, she never wanted him to leave.

Harry pulled back, sliding his hands to her arms. He studied her too closely, lifting a hand, and traced under her eye, no doubt finding dark circles. She used spells to hide her fatigue, but they only hid so much. If she wanted anything more substantial, she’d have to learn from Pansy, and there weren’t enough hours in the day as it was.

“He’s twenty-four today,” Harry mumbled.

He would have been twenty-four, Hermione thought, but didn’t verbalize.

Harry cleared his throat. “Bill mentioned you figured out the new curses that were used during the last battle. How to counter them, I mean.”

“Yeah...it was a bit tricky, but we managed.”

“Bill mentioned...you were down a few days because of it. You’re being careful, right? I only meant I don’t want...well...after...”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She knew perfectly well what he alluded to. Every time she looked in the mirror—which she avoided—her failure stared back at her. She’d been carrying her curse for nearly four years. Colin’s death was her fault. Her dim, glowing eyes mocked her, reminding her she wasn’t allowed to experience relief, rest, or contentment. She deserved none of those things anyway.

“I’m careful,” she grunted out.

Harry traced his finger over the old scar on her neck. She resisted the urge to flinch. His fingers felt wrong. No one was supposed to touch her scars, at least not those. No one was supposed to touch her at all.

“His death wasn’t your fault. It was a mistake. Anyone can—”

“Stop. Don’t,” she cut him off. She refused to allow him to soothe her.

“After the meeting, can we have lunch? Spend time together before I go?”

“Of course.” She attempted to smile, but probably failed miserably.

“I really missed you. I came back for the meeting, but really...I wanted to...I love you, Hermione.”

The elusive smile finally found her lips. “I love you, too, Harry.”

Harry’s other hand moved from her arm to her hip, while the other continued to cup her cheek and chin. “No, Hermione. I love you.”

A line formed between her brows as she tried to decipher why he felt the need to repeat himself. She loved him so much; it was in her bones. She wasn’t even sure she could exist without Harry in her life. He was her best friend since they were eleven. They’d been through so much, even before the war. There was no one, other than Draco, she loved as fiercely. Perhaps that was what he meant? That he loved her equally. That would be...cathartic. She’d always loved everyone more than they loved her back—except Draco. The majority of her friendships were unbalanced because she usually felt more strongly than they did.

So lost in her thoughts, or because of sleep deprivation, or perhaps because she was terrible at emotional displays, she didn’t catch on until it was too late. Hermione didn’t have any time to prepare or even react before Harry’s lips were pressed to hers. His eyes were closed, but hers widened.

Her body stiffened as she debated if this was a wild hallucination—because those happened too frequently—or reality. Harry never kissed her. They were friends. But then he pulled her closer, his palm gripping her hip harder. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but he misread her and his tongue invaded her space.

Something in her snapped, and she disconnected from her body. Oh no. She slipped through time and space back to her days and nights with Dolohov. When she was tortured and humiliated, she would drift away in her mind until it was over. Not that Harry tortured her. Only that her mind or heart—or both—couldn’t handle what was happening, so reality stopped. Let her drift away until the stakes weren’t so high. Did he notice she hadn’t moved or responded?

An undetermined amount of time later, impossible for her to tell, considering she was no longer in her own body, Harry paused and pulled back. When he caught her shocked expression, he frowned and then appeared contrite. She still hadn’t returned, so she stood there, stupidly staring at him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just I’ve been feeling this for a while and I’d hoped that...” His green eyes were watery.

No one touches you without your permission, his voice whispered in her memory.

She hated Harry appearing so despondent, especially today. Hermione willed her body to reconnect with her mind, but it was slow to respond. In the past, it didn’t matter if she felt like she was swimming through molasses to get to the surface. She took as long as needed to reconnect after torture. It was actually beneficial to take a long time. She missed the harshest pain that way. However, at the moment, she needed to be back with Harry.

“I’ve...I’m an idiot. I love Gin. I always will, but I knew…Damn it! I knew back in that tent and I...Ron...” His voice broke. “Ron fancied you, and I didn’t want to betray him. I knew he’d come back. He just needed to sort things, and I was afraid of ruining our friendship.”

Harry released her and ran his hands through his already disheveled hair. “I wanted to tell you then...but, after Hogwarts, everything was...Gin lost her parents...Ron went missing. I just couldn’t...I love her, I do. But not—not the way I love you, Hermione.”

No one touches you without your permission.

Finally, the sensation in her limbs returned, her vision sharper. The background was still blurred, but Harry was in full focus.

“I understand now is not the time. We could die tomorrow, but that’s why I thought maybe...”

“You fancied me since the Horcrux hunt?” Her voice sounded like her own, but Hermione still felt as though it was someone else speaking.

Harry’s cheeks colored before he responded. “Yes, but when Ron returned, and we talked, he was so regretful. Especially about leaving you. I thought about Ginny every day, but after the time we were alone...it wasn’t the same. You...you’ve always understood me, Hermione, more than anyone.”

No one touches you without your permission.

“Not more than Ron.” Her tone was unnecessarily curt.

“That’s different. Where I was mistaken was not showing you I understood you, too. Ron couldn’t see...but you were so lonely that whole time.” Harry shifted on his feet. “Why were you lonely? I know why I was. I was trying to protect everyone from Tom in my head, but I can’t tell you how many times I found you staring at nothing like your heart was breaking over and over again.” Harry stepped closer. “I thought maybe it was because of how much Ron had hurt us, then I thought it was because you were afraid we’d lose the war.”

Hermione’s chest ached as her betrayal pressed on her, crushing her ribs, causing the sharp ends to pierce her organs. She was lightheaded for a number of reasons, one being that Harry Potter, her best friend since she began her magical journey, loved her. Not as a friend, but something more. How had she not seen that?

“We lost, at least Hogwarts. Did you know then we would?”

She shook her head, staring at the floor. She was so tired of lying to Harry. Exhausted by her grief, shame, and helplessness. Harry grabbed her hands and held them.

“Then why did you look like something was tearing your heart out every day? If it wasn’t Ron or irrevocable defeat?”

“My parents,” she blurted out. It was a terrible lie, but she couldn’t reveal the truth. Regardless of how much it hollowed her out, her betrayal had to remain hidden. The truth would destroy the last bit of hope Harry had. He’d lose both of his best friends. He’d already lost so much.

“Your parents?”

“I...I Obliviated them after we left Hogwarts.” Her words came out in a rush. She had told Kingsley, McGonagall, and Tonks. Hermione wasn’t sure who had informed Moody, but he was aware as well. She guessed it was because, in the beginning, they had gathered as many Muggle-born families as possible and moved them to safety or sent them abroad to get away from the Dark Lord. She had refused help because she’d already sent her parents away.

Initially, she considered using a less harsh memory charm, but with the high stakes and possibility that she wouldn’t survive, Obliviate was the best choice. As horrible as it was, the way events turned out vindicated her decision. They had lost the Battle of Hogwarts, and things were dire.

Harry’s face scrunched up. “When?”

“July after Dumbledore...”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me or Ron?”

Hermione pulled away from Harry, needing distance. “There wasn’t any point. It couldn’t be undone. Every day, things were more dangerous than the day before. Then after the Manor...I didn’t want them to know. I still don’t. It’s better this way. They don’t need to know what this war has done to me.”

“Hermione...”

She put her palm up. “It’s done, and I no longer regret it. Even...” She paused to make sure her tone was confident. “Even when we defeat him, I’ll never be the same person. They wouldn’t recognize me, who I’ve become.”

“Don’t say that. You’re still you.”

She gritted her teeth at the platitude. “None of us are the same people we were.”

“I know that. I meant the core of who you are is the same. Even the most damaged of us...I think that’s still true.”

Hermione turned away to hide her disappointment. Harry claimed to know her, to see her, but he didn’t. Perhaps there was a time, long ago, he had. Who she used to be was dead. Gone. Ashes in the wind. All that was left was this husk that continued on. Draco had broken her, shattered her so that she’d be able to survive until the end. She would see the war through. She’d begged Draco to help her finish this, she had to finish what she started. If she couldn’t, her entire life would be nothing more than a tragedy, a cautionary tale. The Order and Harry had to prevail and defeat the Dark Lord.

I always keep my promises, even if I hate the promise. Even if I don’t want to. Even if I’m afraid.

Would you keep your promises to me?

Yes, those are the most important.

Her fingers curled over her chest, forming a claw. Even if they defeated the Dark Lord, there would be no respite for her and Draco. They would not be together. No forever, regardless of how much they yearned for it. Her hands shook. They only had their bond.

Arms wrapped around her from behind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...well, any of it. I’m an arse. I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t care if after this, if you’re not the same or broken, I’ll still love you. You’re my best friend. You’re my everything. Please don’t turn away.” Harry’s voice trembled the entire time he spoke.

Guilt flooded Hermione. Brief sadness at the loss of the memory of his luminescent silver eyes gazing at her, but also relieved for the absence of longing for him. The culpability covered the burning for him, eclipsing everything. Self-reproach had lived inside her for so long that Hermione struggled to function without it.

“No, I’m sorry, Harry. Today is hard for both of us.” She leaned her head back on his shoulder. “I’m...I can’t think about after yet.”

Harry’s breath tickled her neck. “I have to.”

“I know. I love you, but...I can’t...we can’t...”

Harry squeezed her tighter. “Stop. It’s alright. I shouldn’t have done that. I can wait until after. Once we’re both safe, we‘ll talk about it, alright?”

Hermione nodded, pulling out of his embrace and not turning around. “Lunch later, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you then.” Harry’s voice was nearly inaudible.

She almost faced him, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. Her fingers clutched the fabric of her shirt. If Ron hadn’t died, Harry wouldn’t be so dependent on her, he wouldn’t feel as though he needed her so much. A drop of moisture splashed against the surface of her worktable. Happy Birthday, Ron.

Chapter Text

March 24, 2004          Ginny

Ginny dodged another angry red curse hurled at her and sent her own, accompanied with a laugh. She’d been irritated, the rain limited the best part of her arsenal, but watching Death Eaters slip and slide in the mud was hilarious. The uncanny sense that alerted her when Theo was close felt off.

He'd been acting odd since they arrived at the medical supply house. By default, Theo was always on edge, more manic, impatient, and violent when it rained, but it had been far worse that afternoon. Her eyes darted around, searching for him amongst the dark-clad figures, streaks of color, and hard rain. A boom from the sky shook the ground under her boots. Wind whipped hair out of her plait, smacking her cheeks as a large arc of light illuminated everyone. It was as though the sun had risen for a few seconds with the intense light. No one moved or cast anything.

Across the rocky terrain, she spotted one of the Death Eaters’ full skull mask looming above on a hill. This mask was all black, which meant the figure was the one Riddle titled his High Commander. The one who came to ensure none survived the battle.

Lightning struck the ground in the middle of the battlefield, blinding everyone with its fiery touch, knocking some back, and flying through the air. The arc hadn't struck anyone, but the force of it had blown the mud up and out, creating a steaming hole in the ground.

Visibility was low, but the bastard in the black mask appeared shaken by what happened and turned toward her. Bring it, arsehole. Ginny cast several jinxes and hexes, which they blocked or dodged. Wanker.

Ginny shuffled to the left near the dilapidated shed for better cover when she caught a tiny sound that made her pause. It reminded her of a child, but there weren't any children around. Merlin’s beard. Were there children? Ginny broke her own rules and allowed herself the distraction. Perhaps she was a cold-blooded killer now, but children were innocent, and she knew firsthand what happened to children who had their innocence stolen from them.

The fat drops of water continued to limit her vision. She wasn’t sure why the Death Eaters hadn’t pulled back under these conditions, but maybe they were just as desperate? Another whimpering sound. She rounded to the back of the shed, out of sight of the battle.

Ginny stopped. She wasn’t sure what she thought she'd find, but this...this hadn’t been it. Nowhere in her mind could she have conjured the image in front of her. She raced to his side, sucking in her breath. Her hands rolled him to his back, frantically searching for fatal wounds or signs of typical curses. Ginny wasn't a healer, but Order members had learned to cast a simple diagnostics spell to see what color they were. Some interpreted the charts better than others. The Order members understood that red or orange meant they needed off the battlefield immediately. Yellow could be more serious depending on the area the injury was located. Blue or purple was more advanced, and most people didn’t understand, and green...green was perfect health.

Theo was green. Green and blue. The blue appeared concentrated on his head and chest. He shook and made sounds she'd never heard from his lips before. Her vicious, bloodthirsty madman of a boyfriend whimpered. What the bloody hell was happening?

"Theo...It’s me, Fireheart. What did they hit you with? I might not know the counter curse, but I’ll give it a go." Otherwise, she'd portkey him out. If she did, he’d be furious for weeks. The only other time she'd done that was when he had been hit with the flesh-eating curse. His leg was nearly nothing but bone when she'd shoved the coin into his palm.

It was the only time they’d spent apart—and the only time she remembered him being angry at her. He insisted he was still in fighting condition, that she had kept him from what he needed, and they’d sworn never to do that. He’d been firing off spells, using the pain as he always did to fuel him, but he didn’t see how pale his tan skin had become. The way his legs shook—he didn’t understand he was dying. He never did. Harry often lectured her about how reckless and ruthless she was in battle, but she didn’t hold a candle to Theo.

His eyelids fluttered open, the green in his eyes gone, his pupils blown wide. They settled on her face, drawn to her scar as they always were when he was nervous or upset. It seemed to ground and comfort him.

"D-D-Draco. N-ne-need him," he rasped.

"Malfoy?" Ginny managed and studied the floating chart. Was he saying Malfoy was there and cursed him with a mental spell or curse? She vaguely recalled blue had to do with the mind, but then why was the color on his chest, too?

"Y-yes. Need him. P-please."

Ginny blinked. “Need him”? That couldn't be right. She reached for her portkey, noting the sounds of shuffling boots and the slurp of mud as someone approached. The sky lit again. This time, no one paused and used the light to their advantage to send nasty spells at one another. So caught up in viewing the battle and retrieving the coin, she didn't notice the odd tingle in the surrounding space. The electrified air that buzzed and caused the hair on her arms to raise.

Theo keened and shook violently before throwing up on her and the mud. At the same moment, a crack and pop hurt her ears as lightning struck a tree only ten meters away. The bright light temporarily blinded her, and her knees burned as sparks traveled over them painfully. Theo retched again.

“Draco...please..." he begged.

She blinked until her vision returned. The tree was on fire, visible through the hole in the trunk created by the strike. For seconds, she was mesmerized, lured in by the flames, but shook her head to stay present. She had to get Theo out of there.

Ginny unwrapped the coin when Theo's fingers grabbed her wrist and squeezed. He shook his head. Anger and fear fought for dominance in his eyes. She was trying to understand, but he made little sense. Her eyes flicked to the diagnostic. The blue was spreading, but he was still primarily green.

Her fingers fumbled with the cloth around the portkey. "You...you want me to find Malfoy?"

Theo nodded, still gripping her wrist.

“Bring him to you?”

He nodded again. "T-trust me." The words sounded ripped from his lungs.

Logic told her not to listen to him, that what he was asking was the worst idea, but she trusted him and his judgment despite what others thought. Just as he did, her. They stood by one another when the rest of the world turned away. They found understanding in each other, a bond rooted in trust for their peculiarities that others dared not embrace.

"Let me go to find him," she whispered.

"C—can't."

Ginny noticed his body locked up more and more as the blue paralleled the green. She peeled his fingers from her wrist.

"B—black skull...Dr—Draco." Theo’s jaw was almost locked in place.

Ginny paused as she rose, not quite standing. "He's the fucking High Commander?!"

Theo attempted to nod, but could barely move his neck. If she didn't think he was about to die from a curse she’d never seen, she would have stopped considering such an asinine request, but Theo was everything. If that tosser Malfoy was the one who could save him, then she’d wait until Malfoy was done fixing Theo to burn him.

"Keep breathing." She gave him a soft smile.

Ginny kept close to the ground as she crept into battle again. She discovered an unconscious or possibly dead Death Eater. Taking the cloak and standard-issue mask, she donned them. Thunder rumbled. The vibrations under her feet traveled up her legs as she strapped the mask on. She and Theo had worn Death Eater masks a few times on various missions or in battle to confuse their enemies. Each time was surreal for her.

Ginny couldn’t quite make sense of her thoughts about the masks, but it was both disturbing and somehow appealing, too. She hated the masks and what they stood for. In the beginning, the Death Eaters had worn them to protect their pureblood identities, now it was to cause fear and panic. The masks provided a sense of protection and separation from everything going on around the individual. Like a filter that stood between the wearer and their actions.

The masks tapped into something dark and wild for those who wore them; they almost made her feel the way she did with Theo when they hunted. Ginny wondered if Riddle realized his followers would stomach their atrocities better if they had the masks on when committing them. Theo theorized they had charms on them, not only for comfort but also for focusing and calming the wearer. However, the Order didn’t keep any masks at base, only at the outposts, and for morale’s sake, they weren’t worn often.

You look beautiful and deadly, Little Killer, his insidious voice whispered.

Go away, she replied mentally.

Not in the mood for compliments? You are worthy to serve me. These failures on the battlefield are pathetic.

Tom, stop. You swore you wouldn’t antagonize me in battle. That you wanted to see me use my power. Ginny appealed to their shaky truce.

Not antagonizing you, Fireweed. Only commenting on your allure.

You’re distracting me!

Ginny swore she almost heard him exhale a sigh, which wasn’t possible because he didn’t exist. Tom wasn’t real. He wasn’t real.

As I’ve told you, I’m as real as you are. The Malfoy boy is over there, he grumbled.

Ginny’s eyes snapped toward where she’d spotted Malfoy before. He was the High Commander, which made him the Order’s number one enemy after the Dark Lord. The Order had no idea the identity of the High Commander; no one outside of the Death Eaters did, at least until now. The High Commander was seen in public often, but always with the black full-face skull mask, bright icy blue eyes glaring at everyone.

The sky lit again as the rain pelted them. Ginny startled in her soaked stolen robes when she realized Malfoy was in front of her. He looked like a death god, draped in Death Eater robes with intricate skull and snake embroidery. His hair was under the hood, only his intense grey eyes were visible. Even his hands wore gloves. She couldn’t see a single sliver of skin. The light reflected off his black skull mask, drawing attention to his ash irises. He must charm his eyes to be blue in public, but why not on the battlefield?

He was a tall bastard, she’d known that, but she hadn’t dueled with him one-on-one before. Theo had a few times, but they were close to the same height. Malfoy advanced like he somehow knew she was the enemy—but there was no way he could have known with her in disguise—and directed his wand at her chest.

There’s no mistaking your grace when you battle. Tom kept his voice muted so she wouldn’t lose her focus, but his commentary still annoyed her.

She had to play the part. He might be the only person who could help Theo. Her instincts argued with her, begged her to set him on fire. Blimey, even Malfoy would be beautiful covered in flames; they all were.

They circled each other as she unwittingly backed away from him. Neither of them had cast anything or spoken yet, but she couldn’t shake the feeling he knew it was her. If he did, why wasn’t he killing her?

“Where is he?” Malfoy spoke in a low voice when the next round of thunder rumbled.

Ginny tilted her head because now she was positive he knew it was her. How in the bloody hell did he know Theo needed him? Theo had spoken of Malfoy often. A Malfoy she’d never met and honestly didn’t believe existed. She didn’t doubt Theo and Malfoy had been friends in school, but after what Malfoy had done...she couldn’t see the qualities Theo mentioned. Theo acknowledged knowing Malfoy, but said little else to anyone in the Order. Other than the Slytherins, she and Hermione were the only ones who knew they’d been best mates.

“Why?” she whispered as Malfoy moved entirely too close to her.

He leaned until their bodies nearly touched. “Take me to him.”

Ginny nodded and backed away, wondering how mad she truly was—if Harry was right to fret over her. There was not one person in the world, other than Theo, she would have stopped fighting in the middle of a battle to find an enemy to...help? It was unnerving having Malfoy follow behind her as they both used the darkness to hurry back to the shed. Whenever the sky lit up, they’d face each other like they were about to cast spells, as though they were battling. Twice, Malfoy sent a Bombarda into the fray, making mud and people fly. She guessed to keep everyone distracted.

As soon as they were behind the shed, Malfoy vanished his mask and grabbed Theo’s face, glancing at the diagnostic that still floated above him. Ginny noticed Malfoy had...makeup? Or something black smudged around his eyes. Rain dripped from his chin, but did not affect the makeup.

“Theo, look at me. Theo.” Malfoy’s voice was urgent and commanding. Theo rolled his eyes since he couldn’t move his head, and locked them on Malfoy.

Ginny wasn’t sure what was happening as they stared at each other, but the blue slowly receded towards his chest. Malfoy wasn’t even talking. Bloody hell, whatever magic Malfoy used was powerful, and without a word or wand. Bollocks, the Order had greatly misjudged his abilities. They thought he was a mid-tier soldier for Riddle, but he was the unstoppable High Commander.

“Theo...I’m sorry,” Malfoy whispered, but Ginny caught it.

She thought her knees might buckle under her. Sorry? Never once had she heard him utter an apology in school or heard anyone else mention him having remorse, either. Malfoy was too arrogant to believe he needed to apologize. The blue continued to move towards Theo’s chest and around his heart.

“Listen to me, I order you not to be this afraid. Feel the fear. It does not incapacitate you anymore. You can move, breathe. You can act until you get to safety. You have a choice. Do you understand?” Malfoy’s words were an order, not comfort. The blue instantly disappeared. He released Theo.

Theo coughed and slowly sat up before grabbing Draco’s forearm and squeezing. Ginny stopped breathing. She couldn’t process what happened or her part in it. Theo’s eyes turned to her and then back to Draco.

“I have to go.” Draco stood and conjured his mask back on.

“Wait, Draco.” Theo got to his feet faster than Ginny thought possible, considering the condition he had been in minutes ago. He clasped Malfoy’s arm again, stopping him from departing. “Are you...Are you alright?”

“Nothing is different. I’m fine,” Malfoy answered in a flat tone.

“Mate...” Theo faltered like he wasn’t sure what to say. “Everyone is alright. Thank you.”

Malfoy nodded and left. Ginny was about to demand that Theo explain everything when another arc zipped down from the sky and struck another tree, splintering it before it exploded and caught fire. Theo froze, his gaze fixed on the burning tree. Ginny was no expert on storms, but it struck her as bizarre how frequently the lightning struck in such close proximity to the same area. Members of the Order vanished one by one, utilizing portkeys, signaling a retreat had been ordered. Yet, despite the chaos around them, she and Theo remained rooted in place.

The other Death Eaters gathered around Malfoy and advanced toward their lost outpost supply building. Malfoy barked out orders as Ginny grabbed Theo’s arm to leave. Malfoy lifted his wand and spoke a spell she’d never heard. The heavy, sickening feeling of dark magic filled the area. It crawled over her skin and made her chest heavy. Neither Ginny nor Theo was a stranger to dark magic. They were cautious, more so than Harry believed, but whatever Malfoy was casting reminded her of something Riddle would use. It was powerful and felt...nasty.

Interesting. Perhaps the Malfoy boy isn’t a waste, Tom commented.

The group of Death Eaters in front of Malfoy stopped their spellwork. Several dropped their wands and clawed at their throats, gasping for breath. Her fingers dug into Theo’s forearm. Malfoy wasn’t casting on the building. He was doing something to them.

Immediately, two dropped to the ground with bulged eyes, blood leaking from their mouths. She knew they were dead, even at a distance and with poor lighting. What the bloody hell was going on? Malfoy was killing his own people? Ginny ripped the mask from her face and moved toward him, but Theo pulled her back and shook his head.

What is he doing, Tom?

Rain continued to soak them and extinguished the surrounding fires. Her eyes darted around to make sure none of the other members of the Order were still there, but it was only them and Malfoy left standing. All of the Death Eaters were dead. She and Theo slowly approached the building. Ginny wasn’t squeamish around gore, bodies, or blood anymore, but whatever Malfoy used was gross.

He’s taking care of unworthy followers.

Many of the Death Eaters were locked in unnatural positions, writhing in agony until their last breath. Most had clawed at their throats, tore their chests open, or gouged their eyes out. When she peered at them, it wasn’t only blood that had leaked from their mouths and noses; it appeared they had melted from the inside out. She’d seen that spell before, but not used against seven people at once.

They were fucked. The Order was fucked. If Malfoy could cast something like that and not even flinch...She glanced at Theo. He didn’t seem surprised, more worried than anything else.

“Draco...” Theo started.

Malfoy spun to face them. “Why are you still here? You need to leave.” Once again, she noticed how...dead his voice sounded. Maybe he was under the Imperious Curse? The posh lilt to his voice was absent.

“Mate...please talk to me for a minute,” Theo implored.

Ginny couldn’t make sense out of this, but as soon as they were safe, Theo had some explaining to do.

“There is nothing to discuss, Nott. Go.” Malfoy turned away. Why wasn’t he affected by the amount of dark magic he’d just used?

Dark magic corrodes Little Killer, you know that. His soul is probably as shredded as mine. Tom’s tone was filled with far too much amusement.

Theo pulled away from her and grabbed Malfoy again. Theo rarely initiated contact with anyone other than her. If nothing else, that was the most telling thing she’d witnessed since this began. Theo dissolved Malfoy’s mask. How did he know how to do that? Surprisingly, Malfoy didn’t react. Theo’s free hand reached up near Malfoy’s eyes, the black still smudged around them.

“Are you even in there?” Theo asked quietly.

“You need to get back. This is a cock-up the Dark Lord won’t be happy about,” Malfoy said with a sigh.

Theo’s eyes darted to the bodies and then back to Malfoy. “What’s he going to do to you?”

“Nothing he hasn’t done before. Go.” Malfoy stared over Theo’s shoulder rather than at him.

Ginny fought the urge to speak, knowing if she did, it would ruin whatever the moment was, and she needed information. Her personality wasn’t “quiet,” but she’d learned throughout the war, she had to choose her battles because they were never-ending.

“Is that why...” Theo started.

Malfoy shook his head.

“You’re too deep. You need to let a few layers go before you return or you won’t...you need to scream.”

“I’m aware.” Malfoy’s voice was still monotone.

“Are you? Because every time I see you, it’s been...worse. Remember why you’re doing this—you have to survive if you want...this isn’t surviving inside.”

“Don’t lecture me, Nott.” Malfoy smacked Theo’s hand away from his face.

Theo smiled. Ginny noticed the grey in Malfoy’s irises as they shifted to a lighter shade, appearing more clear. The rain continued, but the thunder grew distant. The lightning still lit the sky, but it too felt farther away.

“Your medical supplies are safe. Get them moved in the next two hours or they won’t be. Clock’s ticking.” Malfoy stepped back and disappeared in a swirl of black smoke.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Theodore Nott,” Ginny informed him.

I can’t wait to hear this explanation either, Tom jeered. Ginny staunchly ignored him.

Theo faced her and nodded. “But not until we get all this moved. I’ll tell you what I can, but after we move the supplies, we only have two hours.”

Ginny pressed her lips into a line. “I heard, and what exactly are we to tell the others?”

Theo grimaced. “We can’t tell them about Draco...not yet. I’ll explain, but he made sure we didn’t lose our medical supplies, so can you keep trusting me until this part is done?”

“Is he...has he...” Ginny moved until she touched Theo. It had taken them years to be comfortable touching each other. His presence was the most grounding thing to her. Regardless of how upset, angry, overwhelmed—whatever emotion wanted to kill her—as long as she touched Theo, she was alright. Her fingers played in his curls as her other hand traced the invisible scars on his neck, he’d allowed her to see a few months ago when his charm was gone.

“Is he helping the Order?”

Theo’s fingers ran over her scar, starting from her neck to her chin to beside her lip on the right side, where the skin was too tight and appeared distorted. He adored her scar, always having to kiss or touch it.

“It’s...it’s complicated, but...in a way, yes. We need to go,” Theo replied.

“Alright, but answer this: how long? How long has it been going on?”

Theo zeroed in on her scar, his fingers pressing harder, which meant he was struggling to get the words out. “Since before the war.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. A million more questions popped into her head, but before she asked, Theo Apparated them back to base, and there was no time to talk about anything other than getting the supplies moved before more Death Eaters arrived.

Chapter Text

March 24, 2004          Theo

Theo was furious at his weakness for putting his Fireheart at risk. He’d never be the Occlumens Draco was, but his mate had taught him the basics, enough to keep most people out. He did not abuse it the way Draco did. However, Theo allowed himself to sink into nothingness while they transferred the supplies out of the compromised storage facility. Theo continued to try to figure out how he would convince Ginny to lie with him without telling her the things he couldn’t.

He wanted to. He had wanted to, but the curse didn’t allow it. If he tried, he’d be forced to run away, or if he was creative, get someone else to hurt him, since he was prohibited from doing any harm to himself. Fuck, he should never have agreed at Hogwarts, but Draco had practically begged him and he knew Draco was right. He wouldn’t have made it through the year without his vow.

Theo considered the fact he’d been taking his updated potion the way he was supposed to, daily, for weeks, and as he feared, it did dull his edge. As terrifying as it was in the storm, if he’d been off his potion, the fear and panic wouldn’t have touched him. When he was having an episode, he was unstoppable. Mainly because all fear was canceled out.

“We’ll go report after we clean up,” Ginny told Moody, as she dragged Theo to their room. Moody grumbled but assented, since others had checked in already. Moody mainly wanted to know which of them killed the Death Eaters that Draco actually had.

Ginny closed their door and cast a silencing charm before turning to him with crossed arms. “You have a lot of explaining to do, and we have little time. Spill.”

Theo sank to their mattress and pushed the curls from his eyes. “I can’t explain everything, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Why can’t you tell me everything?”

He dropped his eyes to his socks. Their muddy boots sat by the door. “I just can’t, and if you try to make me, I’ll...I’ll have to leave.”

She scoffed. “Leave?”

Theo raised his eyes to her, so she understood he was serious. “Yes. I won’t have a choice. I’ll have to leave

Ginny rushed to his side, sat beside him, and grabbed his hands. Her thumb rubbed over his old scars from his father. He had burned the backs of Theo’s hands with his wand. At Ginny’s request, he left them visible.

“Did he curse you? Tonight? Is that what it was?”

“No, he didn’t curse me tonight.” That was the truth. Tonight, Draco saved him from himself—again. Draco always saved him if he could. He was still desperate to save Draco, alongside Hermione.

Ginny’s reddish-brown brows furrowed at his words. “So...before then?”

Theo couldn’t say anything, but he held her eyes with his.

She bolted up. “That arsehole! He did! When?”

Theo’s hands shook as he sensed the curse reacting, making his fight-or-flight response stronger. Ginny noticed and sat again.

“Alright, I won’t ask about that right now. How long has he been doing things like this?”

“Things like what?” Theo had to be careful as to what he admitted. Not just because of the curse, but also because he refused to betray Draco’s trust.

“Killing his own people.”

Theo debated what to say and kept it simple. “He always has, when he could. At least since he started taking lives.”

“Why?”

Theo grimaced. “I can’t say, but he doesn't believe in what the Dark Lord preaches. He didn’t want to be a Death Eater.”

“That doesn’t make sense. He’s always been part of them. He’s the youngest Death Eater ever!” The damp strands of her fiery locks around her face moved with her words.

“I know it’s complicated, but I swear he doesn’t want to be there.” Theo wanted to smack his head against the wall, but couldn’t. His mind drifted to how good it would feel to punch the wall until his knuckles broke or maybe cut out a piece of his arm. He shook his head in frustration. Fuck those thoughts, and fuck Draco for never letting him act on them. His eyes attached to his Firebird’s neck, tracking her scar with his eyes. His heart slowed.

“So he’s not a spy for us?”

“Not exactly. He helps when he can. Moody knows I meet with a contact and get info for upcoming attacks, but he also knows I don’t set the meetings. I have to wait until I’m contacted.”

“How does he contact you?”

Theo cracked his knuckles; a few hits against the stone wall would be divine. “The same way we have communicated since school, but I can’t say.” It had been their Slytherin rings, at least for him and Blaise. They sometimes used their cell phones, but were still adjusting.

Ginny blew out a breath. “Alright, so you’re cursed from...whenever, and Malfoy has been helping the Order on and off through you, which Moody and Shacklebolt know, but I’m guessing they don’t know it’s Malfoy?”

Theo nodded at her words and wondered if he chewed on the inside of his cheek enough to make it bleed, if that would count as self-harm. He scratched his head. His mind was crystal clear, no random distracting thoughts taunting him to act out. He didn’t have an abundance of energy that made his skin feel like it was crawling or like he wanted to climb the walls. He hadn’t even killed anyone. Did that mean he was getting better? Or was it only due to the potion?

“Malfoy doesn’t actually support Riddle even though he serves him and kills Death Eaters when he can?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going to happen to him, for tonight?”

Theo closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. “The Dark Lord will punish him however he sees fit. It depends on how bad the mistake was. Seven dead Death Eaters and blowing the entire battle—it won’t be good.”

Ginny rubbed her forehead in the middle, the way she was prone to do when she contemplated. “I’m guessing he can’t leave because of the Dark Mark? That’s how that works, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Theo said in a whisper. If it wasn’t for Draco, he’d have been just as trapped as his friend was. He would‘ve been forced to take the mark by his father.

“How did he know you needed him tonight? What did he do?”

Theo closed his eyes. Technically, this was the only part he could tell her, or most of it. It was still connected to his curse, but what she wanted to know, he could explain. Fuck, he didn’t want to, though. Her smaller hands pulled his right one back onto her lap. Theo stared at her cinnamon freckles that covered the backs of her hands.

“I can’t help you if it happens again if I don’t understand. Remember, it doesn’t matter how jagged our pieces are—we fit together. Nothing about you will ever be too much or too wrong for me.”

Theo opened his eyes and gazed at his girl. He didn’t deserve this fiery beauty who decided he was worthy of her love. Ever since he’d seen her in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, there had been no one else, never would be. He took a breath to summon courage.

“You know how my father treated me, some of the things he did.” She nodded. Theo’s thumb traced over a small pink scar on her middle knuckle. He loved this one too. It was special because he touched it whenever he needed to, and no one noticed as they did when he had to touch the one of her neck and face.

“Once one summer, he was angry about something—who the hell knows—and found me outside reading. I remember when he started in on me; it was overcast, but by the time he was done, it was storming. I laid in the mud and thought I’d bleed out before I made it to the house. The house-elves wouldn’t heal me if I wasn’t in the house.”

Theo pushed his curls off his face. “Problem was, I couldn’t get my legs to work. The right one was broken, and my left hip was dislocated, so I had to crawl. The rain and wind got worse, and I was so slow. The thunder made the ground tremble and...and we had a tree...”

Theo’s breaths felt thin, like something squeezed his lungs. He wasn’t supposed to talk about his father. If his father found out...No.

I order you not to be this afraid. Feel the fear, it does not incapacitate you anymore. You can move, breathe. You can act until you get to safety. You have a choice. Draco’s words filled his mind, and his breathing normalized.

He cleared his throat. “The garden was vast, but there was an old tree fairly close to the house that had been on the property for over a century. It was struck by lightning. I was too close and blacked out from the current. When I opened my eyes, the trunk and limbs were still burning, so I couldn’t have been out for long. I started crawling toward the house again, but I got hit when the second arc came down.”

Ginny had learned much about Theo’s father over the years, but he hadn’t shared this story, nor the scar from it. It was rare when she reacted with alarm, but she couldn’t hide the shock and horror on her face. It only took seconds for her to close her mouth and squeeze his hand in reassurance.

“That’s why you always know when it’s going to rain, why you can predict the storms,” she breathed out.

