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Chapter Text

It's not fear or an overwhelming sense of despondency that grips her heart when Hermione's eyes fall upon Hagrid, trudging through the grounds with Harry cradled in his arms — it's the realisation, that no matter how hard they have tried, the war is lost.

It's the lives un-lived, it's the future of a war ravaged world, it's… facing that without her best friend. It's realising that she's failed him, even after so many years of devoting herself to his protection.

For Harry. It was always For Harry.

The cacophony of pain-stricken murmurs, crying, and shrieking, drowns when she flickers her eyes, just momentarily, onto Voldemort, his eyes red and gleaming. Victorious.

Ron's arm slides around her waist, tugging her in closer, but only a gripping sense of loss racks through her when she feels his presence too. They're all going to die. She can't save anyone.

Unbidden, a thought creeps across her subconscious, from a place she can't recall, that she'd known this was always going to happen. That, on some level, she's prepared herself for this— this eventuality.

This inevitably.

Ginny, sweet Ginny, roars across the courtyard, crying, then leaps forward — Arthur stops her, thank Gods. Ginny can't die too, she just can't.

She can't bring herself to break her line of sight, still staring with utter hatred upon Voldemort as a thousand blood soaked revenges shoot across her thoughts.

Her knuckles are white with how hard she's gripping her wand, the vine shaped carvings in the wood biting into her skin.

She's trembling — Enraged, unable to feel any ounce of sadness or guilt. It's just hate. She's never truly hated anyone before, it's an overwhelming emotion that renders her breathless, dissociative, entirely manic.

There's a fizzle in her fingertips, crackling, sparking, surging through her veins.

It doesn't abate, even as she catches sight of Harry moving again, because she knows — knows exactly what's going to happen next. She was trained for it, after all. There's always been that awareness, driven into the back of her head, that there was never any chance of them winning. 

"Avada Kedavra."

The green light hits Harry's chest, again and again, and something in her snaps. For Harry.

"NO! Harry!" Hermione screams, her eyes prickling with sharp tears.

Not Ron, Ginny, Neville, nor George can stop her. Their, albeit small, resistance all seem to take several steps towards her, the movement resembling the sway of a tide, reaching out for her.

They can't stop her.

No-one can.

"Hermione!" "Stop!" "She'll get herself killed!" "Hold her back!"

She steps forward, her wand hand fast, extending, and she slashes down.

The courtyard falls into silence

The silence is heavy, foreboding, creeping along her skin until it settles heavily in her own chest, as all eyes witness a scrap of skin, like crisp parchment, float into the air. Cut straight from Voldemort's vile, slimy neck.

Without thinking, she slashes downwards again, but a Death Eater darts in front of him, catching her curse with their wand aloft; fast, precise, deftly deflecting the curse. Voldemort remains still as if he expects this reaction from each of his loyal followers, to put their lives on the line for a creature that is currently, for all intents and purposes, unkillable.

A series of flashes dart from either side as both armies respond, erupting into a battle. The crack of spells, of bodies dropping, of pained screams from dark hexes and curses landing skates over her.

Hermione focuses on That Death Eater. He's haunted her for over a year now. Every battle or skirmish she's faced, he's there, trying to stop her. He's tall, broad shouldered, slim. Ruthless.

It's believed he is one of the Favoured Followers, Voldemort's inner-circle. There's only very few of those left. According to Order Intelligence all that remains is Bellatrix Lestrange, Snape, Lucius Malfoy (after she stupidly helped him evade Azkaban — though she refuses to think on that now), Nott. Sr, Yaxley, and Rookwood. Each having, apparently, proved themselves in one way or another.

But the only difference is his mask. She'd be able to pick this Death Eater out easily in a sea of them. Despite never seeing his face, nor have The Order retrieved any solid information on his identity, there's a distinct crack blemishing his mask, starting just above the right eye, crossing through it, then over the nose, finishing at the left tip of it's mouth. It's the only part that doesn't reflect light.

It was her spell that done it. The only time she's ever been able to hit a curse upon his face.

A small part of her vaguely recognises that she knows him based on their duelling alone; in the way he moves, his expert precision but fluidity, the elegance and ease of how he casts and deflects, dodges, and commands the area around him — it's familiar in how it's much the same as hers.

She never thinks on it long and never beyond the duplicity.

They both simultaneously cast shields, then she's throwing several basic spells wordlessly ('Expelliarmus,' 'Bombarda,' 'Stupefy,') streaks of red, white, and purple erupt from her wand intermittently, fizzling out against his shield.

Hers withstands his curses. They always do. They're always searching for a weak spot.

Despite herself, she can't help but, in this moment, admire the wizard's form, their ability to dodge, to re-cast a broken shield within seconds, to move, almost, in synchronicity with her. The battle raging between both sides disappears into the background whilst she focuses — whilst she unleashes — every horrid emotion she has pent up.

"Diffindo," She slashes her wand upwards, her pulse drumming in her ears. "Sectumsempra — Confringo."

Then, she does it. She channels her hate, her malice, her own dead future, and shrieks, "Crucio."

The red light erupts from her wand and penetrates his shield. The Death Eater bolts to the side, barrel-rolling to the floor, sending his own Crucio back at her.

She moves precisely in the exact same way.

The few moments she has spare to gather her bearings, as he does too, she attempts to cast another Diffindo at Voldemort.

"Get her out of here," "Stop her," We need her," "She is your superior!"

The Death Eater parries to his left and catches it again.

Hermione realises, moments later, that she's trying to block not just This Death Eater's attacks — but others too. A furtive glance tells her there's five sending a barrage of curses her way. Her shield is strong, but not that strong.

Her heart turns to stone as she hits two of them with the Suffocatus Hex. As their air leaves their lungs, the familiar icy cold blooms in her chest. At this point, it's a comfort, rather than a burden. It's the price she pays.

More approach her.

She goes on the defensive. Wordlessly, her breathing heavy, she motions her wand in a circular pattern, focusing her energy, until a white string of light starts to emit from the tip. It grows and grows in a large circle, large enough to shield herself and those behind her — Ron and Ginny stand at either side of her, stunning three out of the five Death Eaters.

Never that Death Eater, though.

During her defensive, he's sent two killing curses that hit. Seamus Finnigan and Oliver Wood, dead, just outside of her shields range. She doesn't look back, but can hear all manner of Weasley's cursing, murmuring, grunting with heavy and pained breaths — at least her shield managed to save them.

Hermione drives down deep into her magical core, encircles her wand above her head, and moves the wind to blow the thick grey smoke from the earlier explosion into the middle, blocking out their view. It'll give the resistance a minute to gain an advantage.

It has to be enough — but it won't be. 

Through the smoke, three Death Eaters come into view. Hermione hits each of them with the Dark curse Conque Sanguine before they can even lift their wands. Their blood boils rapidly. They're screaming, ripping their masks off as they drop to their knees. Their skin is a raw red colour. They die. Ice shreds through her veins. 

She welcomes it.

Hermione feels a hand on her wrist, pulling her harshly away, her beaded bag knocking against her thigh as she's dragged through the courtyard, throwing curses, her wand firing, until she's near the castle.

Before she's pulled around a corner, out of sight, she unleashes a magically concentrated incendio towards the Death Eaters, then points her wand at it too manipulate it with her magic. It's hers too command. A large ball of fire, as fierce as the sun, is thrown from her wand. From what she can tell from a quick glance, she hit at least ten of them.

Voldemort, the entire time, doesn't move, remains centred in his army of Death Eaters. He stares at her, unreadable, calculating. She sneers viciously at him, long before she can feel the uncomfortable tug behind her naval, pulling her through a portkey — the only portkey that was meant for Harry, should he have needed a quick escape.

Hermione and Ginny fall onto the floor at Grimmauld Place, tumbling into each other, and rolling entwined across the floor. Ginny's the first to move, to pull herself up, and kneel in front of Hermione.

She's shaking, poor Ginny. But Hermione, she's furious. How dare she pull her from the battle — how dare she! She forces her legs to work, to stand back up, and try to snatch the portkey from Ginny's hand.

"Mione, stop! I had too, you know that. It was my job to get you out if..." Ginny murmurs, placing her hand on her shoulder. Soothing her. "You're shaking."

She rages. "We have to go back — Harry, he's still there. His body, Gin, we can't... — We have to kill them all."

"Hermione," Ginny gasps, her eyes bloodshot and wet. Her throat dry. "Stop. Please? Harry, he's… The Order, they'll—"

"I'm The Order too," Hermione sneers, bereft of all emotion. "I can bring him back!"

"This is the magic talking," Ginny eyes her, reaching for her wand in her thigh holster. "Dark magic, Hermione, you used it again! Come with me."

Hermione lets her usher her over to the sofa and sit her down on the edge, before she's casting her Purification Ritual upon her.

Hermione remembers being the one to discover this spell years ago, in Hogwarts Library. She can remember the seventh century book titled and translated from Old Latin into The Recovery of the Soul, but can't recall just how she came about it. She asked Madam Pince a year or so later if she could borrow it again, only for her to claim the library, even in the Restricted Section, has never possessed such an ancient and exceedingly rare grimoire.

No matter how hard she tries, Hermione just can't remember.

There's small gaps here and there in her memories, especially during fifth and sixth year, always brushed off as stress, her practice into occluding — again, with several books she can't recall there origins — and her practice of dangerous spells.

She's never resorted to using Unforgivables before, not until today

But today, everything has changed. Everything is different.

Harry is gone.

Voldemort has won.

The Purification Ritual starts to take effect, like liquid sunlight streaming through her veins and amassing in her chest — but she's still cold, frozen to her bones.

She takes Ginny in her arms, holds her, soothes her, tells her everything is going to be okay, and we'll figure it out, we'll defeat him, we'll find the last two horcruxes, I swear it, then, we'll make it through this, I'll do anything, whatever it takes.

Ginny lifts her head from her shoulder, a sob caught in her throat. "That's what I'm worried about, "Mione."

Hermione doesn't respond. She occludes within an inch of her life instead, burying her grief.

Later that night, lying in bed beside Ginny, staring up at the ceiling, she tries to organise her thoughts. First, damage control; they need to regroup, bury their dead, and plan their first steps post-war. Second, the horcruxes. Nagini still lives — how Voldemort figured out their plan to kill her today is fathomless to her. Third; run interference with whomever is left in the Ministry that'll still aid The Order and gather as much intel into Voldemort's future plans now that he's won.

Snape. He's the best bet.

And forth, finally; kill them all.

Hermione reaches over to her nightstand, takes the Draught of Dreamless Sleep, unstoppers the cork, and dumps it down her throat.

Ginny shifts beside her, nestles further into Hermione's side, as she drifts off. Her last thoughts consist of Harry, silently praying to herself they where able to retrieve his body, so she can apologize for failing him. She wonders how many are dead, now. 

As her eyes close, she can hear the faint pop of Apparition in the distance, screaming, crying, racing through the hallway...

"Do you truly think Good can overcome centuries of Darkness? Of immeasurable Evil?"

"Yes."

Hermione was wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong.

She despises being wrong.

Chapter Text

The next week, after burying the bodies they could collect without further injuring anyone else, The Order regroups.

The losses that day were heavy. Seamus and Oliver — murdered by that Death Eater. Lavender Brown and Padma Patil (Greyback), Remus and Hagrid (Dolohov), Molly and Arthur Weasley (Bellatrix), Katie Bell, Lee Jordan, Ernie Macmillen, Hannah Abbot, Susan Bones, and so many more were murdered by Death Eaters.

The Order has taken a hit. There's very few members left.

As Hermione glances around the ancient dining table in Grimmauld, she notices several new members to make up the numbers; Ronald, Ginny, Neville, and Bill Weasley.

Molly would be beside herself if she knew three of her children have taken up the mantle. She would argue relentlessly to shelter them from the politics of the war.

Hermione herself was often subject of said arguments, to no avail.

Left standing is Sirius, Kingsley, Moody, McGonagall, and Tonks — each grieving for their fallen.

Sitting beside Tonks, on Sirius' right at his head of the table, Hermione re-reads the list of the dead over and over until she's able to Occlude effectively again.

This really isn't the time to grieve.

Numbly, she turns to face Tonks and leans in closer to her. "How are you?" She asks softly. "Where's Teddy? Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Tonks murmurs back to her, her eyes squeezed shut. "He's with my mother for now."

Kingsley Shacklebolt, opposite her, waves his wand towards the door and casts a lock and silencing charm.

Hermione and Tonks straighten up, their attention now affixed upon him.

"The Ministry is no longer willing to help us," He begins, setting his wand down in front of him. "I had few contacts left willing before the Final Battle. Now, they won't risk it. You-Know-Who has his hold on every seat in the Wizengamot and the departments have been overtaken by Death Eaters. Severus informed me they plan to overhaul the Department of International Magic Cooperation by the end of the day."

"So, that rules out other countries willing to aid us," Hermione says.

Kingsley nods.

"We'll gather a covert team of select DA members," Ron suggests, rapping his fingers nervously against the table. "We'll find that bloody snake and the diadem—"

"Nagini has been placed in hiding, she could be anywhere, Ronald — Do we have any further information on the leak?" Hermione responds. Everyone shakes their heads solemnly. "And if our suspicions are correct, the final horcrux is in Hogwarts. We didn't have time to locate it during... The Battle."

"So, we're screwed. That's what you're saying?" Ginny slams her hands down onto the table, kicking her chair back. She leans over and eyes each member. "That we're just waiting for You-Know-Who to round us up and use us for whatever future Wizarding Britain he's planning?"

Silence falls, tense and strained, palpable.

That is most definitely what Voldemort likely plans to do with them, Hermione thinks, strategically it's the best move, considering the hit their numbers have taken and the lack of morale. Harry was always the best at pepping them up...

"No, Ginny's right," Hermione says. "We can't just wait around. Our only way of defeating him is to find the horcruxes. We don't need a team, I'll go alone. I spent enough time researching—"

A cacophony of protests, absolutely not, no, don't be ridiculous, do you have a death wish? and from Ginny, You're barking mad if you think we'll let you go alone, 'Mione, erupts from around the table.

She clenches her jaw.

Sirius raises his hand, silencing the table. "Hermione—"

"What?" She spits, her eyes sharp on his. "Sending a team will raise suspicion. I can handle this alone — I can enter into Hogwarts without alerting the entire school. I'll go several times if I have too until I find the horcrux, maybe learn of Nagini's location, too. I could possibly rescue some of our prisoners, we need numbers. It'll take time but it may be our only option — and no, I'm not mad, Ginerva Weasley. I'm the only one who can do this."

"If you're caught, we not only lose you, but your memories too," Sirius argues, his face like marble. "I won't risk you like that, Miss. Granger."

Hermione internally scoffs hard at his use of her formal name instead of her first name. He only ever does that when he's preparing to argue with her.

She tips her chin up. "Don't forget, Sirius, it's because of me that you're even alive today."

"I haven't forgotten," He presses his lips into a thin, serious line. His stare is equally as firm and serious.

"Send her with a partner," Kingsley chimes in, climbing on her wavelength. "We'll gather as much intel from snatchers before each visit as we can, which, as suggested by Mr. Weasley, can be arranged by an elite team of DA, you won't go unprepared. You'll have specific instructions, tasks, and you will not stray from them. If you do, you'll never be entrusted with this mission again."

Silence.

Then, uproar.

Whilst the others bicker amongst themselves, Hermione sits back in her chair and loses herself to her thoughts. It surprises her that it's Shacklebolt supporting her in this honestly, he's usually ignorant of her capabilities, claiming that being a self-taught duellist, Occlumens, and research specialist isn't enough to send her on missions of Great Importance, mostly because she did this during her fifth and sixth year.

When she refuses to relay those years to him or submit her memories, he basically calls her a liar, in not so many words.

Sirius and Tonks are usually the first to jump on her side, despite the rejections from Moody and Shacklebolt.

Hermione can faintly hear Tonks supporting her even now, as she thinks.

Her eyes glaze over as she reorganises her mental rooms in her childhood home — all the Occlumency books she studied taught her to picture her mind as something close to her, something solid and impenetrable, and at first, she visualised an unfamiliar library, able to shelve her memories and emotions, her darker, sadder thoughts, and leave them closed.

She's too close to the research aspect of her job to be able to sustain it.

She visualises her childhood home back in Hampstead, a place with many happy memories, but empty now. Destroyed. Her parents, obliviated, are now happily residing in Australia, unawares they ever had a daughter.

It's for the best. Hermione wholeheartedly believes that.

In a small, padlocked jewellery box, she shoves fifth and sixth year into it, forces it back into the sealed attic, to the far reaches of the room, dark and concealed at the end of a long corridor upon the ceiling, and let's it rest.

The house, it's grown over the years. Additional rooms for memories, for hers and The Order's schemes, her deeper, more personal feelings, and the year she spent hunting horcruxes and aiding in field missions with The Order.

Her failures remain untouched in the attic, including those she's lost.

Harry. For Harry. Her biggest failure another burial sight.

"Hermione?"

She keeps her childhood memories in the main part of the house, beyond the front door, and into the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, along with her first years in Hogwarts. It's both a blessing and a curse to remember, quite often, how happy they were. The Golden Trio, unstoppable — she internally scoffs.

"Hermione?"

"Are you okay?"

She pushes her first memories of riding a bicycle into the entrance hall, along with her many Christmas' growing up, further shielding the upstairs of her mind.

Upon entering on the upstairs landing, on the left side, is a room that holds her past romances — Viktor Krum, that date she went on with Maclaggen, her brief fling with Ronald. On the right, the guest bedroom, she keeps her non-incriminating battles there, the ones widely known amongst the Death Eaters; The Battle of the Department of Mysteries, the Chamber of Secrets, the Underground Chambers, Umbridge and the Centaurs.

All said memories not as accessible as the lower levels, each with different types of locks and protection enchantments. Harder for Legilimency to penetrate, giving the idea of a fight.

She slams those doors closed, then the front door, sealing it off, rand rebuilding her walls when she feels her body shaking — there's hands on her biceps, talking in the background. The mist behind her eyes starts to dissipate enough for her to focus on the present.

But never beyond that.

"Hermione?" Ron barks into her face, shaking her harder. "She's Occluding again — 'Mione!"

She blinks several times, meeting Ron's eyes. He looks so concerned for her, his brow is dipped and tight, his eyes heavy, and the hold he has of her arms tightens. He looks so much older now than he did before Voldemort rose. His hair is long, unkempt, his beard growing thickly, and his face is drawn. Has been for a long, long while.

"Sorry," Hermione clears her throat, glimpsing around. "I'm here. What did you say?"

Nervously, lots of eyes flicker amongst each other, either worrying about her Occluding or questioning her ability to focus without it, before they all settle on her with a gravity to their inspection that would make weaker witches keel.

Sirius angles towards her, his finger curled on his chin. "That we agree to the scouting missions."

Triumph surges through her.

She tips her chin up. "Good."

Later that night, after most of the Order and the DA have retired for the night, Hermione sits down in the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea, and her copy of the Hogwarts blueprints spread out on the table.

Outside, a storm rips through the streets, cracks of thunder, heavy rainfall pounding against the window, and the billowing winds disturbing the trees and rubbish littering the pavements.

Hermione flicks her wand and levitates the blueprints.

She's gone over this so many times now that it's baffling how she hasn't memorised each and every area. She's added a lot of hidden areas herself, mostly from comparing it with the Marauders map (that no-one knows she has done), and from Dumbledore's own collections.

She's detailed the wards schematics from McGonagall's notes. There's a limited number of places she can enter through.

Hermione hears footsteps descending the staircase above her, then bare feet padding through the hallway. She taps her wand on the blueprints, Concealmente, and vanishes her extra additions to the blueprint, leaving only the basic outline of the school.

Moments later, there's a knock on the door, and peering his head around the gap, is Ronald.

"Have you got a minute, Mione?" He asks, his hand curling tightly around the door.

She smiles faintly. "Sure, of course."

She sits back down on one of the wooden chairs and picks up her tea, nursing it in her hands and taking a small sip, as Ron enters the room and sits ahead of her.

"If you're strategizing, I can help," He offers, eyes scanning over the blueprint. "Not much here though."

"No, don't worry," She smiles (not at all like she has a secret) on the rim of her cup. "Just brushing up."

The leaky tap at the kitchen sink drips for each passing, silent moment that transpires between them. The wind picks up speed, thrashing tree branches against the windows.

"Do you want tea?"

"I'm alright, thanks."

Hermione starts tapping her foot impatiently. "What is it, Ronald?"

"Have you gone mad, Hermione?" He asks her, without hesitation. His voice, oddly, is flat. "What were you thinking, suggesting going on that mission alone?"

She blinks, vacillates, then wonders what on the Gods green earth would make him ask such an obvious question. "I was thinking I want to beat Tom, to win the war."

Ron studies her. "You're not yourself. They should never have agreed to this so soon after the battle — This is stark raving mad, Hermione."

"Mad," She echoes flatly, rolling her eyes. "Everyone keeps saying that, but I'm not mad, Ronald, I'm being objective. Ginny was right, are we supposed to do nothing? Let him finish his take over?"

His expression flickers from dark, then bitter, then dangerously curious within the space of three short seconds.

She knows what is coming, long before he says it.

"What happened during fifth year?" Ron pleads in earnest with her, reaching across the table to lay his hand over hers. "You have to tell me."

An exasperated groan leaves her lips as she sharply pulls her hand back, away from his. He always, without fail, brings this up at each and every opportunity that presents itself. The conversation goes the same way each time; she'll refuse, he'll rebuke that she doesn't tell anyone, they'll argue, her jewellery box will shake, something in her gut will twist, then, when she thinks on it further, there's an aching pang in her heart that won't subside until she Occludes it away again.

She doesn't know why, it doesn't make sense, most of her training came from those years, she remembers it clearly, it's infuriating. She can't recall any instance during those two years, besides the obvious, that would make her react the way she does.

"It isn't relevant to this mission," She goes with instead.

Ron grits his teeth. "Hermione—"

"Are you going to help me strategize or not?" She interrupts sharply, flicking her wand. "I have an idea, you see, and I could use your... expertise."

This earns her his deep consideration, his eyes flitting between her and the levitated blueprints.

This normally works. She'll stroke his ego — because he hates that she won't stroke anything else of his these days — if it brings an end to the tedium.

Ron sighs heavily. "What's your idea?"

Hermione smiles with false enthusiasm, then points the tip of her wand at the base of the Astronomy Tower. Ron's brows hike up to his forehead.

"There's a disruption in the protective wards at the base here. After I spoke with Severus several months ago, when I was trying to gain access for the horcrux, he explained that due to Dumbledore's death, the Dark magic that caused it, as well as the trespassing of the Death Eaters — and Greyback, still not a Death Eater, by the by — it weakened the stability of it's wards and any future attempts, marking it as ineffective compared to the rest of the castle."

Hermione steals a quick glimpse of him; he's in full concentration mode, brow tight, face scrunched, humming along with her words.

She presses on. "If I Apparate into the forbidden forest, disillusion myself, use the gamekeepers entrance to breach the grounds wards, I should be able to make it across the grounds undetected and break into the castle using said weakness — I just lack the ability to penetrate what remains of the wards. I could use a second opinion."

"First, you will not Apparate into the forbidden forest, Mione," He gives her a stern look, then glances back at the blueprints. "It's not safe, not since You-Know-Who got the vampires and werewolves on his side. Bastard. But the Astronomy Tower does seem to be the best way to enter into the castle. What was your first thought?"

"Runes."

Ron hums an agreeable sound.

After a few minutes of silence, stuck in contemplation, staring at the blueprints, Ron gives a firm nod of his head. Hermione flicks her wand and lets it's angle drop, the parchment floating back onto the table.

"Go over this with Sirius and Moody, find a different location to Apparate into, and it should work." Ron, despite himself, smiles warmly at her.

It's that warmth, that openness, that reveals the glimmer of pain in his eyes, the sorrow in his expression, that Hermione reads as grief and guilt. Tentatively, she reaches across the table, hooks her fingers around his, then leans forward.

"How are you, Ronald?" She asks, not unkindly. "I just — Harry — everyone... Are you — how are you holding up?"

Gods.

She can't stand how timid she sounds.

Ron's face is a sudden flood of emotions; shock, grief, rage, sadness, and despair.

He settles on rage.

"How do you think I'm holding up, Hermione?" He looks at her, stunned, then flies up out of his chair. Looms over her. "I'm heartbroken, we lost so many people we care about. Family, friends! I don't know how... You— Unfortunately, I can't occlude away my emotions, I feel them. I'm torn apart."

Inhale, exhale, breathe. "I'm hurt too. The pain. I can't," She shakes her head several times. "It stops me from doing what needs to be done. We need to face this."

He doesn't respond.

He stares at her for what feels like an age, before he turns on his heel and storms through the kitchen. He slams the door behind him.

Hermione returns her focus to the blueprints.

The next day, Hermione does as planned and goes over her machinations with Sirius and Moody; they disagree with Ron's suggestion of choosing a different Apparition point, mainly due to the area lacking in any other unwarded, empty spots — they give her free rein to do as needed where that is concerned. They call in McGonagall to see if Runes can, in fact, be created to break through the weak point in the wards.

She explains that so long as they're focused solely on the Dark magic, the rupture, and limiting the space to a small enough breakage that her, and her partner, can crawl into, then it should be doable and untraceable.

It might take months to create, though.

Sirius' concerns about deriving an elite team of DA members, locating snatchers, gathering intel, and setting specific missions for her to undertake mainly consist of the timing. Again, it could take months. And time is of the essence.

Hermione reluctantly agrees to spearhead that team, considering her knowledge of known hideouts for snatchers (due to their year on the hunt) and her ability to use Legilimency. It'll cut down the timeframe by a landslide.

They set the first tasks; assemble the team (must be pre-approved by a majority vote on the council), find snatchers, and re-adjourn in a month to set the first Hogwarts mission.

After the meeting, once Moody and McGonagall clear out, Hermione folds up her copy of the blueprint, shrinks it, then returns it into her beaded bag.

Before she can leave, Sirius re-casts the silencing charm on the door, broken when the others left, then gestures for her to take a seat on his right — Her left.

She, grudgingly, sits back down.

There's always something so serious, stoic, in the way Sirius approaches her, as though always calculating how to speak with her. Despite the war, they've gotten to know each other well enough over the last couple of years, since The Department of Mysteries, when she managed to save him. There was times before them, during summer breaks at Hogwarts, that she would confide in him, help him in any which way she can. Taking up head of The Order was a unanimous decision after Dumbledore's death.

Several months later, after... After what happened during the horcrux hunt, she was voted in as second-in-command due to Kingsley, at the time, working for the Ministry as under secretary, forgoing his position as head Auror, Moody taking a permanent injury post Harry-Polyjuice-Trip, and McGonagall focusing on Healing and the management of Safehouses. She's been pivotal in shielding the injured, the recollected prisoners, and the children that have been orphaned due to the raids.

Sirius still seems the same as he did back in Third Year, after his Azkaban breakout. His hair is still thick with curls, he often wears three-piece suits of an odd variety of patterns and colours, and he's barely aged. Sometimes, he thanks her for that, as he had extra time with Harry. She saved him, gave him that time, and he's been elated with it ever since.

Now, he seems to have aged a century over night.

"You've done well here, Hermione," Sirius says softly, breaking her from her reverie. "But I just want to make certain—"

"I want to do this," She cuts in, saving herself from the tedium of the usual go-around. "I need to do this."

Sirius considers her for long moments, tensed, before giving a small nod of his head.

"You'll inform me if you change your mind?" He asks.

"Of course."

Another painful silence falls for a minute.

"How are you?" He studies her face carefully, sitting back in his chair. He taps his fingers against the wooden armrest.

At first, he would surprise her by taking, what seems to be, a genuine interest in her wellbeing, she never truly expected it from him. But over time, after many meetings, one-to-one conversations, taking care to remain close enough to her that she feels she can confide in him still, she's learned to trust him in certain ways.

There's still something about him that she can't fully trust.

But Harry always vouched for him. That has always been enough for her.

Also, he's one of the very few members that permits the use of the Dark Arts — claims that the first wizarding war banished all false sense of optimism and Light magic being the answer for him. Once, he confided in her that if he had such beliefs during the first war, then maybe things could have turned out differently — that he could have saved so many he cared about.

"I'm fine, Sirius," Hermione responds, twisting her fingers in her lap beneath the table. "Holding it together, at least."

"Are you?" He narrows his eyes, scrutinising her further, his primary focus on her eyes. "Or is it the Occluding?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Both."

"You know, after the first war, my time spent in Azkaban, I did the same. Went mad for it, in the end. I hid behind my walls until I started to lose grasp of the memories I was trying to shield myself from," He grows wistful, his expression vacant. "James, he helped me with Occlumency during our seventh year. Occluding, combined with isolation, splintered my mind. I still have trouble to this day, Hermione."

She lets his words sink in, to run on a repeat, whilst she ponders her answer. She studied Occlumency years ago, during fifth, and found herself with a natural propensity for it. When confronting Severus with this knowledge, he acted unsurprised, informed her that those with a tendency to be logical, academic, and rational in the face of even dire situations, are naturals.

Legilimency was a trouble, though. Took her a long time, and many, many headaches, nosebleeds, and a prolonged mental exhaustion to become proficient at it.

"I know what I'm doing, Sirius," Hermione says with finality, eager to end this. "If I don't, I won't be able to think — my emotions, they cloud my judgment."

Seemingly expecting this answer, he doesn't miss a moment in responding. "Are you still performing the Purification Ritual after battles? Seeing our mind healer bi-monthly? Are you taking care of yourself?"

"Yes, of course," She says crossly, a little too snappy. Too shrill. "I won't compromise the mission, if that's what you're really asking, Sirius."

"I'm not," He sighs, a brief flash of emotion across his eyes. "Just remember, you're not alone, Hermione."

"I know."

Sirius nods.

Once satisfied with her answer, he dismisses her.

But to her surprise, as she stands up to leave, he follows her up, pulls her into one of his occasional kind hugs and reassures her again that she's not alone. That she doesn't have to grieve alone.

Later that night, after everyone has gone to bed, she casts a lock and silencing charm on the bathroom door, runs a shower, then lets all of her rooms blow wide open.

Her scream is glass shattering.

Hermione lets herself cry, for those around her, for herself, lets her heart break over and over again, lets herself see Harry, Molly, Arthur, Fred, Remus, her fallen classmates in her minds eye, until her cries become silent, strangled, and she's numb from it, unable to take it any longer.

She spends the rest of the evening closing the open doors.

"RAID!"

An alarm alerts, sending a high-pitched wailing sound through Grimmauld. She hears the house come alive, there's bustling, doors slamming, and incoherent arguing.

Hermione jumps out of bed, grabs her wand and holster from her nightstand, along with a sharp, silver dagger (still holstered), and races from the room. She sleeps in her field gear, just in case. Her robes, her black t-shirt, her black jeans, her dragonhide ankle boots, all protected with a hundred charms.

Once she reaches the dining room — the War Room — the others all pour in along with her. Frantically readying themselves, their holsters, armoured robes, and wands.

"Where's the attack?" Tonks asks, her hair a violent shade of red.

"Our safehouse in Surrey," Sirius informs them, hurriedly, as he readies himself for battle. "According to Minerva's Patronus, there's a small army of Death Eater's already present. More likely to emerge."

Hermione left as soon as she heard Surrey.

Flinging herself through the front door, she Apparates to Guildford forest, just outside of the Safehouse's anti-apparition wards.

The moon is low in the sky, dimmed behind an overcast, the clouds grey and thick. The air is still but cold, there's moisture still present in the area after the earlier passing storm, sending an icy shiver through her spine.

Already there's sparks flying, bursts of magical energy and frequent outbursts of screaming — until it fades, then re-starts again with the responding attacks. It heightens further as more Death Eaters and DA apparate in.

Thankfully, from what she can tell, McGonagall managed to get the children out safely (likely using the only emergency portkey in this residence) leaving only the untrained DA members, former prisoners, and injured members to fight.

The pops of Apparition start to close in around her. Tonks comes in on her right, her eyes feral, bloodthirsty.

She should order her to return to base, she's too emotional, a revenge plight renders her reckless and careless — but unless Hermione wants to fight with her too, she decides against.

"How many?" Kingsley comes in on her left, his eyes sweeping over the area.

"Homonio Revelio," Hermione swishes her wand, tracking the gold luminescence. "Thirty-five and counting — Mission is to safely get everyone out, not a battle. Clear? — Go."

They cast their Disillusionments and descend the hill, crossing through the wards, spitting out stunners and curses at incoming Death Eater's, and dispersing through the parameter with precision learnt from over a year of training.

Whilst their mission is to retrieve the members, Hermione's is to learn of the Death Eater's objectives; it's simple really, hover on the outskirts of the forest, between trees, Disillusioned, then stun whomever she can to perform Legilimency upon them.

Whenever she see's a Death Eater in mid-duel with an Order or DA member across the way, she intervenes, often throwing a curse or hex at them to subdue them, or a protective shield at the friendly member.

If it becomes to much, and it's not a risk to friendly members, then she'll manipulate the water vapours in the air, channel them into a wave of water, and sweep the Death Eaters of their feet, drowning them in bodies of water. Elemental Magic is risky on the best of days, especially when in a fight with so many resistance members.

Five Death Eater's Apparate outside of the wards, and after making a calculated decision, Confringo's them, as getting one alone would be too much of a risk. After they blast back, unmoving, she races towards them.

She pulls off each of their masks, confirms that they're newer recruits, then scrambles to find the weakest of the group. A young one, perhaps no older than sixteen, appears to have a collapsed lung. Even though he's unconscious, his primary bodily response will be too focus on breathing and surviving physically, leaving his mind open. She doubts he's trained on Occluding, still.

Hermione presses her wand tip to his temple. "Legilimens."

She soars through his mind. She confirms he's unguarded and untrained in mental barriers, which leaves her hopeless for information. She sifts through his initiation, his only confrontation with Voldemort, then flicks through his memories prior to his order for tonight's raid.

He was informed by Dolohov just minutes before Apparition, but was given no reason for the raid, that his only objective for the night was to kill as many Order members as possible.

She releases him.

Two further tries amongst the others come to the same conclusion.

Incarcerous. She binds and stuns them, then levitates them to just inside the anti-apparition wards, to later take them in for further questioning.

A large explosion rattles through the house, emitting a white-hot flash of light through the upper levels and pouring out of the windows, causing the ground beneath her to rumble. The uproars of screaming and frenzied running alerts her to a losing situation.

After waiting a few more minutes, confirming that no more are making an entrance, she breaks out from between the trees, descends the hill, and joins with Tonks out front.

Three Death Eater's approach them. Simple Diffindo's to the achilles heel puts them down long enough for Tonks to stun them. She dodges a Reducto, then a Finite, and barges through the front door. Tonks covers her back until she's deep within the house.

Inside, there's smoke billowing through the rooms, red and green sparks flying, and many heavy stomps of dragonhide boots pushing through the levels above her. The bodies on the floor are uncountable. Her feet drag and slosh through a stream of blood.

She sends several stunners through the parlour on her left as she catches sight of two Death Eaters, likely newer recruits too, striding through the open space. Their bodies seize up and drop like dead weight.

Hermione always has to make certain she leaves a few alive, else they'll have no-one to question.

As she's passing through, she catches any Death Eaters in her space with either a Suffocatus, for a prolonged agony, or an Avada for a quicker one. If she uses too many Unforgivables, then she runs the risk of magical depletion. She can't have that.

She hears a shrill, high-pitched scream emanate from the kitchen — Luna! It's Luna.

Keeping a level-head, she runs through the main hallway, takes a left, barrel-rolling down onto the floor when a rogue curse shoots her way, then carries on racing through. She forces the door open, giving away her Disillusioned location, and narrowly dodges a bleeding curse by throwing up her shield.

Luna is in the corner, huddled between kitchen counters, covered in blood, her shirt torn, her jeans ripped at the button, whilst a Death Eater looms over her — pointing his wand at her forehead. Hermione sends a Protego at Luna, diverting his attention towards her.

Without wasting a moment, she conjures a vortex of small daggers and slices her wand upwards, sending them hurling towards the Death Eater at breakneck speed.

He blocks with a shield, turning them to dust with a simple flick of his wand.

He's powerful.

It must be Dolohov.

A green string of light bursts from his wand, and parrying backwards, the killing curse lands at her feet. When he misses, using her distraction, catches her with Finite.

The air between them vibrates with dark satisfaction.

"Well, if it's not the Golden Girl herself," She can practically feel his sneer, his sick amusement, from behind his mask. "The Dark Lord will be pleased."

Hermione narrows her eyes, then with hateful conviction, points her wand out. "Crucio."

He dodges, but it breaks through a weak-point in his shield. Leaves him open for a Reducto.

It hits in the centre of his chest, and as he's flying back into a wall with a groan, Hermione bolts towards Luna, grabs her shaky hand, and pulls her up. She drags her through the kitchen, ignoring her dazed whimpers, pushes her out of the door, then closes it between them — Luna knows what to do.

As Dolohov scrambles for purchase against the tiled floor, she sends out a flurry of curses. Each missing as he rolls and rolls, until he casts a Protego and Disillusions himself.

Hermione does the same for herself.

"There's quite the bounty on your head, girl," He growls lowly, mirthful. He encircles the room slowly. Predatory. "I'm not allowed to kill you—"

She sends a series of high-strength Diffindo's and Finite's around the room, trying to locate him. The Deterioration Hex hits him, revealing his location across the room from her. She dodges his Finite.

Dolohov's movements slow, his breaths come slower and heavier, but he keeps his stance firm. He's growing more powerful by the day.

"But I can have my fun with you first," He taunts her, snickering, letting his voice turn to a low purr. "I'd wager that pretty little cunt of yours is golden, too."

He's vile and inhumane.

But honestly, she wishes she could be surprised by his wretched, horrid mouth. She can't. Death Eaters are all the same, and he isn't the first she's come across with such a twisted tongue.

Although, he is the worst.

Hermione knows, but Luna, amazing, innocent Luna, bloodied up, with her shirt torn and jeans ripped, doesn't.

She's going to kill him mercilessly—

Before she can respond, from somewhere at her side, a powerful Depulso breaks through her shield and sends her crashing through the kitchen wall, out into the open stretch of singed grass in the gardens.

She winces as the back of her head hits the floor, a crack of white splitting through her skull as she tries to clamber out from the debris. Her vision blurs around the edges, making her head sway. Nausea bundles in her stomach at the pain. Black spots litter her vision, and she blinks several times trying to settle them. Her tunnel vision recedes when she screws her eyes shut tightly.

Once her vision clears, she can see, quite clearly, that it wasn't Dolohov that hit her — but him.

That Death Eater, the one that always manages to find her on a battlefield, no matter what.

All around her, there's chaos. There's screaming, running, panic, smoke, and different coloured sparks shooting across the perimeter. She can't make her legs work, her hands are scrambling in the grass behind her, trying to keep herself, at least, sitting up.

The Death Eater stays behind the broken wall, pointing his wand upwards, and summons a Protego Diabolica — Her heart drops like lead to her stomach. Fuck, she read about this spell during sixth year, performed by none other than Grindelwald himself.

There's no time to process just how he knows about this spell or how he has the power to perform it.

Her eyes widen, panicked, as a ring of blue flames soar from the tip of his wand, and alight around him.

She tries to stand again, realises immediately, that there's a splintered piece of wood embedded in her right side, lower abdomen, preventing her from standing. Her right leg feels numb. She whimpers silently, tears burning in her eyes, as she tries to shove herself backwards with one leg, away from the incoming flames.

Her heart picks up speed, racing, crashing against her ribcage, as they near.

"Avada Kedavra."

The killing curse passes through his shield, but he dodges, barrel-rolling almost like she does, then takes a few long moments to pull himself up, before throwing another Depulso at her.

She throws herself to the left with a pained whimper, just avoiding the spell, before she rights herself and pulls herself further back on her elbows. She can hear a sudden uproar of screaming in the background, mixed with the frantic running of DA members, then the faint pop of Disapparation.

Good. At least some have got out.

She hopes Luna is alright, that she was one of those groups that got out.

She sucks in a sharp, desperate breath when a swirl of blue flames sweep towards her, and silhouetted in the iridescence is the Death Eater, edging towards her.

Time distends and everything between them starts to move in slow motion.

The realisation hits her like a bullet to the temple — he's going to kill her. He's finally going to win this unspoken war between them.

Throwing her face into her shoulder, avoiding the flames, the hollow eye shapes on his mask, the crack, she readies herself for her incoming demise.

She doesn't have to look to feel the blue flames dance unrestrained towards her.

Hermione can feel the heat prickling across her skin, threatening to burn her, along with the oxygen sucking burst of magical energy encompassing her to the point of breathlessness.

Her head swims with all those she's leaving behind, her chosen family, her friends, her responsibilities. She can't help but steal a memory of first year, the dungeons with the troll, when Harry and Ron came to save her, even against all better judgement and odds.

The start to their beautiful and dysfunctional friendship.

Then fifth year, when she first went to the library to pick out her first book containing an intermediate knowledge of the Dark Arts, with a flourishing hope in her chest that they may actually win the war that way. That girl's eyes were bright, then. Brimming with fierce determination.

Moments later, Hermione, tentatively, raises her head from her shoulder, turns to face The Death Eater, then with sharp, mind-bending clarity, notices the flames passing through her, swirling around her.

Through his cracked mask, she can feel the palpable sense of shock radiating from him. He has his wand arm hanging limp by his side, his black robes billowing around him, and his demeanour is far less tense and deadly than it was a minute ago.

The flames fade and the moonlight shines between them, his mask glinting silver from the beams, except for the crack. It remains black.

All she does is stare.

He stares back.

She hears "Fall back!" from somewhere inside the house before the Order and DA members all race through the front door, beyond the wards, and flee for safety.

Unable to move, she awaits his curse, his final blow, or whatever spell he has to subdue her, so he may take her straight to You-Know-Who and let her suffer her penance for temporarily marring him during the Final Battle.