Theo nodded. After surviving that night, he spent weeks learning everything possible about lightning and storms. He had no desire to be struck again. It was only a theory, but every time he was outside during a storm, wherever he was, lightning always struck. He couldn’t help but feel like it was drawn to him, but didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was something in his magical signature, or another curse his father placed on him. Theo wasn’t sure how many active curses were on or in his body.

“I’m sorry, I was...” Theo wasn’t sure which words to use. Pathetic. Coward. Useless. As much as he mentally buried that scared little boy, even with Draco’s help, it seemed he’d never leave. Theo put his Fireheart at risk. Hopefully, what Draco had done tonight took care of his last weakness, but it was hard for Theo to have any faith in himself.

“No. Don’t.” Ginny put her finger on his lips.

He gave her a half smile. That was one of the first intimate touches she gave him. At the time, she hadn’t meant it that way, but he had never forgotten that moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand, and I didn’t seek out Malfoy right away. You can’t explain why that helped or what he did, can you?”

Theo shook his head. Ginny exhaled and brought his forehead against hers.

“What are we going to tell Moody and Shacklebolt?”

“Do you want to take credit for the Death Eaters?”

Ginny shrugged. “If we need to. If Harry hears, he’ll lecture me again. And Moody will want to know where we learned that spell, which I can’t answer because I don’t know how to do that, only that the spell exists.”

“It’s a lot darker than what we use most of the time,” he admitted.

“Dark magic like that is really bad, Theo. Is that what’s wrong with Malfoy?”

Theo shrugged. “Yeah, somewhat.”

“Why didn’t he use Diffindo to take off their heads? It would've cost him less.”

Because my best mate is a self-destructive prat and can’t keep it together anymore. Also, by the time the Order had recovered all the supplies, the bodies of the fallen Death Eaters were puddles. No way for the Dark Lord to investigate what had occurred. He had to get Draco out of Voldemort’s clutches before there wasn’t anything left of his friend.

Theo promised himself he’d get back to his research about the Dark Mark again soon. Draco told him it was pointless, but he refused to accept such a mindset, even if Draco did. He wished he could talk to Hermione about it. If they worked together, he was confident that between the three of them, they could figure it out. He’d always, always believed that, even at Hogwarts.

Theo huffed. That tosser wouldn’t let him talk to Hermione about him, and there wasn’t anything Theo could do about it. Still. The curse truly was a curse and a blessing, but more of a curse when it came to anything relating to Draco.

“I know. He’s been...it’s been a long war.”

“You want to save him.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Theo swallowed. The only other people he admitted that to were the other snakes that were as upset about Draco being trapped with the Dark Lord, and Hermione. They owed Draco their lives for getting him and the others away from Moldy Voldy.

“Yeah.” The lump in his throat made it hard to talk.

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

Theo pulled back, gazing into her gorgeous, bright brown eyes that had a tiny ring of green at the center. “Would you have believed me before tonight?”

“Probably not. I would’ve tried, but it sounds so...unbelievable. Blimey! He’s the High Commander for Riddle. I don’t think anyone would believe it unless they witnessed his abilities. He’s still going to lead the Death Eaters against us, still going to hurt or kill us.”

“Because he has to, or he will be dead too, and he can’t let that happen unless the Dark Lord is gone. I don’t think anyone knows he’s the High Commander, yet.”

Ginny withdrew more and studied him. Theo knew she was examining every word out of his mouth, trying to piece together the mess into something that made sense.

“So...he’s hanging on until Riddle’s gone?”

“Yeah.” It hurt to say the words because he knew Draco wanted more, deserved more, but Draco’s decisions propelled him closer and closer to death more than anything else. Draco had told Theo he wouldn’t have survived being a Death Eater before the Battle of Hogwarts. As soon as Draco had taken the Dark Mark, he believed he was dead from that moment on. The only time that perception had shifted was because of Hermione, but she’d left twice. Theo didn’t blame her the second time. No one aspired to be a prisoner, but he was certain her departure reinforced the tragic plan in Draco’s mind.

“But you want to save him.”

Theo nodded. Ginny groaned and put her head on his shoulder.

“We’re not going to survive this,” she grumbled.

“We never were, Fireheart.” Theo grinned and brought her lips to his.

“Then how are we supposed to save the ferret?”

Theo didn’t reply because he had dozens of ideas and plans, most of which had already begun. He was still missing pieces of information or resources, and without them, he couldn’t move ahead with any of his plans.

“How did you get his mask off?” she asked.

“I canceled the spell. He showed me how a while ago. His mask is the only one like that. The Dark Lord was quite pleased when Draco fashioned it. It’s made of dark magic. Riddle thinks it helps Draco focus, pulling from his dark magic. But we modified it.”

“How?”

“Technically, it does do that, but it also allows him to disassociate, so he can...do his work with fewer moral issues. That, and it absorbs excess dark magic on or in him when it materializes or is removed. It’s fueled by the darkness. That way, less of it stays with Draco.”

“Disassociate?”

“It’s kind of how we feel when we wear them. It lowers inhibitions and makes it easier to commit awful atrocities.” Theo knew Ginny understood because any of the Death Eater masks they’d donned had made them both feel that way.

Ginny rubbed her forehead. “So his mask is nothing more than conjured dark magic that takes that shape?”

“Exactly. Because it uses dark magic to function, it keeps the darkness close to Draco, but does not poison him with it. His earring anchors it.”

“Alright, so besides winning a war, we have to save your friend—great.”

Theo’s heart squeezed in his chest from the love of his witch. She supported him, just as he always supported her. He kissed her again, tugging her onto his lap, and pressed her against him. It was odd after a battle to not have her smell of fire, smoky and seductive, but the rain had ruined her fun.

“You are the best piece of me.” His fingers traced from the corner of her lip to the bottom of her marking. Her perfect, beautiful scar.

Her fingers reached for his arm, the burned skin hidden from view, but she felt the uneven texture, and it made her flush. “You are the best piece of me.”

Chapter Text

March 24, 2004          Draco

Draco’s body jolted as thousands of burning knives cut into him, flaying him open. Voldemort tore into his mind, flooding it with horrific images, so that Draco would thank him for only mildly punishing him when it was over. A reminder that he was weak compared to his master—that no one was the Dark Lord’s equal. Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes, but it felt like years.

Draco twitched on the ground and was proud he hadn’t wet himself or shat in his pants. Hadn’t done that in years, even when the Dark Lord used the Cruciatus curse on him. Most others still did. As much as his bodily function control irritated Voldemort, it also impressed him and made Draco more worthy of his title.

After Draco knew he could clamor to his knees without falling over, he moved into position, putting one boot on the ground so he bowed before his master again.

“T—thank you, my lord,” he said in a weak voice.

If he continued to make mistakes, he’d end up off the trolley like so many other Death Eaters. There was only so much a person could tolerate of certain curses before they incurred permanent damage. No matter, he’d be dead long before then. Fuck. No. He couldn’t think like that anymore. He would endure, even if it caused madness.

“Do not disappoint me again, young Draco.” Voldemort waved his hand dismissively.

Draco didn’t hesitate and occluded until he sensed almost nothing and was barely aware of his surroundings. He wanted to rush to the fireplace, but forced himself to walk with his usual swagger, appearances must be maintained. He tossed the powder in and collapsed on the floor of his lab, grateful for the blackness that took him.

What he thought was hours later, he opened his eyes to the same cold stone floor. He rolled onto his back and groaned in pain, his gaze searching for his potion box. Relief spiraled through him as he dragged himself toward it. He always kept one by the fireplace—for the inevitable.

Draco poured four potions down his throat. His hands shook, almost spilling the liquid, but he managed. He put his cheek to the cool stone and waited until he could crawl to his bed. The tremors slowed. A steady but fast pulse lulled him into a sense of peace until he realized it was hers.

On his back again, he stared at the ceiling he’d enchanted to look like a night sky, their sky. His palm rested on his heart, rubbing the area. Her heartbeat was strong. Knowing she was alright helped more than the potions. Draco lifted his right arm, tugging off his leather bracer and glove, and dropped them on the floor. He yanked his sleeve up, watching his snakes writhe against the wan skin of his forearm. Now that his pain had lessened, he was more mentally aware. He sensed all of the snakes moving, processing the damage, helping him recover faster.

The tattooed snakes were more faded than expected. He tried to untuck his shirt and examine his chest, but gave up. The snakes moved, which meant they were working; it was enough for now. Perhaps the Dark Lord hadn’t been as kind as he initially thought. The more damage they absorbed, the lighter the markings became before resetting over time and darkening to black, ready for more pain. He checked the signet ring on his right pinky. It was cold, but not freezing, which meant it functioned as well. Draco let his arm drop back to his chest.

He stumbled to and from the loo and into bed, taking off his Death Eater robes, but left everything else on. It required too much energy to bother undressing. His eyelids grew heavy as his thoughts continued to race.

Theo...fucking Theo. Draco was furious at his oversight that nearly killed his best friend. He’d known—fucking known what thunderstorms and, more importantly, lightening did to Theo. But he was so fucking occluded it took him way too long to realize he needed to find Theo. Draco had forgotten, and Theo was a master at predicting storms, making sure he wasn’t outside when they happened. When he spotted the Weaselette, he knew Theo was there.

Draco felt stupid because when he ordered Theo not to be afraid before, he hadn’t thought outside of the current situation. Theo had been losing his shite indoors and hiding in a closet during a storm. Draco had told Theo he wasn’t afraid because he was inside and knew there was nothing to fear. Theo’s terror was intense, so Draco had created directives more than once, but most seemed to stick during their sixth year. There were times Theo even gazed out a window during a storm. Draco should have realized that Theo would end up outside, and then the orders would be negated because the situation was different.

The mind was a crafty bastard and consistently found ways around things. It was why occasionally obliviating someone didn’t work properly, or why false memories sometimes didn’t take. Why, even the best Legilimens could be fooled by the best Occlumens. There were always loopholes because people’s brains wanted them, so that it gave the illusion of freedom.

Even the Imperius curse wasn’t foolproof, as Draco had learned more than once. The only difference was unlike when he’d used it on others, he did care if it didn’t work properly for Theo. Theo relied on it to live. It was how he survived, and it was Draco’s responsibility to make sure he stayed alive.

Draco wondered if his best friend was so concerned about his welfare because it directly affected his own. That wasn’t what Draco intended. He had been young and wanted to protect his best friend from himself. Theo wanted it too, or maybe Draco was a manipulative prick who talked him into it. Regardless, Theo still existed and had even gotten the witch of his dreams. Theo was probably happier than he’d ever been before.

They were worth this miserable fucking life. She was safe, and Theo had a sliver of happiness. Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne weren’t free from the war, but they hadn’t been forced to take the mark, to turn into what he’d become. He couldn’t die until the Dark Lord did. Once Voldemort was gone, he could finally let go. Theo might struggle for a while, but he’d be alright with the Weaselette at his side. It wasn’t like before when he and Theo only had each other. Draco drifted in and out of consciousness in his bed.

#####

“Draco!” She rushed to his side as he convulsed on the floor. He didn’t want her to see him like this, but couldn’t hide. Hermione pulled his head into her lap, brushing his hair back and caressing his chest.

His vision blurred in and out, as she poured vials down his throat, talking to him in a soothing voice.

“You refused to listen to anything I said. Such a prat. I didn’t even know Hogwarts had that many closets. I think you wanted to be caught.” She chuckled.

Draco’s eyes were shut. The softness of her thighs under his head was better than any pillow he’d ever used. He had wanted to be caught. By a professor, Saint Potter, or best yet, the Weasel. There would have been horrible fallout, but he hadn’t cared, still didn’t care about that part. He wanted everyone to know she was his and only his. At that point, he was beyond reckless and stupid enough to think he could escape the Dark Lord, escape this.

She had been right, and he was the fool. He should apologize to her. His selfishness would’ve killed them both. He had been so desperate then. So fucking terrified. The only moments of joy in his life were with her. His mother had loved him, attempted to show tenderness, and he wasn’t miserable as a child. Lonely, deprived of touch and affection, and driven by a need to strive for excellence—in all things. A cold childhood, but not terrible.

Hermione was warmth. He’d known that, but once she let him in, showed him her true self—he was lost. The war he had fought against himself since first laying eyes on her was over. She won. He never had a chance. No one refused the sun or the life it gifted. It wasn’t until she allowed him to be with her that he realized he’d been dying since the summer he returned from school to his mother’s torture. Hermione saved him—brought him back from the depths.

“I think maybe I wanted to be caught, too. I was too scared, too unsure, to take the next step. I mean, before...” Her voice faded.

Fuck. Until he broke her heart and was exactly what she thought he was. And because he was a dramatic git, he didn’t only live up to her fears. No, he had to exceed them. He had lied to her the entire time. Of course, so had she. The best moments of his life were lies—lies filled with truth.

His legs started shaking again, kicking up off the stone. Hermione moved her one arm over his thighs to restrain him. Her lips pressed against his forehead. The shaking stopped.

Yes. Touch me, please. Don’t stop touching me.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you. It was a lie, an awful lie. We were something. You were my best friend, too. I admitted how much it hurt me that Harry or Ron picked each other over me, and I did the same thing to you. I’m so sorry.”

Draco’s shoulders and neck spasmed. She drew him closer. If he died at that moment in her arms, it would be the perfect end. Certainly selfish, but what better death than in his witch’s arms? Unfortunately for him, not a real possibility. For one, he didn’t deserve a good death. He still craved one, but accepted it wouldn’t happen. Also, too many people depended on him living, so for now, he had no choice. Once the Dark Lord was gone, then he’d rest.

She had no reason to apologize to him. Everything she thought about him had been the truth. He couldn’t see past his hurt feelings then, but Draco realized what a rotter he’d been. He had lied and manipulated her. Forced her into a relationship she didn’t want, especially with someone who was doomed. He was a Death Eater. Harry hadn’t lost the plot. Draco was the villain. A cowardly piece of shite. There was no way they could have stayed together. There was no way they could ever be together.

“I know...we weren’t good to each other sometimes, but I miss our library. I miss...us. I know I’m an idiot. That you hate me but...I can’t hate you, Draco. I just can’t. I’ve tried.” She lowered her forehead to his. “I’ve tried so hard.” Her last words trembled as she spoke them. The tiny movements above and below him made him think she was crying.

Draco still couldn’t move any of his limbs or speak. She didn’t despise him! She missed him. Him. He wondered if he died on the floor in front of the Dark Lord because there was no way Granger would say those things to him. Only in his dreams did she ever utter such sweet words. Sod it all.

Only another pathetic dream. He was so desperate for her love, he’d make up scenarios where she uttered sweet nothings to him. Usually, he was wounded or dying, because why would she ever speak to him kindly otherwise? Then she’d hold him and tell him she wanted to be with him or, if he was lucky, she would be his. At least for the minutes, he would bleed out or writhe in agony from a curse. The pain never mattered, only that she gazed at him with love, choosing to touch him, swearing she was his. Draco wasn’t sure it was healthy to dream about his own death so much, but he couldn’t help it since he decided the best way to go was in her arms.

“If I had my magic, I’d move you to your bed, but you’re too heavy. So I’ll stay here with you, keep you warm, alright? When you can move, we’ll get you in bed. I’ll stay with you this time.” Her small sobs destroyed him. Fucking cracked his ribs open and tore out his heart.

#####

Draco’s eyes snapped open as he bolted up and vomited off the side of his bed. He blindly reached for his potions beside his bed, focusing on the colors to know which to take. He flopped back on his pillow and wiped his sweaty forehead. His arm stretched over his eyes to block the dim light. Like the last time his master had torn through his skull, any movement or light, hell, just breathing, hurt. He’d take having Crucio cast on him several times over, rather than have Voldemort in his mind. Thankfully, the Dark Lord understood, to a degree, how damaging his legilimency was and still wanted Draco’s service. So he didn’t do it often.

Draco was pretty sure he had lost some early memories and certain skills he used to have because of the damage sustained. Draco rubbed his temples. Not much to do about it now, so he ignored it. As long as he could still duel, brew his potions, and create things needed to protect his friends and her, that was all he asked for at this point.

A warm, soothing calm spread over him, blanketing him, and lulled him into a false sense of safety. While he knew the Manor was secure, because of his changes, Draco could never relax or stand down when he was alone. He’d learned the hard way: alone did not equal safety as he once thought it did. The calm sensation continued to spread over his body. His eyelids drooped.

Blurry images of her room, the one with all the potions, came into focus. She was lying in her lab. He must be in a bad way if he connected so quickly. Which also meant she was as well, because unlike most times, there was no resistance or complete lack of anything when he searched the bond for her.

He squinted, wondering if she ever caught glimpses of what he saw. He hoped not, most of what he witnessed was horrible. Muted movements in his large tanks and cages reminded him he needed to feed his snakes or they would be even larger arseholes than they already were.

“Tergeo,” he whispered. Draco lifted his hand, his bloody knuckles ached. He peered at his fingers to confirm none of the runes he had tattooed needed to be repaired.

Are your runes alright? Her voice popped into his mind.

“Granger?” he replied out loud and in his head. That answered his question about whether she saw what he did. Shite.

You heard me?

Are we going to do this every time? he asked in a tired voice.

Unless we speak more often, I‘ve no idea how to do this. I think the only reason I hear you is because I’m about to fall asleep.

Asleep? You don’t sound tired. Draco put his arm over his eyes again. I love hearing your voice, Princess.

I took Dreamless Sleep. Why is everything dark all of the sudden?

Are you trying to see where I am?

Yes. No. Maybe?

Maybe I’ll show you next time, if you bother to talk to me. Draco attempted to keep the irritation from his tone.

I want to...but it’s too dangerous. We’re on opposite sides, and we might accidentally show each other something—

Stop. I know. I remember. I want this to be over. I want to keep my promise.

I want...Her voice died away along with the heat of her emotions. She was asleep.

Draco tuned everything out, wanting to put his walls up again. Desperate for the layers between him and life, but he had to take a break. His ability to stay occluded was legendary, but even he needed minor breaks now and then. Besides, it was difficult to maintain his mental walls after prolonged torture. Today was rubbish, but tonight, for a brief moment, his witch spoke to him. 

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

April 15, 2004          Theo

“Hey,” Theo said as he slipped into Hermione’s lab. He swore she spent more time there than anywhere else.

She gave him a weak smile as she covered an artifact with a cloth before turning around and giving him her attention.

“How’s it coming along?” he asked and moved beside her. The urge to tap his fingers against the wooden surface of her workstation plagued him. He had taken his potion dutifully, but nervous energy coursed through him. 

“Bill helped to remove the nastiest curse, and I trapped the other, for now. But the seal won’t hold if we don’t figure out the counter to it.”

Theo pushed his curls from his face. “I’ve almost perfected the shatterproof vials, and Nev thinks he might be able to get the seeds to explode?”

Hermione stopped digging into her cabinets to face him. “How would we deploy exploding Venomous Tentacula seeds?”

“Shatterproof vials?” Theo shrugged.

She tapped her fingers on her lips. “Alright, but we’d still have to get the seeds inside the vials without them exploding. I’ll talk to Neville. That doesn’t seem safe for him to do.”

Theo’s mind drifted to George, his favorite Weasley, other than his witch. Or rather, was his favorite. George’s humor, penchant for chaos, and craving to kill Death Eaters matched his own. He missed him every day. Theo took comfort in the fact that George went out on his own terms, doing what he loved, blowing everything to smithereens. His death had brought about the destruction of one of Moldy Voldy’s development labs and set the opposing forces back at least a year.

“Theo?” Hermione’s voice cut into his musings about his friend and working partner for over two years.

He tapped his foot to the beat of his favorite song and reminded himself why he was there. “I have news.”

“But you heard me about the calculations? That we’ll only have ten minutes?”

He had not heard her. “Ten minutes to find Draco?”

She let out a breath and sank to her stool, pulling her hair from the green elastic. Her fingers traced over her band. “Yeah. Unless you tell him ahead of time to use a Bubble-Head charm. It should only target marked Death Eaters. Any supporters will have to be handled by our fighters.”

Theo bounced on his feet. She’d given him a perfect segue to tell her about his meeting with Draco. Not that she’d be happy about his news.

“We talked about his mark again. He did some tests.”

“He’s not supposed to do anything without you there!” Hermione smacked the surface of her table. Glass bottles rocked, but didn’t fall over.

“No! Not like that. He swore he didn’t injure the mark, he knows better. He...wanted to see if the dark magic could be extracted.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “And how would he do that without the mark viewing that as a violation?”

Theo grimaced. “He tried with a couple of others first, and then he used his snakes and—”

Hermione bolted to her feet. “Tried with others? What does that mean? And which snakes?”

Theo paced in the small area between her bed and the workstation. He had to be careful about how he worded things. The curse made it challenging to relay information, even now, after the years that had passed.

“I should tell you a story.” He sank to her mattress, knowing she’d understand.

Hermione shuffled to the bed and sat next to him. “You saw him this week?”

Theo nodded, thankful Draco didn’t hinder him from telling Hermione when they met anymore.

“The princess worked tirelessly, studying ways to remove the darkness trapped within the prince. Her knight bravely carried on his quest to gather information in enemy territory. They hadn’t given up hope of saving the prince from his dark fate.” Hermione’s voice shook as she spoke.

“The prince was a shadow of himself; each day without the princess wore on him. Hollowed him out,” Theo added.

“But the prince couldn’t lose all hope because when the knight spoke to him, it reminded him of better times with those who loved him.”

“However, those times, those memories faded, became more myth than reality, no matter how he tried to keep them alive. Desperate for a cure for his curse, he hunted others like him and used his magic, potions, and Muggle science to see if there was a way to free himself.” Theo’s fingers traced over his witch’s burn to give himself a measure of comfort. “Everyone died, horribly. The prince’s theories proved ineffective.”

“Thankfully, the knight, when he saw the prince, asked many questions to help the princess in her research?” Hermione’s tone was hopeful.

“Yes, her faithful knight brought back a magical scroll that captured his thoughts after the meeting. Although he was a bit embarrassed about the part about his true love,” Theo answered, his face warm as he handed a rolled-up parchment to Hermione. He and George had co-invented the idea of a thought-capturing parchment. It wasn’t perfect, and Theo’s fractured mind probably wasn’t the best to test it on, but he had to get the information to Hermione without breaking his vows.

Hermione took the parchment and scanned it, her cheeks coloring when she reached the musings about his witch. “The princess was surprised when the scroll didn’t reveal the part about the snakes…”

Theo’s knees bounced while he considered Draco hadn’t had actual snakes when he’d sworn him to secrecy. And she was already aware of his mate's tattoos, although Theo couldn’t directly reveal how they worked without Draco’s consent. He grinned, realizing he could freely talk about Draco’s actual snakes with no repercussions. He smacked his palms together, rubbing them. It was freeing to openly discuss anything about Draco.

“The prince has a dozen snakes. He collects their venom regularly.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side. “Why?”

Something in her tone was telling, as though she was testing him. She knew about Draco’s snakes? Theo narrowed his eyes. “The venom.”

Hermione tied her hair back and re-read the parchment. “There’s no mention of that here. Why does he need venom? And how did he use snakes for his mark?”

Theo knew the Dark Mark was out of bounds to talk about, but perhaps not if he emphasized the snakes?

“Potions. If someone is bitten by a snake, how do you save them?” he asked.

“Using the venom in potions...I could see how that would be useful. Similar to other toxins we’ve researched to weaponize...if someone was bitten, extract the poison.” Her fingers traced over words on the parchment.

Theo gestured for her to go on.

“He used a snake...” The color drained from her face. “He let a snake bite him to try and remove his mark? That’s insane! Why would he think that would work? Although he mentioned siphoning dark magic with items—did it help at all?”

“The snake got its fangs into him, but it didn’t pan out.” That was vague enough. “However, that was more promising than earlier ideas.” Theo gestured to the parchment.

Hermione got up and went to the cabinets behind her station and took out her research on the Dark Mark. Theo contributed as much as possible via their stories or guessing games over the years, when time allowed. She chewed on the corner of her lip and muttered to herself.

Theo got up and moved beside her, looking over their notes. “My father was excellent at curses, especially those that forced dark magic inside someone. Twisting them from the inside out. It's part of why he and Dolohov are buddies.”

“Dolohov is more patient. He prefers the agony of slow curses,” she added bitterly.

Theo’s jaw tightened. If he ever saw that bastard in the field again, he’d end him without hurry as well as painfully, for what he did to Hermione when she was captured. His fingers ghosted over the back of her hand. She stopped, her eyes softening at the touch.

“Draco has always believed that dark magic could be extracted under the right circumstances, with the right magic and tools. I know he’s right, but Tom’s mark...it's akin to the Horcruxes he made. It's complex and based on obscure, powerful ancient magic. In every mark, a tiny, nearly infinitesimal piece of Tom’s magic is attached.”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “But not enough to...”

Hermione waved her hand. “No. Not like that. It’s why they can use the mark to call him. It’s also why, even now, Tom hasn’t given everyone the mark. While it makes them his slaves, it’s not an unending well of magic. Each time he gives someone the mark, it pulls from his magical core.”

He pushed his curls from his eyes. “Do you think there’s a limit to how many he can create?”

“Yes. It’s not like the coins I made for Dumbledore’s Army. These are still connected to him, to his magic.”

Moldy Voldy literally had pieces of himself spread all over like a whore. Couldn’t only make a cult. No, he had to enslave them to make sure his minions didn’t get out of line. But Hermione said he’d torn his soul to shreds because of the Horcruxes, wouldn’t that mean his mark would tax his already weakened magical core?

What about his Phoenix? That bastard talked to her all the time. Sometimes, at the worst times, when Theo was having a moment with her, he had no respect for privacy. Slimy fucker took up too much of his witch’s time. Theo wondered, but was afraid to ask if he’d ever been present when they had sex. If he found out that rotter—

Hermione’s hand covered his lightly. He hadn’t realized he was smacking the surface of the table repeatedly. He grimaced and attempted to wrangle his wandering thoughts. She let go and raised her hand near his face. With cautious movements, she lit the end of her wand and peered into his eyes. Her fingers gently opened his eye more. She studied one and then the other.

“You’ve taken your potion today?”

“Yep.” He popped the ‘P’ at the end to show how serious he was.

She frowned and turned to her potions on the shelves. “I think we need to tweak your potion again. Have you noticed any signs it might not be working?”

Voldemort was a soul slag, his mind reminded him, and caused him to chuckle. Hermione looked over her shoulder, holding a potion in her fingers. Theo schooled his features. He was attempting to sell that he was fine, that he didn’t need to change anything about his potion. While his potion wasn’t quite keeping his racing mind or nervous energy at bay, he was also so much more aware of everything. And he was stronger, faster, more powerful, and, most importantly—fearless.

“We’ll talk more about his mark once I’ve combined what you brought back with our other research. You should see Luna for a checkup,” she casually mentioned.

Theo wouldn’t fall for it. He learned what that meant. Although Hermione managed his potion because she was the creator, Luna or Greenbottom managed his “care plan.” They wouldn’t call for reinforcements unless he had an episode, and then he would have to see Padma or Madame Pomfrey.

Once they had restrained him at the other base for a few days—it was a shite experience. Not that the other base was terrible. In fact, since it housed all rescued individuals, he found it more homey than their current one. However, he heard the whispers and saw the looks. They all thought he was off the trolley; some feared him, others pitied him.

“Not due again until May,” he replied in a singsong voice and grinned.

“I know, but we will attack before then, and I want to be sure you’re feeling alright. We’ll need everyone that day.”

Theo danced around to the other side of her worktable. When was the last time he danced? He pinched his brow, wondering why there was so little music. They could listen to music at will, but not many bothered. Ginny didn’t seem to mind that when they were in their room, he invariably had music on.

“Theo.” Hermione was in front of him, her eyes crinkled with concern.

“Alright, I may have forgotten my potion,” Theo lied, but attempted to appear contrite.

Hermione gave him an admonishing expression before retrieving a bottle of his potion from her supply and handing it to him. He fought against the revulsion as she carried it over. Don’t need it. He plucked it from her fingers and removed the stopper. Every time he drank his potion, he felt more of himself slip away. He imagined his Fireheart, his gorgeous warrior goddess, urging him to drink it, promising her sweet mouth after. He chugged it and winced at the bitter taste.

She took the empty bottle back and set it on the wooden surface. “Harry’s due back at the end of the month to help plan the attack.”

Theo cleared his throat. “Alright.”

She always told him when Potter would be around because he actively disliked Theo. Theo couldn’t blame him, he was with Potter’s ex-witch. There was no better female than Ginevra, although Hermione was nearly as important to him.

As the Chosen One, most still had faith he’d eventually destroy Moldy Voldy, but Theo’s galleons were on Draco. His friend has invested years of his life slowly dismantling things from the inside, steadily making small, unnoticeable moves, weaving a web of deceit that even Theo didn’t know all the pieces to. If Potter took down the Dark Lord, it’d only be because of all the things Draco had set into motion ahead of time.

“Theo?” Hermione’s concerned expression made him wary.

He cleared his throat and stopped the unconscious humming he’d been doing. Fuck, he had to get his shite under control or they wouldn’t allow him into what he hoped was the final battle. He’d never let Fireheart fight on her own, not in that battle. Too much was at stake for everyone.

 “I think you—”

“I’m still upset about Draco,” Theo blurted out. “I mean, since the storm.” He forced his voice not to waver when he mentioned the storm. Not exactly terrified anymore, but the old fear lingered in his bones.

She frowned and approached him. “I know. He’s...slipping away from us.”

“No matter what happens when we attack, we have to get him. Bring him back with us, yeah?”

Hermione lowered her hand, brushing it against the back of his. “Yes. Even if he fights us.”

“Whatever it takes,” Theo vowed.

Chapter Text

April 17, 2004          Draco

Draco stomped through the halls of Hirsel Estate, which Voldemort had claimed as his own. It had once been a beautiful piece of property with five hundred acres that included a lake and river. At one point, the Muggles had a tearoom, craft shops, a pottery maker, and a museum. All the buildings and property had been repurposed for the Dark Lord’s intentions. Most of the lovely flowering foliage had been removed for more buildings, the swaths of color gone, the vibrant green grass was dull now, saturated with too much dark magic.

The Georgian-style main house was constructed during the 18th century, although small parts of it predated that time. Draco still appreciated the craftsmanship that had survived the vile Death Eaters who now inhabited the property. The stone staircase remained, only now it was stained with blood and grime from years of use. On the estate edges were several pre-existing cottages that some Death Eaters were given as living quarters.

Over the years, many buildings were erected to serve the Death Eaters, their prisoners, and some creatures that were part of the Dark Lord’s following. Voldemort allowed Greyback’s pack and other late-joined werewolves to live on the land near the lake. In return, they were his brute force soldiers and guarded the property boundaries. Draco interacted with them as little as possible, nothing but barely-controlled monsters, the lot of them.

Voldemort has chosen this property because it sat on the border of Scotland and England, making Apparition to either point of the land’s end easy. If the Order attempted to take Hogwarts back, a slew of Death Eaters could be there in seconds without breaking a sweat. If London grew unstable, it was a simple jump to deal with the chaos. Not only that, but the dungeons under the main house were extensive and rivaled the Ministry of Magic’s in size.

Draco burst into the vast dining room that was used by everyone other than the Dark Lord himself. His master set aside a smaller room that had been converted into his private dining area. That room was reserved for intimate dining with Voldemort for whomever he deemed worthy. Draco fucking hated it when he was invited. His eyes scanned the long tables and spotted Goyle shoveling food in as fast as his arms could muster. Ever since Crabbe’s death, Goyle picked up the mantle of eating the mass calculation of himself as often as he could.

“Goyle. Where’s Dolohov?” Draco asked. Goyle still wasn’t bright, but he was more tolerable than many of the other Death Eaters.

He shrugged and chewed what was in his mouth, thankfully, with his mouth closed. Draco wasn’t above hexing him for poor manners.

“Have you seen him today?” Draco forced his tone to be level and not snap at Goyle.

“Yeah, he was...” Goyle bit into his roll, eating half of it as his expression turned thoughtful. “Think he was headed to his lab?”

Draco didn’t respond, only stared at him, shoving the rest of the roll into his mouth, chewing as he stabbed a piece of meat. Realization made Goyle pale in front of him.

“Do—Do you need me to get him for you, High Commander?” Goyle’s tone had lost its familiarity as fear crept in—good. Draco counted on that fear, having worked hard to make sure that any beneath him always felt wary of his presence. Not only did he have an image to maintain for Voldemort, but he wanted to keep the Death Eaters distant. He had no desire to spend any more time with them than was necessary.

“Shouldn’t that have been your first question?” Draco let his malice slither into his tone.

“Y–yes, sorry, High Commander. I was...we’d been out all night, and I just wanted something to eat.” Goyle stumbled over his words as he dropped his fork on the plate.

Draco twirled his wand, let out a dramatic sigh, and leveled his gaze at Goyle. When was the last time he punished Goyle? The fact that he couldn’t recall pointed out it had been too long, which is why he’d been so casual with Draco.

“I’ll go right now!” Goyle blurted out and stood, knocking into the table. He frowned when his other roll rolled across the table and dropped to the dirty floor.

“Unnecessary. I happen to be headed that way. Sit.” Goyle lowered to his seat. “I have things to do today, otherwise, I’d love to Crucio you to remind you of your manners when speaking to your superiors. As it is, perhaps you’ll remember for next time.”

“Th—thank you, High Commander.” Goyle bowed his head in deference.

Draco hummed and left the room, sensing the burning hatred and envy from Goyle’s stare burning figurative holes in his back. He had hoped to catch Dolohov in the main house, rather than his lab—Draco’s old lab—that had been gifted to Dolohov when he took up the reins as their curse expert and potioneer. Draco was every bit as capable with potions, probably still more skilled than Dolohov, and competent in curses, but it didn’t suit his purposes to allow anyone to know the height of his skill.

In his early years, he used his intelligence to keep him from the battlefield, but realized if his plan was to work, he had to trade his slightly more sound mind and relative comfort for the nasty work he didn’t want to participate in. So he’d allowed Dolohov to boast about his skills and his ideas as Draco positioned himself to climb the military ranks. He often daydreamed about torturing Dolohov for hurting his witch. Eventually, he’d end him in the most horrific way possible; just had to bide his time.

Even with the corruption of dark magic ruining the land, Draco tried to enjoy the walk to Dolohov’s lab, which was located near the lake, where the car park used to be. The lab was close to the entrance of the estate, not that it was visible to most, and the nasty ward that surrounded it would easily kill someone not permitted in the area. Naturally, as High Commander, he could come and go anywhere on the estate he wanted to. When he spoke, the Death Eaters were to treat him as though the Dark Lord himself spoke. It was almost the same with the generals. Anyone else below those ranks had no choice but to defer to him or the generals. The generals answered to him, but he only answered to the Dark Lord. For the small price of what was left of his soul, he had a measure of freedom, at least to walk freely on the property.

Draco opened the door and wrinkled his nose at the noxious fumes, casting a quick Bubble-Head Charm in case Dolohov was testing their vaporized potions again. The moaning and crying clued him in as to what he’d find as he turned the corner. Fucking Dolohov. He was a piece of shite. On the floor in front of him were three people, possibly Muggles, writhing as their flesh melted and dripped from their skin.

“Shouldn’t you test this in one of the testing rooms? This is going to be a mess to clean,” Draco commented in a bored tone.

Dolohov waved a hand at him, grinning at the agony before him. “That’s what those useless elves are for.”

Draco dared a glance at Deek and Stinky, the two pitiful house-elves assigned to the lab. A shred of remorse made his stomach queasy. He was glad he skipped breakfast. When he’d turned over the lab to Dolohov, ownership included Deek and Stinky. Draco reminded himself they chose to stay, and not flee to his manor, but it still bothered him. Stinky gave him a tiny nod before dragging a sack into one of the supply closets. Deek glared at Dolohov for a second and risked a tiny, lopsided smile to Draco before wiping up a spilled potion.

“Of course, but it’s bad practice to test in the middle of the fucking lab, Dolohov.” Draco’s tone was nastier than he’d meant it to be. Perhaps seeing Stinky and Deek bothered him more than he realized.

Dolohov snapped his head to Draco. A nasty expression took over his features for a few seconds before he schooled himself and reached for a parchment on the surface next to him. Fuck my life. He’d need to remind yet another Death Eater of their place.

Draco approached the nearly dead individuals and Avada’d them all in quick succession, ending their suffering.

“The fuck? I was in the middle—”

Draco aimed his wand at Dolohov’s chest. “You were in the middle of contaminating the entire lab because of your impatience, need for cruelty, and overall lack of adherence to proper protocol. You are aware of the Dark Lord’s expectations. We are close; there is no room for mistakes. If any of these”—Draco’s free arm gestured to the bubbling cauldrons and various ingredients lying open on tables—“were contaminated because of your stupidity...” Draco cast a silent Incarcerous. Ropes sprang from his wand and bound Dolohov. “I will take great pleasure in reminding you how things are done.” His lips curled up in a smile, imagining Dolohov screaming on the ground with his flesh melting and sloughing to the floor.

Dolohov remained silent; likely anything he said would be a counter curse or a belligerent remark. Draco knew Dolohov hated him. Couldn’t stand that he, who was decades older than Draco, had to answer to him. It brought Draco so much joy, even with having to constantly look over his shoulder. It mattered little; most of the Death Eaters hated him and plotted his demise.

Draco reinforced his mental walls to help manage his tone and facial expressions. “Now, what do you have? When will the vaporized Mors Aerea be ready, or do you need my help?”

“I was about to show you. Fucking—”

Draco tightened the ropes. “You were saying?” He raised an eyebrow.

Dolohov dropped his eyes to the floor and took a breath. “I apologize, High Commander. I was...upset you interrupted my experiment. I have some news about Aerial Death, if you’ll release me.”

Aerial Death, or Mors Aerea, as he preferred to call it. A vile creation, designed to target Muggles alone. A soon-to-be airborne potion, harmless to the magical population—repelled by the presence of a magical core. It attacked only those without magic.

Derived from Venomous Tentacula spores, Dragon’s Breath essence, Wraithroot extract, and powdered Dementor remnants, the potion itself was formidable. In vapor form, it would be devastating.

He released Dolohov and stepped around the still bodies that littered the space near them. “Show me.”

“We already know the potion works. The problem wasn’t turning it into a vapor that won’t be difficult. I’ve already tested that. The issue was getting it to self-replicate to spread properly.”

Draco remained stoic. “The Dark Lord was clear that it needed to last for hours to allow us to corral any leftover Muggles that were in hiding. So we could choose to keep them or allow them to succumb to the vapor. While we can create the fog to carry the airborne potion into London and trap it there, to a point, if it doesn’t replicate, it won’t work. We only have so many Dementor remnants, and I’m not sending another team to gather more. I told you before, what you have is what you have.”

That was one of the worst ideas he’d ever had. He regretted it daily. Yes, his brilliance and innovative thinking helped him climb the ranks within the Death Eaters, but using Dementor remnants was fucking reckless and stupid. At the time, he hadn’t considered the fact that Dolohov would inherit most of his supplies when he turned the lab over. Draco snuck a few items out to his lab at Malfoy Manor, but most remained there.

“I know, I’ve almost got it. I’m close. Also, the organ failure now only takes minutes, but neural shutdown is still at least twenty minutes. They’ll suffer plenty in their last moments.” Dolohov’s eyes lit up with anticipation.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased.” Draco glanced over the parchment filled with notes and formulas, checking the math. Dolohov wasn’t stupid, and unlike many of Voldemort’s followers, he was skilled and good at his job. Too good, which is why so many Order members were dead and why so many Muggles had lost their lives.

“Once London is done, we can get back to the new mark for travel. I imagine if London goes well, we will have to make more Aerial Death for other cities.”

“That would require more Dementor remnants, which is a challenging endeavor,” Draco commented.

Dolohov peeked at one of his cauldrons and stirred three times. “True. How many did you lose gathering what we currently have?”

Bastard. Draco didn’t miss that he said you, instead of we. He’d lost an entire squad and barely escaped with his own life. He wouldn’t return to Azkaban to get more.

“Unfortunately, an entire team. But I suppose that would be your problem now, as you are the head of the laboratory.” Draco smirked as Dolohov’s back stiffened. That’s right, you fucker, your problem, not mine.

 “I suppose we’ll have to wait until after London,” he muttered.

Draco hummed and walked the lab perimeter, peeking into closets and small testing rooms. He knew it infuriated Dolohov to think that Draco was monitoring him, and in a way, he was, only not the way Dolohov believed. He could not give two shites about his awful experiments, at least in the sense that he was generally interested. He only wanted the information to assess the potential threat to his witch, friends, and by extension, the blasted Order. Finding nothing new or of note, he reminded Dolohov he had until mid-June at the latest and that he’d return for an update.

Once again on the grounds, he removed the Bubble-Head charm and filled his lungs with mostly fresh air. Near the lab, the air carried the scents of potion ingredients, decomposing bodies, and a sickly sweet scent that signaled dark magic. As he continued on, the smell was less of everything except dark magic. He considered going to Dunglass Bridge; the air was nearly clear. The influence of his master was not quite as strong there, but he couldn’t travel that far north; he wanted to leave the estate.

Since the Dark Lord hadn’t summoned him, he was free to come and go as he pleased. Draco approached the shimmering wards that surrounded the property. Only specific people were permitted to Apparate within the bounds of the estate. Technically, he could, but preferred not to. He hoped most Death Eaters had forgotten he could, should he need to do so in an emergency. The wards around the land were like the ones around the entirety of the British Isles, only more nuanced.

The Order hadn’t been able to smuggle anyone out of the British Isles for over a year. Anyone magical was stuck inside the Anti-Apparition wards. If a witch or wizard tried to get out the Muggle way, they would also fail. Voldemort had his Death Eaters set wards at all Muggle travel hubs to alarm if they detected magic, similar to a Caterwauling Charm, but not as obnoxious. The wards also trapped the person at the location until the Death Eaters arrived. Anyone caught was arrested, tortured for information, and executed.

Only the Dark Lord and anyone he granted permission, exited the country to travel. The Ministry handled the paperwork, but only Draco’s master approved or denied the request. Voldemort also chose who could or could not enter the country. Over the years, he had become more lax as his influence spread and his power consolidated in other countries.

The unfinished project that Dolohov, Draco, and the Dark Lord worked on together was creating a new mark, specific for travel. One that granted access to Voldemort’s controlled territories. A person could choose to get the mark, enabling them to travel freely to all Death Eater territories. Naturally, his master also wanted the mark to track whoever bore it as well as function as a built-in fail-safe. If the person betrayed or angered Voldemort, he’d trigger the hidden curse that would slowly kill them.

There were many days Draco hated his life, but those months were some of the worst. Being forced to work alongside two of the monsters he hated most was harrowing enough, but also participating in yet another enslaving mark made him sick in his soul. He did everything and anything he could get away with to sabotage that project, including purposely allowing the Order to have a few wins, so his master’s focus shifted.

His actions weren’t without consequence. Voldemort was furious with him. Draco hadn’t been sure he’d survive the punishment. Still, the Dark Lord moved Dolohov to a different project, and they hadn’t returned to it yet. Draco was patient, allowing his plan to come to fruition, but if he was required to work on the mark again, he’d kill Dolohov. That choice would create a world of problems for him, and worse, it’d draw his master’s complete attention to him. He wouldn’t survive and be able to kill the Dark Lord as well.

Despair attempted to claim him, rendering him useless for the remainder of the day, but he instead focused on the next task. He Apparated to the manor and searched for Poppy so he could find out how preparations were coming along with the house-elves’ wing. It had taken years for them to agree, and they still wouldn’t utilize the entire wing—only the back half—claiming the rest needed to be preserved for his future heirs. Unlikely, he’d sire any children, but he didn’t argue with them as the house-elves were handling most of the labor for the construction.

He climbed the stairs and wondered if Hermione would be happy that his house-elves rescued other mistreated house-elves. The manor was more or less a refuge for many house-elves now. Once they were on his property, well, anyone, including himself to a degree, disappeared from existence. If it weren’t for his Dark Mark, he could stay on the property for the rest of his life and not be found. He had spent years of his life and thousands of galleons to make it so. It comforted him to know, even if he died, that at least Poppy, his house-elves, and the others rescued had somewhere to live freely

Draco smiled at the chaos in the wing as the house-elves zoomed around painting and building small furniture, as Poppy stood in the middle of the disorder, directing everything. When she noticed him, her enormous eyes lit up as she clapped her hands together.

“Master Draco is home!”

Draco strode to her and crouched down to her level. “I see things are coming along well. Looks like you’re almost finished.”

“We is!”

He peeked into one doorway, still appearing at standard height, but if one looked, they would see the door itself had been cut in half. The walls were a bright blue, and a set of stairs led up to their second floor. Since all of the walls were nine feet tall in the upper floors of the manor, it allowed the house-elves to split the space into two stories, doubling the square footage.

“Why blue? Remind you of the sky?” he asked.

Poppy nodded, her large ears flapping. Her small fingers twitched as they moved toward him. Draco wrapped his arms around her and hugged her the way she liked. Not considered acceptable by most to hug house-elves or for them to hug their masters, but he and Poppy had an unconventional relationship. She’d been with him since he was born and was the only mother figure he had now. Poppy didn’t care about etiquette either and squeezed hard.

“We was missing Master Draco.”

“He missed you, too. Show me around?” He released her.

Poppy squeaked and wrapped her knobby knuckles around his hand and led him to the various rooms they had finished. For a few hours, Draco forgot about the war, ignored the fact he was a vile Death Eater, and enjoyed the one good thing he’d done.

Chapter Text

April 30, 2004          Ginny

Ginny approached Hermione slowly. Her friend was buzzing around in her lab, checking potions, reading a book, and peering at one of the recovered dark artifacts from a recent mission. Hermione, Bill, and Theo were working on how to use it against the Death Eaters in an imminent battle. The Order had received intel from their source—that she now knew was Malfoy—about Voldemort’s plans to take London this summer. The Order was in a frenzy, trying to figure out how to strike strategically at them first.

Only recently, Hermione, Neville, and Theo had completed their new potion, though it was more accurately a poison. They hadn’t named it yet, still referring to it as 032804—the date it was finalized. Essentially, it was liquid Obliviate. Everyone who left base was now required to carry it in case a teammate couldn’t cast the spell in time.

They labeled it a poison rather than a true potion because its effects could only be reversed within a narrow window. Miss that window, and the memories were gone—permanently.

Can’t let me get a hold of one of your allies, Little Killer. Nothing is safe from me once I get into someone’s mind. You know that, Tom snickered in her head.

I’m aware, she begrudgingly answered him.

Tom was more prominent recently, even with her potion, as he told her he would be. She was attempting a truce with him. They both agreed not to antagonize each other on the condition that she acknowledged him. Ginny felt like she had gotten the short end of that deal. However, he had been more accommodating.

No one said it, but everyone felt it. The end was coming whether they won or lost. The Order couldn’t go on for much longer and had to take every precaution. Kingsley and Moody told everyone in their morning meeting that MACUSA still refused to interfere, and without the support of other firm allies, they couldn’t get involved in their conflict. The Americans were supposed to be their strongest allies. However, every agent the United States had sent previously to aid them was dead, and the Order hadn’t made the progress MACUSA wanted, so they refused to send more to perish on English soil. Bastards.

Tom cackled. The Order were fools if they thought anyone would stand up to me. They’ll receive no aid.

Could you try not delight in that? I’m still here. You said you wanted me to live.

I do. I’ve told you before, there are very few who are suitable followers. You, my bloodthirsty slayer, could ascend the ranks and be a general.

I’ll never serve you, Tom.

And yet...you do.

Ginny almost rolled her eyes, hearing the amusement in his tone. I need to talk to Hermione. Shut it for a while.

It was hard to put into words, even when talking with Theo, but she somehow sensed when Tom receded into the depths of her mind, watching—always observing—but not interfering.

“Any progress?” Ginny asked Hermione, gesturing to the recovered artifact.

Hermione jumped, a small sound escaping her. That meant she’d continued taking less of 91979, just as they’d agreed last month. Her friend still hadn’t told her why the potion filled her with so much shame, but at least she’d cut back. When Neville and Theo both confirmed that Hermione’s version of Tranquility was closer to poison and would eventually kill her, Ginny hadn’t wasted any time confronting her friend.

Ginny had not told Theo or Neville what potion they’d broken down, but she suspected Theo already knew. Her promise not to reveal the truth was the only reason Hermione had agreed to take only one dose a day, even if it didn’t last for the full day. Hermione didn’t want to admit it, but the side effects were considerably less than they had been in February. However, Ginny was still worried Hermione had done permanent damage to herself.

“Some. Bill and I successfully removed the curse that was targeted at Muggles. Trapped the active curse on the object while Theo makes the gears to add on it. If it works, it‘ll be similar to Muggle bombs.” Hermione’s smile was disturbing. She was entirely too gleeful about making explosives.

Ginny blamed George’s love that he instilled in Hermione before his passing. She wanted to caution her friend, the way she had with George, but it hadn’t mattered. In the end, he died doing what he’d loved—turning Death Eaters into fragments of meat and bone. The war had twisted all of them into savage versions of themselves.

“Neville is about to harvest aconite, and then we‘ll work on making the Writhing Death potion. Theo and I have ideas about how to change the liquid to a gas. Turn their ideas against them,” Hermione continued as she stirred whatever potion she was brewing.

The Death Eaters had turned Belladonna’s Bloom and Draught of Living Death into weapons by changing their liquid state to a gas. Both potions put the infected person into a deep sleep-like state. However, Belladonna’s Bloom forced the person into vivid nightmares, trapped in an endless dream world with no escape. Neither were perfect weapons because, on a windy day, they carried their vapors too far or not where they had targeted. However, as time passed, their “biological warfare,” as Dean and Hermione called it, improved. Ginny wondered if Malfoy still oversaw most of their potions or if that was Dolohov now.

“And he thinks this will be the largest yield of Venomous Tentacula seeds. If we can get enough of them—” Hermione stopped talking abruptly and stared at her wall, deep in thought.

Theo told her what he could about the Death Eaters since March. At first, she was furious about it. She understood well enough. Snape had been in the same position as Malfoy, having to continue his duties as a Death Eater, so he wasn’t suspected while also balancing out what help he provided to the Order. Still, the bitter truth pained her as she watched her colleagues and friends die. It was unfair to paint Malfoy any more the villain than Snape, but part of her couldn’t help it. She supposed it was less about Malfoy being a Death Eater and more that he cursed Theo.

Ginny still didn’t know with which curse Theo was afflicted or when it happened, but it mattered little to her. Theo saw Malfoy as his brother, deferred to him, and was as loyal to him as he was to her. He loved Malfoy, and that bastard cursed Theo. She wouldn’t rest until she found out what had happened and made Malfoy undo it. The worst part was that Theo wanted to save him.

Once Theo admitted he wanted to rescue Malfoy, it opened the floodgates. He still had many details he couldn’t speak about because of the curse, but Theo made it clear how much he’d pondered since the Battle of Hogwarts, maybe before, trying to save Malfoy. Ginny wanted to “save” Malfoy, too, only so she could force him to remove the curse from Theo.

“Will we be ready in time?” Ginny asked.

“I hope so. We’re only going to have one go at this. Kingsley, Moody, and McGonagall agree we don’t move until we’re sure. Better to move the date than to send us to our deaths.” Hermione stretched her back and retied her hair into a low ponytail with her green elastic.

“But we’re sure Riddle won’t move before June?”

Hermione cracked her neck. “The last piece of intel we got confirmed, June. Dolohov is working on something big.” Hermione turned her back on Ginny as she reached for something in her cabinets. “He’s working with the High Commander, which means anything they come up with is going to devastate our forces.”

Ginny gnashed her teeth. High Commander! It was only Malfoy, not that she could tell anyone. Most of the Order spoke about the High Commander with fear, whispering about the way he wielded dark magic and death as well as the Dark Lord himself. To think he used to spook her. She was afraid of him, but for entirely different reasons now.

“Yeah, they’re right bastards. When we do this, I’ll duel him. Harry will have to focus on Riddle. I’m not afraid of him.”

“That isn’t your call.” Hermione’s voice was quiet and sounded tight.

“Everyone knows in a battle that large, it’s easy to duel who you want to. You haven’t seen the corpses he leaves behind, what he does to them.” Ginny’s volume rose as she spoke. Some of the worst poisons the Order had created left bodies like that. Only Malfoy did the same with curses.

“Yes, I do know.”

“From reports, meetings, and occasional stints out in the field? I’m sorry for what happened in January, but be thankful you were stunned and didn’t see those bodies—”

“I know Ginny!” Hermione spun around, her amber irises bright as tears streaked her cheeks. “I told you there’s so much blood on my hands!” Her eyes dropped to her hands. Hermione’s palms faced up, she stared at them in horror as though they were actually covered in blood.

“What?” Ginny found herself saying because her friend’s reaction scared her.

“All of it. Every life taken, save a handful, is my fault. Because I wouldn’t...they died because of me.” Hermione lifted her eyes to Ginny’s, the shame filling the space between them, so thick it choked her.

“I don’t understand. How is that your fault, Hermione? You had nothing to do with it.” Ginny wanted to comfort her, but she couldn’t grasp where her friend’s guilt came from. A horrific idea began to form—Hermione’s metaphorical Hogwarts trunk, overflowing with regret. Did she somehow connect herself to the deaths of their peers? Survivor’s guilt?

Hermione’s body shook. She slapped her palms on the table and hung her head. “You wanted to know...you wanted my shame.” Her voice was barely audible.

Ginny approached her and placed her hand on her friend’s bony back. “Tell me.”

“He...he wanted me to leave. Twice. Before the war started, he tried to make me leave, so I’d be safe.” Hermione’s shoulders trembled as she spoke.

Ginny’s brows pinched, uncertain who she meant. “Who?”

“I refused. I wouldn’t leave Harry and Ron. I made excuses, but we both knew the truth. I couldn’t leave them. And then I left him. I abandoned him. Let him think I believed he was evil.” Her head snapped up, her eyes locked on Ginny’s. “I never believed that. I never did!”

Ginny rubbed small circles on her back, understanding she shouldn’t respond, not yet.

Hermione’s hands balled into fists on the wooden surface. “And then I left again. I had to. He wanted me to...wanted me to be safe, but it broke me. Ginny, it destroyed me as much as it did him. I still won’t leave the war. I can’t walk away, I just can’t, not after everything we’ve lost.”

Ginny's concern for Hermione grew as the wild look in her eyes did, the way her speech sped up, and her breathing came out in fast huffs.

“He won’t stop. He’ll never stop until I’m safe or this is over. If I left, he’d let go, he would die. He doesn’t understand—we’ve trapped each other!” Her fists smacked into the wood, and she sobbed.

“Hermione...”

“He promised!” Hermione gasped and grabbed at her chest, raking her nails over her shirt in repeated motions.

Ginny grasped her hand to stop the brutal motions, but her friend stumbled back and grabbed her curls and screamed, dropping to her knees. She lowered herself to Hermione and pulled her into a hug, making soothing noises as her mind raced to piece together the words into something that made sense.

Hermione’s wails morphed into weeping. Ginny continued to hold her and waited until her gasping changed to deep breaths. She helped her regulate them by breathing with Hermione and then coaxed her off the floor to the small bed in the corner. She held Hermione’s hand as they sat in silence.

“You’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me. No one will understand,” Hermione mumbled miserably.

“That’s not true. Nothing you tell me would make me hate you.” But that niggling in her mind whispered Hermione’s confusing words were the truth. She only needed more information to piece everything together to know how to help.

Hermione lifted her chin, doubt filled her face. She wiped at her puffy eyes.

“This is tearing you apart. It’s destroying you. Please let me help,” Ginny offered.

“I can only do that if you make an Unbreakable Vow.” Hermione’s tone left no brokering. If Ginny wanted the truth, this was the only way she was going to get it.

She squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I’ll do it. Who do you want as bonder?”

“Theo.”

Ginny’s lips flattened. Asking for Theo meant he knew at least part of this secret and had kept it from her. Likely another thing he couldn’t reveal. She pushed her irritation away. It wasn’t the time. She nodded and stood.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. We’re doing this now. No backing out.”

Hermione shook her head. “I know. We made a deal.”

Ginny grimaced. “You sound like...”

“A Slytherin.”

Ginny didn’t respond and left the room. When she reflected on it, her friend was right. Although it made sense considering most of the people Hermione dealt with daily were Slytherins, except for her, Neville, Luna, and Harry.

Chapter Text

April 30, 2004          Ginny

Theo was exiting their room when she caught him in the corridor. He smiled at her until he noticed her expression. “Firebird? Everything alright?”

She put her hand on his scarred forearm and tugged him down the hall to Hermione’s lab. “No. I need you to be bonder for me.”

Theo kept pace with her. “What?”

“Hermione wants me to make an Unbreakable Vow. You’re the bonder.”

Theo stopped, his expression guarded. Ginny faced him and narrowed her eyes.

“You know what she’s going to say, don’t you?” she asked.

“Not completely, I don’t think.”

Ginny stepped closer. “But you have a good idea.”

“She wouldn’t ask for a vow if it wasn’t about...” He swallowed.

“Right, then. Let’s go.” Ginny dragged him the rest of the way.

When they entered the room, Hermione was where she had left her, only she picked at her wrists, which now bled. Her fingers froze in their digging, her eyes locked on Theo’s. As they approached the bed, an entire conversation without words seemed to take place between them.

Hermione rose slowly; she and Ginny clasped each other’s right arms without a word. Theo’s expression shifted—almost relieved. Ginny guessed his solace came from whatever truth Hermione was about to reveal. Most of the older Order members could cast an Unbreakable Vow, but it was easier for Ginny; the magical bond manifested as a thin stream of fire. She had trained Theo to cast the spell more precisely. He’d known the basics before, but now he was more than proficient. Their eyes locked as the fire curled around their arms.

“Will you, Ginevra Weasley, keep everything I tell you about this a secret from everyone, but the people in this room, unless I give you explicit permission to share?”

Ginny frowned, not happy about how Hermione worded her question. “That’s rather vague, but yes.”

“Will you swear to protect this person once you learn the truth?”

Ginny’s heart stuttered in her chest. Hermione was asking for a lot of trust. She had to love this person, otherwise, Hermione would never ask for such a commitment.

“I...will.”

“Will you help me save them?” Hermione’s voice cracked.

Ginny’s stomach twisted. She already had to save that rotter Malfoy for Theo, adding another person...

She blew out. “I will.”

Tears dripped from Hermione’s eyes. “And will you try to forgive me?”

“Hermione...” Theo’s voice sounded pained. His free hand rose and hovered near his friend’s shoulder.

“Yes, of course,” Ginny replied and squeezed her arm. She didn’t listen as Theo finished the spell, barely noticing the heat sinking into her flesh and sealing the bond. Ginny pulled Hermione into her arms and hugged her.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Theo muttered and headed toward the door.

“No!” Hermione grabbed his arm, halting his movement. He tensed, but didn’t pull away. “Please, stay.”

Ginny’s eyebrows lifted. She might finally have answers to the things Theo couldn’t share. She grabbed Theo’s other hand. He sighed and transfigured a stool into a chair and placed it near the bed. Hermione and she shuffled to the bed and sat.

“I know if I had left the war, either time, he’d be dead. He would be at peace, but I’m too selfish. I want him to survive. Even if it destroys him, me—us—because I have to believe that we can finally choose each other. We'll be together.”  

“That’s not selfish. You’ve loved each other a long time,” Theo said quietly.

Ginny tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I know I’m the only one out of the loop, but who are we talking about?”

Theo reached for Hermione’s hand, holding it for a few seconds, before he sat back. If nothing else, that was very telling for Ginny.

Hermione took a deep breath and faced her. “Draco.”

Ginny flicked her eyes to Theo, whose expression declared the truth of Hermione’s words. Her head snapped back to Hermione.

“Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? The High Commander! You can’t...” She looked at Theo again, silently pleading it wasn’t true.

“How do you…how do you know he’s...” Hermione’s voice drifted off, her expression changed to reflective.

Ginny stood and considered leaving the room for all the good it would do. “How? When? I don’t understand. Theo...that made sense. They’ve been best mates since they were children, but you...he tormented you. You hate him. He’s responsible for so many deaths.”

Hermione’s lips trembled. “I know. I told you I’m covered in so much blood, I’ll never be clean again.”

“Don’t say that. You aren’t responsible for his actions,” Theo reasoned.

“Yes, I am! You know as well as I do that if I had left, he’d stop. He’d let go, but he—he can’t because of me.” Hermione picked at her bloody wrists again.

“No! That’s not—there’s more—” Theo stopped and coughed.

“It’s that fucking curse, isn’t it?” Ginny snapped at Theo.

Theo averted his eyes, but nodded.

“Curse?” Hermione asked.

Ginny paced in the small space beside them. “Yes, your...whatever he is to you, cursed Theo. He can’t talk about whatever it is. I suppose it works similarly to the vow I just took.” She laughed bitterly and blinked her burning eyes. “I’m a fool. A trusting fool.”

I told you, I’m the only one you can count on, Tom chimed in.

Tom, not now.

Yes, now my Sweet Executioner. You’re upset. Your Mudblood betrayed you as well as the Order you follow as blindly as my own followers tread at my heels.

Shut up!

No.

Why are you doing this? she pleaded mentally.

Because you need me to talk to you. To calm you.

Ginny giggled. You calm me?

Your heart has slowed, that awful knot in your stomach—gone. It only took me seconds.

She groaned and covered her face with her hands. I hate you so much.

You wish you hated me. Don’t forget I’m in your head. I know what you think, how you feel. Regardless of the lies you tell others.

Trust me, there’s no way I could ever forget. Ginny detested that he was right. Her stomach no longer felt like it was attempting to digest her. Her heart no longer threatened to burst through her ribs.

Now that you are calmer, hear the Mudblood out. After all, the Malfoy boy is one of the few worthy of serving me.

You’re an arsehole. Do you not understand why this bothers me? she fired back.

Of course, Fireweed. But you’re being narrow-minded, not strategic. Your snake wants to save the boy, so does the Mudblood. That makes it easier for you, does it not?

It...I suppose. But he cursed Theo!

And to fix that, you need access to the Malfoy boy. With the Mudblood, you’ll have it, no?

Ginny pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Well—

And you have a Death Eater, not only aiding your precious cause, but invested in your Mudblood’s survival, your snake’s, and, by extension, yours as well. Even if your Order’s strike is a disaster, take comfort that it’s unlikely the Malfoy boy will allow any of you to perish. Tom’s voice was reasonable, not condescending, as it had been in the past when he’d talk to her like this. It threw her off and made it hard to respond.

“Fireheart?” Theo’s voice pulled her from her mind.

Her hands dropped to her side. Theo’s emerald irises moved across her face. His palm cupped her cheek.

“Is it quiet enough to talk now?” he asked.

She gave him a weak smile for understanding and sank beside Hermione on the mattress again. Guilt nagged at her. As upset as she was about Hermione being involved with Malfoy, for...loving him, she hadn’t told her about Tom. She realized it was unfair to judge her friend so harshly.

Ginny rubbed her forehead and took a steadying breath. “Alright, the shock of it is over. I’m ready to listen. I won’t react like that again. I need you to explain, though.”

Hermione grimaced and stared at Theo. Theo gave her an encouraging nod. Her fingers drifted to her wrists and picked at them again.

“Draco and I...we were together before.”

“I gathered that.”

“No. I mean”—Hermione cleared her throat—“since sixth year. We were together in sixth year.”

Ginny’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t one to be easily shocked, but considering the events of her fifth year, of Harry & Hermione’s sixth year, she was dumbfounded. That was the year Draco had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, helped usher in Dumbledore’s death. Those events changed everything.

“I didn’t know about his mark, not until the day Dumbledore died. But I suspected he was involved in dark things. I thought I…We thought we could save him.”

Theo gave Hermione a knowing look. Ginny stared at her boyfriend, realizing he and Hermione hadn’t just been casual friends at Hogwarts. They were close, even then. She hadn’t realized Hermione was so deeply entrenched with Theo.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. I was trying...Harry had asked me to get close to him, to find out what he was plotting.”

Theo sucked in his breath and frowned. Apparently, he didn’t know everything.

“So I befriended him. We had projects together. I thought if I got close to him, gained his trust, that he’d tell me what Harry wanted to know. I planned to betray him,” she said in a soft voice.

“But instead, you betrayed Harry,” Ginny said. Her tone wasn’t cruel, but her words were.

Hermione hung her head. “Harry doesn’t know.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Ginny quipped. She knew Harry almost better than anyone, except perhaps Hermione. He’d never be able to accept Hermione with Malfoy.

“Draco doesn’t want to serve Tom. He never did, but had no choice. His parents forced him to take the mark. He hated torturing people...it made him sick.” Hermione’s voice was fragile, like cracked glass just before it shatters on the ground.

“Well, he’s certainly over that.”

“She’s not lying, Firebird. Draco was a different person then.”

She glared at her boyfriend. While she understood he couldn’t reveal things about Malfoy, it still hurt that he and Hermione had hidden so much from her.

“Fine. Malfoy is a reluctant Death Eater, but he still let them into the school. He still attacked Dumbledore, and he still murders us daily.”

“He only did those things because of me!” Hermione’s fist smacked over her heart.

“You’re going to need to connect that part, because I don’t see it.” Ginny’s volume rose again.

“I told you. He tried to get me to leave. Once, when we were still at Hogwarts, he begged me. He even had a safe house set up.”

“Twice at Hogwarts,” Theo interrupted. “You’re forgetting April, although he was in no shape to take you then. He could barely stand. I thought that would be the worst break until...”

Ginny’s eyebrows lifted. Theo had been very involved in their relationship. She was having a difficult time imagining Malfoy begging for anything.

“Until I was at the manor,” Hermione finished.

She pressed her lips together. Hermione had never liked talking about her experience at the manor that spring. Unconsciously, her friend’s palm drifted to her scar and rubbed it.

“He watched you get tortured.” Ginny knew she was pointing out the obvious, but she refused to change her view of Malfoy without more from both of them.

“He couldn’t do anything! They would‘ve killed him! He nearly died anyway, after we were free.”

Theo nodded. “He was never the same after. Remember, Blaise, Pansy, and I had to watch him all the time.”

She didn’t respond because she recalled Theo telling her about that time in their lives more than once. Malfoy was in a bad way until the Battle of Hogwarts, maybe after, too, but she wasn’t around him then. Ginny hated to admit it, but every time she saw Malfoy, even when he appeared removed and cold, one glance at his eyes told the truth. He was dancing with madness. Perhaps she recognized it because of her own struggles, but there was no mistaking that he walked a razor’s edge that year. Damn it.

“When else did he try to get you to leave?” she asked.

“When he freed me from the Death Eaters that September.”

“It was Malfoy? You said that because of the battle, because we...It was all lies, wasn’t it?” Ginny demanded.

“Yes, and no. He used the battle as a distraction to make sure I got away. I’m sure he suffered for it. Tom has no patience for mistakes, lapses in judgment, or failure.”

It’s true, I don’t. Excellence or nothing, Tom chimed in.

Not now. Besides, you’re lying. You put up with many of my mistakes, lapses in judgment, and failures.

Ah, you caught me, Little Killer. I have a soft spot for you. I never had a protégé before. His tone was almost proud.

Protégé? Ginny wasn’t sure how to feel about his statement.

Indeed. Never thought I would. As you know, I’m not very trusting. However, our situation has taught me numerous things.

Ginny didn’t reply because she wasn’t certain how long she’d gone quiet from the conversation. She shook her head and refocused on Hermione.

 “So you were together, but hid it from everyone, except Theo, at Hogwarts? Were you still with him when you were tortured in his home?”

“Yes and no. Blaise knew about us, too. I broke up with him when he showed me his Dark Mark.”

“That was when he spiraled,” Theo added.

“And you still love him? Even now, with what he is? Who he is? Are you with him now?”

“I do, because I know the real him, not the Death Eater everyone else sees. We...it’s never over between us,” she whispered her last words.

Ginny’s chest hurt. Malfoy had his fangs in her deep. Things clicked into place in her mind. Hermione’s shame, anxiety, the dependence on potions, her almost martyr-like behavior at times—all trying to make up for the mistake of Draco Malfoy. This relationship was toxic, poisonous in the worst way. How did Hermione not see that?

“This isn’t healthy. He’s hurting you. Whether he means to or not. It’s destroying you, Hermione.”

“No more than it has ruined him. You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

Hermione saw her suffering as penance. That was no way to live. 

Theo reached for her hand. Ginny allowed him to hold it, but hadn’t sorted her feelings for him, not even attempting to clue her in about this.

“Draco has loved Hermione for as long as I can remember. He didn’t understand it at first. Neither of us did. We were kids. Even when he recognized what his feelings meant, he hated himself for it. The way he was raised, everyone other than me wouldn’t have accepted his feelings for her. I can’t...I can’t tell you, but everything Draco has done for years has been to protect her and his friends,” Theo implored her.

“He wanted to die. He still does.” Hermione swiped under her eyes. “But I made him promise me to survive until the end. To promise me he wouldn’t stop until we were together.”

Ginny rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. The Order was on its last legs, the Death Eaters were so close to victory, and learning this only complicated things. Some might have viewed it positively, thinking this gave them an advantage, but Ginny saw it for what it was: a disaster in the making. There was no way this didn’t lead to more death, more suffering.

Tom, do you believe that Malfoy loves her? She hadn’t meant to reach out for him, she found herself irritated at her increasing dependence on him.

Hard to say. Your snake and Mudblood are still dancing around the truth, as honest as they’re being. I suspect your snake can’t help it. The Mudblood is protecting the Malfoy boy. It’s obvious she foolishly loves him. As I’ve said my entire life, love is a mistake.

I’m aware of your opinion. As always, I disagree. I don’t know what to do.

I’d think it’s obvious. You need to talk to the Malfoy boy. Tell them you’ll keep your vow, for now. But you want more. As their friend or paramour, you deserve the same honesty and respect they’ve shown each other, but not you.

You want me to make them let me talk to Malfoy?

Isn’t that what you want? Ginny imagined him smirking at her.

In secret, over the years, she’d sought pictures of Tom when he was younger. She had only found a handful, and only one that wasn’t damaged. He had been quite handsome as a young man. Since that was the version that was trapped in her head, she wanted to have some type of visual for him. The visual made her madness easier to tolerate, although she was uncertain if that had been a mistake, because he seemed stronger after.

I want answers, she replied to him.

Answers only the Malfoy boy will give you. He won’t harm you because he knows you are his friend’s witch.

Ginny opened her eyes, looking at Theo and then Hermione. “I took a vow and I’ll keep it. Not because it will kill me if I don’t. Telling anyone else about this will only cause trouble and hurt Harry. Theo already asked me to save Malfoy. But I won’t do anything until I’ve talked to him.”

Hermione froze. “What?”