It never comes.

In his other hand, he tightens his grip of his wand, murmurs a spell, and portkeys away.

Stunned and trapped in a weak daze, she barely registers Tonks and Sirius coming to her aid, to help her onto her feet and beyond the wards, to safely Disapparate her back to Grimmauld Place.

She's lucky she didn't splinch.

Chapter Text

Weakly, Hermione opens her eyes, half-lidded against the glaring streaks of harsh sunlight cutting into her corneas. She squeezes them shut several times, before she's able to keep them consistently open.

She takes a deep, composing breath when she takes in the familiar room in Grimmauld — the healing rooms, they call them, as it's not nearly as close to a full hospital wing, but it's enough to heal the wounded post-battle.

It was Harry's idea originally, to convert the upper floor into this. After a skirmish with Death Eaters only a few months after the Astronomy Tower, which left many injured and out of commission for weeks, they asked Madam Pomfrey for her expertise in setting up the rooms and if she'd stay on too manage them.

She happily accepted, claiming this could be how she aids in the war.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she see's a tall glass of water on her bedside table, then reaches for it. She pulls herself up into a sitting position slowly, grimacing as she feels the stretch of new skin on her lower abdomen, before drinking half of the glass.

Next to the glass is her medical folder, probably left out by Pomfrey for her to examine as she normally does after there's been a raid, as she's tending to others. She picks it up weakly with one hand, scans over the information quickly, then discards it back to the nightstand.

Large abdominal gash, pierced kidney, magic depletion, and concussion. All healed. May have temporary exhaustion due to potion intake — signed off two days earlier.

In the silence of the room, with only her fingers tapping against the glass, she tries to unwrap her thoughts.

She doesn't think on just how Voldemort had come to learn of the location of their safehouse, as that would send her spiralling into a lot of what if's and unconfirmed theories, nor does she think there was anything of importance there that The Death Eaters where looking for, only that their mission be one to eradicate what remains of the resistance.

She wonders, briefly, if they lost any members, and if so, how many?

How many more will she have to eventually grieve? How many more will settle into a room in her head, only to be revisited post-war victory?

Again, she wonders how many Death Eaters they captured and/or killed — how many are currently being housed and (probably) tortured in the basement by Tonks and Fleur.

Her thoughts focus mainly on That Death Eater — who's name she would appreciate around about now so she can stop referring to him as that Death Eater — and how he didn't kill her. How she survived his Protego Diabolica.

Gods, it makes no sense — of course she wants to kill him, she should have been incinerated on the spot. She even sent an Avada at him, how could the spell mistake her for an ally? She doesn't even know who he is.

Retracing every step from the first Depulso to his exit, she can't figure out where the spell went wrong, where he went wrong. He was successful in hitting and subduing her, with how and where she was impaled she was never going to be able to stand on her own, nor could she remove it for fear of blood loss skewering her mental inclinations, so she was practically a sitting duck.

Maybe that was the problem — she was a sitting duck. Perhaps his ego and pride took a hit, refusing to claim the win like that, without any fight back. Death Eaters are notoriously prideful pricks, after all. Especially the older ones, and the ones that have been around for a long time, too.

Maybe he didn't want her to die like that, so the spell didn't let her. Perhaps his intent towards her rendered the spell moot. Magic is mostly intent, a fact she learned the hard way...

No, that isn't right either, that spell is pretty straightforward, no amount of magical intent can change that — either their enemies die by the flames or their allies pass through them. She is not, by any means, an ally.

And he seemed just as shocked as she did.

The image of him after the flames passed through her is one she recognises as... no, surely not — can't be — but Merlin, it looked a lot like vulnerability, as if he didn't know what do with himself. His arms where loose by his sides, his posture slacked, the shock pulsed from him in waves.

Then he just — left.

No, it doesn't make sense, at all.

Hermione should be dead.

Several days later, fully healed and recovered, Hermione's ready to face the storm.

The storm being Sirius, Kingsley, and Tonks ready to descend upon her for being so reckless, of course. It isn't the first time, and she's fairly certain it won't be the last.

So, she squares her shoulders, straightens her back, then twists on the door handle that leads into the War Room. As she's pushing it open, she hears three chairs scrape backwards, then a pair of feet race towards her.

The door is barely fully open before Tonks throws herself on her in a tight embrace, Hermione responding with an oof as she tries to keep them balanced and on their feet.

Glancing over Tonks' shoulder, she catches Sirius and Kingsley sit back down, unspooling in their chairs as the tension seeps through their bodies. Their expressions read as relief.

"Are you okay, 'Mione?" Tonks murmurs against her collarbone, her voice raspy. "When I saw you..."

Despite herself, Hermione weakly smiles on her shoulder. She recognises Tonks' concern as more frantic due to recent losses, and she can't bring herself to stop her, because the relief flooding her limbs is much the same — I can't lose anyone else, too.

Their relationship is one of Hermione's most treasured, they've grown so close over the years — many a nights researching, training, partaking in meetings, and just generally having each others backs on field missions tends to have that effect, she supposes.

Most importantly, she held her hand through her labour with Teddy.

"I'm okay, Tonks," Hermione says softly, reassuring her. She brushes her hand up and down her spine. "I'm sorry for scaring you. It was just — dumb luck."

"Dumb luck," Sirius echoes, breaking the moment between them immediately. Tonks slowly releases her. "Report, Miss. Granger."

With a mighty sigh, Hermione sits herself down beside him, conjures a tray with a pot of water, tea-bags, four mugs, milk and sugar, and recounts the story.

She gives the information regarding her earlier attempts at Legilimency on the last few Death Eaters making an entrance (no new information gained), the confrontation with several of them at Tonks' side (which she confirms with a firm nod of her head), and she's not surprised by their relief at her using spells that aren't dark. That relief is gone a minute later after informing them she became Avada happy. She almost huffs a laugh at their resigned expressions. She mentions the two Death Eaters she stunned in the parlour, before hearing Luna's screams, then coming face-to-mask with Dolohov.

"How is she, by the way? Luna?" Hermione asks, before she gets too deep into reporting the rest of the night. "When I found her, she was bleeding quite heavily..."

Tonks takes her hand in her own and pulls them into her lap. "She's fine. Dolohov cursed her with the Bleeding Hex, roughed her up a bit, but you got to her... just in time."

Hermione nods slowly, letting the information sink in. Luna was already at the safehouse, recovering after a recent attack in Diagon Alley after Hermione, Ron, and Harry broke into Bellatrix's vault for the cup.

It was the final step in the plan, the one that was supposed to secure their win at the battle. They needed only the diadem and Nagini, and they would have won...

Luna was with her in Malfoy Manor in the dungeons, along with Dean, Olivander and Griphook... A latent tremor travels through Hermione's arms to her hands at just the memory alone, even though she's long recovered from the after effects of the Cruciatus curse, and the slur is mostly healed. What remains of the faint outline is covered with a tattoo now. The scar burns incessantly, likely some lingering remnants of Bellatrix's curse, though she refuses to itch it.

Tonks notices instantly and starts massaging her palms gently, subtly, and Hermione, she's grateful she doesn't say anything or give her away to Sirius or Shacklebolt.

She continues to tell them about her encounter with Dolohov, the duel, the bounty on her head, and the Crucio she tried to level at him. Sirius is the only one who doesn't look slightly disappointed by that. She reassures them it was only for intel, but informs them about the Death Eater that couldn't kill her to distract them.

The way their eyebrows pop and their jaws slack is almost comical.

"Do we have any inkling on who he is yet?" Hermione practically pleads with them, her fingers tapping impatiently on the table. "It's been over a year, and what? Nothing?"

Not-so-subtly, Sirius and Kingsley side-glance each other, their lips pressed together in a thin line. Looking both serious and resigned.

After long moments of considering her, Sirius clasps his hands together, and rests his forearms on the table as though in prayer, and leaning towards her. "Last nights attack lead to the capture of eight Death Eaters, four of them your hostages. Fleur has spent the last two nights interrogating them—"

Torturing them, he means.

"— After she broke one of them, Bill dosed him with Veritaserum and he sang like a canary. We learned his name, Smith, a highly common name for an uncommon wizard, don't you think? He had been obliviated pre-mark and made to believe he was an ally to You-Know-Who, likely for his connections. He confessed this is the case with most newer recruits. His initiation was two years ago, ranking himself as trusted but not quite inner-circle. After your... Incident with the Death Eater, Fleur questioned him profusely..."

"And?" Hermione snaps, clenching her jaw.

"And nothing, Hermione," Kingsley continues. "He didn't know his name or his identity beyond You-Know-Who's Right-Hand."

Her eyes blow wide, her stomach knotting. "H-his Right-Hand?"

Kingsley nods.

She frowns. "But that doesn't make any sense—"

"That's not all," Tonks cuts in, before she can lose herself to her thoughts, her voice much softer than the others. "He's the most trusted of them all due to his power. He's the strongest Death Eater in the circle due to his extensive use of the Dark Arts. He's, apparently, unscathed and unaffected by the constant use of them. Whoever he is, he's dangerous. Why you're alive, we don't know, but we should be counting our blessings, Mione."

Hermione opens her mouth to argue, but her breath hitches in her throat. She closes it again, trying to process that — Unscathed? Unaffected? How? She's barely untouched by the effects of Dark magic, but only due to the Purification Ritual. She still, numbly, feels the twinge of cold terror in her chest every so often, especially when remembering what she has done.

She clears her throat, shaking her head. "I've faced him far too many times to be concerned about my life, Tonks. We can barely get a hit on each other. None of it makes sense."

"He hit you that night, Miss. Granger," Sirius snaps at her, his expression tightening. She simply juts her chin and arches a brow at him. "What's fathomless is the reaction to the spell and I will be personally looking into it," He slams a fist down onto the table, "You nearly died!"

Her lip curls, almost a snarl. "I'm aware."

Sirius looks like he's ready to Confringo her arse for being so stubborn.

Hermione feels ready to Bombarda him for yelling at her.

"Arguing about this isn't going to solve anything," Tonks flies in to stop them before they unleash upon each other.

"She's right," Kingsley, seemingly, is doing the same. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "We have much more to discuss."

Hermione waves her hand in a hurry it along gesture.

"We have information for your first mission with the snatchers," Kingsley hesitates, his fingers curling around his wand. "Afterwards, you should find Ron, he's waiting to update you."

Hermione beams.

An hour later, Hermione finds herself in the dusty, unkept living room, sprawled on the couch with a book in her lap and a mug of coffee floating beside her. There's a small fire flickering in the hearth, casting it's orange glow across the room.

Hermione does not miss Walburga Black in the slightest. Wretched woman. She's also grateful they removed the heads of the house-elves hung along the walls. S.P.E.W is a long forgotten campaign at this point, she hopes she can pick it up again in the future, but she still couldn't stand to see them used as decorative pieces.

The skies are darkening more and more with each passing day, even during the brightest days. The clouds are thicker, greyer, unrelenting. Always in manner of an impending storm.

Ron joins her some time later. He pulls her into a hug that almost squeezes the life right back out of her again.

"When Tonks told me..." He trails off, burying his head in the crook of her neck.

"I'm alright, Ronald," She reassures him, lightly grazing her fingers across his shoulder blades. "It was a fluke — It won't happen again. I was too focused on Dolohov."

After they separate, he seats himself on the sofa opposite to hers, then conjures a small table between them. With a wave of his hand, several parchments appear on it, along with a map of the Forest of Dean. A well-known snatcher hangout.

"I've put together a small team of DA members," Ron begins, flicking his wand and levitating the relevant parchment to her lap. "The Order have approved, they're just waiting on your vote."

Hermione scans over the list of names, six in total, and hums noncommittally.

"I'm assuming you chose Dean to be a field healer, and not an attacking member?" She asks, as she leans over to place the parchment back on the table. "I won't risk him."

"A healer is needed, Mione," Ron argues, meeting her stare-for-stare. He hardly ever backs down against her at first. "He does well enough in duels."

"He's the only one on the list that hasn't had any training in Occlumency. I won't allow him to come. He does not have my vote, Ronald. I'm more than proficient enough in healing without the need of a field healer."

Besides this truth, Hermione has a soft spot for Dean Thomas. He's been through a lot already, lost friends, family, his way of life — during their captivity in Malfoy Manor, herself, Luna, Dean, and Olivander became crucial to their ongoing survival. They would have lost more than just their sanity if not for each others constant presence and comfort.

Ron's jaw clicks. "Fine. I'll pick out another member."

Hermione nods. "Thank you."

"If I can't find another, I'll be joining the team until I'm able too," Ron tells her, and he holds his hand up in protest just as she opens her mouth to argue. "Shacklebolt won't let you go unless you have a full team, Mione, I'm the only option."

Hermione pauses. "You have no Occlumency training either."

"I'm a stronger duellist."

She tips her head back and groans. "Fine. Tell me the rest."

"If all goes according to plan, Shacklebolt will sign-off on us Apparating into the Forest of Dean in four days. According to one of our sources—"

Hermione questioningly raises her brows.

Ron grimaces.

"— It's Trelawny," Hermione scoffs at that. "She wrote in two days ago after the Final Battle. She's staying true to the Order and the resistance by maintaining her place in Hogwarts. She told Kings about an event being held at Hogwarts, most Death Eaters will be there along with the more trusted snatchers, meaning we have an opportunity to get in and get out without too much fuss."

"What kind of event?" She asks with a slight twist of belief on her mouth. "And why are snatchers allowed to attend?"

He flicks his wand and another parchment floats towards her. It's smaller. When she catches it, she reads over it, a charmed leaflet, giving the reader an invitation to a PR party at Hogwarts.

Of course.

Voldemort's way of gaining more followers, allies, and donations to his 'cause' post-victory. She tsks, then flicks her wand, and vanishes the leaflet.

"Anyway," Ron clears his throat, levitating the map. A small green light appears near the centre of the forest. "Here's the best bet for us to ambush them. We can lure out the snatchers, stun them, and you can use Legilimency for information."

Satisfised, Hermione nods. "Alright. Sounds good."

The Apparate into the forest at dawn, just on the outskirts of the previously appointed centre-mark, shielding themselves behind trees. The final cracks of sunlight pour in between breaks in branches, imitating a lattice shape on the ground in shadows.

With Ginny and Neville on her left, Ron and Angelina on her right, and Tonks at her back she feels confident enough that this mission will be over within the hour. They've each been chosen for their progression in duelling and ability to stay level headed during a skirmish.

After Tonks, Johnson is by far the most brutal and unforgiving when it comes to duelling.

Hermione raises her left hand, signalling for Ginny and Neville to spread out, to track any movements from their side. Tonks never leaves her back.

Ron and Angelina follow course to the right, checking through the endless trees for any sign of life.

As for Hermione's part, she walks, carefully, into the mouth of the small clearing, spinning slowly to keep her eyes peeled. All she see's is trees, bushes, and protruding tree roots webbing across the ground.

With only brief flashes of moonlight weaving through the gaps for light, Hermione has trust in her trusty old Gryffindor senses for further sight.

She flickers her gaze amongst the trees, counting four intermittent Lumos' from deep within the shadows, before giving a firm nod. Each one flicks just once, signalling they've seen her.

The lights go out.

There's not a sound for a miles, save for Tonks quiet huffs of breath at her side.

"Ready?" Hermione mouths to Tonks.

She nods, gripping her wand tighter in her hand.

Hermione points her own up at the sky. "Periculum."

Both she and Tonks follow the path the red flare shoots up into the sky, past the tallest trees, fading off into the grey of the clouds. She sends another after a minute, praying to Circe that there are snatchers close enough to see it.

"Periculum, Periculum, Periculum."

Three balls of hot red sparks flourish through the sky.

Before the final one fades, she hears a growl coming in from her left. A male, presumably a snatcher, sounding like he's in pain. He must have snuck in, but was caught off-guard by either Ginny or Neville.

When the crack of Apparition sounds behind her, she casts a shield over herself and Tonks and spins, waving her wand and wordlessly flinging him against a tree. Tonks sends off a stunner, but it bounces of the Protego he cast before he crashed to the ground.

In her peripherals, she see's a range of colours sparking between the trees on either side of her. With each flurry of white she just manages to catch, she notices them drawing back into the centre.

Hermione flicks and swishes, casting a Wingardium Leviosa, breaking through his shield, and holding him steady in the air. She jerks her chin at Tonks, signalling to the right of them. She takes off between the trees, providing backup.

It's been a long time since Hermione's felt nervous during missions, even when alone, she feels nothing but a strong determination to see success. After experiencing torture by Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange, there isn't much left to fear.

She Occludes all irrationality away, rendering her emotionless in the face of enemies.

She strikes her wand upwards, cutting a length between his ribs and sternum, then lets him drop to the ground, roaring out in pain. The wound forms a body of blood around his torso, sinking into the earth beneath him.

"Stupefy."

She darts forward, trusting in the others to cover her if need be, before dropping down, bearing a knee down on his sternum, and pushing the tip of her wand into his temple.

"Legilimens."

On the surface of his memories, there's only gatherings, parties, and nights spent in the pub with fellow snatchers. To her, this signals some use of Occlumency in order to protect his more crucial memories.

She shreds through each of them, delving further down down down into his subconscious. She can hear his agonised screams in the distance somewhere. She flicks away his patrols of the forest, his several captures of resistance members, until she comes to a wall. It's a solid brick wall, barely giving way upon her attacks.

He's hiding something.

Hermione presses her wand into his temple harder, each a chip in the formation, until she can see it crumbling away at the edges. She bangs on it, remembering how Umbridge destroyed the wall to the Room of Requirement during fifth, and pictures the same happening here.

After a few minutes of highly concentrated magical attacks, it shatters, memories flooding through. She flicks through them, her heart wrenching the deeper she goes.

She pulls away her wand and withdraws.

She falls back onto the grass, her breath heaving, and her jeans soaked to the skin with his blood. She's coated in a fine mist of cold sweat. She pulls herself up onto her knees, leaning back on her heels. She feels Tonks slide her arm around her shoulders, grounding her, whilst Ginny dives in front of her to cradle her face.

"Hermione?" Ginny asks desperately, searching in her eyes. "What did you see?"

As the glass over her eyes cracks, she meets Ginny's, feeling her own walls start to shake. The rooms in her mind, the second floor, start to vibrate, the sound of wood bouncing on their frames and door handles rattling.

She closes her eyes and takes three deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

"He's testing on them..." She whispers, furious at the tears welling in her eyes. "The snatchers — their mission is to capture them, deliver them to Hogwarts."

Stunned, pained silence falls in the space around her, waiting in anticipation. She can't seem to look at anyone but Ginny. There's always something calm and loving in her gaze, protective, and Hermione, more often than she cares to admit out loud, needs that sometimes.

The warmth from her palms burrows into her cheeks.

It reminds her that they're just kids — kids with burdens on their shoulders that carry the weight of the entire world. That it's okay, every now and then, to need someone to lean on.

Later, when Hermione Occludes properly again, she'll think herself ridiculous and naïve for ever allowing those words to cross her mind.

"The snatchers and Death Eaters are hitting Muggle London..." She drifts off, trying to restore order to her breathing. "The tests — they're testing on them. The spells... Fuck."

She hears several small sharp breaths from behind her, then Tonks' hold of her tightens.

"Testing on who, Mione?" Ginny asks, bringing the back of her hand to her cheek and brushing away a tear.

"Muggles," She rasps, stifling a sob. "Muggle-borns. Tom... He's — His orders are to capture as many of them as they can, deliver them to Hogwarts, and lock them up in the 'Testing Facility.'"

"The testing what?" Ron rebukes, his teeth grinding. He flies up onto his feet and starts pacing, enraged and calculating.

"We need to get back," Tonks pulls her up by the shoulders, steadying her on her feet.

A violent shiver surges up through her spine. She can't stand the tears stuck in her eyes, and the slight tremble in her breathing.

Hermione glances up at the ascending moon. They've been gone for over an hour, if they don't, at least, send word, Sirius or Shacklebolt will arrive and put a stop to the missions. As the pale silver moonlight hits her eyes, a migraine blooms across her head, causing her to wince.

She pushes the heel of her palm against her temple and rubs in a circular pattern to alleviate the tension. This is the worst part of Legilimency.

"Take him to the basement," Hermione says, breathy, nodding towards the snatcher bleeding out into the grass. "I'll check over the rest, then obliviate the useless ones — Neville, stay for backup."

A half hour later, they take one more snatcher into custody, after learning from his memories that there's an opening to infiltrate Hogwarts in four weeks times, then Obliviates the remaining seven snatchers.

When she returns to Grimmauld, she stumbles through the front door, weakly flings herself into the living room, then passes out on the sofa, reeling from the intensity of holding her walls, and ripping through the minds of nine snatchers.

The next day, sunlight creeps in from between the cracked curtains, and bathes Hermione in warmth. With a fist wrapped around her blanket, she burrows further into it and brings it up to her neck, resting her chin over it.

She can feel the faint ache of the last remnants of her Legilimency headache behind her eyes.

When she peels her eyes open, the first thing she see's is a tray hovering in front of her, a pain relief potion and a glass of water placed on it, along with a small note.

It occurs to her now that she's in a blanket. She wonders who covered her last night for a minute, then dismisses it.

She reaches for the note, unravels it, and reads over it.

"War Room."

It's in Sirius' handwriting.

Wonderful.

She groans, chokes back the potion, drains the glass of water, then forces herself to sit up. Her muscles loosen as the potion washes through her, eliminating the headache, and restoring some faculty to her limbs.

She pulls her wand from her thigh holster and conjures a mug of coffee, silently thanking the other residents for constantly having the kettle full as she takes a sip.

Begrudgingly, she heads for the War Room.

She barely crosses the threshold when Sirius' eyes meet hers, his expression closed-off when he tells her, "The first mission for Hogwarts is ready."

Hermione very nearly drops her mug.

She glances around each Order member, in full attendance, as well as Fleur sitting beside Bill, looking about as tired as Hermione feels — she supposes torturing snatchers all night can have that effect on a person — before she crosses the room to take her seat.

"Who did you pick as your partner, Mione?" Ron breaks through her thought bubble, his voice firm. Strategizing. "Before they'll tell us what plans they've got, they need to know."

Hermione catches the subtle point of his brows towards Sirius and Shacklebolt, and follows his gaze.

"Neville," She tells them matter-of-factly, taking a large swig of her coffee.

Ron's mouth gapes. "Longbottom?"

She waits for the initial uproar to pass, he's barely trained, he won't survive the first mission, and her all time favourite guilt tactic, you'll get him killed, Mione.

Hermione slams her mug down onto the table, like a gavel. "Are you all quite finished?"

"Why Neville?" Moody, usually the silent one in the meetings, speaks up, levelling her with a look. Both eyes drilled on her. "I suspected Johnson to be your choice. She's far more competent in duelling."

"I don't need a duellist," Hermione argue, flitting her gaze amongst the blank faces at the table. "If all goes to plan, we shouldn't come across any attackers."

"Why?" Ron asks through gritted teeth. Clearly angry with her.

Hermione has to suppress the urge to scream in pure rage.

From what she can tell, something like hurt flickers across his eyes too, his expression defeated. She concludes he must have thought she would pick him, even if he's the worst possible choice. He's too emotional, will compromise the mission to ensure her safety.

That's not what she needs.

"You want to know why, Ronald," She snaps, seething. She balls her hand into a fist in her lap. "He follows orders."

The weight of the tables appraisal upon her feels like a physical force bearing down on her. She can see it in each of their eyes, calculating all potential routes, avenues and outcomes of this.

Hermione knows that if someone else had suggested this, then they would have said no immediately. Neville is an asset to The Order, his propensity for herbology and potions is unmatched.

But it's not just anyone suggesting this. It's Hermione. Despite how they argue with her, they know she wouldn't do anything that could potentially hurt Neville.

"Agreed," Sirius states, giving a short nod. "Then, in four weeks time, the castle will be empty, save for the professors, students, and several lower-level patrolling Death Eaters. You-Know-Who is leaving the country with the inner circle in order to grow his armies, gain followers, and inevitably, secure funding. The more he has on his side, the more he can begin in a complete take over."

"You learnt this from the snatchers?" Hermione asks, her brow furrowing.

"Yes," Fleur answers her, her voice like silk. "Ze secund snatcher, had a meeting wit' Dolohov, detailing ze timeline."

"Dolohov?" Hermione repeats, shocked. "What was Dolohov doing talking with snatchers?"

"I suspect it has something to do with this Testing Facility," Moody answers, directing her attention onto him. "Whatever it is You-Know-Who is up too, it's more important that the snatchers be involved than not."

Something clicks into place for Hermione.

That's why there's a bounty on her head, surely. After what happened at the Final Battle, she would have suspected his orders would be to kill her on sight, maybe torture her for a while first providing her captor be skilled enough in Legilimency to try and pry out her memories.

But no.

There's quite the bounty on your head, girl. I'm not allowed to kill you — but I can have my fun with you first.

They want to test on her, a Muggle-Born, powerful enough to hit Voldemort. To what end, she can't say, but testing upon Muggles and Muggle-borns can't lead to anything even remotely good.

She can't help but ponder on just how far this Testing is going. Is Tom using any other creature to Test on? How many has he captured? Why is he testing on them in the first place? She finds her answer to be a resounding agreement of Power.

She doesn't voice any of this. They'll never let her anywhere near Hogwarts if they suspect there's Plans for her.

"Bring Neville to the table, fill him in on the plans, then send him my way for basic training," Hermione says with finality, standing from her chair. "Don't worry, I'll have him proficient in duelling enough for him to not die because of me during the mission."

She sounds petty, even to her own ears. She storms across the room, further adding to Petty Tendencies, her hand just hovering over the door handle when Sirius stands.

"Hermione," His voice sounds commanding. "You're too stay. It's time."

The silence that overtakes the room is heavy with strain. Gods, they know she hates this, knows her private life is just that — Private. The insistence is the biggest bane of her life.

She sucks in a sharp breath, her hand trembling for a moment. "No."

"If you want to do this mission," Sirius pushes out between clenched teeth, his conviction astounding. "If you want me to believe you are capable of not only keeping yourself alive, but Longbottom too, then I need to know."

She closes her eyes, steadying her breathing. "Just trust me."

"Dismissed," He commands the others.

The muscle in her jaw rolls as she's made to step aside from the exit, the others muttering their Goodbyes, their Well Done's for a Successful Mission, then Ginny squeezing her arm in passing.

When the door closes, Sirius locks and silences it, before gesturing to her seat.

"I need to know everything about your fifth and sixth year."

Chapter Text

The clock ticking is the only sound that fills the strained silence in the War Room, whilst Hermione and Sirius scrutinise each other.

He acts completely unaffected by her, by her need for privacy, whilst he sits in his chair with his arm outstretched on the table, and his finger tapping on the wood ominously. His body is stiff, his face smooth, and from what she can tell, he's as closed-off as closed-off as can be.

On the surface, he seems to be the most unaffected by the war — his face hasn't aged or stressed much, though she thinks it's due to being prepared for the war in ways most aren't (he survived the First Wizarding War and Azkaban, after all), his red velvet blazer is smooth and uncreased, his posture straight and firm, and if it wasn't for their more private meetings, their shared honesties, the years they've spent working together, she'd fully believe he's as stoic and emotionless as herself.

A few minutes later, Hermione begrudgingly enters further into the room, pulls out her chair with a forceful grip, and drops into it. Her arms folded.

She doesn't make eye contact whilst she tries to think of a way out of this.

She can claim she swore an Unbreakable Vow, then he'll have no choice but to trust her.

But surely he'll see right through that. He trusts her, but not that much, not enough to endanger herself and Neville's lives without the full information. The potential leak of information from either of their memories is reason enough to put a stop to the mission, too.

Hermione's walls are almost impenetrable, but Neville's are not.

And secondly, she can't trust him enough with her secrets also. If she tells him, the first thing he'll do is run straight to Shacklebolt and tell him everything, word for word, until her life becomes public knowledge. She's never wanted that.

She is not gossip-fuel.

Hermione needs the Hogwarts mission, though. This is the only way to gather intel now that Voldemort has won. His Death Eaters will likely be reaping their spoils of war now that they've begun full takeover of The Ministry and Wizarding Britain.

She feels sick to her stomach thinking about the Testing Facility — she refuses to sit idly by whilst everything falls apart around her.

She glances over Sirius' shoulder, to focus her gaze on the single-pane window that leads to the back garden, and tries to settle her heavy mind. The flowers, the bushes, and the foliage are wilted and withered due to lack of a full sunlight. It's colder too, now that He's won. It's always just a tad duller than it used to be.

Hermione closes her eyes for long moments, digs deep into her mental house, and floats through the hallway leading to the attic. The hatch above appears, and with a nervous heart, she pushes it open, dives through the large room, bypassing the furniture, the rails of clothes, the many obstacles, until she comes to the back corner, shrouded in darkness that's similar to black smoke, and hovers near her jewellery box.

She can feel herself chewing on her bottom lip when she waves it open.

With not just the memories flooding back through her, that unfamiliar twinge in her heart resurfaces, along with the unsettling feeling of dread twisting in her stomach.

Her eyes shoot open when the fading memories spill.

"Fine."

Sirius marginally relaxes into his chair when she agrees. He retrieves his wand from the inside pocket of his blazer and flicks it, conjuring a bottle of firewhisky and two glass tumblers.

Magically, he unstoppers the cork, and pours out two large shots. The bottle floats back onto the table.

"Begin."

"Swear to me you won't tell anyone, Sirius," She looks him dead in the eye, as firm and as solemn as the grave. "This is my life I'm sharing with you."

He studies her carefully for long moments, his face stony. His eyes calculating.

Tentatively, he extends his hand towards her. "Would you like me to take a vow? I can call for Kingsley to act as bonder."

"No," She declines abruptly, already long considered this option. "The least of us I can involve in this the better. But if the day ever comes when you may need to tell another, then I don't want your death on my conscience — I want to trust you."

She knows there's a part of her that never truly will. That doesn't believe he's ever truly and completely honest with her. It's his eyes, there's always a glint of emotion in them that she can't quite place.

But he doesn't have to know that.

"You can," Sirius has, as he always has done, reassured her with not just the conviction in his voice, but with his eyes too. They're fierce on hers.

She sighs defeatedly. "You know most of it, Sirius, I read books that delved deep into the Dark Arts, and then—"

"The full story, Hermione," He says, rather softly, as he slides a glass over to her. "Drink up, you look like you need it. Start from the very beginning."

Merlin, she hates him.

She takes a long sip of her drink and nurses the glass in her hands, an attempt at keeping her nervous shaking at bay. With a heavy sigh, she does just that, she starts from the very beginning.

"It started just before the Winter holidays, after Umbridge declared no use of magic in DADA. We assembled Dumbledore's Army and we met up in the Room of Requirement at every possible chance we could to practice the spells Harry knew. At first, it wasn't so bad, and he eventually taught us how to conjure our Patronuses, he gave me my otter.."

Her expression grows wistful. She thinks back to that moment, to when she first successfully performed the spell, the elation she felt deep in her heart when she witnessed her otter fly from the tip of her wand and swirl around her. She remembered the smile Harry gifted her, a true proud moment. There was hope there for a short amount of time. Her otter is the epitome of light.

She blinks several times and clears her throat, viciously shoving down the memories. She presses on. "Learning stunners was helpful, of course, Reducto, and so on. But it wasn't until Harry suggested we duel each other that I realised it wasn't going to be enough — He set me up with Ronald, then the other members all gathered around and watched us... Placing Bets!"

"Bets," Sirius repeats. 

She can't stand it when he's this impassive. His eyes glint again.

"Yes. Bets." She flares her nostrils, taking another composing breath. "I let it go, obviously I had no choice. Ron was so confident he would win, and he didn't. My Stupefy hit him right in the chest, he flung backwards, and bounced off the door. I had only moments to consider him being hurt like that with something other than a stunner in the future, before the girls surrounded me. They were laughing and cheering, and I just kept thinking how ridiculous it all was. That it would never be like this. Ron could be killed, I may not get the upper hand during an actual battle, there'd be more than just one Death Eater to face in all likelihood too, I had to know more, I had to be faster — and there certainly wouldn't be cheering if I did manage to not die. A stunner was never going to be enough, not enough to stop wizards with decades more of experience under their belts, spells with strength even I couldn't imagine at that time, and I pictured trying to stupefy a Death Eater whilst they're shooting Avada's at me... It all clicked into place then. I got so overwhelmed I ran out of the room. Went straight to Snape for a permission slip, ran to the library, and dived head first into the Restricted Section."

The intent in which Sirius listens to her momentarily lodges a breath in her throat. He hasn't moved, barely flinched a muscle, but she can practically see the gears in his mind working overtime trying to fathom this.

"I started with several books about the Dark Arts, beginning at an intermediate level, and commenced studying. It didn't take long to learn the theory of it all, the consequences, and what was required of me to be able to cast them in the first place. I remember how awful it felt to conjure my otter and the Suffocation Hex in the same day. My soul felt torn — which leads to my next point, when I started actually training. Theory is great and all but it wasn't enough. I used the Room of Requirement during both fifth and sixth year to train, without the others. I studied duelling, Elemental magic, defensive combat training, healing, and Occlumency. Two years in total. I carried on after..."

She drops her head in her hands for a minute, arranging her thoughts. "Combat training was where I struggled the most, I remember being so exhausted and frustrated, I blew up the training dummy with a burst of accidental Elemental Magic," She grins, crooked and wry. "I hated it, but did my best, enough to be able to defend myself anyway."

"When did you find the Purification Ritual?" Sirius asks, wildly intrigued. His eyes glitter with it. "That's ancient magic, Hermione, unbelievably rare. It's impossible that you should have it."

Hermione opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again.

This is one of the memories she struggles with. There's a few of them that just don't... add up. She remembers studying the grimoire constantly, had re-read it dozens of times over the course of two weeks, but she can't remember where it came from.

When she digs deep enough, she finds a spotty memory of finding it on a table in the library, believing one of her Professors retrieved it from the Restricted Section at the time, and accidentally left it out. But when she tried to borrow it again a few months later, Madam Pince told her they'd never owned such a rare book. It threw her off kilter for weeks.

"I found it mid-way through fifth," She, vaguely, goes with instead. "It was a miracle really, I was depressed and withdrawn and aching constantly due to the use of Dark magic. I was always cold... After I perfected the ritual, I performed it on myself several times, and all of the darkness just poured out of me, I was back to my normal self. Stronger, even. I took note of all the spells relevant to healing the effects of Dark magic, returned it to the library, then never saw it again."

He takes a long, savoured swig of Firewhisky. "You did all of this by yourself?"

She glances downwards. "I did."

He tilts his head sympathetically. "Hermione—"

She clears her throat purposefully. "Anyway, after the Department of Mysteries, I realised I made the right decision. Arthur nearly died, you almost died, Sirius, because of Dark magic. And I saved you with it instead — You gave Harry hope, hope for a future and a family. I knew in that moment that it was all worth it, that it was pointless to try and fight it. That's when I came clean with The Order. You've seen me out in the field many times now, the fact you doubt my capabilities is, honestly, massively insulting."

He raps his knuckles on the table, pondering her. "I don't doubt your capabilities, I just — I've never known the true extent of them, I suppose. Tell me about sixth year."

"Much the same really. Study, train, practice. I focused more on Elemental Magic, Runes, Arithmancy, advanced healing, and furthering my Dark Arts knowledge. I barely spent time with Harry and Ron, I felt isolated for a while. I just remember being so sad and lonely all the time. Then, there was lots of conferring with Tonks and Remus in the Spring, preparing me for the eventuality of keeping Harry and Ron safe in the event of the war starting... After Dumbledore died — Well, you know the rest."

"I do," He murmurs, almost too quietly for her to hear. "Thank you for telling me."

"Just keep it to yourself and we won't have any issues, alright?" Hermione half-scowls. "The ways in which I can hex you will shock even you, Sirius."

A slow, amused grin curls on his mouth. "You have my word."

She chews on her lip. "So, can I train Neville now, or not? Are you going to cancel the mission?"

"No," He doesn't hesitate to answer. "You can begin training at your earliest convenience. I'll send word to Minerva for help with the Runes and give you a full, written agenda by the end of the month."

"Thank you." Hermione gives a small nod of her head and a faint smile, before standing from her chair, downing her firewhisky, and leaving the room.

That same night, Hermione seeks out Neville, gives him a formal offer to partner with her, and he agrees without hesitation. His reasoning being the same as most I just want to help — I'll do anything to stop the war. This can be how.

Hermione hears that a lot, these days.

But it's how she finds herself in one of the two training rooms on the second floor regardless, dodging stunners, then hitting Neville in the shoulder with a strong Stinging Hex.

He recoils, but she doesn't stop. She shoots another hex at him, and he just manages to flinch to the left to miss it. "You have to hit me, Longbottom!"

"Expelliarmus," Breathless, he flicks his wand at her.

She deflects it, sending it back his way. His wand flings from his hand and lands deftly in hers.

With sweat lining his brow, his shoulder turning a violent shade of red, he keels over defeatedly. He curls his hands around his thighs whilst he tries to catch his breath. She has to resist the urge to confront him, point her wand at his throat, and remind him that he won't get this opportunity for a breather out in the field.

She refrains. They've been at this for almost two hours now. She floats a glass of water over to him instead, smiles softly at him when he takes it, and when their eyes meet, something like gratitude and reverence fills his gaze.

Neville has changed so much since first year — he's far from the boy that she remembers petrifying before seeking out Quirrell with Harry and Ron, or dangling from a chandelier in Lockhart's classroom because of Cornish Pixies. His shoulders are broader, muscled and well-defined. He towers over her in height, and when he manages to get close to her, she curses herself for being this short.

All of his boyhood facial features have sharpened, he's let his beard grow out slightly, just a shy longer than stubble. It gives rough and ragged, battle hardened.

She's pleasantly surprised by his duelling capabilities, considering everyone else seems to claim him to be insufficient at it. He's held his own against her for longer than even Ronald has in the past.

Hermione makes a mental note to inform everyone of this. He deserves it, the recognition.

She shouldn't be surprised really, he spent a year in Hogwarts under the rule of Snape and the Carrow's after Dumbledore's death, after all.

Neville has, quite literally, been tortured, beaten, and dragged through a war like themselves, and still managed to come out stronger for it.

She doesn't doubt in her decision, at all.

Hermione crosses the room, her bare feet padding over the training mats, and sitting down cross-legged beside him. After noticing this, he instantly slumps down into the same sitting position, thanking Merlin for the reprieve.

She almost huffs a laugh. "You done well, Neville."

"Coming from you?" He gapes at her in mock-amusement, looking rather incredulous. "Means a lot."

"I mean it," She says firmly, extending her hand towards him, his wand settled in her palm. "You're ready."

"Thanks, Hermione," He nods, taking his wand and twirling it in his fingers. "When do we leave?"

"Four weeks. I have a meeting with McGonagall in the morning to go over the Runes. It shouldn't take us long to figure it out if we work hard enough — she has Fleur and Bill taking over with the safehouses temporarily. Fleur needs the break, really. Everything should work out."

Hermione pulls herself up onto her knees and shifts her angle to face him, tugging up the short sleeve of his t-shirt until she can see his injury from the Stinging Hex. "Are you sure you want to do this, Neville? I need to make sure you fully understand what you're signing up for. This—" She points her wand at the wound, "Is nothing compared to what can, and likely will, happen to you."

She starts murmuring healing spells under her breath, simple incantations she learnt from fifth year. She draws a circle with the tip of her wand, following the radius of the irritation. "You can die."

Neville rolls his shoulder, hissing slightly when she presses the tip of her wand to the centre of it. "I understand."

His tone is firm, his expression solid and determined, and honestly, she believes him.

"Good," She smiles weakly, pulling her wand back when the area is healed. "Now, back on your feet, Longbottom, I won't heal you again. So make sure you hit me — Oh and for the love of Godric, keep moving."

Over the course of three short weeks, Hermione's entire time is spent between working with McGonagall and training Neville. Thankfully, there's no raids or attacks to handle, only the occasional dispute between DA members that she has to separate.

They spend so much time together in such small quarters that it's bound to happen. The war is heavy on them all.

Hermione, praying to Merlin that this is finally the session with McGonagall that completes the Runes, concentrates fully on figuring out the last piece of spellwork that's been kicking their asses for weeks.

Most of it has been easy to figure out — the intent is to break a small enough gap in the castle's wards for her and Neville to get in and out without alerting anyone. If they do it right, then no-one will ever know the tear is there in the first place, leaving it open for future access. McGonagall's help has been crucial as she knows the castle's wards better than anyone else does.

With her wand acting as a quill, she illuminates the tip, and starts drawing the Runes in the air in front of her.

She draws the reverted Kenaz for instability, the witches Scythe Rune for cutting away the old and making way for the new, and the Halagaz for secrecy, disruption, and latent destruction. The final Rune, to let them pass without harm, is where they are lost.

Infused within the Runes is the command 'to break', but when they've tested them previously on their own experimental wards, it's done nothing but rebound. The answer is there, she knows it, she can feel it.

She always trusts her gut, her own stubborn, Gryffindor intuition—

Her eyes blow wide, when it hits her.

"Intuition," She murmurs, mostly to herself. Entranced.

McGonagall hears her still, and whips her head up sharply, abandoning her quill and notes, and watching her with narrowed, studious eyes. Her square-rimmed glasses are dangling on the tip of her nose.

"The wards are a level of intuitive, right?" She asks, ignoring her stares. She picks her own quill up and starts scribbling on a small, torn off corner of parchment. "They must be. They know the castle has been taken over by Death Eaters, so they have changed loyalties, per se. They recognised the intrusion of Dark magic and the breach after the Astronomy Tower and weakened themselves because of it..."

She halts her quill, stares down at her page, and shapes the Rune with her eyes. "The Laguz Rune, Minerva. If we change the command to 'bypass' — instead of 'break' — add the Laguz Rune for intuition, adaptability, and memory, then the wards should yield."