Ginny turned to Theo. “I think it’s safe to say that Hermione knows Malfoy is our informant. You told me he’s been helping for years behind the scenes, so you communicate with him, yeah?”

Theo paled, but nodded.

“Good. Set up a meeting. Once I’ve spoken with him, then we make a plan. Between the three of us, I’m sure we‘ll come up with something. If the ferret is difficult when we rescue him, I’ll knock him out. He can be angry at me about it later.”

“Ginny, it’s not safe to meet with him.” Hermione’s lips thinned as she pressed them together.

She ignored her and squeezed Theo’s hand. “You’ll set it up?”

“I...” His eyes flicked to Hermione. “This is the best chance we’ve had in a long time. Blaise can help a little, not much because of Draco, but some. Please, Hermione, he won’t last much longer.”

Ginny pinched her brows, wondering why Theo asked Hermione when he was the Order’s contact who met with Malfoy. Hermione’s lips twitched.

Give a nudge, Tom hissed.

“Theo’s right. You didn’t see him in March. He’s a ghost.”

Theo blanched. “She’s right. It’s getting harder and harder for me to bring him back.”

Hermione dropped her head into her hands. The curls covered everything as she took deep breaths. Ginny frowned at the bones of Hermione’s spine poking through her shirt.

She sat upright and levelled her gaze on Ginny. “Alright. But that means we’re really doing this. The upcoming attack...he’ll be there. He has to be. We’ll extract him then.” 

Hermione straightened her back. A fire that had been long dead in her eyes blazed. “Theo, how far are you on the advanced Blood-Replenishing potion? I’m close to the counter curse, but with all the other preparations for the battle, if I don’t finish it in time, we’ll have to amputate.”

Ginny pitched forward. “You’re going to cut off Malfoy’s arm?” It occurred to her after she asked her question that Hermione and Theo had been discussing this at length for years.

Theo’s posture changed. Both of them were in working mode now. The sting of this facet of their relationship smarted. Not because she was jealous, only that they’d excluded her, kept secrets.

Typically, I’d encourage those thoughts. You know I prefer all of your attention, but I’m curious to see if they find a way to remove my mark. That was only an idea in my mind when you and I met. Naturally, I was brilliant enough to execute it later in life.

You’re a rotter. You used it to enslave your followers, Ginny growled at him in her mind.

That only proves my brilliance, Fireweed. Surely you notice the dips in morale in your silly Order. With my mark, I’d never need to worry about that. I prefer permanent bonds.

I’m too aware, she grumbled.

It wasn’t until recently that I believed any other bonds would survive. His voice sounded hesitant, almost awed. 

Ginny didn’t know what to make of that, only that perhaps Tom had learned fear wasn’t always the answer? She shook her head again, frustrated that Tom had taken her concentration, and she’d missed part of the conversation. She wasn’t even sure if they had answered her question. Ginny held in a groan when she spotted Theo and Hermione bent over her worktable, parchment spread out, both of them hunched over, pointing and talking.

Great, now Theo knows without a doubt I was talking to you.

I don’t see the problem, he answered in a chipper tone.

Of course you wouldn’t. I need you to be quiet, or I’m going to get killed when we attempt this ridiculous rescue. I have to learn what we’re dealing with, so shut it. Ginny approached them but didn’t interrupt.

They had formulas, potion names, spells she’d never heard of—including dark ones, a list of artifacts, diagrams of a prosthetic...This was years of research. Now that she knew the truth, knowing Hermione’s stubbornness and Theo’s loyalty, she wasn’t surprised by the level of effort. Once she talked to Malfoy, she’d know if he was worth their combined aspirations. 

Chapter Text

April 30, 2004          Draco

Draco peered into his satchel, which his witch had expanded for him years ago, cataloguing the potions he stocked within it. From what Theo had told him, they were running low on everything and struggling to get some ingredients. He had all the basic potions that most would keep near, plus various healing ones, several that helped with sleeping and emotional states. Draco added the other poisons alongside the ones already inside the bag. Some weren’t complete, only prototypes, but he knew that between Theo and Hermione, they’d figure them out enough to make antidotes.

He mentally checked off the potions he kept in his robes whenever he left the sanctuary of the manor and also added them to the bag. Garrotting Gas, Felix Felicis, Death potion, Blood-Replenishing potion, Bloodroot poison, Essence of Insanity, Erumpent potion (exploding), Exploding potion, Forgetfulness potion, Potent Exstimulo potion, Forgetfulness potion, Invisibility potion, Restoration potion, Moonseed poison, Veritaserum, and various enhancing strength and stamina potions.

His fingers slid over one of the glass bottles, recalling watching his witch during class,  brewing. Her riotous curls expanded as she grumbled. His chest squeezed at the memories, but his heart remained steady. The occlusion was in place, not allowing his body to react to his mind.

Speaking with Hermione over the last few months tormented him, made him restless, impatient for Voldemort's death. Everything was going to plan. It was stupid to take any rash actions, but his aching soul demanded his witch. Draco was tempted to drop a few of his walls, to feel her, to sense her emotions, to be with her in some capacity.

Hissing to his side drew his attention to the tanks with his adders. He padded over and gazed at them writhing to get his attention. As usual, Blaise was pushing against the wire mesh lid, attempting to gain freedom. He was the worst, the most demanding for attention. He had escaped more than once and forced Draco to chase him around the room. Blaise was the reason he’d had to resort to using a Sticking charm on all of their lids.

They’d eaten frogs for their last meal, so this one would be mice, or in Pansy’s case, a rat. She was the largest of his adders, and the nastiest too. Impatient and ravenous, he found out quickly that she needed more food than the others. She was also his only Death Adder that he’d had to import from Australia. He always thought she was cantankerous because she was far from home and angry about being contained.

Draco went about feeding them, scolding Pansy for attempting to bite him again. “I’ll gather your venom soon enough. Don’t be a bitch,” he complained as he cleaned up and removed his robes. He had a strict schedule for extracting their venom for his potions, experiments, and himself. It took each of them weeks to replenish, so he was careful not to waste a drop.

Draco checked the wards on the room, closed the Floo, and confirmed he had enough food since he’d be out of commission for days. The Dark Lord expected him to be busy and wouldn’t bother him unless there was an emergency. He’d warned Poppy, his personal house-elf, so she’d take care of any inquiries for him. His goal was to remain undisturbed.

It had been months since Draco allowed himself this respite. He needed to be ready for the upcoming battle. He needed to be at his best so he could protect his witch. His gaze slid to her tank. She was the smallest of his adders, her markings like the others but more intricate. The dark brown zigzag reminded him of her irises at Hogwarts. The female adder raised and slithered closer to the glass.

“Hello, beautiful. You want to kiss me?”

Part of him found it amusing—his loved ones were still with him in a way. Although they relied on him for life, each sought to attack him any chance they got. Theo, less than the others, but occasionally he got his tail in a bunch, too. Narcissa was tangled with Theo, both now dozing and full. They were the only two that shared a tank.

He frowned as he stripped his clothing off. Who would care for his adders if he died in the battle? No one. None in the manor, other than Poppy, was even aware of their existence, and he’d never instructed her on how to care for them. An oversight he’d correct after his break was over.

Hermione hissed at him and lifted her head to the mesh cover and waited. He smirked. She was his favorite to share this with. She was far more patient and gentle with him than the others. Sometimes she would wait, instead of lunging for his throat.

Draco chugged his potion. The effects wouldn’t happen for at least five minutes. Plenty of time for his kiss. He lifted the lid to the tank. Hermione’s head peeked over the edge, her red eyes searching. Her tiny tongue flicking in his direction, she recognized his scent. The V on her head became more visible as she stretched out, twisting her body over the edge to slither closer.

“I’m right here, love,” he whispered and stepped forward until she nearly touched him.

She reeled back and bolted higher, hissing. Draco scooted closer until he was flush with her tank. She lunged. Draco caught her easily as her movements weren’t as fast as the others and cooed at her. While his left hand gripped her tightly, the other stroked down her back.

“I know you’re impatient. Give me a moment.” Draco checked the mesh lid to make sure it was easily accessible. He had to move fast once she struck. He held Hermione over her tank, hovering her over the opening. 

“Now, show me you love me.” Draco opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, releasing his hold.

Without hesitation, Hermione sank her fangs into his tongue, the venom burning as it entered the muscle. When she reared to bite him again, but he dropped her in the tank and snapped the lid down, quickly casting the Sticking Charm to seal her in. He stumbled to his bed, his movements already jerky as the poison moved through his blood.

The potion he’d consumed also contained more venom to amplify the effects. Already his vision blurred, his heart rate had dropped to dismal levels—any residual pain in his body was gone—and the euphoria made him grin as he collapsed onto his sheets. His Occlumency walls crashed down—all of them. His emotions swelled. Draco’s mind raced, but only for a few seconds before the venom disoriented him, rendering him unable to think complete thoughts or to hold on to any emotions.

Without the venom, if he dropped his Occlumency, he was rendered useless, debilitated, incapable of functioning, or worse, trapped in his madness. 

Through the bond, he sensed her, but couldn’t organize his mind well enough to communicate or even decipher her emotions. He floated above his body, connected by a shining silver thread that kept him tethered, but not trapped in it. Free from his life. Free from his shame. Free from death, violence, and madness. His vision tunneled. Soon, he’d black out. Peace. Soon, he would have a measure of peace.

Chapter Text

May 2, 2004           Draco

Draco jerked awake as the Muggle car pulled to a stop. He blinked and attempted to get a bearing on his surroundings. The two Occlumency walls that had fallen were rebuilt in his mind again, partially numbing the pain. 

“You alright back there, mate?” Wayne the Muggle asked him from the front seat.

He rallied and forced his tone to be conversational. “Yeah, still knackered is all.”

“Well, we’re here.” Wayne gestured to the building where a Muggle convention would take place in a couple of days. He pressed his face closer to the glass, peering at the desolate building. “You sure your friends are meeting you here?”

“Yes, this evening. Thank you for bringing me, or I would have missed them.”

Wayne made a dismissive gesture. “I was headed here, anyway. Sorry, your car broke down. Are you sure your aunt is picking it up while you‘re here?”

“Yes, I spoke with her before you arrived. Thank you again,” Draco lied easily. 

“No worries. I’ve always believed in paying it forward, you know?”

Draco nodded and reached for the handle to release the door. He’d embarrassed himself earlier when they stopped to use the restroom, and he couldn’t figure out how to open the door. 

“Your costume is sick by the way, a very cool twist on Vader.” Wayne’s eyes traveled over his Death Eater robes. “Bet you spent hours making that.”

“Yes, years, in fact.”

Wayne nodded. “I bet it’s pretty detailed. That design is awesome.”

Draco ran his gloved hand over the embroidery. Perhaps it was awesome in the sense of inspiring great apprehension or fear. He wanted to change his clothing, but it hid the seeping blood well. His fingers tugged on the handle, opening the door. He used the same right hand to reach across himself and grabbed his bag. His left arm burned and was so weak that he could barely use it.

“Thanks again, Wayne. I’ll not forget this, should I see you again.” Draco’s mind was hazy, but his manners had been bred into him since he could speak. 

Wayne made a gesture Draco wasn’t familiar with and smiled as Draco shut the car door. Draco stared after as Wayne pulled away. Muggle cars were very loud, but not as terrible to travel in as he expected. 

He adjusted his bag over his shoulder and glanced at the large building behind him. Wayne had asked if he was going to Comic Con in Yorkshire because of his “costume.” Draco had agreed and fumbled his way through conversation for hours as he rode with the Muggle. He’d considered using Legilimency, but was uncertain if he’d be too rough and damage Wayne’s brain. Draco was aware of the fact that he was existing on a razor’s edge at the moment.

At least he’d cut off at least a day’s travel by accepting the ride from the Muggle. London was still days away. He wondered if there happened to be another Muggle picture book gathering. He could tell someone with a car that he needed another ride. Apparition was out of the question. 

Although he’d staunched the bleeding, he still had to drink a Blood-Replenishing potion every six hours or he would pass out and then bleed out before he arrived at the Order’s base.

Draco pulled out food and a nutritional potion as he shuffled along, heading toward Sheffield. He walked until the moon was high in the sky. It was nearly full and lit the path he stumbled along. He was far slower than he meant to be, but he hadn’t quite healed since he was last tortured, and the wound on his arm ached. 

Unsure what time it was when he finally collapsed in a cluster of trees and foliage, he cast Muggle-Repelling charms, wards of protection, and a Cushioning charm on the ground. He unbandaged his left arm and cleaned his leaking wound where the Dark Mark used to be. His tattooed snakes still had their fangs in his flesh, cleansing what they could of the dark magic, drawing it from where the mark had been. The patch of skin he’d cut out was only a little over four inches long by the width of his forearm. His blood rose to the surface before running down the sides of his arm. 

Draco took a deep breath and braced for the awaiting agony. With trembling fingers, he lifted his wand and recast the curse on the mutilated flesh. He screamed, but none heard him because he’d cast Muffliato to cover his bellowing. The curse took hold, causing fresh pain, but a different kind than the mark. He quickly layered on the spells he and Theo had developed to keep him from bleeding out. He panted as he adjusted the tourniquet to be tight again. 

He’d learned from the mistake at Hogwarts and Theo’s quick thinking. Draco couldn’t leave the tourniquet tight for over two hours, but he found it useful every time he cleaned the wound, changed bandages, or recast the spells. It controlled the bleeding well enough and gave him time to finish. 

He closed his eyes and focused on his witch. Everything in him wanted to reach out to her, let her know he’d be there soon. He couldn’t. Too much had happened. Draco knew it would be difficult enough to convince her of the truth. She was still under the impression that the Death Eaters planned to attack London in the next month. He almost laughed at how things turned out. Years of his life had been spent tearing things down from the inside. Years of servitude to a monster, all for everything to blow up and make his sacrifices pointless.

Draco’s body jumped at the sound of voices somewhere nearby. Wand in hand, his blurry eyes darted around for threats. Muggles. It was only clueless Muggles who had no idea a war was happening beside them. He dug in his bag for more rations, another Blood-Replenishing potion, and peeked at his wound. It was well enough to continue. He got to his feet and started walking. 

Hours had passed. Draco walked until he couldn’t, continuing his pattern of small amounts of food, nutritional potions, Blood-Replenishing potions, cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds, before collapsing and sleeping again. It was difficult to keep track of the hours or have any idea what day it was. His mind was increasingly fuzzy, which made it challenging to recall what he had or had not done. Draco wished he could apparate, but with his wound and mind not in best form, it was too risky. If he tried, he’d probably end up splinching himself.  

As he got closer to some Muggles, he decided to try and convince them to take him to London. He drank his modified Pepper-Up Potion and waited until the steam finished emitting from his ears before approaching them. He would tell them he was dressed as this Vader character Wayne believed Draco emulated. 

“Darren?” Lydia’s voice made him startle. His hand reached for his wand, but he stopped himself just as his fingers touched the wood. His eyes fluttered open.

“You sure you’re going to be alright until your friends meet you?” Her voice was filled with concern. At least he thought that was what it was, he was so heavily occluded that he was struggling with basic awareness.

“Yes, they’re expecting me.” His voice was rough. 

Lydia had sat in the back with him for the duration of the trip, with John and Charles in the front. He’d done his best to be sociable. He assumed he looked like shite, but Lydia kept attempting to touch him during the trip. It irritated him and made the four hours longer than when he’d trudged on his own feet. He glanced out of the window. It was late afternoon. 

“And you’ll be at the con?” she asked.

Draco hummed in response, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. He needed to drink another Blood-Replenishing potion. He was lightheaded. “See you in a few days,” he mumbled and opened the door.

His movements were graceful and calculated, much like when he was around the Dark Lord. No sign of weakness, regardless of how much pain he was in or if he thought his insanity was overtaking him. Draco gave a small wave and waited until John pulled out of the parking lot.

He glanced at the Muggle hotel and got his bearings. Exhaustion tempted him to get a room and sleep, but he was too close now. He was in London, and he knew where she was, or rather, where the Order’s base was. Draco wondered if he’d have access to the property because of his Black blood; the wards should recognize him. 

He wandered to the side of the motel and stumbled into a cluster of trees, quickly casting a few spells to hide himself. Draco considered food but decided against it, choking down several potions before cleaning and re-bandaging his wound. A frown pulled his lips down. Even with the use of a tourniquet, curses, and spells, the bleeding hadn’t stopped. Fuck, after everything, he still might bleed out before he got to his witch.

No. I will survive. He’d promised. He swore he’d come for her once he was free. Perhaps he would die from his mark, or lack thereof, but not before he saw her again. Felt her soft skin on his. Tasted her lips one last time. 

Gritting his teeth, he stood, the world tilted, and made him nauseous. Chills covered his flesh even as his skin burned with heat. He trudged toward their base, ignoring his blurred vision. He’d draw them out to capture him. They’d never believe he was there on good terms. 

Draco focused on memories of his witch, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her in his arms when he read to her, the warmth of her soul. Nothing and no one would keep him from her, not anymore. Nothing would stop him from keeping his promise. She was his, and he was hers.

May 7, 2004          Hermione

“What is it?” Hermione asked, stuffing her coin back in her pocket. She examined Harry, who was more shaken than usual. “Your patronus said it was urgent, but not an attack. Then you activated our coin. What’s going on?”

“I’ve captured…No. He turned himself in.” Harry’s words stopped as he paced. Hermione put her hands on his chest to stop him. He immediately pulled her into a hug. “I don’t know what this means. I don’t understand any of it.”

Hermione pulled back and cupped his face. “We’ll figure it out together. You just have to tell me what happened.”

“He has to be…he has to be lying.”

“Who? About what?” Hermione attempted to sound more upset alongside him, but her potion was still strong in her system. Most of the time, she adored that it was like existing under water, nothing ever quite affecting her, but Harry needed her and she couldn’t surface to feel anything.

“It’s not possible. We would have known!” Harry’s green eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

“Calm down, Harry. Known what?” Hermione raised the volume of her voice because she couldn’t manage the change of tone. The faintest thrum of his pulse tickled her neck and behind her ears. Odd. Typically, when she took her potions, it blocked all sense of him.

A flicker of irritation flashed across Harry’s face. She recalled their recent argument where he’d insisted something was wrong with her, how guilty she felt for not being honest with him.

“Remember the Veritaserum I brought to the post to leave here?” Harry’s lips twitched with his words.

“Yes, we had three more vials to disperse.” Hermione wasn’t sure what Harry was getting at, focused more on keeping him calm than attempting to decipher his scattered thoughts.

“I used it. I gave it to him. He’s…he’s not lying, but...” Harry pulled away and shuffled to the closed interrogation room door. “He’s in there, locked down. He asked for the Veritaserum because he knew I wouldn’t believe him.”

“Harry, we can’t use Veritaserum without proper approval.” Hermione sighed. That was why he’d called her here. Her mind raced to solve the problem Harry had caused before Moody or Kingsley found out. “You only used three drops, right? So there should be—”

“I used six,” Harry said offhand.

“That’s too much! That could have caused an overdose—wait, is that what happened?” Hermione’s voice was not panicked, but her pulse picked up.

Early in the war, they had interrogated Death Eaters and accidentally used too much on one of them, nearly killing them. Veritaserum was a regulated potion for a reason, and even more so now within the Order because they didn’t have much of it.

“No. No. He’s fine. At least he seems fine.”

“Who?”

Harry turned away from the door with a haunted expression. “Hermione…he said he was gone,” Harry choked out, his face lined with confusion.

Hermione stepped closer to Harry and the door. She almost flicked on the monitor that was wired to a camera in the room. Overall, the Order still used little Muggle technology, but some safe houses or posts had things already installed that they had learned how to use. Of course, it was easiest for any Muggle-born members who had Muggle parents because they were used to technology.

“Who said what?” Hermione’s patience for Harry talking in circles was running out, even with dampened emotions. Regardless of the potions she took, she did her best to never dull her mind. The Order and Harry needed her to be sharp.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione stumbled back a step. Her hand shot out and clutched the chair back closest to her to stay upright. A faint whooshing sound in her ears signaled her racing pulse. She ignored the sudden giant knot in her stomach as she took a breath.

 “D—Draco?” she whispered, and then cleared her throat. “Draco Malfoy?”

Harry reached around her to the table with the monitor and moved the mouse. The black screen flickered and then showed the interrogation room. Sure enough, Draco sat there in the metal chair provided to prisoners. Both of his wrists were shackled together and rested on the metal tabletop. His expression was bored, almost smug, as his eyes scanned the room. He was clad in his black Death Eater robes, still wearing gloves. Draco’s hair was dirty and disheveled but appeared luminous in the sun, lit from behind.

He was thin, skinnier than he had been years ago. The smudges under his eyes had deepened from purple to black. Draco had lost so much weight that he appeared pointy again. 

Emotions clawed at her, demanding release from the restraints she’d used Occlumency to place on them. Hermione leaned closer, attempting to get a decent look at his eyes, but gave up and forced her gaze to Harry.

“He turned himself in?” Somehow, she kept her voice level and calm.

“Yeah, he said the war with Tom was over. That he was keeping a promise.” Harry shrugged.

Hermione exhaled, bending over slightly. Harry had no idea the impact his words had on her. Keeping a promise. Her insides shook as she took labored breaths. She had to focus, lean on her potions and pills to keep her from collapsing on the dirty floor beneath her.

“But that’s...that’s not why you’re upset.”

Harry leaned over and clicked on the interface for the camera software. “I’ll go talk to him again. Listen.” Harry shuffled to the door. “Then we can decide what to do.”

“We have...procedures in place for this,” Hermione said. She shouldn’t be upset, she shouldn’t be panicking—her potions deadened everything inside her. That was the point. From the second she knew it was him, it was as though a switch had flipped inside her. Suddenly, everything was close to the surface, and instead of the pleasant disconnected feeling of being underwater—she was drowning.

“No, we don’t, not for this. Just wait.” Harry opened the door.

Chapter Text

May 7, 2004          Draco

“I’m the stereotype, the pathetic bully who is now receiving their comeuppance. Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying this.” Draco smirked, spitting blood from his mouth. Riling Potter up was quite possibly his new favorite hobby while being held for interrogation. He still felt like shite, but his childhood rival's irritation soothed him. Scarhead was trying to interrogate him, and it was an abysmal attempt. He’d weep if the tables were turned and Draco was the one doing the interrogation. 

Draco was aware he looked rough, perhaps even worn down from his time with the Dark Lord. Saint Potter appeared downright beaten, hollow, reduced to nothing more than the figurehead of the Order. Hermione’s outward appearance years ago made more sense now. They had begun this war as teenagers, and even though most were still in their early twenties, the weight of it seemed to drain them of all their vitality.

It was a good thing none of the Death Eaters, nor the Dark Lord, saw Potter in the last couple of years. If they had, they would have believed victory was close at hand. Although the Dark Lord had been in worse shape than Harry. A chuckle pulled itself from Draco at the ridiculousness of this war. This stupid war that had ruined most of them beyond redemption, beyond repair, beyond peace. All for one man’s hubris and outdated, incorrect beliefs.

Beliefs Draco himself had thought were the truth, even when he couldn’t stay away from a certain Muggle-born. Even when he was enraptured with her, when he sought her approval and love. Actually considered wanting redemption. How he deluded himself for years was a mystery to him. He chalked it up to fearing change. If nothing else, he’d always been a coward, like his father. Draco blinked as his vision blurred again.

As Scarhead drew back to strike him once more, the metal door flung open. Potter paused and craned his neck to see who had entered. Draco stopped breathing, zeroing in on her. It had been months since he’d laid eyes on her during the battle, the day when the snow turned red.

Her hair was wrong, not visible enough. Instead of a bushy mass of curls around her, it had been braided and pinned back. He hated it. She was in plain-looking Muggle clothes since she wasn’t out in the field in her typical black uniform. Draco wanted to let his eyes drift down her body, but captured hers with his, searching for a sign she was as desperate as he was. The chills that had assaulted him earlier disappeared. 

Mine.

Shadows pulsated in his chest. The gnawing to get closer, coil himself around her, caused his skin to heat. The monster inside him slammed against its cage, gnashing its teeth—determined to be released. Hunger made his mouth water. Foolishly, he had believed his Occlumency would control his urges, how demanding they had become. 

Growling, screaming, scratching made his head ache. He attempted to lock his beast in one of the rooms he had learned to construct to protect himself from the Dark Lord. He didn’t bother with his well. His craving and desperation for her refused to sink into the murk. Draco nearly chuckled at the fact that his mental prisons weren’t enough to keep his need trapped. 

Mine.

Perhaps the rituals had amplified his obsession. He thought his idiocy in January at the battle was only his frantic need to touch her because it had been so long. That the suffocating sensation until their lips touched was a singularity. Every cell in his body howled to push Scarhead out of his way and pin his witch to the table. Rip her clothing off and remind her she was his. 

Draco remained in the same position, kept his face impassive, but even with the occlusion, his heart raced along with hers. Their blood rushed together, making him warmer than he already was. His fingertips tingled as her gaze cut him to pieces and mended him together all at once.

Mine.

“Stop it, Harry!” Hermione stomped over to Potter and tugged him towards the door. Her attention never strayed from Draco. “And don’t say that, Dr—Malfoy. You’re...you’re not, because you’re here and you want to help.” She faced the Chosen One with her last words.

“Hermione—” Potter started. 

“No, Harry. He came here of his own free will. We have his wand, and he’s in the dampening cuffs. He’s defenseless and you’re hitting him.” Hermione’s tone changed to placate Scarhead, but he wasn’t having it.

“He’s laughing, so he must not be too hurt!” Potter snapped and glared at him.

“You don’t know what his pain tolerance is like. He served Tom. I’m sure whatever he doled out as punishment was worse.” 

Potter’s scowling face twisted to Hermione’s. 

“You said he was telling the truth.” Her words were barely above a whisper.

“When have you held back in the last few years with our enemies?”

Hermione winced at Potter’s words, her heart pounding harder in his chest. Draco considered attempting wandless magic, even with cuffs on. A simple hex that wouldn’t hurt Saint Potter per se, but it might knock his attitude down a notch, at least with his witch. Draco didn’t care if Potter beat him senseless, but that tosser had hurt Hermione with his words. The pain from the cuffs couldn’t be much worse than having Cruciatus cast on him multiple times. His forearms flexed against the metal cuffs. The cuff on his left arm had moisture on the inside. 

“He’s not our enemy anymore. Malfoy turned himself over to us and offered information, resources...”

“It doesn’t erase the past, Hermione!” Scarhead raised his voice like a child. Pathetic, perhaps more so than himself. 

“I know that. I know.” Hermione put her arm over Potter’s forearm.

Draco grumbled. He couldn’t cast a hex if she was attached to him. The fact that she touched Potter made the pounding in his head worse. He clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his face without emotion. His walls were falling, and with them, his self-control. Sharp pain ran up his left arm as he became more aware of his limbs. 

See me. 

“But we need to consider the opportunity he’s presenting. That’s why you called me here, right?”  

Her touch immediately calmed the Chosen One and made Draco’s blood boil. Potter nodded and reached for her. When Potter’s arm wrapped around his witch, Draco bolted out of the chair, scraping it against the concrete loudly. His jaw worked, grinding his teeth to keep from spouting a well-placed Diffindo. Saint Potter didn’t need both arms, did he? Moisture ran down his hand to the tips of his twitching fingers.

Hermione jumped in Scarhead’s embrace—good. Potter stared at him in stupid surprise. His witch used the moment to untangle herself and stepped back from him.

Mine.

Hermione cleared her throat and approached the table. “Tell me again why you’re here.” She used her no-nonsense best swot tone. Her eyes danced over his form, taking him in. 

Draco sank back into the chair, placing his bound hands on the surface. His shoulders relaxed under her gaze. His mind briefly wandered to lying with her under a night sky, surrounded by books. 

For you. I’m here for you, as I promised. He wanted to tell her, but Potter was in the room, so that would have to wait.

Her eyes widened at the red gathering under his wrists. Another wall crumbled from her nearness. Her worry blanketed him, wrapped him in a way that nearly felt like a hug. The temptation to collapse teased him, but no, he had to tell her why he was here. Why they could finally be together. 

“Voldemort is dead,” he replied in a toneless voice.

Chapter Text

September 1996          Draco

Draco smirked as he picked up her forgotten quill. She always seemed to forget something if she was in a rush to leave the library. He tore a small piece from his parchment and wrote her name on it before leaving it on Madam Pince’s desk.

He yawned as he headed toward the Room of Requirement for another long, frustrating night, fixing that stupid cabinet. His left arm stung as the fabric of his shirt brushed against the sensitive skin over his mark. Although he used the concealment charm Theo had taught him to keep it hidden, it did not take away the pain. He was told the pain faded, but it had been over a month, and it had yet to cease aching.

Draco entered the room and waded his way through the piles and piles of junk to the cabinet. The books and parchment that he left were on the floor beside it. He lowered himself and picked up the book, leaning back against the cabinet. The magic that made the cabinet function was complicated and combined more than one type of magic. He was in the process of breaking everything apart into pieces to look at each component to figure out what needed to be fixed.

He was competent in charms and arithmancy, but the other bits weren't as obvious. Draco leaned his head against the wood. Although he liked complex problems or puzzles, he didn’t enjoy them with the stakes as high as they were. If he failed...his family was dead. He was dead.

The disgrace of his family name would have been brutal, but he‘d have eventually come to terms with that. At least he thought he could. His father...he had mixed emotions about. Draco once revered his father, strove for the same excellence he’d been taught to crave, but since the Dark Lord’s return, Draco lost all respect for him. Sometimes, he questioned if his father ever saw him as anything more than an heir.

Distant memories of his father teaching him to fly on a broom made his chest hurt, so he shut them out with his Occlumency. He was still honing his skills, but he was more adept than expected as an Occlumens than most, thank Salazar. If he hadn’t been, he didn’t want to consider what his mental state would be currently.

Draco shook his head and stared at the pages in his lap. He had to be successful, at least for his mother. She had endured enough. He shuddered at the memories of his mother screaming. Draco had sworn to the Dark Lord he would not fail, and he wouldn’t, even if it cost him his own life. He didn’t want to die. He was fucking terrified he would, but if his mother lived, then perhaps he could come to accept it.

“No, the wand movement is this.” She flicked her wrist, that swotty tone matching her condescending expression as she did the motion again at the Weasel.

Thoughts of her came unbidden throughout all hours, regardless of his activities or focus. That bloke was an imbecile. Draco never understood how she suffered his company, even Potter wasn’t as dimwitted, and he hated Potter. That undeserving, ridiculously lucky tosser, favored by everyone because of his tragic story. Draco scoffed. His Slytherin friends had equally tragic backgrounds. Hell, Theo would love if his rotter of a father were dead; it would greatly improve his life, even if Theo had to give up everything in his vaults. Pansy’s father wasn’t much better, and Blaise...Draco couldn’t recall what number of father he was on.

Did anyone care about them? Give them additional house points? No. Potter was a spoilt brat. Draco didn’t agree with the Dark Lord targeting him. Potter was still a child, they all were, and his master was an adult, an old codger. It seemed ridiculous that Potter so threatened him.

Draco knocked his head against the wood. Perhaps if he lured Potter to the Dark Lord instead of fixing this stupid cabinet. He groaned. That wouldn’t be enough because he had to kill Dumbledore. That was his mission. He didn’t want to kill anyone. When he was younger and ignorant, of course, he claimed to want to get rid of many people, but Draco hadn’t understood death then.

His entire family on both his mother’s and father’s side was filled with dark or evil wizards, so Draco believed he grasped what was expected of him. He was certain he would thrive as a dark wizard. His heritage declared the truth of it. A bloody fool is what he was. Perhaps he was right years ago when he’d concluded he was broken, unfit to be the Malfoy heir.

What pureblood would be obsessed with a Muggle-born? To the point it almost drove him mad? No one was more surprised than he, realizing he had a conscience, that he‘d deeply regret many choices he made, and continued to make. He was a pathetic, soft coward, not fit for his birthright. And worse, he was beginning to wonder if he even wanted it. No, he didn’t aspire to be as poor as the Weasleys, but he also didn’t want the responsibilities of being a Malfoy either.

He unbuttoned his sleeve and stared at the spot he knew bore the dark mark. With a sigh, he looked at the book again and started making notes. None of his wants or needs mattered. He had made his choice.

September 1996          Hermione

Hermione let Harry continue complaining, but she wasn’t listening as well as she should. Despite her best efforts, she noticed again that Malfoy looked ill. He had always been thin, but she hadn’t seen him eat lunch since they started the year. He sat at the Slytherin table and talked to the others, but did not actually eat. Both eyes had purple bruises, showing he hadn’t slept well.

“Tuck in, Hermione, you’re staring into space,” Ron said, drawing her attention away from Malfoy.

“I’m not that hungry,” she said absentmindedly.

Harry had started talking to Ron, distracting him from noticing that she was watching Malfoy again. Hermione’s eyes narrowed when she caught it—a slip, so tiny she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring. When his friends looked away, his face went blank, his eyes vacant. For those few seconds, he looked...dead. The sight unsettled her, even though it was gone in an instant.

She didn’t believe Harry’s wild theories, but she felt something wasn’t right with Malfoy. Whatever he’d been doing at Borgin and Burkes, it was trouble. He had been too pleased when he left—except Hermione knew the difference between Malfoy’s smug arrogance and his hollow mask. She would never admit that to Harry or Ron, but her ability to read his eyes, not his stony expressions, was how she knew when he was being truthful.

Malfoy had been nothing but rude and condescending to her since the day they met. She didn’t count the few seconds before they spoke, because in that brief moment, they were only two curious children. That was before he learned she was Muggle-born and therefore below him. For those few seconds, she truly believed she’d found her first friend—maybe even something more, with the way her heart fluttered. Her magic had risen in her chest and tingled; her stomach filled with butterflies. She’d never felt anything quite like it before—and she hadn’t since. Sometimes, she wished she had. Even with Ron, it was never that kind of spark.

Perhaps it was because Malfoy so often targeted Harry, Ron, and her that she first began paying him attention. Why she watched him so closely. From the moment he spat the word Mudblood at her, ignoring him would have been the sensible choice, the way to take his power. Sometimes she had appeared to have ignored him or his taunts, but Hermione never ignored Malfoy, not once. She studied him, catalogued him, because she had always believed: know your friends, but know your enemies better.

Malfoy wasn’t only her enemy; he was Harry’s, and that mattered more. He wasn’t truly a threat. But with everything Harry already carried, the least she could do was keep an eye on a school bully, to be certain, Malfoy didn’t post an actual threat, and maybe guess his next moves.

After Voldemort returned, things shifted. She had less time to study Malfoy, and by then, he was of lesser importance. But with Harry’s new paranoia with him, she was paying more attention.

At Borgin and Burkes, his eyes betrayed him. The smug mask on his face was a lie. His eyes said he was nervous. Hermione didn’t know why, only that his expression and his gaze didn’t match. And it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed it.

At Madam Malkin’s before the start of the year, he had sneered at her, saying those horrible things about her to his mother. His countenance, his posture, even the tone of his voice—all perfectly aligned in disdain. But his eyes had not matched. They had shifted from dull grey into that heartbreaking silver she remembered from earlier years, as though his irises had splintered with his words before the flat stone returned.

She thought of Umbridge’s office last year, when they had been caught. He had laughed—loud, victorious, mocking—as though he delighted in their capture. But when no one else was looking, his eyes had found hers, and there was no glee in them. What she saw was fear. Not Harry or Ron, but her, and she couldn’t fathom why.

Hermione couldn’t reveal these moments to Harry or Ron or any of the odd experiences she’d had with Malfoy over the years because they were so subtle and random. She would have sounded mad for giving them weight. She didn’t even want to believe them herself—better to think it was nonsense, or worse, a childish crush she’d once harbored before she knew what he was really like. But her instincts wouldn’t let it go. They clung to those glimpses, insisted she remember, insisted that she acknowledge the pull of the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.

“Trust me, Ron, I know he’s up to something.” Harry dropped his fork onto his plate.

“He always is, mate, but for now we have bigger things to worry about. The match is only a little over a month away. If we want to beat them, we have to get our heads in the game,” Ron said, tapping Harry’s forearm.

“You’re right.” Harry agreed.

Hermione only half-listened as they strategized about Quidditch. Ron had played briefly last year when Umbridge banned Harry, George, and Fred, but this would be his first real season as Keeper, and he was nervous. She wanted him to do well—it mattered to him, and to his confidence. If only he could see what she did: that he was just as capable as anyone else. But Ron’s fear of failure always tripped him. He was so afraid of making mistakes that he made them constantly. Hermione understood too well, though she handled her doubts differently.

Most of the time, she buried her own insecurities, the insidious whispers that she didn’t belong in the wizarding world, shoving them down deep so she could focus on the task at hand. They only ever slipped through with…him.

Her gaze flicked to Malfoy. He had said something that set the Slytherins laughing, but his eyes were on her. The intensity of it made her flush, and she bristled, assuming he’d made a joke at her expense. Arsehole.

Then he blinked, and for the briefest moment, his eyes brightened—concern, or something perilously close to it. When he blinked again, it was gone, the grey settling back into a dull shade of cloudy skies before a storm, but without the energy a storm had.

“Mione?” Ron said as he stood.

She shook her head and got up, leaving the rest of lunch where it was, following Ron and Harry out of the Great Hall. Hermione couldn’t be sure, but she sensed his gaze locked onto her back as she slipped through the doors.

September 1996          Hermione

Draco stilled the smile before it took form on his mouth. He was being stupid, reckless, incredibly selfish, but at the moment, he didn’t give a fuck. She sat next to him and moved as far away as possible with a frown.

Happy birthday, Granger. You’re stuck with me until this is done. Look at me. See me.

“We have to choose our project by the end of the month. We should list out what we think is best and then compare.”

Sweet Salazar, he adored that swotty, condescending tone. His lips twitched despite himself. Draco decided this would be his reward, his indulgence, for being so steadfast in carrying out the Dark Lord’s wishes. Risky, perhaps, but harmless compared to the other, far more dangerous ideas he’d entertained about finding acceptable ways to spend time with her.

She finally turned her face to him. The freckles that brushed across her nose and under her eyes distracted him from her words. A few curls dropped around the sides of her face. Their chocolate coloring reminded him how much he liked sweets, and he wondered if her lips would be as sweet as the chocolate cauldrons he enjoyed. Sweet with a bite of fire. Her lips would burn him, not because of some stupid idea that her blood was dirty, but because she was equal to him. He’d never snogged anyone who was his equal.

“Are you listening to me, Malfoy?”

His tongue moved the toothflossing stringmint in his mouth before he answered. “You prattled on about something. As usual, you talk too much, so I lost what you said after a while.”

She huffed and pressed her lips together, taking a deep breath. Color filled her cheeks at her irritation with him. Hermione locked those dark eyes on him. Light hit her irises, highlighting the gold undertones. The amber flecks sparkled with her anger. It made his chest tight.

That’s right, be furious with me, keep looking at me.

“You’re insufferable. We need to choose our project.”

“It’s a pity we’re forced to work together, but yes, I suppose we do. I’ll make a list, you can too, and then we‘ll compare them to choose which idea is best. I’m sure it will be mine, but—”

“I just said that!” she snapped, edging closer to him.

Yes, come closer, Granger, be near me.

“Did you? I hadn’t heard you.” He smirked.

“You—you foul, smarmy, vile—” Her body leaned closer.

Closer...please.

“Not so many compliments all at once, Granger, people will think you fancy me.” He chuckled.

He was those things and more, but hearing them from her made his pulse race. He’d enjoy weeks of this, over a month, if the others struggled with their projects. Draco thought about their other classes together and wondered if he could make sure she was his partner for the rest of them. Not all at once, but after each other, so it wasn’t as obvious.

Gods, her attention was a drug, like exploding stars shooting through his veins. His scalp tingled, and he had to concentrate to keep his fingers from twitching. His stomach fluttered. Draco decided then he needed more, much more.

“Ms. Granger. Mr. Malfoy, is there a problem?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“No, professor, we were determining how we will decide on our project,” Hermione replied in a measured tone.

“Mmm...continue on then,” McGonagall said in a knowing tone and shuffled away.

“I cannot believe you are my partner,” Hermione complained.

Get used to it, Granger, it won’t be the last time.

“Yes, well, imagine my horror of being paired with you. Perhaps we could move this along and decide...tonight.” He knew tonight was her birthday and she’d likely be with her friends, but he wanted to hear her response.

“Tonight?” She looked at him again.

Draco didn’t respond right away. It was hard for him to speak when she finally noticed him. He had her complete attention.

“Yes, we can meet in the library.”

She grimaced. “I do want to get this over with, but I can’t tonight.”

“Why? Don’t you spend most evenings in the library?” He asked, as though he was unsure. Draco knew the exact spot she usually occupied. It had been his favorite spot until she stole the table from him.

Tell me it’s your day. Let me in, just a little.

Her fingers played with the parchment on the table. “I promised Harry and Ron...I have to be somewhere. I won’t be at the library tonight.”

Disappointment made his stomach hurt. He sighed and pushed the fringe of his hair back.

“Then I suppose it will just be a longer project,” he said casually, rubbing his thumb and pointer finger together over his parchment.

She grumbled, snatching her quill from the inkwell, and started writing. Draco took the opportunity of her being distracted to stare at her hands. Both also had freckles, but not nearly as many as other areas he had been privileged enough to catch glimpses of. Had Potter or Weasley noticed she had freckles across her shoulder blades?

Draco hadn’t been able to see them up close because he had to pretend she wasn’t transcendent that night, making comments as though she disgusted him. To his horror, over the years, she had gone from intriguing to pretty to stunning. The night of the Yule Ball, he hated himself more than any other because he could not get the image of her out of his mind. Not even after wanking to her for weeks after. He imagined pressing his body against hers, kissing her exposed shoulders as he rubbed himself...fuck.

He shifted in his seat, tugging his robes to hide his body’s response to a memory more than a year old. He’d suspected he was doomed long before that, but it was like the slap she’d given him in third year—undeniable. At the Yule Ball, the truth had crashed down: he was broken, unfit to be the Malfoy heir. He’d been a complete tosser that night to everyone. To this day, he was surprised Pansy hadn’t washed her hands of him entirely.

He’d felt no guilt ending things with her before this term. If he were honest, he should’ve done it years ago. Perhaps they should never have been together at all. He didn’t dislike Pansy; they’d grown up together. Heirs of old families who understood expectation and duty, but theirs had been convenience more than tender emotions. At least that’s what she told him when he ended it. She never mentioned the worst mistake he’d ever made, but Draco knew she’d heard. He’d only slipped once, but it had been catastrophic.

He tore his gaze from Granger’s hands and fixed it on his blank parchment. He’d whispered her name when he and Pansy were shagging. Lost in a fantasy, he hadn’t even realized until Pansy stiffened beneath him, yanking him back into reality. In a panic, he snogged Pansy and then went down on her to make it up. He didn’t bother to finish, wouldn’t have been able to, anyway. By then, he was already cursed and couldn’t finish unless it was with her, at least in his mind. Merlin’s bollocks, he was pathetic. A failure to his name, all because of this feisty beauty next to him.

“We’ll meet tomorrow night instead,” she offered.

“Fine, after dinner then,” he replied in a bored tone.

“Fine.”

Draco didn’t allow himself to gaze at her again, realizing that, as much as he wanted, no needed her near him, it destroyed his Occlumency. He concentrated on adding another layer of walls. He couldn’t afford to let his weakness or any plans be exposed; otherwise, he and his family would be dead.

Chapter Text

September 1996          Hermione

Hermione laughed, taking another drink of the Firewhisky. She was in the Gryffindor common room with her friends. She was a little dizzy from the drinking, but otherwise it had been a perfect night. Harry and Ron hadn’t brought up anything serious, deciding to keep the night festive, and she couldn’t express how much she appreciated that.

“I’m knackered, Mione. Happy birthday,” Ron said as he gave her a quick hug.

“Me too. Are you alright if we head to bed?” asked Harry, who also hugged her. His hug was better, longer than Ron’s. She wanted Ron to hold her the way Harry did.

“Yes, thank you both. I’ll see you in the morning.” A drunken chuckle escaped her lips as she waved them off.

Lavender and Parvati had already gone to bed, as well as the other Gryffindors, leaving only her, Neville, and Ginny. Ginny had been sneaking sips all night, but hid it from Ron. Hermione closed her eyes and lay her head back against the couch.

Her stomach protested, closing her eyes, making her a little nauseous, but she breathed through it. Images of the night repeated in her head. She smiled. It had been a long time since she acted her age and was irresponsible. Sometimes...sometimes she didn’t want to plan ten steps ahead, watching for danger, for the next terrible thing that happened because of Voldemort. She prided herself on protecting her friends by anticipating the best she could what evil thing the Dark Lord would try, but it was exhausting.

Hermione didn’t regret being Harry’s friend, but it came with responsibilities that most couldn’t handle, and occasionally she liked to forget them for a bit. As her mind slowed, relaxing, it drifted to cloudy skies. Grey stormy skies...flat grey eyes that occasionally still sparkled the way they had when they were young.

Silver fire.

He looked at her, filled with silver flames in his eyes at the Yule Ball, furious that she, a Mudblood, attempted to be pretty like all the other witches.

His disdain hurt so much. His sneer cut into her heart and cleaved it in two. Paired with Ron’s dismissive attitude, that had been a low point in her life. The person she adored, aspired to be with, didn’t even see her as a possibility for a date. She wondered sometimes if Ron realized she was a girl. Malfoy only saw her as a thing to be reviled. Both had rejected her simultaneously. Hermione knew she wasn’t unattractive, but she had never felt so ugly in her life. The entire experience was ruined by both of them.

Her fingers curled into the fabric over her heart, twisting it tight between them. The sting of that night still lingered, raw and insistent. Hermione drew a steadying breath and sought her mental well. She tiptoed toward it in her mind, leaning over its edge. Below, the blackness shifted and writhed like smoke caught in water. One by one, she cast her thoughts into it—the shame, the sharp ache of rejection, every shadow left behind by the Yule Ball. Each sank into the darkness, swallowed whole.

“Hermione?” Neville’s voice pulled her back to the present.

She blinked and took in her friend’s reddened nose and cheeks. He hadn’t drunk much, but to her surprise, he had joined in her celebration, even knowing he was breaking the rules.

“Yes?”

“I asked if you were alright getting to bed?” He motioned to Ginny, who was dozing beside her.

“Yes. We’ll head there now.”

“Are you...Are you sure?” Neville’s eyes were fixed on her fingers, still clutching her shirt.

She gave him a half smile. Neville was observant, more so than most of her friends. He might not bring attention to his findings, but there was little he missed. It was how he figured out what they were up to in first year and had tried to stop them. Hermione let go of her shirt.

“I’m alright, just unpleasant memories. They are gone now. Perhaps I shouldn’t drink.” She laughed.

“I understand, it’s why I don’t drink much, even when they sneak stuff in.”

“Because it makes you think of bad memories?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. Neville stood and approached her. “Occasionally, it’s relaxing, I suppose. Happy Birthday, Hermione.”

She stood on wobbly feet and hugged him. Neville gave the best hugs. He was taller than she was, and when he wrapped his long arms around her, she felt cocooned and safe within them.

“Thank you for the book, Neville.”

“Of course, I thought you might like it because it's not just about herbology, but all of the plant life that has been at Hogwarts from the start until now.”

“I love it and can’t wait to read it. You’re very thoughtful.” Hermione squeezed him tighter.

“If...if those memories come back or you want to talk about them, you find me, alright?” Neville’s voice was firm, confident.

Hermione buried her face in his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Neville released her and climbed the stairs to the boys’ dorm. Hermione tugged Ginny up, and they stumbled back to their room. She helped Ginny take her shoes off and get into her covers before realizing she needed the loo.

After she brushed her teeth, about to return to her room to change into her nightclothes, but decided against it. Unsure why, but she drifted outside of their dorms. She didn’t know why she was breaking the rules, but she wanted to see the moon and not from a window. As if in a trance, Hermione headed toward the quad, peeking at the night sky. The moon was almost half full.

She had no idea what she‘d say if caught, except it was her seventeenth birthday and she wanted to give something to herself. If she were apprehended, it wouldn’t only be for breaking curfew, it would also be for drinking, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The night air was muted and cool, chill only when the breeze stirred, otherwise pleasant enough. She should have kept her robes on before she ventured out. To steady herself, she pressed against the rough stone wall. Her thoughts darted and slipped, racing yet impossible to hold for more than a few seconds. The haze of drink was teaching her something she hadn’t expected: the strange, fleeting appeal of alcohol.

“Granger?” His voice was beside her, close. She shivered, but not from the cold.

Hermione lazily turned her face to his. He was so close. If she raised her right hand, it would brush against his robes. The moonlight highlighted half of his face, making one of his eyes shine silver, while the other remained grey in the shadows. Malfoy was such a prat, which was a shame because he was quite handsome. Perhaps it was the Firewhisky, but it made it easier to admit to herself.

“Evening, Malfoy.” Hermione gave him a smile she hadn’t intended.

His eyes widened, and then he stepped forward. The fabric of his green and black robes touched her fingers. Unable to stop herself, she grabbed onto them and ran the pads of her fingers over the smooth material.

Something in his face shifted, his curiosity gone, replaced by what Hermione could only describe as hunger. Her skin warmed, and the cool night air felt heated now. Malfoy crowded her space. She rolled from her side until her back was pressed against the stones. He moved in front of her and put his hands on either side of her head.

“What are you doing out here?”

She liked how his voice sounded different. It was deeper than before, husky, causing her smile to expand. Her fingers kept rubbing the fabric between them. His robes were softer, probably of better quality than her own. Malfoy bent until his face was near hers. His scent of mint and parchment encased her. It was divine and unfair. No one should smell that tempting, least of all Malfoy.

“Have you been drinking, Princess?”

A shiver ran down her spine at his words. She meant to correct him, tell him never to call her that, but found she was having trouble forming words.

“I don’t mind how docile you are like this, although it is less fun.”

Her hands held onto his robes, but slid until they were on either side of his chest. She hadn’t noticed before how much muscle was hidden under his robes. There was no denying what her knuckles had brushed against on their way up. Her fingers flexed, daring her to let go of the fabric and touch his chest to see if she was right, but she didn’t let go.

“Have a good birthday with your friends?”

She hummed and nodded, the goofy smile still plastered to her lips.

“I’m very, very tempted...” Malfoy lowered his left hand, picking up a curl, and twirled it around his fingers. His jaw clenched as he continued to stare at her.

Hermione continued to gaze back at him. For the first time in as long as she remembered, there weren’t any witnesses to judge either of them for looking at each other. Had he wanted to study her face as she had wanted to study his? Technically, she had, but never this close, and never for this long. He was pointy, all sharp angles, with aristocratic features. As attractive as he was, being only sixteen, he would be even more gorgeous when he finished filling out.

“You remind me of a summer day, blue skies, perfect for flying.”

Her stomach fluttered at his words. No one had ever given her a compliment like that before.

“You remind me of winter, fresh snow, and warm fires, perfect for staying in and reading,” she responded.

He smirked. “Yeah?”

“Mmm...yes. Wrapped in a blanket on a couch, with a large window to see the snow,” her voice was breathy as the dreamlike vision filled her mind. In her insane image, it was Malfoy she cuddled up with on the couch, both of them reading.

His fingers were now in her hair, near her neck. “I’d like that just as much as flying.”

“I hate flying.”

“I know. Perhaps one day I‘ll show you why it's one of the best feelings, being in the clouds, far away from reality.”

“I’d like that, to be away from reality.” That was part of the appeal of books. While absorbed in them, she was no longer part of life or reality. She was wherever the book was, fiction or non-fiction. It didn’t matter. For a brief period, she was transported to another time or place, doing what she loved most, learning, but in a safe environment.

“I’d like that too.” His voice had changed and sounded melancholy.

Hermione let go of his robe, raising her palm to his cheek, the one with the moonlit silver eye. He briefly closed his eyes and swallowed.

“That might be dangerous...but you’ve never shied away from that. Such a brave girl.”

She beamed at his praise. He viewed her as brave. Hermione didn’t know why his opinion mattered, but it did, and the fact that he saw her as strong made her heart sing.

“You want to escape, Princess?” His fingers left her curls and tilted her chin up.

“I think so, but I’m scared.” She heard her honest words and realized she had been more truthful in the last few minutes with Malfoy than she had with anyone else in years. Her fuzzy mind reminded her she shouldn’t drink again.

“Yeah? I might be, too.”

“Really?” She couldn’t fathom why he‘d fear ignoring responsibilities or escaping the harsh realities of life. Isn’t that what rich prats did?

“You have no idea.”

His words hurt him, as if admitting his fear caused him physical pain. She let the hand that had cupped his cheek slide down to his neck.

“We’ll help each other be brave then.” She gave him a confident expression, at least she hoped so, and pressed her fingers into his cool skin.

“Deal.” Malfoy leaned forward. For a few seconds, she thought he might kiss her, but his lips brushed against her cheek instead, before releasing her and stepping back.

Her hands dropped to her sides, confused by his actions.

“You need to head back to your room.” Malfoy’s usual bossy tone pulled her out of whatever haze she had been stuck in.

She shook her head, combating the dizziness, and peeled herself off the wall. “I’ll decide when I am ready to go to my room.”

“You can decide whatever you want, Granger, but a patrol is headed this way, so if you don’t want to get caught, you should go back.”

Hermione scrunched up her face, deciding if he was telling the truth. Her mind still wasn’t able to put her thoughts together well, but didn’t think he’d lie to her after...whatever that was they had shared.

“Come on, Granger, I’ll help you get to your tower, then you’re on your own.” Without waiting for her to accept, he grabbed her arm and started walking, with her stumbling behind.

She grumbled and complained quietly as he dragged her along, barely able to keep up with his long strides. When they reached the stairs, he crossed his arms and gestured for her to climb up. The last thing she saw before entering the portrait was Malfoy with his arms crossed, still at the bottom, making sure she made it inside.

Chapter Text

September 1996          Draco

Draco attempted not to stare at her, tried to ignore her, but after last night, it was impossible. He knew she was drunk, that he shouldn’t have done anything, said anything to her, but she was so demure instead of her impenetrable standoffishness. She’d gazed at him with doe eyes and dilated pupils, vulnerable. Her words had been raw, honest. He had no defense against them or her.

His walls crashed around him when she grabbed his robes. When he’d tried to put them back in place, she touched him, direct contact with his skin. He knew it was already too late. He couldn’t have pulled away even if he’d tried. Draco had her complete attention, and it was as intoxicating as whatever she had drunk that night. It was what he‘d been craving, desperate for, since as long as he remembered. Only he hadn’t needed to incite her wrath to get the attentiveness. She had given it freely.

Draco still couldn’t get her scent—old books and the rose named after her—out of his mind. If not for his mother’s vast gardens at the manor, he wouldn’t have even known that such a rose existed, let alone what it smelled like. The combination should’ve clashed, not complemented each other, but somehow, with her, they did. And sweet Salazar, he wanted to breathe her in again.

It was obvious she’d had a late night; her hair was wilder than usual, her clothes had a slight unkept look, and her eyes were still red. Not as bloodshot as they had been last night, but there was a lingering discoloration. He liked her appearance because it was a shared secret between them. She’d allowed him to view her vulnerable state and seemed comfortable with him.

Draco wasn’t sure how much of that conversation she remembered, and he couldn’t decide how much he wanted her to recall, if any at all. He had been stupid, very, very stupid. If he wanted to protect her, he couldn’t allow himself to be near her, interact with her, or think about her as he had been. Snape made that crystal clear to him, and yet he was unable to resist her. She‘d reacted to him, reached for him first. How could he ignore that?

Look at me. See me. Remember me.

Hermione lifted her head and peeked at him. His heart responded by picking up its pace. Draco had rudimentary skills in Legilimency, but he hadn’t projected his thoughts to her. She hadn’t looked at him because of that. Did she remember?

Remember me. Remember us.

Her mouth set itself into a frown as the tips of her fingers touched the cheek he’d kissed. He let out a breath. That was enough for now.

September 1996          Hermione

Hermione’s headache had finally let up. She trudged to the library, mustering the courage to face him. Her memory of last night was blurry at best. She was positive it was horribly inaccurate, and she was ashamed of the things she’d allowed herself to dream up. Malfoy didn’t know, but she did, and it was still embarrassing. How could she have had strange, almost romantic dreams about him? She resolved not to drink again.

At least she hadn’t really gone out to the quad, and Malfoy found her. But where had those odd thoughts stemmed from? There hadn’t been another interaction between them like that for her to find inspiration from to fuel the dream.

You remind me of a summer day, blue skies, perfect for flying.

Her body still reacted to the words her mind had made up, but they were said in a deeper, husky voice Malfoy had never used around her. It probably only existed in her mind.

You want to escape, Princess?

That had to be her childish desires, not wanting to deal with the multitude of things on her plate. Her growing fear for her parents’ safety and the possibility of war weighed on her. It was so unfair to Harry to have the entire wizarding world on his shoulders because of one madman bent on destroying him and everything good about their world.

With a sigh, she opened the library doors, rallying to battle with Malfoy over their project when Madame Pince stopped her and handed her one of the books she’d been reading the day before that she’d meant to return to the stacks. A note with her name stuck out from the top. She thought about telling Madame Pince that she no longer needed to book, but picked it up, thanking her, and headed to her table.

Malfoy was already sitting there, spread out with books covering the surface. She remembered the year-long silent battle for that table. Both racing to claim it, each smug when they got there before the other. They had only been in first year then. Sometime in second year, he appeared to give up and settled for sitting the next one down, sneering at her every time she looked up from her books.

She didn’t greet him and sat across from him, as far as possible, while being at the same table. Malfoy quickly closed the books, but she caught a few titles having to do with advanced charms, curses, and one she swore had to do with the history of dark magic, but he buried that one under the others.

“We’re not required to turn in our idea until next Friday, but as you suggested, we can move things along and get this done if we compromise on what we decide to do.”

“You’re a mess, Granger, you sure you’re up to this?”

Her eyes snapped up to his smirking face.

“I’m quite fine, thank you. We agreed to meet tonight, and I hardly think my appearance has any bearing on our project.”

“I only meant that after your late night, you might want to tuck in early. We can do this on a different day.”

She narrowed his eyes at the clear amusement in his tone and wondered if maybe...no, that wasn’t possible.

“Maybe we should get some fresh air. Instead of talking here, we could go to...the quad.”

Hermione sat back like he slapped her as her face grew hot. “Why? Why would you suggest that?”

Malfoy leaned over the table with a grin. “You seemed more relaxed there. This environment too stuffy?”

“I don’t...know what you mean.” Her stomach twisted as she panicked. Her dream may not have been a dream. Had she been there? Had Malfoy seen her? Even if he had, they certainly hadn’t had that conversation. But what had she done or said in her state?

Malfoy moved his fingers over a knot on the surface of the wooden tabletop. “I certainly could use the escape from here.” Then he winked.

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out. You want to escape, Princess? That might be dangerous...but you’ve never shied away from that. Such a brave girl. I’d like that too. His voice, his words, the way he’d gazed at her collided in her mind, her vision spotted with black spots. What had she done? Her fingers grabbed the fabric of her shirt under her robes, her nails digging into the material as her heart thundered in her chest.

Fingers slid over hers, gently untangling them from the fabric she was clutching, one at a time. She turned and found Malfoy sitting beside her now. He lowered her now free hand to the table.

“Perhaps I pushed too hard. I thought...” He turned so that only the side of his face was visible, his jaw moving back and forth.

“That...that happened, didn’t it?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

“You...why were you kind to me?” Her voice still wasn’t above a whisper.

“You were drunk, Granger, even I have lines. I’m not that much of a git.”

Hermione leaned closer to him, distracted by his scent of mint and parchment. She didn’t want anyone overhearing their conversation.

“Did you...Did you mean any of that? Or did you say those things to be cruel to me now? If so, then please just do it so we can move on.”

Malfoy whipped his head and glared at her. Hermione deflated. If his furious expression was anything to go by, he had used her state to lure her in, only to be cruel to her again. She was a fool for Malfoy, always had been. Constantly seeing something that wasn’t there, thinking in her arrogance, she caught things others didn’t, that somehow she knew a different side to him. A hidden side.

“I didn’t say those things...I wasn’t trying...forget it. Let’s decide what we're doing for the project.”

She dropped her eyes to the book she’d picked up at Madame Pince’s desk. “So you didn’t mean any of it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You also didn’t say you meant any of it, either.”

“You stubborn...” His voice was almost a growl. He huffed out air and dropped both of his hands on the table.

She stared at his Slytherin ring on his right hand. The silver went with his lighter skin tone. Hermione admired his hands again with their long, slender fingers. Her eyes were tracing over his veins when he snatched them from the surface of the table, breaking her trance.

“I meant what I said, alright?” That tone was the same as last night, as though the words caused pain to speak.

She blinked, raised her chin, and sucked in her breath. His eyes were silver, the silver she remembered. Brighter than his ring. Goosebumps spread across her limbs at the intensity with which he stared at her. His gaze enveloped her, drowned her. She couldn’t look away, trapped as though he’d cursed her.

“I won’t tease you anymore,” he said in a low voice.

Hermione found she wanted him to tease her again. Now that she understood he’d meant those things, his comments had been playful, almost like flirting, which surely he had not meant. She hated that she wanted him to mean them that way. How disappointed Ron and Harry would be at her terrible need for Malfoy’s attention and approval. It was...well, quite pathetic. Dreaming of her bully being kind to her. Perhaps she didn’t quite understand who she was, not inside, as she always thought she had.

“No...it’s alright. I was confused because it was mixed up in my mind, due to the Firewhisky. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want—”

“Firewhisky? That explains it. Bit strong for you, Granger, considering you don’t drink.” He chuckled.

Hermione laughed too because it was true. She didn’t drink, but had indulged in celebrating her birthday. Something in her intuition had warned her she may not have chances often and take advantage while she could.

“Not my best decision,” she admitted.

He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. It allowed us to have a proper conversation.”

“True. Does that mean we’ll continue to have real conversations? At least when we’re alone?”

Malfoy tilted his head and smirked. “I suppose it does.”

Hermione gave a decisive nod. “Agreed. When we’re alone, we will be civil to each other.”

Malfoy leaned closer and dropped his voice to the deeper tone he’d used last night. “Perhaps more than civil.”

“Friendly?” she asked in a breathy voice.

“I think that’s manageable.”

Chapter Text

September 1996          Hermione

Hermione was on her way to meet Malfoy in the library when Harry stopped her, wanting her notes from Charms. After lecturing him about paying better attention in class, she handed them over.

“Thanks, Hermione. I wanted to ask about something else.” Harry shifted the way he stood, a sure sign he was nervous.

“What is it, Harry?”

“You have that project with Malfoy. You’ll have to work with him until next month.”

“I’m all too aware.” She made sure to have annoyance in her tone. She and Malfoy had only met twice the past week and, after much bickering, had finally settled on their project. Strangely, even their squabbling didn’t feel the same anymore. It was like...playing a game that only she and Malfoy knew the rules for. It was fun.

“You know I have my suspicions, and we still don’t know what he was doing in Borgin and Burkes.”

Hermione sighed. “And you want me to see if I can find anything? Get him to reveal something?”

“Yes, please. Hermione, you’re the closest one to him right now. I know it’s not the best circumstance, but you always tell me if we have an advantage we should—”

“Yes, I know. We should use it. Alright, Harry, I’ll do it, but I can’t promise anything. We can barely work together as it is, but I’ll try.”

“You’re the best!”

“I know I am. If I find anything important, I’ll tell you straight away.” She gave Harry a genuine smile because if she found out Malfoy was plotting something nefarious, she‘d tell Harry first.

“I’ll give you these when you get back to the common room,” Harry called out as he hurried away.

Hermione shook her head and headed to the library, scratching at her wrist. She didn’t believe Malfoy was a different person. What he’d done in the past hadn’t changed. It was only that she felt vindicated that he wasn’t, only that. He had more depth. In a way, he was more real by showing that side to her, not just a two-dimensional caricature of a person, but an actual person. A complicated, perhaps confused person, one who was both good and evil.

She wasn’t foolish enough to think things had changed between him and Harry or Ron or even with her in public. However, she would see what more there was to him. But Harry had a point. They didn’t know what he’d been up to that day at Borgin & Burkes, and she would use this new understanding to discover what that was.

Malfoy was at their table, poring over books and scribbling notes on parchment, immersed in what he was doing. She had enjoyed watching him work in the library over the years. The only other person besides Malfoy who had appeared that focused on their work, other than her, was Theodore Nott, another Slytherin. She never had a conversation with him, but they had given each other small smiles of acknowledgment.

“Granger,” Malfoy said in greeting as she approached.

“Malfoy,” she sat across from him and tried to peek at some books, but as usual, he moved everything before she saw the pages. This time, though, she caught one title. Curses and Counter-Curses was a book written by Professor Vindictus Viridian. She made a mental note and took out her parchment, quills, and ink.

“So I will conjure the lion and the snake, we’ll transfigure them, and then you’ll vanish them, yeah?” he asked.

“That is what we agreed to, but is it really necessary to have a snake body?”

He tilted his chin up. “Yes, I told you it’s accurate from what I found.”

“And you really think Professor McGonagall will be impressed if we manage this?”

“I guarantee no one else is doing this. A Demiurge is an obscure, mythical creature more commonly known in the Muggle world than the magical one.” He winked.

She‘d been intrigued and surprised when he suggested the creature. He still had not divulged where he came up with the idea. Hermione knew about many things, but a mythical snake lion hadn’t been one of them. According to their research, this creature was a deity who fashioned the sensible world in the light of eternal ideas. Essentially, it was responsible for the creation of the universe. It was a creative force with the decisive power to shape it, in the form of a lion's head with a snake's body.

At first, she thought he was having a bit of fun at her expense because of combining a lion with a snake? He was cheeky about it, but also seemed genuinely interested in doing the project. He was far more excited than she thought he’d be about the lore and legends, and there was more information about it from the Muggle world vs. the wizarding world. She’d assumed that would put him off, but it appeared to make him more determined.

They were now documenting every instance of the demiurge’s appearance in any magical books they could find. Professor McGonagall was curious about their idea and whether they would succeed in transfiguring it. Hermione would make the presentation about what the demiurge was and its origins, while Malfoy conjured the creatures. Then they would transfigure the two separate creatures into one. Hermione would hold the form as Malfoy finished up the presentation before she vanished it.

They had a decent plan, but needed to practice for success. Thinking back to Harry’s request, this provided the opportunity she needed. If she calculated it correctly, she might be able to see Malfoy nearly every day until the project was due. What a strange situation that she was seeking his company, even if only for a project, and to see if he was plotting something to hurt Harry.

“I think we will have to practice this...well, I’m not sure how long it will take for us to be successful.”

Malfoy looked back up from his parchment again and smirked. “Careful, Granger, it sounds like you are trying to spend time with me.”

“For our project. You know how important schoolwork is to me.”

“Of course, have to get those top marks. However, since this is our project, we’ll be tied for the top spot, at least for now. ”

She scowled.

“I suppose I could make more time for this project. What were you thinking?”

Hermione steeled herself. “I was thinking we should meet as often as possible to practice.”

Malfoy straightened and sat back against his chair. His robes fell open, exposing his chest. Hermione's brows furrowed. Had he outgrown his shirts? They were much too tight, showing off things they shouldn’t be.

“As often as possible? How will you fit me in with all of your responsibilities?”

She tore her eyes from his chest, moving them to his grinning face. “That is my problem to resolve. I only need to know when you have time.”

“For you, Princess, I’ll make time.” His grin changed into a genuine smile.

Her face was feverish from his teasing tone and calling her that again. It was awful. She should hate that silly nickname. He meant it as an insult, but her body didn’t agree with her brain.

“Fine. Then we should meet...nightly to begin. Once we get the basics done, we‘ll make it more spaced out, except for the week it’s due.”

“Every night?” Malfoy put his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “I should tell you no, it’s a dangerous idea, but I find I can’t.”

The word dangerous. That might be dangerous...but you’ve never shied away from that. Such a brave girl. Her heart fluttered.

She nodded. “Every evening to start, then.”

Chapter Text

October 1996          Draco

Draco sat against the vanishing cabinet, scanning his notes. He yawned as his vision blurred. Merlin, he was exhausted, but he had to keep going. He was fairly certain what needed fixing; he just didn’t know how. Draco smacked his head against the wood. The plan was ingenious if he could pull it off, but the magic was layered, complicated. Dropping Arithmancy this year was a mistake; some of the more complex formulas required it. He was competent, but he wondered if the daily “training” his aunt had inflicted before the start of the school year had done more than just fray his nerves. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to the manor for more lessons over the holidays.

Fuck, he hated most of his life, all of it except for her. Spending time with her the past few weeks had been torture, wonderful torture. He’d already decided they would be project partners again, even though it was the worst idea imaginable. Draco had barely managed to stay away from her in first year, and by second year, his obsession had already grown desperate. He’d complained loudly to his parents, but unlike before, his father refused to intervene. Lucius had lectured him: if he allowed a “low, dirty Mudblood” like her to steal his excellence, perhaps he wasn’t worthy of being a Malfoy.

Draco detested himself so much in the first four years of Hogwarts. It had made him a real arsehole. He took out his disgust for himself on her and anyone else who got near him.

Draco had spent the first four years of Hogwarts loathing himself. That self-hatred made him cruel, turning him against anyone who got too close. He wanted her more than anything, craved her in ways that made him a traitor to his bloodline, a waste of an heir. He still despised himself, though now his reasons were far darker.

He was a milksop, a pathetic example of not only a Malfoy but of a person. Despite no longer believing the nonsense he’d been raised to, he had done nothing about it, would do nothing about it. His parents, particularly his father, had already made their choices when he swore allegiance to the Dark Lord. His Slytherin friends understood what no one else did—they were all trapped. It was easy to tell someone to change sides, to do the right thing, but at what cost?

He didn’t want to die, and he hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor because he wasn’t brave. He was cunning, resourceful, determined, and, above all, had a healthy sense of self-preservation. How those over-reactive Gryffindors acted so recklessly, throwing themselves into the line of fire, when they could have paused to plan better, to find a safer strategy—was beyond him.

Yet the person who had captivated him since the first time he saw her bushy hair and deep brown eyes was wired the same way as those foolish Gryffindors. His eyes slipped closed as he thought of his witch threatening him—the sting of her palm against his cheek, her wand pressing against his throat. Had it not been for the Weasel talking her down, he could only guess what she might have done. He had cowered before her because she was brilliant, dangerous. He’d imagined that interaction, her fiery expression, countless times when he wanked that year, still did sometimes.

He no longer detested himself for his obsession with Hermione. He had accepted that he was broken, that something was terribly wrong with him, some time ago. During Bellatrix’s training sessions, when he had pissed and shat himself, lying in his filth, she had taunted him mercilessly about how pathetic he was. And he had reveled in it. Yes, he was weak, a poor excuse for a wizard, but he had kept his witch hidden from that bitch. From Bellatrix and everyone else. Perhaps he was fragmented, but he had kept her safe in his mind; maybe he could keep his obsession there, too.