McGonagall stares at her in wonderment for long moments, before plucking her wand up from beneath a bunch of books and loose sheets of parchmen,t and begins in creating a test set of wards upon the door.

Hermione re-writes the command, infuses basic Arithmancy into the spell work, then adds the last rune.

Exhausted, fuelled by adrenaline and a faux coffee-induced energy, she flies up out of her chair, approaches the wards, and after receiving the go ahead from McGonagall, begins carving the Runes into the wards.

She, literally, breaks a sweat when she feels the magic surge through her.

Four Runes, carved precisely into a specific and deliberately made weak spot in the wards (similar to the Hogwarts ones), a muttered incantation to control the break radius, and it works.

With wide eyes, they stare at the small crawl space at the base of the door. Tentatively, Hermione raises her hand towards the opening, a little shaky with the movements (Coffee — she'll blame the coffee. Not the nerves, as that would be absurd) and pushes her hand through the gap.

No alarms.

No adverse effects.

Hermione reaches up awkwardly for the door handle, her stomach fluttering with nerves as she takes a firm hold, twists it, then jerks open the door.

She doesn't think she's ever see McGonagall stand up to her feet so fast and excitedly clap her hands like that before.

With only three days left until the mission, she relishes in the satisfaction of this success.

She's giddy and grinny with it.

To congratulate themselves, they pour out a firewhisky, scatter the piles upon piles of parchments on the desk with a simple, chaotic flick of her wand, and slump down into their chairs.

Minerva deserves it. Just one night to revel in her genius, and not worry herself any further with the war.

"I find you to be very brave, Miss. Granger," McGonagall says some time later, her accent thick, and her tone tired and a little addled. "Not many your age would undertake such a mission, never mind suggest it."

From where she's sprawled out in her chair opposite, her glass in her hand, she laughs lightly. "Everyone keeps underestimating me — and call me Hermione, Minerva. You've known and taught me for years. Formalities are rather pointless now, don't you think?"

She huffs out a laugh. "You are right, dear. But I feel I must assure you, not a single member of our resistance or The Order underestimate you. I find you're the one that fails to see that. We value you greatly, Hermione."

If Minerva happens to see tears welling in her eyes, then she'll claim seasonal allergies, despite the tampered seasons.

"Thank you," Hermione rasps, her lips parted. "I just want to win."

Her expression hardens. "We all do, General. We all do."

Sirius, Shacklebolt and Moody can't even feign indifference when, the next day, Hermione performs the Runic spell for them. They are rather pleased, if not awed.

Hermione is exceedingly proud with Neville's progress and makes not just them, but everyone, very much aware of his capabilities. She isn't at all bothered to admit he successfully hit several jinxes upon her.

They go over the details of the plan — ensure the Runes actually work with the wards, break the wards for future trips, get inside the tower without triggering any alarms, and make their way through the castle until they reach the library. Once inside, access the Restricted Section, retrieve a book titled Dark Objects and Curses and, if they're able, get a lay of the land, now that it's likely changed.

If they manage to find any inkling of a horcrux, don't approach it. Leave it be until the next mission, and Hermione is almost certain this is Shacklebolt's way of testing her, to see if she can actually follow orders without breaking off on her own — per one of his conditions of allowing her to proceed with this mission.

A simple test run — easy enough done.

Two days later, Hermione and Neville Apparate into the Forbidden Forest.

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest is not how Hermione remembers it at all.

It's somehow darker, colder, lacking in any form of light and life (not that there was a significant amount originally, anyway, but it's devoid completely now). She can't hear any scutters of wildlife, the ground is denser beneath her feet, and the plant life around her has withered to the point of being black and decrepit.

It's so silent, it's eery. There's a constant shiver stuck in the base of her spine.

She doesn't run the risk of casting a Revelio to reveal any dark creatures lurking about and instead uses her stubborn Gryffindor intuition.

Still disillusioned, with Neville at her back, she creeps forward, careful to look up into the trees for any hidden vampires scouting on branches, keeps her ears sharp for any sign of werewolves approaching beyond the trees, and avoids open spaces as much as she possibly can.

Travelling to Hogwarts during the second day of the full moon was a calculated risk — there's too much to gain from this assignment to worry over werewolves. The lack of Death Eater presence outweighs the cons.

The castle isn't far off, they're just on the outskirts.

She can see the quidditch stadium just over the hill.

Coming out between a line of skeleton trees, just atop the hill, Hermione and Neville stand side-by-side whilst she takes in Hogwarts, now that it's been fully overtaken by Voldemort.

The first thing she notices is the dementors, flying in carefully precise circles around the grounds. There's not many, four at most, perhaps. If they stay far enough away, hidden in the shadows, then they shouldn't be a problem.

If they catch them whilst inside the anti-apparition wards, then they have the emergency portkey that'll take them into Muggle London (courtesy of Moody), just in case.

The intel from the snatchers was good, there's minimal Death Eaters patrolling. There's two standing sentry at the main entrance, over the bridge, and another four patrolling the parameters.

Again, using Hagrid's grounds keepers entrance, just by his former hut, should easily evade them, and bypass the outer wards.

All students and most Professors still in the castle should be in bed considering the hour. She can only imagine what punishments their teachers would inflict upon them for being disobedient. She imagines the Carrow's are still under employment.

Beside her, she can hear Neville's heavy breathing, can feel the tension radiating from him waves. As she knows to look for it, only she can see the distortion in the air surrounding his disillusion.

She taps him on the shoulder twice with two fingers, then takes off the to the right, descending the hill in a crouched-down position, until they're skirting on the edges of the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione's occluded so much, so thoroughly, her emotions are stuck behind a wall. She can't even feign a nervous heart.

They take the necessary route to Hagrid's former hut, coming across the fencing separating them from the Hogwarts main grounds — they follow the old, worn-down fencing until they reach the gate.

Behind her, a twig snaps in the distance. Both her and Neville spin slowly, tracking the line of trees, searching for any movements in the deep dark abyss of the forest until they're certain they are alone.

Here, where everything is so dark, so lifeless, the pale moonlight doesn't do much to enlighten the area.

Hermione flicks her wand and conjures a detection spell on the gate. Sifting through the wards, detailed Runes and Arithmancy equations, she surmises there's only basic protection and locking charms, and nothing so elaborate that she'll have to spend a while deconstructing them in order to banish them. She assumes there's no need to overly ward this area, as the more complex wards will be on the castle.

After two minutes of casting, it opens without an issue, the unused hinges creaking to life.

Opening it must have alerted them.

With a speed too fast to track without initial warning, three werewolves jump out from between the trees and leap for them, pouncing high over the lines of bushes between them and lunging mid-air with bared teeth, snarling wetly, as they come crashing towards them.

"Shit," She snaps sharply as she raises her wand, cutting through the air between them with an Expulso.

They whimper as they're thrown off course and sent hurling into trees and striking the ground, the dried leaves and dirt blasting around them. She hears the sound of bones breaking and cowering after they drop.

Pulling the vines from beneath the earth with a simple motion of her wand and reach with her magic, she wraps two of them tightly to the ground. They're petrified long before they can howl too loudly.

Neville deals with the third with an Incarcerous. The wolf writhes on the ground, pain stricken, whilst Neville looms over it with his wand pointed at it's chest. Just before it howls, he silences it with a simple flick.

She sighs quietly, unsheathes her dagger from her thigh holster, then approaches them, squatting down beside the first one — from what she can tell, it's back is broken — after a further but quick inspection, it's leg too is angled in an unnatural way.

As she raises the silver dagger in the air, the surface glinting against the single streak of moonlight, bringing it down, aiming for it's heart, she feels a hand clamp firmly around her wrist.

"Hermione, don't," Neville whispers too her, pleading. "Don't kill it. Please?"

Her eyes widen momentarily, her teeth grinding, as for the first time since suggesting his name for her partner, she feels a wave of regret wash through her.

She twists her arm in his grip, forcing him to release her wrist, then with one quick, sudden slash, opens the wolf's throat. Blood seeps from the wound in a downpour, instant death. 

Furious, Hermione stands, invisible to the naked eye, and confronts Neville. Height difference in this case doesn't matter, her whole force of nature emanates from her. She can feel him recoil.

"Don't ever stop me again," She orders him, her tone low and firm. Deadly. "This is your only warning, Neville. I will not compromise the mission by leaving survivors — survivors who will tell You-Know-Who about an intrusion. If you can't handle it, then you need to tell me now. I will pick a new partner — I won't carry the weight of any further dead in our resistance by risking a retaliation caused by fucking werewolves. Are we clear?"

She barely recognises her own voice, her own detached and cold mind.

Neville doesn't respond.

Hermione leaves no survivors, no evidence of their deaths, and proceeds with the assignment, silently fuming to herself that they wasted time dealing with this.

They make it to the castle without any further interruptions. They bypassed the hut, the miserable whomping willow, then the main grounds; they sneak past the Care of Creatures classrooms, sticking to the shadows and walls, wands still drawn, and following the wall around the West Tower, until they're at the base of the Astronomy Tower.

She can feel the Dark magic still residing here, corrupting even the air around it. She can practically taste it on her tongue.

Hermione kneels down to the right of the tower, hidden in the shadows and concealed in the darkness between two buildings whilst she gets to work.

Neville stands guard a short distance away from her.

She takes a deep, steadying breath and starts to carve the Rune's into the wards — the first two, The Kenaz and The Scythe, are easy, and providing little resistance from the wards. As soon as they take affect, a web of white translucent magic shines behind them, ready for breaching.

When she carves the third, The Halagaz, the spell fails, and the Rune's disappear.

Hermione doesn't groan and curse out loud profusely — she keeps the multiple Fucks, Stupid Runes, and Fucking Stubborn, Useless Wards all in her head.

She casts them again and again with unyielding conviction until the third sticks. She swipes the back of her hand across her brow to gather the mist of perspiration gathered there.

Hermione can hear Neville shift behind her, either changing stance or direction of sight. Her heart flutters with nerves and lack of time.

She knew, on some level, there would be resistance from the wards, that they would put up some form of fight to prevent them from breaking. She doesn't think they're blocking them per se, only the offensive magic against them.

But by the time she's finished carving the fourth Rune, The Laguz, finishing up in incanting the spell to draw the radius of the crawl space (making it big enough so neither she nor Neville can brush against it upon entrance), the wards give way. A surge of white light bolts around the edge of the space, disappearing the Runes from the air, and remaining stable.

She quashes the urge to clap, dance, and fling her arms up in victory.

Hermione scrapes her wand against the unwarded wall, alerting Neville to it's completion, opens the door and crawls through.

They don't stop.

They stick to the walls, the shadows, and race through the tower.

Everything still looks the same, not including the damage done during the Final Battle or the carelessness of the Death Eaters now that they live there. The few remaining portraits are sleeping and the halls are empty.

It may look the same, but it feels different. Hermione doesn't get the feeling of coming home like she used too, finds none of the previous comfort in it's walls, it's barely-lit halls, or the unwavering safety it once provided for her. It's a shell, a husk, dying from the inside out.

They reach the Charms classroom, ignoring it in favour of the staircase beside it, then bolt down through to the Transfiguration Courtyard.

Hermione feels an arm around her waist from behind, before she's being pulled aside. Her back collides and presses gently against a wall to her left, whilst Neville stands in front of her, shielding her.

She can feel the weight of his chest against hers, every rise and fall in time with his heavy, quiet breathing. His temperature is hot enough for her to feel it through her overly charmed shirt.

Dully, she wonders if she's warm too, or if she's just ice cold. She can never tell anymore.

After a few long moments, she hears the thud of heavy dragonhide boots bypass them — a Death Eater on patrol (which accounts for four of the six she saw earlier). Her body slumps against Neville's, fucking relieved he caught them in time. They wait several minutes until the footsteps recede back into the castle.

More carefully, they cross the courtyard, quietly passing through the doors into the central hall, then divert to the staircase, and up to the first floor. They take a left towards the library.

The large doors suddenly hit her with a wave of nostalgia that momentarily lodges a breath in her throat. She has so many fond memories of this place, she spent eighty-percent of her time here during her school years; reading, studying, and learning everything she could about her magic, the Dark Arts, and Elemental Magic. If she's being perfectly honest with herself, she wouldn't be half the witch she is without it.

She remembers sitting at the tables with stacks upon stacks of books surrounding her, each giving her the opportunity to truly understand her magic and the Wizarding World, allowing her the chance to show everyone just what a Muggle-Born is capable off, despite the differing in upbringings.

Never stopped the bigotry, though. No matter how hard she tried, it never mattered.

It never mattered that she was top of her class, that she mastered both Light and Dark magic within these very walls, took down Death Eaters much stronger and experienced than herself, and took the wizarding world by storm by becoming The Brightest Witch of Our Age.

All anyone ever cares about is blood.

Shaking the bitter thoughts away, she swans past Neville after he's opened the door for her a crack, then slips through the library annex and passages between bookcases. She doesn't stop to relish in her fond memories, doesn't stop to take in the damage, the discarded books on the ground, or the many, many torn pages of ancient, knowledgeable texts scattered about the place as if they mean nothing.

They don't stop until they descend the small staircase, leading down to the Restricted Section.

"Who goes there?" A sharp, rough voice calls out to them. More proud than threatening. Haughty.

Hermione and Neville gasp in unison, pointing their wands out and turning in a circle, looking for a face to the voice.

"I said who goes there?" The voice repeats with more resolve.

Wait.

It's familiar.

Gods.

Taking a carefully calculated move, considering the library is as dead as a doornail, she casts a Lumos, then points her wand up to the stone wall.

"Shh," Hermione whispers sharply, pointing the light at the portrait. "Sir Cadogan, keep your voice down."

The portrait has been here for as long as she can remember, the spirit of a sworn in member of the Round Table, standing guard to the Restricted Section. Hermione remembers reading about him in Legends of Arthur and The Round table during her first year — his victory over Wyvern of Wye, at great personal risk of his own life, is his most famous accolade. She would speak to him about it some times.

He's a proud wizard, very loyal to Hogwarts.

"Who are you?" Cadogan exclaims, not at all shushing. "I will report you—"

"Don't!" Hermione snaps in a hushed tone, pointing her wand closer to him. "I can't tell you who I am, only that I'm a friend — Will you help me pass?"

He studies the space her disillusioned form takes through the portrait for long moments, brandishing his sword. "Hm, you sound familiar, young girl."

Hermione swallows thickly, readying her wand to set fire to a priceless portrait.

If she didn't already hate herself, then she would now.

"I dare say... But no — perhaps not," Cadogan, finally, says thoughtfully. Standing straight again. He sounds almost wistful. "Can't be, she was a sweet girl. Brightest witch of her age. Full of heart... You don't much sound like that," He clears his throat. "Are you here to help Hogwarts or harm it?"

Her gut wrenches when she realises that he remembers her and their previous conversations, but also doesn't appear to find that same girl within herself anymore.

She should feel guilt, but oddly, she doesn't.

"Help," Hermione says. "I knew Dumbledore well."

"Friends?" He asks, the sound of his armour clinking as he leans forwards.

Her mouth curls fondly, crooked and wistful. "Not at all — not one for friends, really."

Some kind of emotion passes over his painted face, one she can't hope to understand considering he is, in fact, a painting, before he murmurs, "Et Scientia Dux."

Let Knowledge Guide.

It's still the same password as it always has been. Why she never considered trying it to begin with, she can't say, but it's good to know.

The gates to the Restricted Section unlock and creak open.

"Thank you, Sir," Hermione whispers, before spinning on her heel and descending the last staircase.

Hermione's hit with the familiar smell of old parchment, dust, and musty air whilst she races through the passageways — the books, some older than even Dumbledore himself was, hum with magicks and power far greater than comprehension.

She stands in the centre, points her wand. "Accio Dark Objects and Curses book."

She holds her hand out, palm facing upwards, whilst she waits. She hears the faint sound of hardback scrape off a shelf, then thud into the bookcase several times as it tries to turn a corner — it flies towards Hermione; fast, precise, and once it strikes the space around her, she holds up her hand and catches it by the spine in one fell swoop.

Without further inspecting it, they race back through the Restricted Section. And Hermione, she's gutted she can't stay longer. The information lining these shelves is vast, can only help her and The Order win the war. She could stay all night soaking up the knowledge—

Maybe another time, she won't give Shacklebolt the satisfaction.

She closes the gate, murmurs her thanks to Cadogan, then leaves the library in a careful haste.

With time left spare, they follow onto the next step of the agenda: get the lay of the land.

Hermione decides not to venture too close to the main areas of the castle, the Great Hall, corridors, and the Faculty tower. She suspects the most patrolling Death Eaters and prefects will be situated there.

She takes Neville's hand, pulls him along to the Central Hall staircase, and proceeds to cross the Transfiguration Courtyard again. A dementor flies overhead briefly, but sticking to the shadows, they remain undetected. They bypass the Charms classroom, and head into the DADA tower.

It's a risk, but she theorises that most activity Post-Voldemort- Victory will have started from here.

She isn't wrong.

The classroom is full to the brim with Dark Objects, sacrificial offerings (in transfigured cages, there's snakes, birds, small animals, and so on) texts on the Dark Arts and how to use them, and more horrifyingly, there's large jars containing, from what she can tell, human remains. Swimming in some green kind-of fluid.

Hermione's stomach knots with revulsion, her Occlumency quivering ever-so-slightly.

A closer inspection tells her two things: they're most definitely Muggle or Muggle-born, and they've been tested on. The snatchers memories where right, but nowhere near this detailed. There's a human heart in one, in wrecked condition, with the faint carvings of Rune's on it's surface.

It's laced in scars that are shaped like lightening, grey coloured.

Bile rises up in her throat, the acid burning through her oesophagus painfully. With a shaky hand, she covers her mouth.

Eyeballs with florescent irises in varying, obscure colours — lilac, crimson, pale green, almost the same shade as sage, then beside it, a human bone, an ulna she concludes, with different Runes carved into them.

One looks awfully like the reversed Ægishjálmur, the helm of awe, though carved smaller, is to instil fear. And the other, the Uruz, for power, combined with a reversed Othala (to steal something that doesn't belong to you) seemingly meaning to drain the branded of their power.

Their magic.

Muggle-borns.

Studying further, she recognises The Thurisaz, which symbolises danger, conflict, and the potential for harm. An educated guess tells her that the person in question, whomever has been branded, that if they don't meet or follow the requirements of the intent behind the Runes, then they'll suffer greatly and eventually die.

Hermione tightens her shaky hand over her mouth for a minute, catching her breath, and forcing down the sobs threatening to erupt.

This — this is what Voldemort wants her for. To test on her, brand her, steal or funnel her power, either into himself, a Death Eater, or a Dark Object of some kind.

A Dark Object — Dark Arts — Curses — Testing.

Glancing down at the book in her hand, she wonders, briefly, if Sirius and Shacklebolt know this, and that's why they want the book so badly. Maybe it holds information on what Voldemort is using the Facility for.

She squashes the niggling sense of betrayal rising within her.

Sidestepping further along the shelves, she casts a low-light Lumos in order to try and figure out — just what they are. There's more than just jars containing organs and bones. There's several vials of blood, likely held in a stasis charm, that are darker than the typical shade of crimson. It looks almost as black as tar. Hermione surmises there's something mixed into it, but without testing it properly, she won't be able to fathom an accurate enough guess.

Hermione points her wand to the left, and taking it up a good portion of the shelf, is non-human bones. She can tell by the sheer length of them, and the ways in which they're contorted. She has to theorise they belong to Dark Creatures of some kind. There's definitely werewolf teeth behind them in a clear, plastic box. 

What's strange to her is how two or three bones seem to be — Gods — magically fused together. The shape of the skeleton is just bizarre. There's, what appears to be, the hind leg of a werewolf, fused with a femur and pelvic girdle, and a rib-cage that is larger than the lower area. It looks — deathly wrong, on so many levels.

Hermione frowns at it. 

Are they testing on Magical Creatures, too? She points her wand between the bones, jars, vials of blood, and werewolf teeth. What in Merlin's name is going on here? What would be the point to combining different parts of different creatures like this? — And, quite possibly, splicing their DNA, if she was to take an accurate guess at what is in those vials. 

She cannot accept the idea of Voldemort gaining more power from combining creatures like that. She's sure if she inspects them hard enough, she'd likely find Runes on them, too. She won't touch them to turn them, so she'll have to keep the theory instead.

Her stomach burns with nausea. Her head hurts with trying to put the pieces together, only for them to fall short, and disconnect. It's horrifying, inhumane, utterly fucking barbaric—

"We should go," Neville whispers to her, his breath fanning across her ear.

Collecting herself, she abandons the shelves, takes Neville's hand again, then leads him through the rest of the tower, towards the suspension bridge. They cross over into the Gryffindor Tower, as she has a feeling, way deep down in her gut, that she knows exactly where the Testing Facility is—

The Gryffindor common room.

The painting of The Fat Lady has been torn to shreds, worse than third year when Sirius defaced it.

The door has been wrenched open, released of it's magic, and in the distance, she hears the weak sounds of cauldrons stirring (likely magically), faint murmurings, and the hum of Dark energy in the air.

She ponders if Snape is in there, either preparing to test on her kind, or already doing so.

They've tainted Hogwarts, it's purity, it's homely atmosphere, it's Light magic, and desecrated it in ways even the darkest and most knowledgeable wizard wouldn't be able to fathom.

She doubts even Voldemort can truly sense how ruined this once beautiful castle is.

Every instinct screams at her to race in there, destroy the vile, evil schemes they have planned for it, save as many as she can, perhaps Avada any Death Eater she crosses paths with, then burn the whole castle to the ground just to spite Voldemort and his petty, disgusting need to dissect every fibre of a Muggle and Muggle-born just to feel superior.

The vinewood of her wand bites into the skin of her palm, the harder she grips it.

"We really have to go," Neville whispers into her ear again, before he's taking her hand and pulling her stiff form through the castle once more.

As they pass through Ravenclaw Tower, out of the corner of her eye, Hermione spots the wisp of a ghost across the way from her, floating the small width of the walls, and humming with melancholy. A pained, desperate tune.

Helena Ravenclaw — The Grey Lady.

She stops dead, bringing Neville to a jerking halt, too. Hermione tracks the path she's taking, encircling the tower, and glancing out of the windows to the moon kissed skies.

She remembers Harry telling her that he spoke to her, just minutes before the explosion, then the battle in the courtyard followed.

The Diadem.

Did she tell him where her Mother hid it? Is it still in the castle? If she obtained it tonight, would Shacklebolt stop her from coming again in the future?

Probably — and she's not prepared to take it either, trying to could alert every soul in this castle. If the Death Eaters have, somehow, found it, then they'll either likely be guarding it in it's resting place or have it locked up and out of sight somewhere else in the castle.

It's too risky.

Fuck, she carries on running, swearing to herself that her next mission here will be the retrieval of it. At least they have the lead. They can question snatchers or Death Eaters to plan accordingly for a future infiltration.

They almost make it back to the Astronomy Tower without capture.

Hermione draws in sharp gasp as a plume of black smoke materialises before her, lashing in a straight path towards her, and fully clouds her vision. Her disillusion breaks by the violent contact. Her back collides with stone, forcing her to groan out in pain due to her head taking a brunt of the force also, and her body arching in protest, trying to free herself from—

No.

No.

Hermione's head throbs but her spotty vision clears, revealing a tall, dark, looming figure, draped in black robes, face covered by a silver mask, ruined with a dark crack.

Her heart pounds relentlessly when she realises, beyond a doubt, that it's him — That Death Eater, her haunting enemy. He's gripping her throat with a strong hand that covers the expanse of her neck, his fingers are long and firm, and he's pressing his body against hers so harshly that she struggles for oxygen.

No words leave his lips, or hers, although she's got the excuse she's unable too due to a constricting hand around her neck. All she can manage to draw in is sharp stuttering breaths.

Her cheeks feel warm.

The silence that falls into the space between them is thick with... tension? Imminent duelling? Potential bloody death? There's something palpable, something she could reach out and touch if she was able to move.

The weight of his inspection upon her is colossal. He has his head tilted ever-so-slightly, mere inches away from hers, but he still does not speak, nor does he seem to have his wand in hand, ready to hex, kill, or capture her for testing.

Her mouth dries with anticipation; her aching skull tells her to run, but her mind, her traitorous, reckless mind wants her to swing her fist, aiming for his throat, to subdue him, rip of his mask, and finally find out who he is.

The hit never lands.

He uses his free hand to catch her fist, pin her wrist to the wall above her head, then push further into her so she may not move an inch. He releases her throat, then wandlessly and wordlessly, he Accio's the book she dropped upon collision into his hand, then glances down at it with an almost imperceptible jerk of his chin.

Just over his shoulder, she see's the faint distortion of Neville approaching, his disillusion shifting dully in the air around him — but before he can advance, she gives a minute shake of her head, stopping him. He should have left without her, staying behind to protect her is half the reason why she didn't choose Ronald to partner with her, it compromises the mission.

The information they've gained tonight is crucial — Damn him, he's risking it all. The Order have to know.

Noticing the objection, The Death Eater tenses, his body going rigidly still, before he leers closer to her. Even the mask doesn't stop his breath, warm and seeking, from ghosting over her mouth. Her own shaky breathes mixes with his.

She can't say why he isn't bringing further harm to her, why he's giving her this chance to study him as he's doing to her, with a deep intensity she can feel weighing down on her chest like an anvil, but there is something familiar about this — about him.

"Who are you?" Hermione asks, the words constricting around her throat. Her voice quiet and hoarse.

Hermione knows him, she does. Something inside her recognises him.

Her furrowed brow, her parted lips, her crumpled expression, her hooded eyes, something must have give her away. He takes a step back, withdraws from her, then to her utter fucking shock, he releases her, then slips the book back into her hand by her side.

"Leave, filth," His low voice, unfamiliar, is raspy and deep. Commanding. "Now."

His robes billow around him as he turns away, then disappears in a whirl of black smoke. Hermione stares at the vacant space, thoroughly stunned by his actions — then, surprising even herself, her heart twists at the sudden emptiness around her.

It occurs to her that this is the first time she's heard his voice — There's nothing familiar about it in the slightest. It's deep, rough, and ragged.

A middle-aged wizard perhaps. Northern sounding. She can't be certain. There's still something oddly distinct about his tone.

Ah, rich with years of pure-blood superiority. Of course.

Most of Voldemort's higher ranks are members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and he called her filth, definitely something a pure-blood would say. A Crabbe or Goyle, perhaps? It's not either of them, she'd be able to tell. But there's enough of them in their bloodlines that he could be a nephew or cousin.

Again, it feels dangerously familiar — No! No time to process or analyse further, no time to stop her trembling and nervous bodily response to the close proximity, as they bolt and leave.

They make it back to Grimmauld unscathed.

She commands Neville not to tell The Order about him.

Hermione, enraged, storms through the house with Neville on her heels. His steps sound far more timid and nervous than hers.

She pushes open the War Room door, let's it slam shut behind Neville, then approaches the head of the table, opposite to Sirius'. She brings her fists down upon it, one hand gripping the book, the other clutching her wand, leans over, and meets Sirius' eyes with malice.

"Did you know?" Hermione seethes, baring her teeth. "Did. You. Know?"

He doesn't answer her right away.

He stands up, keeping with her eye contact glare-for-glare, before dismissing the others in the room, save for Shacklebolt.

Neville turns to leave, but Hermione speaks up, "You're staying."

After hearing her tone, he does. He pulls out the chair on her left and drops himself into it. He looks tired, but is still wearing an expression of determination.

Sirius mimics her position on his side of the table, eyeing her carefully. "What you must understand, Hermione—"

"Did you know?" She repeats, her jaw tight and aching with ire.

"Yes."

Hermione gasps and stumbles back a step, returning to a loose standing position. Her chest feels hollow by the confession — Merlin, she expected it, she knew he did, but it still doesn't stop the feeling of betrayal, the horror in which the Creatures, Muggles, and Muggle-born's have suffered through whilst they knew!

She opens her mouth to speak, but her lower lip trembles. And she can't stand it. Can't stand looking weak and vulnerable in the face of one so cruel.

She steels herself. "How could you?"

Sirius sighs, but doesn't alter his closed-off, commanding expression. Her leader now, rather than ally. Friend. Someone she can trust.

At his nod, Shacklebolt locks and silences the door. He does nothing to soften his demeanour either.

"Full report, Miss. Granger," Sirius orders her, gesturing a hand at her seat.

"No," She spits, her magic sparking in her fingers. "Don't you dare do that. Don't you dare treat me as though I'm just another bloody pawn in your ridiculous game—"

"This is not a game," Sirius roars at her, his face cracking with anger. "This is war. You are reckless. If I told you, you would have stormed Hogwarts without thinking. You would have died. It's my job to protect The Order's members, even from themselves."

Hermione scoffs. "That's bull—"

"You will speak to me with respect or you will not speak at all," He warns her. Hermione doesn't cower, meets his rise with her own. "Do not think you're above the rules, General."

The old dusty shelves lining the walls rattle, the decorations, ornaments and picture frames creep closer to the edge in response to her magic. Shacklebolt casts a broad glance around the room, watching, tempering the destruction with a wave of his wand.

"Then you will treat me with respect, Sirius! You sent me in there, you knew I would find The Facility — you wanted me to confirm it."

Shacklebolt stands next, siding with Sirius. "Stand down, Miss. Granger."

"That's General to you," She rebukes, gripping her wand tighter.

When he takes a step forward, Neville rises from his chair and stands in front of her, siding with her. She tries to not act surprised, tries to not feel a warmth in her chest by his action, but she does. Her lips part for just the briefest moment.

No-one ever takes her side so easily. So blindly.

There's a tense silence then, stretching on and on as the minutes tick by.

She refuses to be the one to bridge this gap between them, to be the one to admit to any wrong doing. Second-in-command, their General, and they treat her like this — absolutely not.

The urge to hex is strong.

Neville angles himself towards her, shielding her from their line of sights further. Gods, she appreciates him so much right now.

Her wand hand flinches, her wrist jerking towards them. Perhaps she should remind them—

"I apologise," Sirius, reluctantly and begrudgingly, admits to her as if he knows what she's thinking. He stiffly sits back in his seat. "You are right, I should have warned you."

Hermione lets her wand arm drop to her side. She keeps the book pressed to her chest. "You chose me to be your Second. I didn't ask for it, how dare you doubt me now. How dare you keep secrets from me!"

She hears the subtle grit of his teeth, restraining himself. "I did choose you, in spite of your recklessness. Can you honestly look me in the eye and swear to me that you wouldn't have acted upon this information without waiting for proper instruction?"

"Yes!" Hermione barks back instantly. She imagines her hair must be wild with intermittent magical static at this point. "I'm loyal to The Order first, I know how this works — I contribute to said further instructions. Do you think I'm so stupid as to believe I can storm Hogwarts alone? That I don't know that I'm no good to anyone dead? You know me better than that, Sirius."

"It's was a risk I wasn't willing to take," He says with finality, gesturing at her seat again. "Tell me everything."

Neville, sweet Neville, follows Hermione around to her chair, sits beside her in Tonks seat, then edges his chair closer to her. She takes a quick moment to appreciate him, to the security and back-up he is providing for her, before proceeding to tell them everything.

Hermione starts with confirming the entrance in went smoothly, despite the werewolf encounter ("We knew the risk. It shouldn't happen again providing Voldemort doesn't plan his PR parties accordingly" the disdain in her voice is thick), the ward breaking, then reaching the library without further disruption.

She tells him about the DADA classroom, the Runes on the human remains and the intent behind them. She follows up with the combined skeletal structure of the Creatures, along with the vials, and teeth. Neville pales then as, apparently, he didn't recognise the Runes as she did, didn't understand why she was so irate in the first place — and yes, her heart warms at that, because he defended her regardless.

She shouldn't have doubted him.

She goes on to tell them about locating the Testing Facility in the Gryffindor common room then. She suspects they used this specific location because of her and her kind, because Harry was a Gryffindor, another hateful and spiteful act against them.

"The diadem," Hermione finishes on. "That should be the goal for the next mission, providing we infiltrate again when the castle is equally as unguarded."

Sirius and Kingsley shoot a glance at each other, their bodies tensing. Silently communicating again. "Do continue, Hermione." Sirius adds.

"We saw Helena Ravenclaw in her Mother's tower, confirming her presence within the castle still. You remember Harry told me he spoke with her before the explosion, before he went to the courtyard... She may have told him about it's location — we have the basilisk fangs on site, we can retrieve it and destroy it, possibly without alerting them until it's out of the castle."

Sirius hums thoughtfully. "Do you think you can complete this assignment without running the risk of retaliation upon The Order?"

"We can take precautions," Hermione says, on a wavelength. "We can hide it until we locate Nagini's whereabouts, I can bury it beneath a hundred spells, making it untraceable — but if we leave it in the castle any longer, Tom might find it first, if he hasn't already."

"We'll talk further on it, consider it in time for the next mission, and if we can implement a fail-proof plan, then I don't see why you shouldn't," Sirius concedes.

"One stipulation, if I may," Shacklebolt cuts in, twirling his wand in his fingers. "Providing you find more information regarding Nagini's location first. To know where she is will give us a time frame to work with so we're not housing a horcrux for a longer length of time than we need."

Hermione thinks on this for long moments, weighing out the pros and the cons, before relenting. "Fair."

"The book, Hermione," Sirius extends his hand towards her, outstretching his fingers prominently. Palm up.

"Is there potential information in here regarding the Facility?" She asks, still gripping the book safely to her chest. "If there is, you can't keep it from me."

"I won't."

"Swear it to me."

"I give you my word," He doesn't break eye contact with her whilst he says this, his voice firm. "If my suspicions are correct, then it may give me some idea of what objects You-Know-Who intends to curse with the stolen power — as well as some facts regarding horcruxes. It's an old book."

She arches a brow. "You'll give it to me? Fully intact?"

"Of course," Sirius confirms.

"Fine," She huffs out an irritated breath, then hands the book over to him, her fingers tensing around it before he takes it. "I also want a meeting with Snape. He'll know more about the Facility..."

She trails off, her eyes narrowing studiously, when she notices the shift in their postures. Going slack, resigned.

It dawns on her.

"Of course," She looks heavenward, a tight smile pressing into her lips. "He's the one that told you already."

Hermione shakes her head in disbelief, then stands from her chair without waiting for a response, another lie or a diversion. Neville follows behind her again.

"Call him anyway," She throws over her shoulder. "I want words with him."

Neville closes the door behind them with a slam.

Later, when Hermione asks Neville why he defended her with such blind certainty earlier, to his superiors no less, he does nothing but shrug as if he cares not for hierarchy or proper procedure.

He simply tells her, "You deserve it, Hermione. You're my partner."

She ignores the twinge of heat in her abdomen after that, blames the adrenaline still surging through her, before dismissing him for the remainder of the day.

Exhausted, Hermione climbs into bed, sitting cross-legged with her blanket pulled around her lap, and watching as the sun rises on what feel likes a dead, foreboding day.

From her nightstand, she plucks her copy of History of the Dark arts out of the drawer, and rests it open on her lap. Already half-way through it.

She thinks about the poor, helpless souls in the Testing Facility, how they could very well be her right now, suffering against the wretched machinations of a deranged wizard, the Muggles completely unbeknownst to the horrific side of the wizarding world.

The Muggle-borns, like her, whom have something to prove; that they aren't just their blood, that they're powerful in their own right, are probably suffering worse.

She hates that she can't help them, despises being put in this position.

Then she thinks about her haunting Death Eater. How he released her, warned her, then possibly saved her — his presence and warning was so abrupt and assured, she theorises there could have been a bigger threat entering into the castle. Maybe the party was finished, she can't say. But she doesn't feel grateful still, only angry, because he, once again, had every opportunity to kill her but didn't even try.

Notoriously prideful pricks, Death Eaters, after all — perhaps he'd rather see her tested upon, sliced through to the bone and desecrated in sick, unimaginable ways first, before Voldemort may consider letting him be the one to finally end her.

But maybe — just maybe... It's something else. She brings her hand up to her neck and traces a delicate finger over her throat, where bruises will likely blossom in a few hours, whilst she contemplates how he held her.

He gripped her like he wanted to save her, keep her safe, rather than see her dead. His hold was firm, possessive. Unfamiliarly familiar.

She still can't understand her physical reaction to him, even now. Can't fathom the ache in her heart or the sense of emptiness she has digging a deep cavern in her chest.

Hermione doesn't think on it any longer.

It's pointless, she wants him dead regardless.

Hermione picks her wand up from it's resting place beside her on the bed, then motions it. "Expecto Patronum."

Her otter swirls from the tip of her wand and pounces playfully around her. She's beautiful, glimmering, a happy creature — A pleasant reminder that she's still got some aspect of Light within her. She does this often, lets her soothe her icy front, lets her warm her heart, her blood, the cold in her bones.

"Will you do me a favour?" She asks her otter, a soft smile curling on her mouth. "Would you try and find — or call — for Fawkes for me please, sweet girl? I need help."

Her otter stands motionless for a long moment, before she dips her head in a nod, and dematerialises from the room through the window.

Hermione reads the next chapter in her book whilst a vial of Dreamless Sleep works its way through her system, before she lets herself succumb to her exhaustion.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Hermione returns to Grimmauld drenched in blood, with Fleur supported in her arm. She has her arm around her shoulders, leaning the entire weight of her body against her hip, and dragging her feet behind her.

Hermione has a hold of her hand where it is dangling by her shoulder, and her arm wrapped around her waist, hoisting her up.

A rogue Slicing Hex hit her, though a more advanced and modified version — a new wound opens up every few minutes, and any attempts at healing worsens them. She learnt that the hard way, when she attempted to use the counter-curse Vulnera Sanentur.

The raid was a blur. All she can see in her minds eye is the swarm of resistance members, Death Eaters, unshifted wolves, and snatchers moving around her; curses flew, the ground shook from the effects of the magical turbulence, and the buildings in Godric's Hollow crumbling and falling around her.

There was fires everywhere. She can still smell the smoke clinging to her clothes, can detect the faint trace of burnt flesh in her nostrils.

She very nearly lost Ronald tonight — he came so close to taking the killing curse to the back. He was lucky she saw it in time to Flipendo him away from it.

Laying Fleur down on one of the free beds in the healing rooms, she immediately casts a stasis charm over her, then pulls up a diagnostic.

It's not good.

Three major organs and a lot of muscle tissue has been nicked, resulting in heavy blood loss, severe nerve damage, and cognitive depletion. She needs Pomfrey.

"Expecto Patronum."

Her otter flies through the tip of her wand and stands alert at her feet. "I need Pomfrey, it's an emergency. Fleur takes precedence. Tell her Pavarti and Dean can cover her."

She nods, then leaves in a whirl of bright, shimmering light. Hermione continues to work on Fleur whilst she waits.

Each slice on her body (she counts fifteen so far) is so deep and wide, she can see the faint white of bone within several of them.

It's amazing she's still alive.

The stasis charm seems to be helping. Every time she seals a wound, whether internal or external, the skin seems to remain knitted together. She worries over breaking the stasis, in case she re-opens them, but at least this way, she can give her potions without her vomiting them.

With the bleeding stopped for now, she's bought Pomfrey enough time to deconstruct the curse, and reverse it. She's far more proficient at it than Hermione.

"Reparifors." Hermione murmurs repeatedly under her breath whilst hovering and gliding her wand over her body, attempting to ease the nerve damage.

When Pomfrey arrives, she's in such a frenzied state, her hands tremble with it. Hermione updates her on Fleur's condition, the treatment she's already provided for her, and her best recommendations regarding breaking the curse.

After that, on her way to her bedroom on the third floor, she's taken aside by Ginny and tugged along the second floor hallway, until she's pulled into Ginny's shared room. There's several beds but she doesn't have permanent roommates, not since Harry. They're available to anyone who so needs them.

Most rooms on the first and second floor are designed for this purpose.

Ginny, standing opposite her, rakes her eyes over her in a critical, observing manner. Her eyes are wide, glittering with unshed tears and sorrow whilst she does.

They lost several resistance fighters tonight, pulled out several heavily cursed members, and she can't be sure, as the attack was utter chaos, but she's certain Ginny cast her first Dark Spell tonight; the Suffocation Hex. It's a painful one to watch, but she, too, did it to save Charlie.

It seemed like the Death Eaters attacked Godric's Hollow tonight just to target The Weasley's. She won't speculate just yet though, she'll wait until there's further intelligence available to her.

"You've got injuries, Mione," Ginny, finally, says. Her voice harsh-sounding and raw, likely from screaming. "Why didn't you let the healers tend to you?"

Obviously Ginny is ignoring the copious amounts of blood on her, and instead chooses Hermione's minor injuries to focus on instead. Unbelievable, really.

"I was about to shower and heal them myself, Gin," Hermione reassures her, arching a brow. "They're just a few cuts and scrapes."

Ginny slowly nods her head. "That's not your blood."

"No — Fleurs, mostly. Possibly some of mine. Resistance fighters and Death Eaters too. One tackled me to the ground," Hermione sniffs, glancing down at her sodden sleeves, her stained hands. "I had to use my knife. Too close for my wand."

Ginny visibly pales as she looks over Fleur's blood. "Did you kill him?"

Hermione shrugs. "Hopefully, I suppose. There was many, I couldn't keep track."

Ginny blinks slowly, her jaw clenched. "I should do the Purification Ritual, Hermione. You reek of Dark Magic."

"Later, okay?" Hermione reaches for the door handle behind her, then pulls open the door swiftly. "I'd prefer to do it when I'm not wearing so much of Fleur's blood."

She leaves without hearing her response. They tend to become lectures rather quickly these days.

After Hermione showers, heals her wounds, and re-dresses for the night, she ventures through Grimmauld, contemplating this evenings attack.

Whilst she pokes her head around open doors, ensuring their residents are healed or healing, safe, resting, and surreptitiously doing a head count, she wonders why Voldemort ordered an attack upon Godric's Hollow in the first place.

There's not many witches or wizards living there anymore, only those with old ties to it, and their families magical signatures in the houses, too. From what she can recall, there isn't any major Order, DA, or resistance members residing there, and any objects with magical significance have long been removed and stored safely.

Did Voldemort prey on the Order's pride, just to lure out The Weasleys? Perhaps herself too? Just to claim the bounty.

Godric's Hollow is still the resting place of James and Lily Potter, The Dumbledore family lived there, and Godric Gryffindor himself was born there. They would never leave them to attack it so openly and viciously without responding to it.

It unnerves her that they know that, that they can pry out their weaknesses so easily.

It was, generally, a success. They managed to cut down the numbers of Death Eaters by a landslide, prevented the deaths of two Weasley's, protected Bill, and Hermione is still here, unclaimed — Her mouth curls up into a snarl at just the thought.

The thought occurs to her that they were trying to kill the Weasley's, not capture them, or invade their minds for Order secrets — but murder them on sight. That's not like them at all.

As she reaches the ground floor of Grimmauld, Ronald steps out of the kitchen, and cuts into her path so abruptly, that she stumbles back a step with a quiet gasp.

They stand stock still for long moments, staring endlessly into each others eyes, before they close the distance between them rapidly, and meet halfway in a tight embrace. He still smells of home in some aspects, but it's mostly smoke and blood, now.

"I'm so glad you're alright, Ron," Hermione murmurs against the rough stubble on his jaw, momentarily basking in his warmth. "When I saw the curse..."

She shivers slightly, reliving it.

Ron holds her tighter. "I know. Thanks, Mione. I should be dea—"

"But you're not," She whips her head back to meet his eyes, with conviction. "Don't say things like that."

His expression wavers, before he's sliding his hands up her waist, around her shoulders, then down the length of her arms. His touch is gentle, light, she could almost mistake it for a feather floating down beside her in the wind if not for callouses.

He let's out a sharp exhale. "You're bloody freezing."

"It's a cold night," She shrugs.

"Hermione."

Before she can respond, Neville comes barrelling out of the kitchen, fuelled with adrenaline still, before he stops short at the sight of them. Oddly, there's an instant grin on his mouth upon laying eyes on her.

Ronald lets his hands drop from her arms and takes a small step away from her.

Neville's clean now too, changed out of his battle-torn and blood stained clothes, healed from his injuries, and looking all the more wild for it. His expression is tense but victorious.

He was at her back for the majority of the attack, along with Tonks and Sirius. They really do make a good team, now that she's thinking about it — the lives they saved were many.

"Hermione," Neville says at length. He lets out the longest sigh of relief. "You're alright."

"I am," She confirms. "You are too."

"Yeah. I nearly wasn't though, I was duelling Yaxley — still can't believe he was there — and when he hit me with a Diffindo, you got him with that Drowning Hex. By the time he countered it, he was on his knees spluttering blood."

Hermione stills. She does remember the Death Eater she hit to protect Neville, now that the blur of the fight is settling. But she didn't know it was Yaxley...

What? Inner-Circle... at a Skirmish?

No. She'll wait until she can make it to the War Room before delving into that.

Neville approaches her, leaving barely a foot between them. Up close, Hermione notices he has a black eye, still glistening from the salve. "I know it was a Dark—"

Gods. No lectures. She can't bear the tedium, she's far too tired to endure it.

She talks over him. "Listen, Neville—"

He doesn't take the hint. "—Curse, but you were incredible tonight."

Hermione's mouth drops open, and with a vast array of arguments already long prepared on the tip of her tongue out of pure reflex, she has to forcibly close it again. She was expecting a lecture, a berating, anything but praise.

No-one ever recognises her efforts as something worth... praise.

"Incredible?" She shapes the word prominently, testing it on her tongue. It doesn't feel right.

"Yeah, you saved a lot of us tonight—"

Beside her, she can feel the tension radiating from Ronald in sharp, piercing waves. "You're complimenting her for using Dark spells, Longbottom? Have you gone mad? She could have been bloody killed."

Neville squares his shoulders, glaring down upon Ron with all the white hot rage of a fiendfyre. "You should be too, Weasley, you'd be dead without her."

"Merlin," Hermione inclines her head and drags her hand down her face.

"If one of her miraculous Dark curses had fucking rebounded, she could have hit one of us," Ron sneers, baring his teeth. "Would you be thanking her then?"

Neville doesn't flinch. "Hermione knows exactly what she's doing."

"Enough," She steps between them, before they encroach any further into each other's space. She glances up at Neville first. "Thank you, Neville, I'm glad you're alright. Meet me in the War Room in a minute, will you? I need to speak with Sirius and Kings."

The rage simmering between them both only abates when she taps two fingers on Neville's shoulder and draws his line of sight back onto her.

This has, somehow, become their signal.

"Yeah, alright," He grits his teeth, shoots a final dark warning glare at Ron, before he strides heavily down the hallway. 

"What was that about?" Ron rounds her the moment they're alone. "Longbottom's defending you now?"

She arches a brow. "Mm."

"Right."

Hermione bristles.

"I can't deny that it's nice having someone to defend me, Ronald Bilius Weasley — and how dare you fault him for that!" By the time she's finished talking, the anger in her chest reaches boiling point. "He's not wrong. So many of us are alive and on the mend tonight because of Dark magic. I'm not the only one to use it, remember? Most of The Order do. Sirius Avada'd a Death Eater tonight. Too scared to have this out with him though, aren't you? I'm sure Bill Imperio'd the Death Eater that hit Fleur, as well. But I suppose it's much easier berating your best friend, isn't it?"

Hermione clicks her tongue, then storms out of the kitchen, heading straight for the War Room.

The meeting doesn't finish until just after noon — most of her theories, suspicions, and conclusions had been correct.

They where out for Weasley blood, according to the several Death Eaters they took into custody, interrogated by Tonks. Blood traitors have been sentenced to death, a show of force to all wizarding kind that they won't be tolerated in the 'New World'.

What she hadn't fully realised was they were also there for Muggle-borns.

They took three to Hogwarts just minutes before The Order arrived, including Justin and Colin, as their resistance team where first on scene. Hermione left the War Room feeling sick to her stomach. Her guilt took a heavy slam of her Occlumency walls to control.

She knows, fundamentally, what's happening to them, and not only can she not put a stop to it immediately, she apparently can't prevent the abductions either.

Sirius wasn't ready to plan a raid upon Hogwarts to put a stop to The Facility just yet, claims that they haven't got the numbers — Hermione argued, Oh, she argued until she was blue in the face that they don't need numbers, that with a carefully curated select few, she could save the Muggles and Muggle-borns without ever alerting anyone within the castle that she is there until she'd burn it all down.

They won't risk her, apparently.

Her rage is absolute.

As Hermione's bitterly making a cup of tea in the kitchen, stirring in the milk, trying hard to temper her said rage, she hears a familiar squawk calling out to her from the back garden area.

The smile that spreads on her mouth is the most genuine, pure smile she's been able to feel for weeks. She abandons her cuppa, darts for the backdoor, pries it open with a strength that is completely unnecessary, before she's bolting across the lawn.

The garden is in need of maintaining. The trees haven't shown any growth in recent months, the flowerbeds are wilting to a point it's sad, and the glades of grass are an ugly shade of brown. The mud beneath is swampy due to the increase in rainfall from the rising storm rates, and the high fence shaping the garden is worn. Even a lick of paint wouldn't brighten it.

Hermione runs, her cheeks aching from smiling, as she catches the distinct flurry of flames and bright reds and oranges swirling in the sky above her. When the flames disperse, his golden tail reflects under the sunlight.

She reaches the centre of the lawn at the same time as Fawkes swoops down in front of her in one majestic, striking motion. He spirals around her, above her, squawking and humming pleasantly, until he dips down, and lands on her outstretched arm.

His talons arch perfectly around the width of her forearm without causing any pain or scratches, and despite being a large size, he weighs almost nothing. She feels blinded by how spectacular his colours shine around him, and his eyes, the most soul-touching comfort she's ever known, are warm in their black shade, and round, penetrating gaze.

Her heart burns with affection.

"Oh, Fawkes," Hermione says, staring intensely into his eyes. "I was so worried about you — oh look, you've had a Burning Day. Your feathers are so vivid."

He squawks lowly, his mouth opening as though yawning, before he brushes the top of his head against her cheek. Nuzzling her.

Hermione gently caresses the feathers along his back. He arches into the touch, widening her smile further. "I missed you. You didn't answer my calls after Harry... Well, I'm sure you know — I thought the worst."

Fawkes lifts his head slowly, seemingly inspecting her. His eyes, the only way in which she can read him, as learning the language has been difficult and time consuming for her, look into her, instead of at her.

After a minute, his tail flourishes high behind him, sweeping across the air. He starts to hum his song, the low, beautiful cacophony of Light and Soul, whilst he encompasses her with his tail.

During fifth and sixth year, when Hermione would occasionally meet with Dumbledore in his office to discuss her Extra-Curricular studies, she remembers how Fawkes would hum quietly in the background. She'd leave feeling Lighter every time. Once she received Dumbledore's letter from his will, she understood why; Phoenixes have a few songs and melodies that they sing for many different reasons. Not many know of their Soul healing song, but as Dumbledore understood his language, and from his early use of Dark magic, he discovered it. He claimed it a miracle song for those blessed with Good intentions, but burdened by the Dark path.

Fawkes wraps around her tightly, the tip of his tail reaching her knees, curling around her legs and hips, and finishing at her lower abdomen. He nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck, lets his body press against her chest, and sends pulses of vibrations through her with his song.

Unadulterated and raw elation floods her, making her feel weightless, untainted, and as if she's drifting upwards into a crystal blue sky. Much like a cloud, floating through the vast and endless stretch of atmospheric planes.

Fawkes can always sense the Dark magic in her. He heals her every time, whether she asks him to or not. (She has yet to ask him.)

Hermione can feel herself swaying and humming quietly in the back of her throat, even though she feels disembodied, with only the aura of her soul between them. It feels unbroken, angelic, swarming with Light.

She imagines this is what love and devotion must feel like. She's never felt it before, not since Fawkes, not since Dumbledore's letter during the summer after his death.

A little while later, after she's healed through and through — spiritually, magically, and physically — she spends time walking him around the gardens, using her magic to heal the dying plant life. Tapping into the earth is her favourite process of Elemental Magic.

With Fawkes on her shoulder, she finds she does not need her wand, just the pure intent to see all life live and flourish. It's been a while since she's felt it. The magical boost he gives her is immense.

The most treasured gift he gives her is the ability to feel her emotions without letting them cripple her and her magic.

Hermione's biggest regret that she still suffers with is not having a permanent residence for Fawkes to live in with her. She has no idea where he is most of the time, nor what he gets up too, if he is safe or not. He was with her a lot during the Horcrux Hunts, mainly in the tent, and surreptitiously scoping the area for Death Eaters and snatchers, but after Malfoy Manor, and then her return to Grimmauld, she had to keep him away to ensure his safety. He can't die, she knows that, but she doesn't want to tempt fate by making him suffer through countless curses, just in order to defend and protect her.

She can't lose him, too.

And Hermione, she wouldn't be safe living alone, even with Fawkes. She's General, she can't abandon the resistance either. None of this helps settle her heavy heart, still.

She waves her hand slowly in front of a bed of hydrangeas, curling her fingers in a circular motion, letting them grow, before letting her hand seal with her fingers and thumb touching.

"After Harry died," Hermione talks to him, preparing her next flowerbed for healing. A rose bush. "I thought I wasn't going to recover. I haven't let myself feel it yet, his loss. You must be disappointed in me."

Before she can swipe her fallen tear away, Fawkes catches it with his beak, then touches it to her nose for long moments. He's very affectionate for a phoenix, but she suspects he does it because he knows it's what she needs.

The rose bush grows and grows until it's flowers are fully blossomed and healthy.

She repeats the same steps on the wildflowers dying along the edges of the lawn, and the ivy clambering around the fences.

"I had to go into Hogwarts," A sharp, short squawk cuts through his beak. Disapproving, she thinks. "I had no choice — no, I want to do this, I want to stop the war. I have to. Harry would have wanted me to."

She takes a deep, composing breath, before sitting down on the grass, and running her fingers through its glades. "I need your help, Fawkes. It's a lot too ask, but I require information on a dark creature—"

He raises his head to study her.

Hermione glances down at the grass, pushing her hand hard against the ground. She lets her magic, her light, and her life pour through her, and out into the nature surrounding her. Bringing colour, health, and vitality to it.

"If this is dangerous for you, or if it puts you in harms way, then you don't have to do it," Hermione murmurs, watching as the vibrant shade of green spreads through the grass in a circular motion, radiating from her hand. "I need information on Nagini's location — do you think you could do that for me?"

Fawkes stays unearthly silent, even his breaths seem muted.

Hermione can feel the start of magical depletion, once the grass is finished healing.

She stands back onto her feet, casting a broad look around the garden, noticing the trees standing taller, it's branches stronger, and it's leaves fuller, now that there roots have been nourished.

The single, small nod of Fawkes head catches in the corner of her eyes. She grins a beaming grin.

"Thank you." She taps her forehead to his for long moments, before taking off on a walk once again.

She tells Fawkes everything, whilst she casts stasis charms on the garden.

By the time night falls, she's indulged him a play, letting him fly around he, and chase her until she's breathless and panting for oxygen. He's always so playful after a Burning Day, according to Dumbledore — She's only had the privilege of witnessing the dramatic difference once, after Dumbledore's death.

He sings to her once more before he takes off in a rapid, broad flight.

Hermione's heart aches for not just Fawkes, but Albus too, whenever she's left without her phoenix.

Hermione thinks about Fawkes for weeks, whilst September bleeds into October.

The storms have become more frequent and intense, ravaging what little remains of the natural plant life.

There's been no attacks, no planned raids from The Order, or any new intelligence. No word on Nagini yet. Having this time has been good for healing in general; many of the resistance have let themselves loosen up for a time. There's been not quite parties, but evenings with quiet music, liquor, and even drinking games.

Hermione doesn't partake with her former classmates, she finds it harder to focus if she does — emotions run high during those gatherings. If she ever finds a need to numb, she tends to share in a firewhisky (or four) with Sirius and Shacklebolt whilst they talk about nothing important, and laugh in the quiet of temporarily relieved shared agony — it's always preferable drinking with them for one obstinate reason, for gaining information they wouldn't otherwise share with her without inebriation.

It's an old trick in the book, an easy tactic for manipulation, but she doesn't feel guilty about it. They shouldn't keep things from her anyway.

It's how she winds up learning about Yaxley's presence at Godric's Hollow in September.

Sirius finishes his fifth glass of Ogden's, then drops the glass onto the table with a clatter. "We believe You-Know-Who is searching for The Sword."

Hermione hiccups in shock, pressing her hand against her mouth. "Gryffindor's sword? Can't be — they should already have it. It should have returned to the Sorting Hat after Gringotts."

"Do they?" Sirius asks, raising an awkward brow that she is sure is meant to be more sharp. He usually doesn't act affected by liquor, but he has tell-tale signs. "The Sword can disappear and re-appear at will. I believe they have lost it."

"Who's your source?" Kingsley asks, bringing his glass to his lips. "Are they credible?"

Sirius eyes Kingsley knowingly. "I still can't tell you."

"They're a Death Eater, aren't they?" Hermione interrupts, suspicion in her tone. "Nothing else makes sense. Who are they?"

"I can't confirm nor deny your accusations, General," Sirius responds coolly, sniffing loftily, and resting back in his seat with an almost straight back.

Hermione snorts at the use of her title.

He's a predictable one, Sirius.

"So, that's confirmation then," She grins, flickering her gaze over to Shacklebolt. "Wouldn't you agree, Kings?"

He barks a laugh, then claps a hand on Sirius' shoulder. "Absolutely. You must lay off the Ogden's, my friend, it makes you a terrible liar."

Each of them look to each other for long moments, curling their lips inwardly to suppress the laugh — it bubbles up and bursts out regardless, erupting into a body shaking, rib hurting bout of laughter.

They may be drunker than she originally thought. Kings isn't that funny.

"Another!" Sirius exclaims, slamming his glass down on the table.

They have another, and another, then a final one, before Hermione calls it a night, and sways through Grimmauld in a haze, thinking about the defected Death Eater, identity unknown to her still (Sirius doesn't want Kings to know), loyal informant to The Order, and how easily Sirius talks when he's positively hammered.

He's going to regret agreeing to let her go in his place for their next meeting.

If she's laughing to herself through the halls, no-one seems to pick up on it, or say anything—

At least, until minutes later, Neville stumbles out of the main living room door and knocks into her. Thrown off her axis, she watches as the ceiling comes into view, her legs losing stability beneath her, and she can feel the bout of liquor induced nausea rise from her stomach with the sudden vertigo.

Strong, large hands reach out and catch her by the waist before her back meets the floor.

"Woah, M-Mione," Neville blinks several times, slurring his words. He's really rather close to her now, leaning over her dipped body, his nose just inches away from hers. "I'm sorry, I.. I didn't mean — I drank martini's."

Hermione stares for what feels like hours as reality catches up with her. She shakes her head free of the firewhisky fog, watching as three Neville's swim in her vision, listening to the quiet baritone of rock music in the background (it's AC/DC, she thinks) informing her they were having one of their 'parties.'

Neville's still clutching her waist, the length of his fingers cover her easily, to the point the pads of his thumbs dig gently in the tender flesh beneath her hipbones and stretch up to the lower sections of her ribcage at her sides.

No, her heart is definitely not pounding against her chest, almost to the point it feels like it may bruise if it continues. And she is most certainly not heating internally from it.

That would be absurd.

It's the firewhisky.

She clears her throat. "It's quite alright, Nev — Firewhisky isn't good for the reflexes either."

He laughs quietly, still searching in her eyes, still holding her. His breath is warm on her mouth — and he smells like the aforementioned Martini's, something sweet, maybe Bertie Botts, and freshly pruned herbs. He must have went foraging at some point.

She breathes slowly, not daring to move. "Neville?"

"Hm?" He hums, dazed.

"Let me up."

"Oh. Right," He jerks his head up, snapping out of his own stupor. He gently lifts her until she's back on her feet. He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, smiling nervously. "I, uhm — I'm sorry."

Hermione may be back on her feet, away from his vice-like grip, but Neville's still standing in the same too-close position. She's exceedingly aware of the height difference between them now, considering staring straight ahead results in looking at his pectoral muscles. But if she were to incline her head, even a touch, their lips would be only be a hairsbreadth away.

This is crazy thinking — she should not be observing Neville like this. Stupid, stupid, she repeats in thought, like a mantra.

He lets out a slow, quiet exhale, and it grazes across her crown, making the small hairs there flutter.

"Right. So," Hermione says sharply, perhaps a little too high-pitched. She moves backwards until she's near the stairs, cursing herself profusely for the heat in her cheeks. From the firewhisky, of course. "I'm going to bed. I'll— I'll see you later."

"G'night, Mione," He murmurs, a little slurred, whilst he crosses his arms. Standing with a straighter spine.

Neville's eyes, half-hooded and heavy, follow every one of her steps until she's clambering up the stairs like a moth stuck in a harsh whip of wind — ricocheting everywhere.

As soon as she makes it back to her bedroom, she closes the door, slumps against it with a groan, and thumps herself on the forehead for being a terribly observant and heated mess of a drunk. Merlin have mercy.

The next morning, Hermione chokes down a hangover potion so quick, the symptoms disappear with all the grim horror of an axe impaling her head.

Thankfully, she doesn't vomit. Small mercies.

Feeling sorry for herself still, she pulls on an over-sized Guns N' Roses Muggle hoodie and plain black pair of leggings instead of her usual I'm ready to attack and maim on the instant attire. Which usually consists of her charmed protective wear.

After washing and brushing her teeth, she stands in front of her mirror, and combs through her hair. She frowns when she realises how long it's become. Her curls, wild and out of control at the moment, fall to her mid-riff. Gods. She casts a charm to smooth it out, release the knots, then braids it into a side plait.

Much wiser.

Starting her rounds, she makes her way up to the fifth floor healing rooms, and begins to inspect the patients from the previous month's attack at Godric's Hollow — Some, including Fleur, have taken a longer time than usual to heal due to the curses being darker and more advanced than their trained healers were able to treat immediately.

The curses are new, ruthless, and repulsively imaginative. Abberley was hit with a curse that altered the proteins in his blood, effectively attacking his gamma globulins and destroying his immune system to the point his body started shutting down, over and over again. They could only hold him with Draught of Living Death to prevent any further damage until they could treat him properly.

He needed to be treated with Muggle medicine and it took Pomfrey the better part of a week to obtain everything she needed to do so, including hiring a doctor from a local surgery to aid her. He's in recovery now.

The Muggle Doctors are sent back into London after Obliviation.

First, Hermione enters into Pomfrey's small office, located just to the right at the top of the staircase, and retrieves the clipboard with all of her notes from her previous night's rounds.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she reads that Fleur is, finally, healed and stable, and there's been no sudden losses during the night. Information regarding the counter-curse is detailed, too. 

Hermione scans over the notes as she goes through each room. Usually, she would help Pomfrey by re-dressing any wounds that should require it, apply Essence of Dittany, and administer potions for pain relief, stamina boosting, or blood replenishing, but Parvati is on duty this morning and able to do so herself.

She finds her in the third treatment room, tending to Cho after a rogue Rotting Hex hit her during the fight — and according to the notes, they finally discovered the counter-curse to prevent the rot from growing stronger and spreading. She's now stable.

Hermione makes a mental note of that counter-curse, too.

"How is she?" Hermione asks softly, now standing beside Parvati. She looks over Cho intently, still sleeping. There's a large scar on her neck where she was hit.

"Healing nicely," Parvati manages a weak smile. She's applying some kind-of salve to the remaining clusters of wounds where the rot has melted away her skin.

Parvati looks utterly drained, her eyes are hollow and dark from lack of sleep, and her face gaunt. She's spent the last few weeks here constantly, monitoring, healing, and saving each of the injured resistance members and her friends. Hermione admires her skills and her loyalty so much. It's one thing to be on the battlefield witnessing the carnage happen, but another thing entirely to have to spends weeks watching them deteriorating.

The responsibility and the pressure must be heavy.

"That's great news," Hermione smiles, ticking off the recovery on the clipboard. "Let me know when she wakes, I'd like to see her."

Parvati gives a small nod, pressing her lips together into a thin line. "Of course."

"Thank you," Hermione says slowly, narrowing her eyes studiously as she tries to get a read upon Parvati's change in demeanour.

She's momentarily stopped applying the salve, shifting her gaze between herself and Cho. She looks almost pleading.

Hermione frowns. "What is it, Parvati?" 

"I—" Her breath hitches, as her bottom lip trembles. She clears her throat and tries again. "It's just — I know it's not my place to ask, never mind beg for favours, but I was hoping you would consider pulling Cho from fieldwork permanently."

There's a nervous shake to her voice. She looks back down at Cho and reaches for her hand, curling her fingers around hers. "She's not cut out for it. She wanted to train as a healer, you know? She wants to save lives, not endanger them," She makes a small choking sound at the back of her throat. "I almost lost her..."

Her lips part slightly when it dawns on her. "Are you two—"

"Yes," Pavarti interrupts her. "For a while now. She's all that I have left that is good, she makes fighting this horrid war worth it."

Hermione vacillates. Taking Cho, an original member of the DA, out of active fieldwork, may weaken morale amongst the rest of the army. She's aware some of the other members, Luna, George, Dean, and Spinnet are also trying to leave too.

A decision was made amongst the higher members of The Order to decline their requests due to the numbers being low enough as it is. More would follow in their steps.

Hermione is one of the higher ups that voted in favour of that decision, at least until they can recruit.

"Please, Hermione?" Parvati implores her, after likely seeing her hesitation. Tears start to swell in her eyes. "I'm begging you. I'll do anything—"

"Alright," She, extremely reluctantly, agrees, tightly closing her eyes for a minute. She tries to think quick on her feet. "Inform Poppy that I've ran advanced diagnostics on Cho and found a permanent hinder to her balance, rot damage at the base of her spine, making her unfit to duel during missions and raids, and that she'll likely be more of a harm to herself and others if she's to join in the field. Suggest medic training for her — I'll make Sirius aware."

The way Parvati's face lights up is nothing short of infectious. Hermione can feel her own features softening.

"Thank you," She says in earnest, gripping Cho's hand tighter. "Thank you. I'll never forget this."

Hermione nods, silently praying to herself that she doesn't live to regret this decision.

Apparently, she's still a sucker for love.

It's nice to know that, still.

After lunch, consisting of a piece of toast with scarcely spread and questionable jam on it, Hermione goes to the War Room.

She barks out a laugh as soon as the door swings open, and she finds Sirius holding his head up in his hands, looking a little grey and defeated. The glare he supplies her with is burning. Kingsley is in his usual seat, meeting her eyes with raised brows and a mirthful smirk lining his lips.

"Oh, what have you done to yourself, Sirius?" Hermione teases, as she rounds the table and pulls out her chair. "You're looking a tad peaky."

Hermione reaches into her beaded bag (that she always wears regardless of the time of day or where she is) and pulls out a vial of Hangover Remedy. She places her elbow on the table, leans forward, and dangles the potion tauntingly from her fingertips.

He lifts his head weakly, his eyes narrowed, whilst he darts a look between her and the potion. His expression is nothing but cold fury.

If Sirius had his wand in hand, she's sure he'd hex her for being an insufferable twit.

"Hand me that potion and I'll forgive you for taking advantage of my addled state, Miss. Granger," He ghosts a smirk — a rather weak smirk. He's so pale. "You do want to meet with my informant in my place, don't you?"

She laughs lightly and drops it into his hand. "Fair deal."

He drinks the potion like his life depends on it.

It might.

Herself and Shacklebolt make no effort to suppress their laughter.

Sirius' condition visibly improves within a matter of minutes, returning to his typical stoic and grander self. The effect isn't as proud as usual since he's still wearing the same attire as last night; his grey velvet blazer, matching grey suit pants, and white shirt.

There's still the powerful smell of firewhisky coming from him.

Hermione rolls her eyes gently. "So — details. When am I leaving?"

The disdain in his expression is decidedly hilarious. "Tonight—"

"Tonight?" Hermione exclaims, her eyes blown wide. "That doesn't give me much time to prepare."

"There isn't much to prepare," Sirius tells her, matter-of-factly. "We have a shared portkey that will take you straight to our rendezvous point. It's unplottable and heavily warded, we've used it for close to a year now and haven't been discovered yet — that I'm aware of, I should say. I called the meeting after Godric's Hollow and only received correspondence two days ago. For him to plan the meeting so abruptly makes me nervous, it suggests You-Know-Who's ranks have been working overtime. I want you to not only find out why they've been so busy, but also the true motives to the pause in attacks, see if they're related. He should have further information to provide us with."

Hermione mulls that over.

A shared portkey, a consistent meet up location, and a year long relationship that has given Sirius a deep familiarity with him to understand his patterns. Whoever this Death Eater is, and she can't wait to find out who, is seemingly a true spy.

He gives information, he answers Sirius' questions, and meets his demands.

"Alright," Hermione drawls, tilting her head. "Anything I need to look out for?"

"No. He knows who you are, your position, and your importance in the war — he may actually be... excited to meet with you," Sirius, reluctantly, admits. 

"Well, that's ominous," She grimaces, his spine stiffening. "That sounds a hell of lot worse, Sirius."

"I wouldn't send you if I didn't believe you'd be 100% safe, Hermione," He sighs lightly, rubbing his palm across his forehead. "I can't reveal too much, but I will admit to you that he's asked to meet with you several times in the past. He may have information for you that he won't give to me."

"Hm," She lets that sink in.

Sirius didn't meet her eyes once when he told her this — he's hiding something from her again. Gods, he's the most irritating person on the planet. There's nothing she can see in his expression that she can use to ascertain his motives or his reasons for not only keeping this informant a secret from her, but his wish to meet with her too.

If he's suggested this several times before, then it must have been pretty early on in their relationship when he first asked, else Sirius wouldn't be so stubborn about it. If this Death Eater spy has got information just for her, then he's withheld it for a long time, potentially at great risk to The Order.

She imagines, vividly, slapping Sirius across the face, then performing Ginny's famous Bat Bogey hex on him.

"I'll handle it," Hermione goes with instead.

The portkey is, somehow unsurprisingly, a Slytherin pin. It's small, circular shaped, made of silver, and has the crest painted on it's surface.

Sirius has it placed safely in a piece of old leather cloth, held flat in the palm of his hand for her to inspect.

"It's designed to take you there and bring you back at will," Sirius tells her, re-wrapping it. "If you feel threatened, don't hesitate to leave. I will deal with him immediately, do you understand?"

"Yes," Hermione takes the proffered cloth.

"Are you fully prepared to leave? The agreed time is in—" He glances down at his gold watch, her Christmas gift to him during fifth year. It warms her slightly that he's kept it this long. "Four minutes."

Hermione goes over her mental checklist: field attire (black, skin-tight jeans, fitted t-shirt also in black, hooded robes, and dragonhide ankle boots, all heavily drenched in protective shield magic and charms) — check.

Wand in wrist holster, concealed by her robes sleeve — check.

Silver daggers, the larger one sheathed in a thigh holster, and the smallest tucked into her boot — check.

Hermione nods. "I'm prepared."

She opens the piece of cloth, revealing the pin, then gives Sirius a long look.

He nods firmly.

As soon as her finger touches the surface of the pin, she feels the familiar tug behind her naval as she's drawn in, pulled through, then dropped in a field, just outside of a house.

Hermione can feel the strength of the wards in front of her, the force of power in the magical ties resembling something ancient.

The house is derelict, no more than a ruined shell. The brickwork is chipped, cracked, and broken entirely in various spots. The windows are single-glazed, also cracked and dirty, the wooden panes are rotted and suffering from water damage. The white fencing is in similar shape.

The house itself is leaning on a slight angle, likely due to the winds, and instability of the weakened structure.

She has no idea whereabouts she is, she can only see fields stretch on, with maybe a forest lining the northmost acreage. The trees are tall and concealing. Possibly purposeful for privacy.

The winds are sharp, the crescent moon is high at it's apex, and giving a little light to the area. She has to admit, only to herself, that she's slightly nervous; she has no clue what to expect.

A single light on the lower level, the living room she assumes, flicks on, casting the front-left area of the (completely deadened) lawn in a bed of warm orange glow.

As soon as she steps through the wards, the hum of ancient magic vibrates around her. Whoever she is meeting is likely extremely powerful. That makes her a little uneasy.

Hermione waits just at the edge of the anti-apparition wards — she has the portkey, but it's currently wrapped up in the cloth in her fist. If she needs to make a quick move, it will be easy to dodge backwards and apparate far enough way, by the forest most likely, until she's able to portkey away. Same applies if she drops it during a surprise attack — at least she'll be able to apparate.

She definitely won't be entering into the house, regardless of whether Sirius does or not, too-close quarters.

Minutes pass by, she can see the silhouette of a rather large man pacing in front of the window. He's wearing his Death Eater uniform. He must have been alerted by the wards of her breeching them.

She waits him out a little longer.

The front door jerks open swiftly.

Hermione grips her wand firmly as the Death Eater, still holding the door-handle, comes into view. His stature fills the space in the threshold completely, silhouetting him still, and there's something familiar about his presence, haughty superiority, that she recognises.

The silver of his mask reflects in the moonlight, providing a streak of light through the length of his outstretched shadow along the path.

His robes whip around him as he strides out of the bungalow and crosses the front garden.

Even his gait is familiar.

He stops a short distance away, and removing his hands from behind his back, reveals a ridiculously familiar cane, before he presses it into the ground in front of him. 

"Well, isn't this a surprise," He says snidely, condescension in his voice. "Miss. Granger."

A single nervous thump of her heart ricochets through her sternum — Oh, she'd recognise that pretentious voice anywhere.

With a single flick of her wand, she vanishes his mask, revealing the sharp point of a thin, sly smirk, a raised chin, pale skin, unnecessarily platinum hair, and piercing, evil grey eyes.

Hermione clenches her jaw and straightens her back, warring with herself endlessly for not seeing this coming at all. Of all the Death Eaters she theorised that would show up...

Stupid, stupid.

She grits her teeth like she's personally offended by them.

"Lucius Malfoy."

Chapter Text

The silence, save for the whining creak of the front door moving in the wind and rustle of distant tree branches, stretches thickly between them. The air between them is brimming with a cautious anticipation.

Neither of them move an inch, keeping that safe distance between them so they may attack and/or defend themselves with ease. Only the twitch of Lucius' fingers around his cane, gives any sign of life.

He studies Hermione as she does to him, thoroughly, with an intense conviction. His expression is unwaveringly closed-off, not a hint of any emotion or disdain for seeing her written upon his face.

"I must say," Lucius begins, not hiding his condescension in the slightest. "When I requested to Sirius I meet with you, I didn't think he'd agree. He surprises me still."

Merlin, the way he said it almost sounded fond. There's still so much she doesn't know about their 'relationship.'

She loath to be at a disadvantage knowledge-wise.

Hermione arches a brow in response — she will not tell him it took a night of drunken manipulation to even learn he has a Death Eater informant in the first place, never mind of his intentions of meeting with her.

After noticing she isn't going to verbally respond, he clicks his tongue, then moves past it. "I assume he has demands."

"Yes—"

"She speaks at last."

"She won't if you continue to wind her up," Hermione says thinly, viciously suppressing the need to roll her eyes. "You'd do well to remember who you're speaking with, Mr. Malfoy."

His expression flickers, revealing some kind-of emotion she can't hope to understand on Lucius fucking Malfoy's face.

"Ah yes, of course — Hermione Granger, General of The Order of the Phoenix, second-in-command to Sirius Black, Golden Girl, Brightest Witch Of Our Age, and formidable soldier in the ongoing war."

His voice drips with contempt.

Lucius smirks. "You've become quite the — problem, for The Dark Lord. I hear of your victories often. Your use of The Dark Arts has reached many ears, Miss. Granger. Tell me, does Your Order approve of such methods?"

"If I had to ask permission, then I'd still do it anyway," Hermione says dryly, tapping her wand impatiently against her thigh. "To not further waste any more of our time, shall we discuss what's relevant?"

She doesn't wait for a response, before pressing on. "Sirius wants to know why your armies have been pre-occupied and why there's been a pause in attacks."

A sly, cold smirk curls on his mouth. The moonlight pierces his eyes, making the grey more striking, giving the gesture a greater malicious intensity to it that would make weaker witches want to hide within themselves.

Even in how he stands, pulled taut like a drawn wire, with every muscle tensed, and his stance firm, defensive, and ready to attack if need be, gives aristocratic wickedness.

Lucius is Voldemort's inner-circle, a veteran war criminal and seasoned Dark wizard with decades of experience under his belt. A predator.

Thankfully, Hermione hasn't been prey in a long, long time.

"My my, how bold of you," He drawls in a lilting voice.

Insufferable prick.

"Bold," She repeats, dead-panned. "That's probably the nicest thing someone has called me in weeks."

Surprising her, he chuckles faintly. It neither sounds right to her ears, or looks normal on his face. "You've certainly changed since your school days, haven't you, Miss. Granger? Not the intolerable know-it-all and naïve Gryffindor I remember you to be."

Hermione won't deign to respond that.

There's no answer she can provide him with that will satisfy him and his need for superiority. They'll end up in a duel as only two overly prideful beings are wont to do.

He waits a minute longer.

Bored, Lucius whips his hair over his shoulder with a single chin jerk, sniffs haughtily, then proceeds to conjure a sheet of parchment. "Business it is, then. I have all the information required of me," He holds up the (apparently, blank) parchment stiffly. "The Dark Lord has been in the throes of organising an attack upon the French Ministry for several months now. Recent events have forced him to progress his machinations and all ranks have been assigned to focusing solely on the take over, except a good portion of the newest recruits."

Dread plummets her as if a meteor has just fallen from the skies and dropped on her. Her chest contracts, faltering her breathing to the point she has to hold it, lest she show a weakness in the face of an enemy. A Death Eater.

No. No! If Voldemort is already planning his attacks on foreign soil, then France is likely only the beginning — This is how it starts. He's took over Wizarding England, raided parts of Muggle London and surrounding areas, and with a further hunger for power and control, he's crossing the sea.

She makes pains to not let her contemplation show on her face. Keeps her expression closed and indifferent.

Hermione exhales a slow breath, and focuses on accumulating as much intelligence as she can.

Her lip twitches. "What recent events?"

"Never you mind," Lucius snipes in a clipped tone. "All you need to know is the take over has progressed. The Dark Lord is currently out of the country, and has been for weeks."

Her eyes widen slightly. "He is?"

"Indeed," He drawls, sneering. "You can inform Sirius that Hogwarts is, for the most part, empty. There's only his Right-Hand and MacNair remaining from the inner-circle. I only managed to portkey away from France this evening due to inconspicuous raids in the quieter towns, that didn't require my presence. They're being led by Antonin and his mercenaries to avert suspicion from The Dark Lord — he's not ready to make his final strike just yet. The several patrolling Death Eaters in the castle are newer recruits, stationed to protect the students and professors from any potential attacks."

Hermione nods slowly, letting that sink in.

He's talking as if he knows about Hermione's first assignment in Hogwarts—

She's unable to analyse further, as Lucius adds, "I should warn you, the armies have mass amounts of portkeys programmed to the castle, so any such attacks will not be met with no response," He snarls. "In fact, my master will be irate to find he has to disrupt his plans for the French Ministry should he have to return. He will descend upon The Order if they should get in his way — make your plans accordingly, I would suggest more covert attacks. He has several prisons with now lax security. The information is all on this—" He waves the sheet in his hand slowly, coaxingly. "Parchment."

"Hand it over then," Hermione eyes him warily, extending her hand out. "I don't have all day."

As he takes a step forward, Hermione raises her wand and points it directly at his sternum, ready to shoot him with a Heart-Stopping curse if he moves again.

He doesn't. He stops abruptly, jerking his wand higher.

"You will levitate it to me," She warns him, flicking her wand between the parchment and his sternum. "You do not need to approach me. I will curse you."

The grin that ghosts on his mouth is cold and hollow.

He levitates the parchment towards her, letting it hover just in front of her face. She doesn't reach out for it just yet, she inspects it first.

It's blank.

She shakes her head with frustrated exasperation as she taps it with her wand and murmurs, "Revelio."

Line and after line of exquisite script appears instantly on the page, revealing a vast amount of information — she quickly reads over it — consisting of Order Prisoners caught during the last month, where they're being held, and what condition they are in. Further down the page reveals Voldemort's planned raids for Muggle London, and all known locations of Death Eater safehouses — they're already aware of three lower level ones.

"Clever girl," Lucius croons.

"Please," Hermione scoffs, her eyes flitting between the parchment and him. "Revelio is basic. Not very secure of you."

"That isn't just a basic Revelio charm," He spits the words with sheer disgust, as if she's basically just called him a first year. "It's a modified level six security charm, only broken by the caster having studied and practiced revelation charms to their maximum strength. Your Revelio casting is highly concentrated. Not just anyone could break that, Miss. Granger."

She rolls her eyes. "Good to know."

His tsk sounds more like an indignant hiss. She can't help but shoot him a glance, her brow raised, and a smirk tugging on her mouth.

As she finishes skimming over the parchment, the area becomes so preternaturally quiet, she can hear the distant sound of the birds final song-call for the night, a gentle current from a stream somewhere to the north, and hollow winds.

"Wait," Hermione's brow dips, her mouth twisting into a sneer. "The information about the French Ministry isn't on here."

"I'm not in the mind to give such huge favours, without gaining something in return," Lucius says resolutely, his face sharpening. He squares his shoulders. "I do have a request."

And there it is.

His reason for wanting to meet with her. She can't even begin to fathom what exactly he wants from her. But knowing of his reputation as well as she does, it can't be anything even remotely good.

The reports from the past year alone paints him as a war criminal with so many deaths on his ledger, that he may as well be an executioner. He watched Bellatrix torture her in his Drawing Room, stood beside his wife, Narcissa, whilst she clung to him. She looked tired, whereas Lucius, he was so blank and indifferent, that she is certain he enjoyed watching her suffer, despite her aid in his narrow escape of Azkaban.

No, she can't imagine she'll do anything for him.

She isn't going to fall into a trap she won't be able to pull herself out of.

Hermione is raging with him.

"No," Hermione spits, her mouth twisting disdainfully. "This isn't how this works. You will hand over the parchment now, Mr. Malfoy."

He falls silent for a minute, considering her.

Lucius, seemingly trying to work an angle, begins pacing slowly in front of her, in a half-circle direction, trying to maximise his predatory mask to it's full effects.

Hermione follows his movements carefully with her wand pointed directly at him. A multitude of curses ready on the tip of her tongue.

"I was so hoping to meet with you months ago," He side-eyes her, unfaltering in his slow, purposeful movements. His eyes are very dark, evil. "Did you know I asked Sirius for your attendance approximately two months after Dumbledore's untimely death?"

Hermione tilts her head and frowns. "That was—"

"Two weeks after I agreed to spy for your Order, yes. Over a year ago now. He's leveraged your appearance this whole time," Lucius informs her flatly.

She has no idea what to do with this information, as she really couldn't care less for his requests. She moves past it.

"So, this request of yours isn't in return for the information, is it? If Sirius had come tonight instead of me, you would have handed over the information without all this fuss, wouldn't you?"

"No, General. That information is what Sirius and I bargained upon," He jerks his chin towards the parchment in her hand. "The infiltration of The French Ministry is not information I am ordered, or inclined, to hand over, nor are the blueprints and locations of the prisons. I can supply you with them, providing you'll give your word to fulfil my request."

Hermione can feel her magic thrumming through her veins, sparking at the tips of her fingers.

She hates this. She hates this so much. How dare he dangle that kind of information in front of her and use it to blackmail her.