Draco traced over his Dark Mark. It had finally stopped aching. Theo had poked at it a week ago, trying to relieve the sting, but nothing had helped. He told Draco it was probably the dark magic, which made sense. Any time Draco cast dark spells, it did something to him from the inside. He had only recently stopped vomiting after casting the Cruciatus Curse. The ridicule he had endured for getting sick when wielding the unforgivable…not exactly fond memories..

Dark magic felt unnatural when someone used it. Regardless of how many times someone used the same spell, there was an odd, cold sensation that ran through a witch or wizard. Some spells made Draco nauseous, others made him feel ill like he’d caught black cat flu. Occasionally, they made him feel like the magic was ripping parts of him out. Occasionally, it felt as though the magic was tearing pieces of him out from within.

He had to act against Dumbledore soon, or the holidays would be unbearable. Draco was certain Voldemort expected him to fail, but Voldemort didn’t know him. If it came down to it, he’d do whatever was necessary. He wanted to live, Merlin, he wanted to, but he would never choose himself over his mother. The thought of a confrontation with the old headmaster sickened him. Even if he struck the killing blow, Draco knew he wouldn’t survive the duel.

You remind me of winter, fresh snow, and warm fires, perfect for staying in and reading. I’d like that to be away from reality.

Draco groaned at the memory, her words. He had made sure that they weren’t in another area alone while they worked on their project, but fuck, he wanted to. Not a possibility, because he was a tosser, and he‘d try something. He knew he would. He couldn’t trust himself alone with her. Draco still didn’t understand how he controlled himself on her birthday. She was drunk. She would have let him do whatever he wanted, but that was the problem. That wasn’t Granger. Sober, she’d never have had a conversation like that, maybe more like what they had now, which was close, but she wouldn’t have gazed at him like that.

Given freedom for the first time, he watched her that night—every twitch, every shift, every inhale. The way her mouth moved as she spoke, lazy and dreamlike. She wanted him; there was no denying it. He’d tried for weeks to resist, but she had reached for him first. And Salazar, he wanted her to do it again.

Draco shuffled the parchment into a pile and slowly stood, having to brace himself against the cabinet from dizziness. It was better that he was headed to bed. He didn’t know if it had been two or three days without sleep, but it dulled his mind, which threatened his ability to use his Occlumency. He ambled to the dungeons, her image filling his mind. Draco rubbed his fingertips together, remembering the softness of her curls.

October 1996          Hermione

Professor McGonagall gave Hermione a long look and dismissed them. They slowly filed out of her office. Hermione was mortified by Harry’s accusations; she’d tried to reason with him, but he refused to listen. There had been a reprieve from Harry’s obsession with Malfoy for nearly a month because Quidditch had kept him distracted, but after what happened to Katie Bell in Hogsmeade, he’d lost it again.

“I know he did it!” Harry exclaimed, stomping up the stairs.

“McGonagall just told you, Harry, he was in detention with her,” Hermione reminded him.

“Yeah, mate, you might be right, but we need to find out more.” Ron locked eyes with Hermione. For once, they were on the same page. Malfoy was a pest, but not a murderer. Harry was accusing him of attempted murder.

“I know what she said, but I know—Hermione, have you…” Harry hurried them to the corner of the common room, away from the others.

“I told you, Harry, if I found out anything, I‘ll tell you. So far, we’ve only been working on our project. He’s closed off. I’m relieved he doesn’t spend the entire time having a row with me.”

“What are you on about?” Ron asked.

Harry gestured for them to huddle and filled Ron in on what he’d asked Hermione to do.

“Harry! You shouldn’t do that to her!” Ron admonished.

Harry shushed him. “It’s not like that. They’re project partners anyway, so she has to be around him. She’s just keeping an eye on him, getting him to talk.”

“We should be there, wherever they are, to make sure Mione is alright,” Ron protested.

Hermione smiled at his words. The fact that Ron was worried about her with Malfoy was both hilarious and made her giddy. Neither of them would believe her because they didn’t know Malfoy as well as she did now, but she had no reason to fear him.

“I’m alright, we’re not alone, and I don’t think Malfoy would try anything.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t know...after what happened to Katie, maybe Ron’s right.”

“Stop it, both of you!” she snapped. “Listen to me. I know what I’m doing. There is nothing to be worried about. Ronald, you agree with me and see Malfoy as a prat, but not a threat. There’s no reason you or Harry need to be there every time we work on our project.”

She took a breath and pointed at Harry. “And you need to stop. Until you have solid information or proof, what you’re saying and doing is hurtful. I don’t mean to Malfoy, but you’re embarrassing yourself because you refuse to be patient and gather evidence. I believe in you, Harry, and I do think something is off with him. That’s why I’m helping. But I can’t have you and Ron hovering—he’ll never open up if either of you is there.”

Ron scowled and knocked his feet together. Harry adjusted his glasses and blinked several times. Hermione was relieved they both controlled their tempers. Most days, even if she was angry, she had to choose when to let it out. Harry and Ron were both emotional and quick to anger. Someone had to be level-headed and keep them under control, but sometimes she’d snap.

“I want to find out what’s going on as much as you do, but with everything else, even you know Malfoy isn’t a priority.”

“I know that! I’m just—he’s such an arsehole and I’m tired of him getting away with everything.” Harry grumbled.

Hermione assumed Harry was thinking back to when Umbridge had been in charge, when Malfoy had abused his power in the Inquisitorial Squad. The whole year had been a nightmare, at least for most of it. Harry still hadn’t fully recovered from Sirius’s death in June. Part of the reason she’d been so patient with him was that grieving took time, and only four months had passed since he’d lost Sirius.

“If he is up to something, we’ll figure it out. We always do.” She couldn’t think of better words to comfort him and also remain honest.

“Mione will keep an eye on him and let us know if she needs help.” Ron put his hand on Harry’s shoulder but looked at her, his blue eyes intense.

Her lips twitched, wanting to smile. Ron was still upset, but didn’t want to argue with her.

“I will. You both will be the first to know if he tries anything or I find anything important.”

“You’ll tell us when you’re meeting him?” Ron asked.

Hermione nodded but didn’t actually answer because...she wasn’t going to. Something in Ron’s gaze told her that if she did, Ron would somehow conveniently be in the same spot.

Ron patted Harry’s shoulder. “We need to head out for practice, mate.”

“Yeah, alright,” Harry agreed and gave her a brief hug before they both left to change into their practice gear.

She pressed her lips together, irritated and confused, as she often was with Ron. He seldom hugged her or even touched her, but then acted protective or tried to dictate her actions. Yet, he did not see her as someone he could be with. Her fingers drifted down to her wrist, scratching.

Hermione stomped up the steps to her room to finish her homework in solitude. She had Prefect patrol duty tonight, so there was no meeting with Malfoy.

Chapter Text

October 1996          Draco

Draco’s fingers drifted down the book, where the torn-out page had been. The Basilisk page was missing, because he’d torn it out in second year. It was unbelievable to him that no one had reported the missing page years ago. His tongue played with the toothflossing stringmint in his mouth as he recalled her blank stare in the hospital wing.

#####

“You really need better friends. If I left it up to those two, they’d never figure it out.” He checked to make sure the word ‘Pipes’ was legible since he hurried to write it. “Where were they, anyway? You shouldn't have been sneaking around on your own.”

He grumbled as he crumpled the page into a ball, prying at her clenched fist until he managed to force it inside. It took him a few tries; her grip was stubborn as ever.

“Aren’t they supposed to protect you? Next time, don’t play the hero.”

He started to stomp away, but paused and returned to her side, peering down at her. His trembling fingers traced over her frozen hand.

“Looking at you, thinking about you, makes me sick. Filthy Mudblood.” Draco picked up a few of her curls. He shuddered at the softness. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Even...even at night.” His face was warm from his confession, but he couldn’t resist reaching for her cheek and stopped centimeters from her skin.

“Come back, Granger,” he whispered and pulled his fingers into the palm of his hand.

#####

It was hideous to recall his own words. At the time, Draco hadn’t even understood why he’d said them. Looking back, he realized it had been his idiotic way of showing care, trying, in some twisted fashion, to be more like her. He wanted to help without anyone knowing it was him. There was always a cost to doing something noble, something good, and he had never been willing to pay it. The price was always too high.

Draco was not, and never would be, a hero. Heroes were fools with a death wish, willing to stand up for their beliefs at the expense of their own lives. He let out a bitter laugh. He didn’t accept the Dark Lord’s warped ideals, but he was still staking his life on them.

Yes, he still thought himself better than most, though not for reasons of blood purity. If not for his father’s choices and the peril that loomed over his mother, he never would have agreed to take the Dark Mark. His instincts told him Voldemort would win, and practically speaking, it made little sense to choose the losing side. The Dark Lord’s rule seemed inevitable, so yes, taking the Dark Mark was also about survival.

Still, the mark was a curse. He had been naïve to agree, blind to what it truly meant. At the time, all he could hear were his mother’s screams, feel was the fear for his own life, the shame of his family, all while knowing how broken he was inside. How foul his feelings toward Granger were. He had hoped the Mark would bring resolution, even clarity. Instead, it offered only fresh chains: obligation, pain, and nothing had been resolved.

Draco’s fingers thrummed against the page as he waited for Hermione to arrive. He and Theo were still struggling to get their rings working properly. Using Hermione’s idea with the coins, they had linked the rings, but the connection wasn’t quite right—yet. Once they perfected it, they planned to add the charm to Blaise’s ring so the three of them could signal each other when needed.

The research he and Theo had done had led him down a rabbit hole of possibilities for the rings. He twisted the signet ring on his pinky, weighing how best to use it—what spells made the most sense. In the Malfoy library, he’d come across a dark incantation that absorbed the blood of enemies, using the connection to fuel stronger magic—especially against its victim.

“Malfoy? You’re staring at nothing.” Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Draco tilted his chin and saw Hermione settling into the seat across from him, already busy pulling out her books and supplies.

Look at me.

“I can’t stay long today. Harry and Ron need my help.”

He snorted. That was an understatement.

She leveled her gaze at him, her whiskey eyes sparking with irritation.

Yes, glare at me. See me.

“Perhaps you do too, since you struggle to finish your homework...” Her voice trailed off.

He smirked at her swotty tone. “I choose not to do it. They can’t without your help half the time. There’s a difference.”

“That is not true!” She smacked her ink well on the tabletop.

“Hit a nerve, Granger? Why is it your responsibility, anyway?”

“It’s not...I’m being a good friend.”

Draco laid his arms on the book in front of him and leaned over the table closer to her. “Good friends don’t expect their friends to carry them through school.”

She huffed and focused on arranging her materials. “I don’t! You don’t understand. You…all of you. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is, constantly bickering with everyone about each other?”

Draco arched a brow. Intriguing. “You’re defending me?”

Hermione’s hands froze. “That is not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what it sounded like. Are you defending your project partner to them? Do they hate that you’re stuck with me?” He tried—and failed—to smother the flicker of glee in his voice.

Look at me.

“Of course they do. We’re not friends, and you’ve always been antagonistic to...Harry and Ron...” She was staring at her hands, still resting on the books she’d pulled from her bag.

But not you, Princess, not always to you. Not anymore. Look at me.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Her tone told him she was done discussing it, but he didn’t want to let it go, not just yet.

“I don’t bicker with you about them,” he said quietly.

“No. You...make rude comments.”

“Are they rude if they’re the truth?” he challenged.

Finally, she raised her chin, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the fading light from the windows behind them. Her right hand drifted to her chest, reaching for the fabric of her robes before she stopped, balling it into a fist and lowering it into her lap. He sat back, satisfied. She wouldn’t admit he was correct, and that was alright. She didn’t need to. Her actions gave weight to his words, and that was enough.

“I haven’t spoken to Potter or Weasley in weeks. They’ve no reason to complain,” he stated, because it was the truth. He tried to rally and make snide comments or cause either or both of them trouble as he’d always done, but...it was a struggle. Schoolyard nonsense seemed so pointless and stupid. He blew out air as his shoulders dropped. Similar to his classes, they also felt inconsequential, but his mother had begged him to return to Hogwarts, so he had. As long as she continued to write him once a week, so he knew she was safe and no longer being harmed, he would stay and do as the Dark Lord bid.

“Yes, I’m aware. I think they are upset because of what happened to Katie. It’s shaken everyone. Sometimes people don’t process things the same way. It’s not...just you.” Her voice shook as she spoke, which led him to think it was mostly about him, which was a cause for concern.

Her comments caused distress because Katie Bell was his fault. She wasn’t his target, of course, Dumbledore was, but things hadn’t worked out the way he had hoped, and he was back to that infuriating cabinet and scrambling to get rid of the old man without having to duel him. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d survive a duel against Dumbledore.

Draco dropped his eyes to his lap. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Katie. Although he didn’t know her, he knew of her. He might be an arsehole, but he wasn’t a killer, not yet at least, and he didn’t want to hurt innocent people. Draco reminded himself that most people weren’t innocent. That was what he told himself every day, so he could continue his mission without worrying about collateral damage.

He rubbed his chest, dropping his Occlumency walls back into place, needing to distance himself from his actions. When he looked up, Hermione was staring at him, studying him. He shifted in his seat and talked about their project. At first, she didn’t respond, but then straightened her back, opened one of her books, and pointed to a passage.

His mind drifted back to the day she walked into the Great Hall after being un-petrified. No warm smiles for him, only for her friends. Still, for two fleeting seconds, she’d spared him a glance. He didn’t know if she saw the relief on his face, the wild, stupid joy that she was back. Back to them, of course. Not to him. It hadn’t mattered then, and it didn’t now. He hadn’t wanted her gratitude. Only that she’d be less reckless in the way she threw herself behind Potter.

She kept reading from her book, and he kept listening, he always did. But his thoughts stuck on that moment. If he hadn’t known in the hospital wing, he’d known then: he was fucked. The visceral jolt of seeing her alive, watching her fold into her friends’ arms, had almost driven him to act. Half of him wanted to storm across the Hall and tear them away from her. The other half wanted to retch at the very thought.

It was the first time he hadn’t been able to silence the voice inside him—the one that whispered something in him was irrevocably broken. That this girl, this Muggle-born, was the instrument of his undoing.

“Do you think it should be longer than three meters? I think with the head being as large as it is, three meters should be sufficient.”

Draco lifted a shoulder to give his brain time to process her words and catch up. “I think four or five meters, so the body curls, so it looks more like the picture.”

“Alright, we will try again tomorrow. We‘ll lengthen the body. I did like the golden shimmer you added.”

His lips quirked at the compliment. Draco was pleased they worked so well together. Although the ruse had been nothing more than a clever way for him to be around her, as close as allowed, he enjoyed working alongside her. She challenged him, kept him on task when he wanted to slack off, and worked equally hard. Plus, he enjoyed seeing her brilliant mind solve problems. It may have been the best part of spending time with her.

“Malfoy, you’re staring at nothing again. Are you...alright?” She lowered the volume of her voice and pitched forward.

“I’m fine, Granger, just tired. I had a late night.”

“You seem to have many of those.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Simply that you seem to always be up late because of...reasons. Certainly not schoolwork,” she mumbled the last few words and sat back.

Don’t stop looking at me.

“Are you antagonizing me to make me a better student?” He spoke quickly, wanting her to play with him again. He needed the distraction.

Hermione wrote notes on her parchment. “I would if it works.”

“Is that so? Perhaps I require a mentor,” he chuckled.

“I’m sure if you ask Professor—”

“I’m not talking about any professors. I’m talking about you, Granger.”

Her hand froze mid-word, her eyes slowly climbing from his torso to his face.

Perfect. See me.

“You’re so concerned about my schoolwork, and it does seem what you enjoy doing if Potter and Weasley are anything to go by. Although I suppose you don’t get house points for aiding me so...”

“It’s not about house points,” she snapped.

“Of course not.”

She grimaced. “I don’t have enough time to...”

Draco ignored the way his chest ached at her words. “I wasn’t being serious, obviously.”

Hermione pushed her hair over her shoulder and focused on the parchment again. “Obviously.”

“But...you were considering it,” he added playfully.

Look at me.

Hermione put her quill down, a sound of exasperation escaping her. She sat back, dissecting him again. That adorable contemplative expression made her features scrunch up.

“Are you asking for my help?” Her tone was serious.

Draco basked in her attention. There was nothing better than her being completely focused on him. He muddled through the hours she was absent with his Occlumency, continuing the same routine he’d had for years because none of that mattered. All that was precious to him was in front of him. His pulse sped up as she waited for his answer. He should tell her no...but then he wasn’t supposed to be near her at all.

“If I were, would you?”

Her brow furrowed as she appeared to be debating with herself. By all logic and reason, she should deny him.

“Would you take me seriously? Listen to me? Because I don’t need another person to chase after Malfoy—”

“I would listen,” he interrupted her. He‘d do whatever she asked if she agreed to see him more, even for pointless schoolwork.

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head. “I am going to regret this. I shouldn’t do this.”

Draco grinned because, although she spoke to herself, he knew she would agree.

She opened her eyes. “Fine, I’ll help you, but this is temporary. I have...obligations and my work and—”

“Yes, yes, you’re a very busy and important student at Hogwarts. I’m aware. How will Potter and the Weasel feel about this?”

She glared at him.

Yes, keep that anger aimed at me. I can take it.

“You know quite well how they will feel about it, so don’t be a prat and make it worse by calling them names, or I won’t help.”

He blew out air dramatically to keep from smirking. “You take the fun out of this.”

“I will create a schedule and present it tomorrow. Are there any days or times you aren’t available?”

Something about the tone of her voice told him she was seeking information, and it wasn’t about tutoring him. Hermione had never been a convincing liar. She could be evasive, but subterfuge was not her strength. He rolled his jaw in irritation, his fun gone. The likelihood of her playing with him because Potter asked her to was a real possibility. Far more believable than a general interest in him or even wanting to help him with schoolwork.

Draco had been so caught up in her presence that he had let his emotions make him foolish. She would be the end of him, and sadly, it would be because he‘d let his guard down and mucked everything up. The smart thing to do would be to call everything off, never share another project with her. A curl escaped and fell forward, resting beside her cheek. He rubbed his fingertips together to keep himself from reaching for it. His thumb pressed into the pad of his middle finger.

“Pick when it fits into your schedule. I’ll make myself available to you.” He spoke quickly, not allowing himself an out.

He was going to die. Maybe not tomorrow or even a month from now, but it would happen because when it came to Hermione Granger, he was an idiot with no self-control, and one day he would pay for his mistakes.

Chapter Text

October 1996          Hermione

“Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Granger.” McGonagall gestured for them to begin.

Hermione was nervous, not because she and Malfoy weren’t ready; she knew they were. It was simply that this was the first time they had to prove they could work together. She glanced at Harry and Ron, hoping they would chalk her tension up to perfectionism. Perhaps Harry would see it as a sign that Malfoy was beginning to trust her.

She exchanged a look with Malfoy, who grinned at her like he had a secret. Nerves made her palms slick. What if this was all a setup to make a fool of her? He only cared so much about his grades. Her stomach twisted. No. He’d asked for her help. He wanted to do better.

With a flick of his wand, two stuffed animals floated down onto the high table: an adorable tan Gryffindor lion with a red-and-gold scarf and a long, dark green Slytherin snake wearing one in its own colors.

A few snickers drifted through the classroom. Hermione blinked, baffled. She’d never seen him conjure stuffed animals before. He rolled his hand at her, gesturing for her to begin. She wanted to throttle him for turning their presentation into a joke, but forged ahead.

“Today, we have a very special legendary creature to show you. It can only be visualized through Transfiguration, as it is mythical and not likely ever to be seen by human eyes. The Demiurge is found in both Wizarding lore and Muggle mythology...”

As she spoke, Malfoy enlarged the toys, expanding them until they nearly brushed the ceiling. She continued reciting their research, sources, variations, and the creature’s purpose in different traditions, while he made space for the transformation to come.

Then, together, they began their spells. Their wand movements overlapped and intertwined, every incantation layered precisely atop the last. Most students struggled with layered Transfiguration, where new enchantments often disrupted the old.

But not them. They moved like two halves of the same spell.

Changing the stuffed animals into living forms proved easier than expected. Their proportions already perfect, their postures lifelike. Hermione suddenly understood why Malfoy had chosen them. She still wanted to hex him for not telling her, but she couldn’t deny it was clever.

She met his eyes. She loved this part. The way he moved—fluid, deliberate, elegant—was mesmerizing. She stepped back, letting him direct the spell.

“Aurum,” he said, pointing at the lion.

The lion roared, shaking its mane as its fur shimmered into gold. Gasps rippled through the class. Then he turned the snake the same radiant hue. Light spilled across the room as the creatures writhed and glittered above the tables.

“Oh…” Professor McGonagall breathed.

Hermione smiled. Now came the hard part. She stepped closer, their arms nearly brushing, and together they began the final transformation. She took the serpent; he, the lion. Without even glancing at each other, they guided the creatures as if with shared intent. She hoped that Professor McGonagall would take that as a sign of how well they worked together when grading them.

The snake’s body stretched to six meters and coiled, its golden length curling around the lion. Malfoy adjusted the proportions with a deft flick, and soon the two beasts circled, luminous and alive.

A hush fell over the room. As the creatures brushed, their outlines glowed white-hot, merging until no seam remained. Power tingled at Hermione’s side, his magic against hers, and her chest warmed with the pull of it.

The serpent coiled tighter, the lion nestling into its hold. Sparks burst outward, cascading over the students in a harmless, glittering rain. The ceiling blazed with the light of the newborn creature—the Demiurge—its serpentine body twisting endlessly, the lion’s head watching all.

“The Demiurge,” Hermione continued softly, “was the deity responsible for the creation of the universe...”

It moved like living gold, its scales rippling as it filled the air. Some students gaped; others shrank back, unsettled. No other project came close to this one: ambitious, luminous, alive.

“Does anyone have any questions?” she asked.

“How big was that thing, like, when it was a god or whatever?” a Hufflepuff called out.

“Considering it created the universe, larger than a planet at least,” Malfoy replied.

“And how did you come upon this legend?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“It’s in our paper, but I found a book on Muggle mythology and wanted to see how it compared to ours,” he said matter-of-factly.

Hermione looked at him, bristling. He’d included it in their paper, but couldn’t be bothered to tell her when she’d asked? Prat. She huffed, which only seemed to amuse him.

As she answered another question, Malfoy began to cast. She glanced over; she was supposed to vanish the creatures, not him. He winked, then murmured a spell she didn’t recognize.

The golden beast shrank rapidly, its shine dimming as it spun too fast to follow. With a soft thud, it landed on the table. Now two small stuffed animals again. Or not quite two. The lion still wore Gryffindor red and gold, and the snake its dark Slytherin green, but they were fused together: the serpent coiled around the lion, its head resting beside it as if guarding him.

Professor McGonagall leaned in to inspect them, eyes flicking between the pair. “Almost perfect. If these hadn’t been fused.”

They returned to their seats. Malfoy carried the conjoined toy with him, setting it between them. His posture was almost lazy, satisfied. As though everything had gone exactly to plan. Tosser. She narrowed her eyes, but he didn’t even look at her. Normally, they didn’t sit beside each other, but today had required it.

“Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger. A moment, please,” Professor McGonagall called as the class was dismissed.

They approached her desk. Malfoy still held the stuffed creature.

“I must say, I was surprised by your results.”

“Professor, we were going to vanish—”

“That is to say,” she interrupted mildly, “they were better than expected.” She adjusted her spectacles. “I was concerned you two might not work well together, but it seems my concerns were unwarranted. Good work, both of you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said promptly. When Malfoy didn’t respond, she shot him a glare.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall’s gaze dropped to the fused lion and serpent. “The Demiurge...creator god who made something from nothing. Rather compelling. I do find it interesting that it takes the form of a serpent and lion combined, considering you both agreed to this project.” Her eyebrow arched.

Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks. Malfoy, infuriatingly, looked amused.

“Am I to assume that if you work together again, it will not be an issue?”

“No, Professor,” Hermione said quickly.

“Not at all, Professor,” Malfoy echoed beside her.

They were dismissed and walked together down the corridor. He still carried the stuffed animal under one arm. As they passed a shadowed alcove, he guided her gently into it. Her breath caught. There wasn’t much room.

“Why are you still holding that?” she asked.

He grinned. “Because I thought you might like it. A souvenir. A visual reminder of your high marks and our first project.”

He leaned closer. Her back brushed the cold stone. His scent, mint and parchment, wrapped around her, dizzying. They shouldn’t be alone. Not there. Not then.

“Did you purposely fuse it?” Her voice came out softer than she meant it to.

His grey eyes darkened. “Would you be angry if I did?”

“Yes, because you didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I knew how important this was to you. I wanted you to have something.”

Her heart stumbled. He sounded sincere, and his eyes matched. He lifted her right hand and placed the plush creature in it.

“It’s so soft,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

The corner of his mouth curved. “I thought it might be more comfortable that way.”

“This is...rather thoughtful.”

“The least I can do for you,” he said softly, voice low and smooth, “for mentoring me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, lifting the toy to her face. It smelled faintly of him. Her eyelids fluttered.

Without her even realizing it, the conjoined lion and serpent had already claimed a place in her bed.

Chapter Text

November 1996          Hermione

Hermione fumed as she stomped away. She was so angry with Harry that she couldn’t bear to be around him at the moment. She had felt guilty about venting to Malfoy about Harry in Potions. Malfoy didn’t know about the old potions book, but he was observant enough to notice Harry’s sudden brilliance for potion making. He suspected something was amiss.

She wandered toward the dungeon area to avoid most of the people she knew. Her irritation was burning her from the inside out. Hermione paused and ambled down a narrow, dark corridor, pressing her shoulder against the cold stone. She understood Ron was nervous about the game today. She knew how insecure he got sometimes, but to cheat, to actually take the potion—it was wrong.

Harry was so obsessed with Malfoy doing something unsavory, but he continued to use that book regardless of how many times she told him to stop. Harry called it an advantage, but it was cheating. To him, it was acceptable to cheat in class and give Ron an unfair advantage, but Malfoy was the unscrupulous one. She rolled her eyes. Both of her best friends were malingerers.

She grumbled to herself, pressing her forehead against the rough stone. Why was it acceptable for everyone else to bend the rules, but she was expected to follow them to the letter? The only time she broke them was to protect or help Harry or Ron. Perhaps that made her a hypocrite, too, but there was no personal gain, unless aiding them with impossible tasks counted. Resentment bubbled up, sour on her tongue. She shouldn’t feel that way. Ugly emotions were wrong; they made her a terrible friend.

Hermione resisted the urge to smack her forehead against the wall. It was foolish, but even after everything they’d endured, a tiny voice in her head warned her not to push Harry or Ron too far. They were friends, but they wouldn’t remain so if she didn’t accommodate them. Sure, she could have a row with them, insist, sometimes force her point, but it was all because of one undeniable factor: they needed her. They relied on her level head, her research, and her willingness to go further than anyone else. Sometimes she wondered if she was the “Brightest Witch of her Age” only because she worked so hard to be irreplaceable to them and all other witches and wizards. Did anyone see her as anything more than what she could do? Did they see her?

“Granger?”

Her neck prickled with awareness at the sound of his voice. Of the people she wanted to avoid, he’d been near the top of the list. Her anger had clouded her judgment. Of course, he‘d be near the dungeons, all the Slytherins were. She’d assumed he’d be getting ready for the match, not wandering the castle.

“Are you alright?” His tone was the gentle one he used sometimes.

“I’m fine, just taking a moment.” Her voice sounded rough, as though she’d been crying, which she was not. Refused to.

Malfoy leaned against the wall beside her. His scent of parchment and mint soothed her, which only made matters worse.

“I don’t believe you. I can count the number of times you’ve been near the dungeons since first year. Are you hiding?” His cool tone revealed nothing.

“No.” She closed her eyes. “Maybe.”

“I thought you’d be on your way to the match by now.”

“Why aren’t you already there?” she asked.

“I’m not playing.” His tone was flat.

Hermione cracked her eyes open and peeked at him. His face was also devoid of emotion. She turned so that her shoulder leaned against the wall again.

“Why?” Hermione knew Malfoy loved Quidditch as much as both Harry and Ron.

“I’m feeling unwell.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at her; he was staring at the other wall in front of him. He appeared sickly, but no more so than since the beginning of the term. He was still too pale, and the purple under his eyes only deepened as the days passed.

“Have you seen Madame Pomfrey?”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“But...” She frowned because she didn’t know what to say and fiddled with her robe.

“You haven’t answered my question, Granger. Why are you here?” His tone finally changed, sounding suspicious. He turned, leveling his eyes at her, the coldness of grey matching the walls.

Her intuition told her he was upset with her, but she didn’t know why. She pushed off the wall and adjusted her robes.

“I needed a minute alone.”

He quirked a brow. “So you came to the dungeons?”

“Yes, I don’t really have many friends here.”

“You don’t have any friends here.”

His words hurt more than they should have. Perhaps more so because she was already upset and feeling vulnerable. Malfoy didn’t know he’d indirectly attacked her, but she felt wounded. A flicker of something flashed in his irises, the shade brightening before he pushed off the wall and stood closer to her.

A smirk appeared on his face. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hardly,” she answered, but averted her eyes because the tone was wrong. It sounded almost playful.

Malfoy moved until the front of his shoes touched hers. “You sure about that? You seem more relaxed now, less irritable.”

“I do not.” Hermione failed to put fire in her tone as planned. She hated to admit it, but Malfoy’s presence had calmed the brewing storm inside her.

“Do you want to escape?” he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered. Yes, please, so much. However, instead of saying those words, she made a noncommittal noise and shrugged.

“Just say the word, Princess.”

The back of her neck and face heated as her chest felt strange. Her fingers tingled with the urge to reach for him. His eyes roved over her, taking her in. She felt like he was analyzing her, examining each piece, and memorizing it for later use. Every time Malfoy gave her his complete attention, it overwhelmed her, so possessive, demanding, as though staring at her, he devoured her—there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“I...I have to get to the game.” The words dropped out of her mouth and broke whatever spell had kept them both motionless.

His face returned to neutral, his eyes lost their luster and became dull again. He gestured to the way she came from. Hermione nodded, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth to wet it, and debated whether she should say something before she walked away. His eyes dropped to her mouth and stayed until she felt more heat in her cheeks before he turned and walked away.

Hermione took a deep breath and hurried to the game.

Hermione wiped at her eyes again. She refused to cry, not again. Harry had been so kind to her, holding her after witnessing Ron with Lavender, and sat with her until curfew before her Prefect patrol began. Guilt nagged her for thinking awful things about Harry this morning. He was her best friend and always there for her when it mattered. She was selfish earlier and had almost made a terrible mistake by letting Malfoy get too close. She was supposed to get his walls to come down, not let him through hers.

Ron...she shuddered. She could not think about him anymore tonight. Her only goal was to get through the patrol, go to bed, and cuddle with Crookshanks. Hermione tapped her foot with impatience, attempting to recall who was on duty tonight with her. Hurried footsteps caught her attention as her stomach weaved itself into knots, seeing his pale blonde hair coming into view. Why? Why did this keep happening to her?

Her hand rose to her chest, reaching for the fabric, but she forced it down to her side and balled it into a fist. She was not cursed, there were no contrived plots as Harry thought—Malfoy was a Prefect and sometimes they had patrols together. She was fine, everything would be fine.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy. We’ve been paired together again,” she stated in a calm tone. Her mind was scrambled from Ron, and she couldn’t remember if she’d known Malfoy was her partner tonight.

“Actually, you were supposed to be with Pansy, but she’s ill.”

“Like you were ill?

He smirked and leaned closer. “She’s drunk, so I helped her out.”

Hermione frowned. “I thought most of your patrols were with her.”

“A fair amount, but not all.”

They began toward the Astronomy Tower, climbing the stairs. Hermione glanced at him. He didn’t appear any more ill than he had earlier, but true to his word, he had not played in today’s match. She wondered what he did during that time.

“You seem...well,” she said cautiously.

“Mmm...” He shrugged and cast a glance at her. “You don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes and worried they were still puffy. The image of Ron and Lavender locked together pushed to the front of her thoughts and made her stomach hurt. Her fingers, not holding her wand, drifted to her right forearm, disappearing under her robe, and scratched at the tender skin close to her wrist.

“I’m fine.”

Malfoy tilted his head to the side, but said nothing. They checked the classroom, the astronomy room, and the corridor. Hermione frowned but followed Malfoy as he took the spiral staircase up to the crenellated ramparts and stared out, gazing at the night sky. He was still for so long that Hermione went to his side to view what he was looking at, but it was only the area surrounding Hogwarts. It was then she realized he was gazing at the sky.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

He pointed to the stars. “Just there, it’s me.” He chuckled dryly.

“You?”

“Well, what my mother named me for, anyway.”

Hermione moved closer to see where he pointed. She took in the stars, recalling her astronomy lessons. It hadn’t been an important class to her, so although she’d received top marks, of course, she had retained little of it. Ursa Major (the Big Dipper) and Ursa Minor (the Little Dipper) were easily identified. Even Muggles used those as a point of reference. There was a winding, long, serpentine constellation that sparked her recall. Her cheeks heated because she had paid attention to that. Malfoy had been smug when it was mentioned during class.

It was one of the largest constellations in that stretch of sky, winding like a serpent or dragon. Draco began near the tail of Ursa Minor, curving around the Little Dipper in a loose, twisting arc. The head formed a small diamond of stars, while its body coiled backward in a long, sweeping trail that looped around the north celestial pole. Some portions were faint and difficult to trace, but the shape was still unmistakably elegant.

What fascinated her most was the lore. Surprisingly, most stories mirrored Muggle mythology. That summer, she had even cross-referenced them for fun. Draco was tied to the Greek tale of the dragon who guarded the golden apples, later slain by Hercules. Of all the constellations, Draco had been the one she lingered on, the one she studied most closely, though the reason she had chosen it…well, that didn’t matter.

“It’s easier to see in autumn or summer,” he commented and dropped his arm.

“I recall that from class.”

“Sometimes I come up here to see it,” he admitted.

Hermione didn’t think Malfoy’s ego could be any larger, but she was mistaken. She couldn’t think of another person who would literally gaze at themselves. A laugh almost escaped her lips, but Malfoy spoke again, extinguishing the sound before it was released.

“It makes me feel closer to my mother. She told me once that when she misses me being away, she will look at it, knowing perhaps I am too.”

Hermione’s eyes darted to his face, finding his expression vulnerable and very un-Malfoy-like. He appeared young, not at all like the boy she’d known for years. She blinked, but his face remained the same.

“Do you miss her?”

Malfoy hadn’t spoken about his family in ages. She knew his father was in Azkaban, rightly so, and though his mother had seemed dreadful that day at Madam Malkin’s…well, Harry had been rude, too. Her lips pressed together. Malfoy wasn’t innocent either.

“I…think so.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. Even with the ache Ron still left in her chest, a flicker of excitement stirred. It was working. After months of trying, Malfoy was finally opening up to her. If she was careful, if she didn’t push too far, too fast, she might actually succeed.

“I miss my parents, too.”

He turned to her. “Is that why you’re upset?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, her fingers once again reaching for her wrist, scratching at it. She didn’t want to answer his question because she feared she might be honest with him, even though it made no sense to be.

“Is that why you were ill?”

He turned away. “I suppose, in a way.”

Malfoy missed his mother so much, it made him too heartbroken to play Quidditch? Even knowing his father was sentenced to Azkaban months ago, Malfoy hadn’t “missed” his parents enough to allow it to affect him in the past. Her mouth twisted, but then she didn’t know if that was correct because this year was the most she’d spoken to him the entire time she’d been at Hogwarts.

“Are you...still ill?” She hated calling it that because it wasn’t right. He was depressed, but she feared saying it aloud would only make him retreat.

He laughed, the sound bitter and sorrowful, and it made her chest ache. Compared to that, her own heartbreak over Ron felt trivial, and the thought irritated her.

“I’ve been...ill for a long time, Granger.”

Her fingers stilled on her wrist. Had he just admitted to being depressed all along? What counted as a long time for Malfoy? Her mind buzzed with questions, and the irritation from moments before dissolved. He was telling her personal things, potentially showing trust.

“Since when...is there anything I can do?” The words tumbled out before she thought them through.

Malfoy faced her again and stepped toward her. She backed up until she pressed against the wall next to the opening. A light breeze made her shiver from the frosty night air. Malfoy brushed his wand tip down the front of her robes, not touching anything indecent, but still her blood thrummed in her veins.

“Always wanting to help every lost soul.” His tone was mocking, but his eyes weren’t.

The silver in his irises glittered in the moonlight, and his hair gleamed like spun thread. Shadows softened the sharp planes of his face, while the gentler light picked out their edges. Her eyes played tricks on her.

Hermione couldn’t respond, caught in his ethereal beauty. It was a crime how gorgeous Malfoy was, especially at night. Truly unfair. He was so awful. Arrogant. Cruel. Selfish. Challenging. Observant. Funny. His scent was divine and...no.

No!

What games was her mind playing on her? Her random thoughts were nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction because of Ron and Lavender; she was sure of it.

“But you can’t help me. You don’t know me.”

“I already agreed to help you with classes,” she reminded him.

Malfoy continued running his wand tip up and down her torso, so lightly she barely felt it, but was very aware of the slow movement.

“And maybe I want to know you more,” she added.

He hummed before pausing his movement. “Alright, but on one condition.”

“What condition?”

His eyes bore into hers. “Tell me why you’re upset.”

Hermione felt stripped bare, like he could already see into her mind—or her soul. Perhaps both. His gaze had always been that way, even in the early days when it came with a sneer. The words he spoke never mattered as much as what he revealed with his eyes. And tonight, they revealed: he knew. He knew her heart was aching, and it upset him. He was angry that she hurt.

Her lips trembled as she fought to keep the truth locked away. A battle raged within her. Her loyalty to Harry and the promise to earn Malfoy’s trust, against the curiosity that had never left her, not even after all the cruel things he’d said and done. Those fleeting moments when he let slip a fragment of who he might be beneath the layers of privilege and venom…they drew her in.

“I...it’s stupid, really. You don’t want to know.”

Malfoy put his right palm on the wall beside her shoulder, reminding her of her birthday night, leaning closer, tormenting her with his scent. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know. Tell me.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a command. She bristled, fighting with herself to stay motionless and not snap at him. A tiny, shameful piece of her warmed at his statement. She closed her eyes, positive she couldn’t go through with the ruse, not even for Harry. Her answer was too personal, too close to her heart. Cool fingers tilted her chin up. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Tell me.” His tone was softer, more like a caress, even though it remained an order.

“Ron and Lavender are together now.” Her voice shook, and she felt childish admitting this to her adversary. Was Malfoy her enemy? Because it didn’t feel like it anymore.

He sighed, releasing her chin, his fingers drifted down to the side of her neck, and rested there. Her chest heaved from the effort not to cry or react to his wildly inappropriate touch. Yet, impossibly, that touch steadied her. And she knew that if he pulled away now, she would break.

“He doesn’t deserve an ounce of your pain. He will never be worthy of you. I’m...sorry it hurts you, though.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open as many thoughts bombarded her, collided into a swirling mass that made no sense. She couldn’t process the conversation. Seeing Ron and Lavender earlier had been too much. And now Malfoy had apologized. Malfoy. For something that wasn’t his fault. Something he was so removed from that his words confused her. Someone only said things like that if they cared about the other person, but that was impossible.

“I’ve been...ill from the moment I boarded the train for Hogwarts the first time. Only I didn’t understand then. I didn’t know what it meant, what it would do to me.”

Her head felt like it was going to explode. His statements were so vague, but each resonated with truth. If she thought about them, solved them, then she might understand him enough to glean something useful for Harry.

“You’re hurting too,” she whispered.

“It’s not unique. Everyone is, in one way or another,” he said dismissively.

Hermione’s free hand caught at his robe, her fingers curling into the silk she remembered too well. His eyes widened, but he didn’t look away.

“Yes, but I’m not as worried about everyone as you think,” she said quietly. “I want to better the world, but I can’t save it all. You believe I try, but I don’t.”

He opened his mouth, but she shook her head, pressing on.

“I don’t. Not like that. I only have a small circle; I invest my best efforts. If I tried to help everyone, I’d burn out before I could matter where it counted. Even I understand limits.” Her voice steadied as her logic grounded her.

He grinned faintly. “So you’re saying you want to add me to that well-cared-for circle? Spend your time and energy on me?”

“Only if you’re willing to do the same.” She hadn’t meant to admit how much it mattered, but the words were out before she could stop them.

Too often, she had given all of herself to others who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—return the same devotion. It was her flaw: always the best, always proving why she was worth keeping close. She wasn’t blind; she saw how unsustainable it was, how it was eroding her. Yet the compulsion never released its grip. She had to be useful. The most loyal, the brightest, the bravest, the best, or nothing at all. There was excellence or nothing. She refused to be nothing.

For a long time, she had believed that something would happen, an event, a conversation, some undeniable sign that would finally prove she didn’t have to work so hard anymore. That her friendships, her place in class, her very life, would feel secure. But that moment never came.

“You want me to care for you?” His fingers caressed her neck, tracing from under her ear, down to her shoulder, over and over.

His movements lulled her into a calm, dreamlike state. It reminded her of her birthday, when she had been tipsy and her mind slowed deliciously, everything soft around the edges. For the first time since seeing Ron and Lavender tonight, her limbs loosened, her body relaxing. She knew he hadn’t meant the words quite the way they sounded, but she didn’t care. Not when his voice, paired with his touch, wrapped her in warmth. If this was Malfoy’s idea of care, then yes, she wanted it. Her lips parted in a lazy smile.

“There you are, Princess. I can give you what you need.” His fingers tightened on her skin. That, combined with him calling her that, made an odd heat sink into her lower abdomen.

“Only if you agree to let me do the same, remember?” Her words were reckless, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She couldn’t focus long enough to catastrophize, and it was absolutely delightful.

“Alright,” he said reverently.

“I like your constellation,” she said as her mind strayed to their conversation earlier.

He grinned again. “Yeah?”

“Yes, it’s large, arrogantly taking up all the surrounding space. Making the other stars share the space,” she smirked.

“I’d say it was considerate, fitting into the space it was given. Weaving around the other stars instead of invading their established places.”

They both laughed.

“I don’t hate you, Granger.”

“I don’t hate you, Malfoy.”

Hours later, Hermione lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy, holding her conjoined stuffie, and replaying the day in her head. Instead of focusing on the pain of Ron, she found herself back in the Astronomy Tower.

Tomorrow, she’d think about the advantage she now had, how she would use their agreements to get closer, to uncover why Malfoy was at Borgin and Burkes, what nefarious plans he might have.

Tonight, she’d let herself remember his soft voice, the gentle, open expression, the way he’d gazed at her.

Chapter Text

November 1996         Hermione

“I’m telling you, he’s up to something! He wasn’t sick! And when I asked why Harper was Seeker, I couldn’t get any straight answers.” Harry ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, making it stand on end again.

“Perhaps he only felt ill that day. I’m sure he’ll be playing in January.” Hermione took a long drink of her pumpkin juice. Between Harry going on and on about Malfoy not playing in the match and occasionally catching Ron and Lavender out of the corner of her eye, she had no appetite.

“Oh, Won-Won!” Lavender's high-pitched laugh grated on Hermione’s last nerve. She put her fork down and put her hands under the table to scratch her wrist.

“Can you ask about it the next time you work on your project?” Harry asked between bites of his lunch.

She held in a sigh and nodded. “I’ll ask, but Harry, I told you he looks...ill, and has since the beginning of term. Perhaps something really is wrong with Malfoy.”

“Yeah, he’s a git. If he’s sick, he should be.”

“Harry!” she admonished. Harry constantly spoke about how cruel Malfoy was, but his words were equally so. It wasn’t right to wish someone to be ill, except perhaps Voldemort. However, there was a vast difference between Malfoy and Voldemort.

As if cued, Malfoy sauntered in with his usual grace, Crabbe and Goyle not far behind. Blaise Zabini spoke as they sat at the table. Theodore Nott scooted closer to Zabini and Malfoy, but did not speak.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, almost able to tune out Ron and Lavender as she watched what he ate. Like her, it wasn’t much. A few times, it appeared as though eating pained him. She only understood that because she’d witnessed his expression before. No one at the table noticed Malfoy’s struggles.

Ron stopped groping Lavender long enough to talk Quidditch with Harry—thankfully giving Hermione a reason to stay at their table. If she had to watch them paw at each other for one more second, she would lose what little lunch she’d managed to eat. Her nails dug into her flesh, and the weight that had been pressing on her chest got lighter. She took a deep breath, still stealing glances at Malfoy.

I don’t hate you, Granger.

The pressure lifted more. She felt foolish because his words had made such a difference. Maybe she was too much of a people pleaser, afraid of anyone’s dislike. But that wasn’t right. Plenty of peers and adults didn’t like her because of her outspokenness. Malfoy’s hatred had stung worse than anyone else’s, digging in like a knife left wedged in her chest for years. Every nasty comment or glare twisted the blade, cutting a little deeper.

She almost laughed at the thought: if he’d never told her he didn’t hate her, the wound might have kept growing, never healing. It had felt real. Raw. Like a cursed wound someone bore for life. Hermione had never understood why Malfoy held that kind of power over her when no one else did.

Her wrist was raw, but Lavender’s shrill laughter rang out again, and it took everything Hermione had to stay seated until lunch ended. She turned to Malfoy, and a coolness settled over her like a balm. He forced another bite of food into his mouth, his lips twitching in disgust, a strange gesture, since she knew he liked cottage pie. His movements, even while eating, were mesmerizing: long, elegant fingers, visible veins, dexterous precision.

Hermione thought back to before first year, when she had first seen Malfoy in the Daily Prophet. One article, one picture of his family at some event. Being a Muggle-born, she had spent the summer preparing for Hogwarts, devouring books and newspapers to learn about the wizarding world in an attempt to try and fit in.

She had found Malfoy handsome, even with his slicked-back hairstyle. When she learned he would attend Hogwarts too, she daydreamed about meeting him. She imagined they’d be best friends, maybe even more one day.

Then she’d seen him again on the Hogwarts Express platform, and she could barely contain herself. He was even more attractive in person. He smiled at his mother, and her heart skipped a beat. She had never seen such a breathtaking smile in her life. Her goal had been to find him on the train, introduce herself, and dazzle him with everything she’d learned over the summer. Surely he’d want such an impressive friend.

She watched the direction he sauntered as he boarded the train, then followed him. Students passed by; one brushed his shoulder, making him spin around. He was about to scold them when their eyes met and both froze, staring. Hermione felt certain her heart would leap right out of her chest. She had never seen anyone with silver eyes before. His irises sparkled in the sunlight, and she wondered if that color came from being born with magic already active.

Even then, his gaze was intense, almost physical, tugging at her. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to see if he was real. At that moment, nothing else seemed real. Part of her suspected she was in a book, a beautiful story, like the ones her mother read, with couples in elaborate historic clothing embracing on the cover.

The train jolted, severing the moment. Blaise Zabini called to him, gesturing toward a compartment. Malfoy turned and walked away, casting a glance at her before disappearing inside. Hermione felt frustrated with herself—for her reaction, for not speaking, but before she could dwell, ,Neville called for Trevor. One look at his sweet face, and she knew she had to help him find his toad.

Unfortunately, that set the stage for her first real encounter with Malfoy, and he was awful. A complete prat, shattering the imaginary version of him she had built in her mind. It was an important lesson, the first practical one before she set foot in the castle: she had dabbled in a childish crush, a daydream. That mistake had hurt her, and she vowed never to let it happen again.

Hermione blinked, forcing herself to put her right hand back on the table, and frowned at her plate. She flinched at Lavender’s squeal of delight from something Ron had done and balled her hand into a fist. Her eyes flicked up and sought Draco again, her heart rate slowing when she found him pushing his food around on his plate. His movement paused, and he slowly brought his attention to her.

Their eyes locked, and she mourned the loss of his silver again. It was rare now, and she didn’t understand why his irises shifted so often. Perhaps it had something to do with his naturally grey eyes. Still, her skin prickled, and her heart raced. For the first time since sitting down to eat, she felt…better.

“Can I?” Harry asked and bumped her arm when he reached for his pumpkin juice.

Her cheeks heated because she had zoned out and hadn’t realized Harry had been talking to her. She wasn’t sure how to respond, but certainly couldn’t admit where her thoughts had lingered.

“Well...” She counted on Harry’s usual impatience to have him respond before she finished her statement.

“I know I’ve been borrowing your notes a lot, but I got permission for the Quidditch field for practice, and I...” He looked at her sheepishly.

Notes for one of their classes, of course. She sighed.

“Yes. When do you need them?” Hermione took another sip of her pumpkin juice. It was easier to drink than to eat.

“Tonight, if possible. I have to have mine done before next class.” Harry stuffed half a cauldron cake into his mouth.

“Yes, fine.”

“What are you doing with your free period?” Harry asked, finishing the rest of his drink.

“Going to the library.”

Ron cackled across the table. “All she does is go to the library.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron. “Yes, well, some of us care about our marks, Ronald.”

Lavender reached out to Ron. Hermione decided she’d had enough and stood, pulling the sleeves of her robe down to cover her wrists. Without a word to either of them, she hurried from the Great Hall, but didn’t go to the library. Instead, she found herself in the viaduct courtyard, avoiding everyone, and continuing to the bridge.

Hermione leaned against the stone bridge, peering over the side. The wind whipped around her, making her hair even wilder than usual. A chill ran down her spine, despite her robes. She scratched at her right wrist; the left was now inflamed and reddened from her new tick. Over the years, she’d developed odd little nervous habits, biting her nails, blinking too often, tapping her fingers, bouncing her knee, sniffing, smoothing her clothing. They came and went, or rather, she forced them to leave, because if she didn’t, they grew until she became a twitching mess who made everyone uncomfortable.

Even before Hogwarts, she’d struggled to make friends. Harry and Ron would never truly know how much their friendship had changed her life. After they became friends, others followed, and now she had many companions, but they were the first and the best. Her eyes blinked, damp with frustration. Ron was ruining everything, and worse, he didn’t care. Since Gryffindor had won the match, he’d been unbearable—gloating, rude, or completely indifferent.

“Why are you out here, Granger?”

Hermione’s body jumped at Malfoy’s words. She was too lost in her mind, or maybe the wind had masked his footsteps. A lump rose in her throat, making it difficult to speak.

“I needed air.”

“Hmm...” He moved to stand beside her.

She looked back at the courtyard, worried someone saw them.

“No one can see us because of where they’re sitting,” he assured her.

Her shoulders slumped in relief, and she nodded.

“I could just be asking about our project.”

She peeked at him. He leaned against the stone, back to the courtyard, staring at her. The wind whipped around them, making their robes billow. His pale, white-blonde hair was tousled, somehow endearing. She froze as he lifted her left hand, turning it over to examine her wrist.

His eyes scanned the redness, the small welts, the scratches, before rising to meet her face. He frowned, then gently returned her hand to her side.

“You didn’t eat much,” he commented.

“Neither did you.”

He smirked. “The show the Weasel and his twat put on killed my appetite.”

Her eyes widened, and for once, she didn’t correct or reprimand him for calling Ron that.

“Some...couples enjoy public displays of affection.” She attempted to sound reasonable, not bitter, but couldn’t tell if she’d managed it or not.

“And some of us want to eat.”

“So you’re not a fan?” she asked, curious to hear his thoughts.

“Anyone raised in a well-born family knows not to conduct themselves like that in public.”

She assumed it was a pureblood custom then, not to show affection in public. “Not even hand holding?”

He lifted a shoulder. “It depends on the people, their families, but overall we’re raised to not act like animals in heat,” he said with disdain.

She lifted her eyebrows, recalling him and Pansy Parkinson snogging all over the place at Hogwarts. Apparently, appearances only mattered during the daylight hours, or maybe she had a knack for regrettably finding their hiding spots.

“We’re still meeting after dinner in the library? Or somewhere else to work on our project?” he asked.

Her fingers tingled with the urge to itch or grab near her heart, but she stilled them. “The library tonight, but we’ll need to find a different place when we put the charms on the cuff. We’re combining more than one type of spell. I’m not sure if there will be problems.”

“I’m sure it will be fine as long as we go slowly.” Confidence filled his voice, as though he knew what he was talking about.

Hermione drew in a breath of cold air and stepped around him. She didn’t want to leave, but she forced herself forward, taking hurried steps without glancing back. Her fingers flexed into fists and released several times, a quiet attempt to quell the urge to turn around. The weight on her chest returned, urging her to stop, to be near him again, because being close to him made everything feel lighter.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Chapter Text

November 1996          Draco

How could this happen? What had he done wrong? Never once in the entirety he’d been coming to this room had it been empty. The point of the room was to provide what was needed. As long as the person entering had a clear picture in their mind or knew what was needed, then the room accommodated as best as it could. Why the fuck had the room emptied?

Not a single thing remained. Not even his notes. He’d exited and entered it ten times, and each time, the result was the same. Draco had run around in the seemingly never-ending room, feeling along the walls, checking for hidden doors, traps, anything, but it was completely empty.

Draco crumpled to his knees. Everything was gone—his work, his chance, his future. He was doomed. His family would die. He would die.

The idea had been his. He remembered Graham Montague’s account of being trapped inside it, hearing echoes from both Hogwarts and Borgin and Burkes. Draco had been eager to seize on the brilliance of it, to impress the Dark Lord, and contribute to lifting his family from ruin.

His chest bubbled with laughter, bitter and hollow. It would be the instrument of his undoing. He cackled, the sound sharp and fraying, because his entire existence was a cruel joke. He laughed until his stomach clenched and his face ached—until the laughter cracked into sobs and raw wailing. He accepted he was an arrogant, spoiled, vile person, but did that mean he deserved death at sixteen?

His forehead smacked against the floor. Sensation drained from his limbs, sound dimmed from the world. Was his aunt torturing him again?

Then—cold. Smooth metal beneath his fingertips. His eyes flew open. A metal chamber surrounded him. In its center writhed a mass of darkness, its smoky tendrils drifting outward, twisting, searching.

Curiosity or stupidity drove him closer to the sentient blackness. He raised a trembling hand, fingers inching closer. A tendril slithered to meet him, and his gut screamed the truth: this was the only way. Freedom came at a cost.

“...foy?”

Draco paused. He knew that voice. Knew it as well as his own. Doe brown eyes. A summer day. Her curls against his cheek.

Noise. Screaming. He hadn’t realized it was there until it stopped. Had it been his own?

The air whipped around him, harsh and deafening, then slowed—stilled. Even the pounding against the walls, that drumbeat echoing his heart, faded into silence.

“...alright?”

November 1996          Hermione

Hermione paused in front of the door, knowing what the room was. She feared opening the door because it might shatter everything between her and Malfoy. They weren’t friends...they weren't anything. Yet, somehow—they were. If she opened the door and uncovered the secret he’d been guarding since before term began, Harry would be elated. But she knew, was certain it would break her heart.

She shook her head. If Malfoy had nefarious plans that would hurt Harry, she had to discover what they were. Her odd feelings for Malfoy were nothing compared to her friendship with Harry. She straightened her back and pulled open the door to the Room of Requirement.

Hermione’s steps faltered at the threshold. The room was vast and utterly empty—except for Malfoy. He was collapsed on his hands and knees, shoulders shaking, ragged sobs tearing from him. Her eyes swept the space, desperate to find some hidden threat, some reason for what she was seeing. But there was nothing. Nothing but Malfoy, mumbling to himself as though he hadn’t even noticed she was there.

“Fucking dead...fail everything...stupid...”

His words tumbled on, growing clearer as she edged closer. The empty room baffled her, as did the sight of Malfoy. Yet with each step, her suspicion that he was plotting something dark ebbed away, replaced by the dawning realization that he was unraveling.

“Malfoy? Are you alright?”

He stopped speaking, his body went rigid, but he kept his elbows and knees on the ground, not looking at her.

“What are you doing here, Granger?” He snapped. His voice was raw from crying.

She considered lying, but decided against it. Their relationship, whatever it was, had been honest. Except for the motives; she couldn’t reveal those.

“I was following you.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Why were you doing that?”

“I was...I know something has been going on with you...I was worried.”

Malfoy put his forehead on the ground, silent for a few moments, before he knocked his head against the ground several times. Hermione hurried to his side, dropping to her knees, and put her hands on his shoulders to make him stop.

“Malfoy! Stop!” She yanked on his shoulders to pull him upright. “Stop!”

He sat up and fell on his bum. His eyes were red, bloodshot, and puffy. His irises were clear and silver, but so sorrowful.

“Please let me help. Whatever it is, I’ll help.” She meant it. Hermione knew it wasn’t wise to agree to anything without knowing what she was offering, but seeing him like that was shattering her in ways she didn’t quite understand.

“You can’t help me.” He turned his head toward one of the side walls. “No one can. It is my duty.”

“Alright, but...” She scooted closer to him. “I could help with parts of it, I’m sure. There are many things Harry has to do alone, but I help in other ways.”

He scoffed. “He makes you do the hard work, so he‘s victorious and has all the glory; meanwhile, others barely notice you. I’d rather not be like your friends, Granger. They’re tossers.”

She frowned and wanted to correct him because he was the one being a prat, but he was in a mood, so she took a deep breath to stay levelheaded.

“That’s your opinion. The point is, you can still do what you need to, but I can help. I want to.” She wanted to remind them of their conversation at the Astronomy Tower, but he seemed too agitated for that.

“Of course you do. You wouldn’t be a Gryffindor if you didn’t,” he said in a dry tone.

“It has nothing to do with that!” Hermione’s hand twitched with the urge to smack him. Now she was offended. Did he mean nothing he said?

He smirked as though he suspected what she was thinking, and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Then what does it have to do with?”

“We’re...project partners again, and we work well together, and...we agreed,”

Hermione had told Harry she would use their Charms project as an excuse to keep gathering information, but the promise weighed on her. The longer she spent around Malfoy, the harder it was to believe he was plotting anything evil. He had shown her no malice, no intent to harm. Ever since the night at the Astronomy Tower, everything in her mind felt jumbled.

“Partners,” he deadpanned.

“Yes, and we know that sometimes we’re blinded by our own determination, and the other helps us see it.” Usually, after hours of bickering, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

Malfoy finally turned back to her, the silver gone, replaced by flat grey. All traces of emotion were removed from his face. “We can’t be partners for this. Leave.”

Hermione felt his words like a physical blow. He’d agreed, but the first time he seemed to need help, he shut her out. She hadn’t quite trusted him, but this felt like a violation. The last thing she needed was another person she had to chase after to help.

She wobbled as she rose to her feet. If Malfoy didn’t want her help, then fine, he could stay there and cry. She had done her best, and they weren’t…they weren’t anything. Hermione spun on her heel, pressing her fingers to the fabric over her heart.

She managed only five steps before freezing. Magic surged around her, thick and electric, and the empty air began to shimmer with hazy shapes. Objects flickered into being. She stumbled back as the room morphed, transforming with a speed that left her breathless. The room was reacting to what was needed. But was it restoring what Malfoy had asked of it before? Or was it responding to her?

Her mouth fell open as the once-empty space blossomed into a library, smaller than Hogwarts’s, but breathtaking nonetheless. Dark wooden shelves stretched up into shadow, lined with books and strange artifacts. Most of the upper areas of the shelves didn’t hold books; instead, they were filled with various items that probably filled the Room of Requirement before but were now displayed. A wide loft formed above, toward the back, with stairs ascending.

On the ground floor, long and short tables spread across the space: some for writing, others taller for potion work. An ornate carpet unfurled beneath her feet, rolling outward until it anchored couches and chairs around a warm sitting area. Toward the front of the room, an open space waited, too small for a DA lesson, but ample for dueling or spell practice.

Soft light glowed from sconces and desk lamps, mingling with delicate string lights that shimmered like captured moonbeams. The effect was enchanting, almost fairy-like, and she knew Malfoy wouldn’t recognize them as Muggle touches. Dark green curtains dressed windows that didn’t exist, yet gave the impression they might open onto the grounds, if someone peeked behind them.

Beneath the loft, shadows pooled over a workspace cluttered with tools, ingredients, parchment, and a waiting cauldron. Hermione felt her breath catch at the transformation, and judging by Malfoy’s expression, he was just as stunned.

“What is this?” she asked, her hands falling to her sides.

“I think the better question is why?”

Hermione had already figured that out. This was what they needed to work on their projects, and maybe even whatever Malfoy was so worried about. She had decided to leave, to avoid another argument with him for once, but the room clearly disagreed. Taking a breath, she moved around the tables to where he stood near the stairs to the loft and steeled herself for his response.

“It’s simple. This is what we need.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes, we. It appears you want my help, whether you care to admit it or not. And we can use it for our projects and studying as well.”

“Granger, I already—”

“No, Malfoy! The Room of Requirement changed into this—for us. Unless it was like this before I walked in?”

She tapped her foot on the carpet. Yes, she was going to walk away, tired of fighting for the people she cared about to listen to her. No! She didn’t care about Malfoy like that. Her reaction was because of Ron. That made more sense. This was some irrational connection in her brain that she didn’t understand. Sometimes, two unrelated things connected in ways that made little sense.

His jaw moved back and forth as he narrowed his eyes. “No, it wasn’t like this.”

“Alright then, the room meant to do this, and even you can’t argue with that.”

Malfoy closed his eyes and swallowed before opening them and locking them on her. “Fine, I suppose I can’t.”

“Good, then we will work on our project and study here instead of the library.” She knew Ron wouldn’t be happy about her being alone with Malfoy, but if she was going to get him to open up, they needed to be. Besides, Ron was too concerned with his girlfriend to show any true concern for Hermione.

“And you’ll let me help with your...other project. The one that isn’t going well,” she said quietly.

Malfoy stared at her for a long time, so long she didn’t think he would answer. “Stubborn witch...fine, you can help with some arithmancy formulas.”

Her lips curled upward because she had always loved untangling complicated arithmancy problems. Malfoy sauntered closer, crowding her. His eyes were still rimmed red from crying, and though she ought to have looked away, something in her—the part she kept hidden even from herself—found the rawness of it strangely compelling. His pain should have made him smaller, but instead, it deepened his allure.

“I agree on one condition.”

She huffed. Malfoy and his conditions. “And what is that?”

“We meet here every night we can, unless we’re on patrol.”

“But it would be after curfew...”

Malfoy’s fingers brushed from her shoulder down her arm. “It’s past curfew now.”

“Yes, but...” Hermione had accepted the risk tonight because she thought she‘d finally find answers.

He smirked. “I thought you wanted an escape, that you were brave enough to take it. I’m the coward, remember?”

She pinched her brows, no longer certain Malfoy was as much of a coward as he had been.

“I’ll stop bickering with you about helping if you agree.”

She sighed, defeated. He knew exactly what to say to make her bend to his will. Bloody Slytherins. “Fine. Will you ever tell me what you’re doing?”

He laughed bitterly. “Who knows if I’ll ever see it again?” He shook his head. “Perhaps one day, if we ever trust each other.”

“We’re not enemies, Malfoy.”

“You may want to remind Potter of that.”

“That’s not fair. There are good reasons for him to think that.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I’m an insufferable prat. A real rotter. I should stay away from the likes of you and all Gryffindors.” Malfoy’s words were cruel, but his tone was teasing.

“I don’t want you to stay away,” she whispered.

“No?” His fingers traced both of her arms back to her shoulders. “I don’t want you to stay away, either. I suppose we’ll both be brave and come here to meet, yeah?”

She nodded, wondering if she had made the biggest mistake of her life.

Chapter Text

November 1996          Draco

Draco descended the steps back to the first level and huffed before collapsing on one of the couches. While it was comfortable, much more so than the ones in the Slytherin common room, he couldn’t appreciate it. This fucking room had betrayed him, and he still didn’t know why.

He’d been going there since the term started, almost every night, occasionally during the day, and it had never once changed. It was a room full of junk piled so high that some tops weren’t visible. He had spent hours there. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep against the cabinet because he hadn’t slept in a few days. In all that time, the room remained the same. Then last night, everything vanished in front of his eyes, including his bloody notes on what needed to be repaired on the cabinet. The vanishing cabinet—vanished. It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic for him. Not only the cabinet, but everything else as well. The room emptied itself in front of his eyes.

Left him to despair in an empty space, casting spell after spell, trying to get at least his work to return, but to no avail. Then his witch found him, and the room changed again and gave them...this. Was it a sick joke? A sad attempt to quell his fear? Perhaps the room’s way of comforting him before his inevitable death for failing?

Draco pulled out his mother’s letter and reread it, scanning it for hidden messages, hints she was being hurt again, but found nothing. She mentioned her excitement about his return for the holidays, but that was because she was miserable without his father. He groaned. He did not want to spend more time with his insane aunt Bellatrix or participate in additional training.

The door opened. Hermione appeared almost shy in her approach. He was pleased she kept her word to him. Part of him didn’t think she‘d actually show up.

“Sorry I’m late, but I had to avoid...well, you know.” She sat on the same couch, but on the other end. “What do you want to start with? Did you finish your transfiguration homework?”

“No. It slipped my mind,” he smirked at her. His eyes took her in as she tugged off her robes, leaving only her uniform. Draco forced himself not to linger on her breasts or legs, believing he should receive some type of award for his willpower.

“Again? Malfoy, why do you do this? I thought you enjoyed the class,” she scolded him.

Warmth spread over his limbs as he lifted a shoulder. Truthfully, the majority of his assignments slipped from his mind as soon as he left the classroom.

“Is it...is it because you’re still upset about what you were working on?” She gestured around the room.

“Yes. I’ve lost my notes,” he answered, because it was partially true.

“That doesn’t seem like you. You’ve always been organized with our projects.” Her cheeks pinked. “, in the past as well.

A sly smile covered his mouth. So she had been paying attention to him, at least a little. Draco made a point of being organized with their projects because he understood how important they were to her. He rubbed his eyes.

“Perhaps it’s because you haven’t been sleeping well...since the beginning of term.” Her tone was gentle, but his alarms went off regardless.

He sensed her prying again, wanting him to admit to something or reveal secret information. Salazar, she was terrible at this. He leaned his head back on the couch.

“You’re probably right, Granger. I’ll find them soon enough.”

“Why don’t you sleep well?”

Draco turned his head toward her. “Isn’t that a rather personal question?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“Not between friends, I suppose, but we’re not friends, are we, Granger?”

She winced before twisting her body and pulling her legs under her. It was then that Draco realized she’d taken her shoes off.

“No, we aren’t, but as I said, we aren’t enemies anymore, either.”

“Right, we’re...partners.”

“Yes.” She pushed her curls behind her shoulders. “But maybe we could try.” Hermione cleared her throat. “We could try to be friends.”

Draco forced himself not to laugh. He wondered if he was delirious from lack of sleep, because what world had Hermione Granger offering friendship to him? Then his mind reminded him it was a ruse and meaningless. Her offer was nothing more than a way to lure him in, to gain his trust, but for what purpose?

Draco had no proof that Potter put Hermione up to this, but his instincts told him that Scarhead had. They detested each other, but what was Potter’s endgame? He couldn’t possibly know about his allegiance to the Dark Lord. No one did except Theo, and Theo would never betray him. Theo was the one who helped him hide his mark.

He’d told no one about his mission. He couldn’t. It would endanger their lives. Only Theo was safe because of the curse. So what could Potter think he was up to? It didn’t matter. Asking Hermione to offer herself up like a lamb for slaughter was disgusting.

Draco wanted to believe on her birthday or the Astronomy Tower that any of her words had been honest, that she’d meant them, but as delusional as he was, he wasn’t yet insane. No, she wasn’t there, out of a desire to be near him. This was just another risky burden she carried for Potter. She had learned nothing since second year—she wasn’t less rash in her support.

“Or...we don’t have to.” Her voice shook.

His lack of response seemed to unnerve her.

Fuck it.

If she were foolish enough to enter a snake’s nest, then he would play with her. Draco slid across the couch until his leg touched her tucked-up ones.

“You want to be friends, Granger?”

“Y—yes.”

Draco put his arm on the back of the couch and leaned toward her. Her scent of old books and Hermione roses enveloped him. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, breathe her in, but restrained himself.

“I must warn you, I tend to be close to my friends. I’m told I don’t understand personal space.” Technically, only Theo said that because of his issues with people touching him, but there was a thread of truth in his statement.

“I’m seeing that.” Her voice was breathy.

“You sure you still want to be my friend?”

She nodded and swallowed. He wanted to lower his lips to her pulse point, watching in fascination as her pulse accelerated. Draco dipped his head and breathed her in, clenching his jaw as his eyelids fluttered. He hovered near where her shoulder met her neck before lifting his head to speak near her ear.

“Does this mean you’ll talk to me during the day?”

She shivered. “I already do in classes when we’re paired.”

“Yes, but what about in the hallways?” He should stop pushing. He was being stupid, but the more he built his walls, the more he realized it was impossible to hold them in place with her so close.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“You worried about your reputation, Princess?”

Her breath turned rapid as she trembled. “Why do you call me that?”

The temptation to lick her ear made it difficult to respond. “Because that’s what you are: the Gryffindor Princess.”

“Don’t they call you the Slytherin Prince?”

Draco trailed his fingertips along her shoulder, down her arm. “Some do, yes.”

“We can’t—we can’t study like this.”

He smiled at her attempt to rein him in. She had no idea how controlled he was or what he‘d be like if he let go of that control. Draco rubbed his cheek against her curls. A thousand tingles raced across his skin. He held his breath so he wouldn’t make a sound.

“I—I don’t think friends do that, any of this. None of mine do.”

Your friends aren’t friends, and neither are we. I can’t be your friend, Princess.

“It sounds as though your friends aren’t very interesting.” Draco gritted his teeth and pulled himself from her.

Her cheeks and neck were pink, the freckles standing out against her light olive skin. Her dark pupils were blown wide as she blinked. He’d give anything to touch her to see if she was excited because, unless he was reading her wrong, she wanted him. Perhaps only because she shouldn’t, and that was the sole appeal. Draco didn’t care. If it meant she‘d give more of herself, more of her attention, he would take it.

“We need to get to work.”

He smiled at the return of her bossy tone. He‘d leave her alone. For now, because he’d found what he needed to know. Whether she wanted him to or not, he affected her, and he could work with that. If he allowed himself to be this stupid with her, then he wanted more, whatever she was willing to give, as many times as she‘d allow.

“You can’t do that. I agreed to come here—” she started.

“Every night. You agreed to come every night.”

“Yes, and I will, but you can’t do that.”

“You could have told me at any time to stop. But you didn’t. You waited until you’d come to your senses, which tells me...you wanted me that close, yeah?”

“No!” She straightened her back. “I was...overwhelmed and didn’t know what to say.”