And if Voldemort has been planning this for months, then he's withheld this information purposefully, just to (probably) eventually blackmail Sirius with meeting her. How many have died whilst he has? She's not sure who to blame, really.

But Hermione's not surprised, he's a Death Eater — and honestly, from a soldiers point of view, its strategically wise, she'd do the same thing if she needed something from the other side — but it doesn't make it any less infuriating. She wants to split his skull with her bare hands.

Weighing her options with the little time she has got, she tries to find any reason she can come up with to deny his request. If he needs something from her, not Sirius, not Shacklebolt, or even Moody, then it must be something that needs handling with the upmost discretion.

It unnerves her that it's something he can't do himself. Again, she recognises he's got more experience than most wizards she's met, so for him to need help...

Bad timing, but her curiosity is insatiable.

Besides, there's no way she'd be able to leave here tonight with the potential downfall of the French Ministry on her shoulders, all the deaths that will follow, and the disorder it will bring to wizarding kind, and still be able to sleep at night. She struggles enough with that already.

With a quiet sigh, she decides she needs that information, no matter the cost — doesn't mean she won't pull every tendril of spy-knowledge out of him first.

"What is the request?" Hermione grinds out, her teeth and jawbone aching with the force of strength she has behind her clenched jaw.

His eyes light up. "As you are aware, I narrowly avoided Azkaban, that night in—"

She smiles in disbelief, looking heavenward. "You're welcome."

Lucius' expression flickers. "Hm, yes. I suppose I have never thanked you, have I?"

Hermione snarls. "No, you have not."

His bows his head slightly and presses his hand to his right peck with faux-respect. "You have my upmost gratitude, General. If not for your interference, I can't even hope to imagine what would have become of my family — which is why I have this request for you."

"Spit. It. Out, Malfoy."

He finally stops pacing, directly ahead of her with a few feet of distance between them, and returning to his original defensive stance. His eyes meet hers, firm, adamant, determined in a way that makes his expression beam with powerful determination.

"I need you and a select few of your most trusted fighters to infiltrate Malfoy Manor and abduct my wife."

Silence. Confused, resounding silence.

Wait — What?!

Hermione laughs so loud, she can hear it echoing across the (seemingly) endless fields. "And why on earth do you think I would do that?"

She wipes away an amused tear from her cheek as she lets her laughter fade to a stop.

The audacity of this man.

This is, apparently, not the reaction he was expecting. His face shifts between pure rage, astounding disbelief, and finishing on cold indifference.

His lip twitches derisively. "After mine and my son's failures, the Dark Lord saw fit to not only punish me, but my wife and son too. Narcissa is very unwell, she will not survive much longer. I have tried many times to break her free myself, but I am easily tracked these days, considering my advancement in the ranks. I'm rarely alone."

At the mention of Narcissa's death, something ugly twists inside her. Something similar to pain and sympathy. It's awfully familiar.

It makes her feel briefly lightheaded. It's, perhaps, the growing nausea in her stomach that drives up her temperature.

It's gone again moments later.

The old muscle memory of sympathy softens her face. "What did he do?"

Lucius' whole bodies goes slack, as if even having to disclose this information to her has broken all of the cold indifference and tension within him. There's a heavy pain in his eyes now that tells her he's stopped occluding. Like this, he looks exhausted, as though the war has drained him too.

Hermione has no idea what to do with this. An emotional Malfoy is new territory for her.

In fact, it makes her rather uncomfortable.

"Tortured her within an inch of her life," He laments, his voice barely above a whisper. Despair fills his eyes. "Daily, for a year. Nothing a healer couldn't fix at first, of course. But now, they've stopped helping Death Eaters, I can't find a healer competent enough to visit the Manor. He's poisoned her blood with Nagini's venom, she needs immediate treatment, provided by yourself, or she'll die by the end of the month."

Hermione stills, her brain firing with uncertainty. She has so many conflicting thoughts and emotions whirring through her head, that she doesn't know where to begin. 

At the mention of Narcissa, the Drawing Room pops into the forefront of her mind, as she has no other memories to associate with her — and, well, she did look exceptionally tired that day, gaunt, clinging to Lucius as if she couldn't hold herself up. Was she being tortured, even then? Hermione can empathise that particular horror with her, she supposes.

And the only theory she has regarding Lucius' need for Hermione to be the one to rescue her, is she's a good scapegoat for himself and his family. There will be no fallout for him. But why wait this long? Despite Sirius withholding this from her, he could have easily taken her away, long before now. The Drawing Room was seven months ago, and Narcissa wasn't exactly imprisoned.

It doesn't make sense.

She won't do it either way.

Hermione tips her chin up. "My answer is still no."

"My wife is innocent," He roars at her, rather ferally. His eyes are wide and manic. "Would you condemn her for the crimes committed by her wretched husband? Have you grown so cold, Miss. Granger?"

"I can't say I've ever heard the word innocent associated with a Malfoy before," She hums noncommittally. "But yes. She's made her choices, as we all have. Coming to regret them for selfish reasons doesn't make them any less of her own doing."

His mouth drops open. He's staring at her like he's taking her measure anew, as if the girl in front of him is not what he expected.

She's not.

Hermione hasn't been the same since Hogwarts, not since Dumbledore's death. Even before then, during fifth year, when everything fell apart around her, destroying the world she grew to know and love.

She'd do anything to have that world back. She won't risk her life on a mission like this, not for The Malfoy's.

"She's a wife, a mother," Lucius gasps, horrified. His body has drained of it's fight once again. "Family to those who gave her no choice in her decisions..." His eyes flit between her own, searching for something she can't define. He murmurs quietly, "Surely there's something left of you—"

"Why did you think I would agree to this?" She interrupts him coldly, exasperated. "One piss poor judgement call during a ridiculous battle two years ago now, and you thought I'd storm Malfoy Manor for you? It's a Death Eater stronghold, impenetrable. The Order is aware you use it for advanced training now that You-Know-Who has moved to the castle."

There's a brief silence whilst he occludes again. His eyes glaze over, cold, depthless, void of any emotion. His aristocratic superiority clicks back into place.

He looks at the top of her head, rather than at her. His brows raised. "Can you remember why you saved me that night, Miss. Granger?"

"Because I—"

The rest of her sentence dies in her throat — because she can't remember. It's one of those unreachable memories she has that's lost in her head. Every time she tries to reach for it, it's not there. Only black smoke, the last remnants of splintered memories.

All that's left is what Sirius told her; that she helped him with a 'few sneaky tactics'. No-one else knows, only him. She can't recall confiding in him either.

She remembers the battle, of course. She can remember flooing to the Ministry with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna to save Sirius after Harry's vision. The Prophecy Chamber, Lucius and Bellatrix trying to coax it from Harry, the arrival of The Death Eaters, starting the attack by stunning them and watching them deflect as if their efforts meant nothing, is all still there, as clear as crystal.

But then, nothing. Nothing but a black spot. Another empty space in her mind.

There's nothing until she's racing towards the Death Chamber, alone, with three Death Eaters on her tail, whipping curses at her. A Stinging hex caught her ankle, swelled it up, and she dropped, then rolled onto her back to send a Confringo at them. She missed, but the Liquid Glass Curse didn't.

It worked.

She carried on until they where dead or dying.

By the time she fell into the Death Chamber, the others where captured, save for herself and Harry. They stood side-by-side as Dolohov tried to wrench the prophecy from Harry's hand. Lucius was notably absent.

Hermione cursed Dolohov with the Blood Boiling Dark Crse. He countered it within minutes whilst the Order arrived. After that, she stood with Sirius and Harry whilst they duelled Bellatrix and Dolohov.

She surprised even herself when she managed to hit Bellatrix with a lucky Diffindo whilst she was distracted by Harry, cutting a gash across her cheek that slowly seeped blood — but she didn't stop, she shot an Avada at Sirius, and that moment, it distended between them. Everything happened in slow motion for her as she followed the glowing green light...

Hermione was quicker with an impulsive Depulso that got Sirius out of the way, just in time, and with only a fractured ribcage. She imagines, if Lucius hadn't of left when he did, if Hermione hadn't of lowered their numbers with the her attack, then Sirius likely would have died. There was no chance he could have survived otherwise.

Breaking out of her thoughts, she notices the moon has moved way past it's apex, hanging mid-way to the horizon. The temperature has dropped, the winds cutting, and the darkness is broaching on eery.

Lucius is standing stoically, apparently patiently, as she's probably been silent for around five minutes now.

She just — can't remember.

"You... I—" Hermione frowns, a little sadly. A hell of a lot frustratedly. "No. I can't."

Lucius gives her a sharp, knowing look. "And why is that?"

Her lips come together in a hard line. "I occlude too much."

"Truly?" Lucius smirks, tapping his cane on the ground. "That's your reasoning?"

She arches a brow. "What else is there?"

"Oh, nothing, I've just never heard such terrible reasoning for a 'piss poor judgement call', as you so eloquently put it, that spared the life of a known Death Eater and pure-blood supremacist. Surely that is something one would remember."

The indignation rises within her.

"More pressing things have happened since," Hermione sneers, her hand gripping tighter around her wand. "You're buried so far down in my mind, I haven't thought of you since."

"Now we both know that is lie — It must frustrate you endlessly to not remember that night clearly."

"Not at all. Like I said, you haven't crossed my mind once."

"Anyway," He enunciates, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, before turning away from her. "If you do this, I will hand over all information I currently possess regarding known Death Eater safehouses and locations, rebellion prisons including Kent, detailed schematics, and current plots for The French Ministry. All you have to do is give your word that you'll help my wife."

It hits her then.

"Just your wife?" She queries, her tone cajoling. "Where's Malfoy?"

He freezes, his eye twitching subtly. "Abroad."

Hermione scoffs.

"Of course. Let me guess, relaxing on a beach somewhere remote, ignorant to the war?" She sniggers derisively. Trace amusement alighting on her face.

Lucius hums. "Something like that."

"His self-preservation always left nothing to be desired, after all. Tell me, Lucius, does he know of your advancements? That it may cost his mother her life?"

"No."

"You're disgusting," Hermione glares at him hatefully, her mouth twisting with rage.

"Careful now, Miss. Granger," He drawls, almost in a singing tone. "You almost sound like you care."

"There's very little I care about these days. Only The Order, the lives of my friends, the future of the wizarding world — nothing else matters."

"You've grown to be exceedingly heartless," He notes, not at all like he's bothered. "You'd have made an excellent Death Eater."

She snarls. "Coming from you I'm sure that's meant as a compliment."

"It's not."

His expression, his tone, it catches her off guard. He sounds like he actually believes what he's saying...

"Come to think of it, you haven't called me a mudblood once," She tilts her head, studying him carefully. "You've hardly looked down your nose at me at all. Don't tell me... Lucius Malfoy — inner-circle, Death Eater extraordinaire, pure-blood supremacist, has come to abandon his bigoted beliefs? Has finally learnt that grovelling at a half-blood's bare feet has done nothing but destroy our world and disempower even his most loyal pure-blood followers?"

Internally, Hermione is laughing so hard, her lungs spasm. 

It only worsens as he tips his chin up and snarls as if trying to defend his superiority. 

Honestly, she'd find this situation entirely hilarious if not for the intel she's gained tonight. Malfoy might not be a key player in the War, but it's good to know he's not even in Britain, not that she ever worries over him, anyway. Voldemort is out of the country, which leaves Hogwarts wide open for her to infiltrate again, and she now knows Lucius is a spy, desperate for his wife's rescue. 

She should be revelling in her triumph.

She should — but she's not. Why is there a dull ache in her chest? Indefinable and unfamiliarly familiar? It makes her hand relax around her wand, the skin on her arms prickle into gooseflesh, and brings a slight headache to the base of her skull.

When Hermione glances back up at Lucius, he, too, seems to have given up his superiority display. He resembles nothing of the pure-blood Death Eater she caught glimpses of, or had the misfortune of speaking with, during her school years.

Something flickers across his eyes that, again, seems familiar, but isn't. She can't label it.

"This may come as a shock to you, General, but a lot can change after watching ones family pay for your mistakes," He steps closer to her. "I haven't held my families beliefs in a long time. I was doubtful even during the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione scoffs incredulously. "Mm. I'm sure."

"Believe what you will, I care not," His hand balls into a fist at his side as he takes a deep breath. He uncurls his fingers slowly. "I am losing my patience, General. Will you help me or not? I will not ask again. I will take my information and burn it, let your side suffer relentlessly in turn."

A few minutes of deep silence pass by whilst she ponders her every angle.

"Say I agree to help your wife," She starts in her own contemplative pacing, averting her eyes to the skies above. She taps the tip of her wand against her knuckles repeatedly. "I will want a date for the best time for infiltration, detailed blueprints of the manor, along with all information regarding the wards, as well as how to pass through them without alerting You-Know-Who."

Lucius perks up. "Done—"

"And," She enunciates in a type-of-drawl. "There's two pieces of information I require at a personal request that will favour you greatly."

"And what is that?" He sneers.

"First, I want to know everything there is to know about the Testing Facility in Hogwarts, as well as it's current test-subjects—" She snarls the word in utter disgust, "—Detailed curses placed upon them, intentions, and everything else you know."

For a minute, he hesitates, gritting his teeth. "Fine. Done. Meet me here tomorrow night and I'll have the relevant parchments — Second?"

At this, she stops pacing, and faces him. Her own fierce determination set on her face.

"I want to know who Tom's Right-Hand is."

"I don't know," He replies, a little too abruptly. "No-one does."

The answer sounds mechanical, as if he's had to answer this question many times before.

She wonders, idly, how many times Sirius has asked him alone.

"Why?" She groans, the muscle in her jaw rolling. "Who is he? And why is he so important that even inner-circle don't know his identity?"

Lucius considers her, and his answer, very carefully for a long minute. The silence is tense. "He's much the same as you — Powerful, loyal to a fault, dangerously ambitious, dark, cunning, intelligent, and ruthless. He's renowned for his genius, his ability to dissect enemy plans to their bare bones and respond tenfold, and of course, his persistent use of the Dark Arts, without becoming effected by it's hindrances. The Dark Lord favours him greatly."

Hermione rolls her eyes with Great Profoundness.

"Oh, is that what you think of me, Lucius? No. Please. Stop — you'll make me blush," She says, dead-panned. "And you call damaging ones soul irrevocably a hinderance?"

"Not in all cases, I suppose," He bops his head thoughtfully. "Yours, for example. As well as his Right-Hand. It's exceptionally rare to see such untainted souls, without even the smallest hint of damage after using Dark magic for so long, including Unforgivables — I'm sure you'll agree."

The expectancy in his expression doesn't go amiss by her.

She will not reveal details regarding her healing methods — The Purification Ritual and Fawkes' song.

Hermione wonders how his Right-Hand cleanses and purifies his soul, then. And why it isn't common knowledge amongst the ranks — a mercy if there ever was one really. She can't imagine an entire army of untainted and unaffected Dark wizards.

The Order and the resistance would have been dead years ago, if that were the case.

"Perhaps certain witches and wizards have a propensity for it," She goes with instead, vaguely.

"My assumption too," He agrees with her. Shockingly. "So, will you help me or not?"

Hermione knows she has no choice, not with so many lives on the line — not whilst Lucius has so much intelligence prepared for her, including The Testing Facility and all known locations for Death Eater activity, and his return is hardly anything in comparison. Rescue one prisoner.

Even if that prisoner is Narcissa Malfoy, and her jail is Malfoy Manor.

The phantom ache in her arm returns.

She closes her eyes and presses her lips together firmly, praying to the Gods she won't live to regret this decision.

"Alright," She concedes thinly, exhaling away her trepidation. She opens her eyes slowly. "I'll do it."

He eyes her warily. Firmly. "Give me your word."

"I give you my word, Lucius," She ensures there's no doubt he can read in her. "I will help your wife. I will heal her condition. But what do you propose I do with her after she's recovered? Sirius won't want to return her to your side, she'd be too valuable an asset."

Emotion flickers in his eyes, something like pain.

"Keep her safe, Miss. Granger. Take care of her," He rasps. Vulnerability in his voice. It disconcerts her immensely to see him so — urgh, emotional. "I'm trusting you."

"Why?"

"I know you better than you think," is all he says, as if it's common knowledge.

It's not — he doesn't.

He makes, quite literally, no sense.

Lucius conjures the parchments, minus the Testing facility one, that she'll have to retrieve tomorrow, before she can respond to his declaration. He levitates them as he did with the previous one and hovers them in front of her face.

With his wand still aloft, keeping the parchments steady, he uses his free hand to reach into the inside pocket of his robes. He takes out a vial, concealing it in a fist in his hand.

"May I approach?" He asks.

Hermione takes the parchments first, shrinks them so they can fit in the extended inside pocket of her own robes. She gives a small, tentative nod after.

"You will also need this," He says, as he approaches her slowly, returning his wand to it's cane as a show of good faith. He extends it towards her. "This blood belongs to me. It will let you pass through the blood wards."

"Alright," She takes the vial and pockets it.

"There is one complication," He admits reluctantly. "My wife's dungeon cell is blood warded. Nott. Sr. You will have to find a way to retrieve his blood — he's known to favour the drinking establishments—"

"Just call them pubs, for Merlin's sake." She rolls her eyes.

He snarls at her. "Pubs, in Diagon Alley — You should easily be able to obtain his blood from there."

"Fine."

Now that he's close to her, she can truly see the exhaustion in his face, in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the stress lining his forehead, and the hollowness to his cheeks. He looks older than he actually is.

She has just one question left, that she almost doesn't ask.

"Can I ask why you really haven't been able to free her, Lucius?" She studies his eyes carefully, as if she could pry the answers and the truth from his cold, dead soul. "Trackable or not, I don't believe you would let her suffer under Tom's punishments for this length of time without good reason. You're her husband. Whatever He has on you, must be big enough for you to be conflicted—"

Hermione gasps lightly when it dawns on her.

If there's one piece of information that is common knowledge in wizarding society, it's how much the Malfoy's love and devote themselves to their family.

She frowns. "It's Malfoy, isn't it? He'll kill him."

He closes his eyes tightly, resigned, as a heavy, pained sigh exhales from his nose. "Yes. My wife... She won't let me help her, not whilst He's threatening my son. If she's abducted by The Order, by you no less, he won't place the blame upon me. This is the only way to save them... You're the only one that can save them."

Not good enough.

Hermione folds her arms, her wand poking out the crook in her elbow. "You could have asked Sirius, or anyone else, really — Why me?"

"There's a bounty on your head, General. A large one. Not just for galleons, but an instant promotion to inner-circle. Properties, investments, a potential seat of power in a foreign country, all included."

Dread, shock and anxiety drops like an anvil in her chest.

"All because I hit him with a Diffindo?" Hermione asks, disbelieving. Her face twists. "That's a heavy price to pay for a Muggle-born."

The look he gives her is nothing short of incredulous, like she's the most ridiculous and naïve witch on the planet.

"Not just a Diffindo! You're not only the first witch to ever succeed in hitting him with a spell in the first place, but you made him have doubts regarding the true power of Muggle-borns. That it might, in fact, be born of Natural Magic, rather than stolen. Like I told you earlier, you've become a problem for him. You've caused waves amongst the armies, a lot of them fear you. Again, you're formidable, he wants you alive — and I honestly can't comprehend what for."

Hermione nods slowly, unable to process that now. It's unbelievable.

She tucks it away for further analysis later.

She looks up at him softly for a moment and sighs. "For what it's worth, I am sorry Narcissa is suffering, she doesn't deserve it."

"Why do you say that?" His eyes widen infinitisimally.

"I—" She falters. Trying to find the words, the memories, before trying again. "I remember her vaguely from school, when she would visit Malfoy. She seemed to love him deeply. I won't condemn her for that."

Lucius smiles, seeming rather sentimental and genuine. "Not as heartless as I originally thought then."

She rolls her eyes "Don't tell anyone. I, apparently, have a reputation to uphold."

They smirk, not at all like they should.

It occurs to her, that this conversation, this shorter distance between them, hasn't intimidated her or set her on edge. Somehow, it feels... easy. Another muscle memory, an effortless reflex.

She really wishes she could remember the Department of Mysteries battle fully now. If only to understand just why she helped him, why this is easy.

Another observation she'll have to file away for a later date.

He smiles, small but in earnest at her again. His eyes brighten under the moonlight.

"It's been a pleasure, Miss. Granger," He nods respectfully, before taking a step back. "Thank you."

Lucius portkeys away, then.

This is the first time she's noticed the moon is past the mid-way point. Sunrise is in a few hours.

She tips her head back and groans when she realises Sirius is going to kill her for — Well, all of this.

Hermione sighs, unwraps the leather cloth in her hand, and portkeys back to Grimmauld Place.

Hermione pops back into existence just outside of the house's wards.

She gives herself a few minutes to compose herself, steady her ever racing mind, and organise all of the information she has received from Lucius tonight into a place in her mind that she can access later. When she's alone.

She closes her eyes, bypasses her walls, enters into her mental house, and lingers in the image of her old kitchen. Inside, it's exactly the same as how she remembers, right down to the chip in the tile. Under the kettle and tea area on the kitchen counters, is a drawer. It was the mess drawer back then. Fitting. She pulls it open, tucks those memories and thoughts into there, then closes it again.

She leaves the house, reinforces her walls, then opens her eyes. They even feel glazed over.

As soon as Hermione opens the door and steps over the threshold into Grimmauld, she finds Sirius, Shacklebolt, Ron, and Neville all standing anxiously or pacing in the entrance hallway.

"Hermione," Sirius breathes her name. His expression reads like Thank Merlin she's back and I didn't get her killed.

There's a collective sigh of relief when they see her.

Next, they pounce on her. A barrage of indecipherable questions are thrown her away. She's still frozen to the spot, shellshocked that they where waiting for her like this, and unable to separate each individual question.

Ronald is the first to catch her in a tight hug. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?" She wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

He leans in to the crook of her neck, whispers quietly, "I couldn't find you — when I asked Sirius where you were, he said you were on bloody assignment. Alone! He wouldn't tell me where. I could have killed him."

Hermione can feel his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly against her spine, as if he's trying very hard to control himself. In some ways his temper has got better over the years, but in others, it's a hell of a lot worse.

"I'm alright," She murmurs reassuringly, before drawing back, and stepping out of his arms. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. "It wasn't dangerous."

"You won't tell me."

"No."

He studies her for a moment, then lets his hands drop away from her. "Of course."

"Glad to see you're alright, Hermione," Neville cuts in, sidestepping Ron. He doesn't look best pleased at that. "Ron had us all worried for a second there."

Discomfort creeps its way into her system. Not only does she despise them coddling her like she's still merely a child, but to think her breakable, as if she's made of glass, offends her greatly.

It shouldn't. But it does.

"I'm fine," She bites back, rolling her eyes. "My assignments aren't anyone's business but mine—"

"And Sirius', right?" Ronald spits, venom in his tone. His whole body goes rigid. "Even Kings doesn't know. You could have died."

Hermione glowers at him. "How do you know, hm? An assignment doesn't always mean mortal danger, Ronald — And even if it did, there isn't much I can't handle. Alright?"

"You're in full field gear, Mione," Ron notes, eyeing her up and down purposefully. "I doubt you were out to fetch bloody milk!"

"Milk is important," She retorts, questioning herself as to why she hasn't hexed him yet. "A dangerous mission."

Neville ghosts a smirk at that — Ron doesn't find her the least bit amusing.

With very little patience left for this, she shakes her head as she walks around them, past Sirius and Kingsley, and heads straight for the War Room.

"A word, Sirius," She demands over her shoulder. "Alone."

She pushes open the door with a harsh shove of her hands and steps inside. Seething. Sirius follows in next, casting the usual locking and privacy wards that he uses when the meeting involves intelligence too crucial and sensitive to be overheard.

A simple silencing charm doesn't cut it.

Whilst he's finishing up, she starts with retrieving and restoring the scrolls. She starts with the initial parchment Lucius gave her, detailing the information he is required to obtain per his Spy Duties.

She unshrinks it with a tap of her wand, then places it down at the head of the table. "This is what you sent me for."

With the room secure, Sirius takes a seat, and picks up the parchment. He glances over it at first, until he catches sight of the second parchment she's restoring. Uncertainty flashes through his expression as he watches her closely.

"And this is what he gave me," She tells him, extending the sheet to him. "Plans to infiltrate the French Ministry."

Sirius sharply stands up, his chair scraping against the old floorboards. He's growing considerably paler by the moment.

"They can't be," He says, wide-eyed, as he takes the sheet. "No. It's too soon."

"There's more, Sirius," Hermione says, the dread creeping its way back into her voice. "It came at a cost."

He closes his eyes and sighs like he can't handle more and costs. "What did you do?"

"The reason he wanted to meet with me — a year ago, I might add disdainfully, by the way! — Oh, and Lucius fucking Malfoy? Seriously? Yes, thanks for the heads up!" She glares at him, then drops stiffly into her seat.

He has the good sense to look at least mildly regretful.

Arse.

She takes a composing breath, unfurling her fists, and flexing her fingers. "In return for the France Plans, he wants me to infiltrate Malfoy Manor, and rescue Narcissa from Tom. She's dying, apparently."

Dead silence.

Tension.

Wide, manic eyes.

"You. Did — What?!" Sirius roars at her, his face red with rage. "That is not your call to make!"

Hermione tsks. "Calm down and bloody listen to me, alright?"

With a flick of her wand, she conjures a bottle of Ogden's and two glasses. The look Sirius gives her is burning, as the bottle hovers over the glasses and fills them halfway.

"For the nerves," She grins faintly, a little crooked. She sits back in her seat, crossing her leg over her knee, and tucking her foot behind her ankle. Stately. "I didn't agree lightly. Not only has he give me the plans for France, but—"

She pulls out the next parchment. Restores it with a wave of her hand. "All known locations for Death Eater strongholds, safehouse locations, resistance prisons, and I have all the blueprints for them too. This is going to change everything for us, Sirius."

After a minute of staring at her deathly, he sits back down, stiffly, then takes a large sip of firewhisky. Utterly defeated.

He lets out a ragged, tired breath. "It looks like we have much to discuss."

They do.

She starts by telling him everything that happened during the meeting, except for the parts concerning her baffling observations of Lucius Malfoy and the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

She mostly relays what he told her regarding the plans for The French Ministry and how the armies have been called there, which not only leaves massive gaps in security amongst the prisons, but in Hogwarts too. She gives the idea that going there with Neville again sometime in the next two weeks will give them an opportunity to find the horcrux. He doesn't disagree, but tells her he must confer with the other members of The Order first. They move on to discuss raiding the prisons first, much sooner, in order to strengthen their own armies.

Hermione agrees, under the condition that she can hit Hogwarts immediately after, whilst You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters are distracted by the prison fallout. He reluctantly agrees providing The Order do.

Hermione will ensure they do, she can argue endlessly.

They will confer with Shacklebolt, Moody, and Ronald for strategy regarding the planned Raids for Muggle London, and what to do about France.

He's not happy about Malfoy Manor, but concedes it's worth it for the intelligence provided by Lucius. So long as he gives her all promised information regarding The Testing Facility, then she's cleared to do it.

It just so happens, according to Sirius, that Lucius' birthday is in six days. A celebration party may just be the best cover to get in, obtain Nott. Sr's blood, then get out with Narcissa without risking a capture. With the planned raids of Muggle London, it may be the best cover story.

If Hermione causes a scene by treating this as an attack, lets them know that it is her responsible for abducting Narcissa, then there shouldn't be any negative fallout for The Malfoy's. Hermione agrees, despite hating parties.

She is too discuss this further with Lucius tomorrow, ready him for celebration planning, and per her idea, provide her and her team with hairs from Death Eaters — Polyjuice potion. A stipulation that can't be negotiated.

Overall, Sirius is pleased.

And Hermione, the victory within her is soaring.

It's noon by the time they're finishing up with their discussions. Every inch of Hermione is aching from exhaustion. Her head is pounding with the intake and relay of information and plotting.

Perhaps the Ogden's too.

She wishes for bed.

"There's a huge raid in Muggle London tomorrow," Hermione reads from the parchment, her eyes narrowing. "A training exercise for newer recruits. MacNair is heading it."

"We mustn't use Lucius' information too carelessly," Sirius says tiredly. He too looks drained. "If we put a stop to every raid, break into every prison, as well as help France, then You-Know-Who will pick up on spy activity. He'll change everything, grow paranoid, then all of this will be useless."

"So, we're not going to intervene?" Hermione's jaw slacks. "We can't leave them to die."

"We have to pick and choose are battles carefully, Hermione," He tells her, not unkindly. "We will send the resistance after word gets out about the attack, but not a moment before — we cannot risk losing intel as crucial as this."

Hermione shoves down her bitter regret to the farthest depths of her mind, as well as the Muggles that are going to die for their delayed response, then gives a small nod of her head.

"I agree."

Chapter Text

It's exactly 7pm when Hermione and Lucius portkey into the rendezvous spot.

He's in full Death Eater regalia, with his mask pinned to his belt.

Hermione is in her full field attire, too. With the added bonus of a few Dark Artefacts to give the Death Eaters a run for their money.

They're both hurried — in exactly two hours, Muggle London will be raided. This isn't like the usual attacks, Death Eaters are hitting Central London, The Borough of Tower Hamlets. One of the most popular areas in London. It will be crawling with residents, locals, and tourists. The nightlife will be booming.

Hermione suspects this is to start in de-stabilizing the regime, right in time for the France infiltration too. They won't be able to call in Britain for aid, their forces will be massively dwindled and distracted in the aftermath.

Her nerves are on edge.

"I need to leave for France immediately, else I'll raise You-Know-Who's suspicions," Lucius says quickly. He flicks his wand and conjures the parchments. "Everything I know regarding the Testing Facility."

After he levitates it over to her, she snatches it out of the air, shrinks it, then tucks it away in her inside pocket. All the knowledge she needs to take on the Testing Facility is within her reach, and there's not a damn thing she can do about it now.

She's feeling bitterly and furiously resentful.

"Thank you," Hermione says, her tone clipped.

"If that is all—"

"No," Hermione interrupts, equally as rapid. No time for shortcomings, typical powerplays, and intimidation. "I need you to plan a small birthday celebration in your Manor and obtain hairs for a Polyjuice Potion for four."

Lucius' eyes glitter, calculating.

"I can do that," He agrees after a minute, giving a short nod. "I'll send word to Sirius when the plans are in place."

"It makes more sense to infiltrate this way," Hermione explains flatly. Quickly. "I will use your party as an excuse to attack pure-blood supremacists, Tom will assume it's to send a message after the raid tonight. He'll have no reason to suspect you of subterfuge. Also, you have to invite Nott. Sr and confirm with me if he RSVP's. With everything that is going on, I won't be able to go into Diagon Alley for his blood, nor do I expect him to leave Hogwarts for a night on the piss. This way, I can get his blood without him raising questions about your family. I'll need the guest list at least twenty-four hours in advance."

Minutes pass by as he processes, plans, and works out the angles. She can practically see his mental gears working. His meticulousness, his careful eye to detail, and his ability to plot as if this is nothing more than a game of Wizarding Chess is astoujnding.

He looks pleased. "Done."

They portkey away.

It's 8:56pm, only four minutes left on the clock until the raid is set to start.

Inside the War Room, Hermione, Sirius, Tonks, Shacklebolt, and Moody all stare up at the clock. The ticking fills the empty silence ominously.

Hermione curls her fingers around the back of her chair until her knuckles drain of their colour. She leans over as she watches the seconds move by too slowly. No-one speaks. The trepidation and tension is thick in the air, if it was a physical object, they'd all be flattened under the immense weight of it.

She wordlessly conjures a radio to the centre of the table from one of the other rooms in the house, and switches it on. She tunes it in to a local London station. The static fizzles out when the antenna is carefully aligned. A Muggle's voice comes into focus, giving recommendations on the best local hot-spots for a 'Wild Saturday Night on the town with family and friends.'

Hermione feels sick to her stomach with how normal he sounds, completely unawares to the horror they're going to face in just two small minutes. The hole in her chest widens, threatening to pull her under.

With how heavily she's occluded tonight, she can only feel the faint physical symptoms of her emotions. If anyone were to look in her eyes, they'd seen only a black void, an abyss.

From the expressions on the others faces, they must be thinking and feeling the exact same.

Anyone who can occlude is doing so tonight.

"Everyone know their roles tonight?" Shacklebolt asks quietly, eyes still firmly on the clock. She thinks he may be trying to distract them until the time comes.

They each give a small nod.

One minute left.

"Guys," Tonks murmurs, breathy. She reaches for Hermione's hand beside her, uncurls it from the chairs edge, and twines their fingers together. "If anything goes wrong tonight, tell Teddy—"

"Nymphadora," Moody warns sharply, his eyes trained on hers. There's a brief flash of pain in his expression. 

It's easy sometimes to forget how close they are; mentor and student.

Tonks' hair colour transforms into a violent shade of red. "Do not call me that. Impending death or not."

"Don't talk like that," Hermione warns her too, tightening her hold of her hand. "I won't let anything happen to you. You will see Teddy again—"

"Oh my god—" All sets of eyes snap onto the radio as the screaming commences, followed by frenzied running, panting. Tears. The static grows louder as the mic clambers. "What are they...? No — RUNNN — AHHH..."

Hermione lets go off Tonks' hand, rounds the table, pulls open the door, and with a volume as loud as her lungs can manage, yells, "RAID!"

She flicks her wand and sets off the alarms. The house comes alive within seconds, every DA member and resistance fighter here racing through and preparing. They had to make sure no-one suspected the raid. If the resistance had been too prepared before word got out, then suspicions would rise.

Her soul cries for the Muggle's that are currently scared, hurt, captured, dying, or dead whilst they waited.

Each member of The Order sends out a Patronus to all safehouses, resistance strongholds, and healers on retainer. The caretaker of each house will ready them to fight, and also send word to their more covert fighters. Hermione had already warned Pomfrey this morning, and without alerting the other healers, she's been stocking up and preparing.

They'll likely convert some of the bedrooms into healing rooms too, just in case the top floor is overwhelmed with casualties. It most likely will be.

Dumbledore's Army starts to descend the staircase rapidly. All that can be heard is the stomp of dragonhide boots, swirling charmed robes, and bustle of many bodies colliding and entering into the hallway.

The remaining Order members fly in first; Ronald, then Ginny, Neville and Bill. Fully geared up.

Neville reaches her first, and he either doesn't notice the murderous expressions from the Weasley's as he barges past them first, or he just doesn't care. He's at her back behind the table on the instant — she's not even going to think about that right now.

The rest of the DA is spread out in the War Room, the hallway, the living rooms, and up the staircase, all angling themselves so they can peek into the War Room.

"Muggle London. We believe they're hitting The Tower of London, according to intel," Sirius begins the de-brief. "We can't confirm, but must assume they've put up anti-apparition wards. Get in as close as you can, but don't risk splinching. No-one is good to us injured. Each Order member has a portkey, the rest will be passed out amongst you."

"How many?" Neville asks. She can hear the tremor in his voice.

"At least three hundred."

There's a collective, "WHAT?" then lots of indistinct murmurings and gasps of dread. Of fear.

"Majority of them are newer recruits," Hermione cuts in, mentally counting the possible dead. Picturing the screams, the destruction, the Death Eaters, the corpses on the ground. "There won't be many, if any, inner-circle. Lieutenants maybe — and if that's the case, expect to face some of our former Slytherin classmates. This is not a basic raid, everyone. Do what you have to do, don't hesitate, follow your training, and watch your backs. Understand?"

They agree by way of a 'Gryffindor Roar', as they call it.

"How can they attack somewhere so popular?" Ginny asks gravely, barely audible over the chaos. "What about the Statute of Secrecy?"

The silence drops like a noxious and poisonous gas, swallowing the oxygen in the rooms.

"The Muggle Government will cover it up, Miss. Weasley," Sirius answers her thoughtfully. His eyes vacant, wistful. "It's what they did last time. Not in such popular areas though. This will be considerably harder to hide — but they'll do it. They always find a way."

Last time, during the First Wizarding War — eleven years the war raged on for, and never did it's reach extend to attacking the Muggle World so openly and quickly.

"GO!" Hermione calls out.

Just before Hermione takes a hold of Tonks' and Neville's hands for portkeying, she watches as the DA race out of the door, and apparate.

The popping sound of simultaneous Apparition rackets through the street.

Hermione portkeys into what can only be described as a war zone.

The screaming, the toppling of buildings, and the roaring of fires forms white noise in her ears. She looks around with wide, stricken eyes as she takes in the scene.

The Death Eaters are coming in from three fronts, still either apparating in, or materialising in a cloud of black smoke from each point of entry. Small armies ensuring there's fewer options for escapes. They're all robed, masked, and shooting spells as if they're machine guns.

There's many standing sentry, preventing the Muggles from escaping.

Several dementors fly high up in the skies, barely noticeable under the cover of grey clouds. She doubts the Muggles will be able to notice them.

They will notice The Dark Mark that's displayed prominently between thick grey clouds. The moonlight is overshadowed by an unnatural overcast, making it all the more darker.

Crowds and crowds of people are running frantically through the square, alleyways, buildings, anywhere they can to find refuge. Most of them are covered in blood, injuries, and ash.

Hermione's never seen so many corpses, not this soon during a raid — no, this isn't a raid. This is a full blown attack. A battle.

The smoke is thick and suffocating, emanating from large fires from destroyed buildings, crashed cars, and, presumably, Incendio's.

The resistance move in like a sandstorm; quick, precise, and deadly, throwing stunners, curses, hexes, and cutting down the numbers with expert handling. They move through the masses. Some of the resistance with portkeys are gathering the Muggles into small groups to evacuate them, or at least, move them out of firing range, whilst the rest deal with The Death Eaters.

More and more of the resistance start to apparate in from the safehouses, stopping for only a moment to take in the horror and the chaos, before blending in with the others.

Hermione, with Tonks and Neville at her back for cover (as per their training now), run left and towards an oncoming group of Death Eaters approaching The Tower. From what she can see, there's a minimum of thirty, at her best guest.

As soon as they see her, they start firing.

She casts a Protego Maxima around the three of them, dives behind an upturned car for cover, with only her eyes peering over the top, and concentrates on a strong, "Incendio."

Over the hood of the car, a large jet of flames soar out of the tip of her wand. It burns through the first two lines in the group, but the other three lines behind catch on in time to start casting their shields. The screaming is loud. It would be unbearable if it wasn't Death Eater's roasting alive. She feels no guilt whatsoever as she watches them ignite, run frantically around trying to dispel the flames, until they start to drop one-by-one.

"IT'S THE ORDER!" She hears the magically amplified announcement from somewhere in the chaos, to her right. "KILL ON SIGHT."

She freezes when she hears the (presumably) same command but it in different languages, from different Death Eaters — Romanian, Bosnian, and Norwegian — Oh Gods, Voldemort's reach has stretched.

No. Norwegian — Scandinavia — Durmstrang — Taught the Dark Arts — Karkaroff — Fucking hell.

Neville and Tonks break her from her thoughts when they send out their own flurry of curses and stunners whilst Hermione kills the flame from her wand. Now they've been spotted, she ducks down, disillusions herself, and moves around the car, into the open.

Whilst they're distracted with Tonks and Neville, she works on taking them down surreptitiously. She uses whatever spell comes to mind, The Slicing Hex, The Liquid Glass Curse, The Suffocation Hex, The Entrails Expulsion curse, The Bone Breaker Curse, and a multitude of basic curses to end them as effectively as possible.

The first group is dealt with. Nothing but a pile of charred, mangled corpses.

Out of the corner of her eye, through the thick smog of smoke, she see's single dementor floating towards them. It must have noticed their attack. It swirls through the sky, and dips down towards them.

The hollow, cold sense of despondency and fear crawls through them, emitting it's icy front along the area. Everything feels darker, empty. At one point, Hermione would have let that bother her. Not anymore.

Tonks casts the Patronus to expel it just seconds before she intended too. Her wolf whirls through the tip of her wand, and chases it up into the night sky. 

Hermione returns to them, cancels her disillusion, and proceeds to race through the crowds. Her eyes are darting everywhere, tracking the resistance that are helping the Muggles, the Death Eaters circling and pushing forward, and hitting them with curses as often as she can. 

A large chunk of brick and glass is torn from the edge of a building. An office building, she thinks. She looks around to find the Death Eater that did it, but spots a family in the falling range instead. There's a man, a Father, hunched over his partner and child. Screaming. The debris descends through the air, slower due to the winds— 

Hermione darts forward, holds up her wand, and manipulates the air around them. If she pushes hard enough, channels her magical core and the elements, she can slow the speed of the descent, and place the larger, heavier chunks of brick and stone on the ground away from the Muggles.

She draws in a sharp breath when she lowers her wand. Her eyes meet the Father's for a brief second, and just before a resistance member catches up to them to apparate them away, he gives a stricken nod.

Hermione swallows thickly.

"GET DOWN!" She hears Shacklebolt roar from somewhere behind her, followed by a loud, catastrophic explosion.

As she turns, she see's four Death Eaters encroach into Sirius' space, his back turned to them whilst he deals with the Death Eaters responsible for demolishing a block of flats. He barely registers Kingsley's warning, before they have their wands pointed at them.

Hermione's heart wrenches as she whips her wand forward and screams, "EXPULSO."

The blast is large enough to hit all four of them, but not before one of their curses land — Sirius drops to the floor like a bag of wet sand.

No, no, no.

Tears burn in her eyes, and going against every step in her training, every order she has ever been given to not risk herself saving a member, and her own better judgement, she diverts and runs towards him. She's not supposed too. She can get herself captured, tortured, raped, and killed, she's going off plan—

She dives down onto her knees beside him and presses two fingers to his neck. There's blood seeping through his robes and uniform. 

He has a pulse.

No time to be relieved. The blood is coming faster and soaking through his robes. She casts a quick curse diagnostic spell, as it looks like the Sectumsempera Curse, but with Fleur's injury permanently on her mind, she has to make sure.