“And yet you know exactly what to say now.” Draco rubbed his fingertips together to keep from reaching out.

“You’re twisting my words!”

“I know it’s hard to resist me, but we should work on our project. We only have a few weeks left.” Draco rose and took out the wrist cuff they had chosen to enchant with charms and placed it on the surface of one of the tall tables.

“You!” Hermione bolted up and marched to him. “You don’t get to do that! You were wrong!” She smacked his arm, which surprisingly hurt. His witch was a violent little thing. “You don’t get to act like that and then...pretend it was me that initiated anything!” She smacked him again. “Apologize to me, now!”

He chuckled, which enraged her more. She beat on his arm and back with her fists. Draco spun, grabbing her wrists.

“But here you are, initiating contact with me again. Do you miss being close to me, Princess?”

Her mouth dropped open as her face turned red. “You horrible, arrogant, disgusting—”

Draco tugged her flush against his chest, silencing her. He locked his eyes on her. “Do you want me to let you go?”

“Apologize to me.” Her voice had that breathy quality to it again.

“I’m sorry for not being able to resist touching you.” His thumbs rubbed her raw wrists. “I’ll try to keep my distance, but I can’t promise I won’t slip because I want to touch you.”

“You do?” she whispered.

“Isn’t it obvious to you, like everything else about me?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing obvious about you anymore.”

Anymore? Draco didn’t know what she meant, but was too distracted by her soft skin. The thought of lifting her wrist to his lips tormented him.

“But you’ll try not to?” Her words cut into his thoughts.

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“A—alright.” Her eyes dropped to his lips.

“Will you go back to hating me if I make a mistake?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Draco gave up and brought her right wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips against her veins and reddened skin for a few seconds before releasing her.

Hermione stumbled back and grabbed the tabletop to stabilize herself. Her hand reached up, brushing her curls over her shoulders before letting go of the tabletop. She leaned against it, trailing her free fingertips along her neck as she took breaths. Draco wanted his tongue to trace the path her fingers laid out.

“I was considering whether we should add an Unbreakable Charm once the others were placed,” he said, as he reviewed the notes he’d made. He was doing his best not to look at her anymore, fearful now that he’d slipped, touched her, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

She cleared her throat. “That’s easy enough to add.”

His lips quirked to hide his smile. She was attempting to sound confident, but he’d shaken her. He had affected her, and it made his chest warm with pride. He bet the Weasel had never made her squirm that way, color rising to her cheeks, soft and compliant in his arms. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get back to his bed. He was humming with frustration that needed to be released.

“We still have three weeks to finish, but I think we should start putting the charms on tonight since we don’t know if there will be conflicts as we layer them.” She moved around to the other side of the table, across from him.

Draco picked up the silver cuff, studying it. They had been allowed to choose something from the classroom or provide a personal object. He’d offered the silver cuff with inlaid swirling patterns, almost vine-like, in hopes she‘d wear it one day. Looking at it now, he decided it would be better if there were two that could be worn under long-sleeved clothing, for added protection.

“First, however, I think we need two of these,” he said and placed the cuff on the center of the table. He focused and flicked his wand. “Gemino.”

Two identical silver cuffs now sat next to each other. He’d cast that spell on all manner of things when he was younger. He tried it with sweets, but they never tasted quite as good. Draco would never reveal how many “priceless” objects in his house were actually duplicates because he’d damaged the real ones. He didn’t want to upset his mother, and he didn’t want to be punished by his father.

“I didn’t know you knew that charm,” she said with a hint of surprise.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He smirked at her. “These will work better as a set. The protection will be stronger, more stable, and if we link them together, they will work together to protect the user.”

“Do you mean with a Protean Charm?” she asked.

“Similar, but we need to...have them respond so if one is activated, the other will trigger, not only be aware...” His mind raced to some projects he and Theo had worked on since last year.

She picked up both cuffs, assessing them. “That’s a good idea. We should add the defensive shield charm and modified Protego first to make sure they even work as we’re hoping. Then, if they do, we add the Unbreakable Charm.”

“Alright, and that will give me time to think about how to link them properly.”

“Yes, then we add that final charm at the end, provided everything else works.”

Draco finally let his eyes rest on her, the fingers on his left hand rubbing together. Her eyes were tired, she appeared peaky, her light olive skin turning pale as it did when she needed to rest or hadn’t slept well.

“We’ll have to test them as well, to be certain they work,” she reminded him.

“Yes, you’ll wear them.” Draco needed to know they’d work before he gave them to her.

She scoffed. “Of course you’d want to send hexes at me.”

“Not at all, but they won’t fit me properly.”

“We could add a charm to fit the wearer easily.”

He lifted a shoulder. “If there’s time.”

She put one cuff down and traced the swirling designs with her finger. “I hope this works. Professor Flitwick didn’t seem confident when we presented the idea.”

He grinned at her. “I’m positive it will.”

“Why?”

Draco put his palms on the table’s surface and leaned toward her. “Because when we work together, Granger, we can accomplish anything.”

Chapter Text

November 1996          Draco

“Theo, I’m serious. You need to be more careful. Don’t force me to order you.” Draco leveled his gaze at his best friend.

Theo’s shoulders slumped as he stared at his feet. “You don’t understand. I need to do this.”

“I’m not stopping you, but I didn’t put that damn curse on you only for you to find ways around it!” Draco took a steadying breath. The darkness in him swirled and rose. He related it to black smoke in his soul, not yet solid, not a stain, but clinging to every part of him.

Draco closed his eyes, gathering his fears for his friend, himself, his poor attempts at assassinating the headmaster, and shoved them all into his well. He then covered it in darkness and built walls around it. Wall after wall until his chest stopped hurting. Buried it deep in his castle, far beyond the gates.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I was trying to hurt myself. I can’t help it.” Theo’s voice was miserable. “I know it seems I’m ungrateful, but I’m not.”

Draco sighed and sat beside him. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t. It’s just these thoughts; they are always in my mind. I can’t make them go away, and sometimes I slip.”

He looked at his washed-out friend. Neither of them slept well, and he hadn’t been as attentive to Theo as he should have been because he was a selfish prat. “No. It’s my fault for not being thorough enough. I promised I‘d take it all away, but when I cast the curse, I didn’t think far enough ahead.”

“Draco, stop. When you found me that day, you hadn’t planned on casting the Imperious curse. I didn’t really give you time to think it through. And I do feel better. I’m not thinking about ending my life anymore. I don’t even want to. That’s because of you.” Theo pushed his curls out of his eyes.

“I realize that, but I should‘ve noticed when you kept wearing long sleeves during summer.” Draco had similar urges that Theo had been battling with for months. He wanted to smash his face into the wall of their room for being an idiot.

“I’m pretty good at hiding injuries, and besides, it isn’t hard to lie and blame my father. Half of the time, my wounds are from him,” Theo said with a shrug.

Draco got to his feet. “Fine, but not here. You’re supposed to be safe at Hogwarts. I should have noticed.”

“It’s not your job to watch me all day, every day.”

Draco rubbed his chest. “Perhaps not, but this stops now. I won’t keep you from going to the Forbidden Forest if that’s what you need to do, but you will be more careful.”

He took several breaths, reinforcing his walls, and gestured for Theo to stand. Theo grumbled, but stood. Draco locked eyes with his friend and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I order you to stop hurting yourself. Regardless of your thoughts, you won’t give in to the urges. I order you...when they coalesce in your head, become all you think about, you will forget them or redirect your thoughts. Understood?”

Theo’s eyes turned glassy and unfocused for a moment before he replied. “Yes, I understand.”

“As long as you abide by this, I won’t interfere with your visits to the Forbidden Forest. If you try to find a loophole or disobey, those will stop. Do you understand?” He felt like such an arsehole for doing this to his best friend, but they’d agreed it was the safest thing for Theo. If Draco hadn’t imperiused Theo in August of the previous year, he would have already been dead by his own hand.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Now heal your wounds, since I know you won’t go to Madame Pomfrey.” Draco released him and sank to his bed.

“Are you meeting with her again tonight?” Theo asked as he rolled up his sleeves.

Draco blanched at the bloody mess of skin, again furious with himself for missing the signs. As soon as Theo had shown him that large blade, Draco should have realized Theo’s intent. But at the time, Theo insisted he was learning to hunt with it. Draco didn’t quite agree with or understand Theo’s fascination with hunting down creatures in the Forbidden Forest, but it seemed therapeutic for him. For weeks after, Theo was serene, with fewer nightmares, so Draco had let it go.

“Yes.”

“Have you heard from your mother? Is she still alright?” Theo cleaned his wounds and sealed them closed.

“Yes, she seems to be. I hope she is being honest.”

“Has the Dark Lord or your aunt attempted to contact you?”

Draco shook his head. “No. I have my mission. I either am successful and my family will be rewarded, or I fail and we die.”

He hadn’t shared the details of his mission with Theo. Still, Theo knew he’d been given one. Draco had forbidden him from speaking of it. Theo was his only true confidant, not just because of the Imperius curse, but because pain and blood had soldered their bond together. Neither of them would ever betray the other. Like Draco, Theo understood that no matter what resistance still lingered, there was no stopping the Dark Lord. The wizarding world would fall at his feet, and Voldemort would rule with absolute power. The thought sickened Draco, not only for what it meant for his family, but for her.

He shut his eyes. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Every choice he’d made since returning to Hogwarts this year had been reckless, selfish. But the idea of letting her go, of pulling away, felt like Theo driving that silver blade straight into his chest. The pain was sharp enough, real enough, that it stole his breath. He forced himself to rebuild his walls, to shore up the cracks before they gave way completely.

“I don’t know what I’ll do when he rises to power. I’m not cut out to be a Death Eater. You know I’ll never survive it,” Theo said quietly.

“I’m working on it. You won’t be, if I can help it. If there’s any way to get you out before it happens—you will take it, no arguments.” Draco pushed the fringe off his forehead. “If I fail, I’ll order you to leave, and you’ll run. If I’m successful, it will be the same, only it won’t be rushed.”

“I don’t want to leave you, Draco.”

Draco opened his eyes and smirked. “You’re worried about what will happen with the curse if I die.”

“No! Don’t say that, you wanker!” Theo snapped, pulling out dittany from his healer’s kit, putting it over the sealed red marks on his arms.

“It’s the truth, at least in part. Either way, I’ll try to get you away from all this.” Draco lay back on the mattress and put his arm over his eyes. “If none of that works, I’ll make you not care anymore, but I really don’t want to do that.”

Using the curse to fundamentally change his friend was one of his biggest fears. In that moment of panic, when Theo was unraveling, Draco hadn’t understood the responsibility, only the need. Most who cast Imperius never cared how it bent a mind, but he did. It hadn’t been to make Theo his puppet.

Madam Rosmerta had been different. That had been the mission. Collateral damage, and by then, he’d begun to learn through crude legilimency that most people weren’t innocent anyway. In fact, as his rudimentary skills grew, he learned most people were despicable, or at least their thoughts and motives were. He rubbed at his chest, palm pressing over the ache there.

But Theo—Theo was different. Casting the curse had meant Theo stopped trying to end his own life. It had dragged him back from the ledge, stopped the downward spiral his father’s cruelty had drilled into him. Theo slept. Ate. Existed. He came to Hogwarts and didn’t dissolve into shadows.

He was still reserved, still paranoid, still prone to morose thoughts, but now his better parts shone through. That open, unjudging kindness. A brilliance and focus that even Draco and Blaise secretly leaned on.

Theo thought himself weak, but Draco knew better. He was the bravest person he knew. The abuse he’d endured…Draco hadn’t understood it, not really, until he’d seen it up close. Lucius had struck him before, yes, but never shattered bones, never left scars that wouldn’t fade. Theo had been near death multiple times. Draco had found him like that. Twice.

And still Theo had stood between Draco and his father one summer, shielding him. He’d defied the monster, not to save himself, but to spare Draco. Later, as Draco bound his friend’s wounds, Theo had explained that when his father was that drunk, not even Lucius Malfoy’s wrath would have mattered.

No, Draco didn’t want to change Theo. He couldn’t. Theo didn’t have the capacity for that kind of darkness; it would consume him whole. And Draco would never let that happen.

“Does she know?” Theo asked.

Draco peeked at him. “No, and I don’t plan on telling her.”

Theo finished wrapping his arms in bandages. “I suppose that’s for the best. How are you going to protect her when he takes over?”

“It used to be easy because I stayed away from her, let her think I hated her. I cocked everything up.”

“Did you actually believe you‘d be able to stay away if she talked to you? If she noticed you? I’ve never seen you as happy as the day she slapped and threatened you at wand point. You had her complete attention. She touched you and proved she was your equal.”

“She’s better than me, so much better.”

Theo laughed. “True enough.”

“Tosser.” Draco chuckled too.

“I know it’s not ideal, but maybe just let things be for now while you figure out what to do when the Dark Lord takes over. You’ll never have this opportunity again. I know you’re a selfish, arrogant prat, but when was the last time you did something for yourself? Something that mattered?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it.

“And when I say something for yourself, I don’t mean shite you’ve done because you wanted your father’s regard, or when you acted out to irritate him. I mean something that was only for you, and it means something.“

Fuck. Draco’s mind raced back over his years at Hogwarts, every so-called accomplishment already poisoned by the demand for excellence. He thought the earlier years might hold something easier, purer, but no. His first instinct was to say learning to fly when he was five. But that was pathetic. Too long ago. Too childish.

Then he realized why it came to mind. Flying had been the only thing he and his father had truly shared. His best memories of Lucius were on a broom, the rare times they felt almost like father and son. Which, of course, meant even that wasn’t his. He’d done it only to win approval, to earn favor that never lasted.

“Losing my virginity two years ago. That was selfish,” he blurted out.

“Yeah, that’s true. It wouldn’t have been selfish except you never cared about Pansy, not like that.”

Draco stared at the ceiling. “I’m not known for being a nice bloke.”

“Fair enough, but that still doesn’t count.”

He snapped his head to Theo. “What?”

“You didn’t care about her. It was to prove you were a man, and it meant nothing to you, not really. You enjoyed the envy of others, but it wasn’t life-changing.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “Says you. Trust me, it was life-changing to start shagging.”

“Fine, I’ll let that go, but that’s sad if that was the only thing you thought of. It doesn’t matter because you proved my point anyway. That took far too long. Everyone thinks you’re what you project, but you’re not. Your actions, the ones that count, are for other people. Everything. Nothing is for you.”

Draco stared at him like he’d gone mad. “That’s rubbish.”

“I’m not talking about the inconsequential things!” Theo shot back. “Draco, your life is on the line because of your family.”

Draco exhaled hard, rubbing at the pressure in his chest. “It’s only recently I’ve become ‘noble,’” he said, the laugh that followed bitter at his own absurdity.

“Alright, but what about before? At the Quidditch World Cup? Or when you shielded me from my father? Or when you covered for me here, because I was too wrecked from him to function? What about when you slipped Potter and Weasley the answers they needed to save your witch? When you stayed up through my nightmares? When you built wards and charms to keep me safe? I could go on, and I haven’t even touched what you’ve done for your mother—”

“Stop!” Draco snapped. “Fucking hell, Theo. Those don’t count. They were for you, Granger, or my mother.”

Theo spread his hands, exasperated. “Exactly! Every significant thing you’ve done since Hogwarts has been for me, your mother, or your witch.”

Draco froze, his hand dropping from the now-tender spot over his chest. “Are you suggesting I keep spending time with her? That doesn’t make sense if I’m doing things for her.”

“That isn’t for her, that’s for you. It would only be for her if she wanted you there in a romantic sense.”

“Fine, I’ll concede that. It’s not for her. I’m not a good person. I’m serving the bloody Dark Lord.” Draco picked up his wand and stared at it.

“You don’t want to do that. You don’t have a choice. That’s for your mother.”

“The only reason you see me differently than everyone else is because we’re friends.”

“No, it’s because I know the real you. I agree, you’re not good, but you’re also not evil. All you’ve wanted for years has been her. Now she’s willing to talk to you, see you almost every night. Does it even matter what you do with her?”

“No, she could talk about anything. Or work on classwork, or only sit there and read. They would still be the best memories of my life,” he admitted.

“Then spend time with her. Once things change, you won’t be happy serving the Dark Lord. We don’t know what’s going to happen. These might be the only good memories you’ll get, especially with her. You owe it to yourself, just this one thing, yeah?”

Draco gripped his wand. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

“You can protect her. Your aunt didn’t find out about her during your training. You hid her, even when you shite yourself.” Theo chuckled.

Draco flipped him off and cracked a grin.

“You can protect her,” Theo repeated.

“It was different then. I’m fucking terrified of the holidays. Bellatrix will be there, and there are many more memories now. The only ones she saw before were old, and I didn’t understand my thoughts then, so it came off as disgust and lust because of hormones. Now...I’ve spent so much time with her...what if I fail?”

“You won’t. I know you don’t feel as strongly or in the same way about me, but you hid me, too. You didn’t have to, but you did because you didn’t want them to target me to get to you.” Theo got up and crouched beside the bed. “You can protect us, even if you don’t believe it. I do. You told me you trust me and my judgment. It was the highest compliment you’ve ever given anyone that I’ve seen. So trust me.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped because Theo was right. He didn’t trust easily and only respected a few. Theo qualified for both. It was why he was his best mate.

“Fine, you arsehole. I concede, for now.”

“Good. Work on your Occlumency. Ask Snape to help, like your mother suggested.”

“You’re full of helpful ideas,” Draco said sarcastically.

“He’s supposed to help you with your mission, even though none of us knows exactly what it is.”

“It’s safer if none of you do. I’ll ask him, but he’s a git.”

“But you’ll keep seeing her, yeah?”

“For now.”

Theo nodded, satisfied with his answer, and returned to his bed to put away the supplies he’d used to patch himself up.

Draco lay back on his bed again, sifting through his memories, attempting to find another one of significance, something he’d done for himself, but sadly, came up empty. He’d judged others for being nothing more than sycophants, constantly seeking approval from others, but he was no better. The only difference between them and him was that he did such in a smarmy manner. His arrogance made his words and actions appear driven by his selfish nature. Draco felt more broken than before, more diseased than ever. Even his egotism wasn’t his—just another pathetic attempt for attention.

Chapter Text

November 1996          Hermione

Malfoy was already at one of the desks, books spread across the surface, when she arrived. He hurried to put everything away before she could see what he was doing, but she’d been varying her arrival times, so he couldn’t anticipate when she would show up. She wanted to know what he was studying because, from what she’d seen, it had nothing to do with their classes.

He’d been reading about dark magic since her birthday. The titles she had glimpsed weren’t overly concerning—more historical than instructional—but paired with his other books on advanced charms, potions, and spells, she couldn’t shake her concern. She hadn’t told Harry yet because she knew he jumped to conclusions, and for all she knew, Malfoy was trying to help his father somehow.

She needed to know the truth before she brought it to Harry. Tonight, the books weren’t the same, but they were still about dark arts and hexes.

“Interesting reading, Malfoy.” She sat beside him to see his reaction. The tables in the Room of Requirement were narrower than the ones in the Hogwarts library. They couldn’t sit across from each other, only beside.

“Yes, well, it took you long enough,” he snapped impatiently.

Hermione took a risk. One question to hear his response. That would let her know if she needed to pry more or not. “Why are you reading about dark arts?”

Malfoy stilled. He took deep breaths, rustling, his white blonde fringe falling across his forehead and eyes. His tongue rolled in his cheek as he appeared to be thinking.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to know the answer to that?”

Her insides trembled because she wasn’t sure she did. If he admitted he was using dark magic, she’d have no choice, but she didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to see him that way; he’s shown her there was more to him than the image he projected.

Malfoy gave her a wicked smile. She should have been disturbed, more terrified that Harry’s suspicions were correct. He leaned closer until she was breathing his air, his face inches from hers, his minty breath made her lips tingle.

“I suppose since we’re friends now, I can tell you.”

Hermione couldn’t help but think of his house, how much he embodied a snake. Graceful, with quick, fluid movements, he maneuvered in and out of places and situations effortlessly. He was territorial, lethal, and alluring—always coiled and ready to strike.

“I’m researching a way to cleanse someone of dark magic.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“People make mistakes, Granger, some of them cost more than others. As a Gryffindor, don’t you think they deserve a second chance if they want to atone for their wrongdoings?”

“Yes, of course.”

He moved slightly and put his mouth near her ear. She heard him breathe in and hum with contentment. Her curls ruffled as he brushed his cheek against them again. He seemed unable to control his reactions when he was this close.

“Some dark magic is irreversible, but even small amounts stain your soul. If you use enough, it rots your soul, claims pieces of you that you never get back.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Sweat covered her nape from his nearness.

“Even if someone stops in time or regrets their choices, that stain, that rot, doesn’t go away. They carry it for the rest of their lives. If it’s small enough, it might not affect them, but...mmm.” Malfoy buried his face in her hair.

“But what?” Her voice was breathy, but she had lost the ability to make it sound different.

“I’d like to find a way for those who haven’t lost pieces of themselves to recover.”

“How...how will you do that?” Hermione wondered if this was about his father, the secret duty he had that he didn’t want to tell her about.

He stiffened and sat back. His pupils covered most of his irises, but to her delight, he had a silver ring, not stone grey. He shrugged.

“I’m still in the early stages of research, but I was thinking a vessel could capture the corruption and store it. It would have to be worn by the individual, but if it trapped the magic, it would obstruct the rot, stopping the spread inside the person.”

“Do you mean that it would draw out the dark magic?” Hermione’s mind raced with possibilities. If he found a way to remove dark magic from someone... She didn’t know Malfoy was altruistic. Although it was more likely, this was about his father—still, if he was successful, it could change the wizarding world.

“In theory, yes. Again, the person wouldn’t technically be free of their deeds because, without the vessel, the dark magic would return to them.”

“That and, of course, the legal ramifications, but this would change everything. Criminals in Azkaban could be rehabilitated. They wouldn’t have to remain there or have their magic permanently bound.” She attempted to connect his idea to his father, waiting with bated breath to see Draco’s reaction.

He laughed. That wasn’t encouraging. “I suppose, but there’s no way the Wizengamot would agree to that.”

“Malfoy, this is...I'm...” Hermione struggled to respond. She had many comments, but didn’t know how he would receive them.

“You could just tell me I’m brilliant,” he laughed again.

She smacked him on his shoulder before she stopped herself. His laughter rose in volume.

“I thought you’d be enamored by my impressive intellect, my magnanimous nature. Instead, you beat me. I think you may have a problem with anger, Granger.” He continued to chuckle.

“You haven’t done anything yet, Malfoy. You said you were still in early research,” she chided in a light tone.

“True. However, I’m uncertain how that leads to smacking me.”

“I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry.”

He leaned toward her again and tucked a curl behind her ear. Goosebumps spread on her arms. Malfoy smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was stunning and reminded her of the first smile she’d ever seen him have with his mother at the platform, about to board the Hogwarts Express.

“I think you seek reasons to smack me, or perhaps you want to touch me?”

Her cheeks heated because both were true, but for different reasons. “Why are you so secretive about this idea? It’s brilliant,” she whispered.

“I haven’t begun anything or even tested spells yet. One shouldn’t show anything until they’re assured of success. Excellence or nothing.” His smile disappeared as his eyes dimmed.

Excellence or nothing. His words reminded her of her own only days ago. There was excellence or nothing. She refused to be nothing. Malfoy refused to be nothing.

“I want to help,” she blurted out.

He gave her a half smile. “Of course you do. You want to save the world.”

“No. Well, yes, but I want to help you because this is a remarkable idea and you should see it through. Besides, everyone knows I love research.”

“Didn’t you recently tell me how little time you had?”

“I did, but I also told you we would...care for one another and give each other what we needed so—” she took a breath and swallowed her nerves. “I want to help.”

“It’s a lot of reading about terrible, dark things. My family library has books even Hogwarts doesn’t have, and some of them...” He averted his eyes. “You won’t be able to touch, but I will turn the pages for you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask why, but then she realized why she couldn’t touch them. Mixed emotions surfaced, and she didn’t quite know where to place them. His offer was tempting because she’d likely never see these types of books anywhere else. Malfoy couldn’t help his pureblood family warded them against Muggle-born witches and wizards. He didn’t think of her as that word if he offered to turn the pages so she could read them, but still, some lingering part of her cautioned her.

Malfoy’s actions were contradictory and confused her. There were many moments she was positive he was being truthful with her, open, allowing her to see pieces of him that he showed only his closest friends. However, so many other pieces were still obscured from her. She still didn’t know his true motives, but...he had agreed to be friends. Her lips twisted. She was the one being disingenuous by attempting to catch him in a lie or doing something he shouldn’t.

“Alright. I doubt I’d have an opportunity to see them otherwise.”

“That will keep you here later...” His eyes glittered with mischief.

“Is this why you don’t sleep?”

“Amongst other things.”

“Alright, I’ll figure it out, I suppose. I’ve already agreed to be here every night. This just means I’ll be here later. It will be a miracle if I’m not caught at some point.” Hermione knew every time she met with him, she was taking a risk of getting caught sneaking back into her room. Either by the patrols, Filch, or her dorm mates, but what choice did she have?

“Do you believe in fate, Granger?”

What an odd question to pose to her. She tapped her fingers on the surface of the desk. “I’m not sure. I suppose I do. We fought to keep the prophecy from...”

Hermione cast her eyes to her hands that now fidgeted together. Malfoy knew about the battle at the Department of Mysteries, which was why his father was in Azkaban. She hadn’t meant to bring that up, but prophecies and fate seemed intertwined to her.

“I do, as did my father,” he gave a dry laugh.

“Why are you asking?” Her voice was subdued.

“I was curious to know what you thought. Sometimes I doubt, but then I realize proof is right in front of me.”

When Hermione looked up, he stared at her with that possessive intensity that made her feel like he was devouring her, consuming pieces of her. Tiny ones when they first locked eyes as first-year students. Each gaze after that took a little more. She wondered what would be left of her.

November 1996          Hermione

“This is rubbish!” Ron smacked his quill down on his parchment and huffed.

Hermione rolled her eyes. They were in the common room working on their homework after dinner, and all Ron did was complain. Harry grumbled, but did what was needed with little dialogue.

“Why is there so much writing in Defense of the Dark Arts? Snape is being a git. Everyone already knows about the Cruciatus Curse. We learned about that in fourth year,” Ron whinged.

She gripped her quill tightly. The only reason Ron complained was because he was lazy and wanted to finish so he could snog Lavender. In the past, if Ron had been this worked up, she would have offered to help or, at the very least, given advice, but she said nothing.

“Bet Malfoy’s essay will get top marks. That rotter probably knows all about the Cruciatus Curse,” Ron snarled.

Harry lifted his chin from his parchment. “He’s probably already used it since he—”

“Don’t, Harry,” Hermione hissed and scanned the common room pointedly. Several students were there, some as young as second years.

“Fine, but he probably has used it.” Harry insisted.

“I doubt it. He’s almost as lazy as you both with his school work,” she snapped.

“Casting curses aren’t assignments—wait, how do you know that?” Ron demanded.

“I’ve been working on projects with him, Ronald. I know his work habits.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at her. “Doesn’t matter. Schoolwork isn’t using Unforgivables. That’s probably his hobby.”

Harry laughed. Hermione's stomach weaved into knots because she realized that while Malfoy said unkind things about Ron and Harry, the comments were never like this. Surprisingly, his cruelty was saved for words to their faces. Her brows pinched as she thought about her early years at Hogwarts. Malfoy had been openly cruel, never hiding or whispering his comments. He didn’t have to; he was the Slytherin Prince.

The first two years had been the most difficult for Hermione. She was finding her place in the wizarding world, and with Harry and Ron, to make sure they wanted to keep her. The only interactions with Malfoy had been painful because of his innate disgust.

Except...that wasn’t entirely true. Their silent battle for the table they both preferred in the library near the window. They never spoke to each other, but it was obvious they vied for the same table. Triumphant expressions from whoever “won” were given to the other.

They glared at each other plenty, but no words were spoken. By then, he’d already called her a Mudblood and could have said awful things to her each time they were in the library, but never did. He only did that in front of Harry and Ron.

She recalled when she recovered from being petrified. There were seconds...the exchange was so quick Hermione dismissed it entirely, but...she’d sworn he’d gazed at her with relief, tenderness, and then anger. She thought her mind was muddled from being petrified somehow, but now...she wasn’t so certain she had imagined it. Now she knew him better, how his eyes constantly shifted, revealing his thoughts or emotions.

If Malfoy were the type of person who cast Unforgivables as a hobby, he wouldn’t be the person he was when he was alone with her, even in the first two years of them knowing each other.

“That’s rather rude,” her tone was dismissive, but she couldn’t help responding.

“Rude? Since when have you stuck up for the ferret?” Ron’s voice turned sharp. “I suppose it makes sense, since you seem drawn to the enemy.”

Her head snapped up as she glared at Ron. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you snogged Krum when he was Harry’s rival,” Ron sneered.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. She and Viktor were still friends, and that kiss was a goodbye kiss. It didn’t mean whatever Ron thought it did.

Harry stilled beside her, his eyes darting between them with a grimace.

Regardless, it made no sense that he was angry about it. He was with Lavender. Her mind recalled his ugly words in fourth year, telling her she was “fraternizing with the enemy,” and she rolled her eyes again.

“That is none of your business, and you do not get to have an opinion on whoever I decide to spend my time with. If you want to control someone, go talk to your girlfriend!” Hermione stood, pulling her things into her arms. She looked at Harry. “I’m going to the library. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hermione...” Harry called out, but she ignored him and stomped out of the room.

She did not go to the library. It was still hours before she was supposed to meet Draco, and she didn’t know where to go. For a moment, she considered checking on her potion, but she had recently checked, and it wasn’t ready for the next stage yet.

Ron had been ranting since they left Defense Against the Dark Arts, not only about Snape but also that she was again paired with Malfoy. Even Snape didn’t appear happy they were partnered, so certainly it hadn’t been “set up” as Ron claimed.

Hermione climbed the stairs, wandering towards the Astronomy Tower and then to the Room of Requirement. She’d never been there without Malfoy, but wondered if it would be the same when she entered alone.

She paused as the door appeared and nudged it open, delighted to find their library. Their library. Hermione shook her head at her silly thoughts. This room had only been theirs for ten days, yet it felt much longer.

She climbed the stairs to the loft and found two cozy chairs and a pile of pillows in the center of the floor. Had those been there before? She didn’t think so. Hermione placed her books and materials on the smaller table toward the bookcases lining the back wall. It was still large enough to seat two, but the chairs were close together.

Unlike herself, she sank to the pile of pillows and stared at the blank ceiling above, reconciling her emotions. Malfoy was awful—no—he had been awful before. A poncy prat, every time he was around Harry or Ron. Their thoughts were the product of his attitude and behavior towards them. And yet, even with his previous cruelty toward her, she didn’t view him the same way anymore.

In third year, she’d been certain she hated him. He was the reason Buckbeak had nearly been executed, the reason Hagrid suffered, the reason for too many small cruelties to count. Hatred had been easy—clean, simple.

But one afternoon in the library, poring over book after book on magical law and creatures, desperately searching for anything that might defend Buckbeak, he confused her again.

She’d spent the better part of an hour glaring at him from across the room, silently cursing him, when he slid a book onto her table as he sauntered past on his way out. She almost shoved it aside in disgust, but curiosity won. And when she opened it, her stomach dropped. The book contained the strongest defense for Buckbeak she’d seen yet.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. The information came too late to change anything. However, it would have given Hagrid the best defense possible. She’d never forgotten it. To this day, she couldn’t understand why Malfoy had helped at all, when he was the very reason Buckbeak had been in danger in the first place.

Downstairs, the door opened. A crease formed between her brows. It was too early for Malfoy. She crept over to the railing and peeked.

It was him. He still had his robes on and looked dreadful. His features were drawn, his skin greyish, and his hands shook. He stumbled to the tall table close to the spot under the loft. He was directly below her.

Malfoy slapped his palms on the surface, breathing rapidly as his body shook. Perhaps he was truly ill and not only depressed. He leaned down until his forehead pressed against the tabletop. His left hand balled into a fist and smacked the surface repeatedly.

Hermione wondered if any time Malfoy was alone, he had breakdowns.

“You can’t fail. You can’t fail...” he repeated over and over like a mantra.

Hermione didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t reveal herself now; he‘d take offense to her hiding and witnessing his actions. Malfoy wasn’t comfortable with vulnerability. He’d made that much clear.

“You have to protect them,” he croaked.

Protect who? She thought about what he was attempting to create, his desire to help those that dark magic had tainted, or at least his father. Did his project, what he called his duty, relate to the people he protected?

Her stomach tightened. The longer she was around and observed Malfoy, the more certain she was that Harry was wrong. Not only did Malfoy not do anything suspicious, but his actions seemed to be centered on protection or helping people. That thought almost made her laugh because it contradicted how he acted during school hours.

“I don’t know what I did, but I need my notes. Please.” Malfoy sounded so heartbroken.

She recalled him saying that whatever he’d been working on in this room, somehow he’d lost his notes. Was the Room of Requirement hiding his notes from him?

“If I don’t have my notes, I’m doomed.”

Hermione lifted her hand to bite her nails, but stopped. No. She’d broken that habit. Instead, she curled her fingers into the fabric of her shirt, over her heart, and clutched it.

“Give me my bloody notes!” Malfoy screamed at the room.

She lay perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Fuck!” Malfoy collapsed against the table and smacked his forehead against the surface several times.

It took all of Hermione’s self-control not to move, not to act. She couldn’t stand that he hurt himself, but had no choice because he’d never forgive her for watching him.

After a few minutes, his breathing slowed, and he straightened, appearing just as ill, perhaps more so than when he entered, but without expression. His eyes were flat grey, and seemed...dead. Everything about his appearance suggested he was a walking corpse. It was as though Malfoy was gone and in his place was...this.

He took out his wand and muttered words too quickly for Hermione to decipher, but his appearance changed. He didn’t look as haggard. Still tired and thin, but his skin no longer appeared greyish, the bruises under his eyes were a lighter purple, and Malfoy appeared passably healthy. He sighed and left the room with his usual swagger.

Hermione sat frozen, her mind racing to make sense of what she’d witnessed. Either Malfoy was truly ill and hiding it, or he was suffering from something far darker. Whatever weighed on him pressed so heavily that it seemed to grind him down from the inside out. He was protecting someone, that much she was certain of, and whoever it was had to be the most important person, or people, in his life.

Her intuition screamed that whatever he was hiding was bad…but not evil. No, if anything, he seemed terrified. As though something monstrous was hunting him, or those he loved. If she thought Harry would truly listen, she’d tell him tonight, ask him to help Malfoy. But Harry wouldn’t. He was too convinced Malfoy was the villain.

Hermione stood and gathered her things, no longer caring about Ron’s fury at her first kiss, and the implications of it meant even less. She hardly glanced at him, or Harry, as she slipped away to her room. Moving in a daze, she prepared for her meeting with Malfoy, though she made it look as though she were simply tucking in early.

He was a bad influence. She knew that. Because of him, she’d learned an illusion charm to make it look like she was asleep in bed in case her dormmates stirred. Because of him, she’d mastered the Disillusionment Charm, creeping through the castle’s shadows like someone she hardly recognized. It didn’t always work, but each time she cast it, she got better. Sharper. Quieter.

As she lay in bed, holding her lion/snake stuffie, waiting for her friends to fall asleep, she thought about Malfoy’s words, how raw his emotions had been. She wasn’t sure how, but she would gain his trust so he would open up and tell her what he was involved in.