"HERMIONE!" Tonks yells at her over the din, as she whips forward and Avada's an approaching Death Eater at her back. "DON'T STOP! We have to go! Now!"

She ignores her.

Resigned and pissed off, Tonks and Neville stand around her and cover her. All she can hear is their wands firing.

The reading tells her it's the Sectumsempera Curse. She breathes a sigh of relief and starts to cast the counter-curse thrice. As the wounds are closing over, she reaches into her bag,and pulls out a Blood Replenishing Potion and Pepper-up Potion. She curls them tightly in Sirius' hands and stands up before he wakes. She quickly levitates him behind a truck on it's side for cover and disillusions him, hopefully he'll recover quick enough.

It's all she can do.

Just as they're running towards the centre, another roar, another explosion, pulls their attention forward onto the Tower. It's worse than anything she's heard tonight. The Tower's base ignites with a Fiendfyre. A large enflamed dragon, in shape of the Hungarian Horntail species, and curls around it and upwards slowly, it's growls fierce.

The screaming is deafening.

The building catches fire, spreading too thickly and too quickly for simple Aguamenti spells to extinguish. There's people jumping from upper-floor windows, others are screaming out for help, but there's no-one. All forces have fled the scene, as well as the Muggles. 

Her occlumency walls quiver.

No.

Hermione doesn't stop to think — doesn't stop to register the screaming, the crying, the people hiding away from the fire, trying to shield themselves and their families. The Muggles running from the site in flames (she faintly hears either Neville or Tonks casting water spells to help them), and takes out the three Death Eaters responsible for conjuring it with three successive Avada's.

Like a sword impaling her through and through, an empty sensation strikes in her chest. Her vision swims momentarily whilst the darkness hits her.

It gets easier to ignore with each battle she's faced.

"Cover me!" She yells over the noise.

Hermione, running the risk of magical depletion, extends her wand towards the direction of the River Thames, behind The Tower, and motions her wand above her head in a circular pattern. The magic pulls straight from her core and reaches out towards the water, momentarily rendering her breathless.

The water shoots up like a geyser, rapid and aggressive, foaming around it's circular edges, and spraying jets of water. It grows until it resembles something similar to a tsunami.

Hermione strains for oxygen as the exhaustion starts to fester within her. She can feel herself paling. She pulls her wand back in one fast striking motion, and the water pours over the building like a cataract, descending in a succession of large, spectacular waterfalls.

She keeps control of it. Water has always been her element, it was how she began in Elemental Magic, it's always felt like hers. She extends her wand towards it, striking and encircling it until the water is whirling tightly around and through the Fiendfyre. The dragon roars a breath of flames, but it doesn't tamper the velocity or power of the water.

It growls when the water falls over it like a hightide, extinguishing it completely.

Water never meets the ground.

Before the spell drops, she concentrates harder, a migraine plummeting in her head as she redirects the water back into the Thames as neatly as possible — the area is soaked, but not flooded.

She lowers her wand and drops to her knees, lightheaded and boneless. She greedily inhales as much oxygen as she can to satisfy her lungs, before she feels Neville's hand curl under her bicep, and pull her onto her feet. She whips around, too fast for her head to keep up with and looks over his shoulder.

Another group of Death Eaters, Forty, at least.

Up front, him. Voldemort's Right-Hand leading his unit.

Bloody fucking fuck.

She's too weak — Hermione reaches into her bag quickly, pulls out an Invigoration Draught and Wiggenweld Potion whilst Neville and Tonks cover her. She unstoppers them with her teeth and chokes them down one after the other.

She can feel them immediately sear through her like an electrical current.

Her heart stops when Neville drops in front of her feet. She recognises right away that he's only been stunned, thank Merlin. Before she can rennervate him, the Death Eaters up their attack. She catches a few spells with her wand, deflects them back into the group, then re-casts her shield.

She pushes Tonks out of the way of a Crucio, then dives down next to her. They scramble backwards, pushing with their feet and elbows, taking cover behind a broken off brick wall. Presumably from the Fusilier Museum behind them.

She meets Tonks eyes, their chests heaving. "I'll distract them. Disillusion yourself, get to Neville before they kill him. Rennervate him, then fall back into Sirius' group — I've got these."

Hermione risks a peek over the wall. Instantly regrets it when she see's a spark of green coming towards her. She leans left, narrowly dodging it, then sends back a Depulso.

"I'm not leaving you," Tonks says firmly, betrayed by the sadness crumpling her face.

"That's an order, Tonks," Hermione commands. She looks away from her whilst Tonks stares at her in utter shock, then disillusions herself.

"Get to the group as quick as you can," She hears Tonks whisper to her as she passes.

From her crouched down position, she leans back against the wall, reaches into her beaded bag, and pulls out her first Dark Artefact — The Wick of Imprisonment. A black candle, imbued with magic similar to a boundary spell, that will prevent the Death Eaters from leaving the set radius.

If they try too, they'll burn. There's no escape, at least until the candle melts fully. She has it channelled to just effect Death Eaters — Witches and Wizards with Light magic, a pure soul, and Muggles won't be touched by it.

Eventually, the boundary will shorten to the point they'll be compressed inside together.

Hermione flicks her wand gently, lights the wick, then tosses it over her shoulder, over the short wall, and into the centre of the group. She hears the circle of flames come to life moments later.

When the panicked screaming commences, she stands up, and dares a glance over the wall. They're all confined — not him, though. Voldemort's Right-Hand has vanished.

A part of her wants to stand here, watch them burn for their crimes and their sins, to witness them suffer as much as the innocents of London have tonight, for the many they have hurt, tortured, and killed — furthermore, for the War too. For the side of Good that has been forced to fight for so long.

For those she has lost — no, not lost. Taken. They were taken from her, in the cruellest ways imaginable.

But she can't. Witnessing their deaths won't do anything but give her her own sense of cruel satisfaction — it won't be enough to satisfy her buried down grief, guilt, and failures.

The flame will die out soon, and she can't risk any of them surviving either. More death will follow them. She extends her wand out, points it at the ground (Earth), then strikes it downwards. A strong, invisible shockwave crosses the distance between them — within the confines of the spell, the ground cracks then splits open, and each of them drop through it. Some scramble at the edges, trying to pull themselves up, screaming, but she closes over the crack with a complicated upwards motion, crushing them in half.

She puts out the wick on the half burnt candle and Accio's it into her bag. She has no doubt she'll need what remains of it again in the future.

Around her, the fighting is starting to calm. There's less Death Eater's than resistance fighters, which is a good sign, but the bodies, the blood, the fires, it's still too much.

In her brief distraction, she feels the space surrounding her grow quiet and dead. Void. All sound ceases as her awareness kicks into overdrive.

Only a sound similar to an arrow being shot from it's bow rings in her ears, alerting her too—

She spins half-circle and see's the incoming billow of black smoke hurling towards her — reacting, and with only an inch in space between them, she twirls, and takes off into an upwards flight, in a plume of white smoke.

They fly upwards in a straight line, at the same time, perfectly aligned.

As a senior member of The Order, she can take off in a plume of white smoke, rather than just Apparate as normal. A gift given to her by Sirius when he swore her in as General.

The black smoke and the white light combine, encircling each other, mid-way to the sky, before they start throwing their spells. Bursts of colours erupt from their wands. Never green, she notes.

Hermione knows it's him. Her Death Eater nightmare, but she's never had to face him like this before. She's only used this once before, during the Battle of Hampstead, during the hunt for the horcruxes. A part of her has been too anxious to ever try using it again, fearing her use of Dark magic would have rendered her incapable.

Using it now was an impulsive, last second decision. There was nothing else she could do.

He seems to be surprised too, as his casting falters every so often when she breaks apart from him, disentangles their smoke, and shoots out a curse. His messy dodging betrays his mis-calculation.

They never go higher than just above The Tower of London, any further up then the cold will start to hit them. Hermione can feel her magic taking a toll on her again already, she doesn't need a temperature drop to weaken her further.

She swirls backwards and spirals lower. He follows after her in tight circular patterns. When he comes into view on her fifth turn, she points out her wand, and wordlessly casts Expulso.

Fuck, it hits.

The figure in the black smoke catapults backwards at a blasting speed, then lowers to the ground. Hermione flies after him, following the course of his drop, and watches as he lands.

Despite the situation, triumph rises within her.

Landing softly on her feet, roughly around ten feet away from his body, the plume of white light dissipates around her. She runs towards him, wand tightly gripped in her hand, as she nears him. Her heart creeps up into her throat the closer she nears him.

He's not dead, but he's hurt. He's struggling for breath, likely from being winded upon collision. He could have broken ribs, a collapsed lung, or an injured wind-pipe. He tosses and turns on the same spot. He must be in agony, but he doesn't show it too much, he doesn't writhe or make a noise except for the odd low groan when he tries to inhale a sharp breath. He's strong and seemingly used to pain.

Of course, Voldemort doesn't stop in his plight for control and to induce fear at just Muggles and Muggle-borns. A part of her has always thought the Death Eaters get it worse. He doesn't tolerate failure.

Hermione glares down at him, feeling no remorse, showing no hesitation, as she kneels down, and reaches for his mask. Her hand shakes as it nears.

She gasps, enraged, when he snatches her wrist up with a strong grip, and moves it away from his mask.

"Don't touch me, Mudblood," He rasps, sounding strangled, his voice soft and deep. It's the kind-of baritone that sounds forced. "I will end you."

"Fuck you," Hermione spits, her teeth bared. She must look feral.

She growls lowly as she tries to pry her hand free. It works for a second. He captures it again awkwardly, his grip strained but strong still. The smallest whimper seeps through his lips begrudgingly, as if he can't bear the pain, or to give the image of it.

Despite his hold, she tries to reach for his mask again. She needs to know who he is, she thinks her desire for his identity outweighs her need for his death. He tries to lift his head up, tries to wriggle away, push at her, anything.

He slumps down after she doesn't move an inch. His head drops and his breaths come in heavy, desperate gasps. Pained.

"No. Don't," He rasps deeply, sounding broken. Defeated. She can feel his intense gaze on her eyes, regardless of the mask. "Please?"

Hermione's heart thumps violently in her chest, bruising against her ribcage as though it's trying to burst free, and drop at her feet. Her heart rate stays elevated.

Shocking herself, she flushes. Her neck, jaw, and cheeks burn.

She can't explain it — maybe it's nervousness. She's waited so long for this moment, to learn who he is, that it seems surreal to finally be here — but he's asking her not to remove his mask.

Hermione's eyes widen. His chest is rising and falling heavily, slowly, catching every few breaths, and forcing out a choking sound at the back of his throat.

He's pleading with her. Begging her not too.

It makes her want too more. She refuses to let go off her wand, though. And it's her only hand free, his grip still ironclad on her wrist.

Without breaking eye contact with the hollow eyes in his mask, she slowly raises her wand, edging it closer towards him—

"NO!"

He winces as he grabs her other wrist, giving her no chance to vanish his mask. She tries to struggle against him, to pull her hands back, but he only holds on tighter. Impregnable fingers dig into the thin, sensitive skin over the pulse-points on her wrists.

The moment slows between them, when, stunning her completely, he pins her wand hand to his chest, then pulls her in closer until she's just an inch away from his mask. Face-and-mask completely aligned.

She draws in a sharp breath, he does too, when they seem to come to the realisation that there's barely any distance between them at all. Under her palm, he feels hot to the touch, even through his robes. He smells like fire, intense Dark magic, and somewhere deep beneath it all... Earthly.

Something else — something she can't quite put her finger on due to the smell of souring blood.

"You owe me. " He rasps, firmly, his tone hoarse and breathless. "Leave—"

With a suddenness to quick for her too process, he snakes an arm around her waist, pulls her down flat against him, and barrel-rolls them to the left, away from an incoming Avada. She rolls underneath him, screaming frantically and struggling, until he pulls her atop of him.

Hermione sits up and darts a quick look over her shoulder.

When the dust settles, she see's Three Death Eaters striding towards them, emerging from the mist of smoke.

As they both throw up their shields, Hermione warily glances back down at him — from where she's sitting astride him, on his hips. Gods. How on earth did this happen?

She studies him (and her; them) still, doubtless she'll get the opportunity this close again.

There's so many unexplainable urges deep within her chest, to touch his face, to gaze into his eyes, to hold him and let him hold her, that she almost starts crying. The overwhelming and all consuming emotion in her chest weakens her occlumency walls.

She can feel his hand twitching where it's still gripping her hip, which tells her he must either be ready to throw her off him, hurt her, Avada her, or in a least likely turn of events, he's feeling rather the same as her.

"Please," She implores with him, hating how quiet and vulnerable she sounds. "Tell me who you are."

"I'm sorry," He murmurs, too quietly that she almost didn't hear him. His voice sounds small, pained, like he actually is rueful. "But I'd rather not have to gauge out your eyes if you ever took my mask."

Wandlessly, he throws her off him with a Flipendo. She's knocked-back into the air screaming. She has her hands outstretched, as though she's trying to reach for him, for something she doesn't understand and can't define. She watches him portkey away before she lands on her feet softly. A cushioning charm, she assumes.

Fuck him for trying to save her, then threaten her still anyway. Merlin, she hates him. She hates him so so much, she hates him only second to Voldemort. She can feel the ire rising within her, bubbling dangerously as though it's acid. Her skin flames from the rage and fury.

Hermione decides to take out her rage on the Death Eaters that interrupted her.

She turns around quickly, moving towards them, barely registering that they've aren't moving or attacking, before she stops the first one's heart with a quick shot to their sternum. The second one is petrified, and the third, brought to his knees with small and precise incisions sliced across his calves.

She looms over him, points her wand at him, her eyes swimming in liquid black, as she casts, "Crucio."

The red light bursts out of her wand, strikes his chest, and he immediately flings backwards, screaming in terror, writhing on the floor as the torture takes effect.

"You're going to live," Hermione says through bared, gritted teeth, over their shrieking wails. "As soon as I let you go, you're going to use your portkey, return to your Master, and tell him I'm coming for him. Do you understand?"

He screams out, writhing. "Yes."

Somewhere through the fog in her head, she thinks she might recognise his voice. Something inside her recognises him, she thinks.

Doesn't matter.

She concentrates further on the spell, inflicting it harsher. Violently. She can feel the Dark magic dampening the Light in her soul. It feels like fissures forming, letting in shards of ice.

"YES, YES," He screams, curling within himself as he tenses and trembles. "Yes, I— I understand."

She hisses, clenches her jaw, then drops the spell. He trembles as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cloth, then portkeys away.

Hermione catches her breath, still staring down at the spot where he was just moments ago, shaking with the adrenaline.

Regret floods her as fiercely as a tidal wave, when she realises what she's just done — what she let her exposed rage, grief, and utter turmoil do. She squeezes her eyes shut, occluding.

Hermione throws up her walls again, after letting that Death Eater drop them.

She shoves him into a box in her attic, seals him off, then detaches herself.

When she opens her eyes, she see's Tonks and Sirius, standing opposite her, only a short distance away. They look mortified. Around them, she can see the fighting has stopped, the resistance is doing what they can to repair the damage before law enforcement arrives onto the scene, and others are either disapparating with casualties in their arms, or the Death Eaters corpses — leave no evidence behind.

She can see Kingsley over Sirius' shoulder, vanishing bodies magically, as quick as he can.

"Mione," Tonks says quietly, taking small, tentative steps towards her, as though she's approaching an unpredictable and wild animal. "We have to go."

Hermione shakes her head. Stands resolute. "I'm going to help the others."

She does.

They stay on the scene for thirty-five minutes, before the area is swarming with law enforcement and photographers.

She believes the delay is intentional, from the Muggle Government.

Hermione is one of the last groups to disapparate back to Grimmauld Place, with two injured resistance fighters supported against her.

She manages to pull them through the front door. Dean is waiting by the stairs to take them straight up to the healing rooms on transfigured and levitating stretchers.

Everything is frantic — there's healers racing through the corridors, tending to the injured throughout the rooms. Both resistance and Muggle (the healers reverse the inflicted curses and admit them into a Muggle hospital somewhere in London). Some are sat slumped against the walls, with broken limbs, bleeding, straining for breath, and struggling against the effects of the Death Eaters Dark curses.

Just as Hermione braces herself, and her wand, to help, Sirius strides in behind her, grabs her by the arm, and drags her through to the War Room. The door slams, after Hermione see's Tonks slip in behind Sirius.

They're all covered in blood, layered thickly across every inch of bare skin — always except the eyes, where they've smeared it away to be able to see.

Hermione's skin feels sodden with blood, soot, and ash. 

He drops her arm at the opposite end of the table whilst he storms around it to his side. He pulls of his robes, throws them over his chair, and stands straight again. Cold fury and rage emanates from him.

"What were you thinking?" Sirius roars at her, his face manic. "You Crucio'd a Death Eater just to threaten You-Know-Who!"

All her usual arguments and retorts leave her.

Hermione's never seen him like this before. He's been furious at her in the past, mostly over her disobedience and recklessness, but never has he been so irate with her that he's needed to scream at her. Never has his expression been so menacing. It's a mask. In his eyes, she can see his concern, his panic for her, and his despair.

She is likely going to die for what she did.

"I saw you tonight," He continues to roar at her, his voice beastly. His eyes blow wide with mania. "You were perfect, in control — What. Happened?"

She realises she's shaking then, and deep down, way deep down, some part of her is aware that she loathes to disappoint him. He's done so much for her, and to see him like this, to read his expression as You're going to die, you idiot, I'm going to lose you. How could you? rips something open inside of her.

"I—" She wavers, a sob catching in her throat.

She claps a hand over her mouth, trembling, trying to stop the waves of guilt and misery from shooting up out of her like her earlier geyser.

Tonks steps forward.

"Mione," She says softly, resting her hand on her shoulder. "Tell—"

Hermione flinches away from her touch and jerks back. Shaking. She stifles her sobs.

"Tell us what happened."

"NOW!" Sirius commands her.

"I—" She draws in a shaky breath, then lets her hand fall away from her mouth. "I lost it, alright? It was too much — I was so so angry. For a minute, I hated everything and everyone. The grief, the pain..."

She trails off, as the dam breaks.

Tears flood out of her unrestrained, they feel like lava scorching a track down her cheeks. Her knees feel weak, her whole body drained of it's strength. Tonks pulls out a chair quickly and catches her before she drops to the floor.

Tonks kneels down in front of her and holds  onto her knees. "Your walls fell."

Hermione desperately nods her head, over and over again. She hates crying more, she hates to feel so weak, hates that trying to stop her crying only makes it worse. Her breathing grows unsteady and forced.

Losing herself like this in front of Sirius is the worst possible situation to be in. He'll pull her from missions, he'll assign someone else to handle Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor, he'll strip her of her rank, and stop her fieldwork. She's always in control, always, if he thinks she's unable to control herself, then he'll have away with her, place her in a safehouse instead, away from the war.

She can't let that happen. She can't believe she let this happen tonight. All over him.

Him who made her so angry and hateful that it made her physically react. She still can't explain her urges or where they came from. It was somewhere deep inside her, as if her own magic was telling her to do it. Her skin tingles where he left his touch. She hates it. She hates him. 

Using all her reserves of strength and power, she slams her occlumency walls back into place. The sheer force of it sends a stabbing, splintering pain through her head.

"Sorry," She murmurs, swiping her hands across her face furiously. "It won't happen again."

She can hear Sirius move towards her in three heavy strides. He places his cut and bloody hand on the back of her chair, and at the same time as turning to face her, he crouches down at her front, eye-level, and using his free arm, pulls her in by the shoulders, and hugs her.

"Hermione," His screams have abated. He's soothing her. "It's alright, it happens. I don't know how many times I have to remind you that you're not alone — you should have come to us."

"I know."

"I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner, to be perfectly honest with you. You're allowed a breakdown, Mione," Tonks chimes in, trying to dampen the tension. "Come on, who here hasn't Crucio'd a Death Eater in a fit of rage before?"

Hermione chokes out a wet laugh, sniffling, and hiccoughing. Calming down her reactions.

"We'll handle the threat, alright?" Tonks reassures her. "Don't worry yourself over it."

"Thank you," Hermione tries to sound firm, but her voice comes out as broken. "You— I... I haven't said it before, and I won't say it again, but I love you both, more than you think. Than I let myself feel, most of the time."

They momentarily widen their eyes. Stunned.

"Her mind is definitely broken," Tonks retorts. Her beaming grin gives her away. "Get a mind-healer, quick."

"Check her for Polyjuice potion," Sirius adds, heavily amused.

"Shut up," Hermione pulls a face.

They both laugh, then pull her into a tight embrace. She wraps an arm around each of them and leans into it. Their warmth is enough to break the ice in her veins.

"We love you too, Mione." Tonks murmurs in her ear. "You're family."

She forgot how much she needed family until now.

Her heart yearns For Harry.

Four days later, when Grimmauld has calmed, Sirius strides through the War Room, and drops a newspaper into the centre of the table.

"137 deceased—" He announces to the room, "—342 injured, 26 captured by Death Eaters for Testing, heritage buildings destroyed, irreparable even with magic, and The Tower of London is under construction after we did what we could in order to preserve it."

Hermione swallows thickly. She looks down at the paper, The London Times, and studies the front page.

'TERRORIST ATTACK ON BRITISH SOIL.'

'On the evening of October 21st, the unthinkable happened. A bomb was released into Central London, causing mass death and destruction to our home. No suspects are yet in custody, but officials claim this to be a one-off attack from a lone terrorist, and not an immediate security threat...'

"They covered it up," Ginny notes solemnly, her eyes drilled onto the cover. "I can't believe it."

"For an attack this large and publicized, I don't doubt there was magical influence involved too — Confundus, Imperio, the more crueller methods of submission," Sirius says, not unkindly.

"How many resistance fighters did we lose, Commander-In-Chief?" Bill asks quietly.

Hermione slides her gaze up from the paper to Bill, her brow dipped. It's odd to hear Sirius' full title, hardly anyone ever uses it. Only ever Bill — He's not one to blur the lines between ranks and friends.

Sirius presses his lips together in a hard line. "68."

"Bloody hell," Both he and Ron hiss simultaneously. Their expressions fill with bitter cold rage.

"We can't let this go unpunished," Shacklebolt speaks up, his tone icy. He slams a fist down on the table. "We have to retaliate."

"We will," Sirius agrees, his gaze slowly turning towards Hermione. Resolute. "We'll strategize."

Which to no-one else but her, and her select team of Order and DA members that will be accompanying her to Malfoy Manor, means there's going to be carnage at the party in two days.

Again, to no-one else but her, and Sirius and Shacklebolt, means there's going to a mass break-in on several enemy prisons soon.

Sirius waves his hand furiously. "Dismissed."

"Tonks, Neville. Stay behind," Hermione glances around the table determinedly. "And someone call Angelina and Charlie into the meeting."

The others file out in quick order, except for Sirius. Even Kingsley hasn't been given clearance to oversee her plans. She can tell he's bitter and irritated by that.

When the four of them are in the room, she conjures the parchments and blueprints for Malfoy Manor onto the table. Accio's the eight vials of Polyjuice Potion (Two doses each — plenty of time to retrieve Narcissa) and invitations she obtained two days ago from Lucius at the house from her bag, and sets them down carefully in front of her.

"Sit. We have much to discuss."

Chapter Text

Hermione arrives at Malfoy Manor two days later, Polyjuiced into Pansy fucking Parkinson, and wearing emerald green formal attire.

Slytherins, honestly.

The urge to murder Lucius Malfoy is strong tonight.

How he managed to claim hair from three of her former Slytherin classmates is beyond her.

From what Hermione can tell from just a furtive glance of the Manor and the grounds from beyond the wards, it appears to be mostly the same. Though, her only other example to compare it too is when she was taken here by Greyback and Snatchers.

She looks down at the long, straight path leading towards the high cast-iron gates with disdain. She remembers a snatcher dragging her down here with one hand fisted in her hair and the other pinning her wrists together at her back. Her back and her neck ached painfully with how bent up they where handling her.

She didn't get much of a chance to inspect the grounds then, too busy being forced to look upwards into the cold, cruel sky.

It's livelier tonight. There's decorations galore. There's a banner hanging on the front of the Manor, just above the doors — she cringes when she reads Happy 46th birthday in elegant script — there's fairy-lights (literal fairies trapped in small glass vials) draped aplenty across the gardens, a spot-light of sorts following the 'guests of honour' as they stride eloquently up the path, and it's just entirely unnecessary to have that many flower arrangements and water fountains.

With a snarl of disgust at her Slytherin-themed clothes, she reaches down to her thigh holster, covered by her dress, and confirms her wand is still there. Hidden beneath protective and advanced concealment magic (a spell provided Bill, under the pretence of hiding a weapons vault in Grimmauld) that shouldn't alert security to it's location. Sirius tested each of them thoroughly before they Apparated to the Manor.

"Ready?" Hermione-Pansy asks the others.

Neville, now Blaise Zabini, deadpans. "No."

"Not at all," Angelina snipes at her. It doesn't have the same effect considering she's disguised as half-blood Slytherin student, Tracey Davis.

"I hate this," Amycus Carrow, formerly Charlie Weasley, responds flatly.

"I'm quite looking forward to lighting this bitch up," Tonks, Polyjuiced into Alecto Carrow, grins with a glint of malice in her expression.

"I'm inclined to agree," Hermione smirks, and she imagines it's much more convincing on Parkinson's face. She offers her arm to Neville — or rather, Zabini. "Escort me inside?"

He smirks, then takes her by the wrist gently, and slides her arm through his. "It'd be my pleasure."

There's only a handful of memories Hermione can recall of Parkinson. They mostly consist of overhearing her talk (argue, bitch, and yell more like) with every person she encountered during her school years, even her housemates.

Typical Slytherin's.

They're all the same.

So, she feels confident enough that she'll make it through the next two-to-three hours without raising suspicions.

Confidence is one of the main personality traits of a Slytherin that she's channelling tonight, along with the haughty superiority. As she approaches the gates, the Manor coming into full-view, she keeps her chin raised just so, her spine straight, and her shoulders squared.

There's an extra sway in her hips that she wouldn't dare to ever commit too unless she was Pansy fucking Parkinson. She's going to need a long, anti-septic bath to scrub the remnants of her away from her skin.

A bottle of firewhisky, at least, as well.

Her group is fourth in line to enter.

"Parkinson!" A familiar voice exclaims from behind her. She slowly turns enough to shoot a contemptuous glance over her shoulder. "Zabini."

For Merlin's sake.

She arches a perfectly shaped brow. "Nott."

Theodore Nott, notorious flirt, marked Death Eater, and renowned amongst Dark Wizards for specialising in curse-creation and curse-breaking. His Father, Nott. Sr, trained him, according to intel.

She can't remember where the intel came from. Another splintered memory. (Hermione dreads the day she has to let go off her Occlumency walls for good.)

He looks older than he did at the end of sixth year, his features have sharpened, and his jaw is chiselled. Other than that, he hasn't changed much. Hermione always thought him far too tall, towering, and built for a fifth year, which was the first time she ever truly laid eyes upon him. They took Arithmancy together, she believes. His muscular physique seems to have grown more since. His hair is still a deep, dark brunette colour, curled, and his eyes are a bright blue shade.

It's like looking into a crystal blue sky.

Hermione-Pansy frowns, mostly at herself, for comparing them like that. Her chest hollows out.

His expression is blank, a bit lofty. Nothing else to read into.

"I heard you where invited tonight," Theo drawls, his eyes raking over her form slowly, studiously. "I suppose Lucius is treating his son's classmates this evening, too."

Hermione-Pansy snorts. "Generous of him."

He hums in agreement. "Quite. I'll see you inside, Pans — Save me a dance."

"Next!"

She extends her invitation towards the Death Eater guarding the gates with a delicate and stiff wrist. He taps his wand on it, revealing a shimmer of green magic dispersing through it from top to bottom, then stands aside to let her pass.

As she does, he casts a Revelation Spell on her, which, thankfully, reveals nothing. Even her bag is heavily warded.

She waits on the others just past the gate.

Given the all clear, they head inside, with Neville-Zabini guiding her through with a hand on her lower back. She wants to scream when the spot-light of sorts dances over them, revealing their presences to the surrounding guests. She waves demurely and nods her head at several of them, after they greet her.

Once inside, all five of them freeze.

It's grandiose in a way she's only ever seen in fairytales. There's a chandelier in the centre of the entrance foyer, burning brightly with candles encasing it's many layers. The warmth of the orange ambience mixes with the brightly lit radiance of the sconces, until the room appears less clinical and cold.

There's more flower arrangements and glistening canopies. Silver sheen fabric displayed beautifully across the tall ceilings. Beneath the party décor, she can see the white stone walls have mostly been replaced by tall glass windows, letting in the natural moonlight.

She can see the stars and constellations twinkling anew, from what she remembers here. Back then, there was no natural ambience, no warmth, no shining stars, or beaming moon. Just death and terror.

There's vases upon vases of natural plantlife, vivid and flourishing, removing the last of the detachment of the Manor.

Not how she remembers it at all. No hint of the blood spilled in this house over the years of Voldemort's stay.

Her blood.

The guests are all mingling amongst each other, whispering and talking inaudibly, followed by demure laughter, and lazy gestures with their hands.

"Oh, you don't say, Rookwood," A voice, male, says in a laughy tone. "I heard he was roasted alive at the failed Muggle raid in London. Psh, I never did like the old fellow, anyhow."

"Ghastly man, if one were to ask my opinion," A female voice speaks up. The braying laughter cuts through her skin like sharp needles, raising gooseflesh. "A pleasure to finally be rid."

"Your robes, madam?" A voice to her left snaps her back to reality.

A butler — no, servant, would most likely be more of an accurate description to these uptight and pretentious pricks.

Hermione scoffs to herself.

Acting rather like an uptight and pretentious prick herself to upkeep her role, she unclasps her robes, removes them in one fell swoop, and extends them out to him without muttering a single word. Her dress, ankle-length, emerald green, thin straps, shimmery, and curve hugging, glistens in the lights. She imagines it's in Parkinson's nature to wear something different, to stand out amongst the outdated robes and dresses of the older pure-blood generations. 

She feels a hand press against her lower back. She looks up and meets Neville-Zabini's eyes. He gives a small nod, then continues to lead her through the foyer, following the direction of the moving crowd.

She hates this.

They eventually wind up in the main ballroom.

The décor leaves nothing to be desired one would think — if one where to have a permanent stick wedged up their arse.

Immediately, they start re-con. Inconspicuously, each of them cast broad, furtive glances around the large room, taking note of each doorway, staircase, and Death Eater on patrol. There's eight of them in total, standing sentry at each doorway and point in the room.

As expected.

Neville sweeps them across the dancefloor, deftly moving them between dancing partners, mingling and talking couples, and takes her to the centre. All planned.

Hermione-Pansy places a gentle hand on his right shoulder, and lets him take her left. He draws her into his arms, a firm hand pressed into the small of her back, and gathers her into position.

Her gaze slides up his chest, his collarbones, his throat, finishing on his eyes. They're darker than she would normally expect from him, even Polyjuiced into Zabini, she can read him like an open book.

The orchestra begins.

Normally, Hermione would loath to relinquish control, especially in something as mundane as dancing, but in this instance, it's as natural as an Autumn breeze. Neville leads her step-by-step perfectly. As she takes a step back, she peeks over his shoulder to observe the crowds. He does the same. When he spins her out, slower than expected of the dance, she takes in the layout of the room further, and plans accordingly (The double-door exit is only guarded by one Death Eater. Bathroom exit, she believes), but when she comes back into his arms, their chests coming together, she meets his eyes every time.

If she so happens to blush, then she'll blame the anticipation of the nights schemes.

He notices.

"You're a good dancer," Neville notes coolly. It comes out a little less indifferent, and more forced indifference than she thinks he's aiming for.

Hermione hums noncommittally.

He moves her across the floor, in time with the wave of dancers sweeping around them gracefully, and — There!

On the westmost wall, there's tall, stained glass windows that appear to be centuries old, that don't shimmer as brightly as the others. A weak spot in the wards. She'll have Charlie confirm later.

Outside the windows, the terrace garden is lit up in splendour. The rose buses spread along the bottom panes, crimson red and fully bloomed. More fairy lights twined around them.

As the symphony is drawing to a close, Neville spins her out, she arches her spine in accordance to posture, before he's twirling her back, and leading her into a dip.

His face is so close. If she just tilted her head back another few centimetres, then their lips would touch.

He glances down at her mouth, and lingers his gaze there, like he's noticing their lack of distance as she is. It's wild to be observing Neville like this, and since he's not Neville currently, it's much more daunting. When they're usually together, she reasons it's adrenaline, the post-skirmish victory that makes her want to rip off his clothes, and find a way to release the pent up and overwhelming physical symptoms of her rush.

But now, it's sort-of intimate. His scent catches her; fresh soil, grass, and herbs, specifically Fluxweed, furthering the warmth in the intimacy, in the press of their bodies and too-close faces.

Hermione clears her throat gently, then lifts her chin just enough to remind him that they're still in this horrendously close position. His eyes flicker, then he visibly shakes himself off, and raises her back steadily onto her feet.

There's the sharp clink of silverware tapping against crystal. Levitated trays of champagne pop into existence across various points in the ballroom as Lucius walks onto the set-up stage, in front of the orchestra.

Neville swipes two glasses from a tray beside them, and extends one to her.

She has to shove down the urge to down it in one, and simply sips it demurely instead. Posh ponces, all of them.

"Good evening, my dear friends," Lucius announces across the floor. "You have my upmost gratitude for attending my birth celebrations tonight. It was rather short notice, but of course, much needed to lift our spirits. We have much to be thankful for, but above all else, to our Master, for gifting us this opportunity to follow with him in his journey."

There's an uproar of cheering — Hermione smiles tight-lipped and claps soundlessly, revulsion coiling in her stomach.

"Do enjoy your evening," He finishes on, raising his glass to the crowd. The cheering begins anew when he strides from the stage and the music commences.

For the smallest second, he flicks his eyes onto hers, then looks away. He smiles at Rookwood, then leads him towards the bar.

Hermione dances once more with Neville. It's lacking in the previous intimacy for one sole reason: she catches sight of Nott. Sr entering into the ballroom, his son at his side.

She gives a small nod to Neville, and leaves his embrace. Oddly, she feels colder for it. She holds onto that feeling with every step she takes towards them, along with the ice in her veins, and the detachment she feels like a hole in her chest.

Their eyes fall on her when she approaches.

"Pansy Parkinson," Nott. Sr exclaims, holding his hand out to her. He's an old, greying thing of a man. Hermione despises him deeply. "My dear, it's been so long. How are your parents?"

She lets him take her hand and press a formal peck on her knuckles. She repeats with Theo, who grins up cheekily at her, beneath his lashes.

"Sir," Hermione-Pansy, recalling he's technically her superior, dips her head in a mockery of a small bow. Smiles thinly. "They're well — I'll mention you asked about them, they'll be delighted. And how is work treating you?"

Something in his stoic expression wavers. He's pleased. "Oh, you know, same old. Long hours, they'll work me into the ground before long—" They laugh sheepishly. "— But I'm honoured to be doing the Dark Lord's bidding."

Hermione's mouth curls slowly, a sharp smile. "Of course."

Nott. Sr glances over her shoulder. "Oh, do excuse me, I must speak with Carrow over there. The chap needs an honest-to-Merlin hex to the chest. Lovely to see you again, Pansy, do arrange with Theodore for a catch up soon..."

He's gone, his voice fading into the distance in a hurry, before he finishes his sentence.

Theo throws an arm around her shoulders, and averts her gaze towards the long oak bar stretched across the eastern wall. "I can't decide if I should seduce Zabini or Greengrass tonight. I can't pinpoint my mood."

Hermione snorts, then subconsciously leans into his hold. "Please. When have you ever let choice stop you, Nott?"

He barks a laugh, his arm tightening around her. "You're right, of course... Both, hm," He adds thoughtfully, his eyes calculating for a minute. "Well. First things first, you owe me a dance. Come then."

"If I have to dance again, I'll stab myself in the eye with my six inch stiletto," She snarls in mock-disgust.

He laughs at her again, but insists. He takes her hand and pulls her along to the dancefloor. "Same old Parkinson."

"Shut up," She hisses, hating herself for, apparently, putting on a good Pansy show.

She's in his arms, in position, and moving across the floor in less than a minute. Bloody Slytherins and their life long etiquette training. She would have expected it to be more stiff, forced, but surprisingly, it's not. It's natural in ways she can't account for. His scent, firewhisky, coffee, and deeper than that, the salt of the ocean, engulfs her. 

When she looks up at him (he's too tall, her neck strains) beneath Pansy's lashes, something in his expression flickers. Again, she can't hope to label it, doesn't know him well enough for that.

Being pressed up and into him like this, it's the easiest feeling to lose herself in.

She notices his hands twitching every-so-often, can feel the faint tremble in his arms as if he's been tortured too much and too often. Tom's punishments, she assumes.

The constant rhythm of movement around her, the dancing, and the music swelling in the background, gives her a headache at the base of her skull.

Their eyes meet often, and when they do, they're either drenched in amusement, or to sidelong glimpse a potential 'date' for the evening for Theo — his expression reads like, shall I tie him up and fuck him tonight? Or her? Sweet thing in a tight dress. Bet she tastes wicked.

Hermione doesn't deign to answer him beyond a slap to the bicep.

"It might have to be Zabini," He decides with a sharp nod of his head. Hermione laughs for and at him, but is doubtless that he wouldn't fuck Neville either way. "I need a wingman, Pans."

Hermione-Pansy rolls her eyes. "You'll have to ask someone else, I'm leaving soon—"

"No, you are not — you cannot leave me here to mingle with Lucius' drab friends all night alone. Pans, I'll never forgive you," Theo feigns a shocked expression, then sweeps her across the floor in a long stride, and twirls her in front of him with their joined hands above her head. "Stay. You have too, it's been too long. Save me from murdering Carrow over there before we sit for brandies and cigars."

Despite herself, as she comes back into position, she lets out a genuine laugh. "If it's Alecto, then she'll have your balls off and squashed in her fist before you can even mutter the word murder."

Theo nods gravely. Grimaces. "Then, stay. Protect me from her evil clutches—"

Theo's laughter abruptly vanishes when something, or someone, catches his attention behind her. His whole body tenses in her arms, his eyes darken, and his expression changes into cold indifference.

"Mind if I cut in?"

Hermione's heart stops dead, then drops into her stomach with all the force of a descending meteor.

She can feel her own body replicate Theo's demeanour, as rigid and as cold, when his voice slides over her skin, and burrows it's way into her chest like a hex. She doesn't turn around, it's been so long since she's heard that voice, the aristocratic drawl of a man that deems himself above all else in the room.

Slowly, mustering as much courage and restraint as she can to look Dumbledore's murderer in the eye without throwing an Avada at him, turns around to face him.

Oh, Gods. It's actually him. The reason they're at war to begin with. He's an ice cold, evil murderer, dressed in a perfectly-tailored black tuxedo. 

Like Theo, he's taller and more muscular than she remembers him to be at the end of sixth year, but she doesn't recall seeing him much outside of their shared classes. She always thought him too physically built as well, far more than just Seeker training can provide. His shoulders are broad, the muscles there straining beneath his shirt and suit jacket prominently. Unabashedly. His face has both smoothed out and sharpened simultaneously. His skin and his features show the tell-tale signs of living without the stress of a war eating at his head and soul. She hates him with every ounce of burning passion she has left.

His eyes are depthless, dark, with only a slither of silver lining his irises — he's occluding. Fuck, there goes any chance of brushing into the forefront of his mind without him noticing.

At least he won't be able to get in her head either.

"Draco," Theo greets him splendidly, a little tight-lipped. "I thought you where abroad."

Malfoy's black, glittering eyes never leave Hermione's — No, Pansy's. She's Pansy Parkinson right now — not The Golden Girl that wants to curse him nine ways to Sunday until he's nothing but a puddle of blood and bits of flesh. 

"Nott. Parkinson," Malfoy gives them a small nod. "Mind, then? I have yet to dance this evening."

Inwardly, Hermione is raging. She's got so many terrible, vicious things she wants to do to him — how dare he murder Albus and go on as if nothing has happened! How dare he come back here, away from his beaches, villas, and carefree life, and act as though there isn't a war ongoing!

Unbidden, the Drawing Room plummets to the forefront of her mind with all the grace of a shrieking Mandrake, then.

"I was just about to leave, actually." Hermione forces out, her throat tight.

"Nonsense," Malfoy holds out his hand for her. She grits her teeth so hard, she can feel the muscle in her jaw ache. "For old times sake."

She, quite literally, can't conjure any excuse besides if I touch you, you might ignite into an inferno for how endlessly angry I am at you.

No. That won't do.

She, reluctantly, relents.

"Alright," She forces a small smile, and slides her hand in his. Wanting to just get this over with. "Of course."

Malfoy smiles at her, then curls his fingers around hers in a tight grip that sends a blast of electrical sparks surging through her veins. It's a muscle memory reaction, physical. Must be Pansy's.

She inhales a sharp breath when he draws her into his arms deftly, and holds her tightly against him. There's no formality here, it's raw intimacy. He presses possessive hands on her hips that tells her that him and Pansy must still be a thing even after all these years. So to maintain cover, she loosely circles her arms around his neck, thoroughly disgusting by the proximity, and lets her hands fall gently on the nape of his neck, ignoring how firm he feels.

His whole body is tense as though he's nervous.

His skin is blazingly hot. She can feel the ends of his hair beneath her fingertips. He's so much taller than her that she has to tip her head back to look at his face — she focuses on the small dimple in his left cheek, just to not make eye contact.

He starts to move her in a set of slow meandering steps, mostly keeping her in the same spot on the dancefloor. Their foreheads almost brush with how close he is to her, she can feel every quiet breath that leaves his lips graze across her skin as softly as a drifting cloud.

There's a single, defiant lock of hair breaking free from his slicked back style, brushing against his forehead.

Flashes of pale moonlight reflect in his eyes, highlighting the slithers of silver. 

Her headache worsens, the more she tenses.

Over his shoulder, she see's Zabini and the Carrow's watching her, concern visible in their eyes. She notices their wand hands twitching at their thighs.

"You've been away," Hermione says, breaking the silence. She can at least try and pull information out of him if she has to debase herself and dance with him like this.

A small smirk lifts slowly on the corner of his mouth. It's soft and familiar. "Mother's decision. I had no say in the matter."

Hermione-Pansy considers her answers very carefully. "Where have you been?"

"Morocco, mostly," He drawls, his expression revealing nothing but sheer indifference. "Mind you, I did visit The French Alps in January for a ski holiday."

Hermione says nothing. She simply nods as a response.

A short silence stretches between them, filled with the rhythmic, light instrumentals from the orchestra behind her, and the taps of heels and swishes of dresses around her. Malfoy studies her as one would precious, ancient jewels. Thoroughly, calculating, his eyes sparkling with some kind of emotion she can't hope to place on his face.

Possessive fingers dig into the tender flesh of her hips, sinking into the hollow of her hipbones, as he lowers his head towards the crook in her neck. His mouth lingers near her ear, and she can feel the faintest touch of his lips over her pulse-point.

Instinctively, disgustingly, her arms wrap around his neck tighter to accommodate the change in position.

Her heart rate spikes.

"Why?" He murmurs, his breath warm and inviting. "Did you miss me, Pans?"

She can feel his thigh brush against hers.

She can't think. Not like this. Not with him so close to her that he's left her exposed and vulnerable to him. He could attack her and kill her easily like this.

But he's not attacking, though. He most likely won't. She's Pansy. Not Hermione — Pansy. And she has no idea how Pansy would respond to this. She hasn't thought about either of them in years.

"I— I, uhm," Hermione falters, her voice quiet and soft. Her breath hitches in her throat. "I..."

She trails off when his hands — strong, firm, claiming hands — slide across her hipbones, to her lower back, and up the arch in her spine. He's breathing her in. She can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest against her own. There's something desperate about it, memorising, like he's trying to retain the feel of her to memory.

He closes the distance between their bodies completely. Both pressing against each other until all she can see and feel is him and his heat seeping into her. She feels almost weightless, detached to the point she doesn't feel anything but his physical presence — the touch of his temple on her cheek, small wisps of his hair on her own temple, the twinge of heat from his cheek along the arch in the side of her jaw, his hands pressing against the dip in her shoulder blades and the curve in her spine, as if he could bury her in his chest and keep her there forever.

Malfoy is so close, holding her, touching her...

She freezes when something inside her twists.

No, no, no — not this. Not again.

"Fuck, I've missed you, Pans," Malfoy rasps, directly into her ear. His tone is pained and desperate. She shivers mercilessly. "So much — you have no idea."

His hands lower to the small of her back and his fingers ruffle in the silk fabric of her dress there, pulling the front of it taut across her abdomen.

"Fuck," Hermione hisses, then pulls back a step. Her breaths ragged and heavy. "I have to go."

Malfoy's eyes widen ever-so-slightly, and she's made the terrible mistake of making eye contact. He looks so hurt, so miserable, only for the briefest second, that she almost wants to hold him again.

Gah — no — Merlin — fuck.

Pansy Parkinson's instincts, not her own.

She nods her head once, her gaze lingering on the bob in his throat for long moments, before turning and walking through the crowds without any grace at all.

Hermione thinks, just for a moment, that there was something around his neck that caught her eye. Something silver, flickering and distorted — concealed, maybe? Either a family heirloom or a trick of the light.

She dismisses it.

"It's time," Hermione whispers into Neville-Zabini's ear, when she reaches the bar, trying to steady her erratic breathing. "You find Tonks, I'll get Charlie. Meet me outside the ballroom."

Hermione orders a large shot of firewhisky. The house-elf behind the bar snaps his fingers, and it pops into existence in front of her. As she's knocking it back in one quick mouthful, she steals glimpses of the party-goers, instantly noticing that Malfoy has disappeared.

Her stomach twists with revulsion when she realises his scent is still stuck all over her. Pine trees, something fresh, rain, and ridiculously expensive cologne.

She drops her glass onto the bar, excuses herself to the sweet house-elf ("if anyone asks for me, would you tell them I've just popped to the powder room? — Thank you.") before she exits the ballroom, and heads for the dungeons.

They have roughly fifteen minutes (best estimation, according to the blueprints) to cross from the ballroom and enter into the West Wing of the Manor, break into the dungeons, release Narcissa, and get her out before anyone notices their absence to the point it becomes concerning. 

If the others have followed the plan correctly, they've each excused themselves appropriately to at least one other person.

They take a left out of the ballroom, walk casually down the long hallway, bypassing the bathroom, and approaching the Back Hall. No-one has passed them yet. As expected the Back Hall entrance is hidden from view and locked with wards.

The Carrows stand arm-to-arm, blocking her from sight, and keeping guard.

Prepared, Hermione retrieves her wand, mutters the spell Lucius provided her with, and unlocks it. A web of white lights take shape as a doorway, then clicks open.

Hermione pushes it open, holds it whilst the others file in, then closes it quietly behind her. She can feel the ripple of magic against her skin as she passes through the wards.

Inside the room, there's ceiling-tall bookcases, old dusty couches, unused study desks, and more dust than a supply closet in Hogwarts. She flicks her wand, and the too-few sconces roar to life.

She opens her beaded bag (transfigured into a gem cladded purse to fit her role) and retrieves their second doses of Polyjuice Potion. They each pocket it for later, just in case this should take longer than necessary, or if there's complications.

Next, she takes out the vial of Lucius' blood and holds it firmly in her fisted hand. She carries on through, holding her wand out defensively, trying to think of the repercussions of being caught before they get Narcissa out.

Death, probably. Between the five of them, she'll never be captured — she's already told Tonks to either Obliviate her or Avada her if anyone should try to abduct her.

Besides not wanting to run the risk of revealing Order secrets during Legilimency, she'd rather die than be forced to endure Testing. She still hasn't been able to read over the parchments Lucius gave to her at the house. Sirius warned her not to distract herself from the upcoming missions, to only study them when her and Neville are ready to enter Hogwarts again.

"Here," Charlie breaks her train of thought, handing her another vial of blood. "Nott. Sr was handsy, tried to hex me too, the prick. Retaliation made it all too easy, really. Our plan to lead him out of the ballroom and stun him was not needed, thank fuck."

Now that she's back to the present, fully focused, she notices the Polyjuice Potions have started wearing off. A few transfiguration spells fixes their attire and shapes it to fit them properly.

Oh, it's nice to see their faces again.

Hermione takes the vial of blood, drops it into her bag for now, then proceeds to direct them through the hall.

They follow the narrow passage, letting Tonks' Lumos guide them, until they come to a u-bend. There's an empty portrait sitting on the centre wall, torn through the middle — Lucius' doing.

Taking the turn, they race down the corridor, rounding tables, stepping over discarded books and scrolls, crouching beneath the windows, and for Hermione, the worst part is ignoring shelves upon shelves of ancient looking books that most likely have so much information in them, that she can't believe she's not plucking them out and researching. 

They remind her of Gormlaith Gaunt's tome, the only copy in existence that she acquired in fifth year. It's been left untouched in her room in Grimmauld for a long, long time. A lot of her Dark Arts knowledge came from that.

Hermione banishes the thoughts.

The dungeon gates come into view. Behind them, there's a large, oak door, edged with iron intricate designs.

Ten minutes remaining.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione says, relieved. Lucius wasn't lying. There's no tricks or traps waiting for them, yet. "You all know what to do?"

They all nod once, with conviction.

Hermione unstoppers the vial of Lucius' blood, pours half of it onto her palm, then brushes her hand across the blood wards. She wraps her hand around an iron bar, waiting and praying that it doesn't set off any alarms.

The lock clicks.

There's a collective sigh of relief as Hermione pulls open the gate. The hinges creak and groan as it taps softly against the stone wall adjacent.

Before proceeding, she holds her wand aloft, begins incanting Lucius' counter-spells, then motions her wand in the shape of the doorway entrance. She goes over it twice, from the bottom, left, up the height of it, across the width, then back down to the last point at the right.

The wards buzz, then drop.

"Eight minutes," Tonks informs her.

Hermione runs down the stairs, her heels tapping against the stone steps being the only sound that reverberates through the hollow walls. Wretched memories try to break through her Occlumency walls — the screaming, the starvation, the sharp ache of cuts sliced into her inner forearm, poisoned with Dark magic. Her tattoo is glamoured, but she can always feel the phantom ache of it. Even mostly healed.

There's more cells now than there was during her capture here. 

In the furthest right-side cell, she's see's a shadowy figure balled up into a tight fetal position on a manky cot-bed, trembling, gasping as if that's her natural way of breathing, and nestled deep into the corner of the walls.

Her heart lurches.

It was the same cell she was in, then.

Hermione keeps her walls firmly in place, suppressing her reactions, and bolts towards the gates. "Mrs. Malfoy?"

No response.

Only heavy, gasping breaths.

"Is she even lucid?" Tonks asks her, her gaze affixed upon Narcissa.

"I doubt Lucius would set this up if she wasn't," Hermione says in a hushed tone. "She is dying, Tonks, she's probably too weak to hear us."

Tonks nods thoughtfully. "Well, get us in, then."

She does. She retrieves the vial of Nott's blood from her bag, pours it over her free clean hand (secretly hating that she's, quite literally, got blood all over her hands again), then pushes through the wards set on the locks.

The gate clicks.

With no further wards to break — always the same issue with over-confident wizards, never double-warding as they seem to think the first set are unbreakable — she pushes open the gate, approaches quietly and gently, then crouches down slowly behind Narcissa.

Next to her, Neville mutters a Scourgify for her hands. She gives him a small, appreciative nod in return.

The metal surface of the cot presses against her abdomen. It feels as cold and as empty as it did back then.

She thinks she'd be hyperventilating about now, if it wasn't for occluding.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione says softly, trying not to startle her.

She's so pale, Hermione observes, more so than her usual complexion. Her veins are darker, more black than red or blue. She's frail, gaunt, and appearing to be holding on by only a thread.

Hermione peers back over her shoulder, flickering her gaze between each of them, and holds her hand over Narcissa's shoulder questioningly. They each either shrug or nod, as they really don't have the time for doing this gently.

It's more consideration than she's give any other in the past, she notes.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione presses her hand on her shoulder, then shakes her several times. "Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Narcissa!" Tonks barks out, louder than necessary, completely tactless.

The volume of Tonks voice, the desperate shake of Hermione's hand on her shoulder, rouses her startlingly. She shoots up into a sitting position, winces and hisses painfully, and backs up into the wall as far as she can. She hugs her knees to her chest protectively.

Something hurts inside Hermione at the sight of her like this. Lady Malfoy, heiress to the Black family, member of pure-blood high society, quaking in fear. It's so wrong.

Narcissa's inspecting, but weak stares are frantically darting between them, her body shaking, until...

Her gaze falls onto Hermione's eyes with all the relief and conviction of a Mother.

The intensity of it makes her uneasy.

"Her—Hermione," Her rough, broken voice shakes from the cold. She stifles a sob. "Is that... I'm so glad to see you again."

Hermione frowns deeply, confused, can feel herself paling.

"You must have a fever, Mrs. Malfoy," She murmurs gently, her head tilted sympathetically. "We've never officially met before."

Something flashes in her eyes. Cognizance maybe. She lets her arms and legs unfurl, draining of the tension.

"Please, call me Narcissa," She eyes Hermione intently. "And no, I suppose we haven't."

Narcissa's expression becomes a mask of blank indifference. Despite the obvious signs of neglect, torture, and months of isolation riddling her features, there's still a beauty and grace to her that shouldn't be allowed for a torture victim.

"We have approximately five minutes to get you out," Hermione says hurriedly. She stands up slowly, but Narcissa still flinches. "Can you walk? Or can Charlie carry you?"

She can see the panic visibly rise within Narcissa's form, seemingly trying to charge and strengthen herself. There's a softness to her eyes, when she catches Hermione's, that throws her off.

Narcissa pulls herself forward, lets her bruised and dirty legs dangle off the edge of the cot, and touches her toes the floor. Encouraged, she pushes her hands down on the thin, rotten mattress, and forces herself to stand.

Charlie catches her just as she cries in pain, and her legs give out.

Narcissa looks on the verge of weeping. She doesn't break eye contact with Hermione once.

"I'm sorry, Narcissa, I don't have time to heal you here — we have to go. Charlie is going to get you out whilst we stay behind and work damage control. Don't worry, no blame will be placed on your family, but you have to trust him. He's going to take you through the Manor, out of the South Gardens exit, and disapparate you back to Grimmauld. I'll be back in about an hour to heal you completely. Do you understand?"

Hermione doesn't know why she feels compelled to explain this to her to reassure her. Or why her voice is soft whilst she does.

Just that it is.

Narcissa nods once.

"Good, let's go."

Charlie downs his Polyjuice potion awkwardly with one hand, then manoeuvres her into a cradle position. They all bolt from the dungeons without wasting another moment. 

"Dresses!" Hermione exclaims, as they're running through the first passageway — she thinks on Neville. "And suit."

They each tap their wands on their respective attire. Red cascades through the fabric and to the hem of her dress, vanishing the emerald green. She quickly slashes her wand horizontally, near her knees, and shortens it's length.

She's careful to vanish the discarded pieces of fabric. Leave no evidence behind.

Her blood thrums through her veins, the sound like pounding bass drums in her ears.

The nervousness and anticipation of what is soon too follow emanates in waves from each of them, as they make it through the second passageway. Hermione opens the Back Hall door, peers her head around the gap, and waves them all through once she's certain it's clear.

Just as they turn left to follow the wall to the South Gardens, Hermione stops dead. The others just about catch on and halt, mere inches away from her back.

The familiar sick feeling of her heart twisting returns when she lays eyes upon Malfoy, standing shellshocked at the mid-point in the long hallway, away from them. His lips part slightly as he studies each of them.

Hermione's eyes widen when his sharp, unwavering gaze pierces her own. Something indefinable emerges between them, palpable, a physical tension that she could reach out and touch.

She grips her wand tighter, ready to stun him. The carvings bite into her palm.

Then, he stares at his Mother for, what feels like, an eon. Hermione can't see Narcissa, can't imagine what she is thinking or feeling, but she suspects she's staring right back at him, her eyes heavy.

The tension is unbearable.

Malfoy swallows thickly, then jerks his head in the direction of a door beside him. "Go through the Music Room."

Hermione gasps.

It draws his attention back onto her. The intensity to his appraisal of her is so meticulous and deep, she imagines he's trying to read into her soul through her eyes. Moments seem to distend between them.

"There's a door beside the Grand Piano," Malfoy blinks slowly and sighs like he's in pain. His jaw clenches. "It leads to the Drawing Room. At the far end, take the exit out into the Rose Gardens. The wards end after the water fountain — I assume you have the blood necessary to pass through them without setting of the Manor's alarms. I'll buy you enough time to get her out."

It feels like the ground has just split beneath her feet. She might be sick. She can't tell why, either from Malfoy's reaction or the dread from having to enter that room again.

Both, most likely.

Her head throbs with the memories banging against her mental walls, and she closes her eyes, shivering from the Dark magic and poison in her veins, she needs to breathe through it—

"Not that Drawing Room," Malfoy murmurs to her, presumably after seeing her torn face. "This is the West Wing."

Hermione pauses.

Right. The West Wing, not the South Wing.

Hermione lets out a deep, quiet breath, and lets herself calm. Her walls stay in place. 

"Move. Quick," Tonks calls out behind her.

There isn't any hesitation in their hasty pace into the Music Room — it took a lot to convince them to do this in the first place. Maybe with the exception of Tonks, the others despise the Malfoy's, and they where given no such reason as to why they're breaking out Narcissa, only that it's The Order's higher-ups decision. Need-to-know information only.

None of them need-to-know. Not truly.

Malfoy must read something on her face, because he says, what seems to be in earnest, "I'm sorry."

He straightens his back, smooths out his suit jacket, closes off his expression, and turns to leave—

"Wait."

He stops short again, his hands slowly balling up into fists at his sides, as though he can't bear to have to speak with a Muggle-born anymore than he already has. His whole body has tensed to the point she can see the muscles in his shoulders strain through his blazer.

He, very reluctantly, turns to face her.

She tries not to read into any of this too much, but she doesn't know what to say to him beyond, Thank you for helping us and all, but hold still whilst I Avada you for murdering Dumbledore and bringing this hell upon us all — Well, maybe that's a tad too harsh, you did help me after your sick and wretched Aunt tortured me almost to the point of insanity — so permanent paralysis, then? Good, keep still, you absolute wanker.

"I thought you where abroad," Hermione says instead. She's asked already as Pansy, but she's interested to see if he'll give a different answer.

Malfoy stares at her for a long time. Ice in his eyes. "I was. I returned for my Father's celebrations."

His voice is steady, his face like unscathed marble, even his demeanour is nothing beyond eloquent.

"Of course," She presses her lips together in a thin line, vacillating. "We're not trying to hurt her, just so you know."

"I know," His eyes are hooded. Wistful. "I know you'll take care of her."

Hermione frowns, tilting her head softly. 

Malfoy tenses further, if that's even possible, then seems to catch himself. His mouth twitches derisively. "You Gryffindor's are all, and will always be, the same. Heroic without self-preservation. Nothing ever changes."

She nods tentatively, hopefully still making her finality of this exchange perfectly obvious to him, then starts walking towards the Music Room. She has to force her legs and feet to move firmly. She's somehow lost all tangibility to her limbs — her lungs, too. She can't seem to catch a breath.

The Music room — not Malfoy, of course — is too close to her as she bypasses him.

Hermione just manages to notice him drawing in a deep breath as she brushes past him, seemingly breathing her in as she approaches the Music Room door. She doesn't make eye contact again, she stands with her back to him, at his side, and presses both hands on the door—

"Granger."

Her surname on his tongue feels like a serrated dagger tearing through her stomach, both horrid and painful.

She stares at the white door. "What?"

"Thank you," He rasps.

Cold rage hits her like a bludger to the chest. She spins sharply to face him.

"I always pay my debts, Malfoy — Give Bellatrix my best, won't you?" She sneers, baring her teeth. "Tell your Father I won't do anything like this for him ever again. If I see either of you again, I'll kill you both."

His eyes flicker.

He opens his mouth to respond, but freezes instantaneously. The sudden change in approach sets off alarms bells ringing in her head. A long moment later, he straightens his back, lowers his head as if he's trying to listen in — and as if on cue, she hears footsteps exiting the ballroom.

Malfoy's mouth twists as he squeezes his eyes shut. He looks like he's in raw physical pain.

A sharp, ragged gasp is torn from her throat when he takes a heavy, striking stride forward, grips her waist firmly with one hand, covering the width of her ribcage, and pushes her against the wall next to the Music Room door with a slight thud.

Hermione's brain short circuits repeatedly with how quick it happens, literal seconds; his free arm reaches up and presses against the wall next to her, framing (shielding) her face, blocking her from view of the ballroom. 

Her heart beats ferociously in her chest when he dips down and buries his head in the gap between her shoulder and neck. Further shielding her from the ballroom. 

He's too tall, too broad, every sensation around her is him. She doesn't know what to do with herself, she has no access to logic or rationality, nor can she feel her limbs. Her arms are dangling heavily by her sides, faintly brushing against the fabric of his blazer and trousers, and with how tightly he's pushing against her, there's no air for her to intake. Her mouth is suddenly dry, like cotton in her mouth.

She isn't given the chance to push him off, hex him, or violently unleash upon him like he so deserves.

"Malfoy."

He growls lowly against the sensitive skin of her neck. The rumble vibrates through her, sinking deep into her own chest. "Dolohov."

Oh, Gods.

Bloody fucking hell.

No, he can't know it's her, not yet. So many, many horrid things will happen to her (and Narcissa) if he does — he's always tried to hurt and capture her, constantly taunted her with his sick and twisted words, and threats to abuse her.

It's terror that drives her to hold onto Malfoy and conceal her face further, by leaning down and moving her lips to the hollow of his clavicle, just beneath the collar of his shirt. She twists her fingers around the lapels of his jacket, and pulls him in closer. He sucks in a sharp breath upon feeling the brush of her lips moving against him.

There's no heat, no warning bells being this close to him, nothing adverse, only the hope of some form of temporary understanding between them that he can pick up on, don't betray me — this will hurt your Mother more than me.

"You should return to the party," Dolohov sneers, his voice thick. "Your guests miss you terribly."

"Leave us!" Malfoy snaps, the warmth of his breath caressing her skin. Fuck, a clawing shiver rakes up her spine at it. He holds her firmer against him, as if trying to suppress it.

His lips just barely touch her, and seemingly catching himself again, realising that this is Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, curls his mouth into what is no doubtfully a snarl, on the blazingly hot skin of her neck.

Despite this, her physical reaction is still similar to a barrage of fireworks alighting and erupting within her. Her eyes flutter close of their own volition.

"Pretty thing," Dolohov cocks his head to the side, leering at her. "Not sharing tonight?"

"No," He warns lowly. His hands slide up to her ribcage and pulls her impossibly closer into him. "Now, fuck off. I won't tell you again."

"Come on now, boy," He taunts cajolingly. She can hear him take several steps closer. "Parkinson, isn't it? Saw you dancing with her earlier. Her cunt is hardly anything sacred — Give. Her. Too. Me"

She can hear Malfoy's teeth grind. But he doesn't say anything — and that's worse. Dolohov will take it as a submission. He needs an opening. Merlin's sake.

Biting down on her lip, clinging to the pain, she reaches up, and curls her hand around the length of Malfoy's jaw, angling it to the side, towards Dolohov, then conceals her face in the gap there.

It's what he was hoping for.

She ignores how he pushes infinitesimally more into her until his chest is against hers in a way that stops all breath, suffocating her. 

His eyes snap onto Dolohov with all the blinding hot fury of a Hellfire.

"Leave now," He growls, seething. "Before I kill you on principal."

She can feel the crack of magic between them. Dark quivers of magical energy radiate from Malfoy, bringing a sense of death to the air around them.

He looks away from Dolohov a minute later, returns his evil mouth to linger near her jaw, and presses the full length of his body against hers, from his forehead to the tips of his shoes on hers. She can feel his tension, his restraint, and every strained muscle threatening to rip through his shirt. Beneath her palms, she can feel the clench of his jaw, and firmness of his chest. His endless heat seeping into her.

His hand on her hip feels strong, keeping her still. 

A long minute later, she hears a snarling, wet growl, followed by receding footsteps, and the click of the ballroom doors. They close softly a long moment later.

Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding in until now.

She can feel Malfoy's mouth twist into a snarl. He inches his head up, just enough to press his temple into her cheek for a few seconds.

Hermione swallows.

He wrenches himself away from her forcefully and shakes himself off as if he's all off a sudden tainted from her. In the few seconds of silence between them, she refuses to ponder why he saved her from Dolohov, why he protected her identity, or why he chose to do it like that when he could have just as easily launched her through the Music Room door, and took Dolohov away.

She doesn't contemplate any of it. That would make her insane. Because he looks so twisted up with ire, with unending disgust, that some kind of fury in him seems to snap.

"Get the fuck out of my house, Mudblood," Malfoy spits at her ferally. His body pulled taut like a drawn wire. "Or I'll claim that bounty for myself. Are we clear?"

Hermione snorts. "Or, what? You'll send me a howler from abroad with a Puking Hex attached to it? Grow the fuck up, Malfoy."

He narrows his eyes into dark slits, heavy with deadly conviction.

"Granger," Malfoy growls lowly, warning in his tone.

"You know, it's funny how angry and threatening you're being towards me. It's almost like you've forgotten I have Your Mother—"

He snaps his eyes onto her sharply. "You won't hurt her."

She hums noncommittally, then takes a step closer. "How can you be so sure? I hurt a lot of people — well, if you can call Death Eaters, loyalists, and sympathisers people, that is."

The vein in his temple looks ready to burst with how violently he's shaking. He's so angry, it feels almost like a challenge. Like he wants her to push him. She won't give him the satisfaction.

Hermione brushes him off with a wave of her hand.

"You're right, I suppose. I won't hurt her. I made a deal, and I don't tend to break those — so fair warning, as I won't be in anyones debt, make sure you're on the stage in roughly ten minutes," She smirks darkly. "Make sure Dolohov is in the ballroom, too."

Hermione pushes open the door next to her, then breaks off around the frame.

The Music Room and the West Wing Drawing room are completely new to her, so there's no anxiety weakening her speed as she moves through them — they're rather pleasant rooms actually, similar to the foyer, corridors, and ballroom. There's natural plants, tall glass windows, colour in the drapes and soft furnishings, and double French-doors leading out to the Rose Gardens.

She makes a mental reminder to burn it all down to the ground. This place is hell on earth, it doesn't get to be pretty.

The Malfoy's don't get to dress their past horrors and sins in natural light and shades of green and yellow.

"Mione," Neville catches her by the forearms deftly, just in time to stop her from charging into him. "I was about to come back and curse Malfoy within an inch of his life."

Hermione smiles, a small, genuine thing. "I'm alright. It's Malfoy, hardly a threat — now come on, let's finish this."

They do.

Hermione asks Narcissa for her jacket — it's caked in blood, dirt, damp dust, and mildew. It feels horrible on her fingers when she shakily passes it over to her.

The remaining blood in Lucius' vial is poured onto Charlie's palm, and cuts through the wards without setting them off. He passes through them with Narcissa, and Disapparates. With the first part of the mission complete, Hermione lets out a quick sigh of relief, before starting on part two.

Hermione changes the colour of her dress once again. Dolohov might have seen the red earlier when she was with Malfoy, so it only makes sense to make it gold with long-sleeves, instead of thin straps.

Neville removes his broom from his extended inside pocket, restores it to it's normal size, and readies it for himself and Angelina. 

The four remaining members all stare at each other for a moment, a small smile clinging to their lips, as they nod, and Hermione and Tonks, they spin into a plume of bright white smoke.

As she passes through the Drawing Room and Music Room, she sets everything flammable ablaze, leaving behind a trail of rip-roaring flames.

In the main ballroom, Hermione can hear Lucius and Malfoy giving a speech regarding the Dark Lord's vision for the future of the Wizarding World, and how they should all be honoured to share in his journey. To be grateful for the power he has bestowed upon them.

In a twirl of bright, white smoke, Hermione lands on the stage between them. There's a silent pause, then the crowds breakout into fits of loud gasping and shrieking. Before the light disappears from Hermione, she wordlessly Stuns both Malfoy's.

They stiffen and drop just moments before Hermione fully appears.

There's a cacophony of "IT'S THE MUDBLOOD," "THE ORDER ARE HERE," "GET THEM," "RUN." Only the Death Eater's in attendance remain in the centre of the ballroom floor — the other non-fighting attendee's and high-society members start racing for the doors with their shields cast.

After her earlier investigations, it's simple for Hermione to wave her wand, and slam each one of them closed. A group of people collide with each door. The witches and wizards pry at the handles, bang their fists on them helplessly, screaming, before giving up a minute later, and start darting around the room searching for cover.

She casts a Protego around herself when the Death Eaters start throwing hexes and curses at her. There aren't many — thirteen, perhaps, not including the eight standing guard earlier. From what she can tell.

Most of them are lower ranks, Flint, Nott, Goyle, some others she doesn't recognise. But the inner-circle are Dolohov, Nott. Sr, Yaxley, Rookwood, and MacNair. 'Friends' to Lucius.

Neville and Angelina break through the stained glass window on the westmost wall on his broom, and fly around the Death Eater's in a broad circle, distracting them from her. The glass shards, thick and sharp, hurl into the room like the flurry of snow in a storm.

Sirens wail through the entirety of the Manor now that the wards have broken. They diminish the sounds of screaming, gasping, and cracks of magic from wands.

Hermione smiles, it doesn't meet her eyes, as she levitates Narcissa's jacket into the centre of the room. All eyes follow it until it's hovering just above Nott. Sr's head. The brief silence that falls is nothing short of deadly.

"The dungeons," Nott. Sr growls.

"Incendio."

A large jet of flames expels from Hermione's wand and hits the jacket. When it bursts into flames, signalling Narcissa's death, the Death Eaters regard her with slacked jaws, hateful eyes, and continue to hit her shield with their spells.

Nott. Sr, enraged and disdainful, sends an Avada her way.

She leaps into the air in a whirlwind of white smoke and sweeps across the room, sending out her own curses. Some dodge them by following her in black smoke, but she manages to only take a Diffindo once to her ribcage. She drops four Death Eaters with successful curses.

The downside to moving like this, she can't cast a shield.

Supplied from George, Neville lights a Weasley's Wildfire Firework, and tosses it into the air above him and Angelina. When the fuse burns down and ignites, the firework takes shape into a dragon, and cuts through the room.

It sets fire to the drapes and silver-sheen canopies. They catch and spread slowly.

Tonks materialises in the room next, perfectly on time to get the attention of everyone in the room. She roars, "For London!"

The Confringo she releases is concentrated and powerful. The blast rattles through the room, ricocheting across the walls, and incinerating most of the décor — Good.

Hermione finds herself facing Dolohov. In the midst of their intermixing smoke and fritzing spells, she hits him with a Suffocatus that hexes his windpipe. The black smoke around him extinguishes like a blanket around a fire.

He drops to the floor with a crunch and writhes beneath her.

Hermione follows him down and disappears her white smoke. She looms over him with her wand pointed at his chest, bereft of emotion. He's hurt so many people, abused so many of her friends, that it brings her a sick sense of pleasure to watch him struggle for breath like this. To watch a rapist, torturer, and murderer die slowly like this.

Darkness blooms in her chest. Everything inside her turns cold.

He has hands his clinging to his throat, his mouth open with no sound or breath, and his face is turning a lovely shade of blue. He's begging her with his eyes, pleading. He's using far more strength than he should currently possess to scramble away from her, pushing back with his knees, clutching his neck fervently.

Hermione smirks, follows him, and looms over him.

"Still think I'm so Golden, Dolohov?" Hermione twists her mouth with hateful repugnance. She redirects her wand lower, slowly. "Still think you can touch me?"

One small flick of her wand and blood seeps through his trousers at the crest of his thighs. He cannot let out any sound, can only mouth his terror, his pain, and his screaming until he eventually loses all consciousness.

As she turns away from him, a spell hits her square on the shoulder. She hisses and jerks back. A quiet whimper passes through her lips when she glances down at it and see's a deep hole in her deltoid muscle. Blasting Curse. Blood flows down her arm and the right side of her torse, soaking her gold dress until it's half red, too.

She wonders, briefly, if this is a more fitting way to wear Gryffindor colours.

Ahead of her, Theodore Nott points his wand at her again, shooting a nonverbal stunner.

Hermione catches it with her wand and deflects it. Her vision starts to spot slightly from the blood loss, from the sheer amount of spells they throw at each other. Every time she casts a spell that's too powerful, her head sways. The right side of her dress starts to soak through.

She pushes through it.

Her and Nott go through this until she gets him in the forehead with a Petrificus Totalus. His body becomes as rigid as a board. Just a moment before he falls backwards onto the floor, their eyes meet, and his, there's something like pain flickering through them. 

Behind her, Dolohov has gone. There's a large body of blood in his place.

The ballroom is thick with smoke and smog. The flames are starting to spread fully through the room, but the dragon has vanished. The Death Eater's are mostly contained, Neville is in the processing of binding two more.

He's so sweet and naïve, they should be dead already. 

Thankfully, she see's Angelina Avada one of the unrecognisable ones behind him. 

Hermione disillusions herself, then runs to the stage, hitting Flint and Goyle in the back with an Expulso as she passes them — she hears bones break when they fling into the stone wall.

She dives onto the stage between the Malfoy's, scraping her knees against the wooden boards in the process. Their bodies are still lying prone beside each other. It would be so much easier to leave them here to burn along with the others, and whomever doesn't make it out on time.

Then Hermione really wouldn't feel obligated to them any longer.

She can't explain it, but she doesn't. Something in her head tells her not too. A small, young voice reminding her that there's more to this than she can even hope to fathom.

Most importantly, Lucius is a crucial spy. The Order can't lose him.

She Rennervates them slowly as to not startle them. She would much prefer to not have to deal with another spell hitting her on reflex, her shoulder is burning with pain. Their eyes open first, then she moves her wand lower down their bodies until she can see their limbs flinching and twitching back to life.

Their awakening is the cue.

Tonks, Neville, and Angelina fly through the ballroom using their respective methods of transportation, and out of the broken window. She see's them bound through the hedges, rise between the trees, then cross into the woodland area beyond the wards.

They disapparate.

Both Malfoy's stare up at the air where Hermione's disillusioned form is taking space, looking disorientated. 

Once she is certain they're alright, she returns to a standing position, steps down from the stage—

Hermione plummets down onto her knees as lightening strikes through her body, cancelling her disillusion. She groans quietly, through bared teeth, when the muscles in her body tense and rip against the Cruciatus.

She curls her fingers into fists and presses them firmly onto the ground in front of her for balance. She refuses to make another sound, she won't give any of them the pleasure.

There's nothing else but the pain, the ruthless, burning pain, and the laboured contraction of her lungs, stealing her breath away. There's no air, no sound but the thrum of her pulse in her ears, nothing to look at but the backs of her eyelids as she tries to push herself through this.

She's void of everything palpable, disassociating from the world, and retreating into her head.

Seconds feel like hours.

The excruciating pain moves through her and reaches for her— her brain. She tightly pulls her fists up to apply pressure to her temples, in hopes to alleviate the crippling, skull splitting pain.

She's going to lose her mind. And it's going to be here, again, in Malfoy Manor. She refuses to give the halls the reminder of her screams, of her pain. It does get the blood from her knees and sweat from her brow. This place will forever be stained.

Just as her magic is digging a cavern in her chest, sparking through her fingers, the curse drops.

She lets her shoulders slump for only a moment, greedily inhaling as much oxygen as her lungs can handle. She peels open her eyes to see Nott. Sr stunned in front of her, lying prone. Blood is pouring from his chest, and staining through his white dress shirt. There's heads turning, inaudible whispers, but from what she can make out through the red mist in her head, it sounds like they have no idea who done it. She knows it wasn't herself. 

Hermione uses the last reserves of her magical energy to whip through the room in a whirl of white smoke. Internally, she's crying from her injuries and her magical exhaustion.

Overhead, passing Nott. Sr, something stops her.

It's deep, visceral; important that she doesn't let this vile, barbaric scum of the earth live. 

Hermione outstretches her wand hand, allows herself one last pull on her magic, as she murmurs, "Avada Kedavra."

It hits perfectly on his face. The stunner breaks and his body slacks, instant death. An indefinable weight lifts from her chest. She carries on through the broken window, across the gardens, and breaches the wards.

The tug behind her naval squeezes tighter than normal as she swirls, then disapparates in the woodland area. 

She reappears outside Grimmauld, messily dropping and rolling on the concrete, before everything turns to a familiar and numb black abyss.

Chapter Text

Hermione's eyes open and close and strain against the piercing white lights in the healing rooms.

She can just about make out Pomfrey and Parvati leaning over her and muttering spells. There's still a thick fog in her head that won't let her think properly. There's a persistent ache and tremor across each of her muscles that refuse to let her move.

She thinks she hears Sirius' voice, before she loses consciousness again.

"— distracting her! I warned you—"

"Mione!" Ron exclaims. She thinks she can hear him trying to shove past whomever is guarding the door. "Mione! Fuck! Is she ok? Mione!"

"You need to leave now! They can't help her with you screaming like this."

"Is she alright?" A familiar voice says. Panicked. They sound far away, echoing. "She needs Fawkes. Call for him, he'll come — Answer me!"

"She'll be fine. She's recovering from the blood loss. He'll come if and when she needs him," Sirius, she believes, whispers. She hears his footsteps receding away from her. "You have to go now, someone's coming."

"Send word the moment she wakes up."

Her last thought — who did Sirius tell about Fawkes? — runs on a loop in her head, as she drifts off again.

"— found this spell in the Dark Arts and Curses book we got from Hogwarts, it's interes—."

"Now is not the time!" Tonks — It's Tonks reprimanding Neville.

"Hermione loves books."

Hermione weakly opens her eyes, then closes them again when the light slices through her corneas like a thousand tiny papercuts.

The fog has gone, but she's so tired, she thinks she might faint again. Her eyelids flutter again. She tries to lift her hand but a faint tremor ripples through her forearm, reminding her that she took a Crucio in the Manor again.

The Manor — The attack.

The recollection forces her eyes to blow wide open and a ragged gasp to rip from her throat. Ignoring the pain, she bolts up into a sitting position, and scours her surroundings.

She's in the healing rooms, thank Merlin. There's a diagnostic hanging over the foot of her bed, and squinting her eyes to read it more clearly, notices an elevated heart rate, spiked blood pressure, and white matter hyperintensities in her brain signalling a migraine.

She didn't need the diagnostic to tell her that, thankyou.

"Hermione," Ron jumps up from the chair to her right, then gently wraps his arms around her shoulders. There's fright and relief in his expression. "Thank Godric you're awake."

She blinks several times to clear her vision, then rests her head on his chest. She murmurs, "How long was I out?"

"Sixteen hours," He says, massaging her shoulders, then dragging his hands down slowly to her upper arms. "There was a lot of blood loss, from the Blasting Hex. Pomfrey had to re-grow your shoulder, including the muscle and bone — it was so deep, Mione. And that mixed with the damage from the Cruciatus curse, weakened you, kept you knocked out. You're healed now. We've been taking shifts, making sure you get your potions. Longbottom redressed that earlier—"

He points his chin at her shoulder, which is wrapped tightly in bandages and, from the feel of it, a salve.

"—The new skin should be fine now, less sensitive, Pomfrey told me to tell you."

Hermione nods numbly. "Thank you."

He sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes her hand in his own. "Sirius is bloody furious—"

"What?" She snaps her gaze onto him sharply. "Why? Everything went to plan."

"He's not angry with you, Mione," Ronald says, his tone light. "He's pissed with Tonks for leaving you behind."

"She didn't! I was just about to leave when I was hit, it's not her fault..." Hermione trails off, frowning. "Wait, how much do you know?"

"Bugger all," His expression is resigned, rather than mad like it usually is. "All I know is that you went on assignment again. All other information is need-to-know."

Relief floods through her. "Good. That's good," A thought occurs to her. "— is anyone else injured? Anymore assigned patients?"

His brow furrow. "You're the only patient in here."

She closes her eyes and lies back down, thankful no-one found out about Lucius bloody Malfoy's plans, and Narcissa's successful 'abduction'.

A few hours, four doses of potions, and a Purification Ritual later, Hermione leaves the healing room — much to Parvati's dismay.

Physically, she feels perfectly fine. Healed. But mentally, she's struggling.

Trying to process the events of the party, the Cruciatus in the Manor, and seeing Malfoy again is wearing down on her head. The last remnants of the earlier migraine don't help, but she fully suspects that it's the occluding that is stopping it from healing quickly.

She's got another pain relief potion to take in an hour to help ease it — so there's that, at least.

Hermione walks into the kitchen, makes a cup of tea, and sits down at the table, trying to unravel her thoughts.

She feels violated, in so many different ways. The Cruciatus is the main reason for the vile, empty feeling in her chest. She can take a hit from that curse easier than she could a year ago, as no other's quite compares to the strength and malice Bellatrix puts behind her torture methods, but it was in the Manor again.

It's crippled her more than she would have ever guessed it too.

And she let Malfoy go — Albus' murderer.

She feels like she's betrayed him and his memory. If he where here now, he'd likely call her a coward for staring into Malfoy's eyes, and still letting him live. For helping his father too; spy or not, he's still a high ranking Death Eater.

And Narcissa. She's somewhere in the building, waiting to be healed by her. Another Malfoy that probably doesn't deserve it.

She's starting to resent that voice in her head, the warning in her heart that won't let her hurt them. She wishes fervently she understood why.

There's another voice, another stab to the heart, that tells her Albus wouldn't condemn her for trying to find a flicker of Light in a family so Dark, he'd be relieved for it — it's been a long time since he's berated her for her own use of the Dark Arts, for trying to maintain that last tendril of Light she has left too, until he came to accept it.

"It's not the choices we make during times of hardship that define us, Miss. Granger. It's your intentions — and you're intentions are pure. Driven by love, in your own way, no matter how Dark you go to preserve it. To save it. This isn't about power for you, is it?"

"I don't believe I'm Dark, Headmaster. But I can't use love as an excuse for my actions. Too Dark can't be love. It's everything the Order fights against."

"Love is much more complex than Light and Dark. There's some of both in all of us, Miss. Granger."

"You're powerful, you faced Grindelwald and beat him, even without use of the Dark Arts."

"Well, that is another long story, for a different time."

Hermione stares vacantly out of the window above the kitchen sink, clinging to her fond remembrance of a great man that shaped her in more ways than one.

After receiving well-wishes from the DA, plenty of hugs to see her through the rest of the year in terms of physical touch, and a large shot of firewhisky from Sirius for an Assignment Well Done, she goes to Tonks.

Sirius informs her that she's with Narcissa in the fifth floor intensive care room. The room has been heavily warded to protect her and her identity — He's nervous in case the others find her.

The Malfoy's really are, at least, enemy number three in Grimmauld Place.

She taps her wand several times on the door and sends a ringing through the wards.

The door pulls open barely a moment later and Tonks immediately jerks her inside, re-closes it, and pulls her into a hug.

Oof is all Hermione manages to huff out as she's made breathless by a Boa Constrictor in the form of Nymphadora Tonks.

"I'm so sorry," Tonks repeats in a murmur, over and over again. "I'm sorry. I should have made sure you where out. I wasn't thinking. I'm so so sorry."

Hermione smiles softly, then pulls her head back enough to meet her eyes. "Don't be daft, it's not your fault! I was just about to leave when Nott. Sr got me. Prick. I don't think he was best pleased with losing his prisoner," She cocks her head towards a sleeping Narcissa. "And, well, I may have — uhm, Dolohov... I think it was Nott that got him out after — I cut it off. Left him to suffocate, too. He's dead."

She grimaces. Doesn't abate the self-satisfaction she gets from the memories, though.

Tonks barks out a laugh. "Good. The vile bastard tried to abuse Johnson during the Little Whinging raid seven months ago. If you hadn't of done it, I would have — Frankly, I hope he's dead in a ditch somewhere."

Hermione's lips part, her eyes widen, and her heart rips for Angelina. Nausea bundles a knot in her stomach so ruthless, she has to swallow down the rising bile. How many more women...

Her lip twitches. "I wish I'd done it sooner."

Tonks frowns, her expression breaking into sadness. "Me too."

Hermione turns away, feeling shame like a hot-iron scorch her skin, too hot to withstand, whilst she tucks away her failures into a deep part of her mental house. If she'd just got to him sooner, if she'd been stronger, if she'd—

No. She can't think like this. Not now.

She drags her feet to Narcissa's bedside, then picks up her clipboard from the nightstand. There hasn't been much noted due to not having a trained healer treat her, but there's observations and symptoms jotted down in either Tonks' or Sirius' handwriting.

"Are you going to tell me why we went through all of that trouble to abduct Narcissa yet? Or shall I use Legilimency?" Tonks smirks, something wicked and amused.

Hermione flicks her gaze up from the clipboard, smirks, then continues to read. "If Sirius hasn't told you already, then I can't — and I'd like to see you try."

"Don't tempt me."

She rolls her eyes fondly. "If you're not going to help, then at least sit over there and prod into my head without impacting my job."

Tonks snorts. "Guess I'll help then. What do you need?"

"Pain Relief, Blood-Replenishing, Nutrition, and Energy Restorative Potions," Hermione glances up at the cabinet opposite it to her, on the eastmost wall. "You'll have to run down to four, they have the most stock. Try not to get caught. I'll have Neville brew and replace them before anyone notices."

"Yes, ma'am." She mock salutes her. Teasing her, the bitch.

"That's General to you, Lieutenant," She calls after her.

Halfway out of the door, Tonks throws a middle finger at her, and tells her, unkindly, to Fuck Off. Hermione laughs, mostly to herself, then returns to the situation at hand.

Narcissa looks... like death.

She's too pale, ashen, and gaunt. She's so thin, all of her bones are jutting out prominently beneath her hospital gown. According to the notes, she has untreated scars, fresh cuts, and blood poisoning.

Hermione was only aware of one out of three of them.

Her symptoms, according to the notes, are a high fever, a consistent wet-cough, laboured breathing, muscle trembling, blotches of red rashes on various points of her body, and vomiting (before being placed in stasis.) Most notes were taken by Tonks. Narcissa's previous vitals, taken — she flicks to the next page on the clipboard — five hours ago by Sirius, were all dangerously high.

Hermione plucks out her wand from the top of her braid, and flicks it over Narcissa, casting an advanced diagnostic spell. All stats are still elevated, but in the same area has earlier, except for a small spike in her blood pressure, which much have occurred sometime before the stasis charm and after her previous readings.

She flicks her wand and the screen changes to her organs functionality.

Her liver and kidneys are in failure, but she isn't surprised, due to Nagini's venom. It's already spread through her lymphatic system and entered into her bloodstream. It's hard to tell how long ago she was bitten as it's unknown how quickly, or slowly, Nagini's venom passes through the system. A slow death seems crueller, more fitting for Voldemort's usual repertoire. 

She remembers how much Arthur suffered back in fifth. 

Hermione sighs heavily, then vanishes the diagnostic screen, and returns the clipboard to the nightstand. First, she retrieves a vial of Essence of Dittany and gets to work on healing her open wounds. There's five in total, three on her arms, and two on her neck. It takes only a few minutes to have them treated and dressed. After, she applies bruise paste to the splotches on her — well, everywhere. She's completely covered.

Next, she addresses the puncture wound from Nagini on her left calf.

As she's rolling the blanket up her leg, to just below her knee, she nearly wretches when the smell releases. Her nostrils flare against it. It's so cruel, what's happening to her. A small part of Hermione thinks she doesn't deserve it.

She vanishes the current dressings with a flick of her wand and, instantly, clasps a hand over her mouth.

It's the most violent looking bite she's ever seen. There's two deep perforation wounds, just on the inside of her calf, that show bone. Dark purple veins emit from it like miniature bolts of lightening, and spread through her lower leg. It's bright red with irritation and purulence that indicates infection. Hermione can feel the Dark Magic in it.

The wards ring, and distractedly, Hermione waves her wands at them, over her shoulder, and let's in Tonks.

"Merlin," Tonks murmurs, her jaw slacked, when she see's the bite wound. "What is that?"

"A bite," Hermione offers, vaguely. She studies the diagnostic, flicking through her vitals. "It's where I'll have to start. I need to siphon out the poison. It's going to take a while, it's spread through most of her body — luckily, it hasn't reached her brain yet, so there should be full cognitive recovery afterwards — but it's going to take a toll on her body more than it already has."

"Most poisonous bites have an antidote already, right?" Tonks asks. "Can't we use something like that?"

"No," Hermione says. "It's spread too much. Besides, we don't have the time, ingredients, or resources to brew the specific one we need — if one even exists."

Tonks, still staring at Narcissa, her estranged Aunt, goes wide-eyed. "I'll help anyway I can."

Hermione nods gratefully. "She needs the potions first, we need to prepare her body as best we can before I put it through the treatment. I'll have to break the stasis charm, but I can stun her after."

As Tonks carefully administers the potions, Hermione collects a bunch of empty vials from the cabinet drawer, and sets them down on the bed beside her.

Once they're both ready, they give each other a long look, and brace themselves.

Hermione re-casts the advanced diagnostics, then with practiced wand movements, breaks the stasis charm.

Narcissa screams and thrashes like Hermione may as well have dropped her dead-centre into a volcano — it's a burning, begging, pained scream that crushes her. She almost throws herself off the bed with how violently she writhes.

"Stupefy." She goes limp.

Once the potions kick in, her readings drop to somewhat normal-ish levels, and Hermione immediately starts to siphon out the venom. She gently presses the tip of her wand onto the bite wound and murmurs a spell under her breath to extract small tendrils of the venom. It hangs from her wand like acromantula silk, it's colour obsidian, and faintly transparent.

She mutters another spell, then seals it in a vial.

She does this for another three hours, until Narcissa's body can't handle much more. After informing Tonks that she needs to rest, Hermione places her back in stasis, and stays by her bedside well into the night.

She doesn't know why.

Over the three days it takes to remove Nagini's venom fully from Narcissa's body, Voldemort started his attack on France.

Tonks, frantic and stressed, bounds through the door, the length of the healing room, and drops a copy of today's Daily Prophet onto her lap.

"It happened."

Hermione picks up the newspaper, unfolds it, and reads the headline:

"Death Eaters hit Paris — is the French Ministry ready for peace?"

'According to sources within The French Ministry of Magic, The Dark Lord advanced his armies into Paris two nights ago, in the dead of the night, and stormed through Furstemberg Square, the sixth district, to gain entrance into the Ministry. They were unsuccessful. The French Minister responded immediately by sending out their own forces. Mass death and destruction followed the thirty-six hour battle, before Lieutenant Lucius Malfoy recalled their armies to enter into peace talks.

More to follow.'

Her knuckles have drained white, for how hard she's gripping the edges of the paper. She's shaking from the rage.

"There's nothing we can do, Mione," Tonks says gently, easing The Prophet from her hands. "Sirius has already decided we aren't going to respond. The Ministry here has already been mostly taken over by You-Know-Who, they're just weeks away from swearing Yaxley in as Minister. They won't send forces until then. They'll be fighting against France, then."

Hermione steeples her fingers and closes her eyes. "I know."

She stands up stiffly from the chair, then moves to the edge of the bed closest to Narcissa's wound. There's only one more treatment left, then she can work on healing her muscle, organ, and tissue damage.

It's something to focus on.

She breaks the stasis charm, thankful she's stable enough to not scream, then stuns her.

"We need to hit the prisons now," Hermione says, as she pulls out a string of venom. She releases it into a vial, then corks it. "We need numbers. Tell Sirius we should re-group tonight. Most of Tom's forces will be in France over the coming weeks, they'll be too distracted to guard the prisons effectively."

"Agreed. A show of force from us might be enough to encourage France, too. Let them know that Britain isn't standing down, even if the Ministry is corrupt."

Hermione nods.

"Narcissa should be awake in a few hours," She says. "Will you let Sirius know? He'll want to see her."

"Of course."

Thirty-five minutes later, Hermione siphons out the last swirl of venom, bottles it, then lets herself breath for the first time in days. She sets aside the vial, ready to be destroyed by fire, and seals over the puncture wounds. Vulnera Sanentur works.

Her veins (now unobstructed) and her blood flow, clear, started to improve days ago, but now, according to the charts, it's reached normal levels.

She flicks her wand through the readings, points the tip over her calf, and breathes another sigh of relief when it comes up Negative for blood poisoning.

The potions have helped return colour to her pale complexion, but being that Narcissa is already fair-skinned, it only shows as twinges of light pink on her cheeks and near her pulse-points.

An hour later, Narcissa is ready to be awakened.

Hermione checks over the diagnostics for a final time, ensuring the healing charms and potions have restored enough functionality to her organs, then Rennervates her.

She shouldn't be this nervous. There's a flutter in her chest that she can't account for. Perhaps it's been the days spent healing her, or the manner in which Narcissa was brought to Grimmauld in the first place, but something is filling her with an unnerving sense of dread.

Narcissa gasps quietly, drawing in her first full brief for only Merlin knows how long. Her eyes flutter open lightly at first, until she, seemingly, doesn't recognise her surroundings.

She darts quick glances across the room, her heart rate elevating (according to the readings) due to anxiety, and tries to pull herself up.

Hermione rests a calm hand on her shoulder. Narcissa flinches like she's shocked her, but once their eyes meet, she appears to somewhat relax. She lets out a long sigh, her expression unreadable but soft, as her heart rate starts to lower.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione says gently. "Do you remember what happened? Why you're here?"

She pauses for a minute, dazed. "Yes, I believe so. You — took me from the dungeons."

"I did," She nods shortly. "Along with four others."

Narcissa blinks several times. "The Weasley boy, and... Nymphadora. I didn't recognise the others."

Hermione nods slowly, amazed by her memory function. She can't even begin to understand how much she went through under Tom's and Nott. Sr's torture, so for her to have recollection like this, it's miraculous.

"For the best really," Hermione removes her hand from her shoulder, and picks up a vial of Blood Replenishing potion from the nightstand. "The least you know the better."

Whilst Narcissa takes the potion, and a few minutes for herself to process, Hermione uses the time to study her.

There isn't anything hostile about her at all. In fact, she appears to be the opposite, despite the situation. According to her vitals, her temporary bout of anxiety has settled, and her blood pressure and heart rate have returned to normal.

She's tense, but not as much as she should be considering her circumstances. She's been locked in a dungeon for Merlin knows how long, tortured, beaten, poisoned, and is now, technically, a prisoner at Grimmauld.

Above all else, there's something innately soft in her gaze, as she tries to observe Hermione in a similar manner. There's no hate, no disdain, no disgust at her healer. Hermione, if she's not reading her wrong, would claim her to be amicable.

She supposes a face, even that of a Muggle-born, that doesn't belong to Nott. Sr and whomever else tortured her, is probably a far better sight. Hermione reasons that, above all else, Malfoy's are survivors. She has healed her, she has saved her, she currently holds her life in her hands, and Narcissa is far too smart to spit in the face of it.

Narcissa gives a small nod. "I understand — But can you tell me what happened, at least?"

"We attacked the Manor," Hermione tells her vaguely. "During your husbands birthday celebrations."

She smirks with bright satisfaction. "I'm sure he loved that."

"He was stunned for most of it," Hermione shrugs, twisting her wand restlessly in her hands.

Panic visibly flickers across her eyes as she tries to sit up straighter. "And my son? Draco? Was he there? Please tell me he wasn't there. Is he alright?"

"He was. I stunned him too. They're both alive and uninjured," Hermione confirms, her jaw rolling bitterly. "I assume Malfoy has returned abroad, and your husband is currently in France, if I were to believe what the Prophet reports."

A beat passes, thick with a palpable tension that she could slice through with a blunt butter knife.

Narcissa's brow furrows. Her stares upon Hermione grow more intent, contemplative. "You stunned them."

She stands straighter. Defensive. "Yes."

"Why?" She narrows her eyes studiously. A wave of ice sinks into her expression. "Why am I here at all, Miss. Granger? Can you tell me why you took this upon yourself?"

Hermione considers her answers very carefully.

There's too much she doesn't know about Narcissa and, beyond her family, where her true loyalties lie. She may not even know Lucius is a spy, and assuming she's a poor Occlumens, giving her that information could prove catastrophic for The Order.

"I didn't save you, per se," She reasons. Her voice indifferent. "I abducted you."

The corner of Narcissa's mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile. "Of course."

Silence stretches between them. Intense. Baffling in how there isn't anything defensive about Narcissa in the slightest. There's no arguments, the dread Hermione felt earlier has disappeared and has been replaced by an unquenched and deep curiosity that she doubts will be satisfied.

This woman before her is a complete stranger. A pure-blood, no less. Lady Malfoy, wife to an inner-circle Death Eater, mother to her first bully and Dumbledore's murderer, a woman that has strong beliefs in maintaining blood purity and, yet, there's none of this showing in her eyes or her expression. Only the graceful mask of one who has spent her entire life clinging to it like a lifeline.

She doesn't even appear to be scared. She's in The Order's base of operations, the main headquarters, a prisoner for all intents and purposes. But it doesn't appear to effect her at all.

Perhaps she is, in fact, an occlumens. It would make sense, it answers a lot of her questions, and explains her behaviour...

No. Hermione can't process this, can't make it make sense. She can't even ascertain her own theories and thoughts on the matter — only that she's curious.

For lack of better depth into her own opinions, all she can fathom is: The Malfoy's are weird.

"Thank you, Hermione," She smiles softly. Knowingly. "For abducting me. I would be dead, if not for your healing. I owe you a great debt."

Hermione stills, shellshocked, unable to find any words to respond; so she nods her head once, firmly, then breaks away from the intensity of her stares.

On a table in the corner of the room, there's a teapot, cups, and all necessary ingredients to make a hot drink.

"Would you like tea?" Hermione asks, casting a warming charm on the pot. "It's... probably not what you're used too, but it's something."

"Please," She answers, well-mannered.

"Sirius will be up to see you shortly," Hermione explains, whilst filling two cups manually. "I'm not sure how long it's been since you last saw him, but he's here to help you—"

Hermione stirs the tea, adds a splash of milk, and half a teaspoon of sugar.

"— He'll tell you as much as he can, and answer any questions you may have regarding your treatment. I'm not sure what his plans are, in truth, but he'll do what's right. Once he updates me, I'll be better able to help you. Believe it or not—"

She picks up the cup and saucer, and takes it over to Narcissa. She takes it with gentle, twitching hands. "I'm here to take care of you. If you need anything, and I mean anything, then you only have to call my full name. So long as I'm in the building, the wards will alert me through my wand."

Hermione gives a small nod and a smile, before turning on her heel. She doesn't want to wait for a response, if anything, she's eager to leave the room, to get some much earned space. She's spent 80% of her time in here, watching over her, healing her, ensuring she's cared for with potions, cleaning charms, hydration and nutrition potions—

"Hermione?"

She slowly turns back around. Narcissa is smiling like she has a secret on the tip of her tongue. Beyond that, her expression is unreadable.

They eye each other curiously.

"Yes?"

"How did you know how I take my tea?"

Hermione freezes, that earlier sense of dread creeping it's back way into her chest.

Did she make her tea in the right way? She questions herself, again and again — It was a reflex, muscle memory. She frowns as she tries to search for an answer—

A sharp stabbing pain slices through her head, near her temple, that blurs the edges of her vision. A strangled wince leaves her mouth when it strikes again, and she pushes her fist against her temple to alleviate the pressure.

"Hermione, dear, are you alright?" Narcissa asks, slightly panicked. Her voice sounds quiet, distant through the fog in her head.

"I— I'm fine," She murmurs. She rubs two fingers over each temple. "Headache."

She lies vaguely.

It's not a headache in the way Narcissa will assume it is.

Hermione doesn't know what it is. It's a physical reaction to something unknowable to her, but it feels similar to a migraine. The same she gets after Legilimency. She'll need to ask Pomfrey if there's a root cause, or if it's just the shock of Narcissa's revelation, mixed with her own exhaustion and magical strain due to days worth of healing.

It takes a few minutes, some occluding, but the pain gradually lessens. Her vision clears. Narcissa looks as though she's ready to leap out of bed and — and, well, she has no idea what she might do. She's in recovery, weak, exhausted, and she doesn't know enough to do anything.

She may even attempt to take advantage of Hermione whilst distracted, to kill her and escape.

"I'm sorry," Hermione mutters under her breath. "I don't know what happened."

Narcissa studies her with narrowing eyes.

"I asked you about my tea," She reminds her.

"Oh, I—" Her mouth gapes. She points a finger at her cup, then the pot. She closes her mouth, then huffs a nervous laugh. "Lucky guess, I suppose."

Narcissa hums an agreeable sound. "Lucky indeed."

Hermione turns and leaves the room quicker than a niffler after treasure.

The re-group with the Order goes ahead — There's a multitude of maps pinned to every free space on the walls; some of France, each location that was met during the attack now labelled with a red 'X'. Ron and Kingsley are trying to predict the areas the Death Eaters will hit next. If they can figure it out beyond a shadow of a doubt, then they'll send an anonymous tip to the French Ministry to warn them.

There's the blueprints of the prisons, maps of the areas, and lists of prisoners on the widest, northmost wall. There's still extra parchments levitated beside it. Hermione, Sirius, Tonks, Neville, and Bill are standing in front of them, gesturing to weak points in the wards, potential escape routes, and Tonks, being the optimist that she is, constantly reassures them that they most likely won't die from trying to hit multiple prisons at once, only suffer through dismemberment, torture, and multiple Dark Curses instead.

Hermione scowls at her for the umpteenth time. Tonks grins at her like she's the most exasperated creature alive.

"Look!" Hermione points her wand at the map of Wimbourne furiously. "It's secluded, small enough a prison for us to get in and out within minutes, with our prisoners, and apparate straight to Falmouth. We'll have resistance fighters disapparate the prisoners who are too injured to do so themselves in a side-along. They can meet us there after."

Hermione waves her wand and levitates one of the parchments. "According to the intel Kings picked up from his Ministry connection—" She lies, keeping the identity of the Order's spy safe. "— This prison doesn't usually have a large guard anyway. Most Death Eaters are in France. This is the only time to do this."

"And after Falmouth?" Sirius asks, holding his chin up with his pointer finger and thumb, and studying the maps with great scrutiny.

"That's where it gets tricky," Hermione admits stubbornly. "There's two more prisons we can potentially hit. There's a small prison — if it can be called that — located in Old Amersham that was built in secret, just to hold the Hogwarts Professors that were captured during The Battle, and that won't swear allegiance to Tom. Then, there's Kent, the main prison in Minnis-Bay, holding most of our resistance and some Order members, including Aberforth, Dedalus, and Hestia. I would prioritise saving them as crucial, as we can use as many Order members as we can get. I believe they'll be making an example of them. According to the intel, Tom even placed Kent on an island that he had to raise from beneath the waters, right in the middle of the bay."

Hermione highlights the protective magic surrounding it with a flick of her wand. "The wards and concealment charms placed on it are tough, but — if we time it correctly, then our forces should only be split long enough for Bill and I to get through the wards without alerting the patrolling Death Eaters."

Taking a quick breath after losing half her lungs capacity during her ramblings, she realises that the entire room has fallen silent. Even Shacklebolt, Ron, and Moody have stopped talking France strategy.

Sirius sniffs, Tonks' hair changes colour (the tips glow blue, likely for nerves), Bill is Stoic and calculating, and Neville, he's staring at her, not the maps, but the side of her face. She doesn't know what to make of that.

"We breach Kent last," Sirius concludes, his calculating gaze flickering between maps and parchments. All eyes dart onto him, except for Hermione, whom follows his stares. "If we're going to alert You-Know-Who's armies even once during these raids, it'll be there. We should avoid that for as long as possible. I believe we can make it through the other prisons quick enough not to raise suspicion, providing we stun any patrollers. We can't afford to have both you and Bill breaking wards together until Kent — you'll go separately for the first two locations, Wimbourne and Falmouth, you'll infiltrate Falmouth, then return to Wimbourne whilst Bill gets a head start on Old Amersham — you'll confirm if it has been a success of not. You'll meet Bill there, then apparate to Kent together. Once the wards are breached, manage the brunt of the Death Eaters — then I'll need you for something else."

Hermione, whom is nodding along with his words, finally takes in the last of his directions, then looks at him with a frown. "Alright — I'll stay after the meeting."

Sirius nods. "Thank you."

Hermione waves her wand, levitates the parchments to the table, then takes a seat. She conjures a quill and starts writing notes regarding the wards.

Her eyes meet Ron's beneath her eyelashes, and the shock on his face, almost makes her want to hex him. "What, Ronald?"

Ron breaks eye contact with her, then snaps sharply at Sirius. "Another assignment? Alone? Are you trying to get her bloody killed?"

His yells, his temper, breaks the clean atmosphere in the room. What was a productive, friendly meeting, is now slowly shifting into a tense, hostile environment. Many sets of eyes flit between her, Ronald, and Sirius — whom has the expression of an indifferent, cold Leader.

Hermione knows him better than that.

"Mr. Weasley, if you cannot contain yourself during official meetings, then you will be removed. If this behaviour persists, then you will be dismissed from chain-of-command permanently," Sirius levels a look at him, filled with collected animosity. "General Granger — you're superior, might I add — is very well aware of what her assignment will be, and she is capable of making her own decisions. She bears responsibilities that you will never understand, that very few can. Now, either help or leave, this is the last I will hear of this."

If Hermione dared to look close enough, she'd likely see steam shooting from Ron's ears, he's that mad. That red-faced.

Despite that, she ghosts a smile, hidden beneath a dip of her head, at Sirius for defending her.

Hermione returns to scribbling notes on the parchments, without looking up at Ron. She couldn't bear the tedium.

Once the meeting finishes nearly two hours later, they're fully planned and prepared to take on the prison raids. Shacklebolt and Ron are confident they have the Death Eaters designs calculated, and the former is preparing to send the information over to France. Hermione doesn't ask details on how he's going to send it without the message getting intercepted, but trusts that his years in the Ministry has gained him that knowledge.

In retrospect, they all shouldn't be this excited to finally make a move this big against Voldemort, but they are. They'll be saving their own, increasing their forces greatly, and making a blow in His plans so big, that He'll spend months recovering from it. With the increased numbers, they'll be able to restore order to some of the raided areas that have been left almost desolate, and re-enforce them with guards. They can possibly gain more sympathisers in the process, which could, eventually, lead to a rebellion strong enough to face Voldemort again.

All in all, things are looking up.

But Hermione, still (almost always) occluding, doesn't dare to let herself feel hopeful — or anything — for it. Not yet. Not until she watches Voldemort die and order restored to the Wizarding World permanently. 

It'll take a long time. Even after his defeat, Hermione knows his followers and loyalists will still try to enact his will. It'll take years to dismantle his regime in it's entirety, enough for the prejudice and more evil and darker aspects of the Wizarding World to finally be abolished. There's so much to do after, but Hermione, she's prepared for it.

Sirius, sitting at the head of the table, raps his knuckles against the table in contemplation, effectively breaking her from thoughts. Neville, also asked to stay behind, is sitting in Tonks normal seat beside her, appearing rather nervous for what can possibly follow.

"How do you feel about infiltrating Hogwarts during the Kent prison raid?" Sirius asks, wholly seriously. His expression tense. "Retrieve the diadem, any information you can find on Nagini's location, and raid the Testing facility?"

A slow smile curls on Hermione's lip, it feels sharp.

After going over the technicalities — All Death Eaters will be forced to help the prisons, you'll have a much greater access to the castle, including You-Know-Who's and the Professors more private areas. If you can reach the headmasters office, I'm certain you'll find intel on Nagini. If you're not caught, you can take the Testing Facility, save the Muggles and Muggle-borns, and get out — both her and Neville agree a touch too quickly, too excitedly, then conjure a bottle of firewhisky for a productive, well-spent day.

Exhausted, she drinks the remainder of her stress away.

After Neville leaves, claiming he isn't drunk, but too tired to keep his eyes open, Sirius pours them out a shot and leans in closer to her.

"I spoke with Narcissa," He whispers, apparently forgetting they have silencing charms on the door. "She claims to not know anything about Lucius'... endeavours during the past year—"

"You didn't tell her, did you?" Hermione's lips part.

"No, of course not," His face twists in a what do you take me for? kind-of way. "But she's know an awful lot about Nott. Sr. Apparently, he just loves the sound of his own voice."

Hermione's mouth twists. "All the ridiculous Death Eaters do."

"She wants to defect," Sirius says, on the rim of his glass. Trying to hide his solemnity. "But not without a pardon for her family."

Her face falls flat. "You've got to be joking."

"I'm afraid not," Sirius sits back in his set, holding his hands up in a resigned way.

"The intel she has can't be that important — Lucius, maybe, if all goes well with the raids and we save the resistance, might get a reduced sentence for his contributions to the Order, but a full pardon? Never... And Malfoy," Her expression twists disdainfully, "I'll sooner kill him than see him walk free, not after what he did. He murdered Albus, Sirius! Then just fled the country like a coward. I won't stand for it."

Something unrecognisable flashes across his eyes.

Hermione tries to focus on it, but it's gone again a moment later.

"Agreed," He swipes his hand over his face, showing the tell-tale signs of stress he can't occlude away when liquored up. "But I want that intel and she is confident she'll get the pardons — We can make her believe as such."

She arches a brow. "You want to lie to her?"

"Yes."

Hermione nods in full agreement, then drains her glass to the dregs, refusing to feel the full weight of the war on her shoulders.

Hermione leaves the room a while after that, after engaging in a more light-hearted and casual conversation with Sirius, before deciding she is far too exhausted to hear his continuous ramblings regarding the different variations of firewhisky — she's slightly askew, but nowhere near drunk enough to get through that.

She clambers through the house as quietly as possible, trying to avoid waking one of the many full rooms. She hits the second floor, ruminates over whether she should go and talk to Ginny for a while about the plans, but ultimately chooses not too, in case she's asleep.

When she reaches the third floor, she crosses the hallway, takes a left towards her bedroom, then stops so fast, she very nearly loses balance and falls over. She catches herself just in time.

Just to the right of her door, leaning against the wall, with his legs extended out slightly and crossed at the ankles, and mindlessly bouncing a Lumos on his wand as if it's a ball, is Neville.

"What are you doing here?" She asks abruptly, likely sounding more defensive than she means too.

Neville glances up from his wand and banishes the Lumos ball. "Checking to see if you're alright — you were a while in there."

"Oh," Hermione presses her lips together thinly, surprised. "I'm fine, Neville. You didn't have to wait for me."

He stares at her for a long time, appraising her. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"I just," He pauses, trying to find the words, before continuing on. "You know, with what happened with Weasley—"

Hermione frowns slightly. Her gaze on him intent. "You don't need to worry over Ron, he usually means well, and I can handle him — he just, doesn't approve of my... comings and goings."

Satisfied with her answer, Neville gives a short nod.

Silence falls between them, stretching on like a wave rising and falling slowly against the tide. If she'd let it, it could pull her under and drown her — because there doesn't seem to be much else between them but the ebb and the flow of desire, poor choices, and a need to remain professional.

But with her gaze just a little bit off and warm around the edges, from the terrible, terrible firewhisky, she finds that there's a hazy sense of something emitting from them, limiting her world to just this short hallway, to the lack of distance between her and Neville, and the precarious understanding of you're not alone that she can see blazing like an oath in his eyes.

It's dangerous and compromising. It's adrenaline and release. It's selfish and cruel — she's selfish and cruel, for even considering this. For seeing Neville in this light again. It's not fair on him.

The heat blooming in her stomach would disagree with her. And her head, rational and emotionally detached, can't feel anything beyond these physical reactions she's been experiencing lately — from every press of his hand on her back, to the comfort and security of his presence during her missions, for the way he looks at her as though she's his focal point, the way he defends her, even to those that are his superiors and her family.

It's mind-boggling — and impossible. Rationally speaking, he's a great partner, she won't find anyone else like him, and she can't ruin that.

She clears her throat and looks downward, away from those piercing stares. "I'd like to go to bed, Neville."

His eyes, hooded, never leave her. "Right."

Hermione nods once, reaches around his ridiculously broad, muscular, and toned body, and grasps her door handle. He's just a step too close to the entrance, that she has to brush against him as she opens the door and crosses the threshold.

She doesn't turn back to wish him goodnight, she wants to end this as quickly and as least awkwardly as she possibly can.

"Hermione."

His voice, too raspy and hoarse, makes her eyes squeeze shut tightly.

"Mm?"

Just as she turns, hand on the door knob, ready to slam it shut, Neville steps over the threshold in one heavy stride, captures her in his arms, pulls her in and kisses her.

It's... different.

She's stupid, but she kisses him back. She tentatively reaches up, cradles his face, and lets her mouth chase his heat, his fire, and his oaths like honeyed liquor. It's enough to switch off her head, to let the feel of his grip around her waist convince her she has no responsibilities even if only for a little while, and tame the rush in her blood.

He feels strong and firm in her arms, and his mouth, his tongue, gently parting her lips and sliding across her own, tastes like firewhisky and sin.

His lips are soft but his hands are rough, calloused — sharp with fresh cuts, smooth in places where thin, silver scars desecrate his strong, delicious, firm hands. Hands that fight, but also forage, care for plants delicately, brew potions with precision and heart. She can feel every mark from it. If he squeezed her just a little bit tighter, she's sure they would hurt her.

It should hurt.

She can't get the thought out of her head, that it doesn't feel... right. Perhaps it's because she's occluding, she can't really be fully present, but the empty feeling is still there, like she's been carved and hollowed out, and all that's left behind is the smoke; black, thick smoke. 

Hermione lets out a quiet sigh, which effectively ends the kiss. Neville, the sweet, kind, and caring man that he is, dips his forehead onto hers, and lingers his mouth near hers. He's breathing heavily, she can feel every slow rise and fall of his chest against her own.

"Neville—"

"Hermione, it's alright," He rasps, his breath trembling. He catches a loose curl beside her cheek and wraps his finger around it gently. "I know you don't — feel that way for me. And that's fine, I get it."

There's no doubt in his voice, expression, or posture that she can find. He truly means it — he'd let her use him for her own selfish needs. He's so good. She can't scrounge up any ounce of good left inside of her to reciprocate.

She doesn't even want too.

But it's not fair, and he won't stop.

"Neville," She says breathlessly, frowning. "It's not just that, it's me."

Slowly, she places her hand on his chest and gently pushes him back a step, so that she can gather her bearings. She'll need them, if she's to keep eye contact whilst she tries to explain herself — he deserves it. 

"I'm empty," The words come out like a broken whisper. An accursed secret.

Understanding flashes across his eyes, but not in a way that he mirrors her emptiness, but that he knows that she is. He's seen her murder, maim, cast spells that fracture her soul and mind, slit the throat of three wolves so they can't heal quick enough to avoid death. He's been at her side whilst she's cut down Death Eaters as if they're nothing more than weak, spineless vermin, and devised plans that see others die just so they can get the upper hand.

He's never questioned her, he's questioned others for doubting her. He's stood up for her, he's had her back, and he's never looked at her as though she's a monster.

(She is.)

His eyes soften, and she can't stand it. Hermione doesn't want empathy, or — urgh, Gods forbid, pity. It's the last thing she'll ever need.

Just as she's about to open her mouth, and tell him exactly that, his expression fills with a fierce sense of determination, as if he isn't about to let this go. 

"I'm your partner, Mione," Neville tells her, almost too matter-of-factly. If not for his eyes blazing like they are, she'd believe he was about to propose a business arrangement or something. "I'm here for you, always. It doesn't matter how. No matter what."

If it's even possible, his declaration hollows her out more. Her heart twists in that unfamiliarly familiar way again, then drops into her stomach as if she's just been punched. 

Hermione swallows thickly. "But—"

"Don't worry," He smiles, small and a little crooked. "I'm still your partner first. You just need to know — that I don't just think of you like that."

Her mouth opens, then closes again, dumbstruck. She shakes her head as if that can knock some cognitive function back into her brain, but finds herself coming up short.

Before she's given the chance to respond, he steps forward, presses a soft, chaste kiss to her lips, and brushes the back of his fingers against her cheek. Her brow furrows, and she has to suppress the wince from the ache in her chest threatening to slip, lest he find some offence to it. 

"Goodnight, Hermione," Neville says, then takes several steps back to study here. 

She can't even begin to fathom what he's seeing in her, whether it's just the void from the occluding, or the flush of her skin and swollen lips. 

"Neville, wait," She calls out to him, just as he's stepping over the threshold, one foot in her room, the other out on the hallway. She presses her lips together hard. "Just, don't wait for me, or anything — not that I think you would, I just..."

If he smiles like that at her again, she might slap him. 

She wants to throw herself onto her bed and scream into her pillow with how frustrated she is. 

He nods. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Hermione stares after him, dazed, as he steps out into the hallway, and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

She stands frozen to the spot for what feels like an age, staring at the door, trying to comprehend everything that just happened — and why she feels so wretched and hollow.

Fuck, what a mess.

Chapter Text

Neville is still on her mind the next morning.

Hermione doesn't know what to do about him. For the first time in a long, long time, someone has managed to wreck her. It's a horrid feeling, she doesn't care for it.

After a night of tossing and turning, trying to make sense of her thoughts, she decides there isn't much she can do. He knows she isn't reciprocate of his feelings, she doesn't feel like she's misleading him, so there isn't much else she can do. 

As she's pulling herself out of bed, dragging her feet into the bathroom, and switching her shower on, Hermione pushes all thoughts relating to Neville to the back of her head; they aren't going to accomplish anything. She'll just have to speak with him again, properly this time, and perhaps after the prison raids. Distractions cannot be afforded.

After a shower, Hermione uses a charm to dry her hair, then another three to smooth out her rampant curls. She quickly dresses into a black hoodie and leggings, deciding on comfort for the upcoming Order meeting, rather than her usual field gear, then slips on her ankle boots.

Hermione gives herself a final once over in the mirror, repeatedly affirming to herself that everything is going to be just fine, then heads down to kitchen to make a strong, bitter coffee. She's going to need it before the meeting.

"We've figured out the next attack on Paris is in five days," Kingsley starts, leaning over on the table, and clasping his hands together. "The French Ministry agree. My source tells me You-Know-Who's peace talks haven't been productive..."

Hermione, lifting her eyes from the parchment in front her, catches Neville's gaze from across the table. A pang of awkwardness strikes her at first, but he smiles and points an eyebrow towards Sirius, as if reminding her to listen.

See! Everything is fine — it's going to continue being fine — and there is nothing to worry about — because it's fine.

She ghosts a smirk, curls her shoulders inwardly, and affixes her attention back onto her parchment.

"Do you agree, Hermione?" Sirius asks her.

"Hm," She murmurs, re-reading the same sentence about the prisons wards on her parchment over and over.

The silence in the room snaps her stupor. She jerks her head up, taking stock of the room, and the others are all watching her with scrutinising eyes — except Neville, he's smirking. The git.

"Sorry, what?" Hermione clears her throat, then looks to Sirius, squeezing her quill against her chest. "I was distracted."

"The next attack on Paris is in five days," Sirius frowns, rather suspiciously, at her parchment. Thankfully, she was mid-way through drawing counter-runes. "We should hit the prisons then, whilst the Death Eaters are in full force and distracted there."

Hermione nods her head slowly, pondering for long moments.

"Agreed."

Hermione spends the next four days with Bill mostly, whilst they perfect the spells, runes, and counter-spells that will break through the prisons wards. She often forgets just how proficient he is at it. His curse-breaking skills are next to none. She's never really had the opportunity to work with him so closely before, so she's excited to be doing so now.

They meet often in the living room, light the fire, sit on the floor for the extra space, and gather around every book each of them own on anything relevant to wards, curses, runes, arithmancy, and spell work, and how to counter them. His collection is so impressive, Hermione spent the first day just studying them. He became so annoyed with her in the end, he told her 'Still the same swot as always, then.' Hermione glared at him, but didn't deny it.

Now, she's confident enough in his level of understanding too — they work well together, she has no doubts they'll get through the prisons wards without issue.

Outside, it's a dull October day. There's an overcast, sharp winds, and a thick fog encompassing Wizarding London. Grimmauld is cold. The fire flickers against each breeze that cuts through the room.

"You're good at this," Bill notes, stalling his quill. "When did you learn?"

"I took Ancient Runes in fifth and sixth year," She tells him vaguely, eager to move on from this. She looks over her Runes, biting her cheek. "I haven't really ever stopped studying them. McGonagall has taught me a lot over the past year, too."

Hermione, hunched over her parchment, squints her eyes and crosses out her previous rune, to replace it with the Sowilo and the Eihwaz.

The Sowilo combined with the Halagaz will focus the tremendous solar energy it carries, channelling it into the danger of uncontrollable violence of the elements. Destruction, drive, will, and success. Unrepentant. The Eihwaz for defence.

Sigr-drífa, driver to victory — then finally, again, the Laguz, for intuition and flow.

Bill, across from her, follows her quill with a stern gaze. Unwavering and calculating. His brow dips. "Huh — that's perfect."

He scribbles them down on his own sheet, then holds it out for her. He points his quill in the centre, "With this command—" he gestures too 'disintegrate', which fits with her elemental hypotheses, "—and this equation, we should get through the last set of wards protecting Kent."

Hermione's back straightens as her line of sight flits between the two sheets of parchment. "We've done it?"

"Well," Bill stretches his arm behind him, picks up another parchment filled with Arithmancy equations, and places it down between them. "The rest are either curses or charms — we've countered them already."

A slow grin starts to curl on her mouth. "So, we have. We've done it!"

"Just in time too," He juts his chin towards the antique gold clock on the mantel. "Twenty-one hours left."

"Thank Merlin for that," Hermione drops her quill on the parchment, leans back against the base of the couch, and lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in, likely for the last three days.

For a little while after, they catch up. Hermione asks about Fleur, and thankfully, she's recovered well and is ready to resume fieldwork. When she asked, she didn't necessarily mean in terms of her being able to perform in her duties, but she doesn't fancy clarifying either, so she let's it be. Bill asks her about her and Ronald — she doesn't deign to answer him beyond pointing a sharp brow at him. He laughs at her when she chucks a throw pillow at him. They settle on discussing their plans for after the War, and Hermione, she forgot how much of a cynic she can be until she tells him she'll either be too busy rebuilding the Wizarding World after Tom's reign, or in Azkaban. She's happy he and Fleur want kids, though.

For the remaining nineteen-and-a-half hours, Hermione sits with Sirius in the War Room to go over Lucius' intel regarding The Testing Facility — it's pretty lame, in her opinion. There's not much they didn't already know; capture of Muggles and Muggle-borns, inscribed Runic commands for obedience and power transfer, torture to bend them to Voldemort's will, and as suspected, Snape and Nott. Sr run it.

She's never felt so fulfilled or been this satisfied by a death than Nott's. Even the smallest hitch in His plans is enough to keep her thrilling on it for days.

There's very little mentioned about the bones she saw; different aspects of Magical Creatures fused together, as well as the vials — but from what she can tell, so far Snape and Nott have been unsuccessful in their endeavours. 

Hermione flips over the parchment, studying the Rune's further. Her stomach twists with revulsion as she reads over them. There's a sentence between the power transfer details, that Lucius made sure to note as Snape's statement, regarding You-Know-Who 'wanting the power back.'

He's so evil and twisted, that this must be his idea of 'taking back' the power of Muggle-Born's, as he truly does believe it's stolen magic. Hermione could engrave Rune's on any witch or wizard, whether pure-blood or half-blood, and the effects would still be the same. There's no such thing as 'stolen magic'. Her teeth grit so hard, she worries over cracking them.

There's a brief paragraph detailing some of the Objects and Artefacts He is using to transfer their power into — so far, successfully, he's placed magic into jewellery (one ring and two bracelets) that gifts the user a boost to their own magic. Spells performed will be increased by five times the original casters potential — and human bones, to place around his hidden location of 'a special item worth guarding' as per Lucius' description, to offer extra security.

Hermione and Sirius took the special item to be Nagini.

They decide to cross that bridge when they come to it.

A more concerning bit of information is the lengths Voldemort is going to to catch her; the bounty is real, but little is known as to why he wants her so badly, despite this perplexing intrigue he has for her now.

Known victims of failed Testing is currently ninety-seven. Hermione almost vomits when she reads on the causes, the vicious, heinous, and despicable ways they were cut into and explored as if they meant nothing.

And finally, the last string of information on the parchment; Voldemort has a Testing Subject that he's devoted a lot of resources on. A beast, Lucius calls 'it'. They assume it's a Dark Creature, and too further theorise, they wonder if they're either combining species, adding abilities that aren't inherent or innate, or finding ways to manipulate them. It would make sense if they are combining DNA.

She won't know until tomorrow night when her and Neville investigate — then, hopefully, burn the whole Facility down.

With fourteen-hours left, Hermione takes the proffered Dark Objects and Dark Curses book from him, and continues to study alone in her bedroom.

There's so many vile and cruel Dark Artefacts that Hermione hasn't heard of before, that she's concerned by the effect of them if they ever reach the battlefield, if Voldemort should so happen to use them, combined with Muggle-born power for a boost.

She makes a mental note to have the DA or the resistance track them down where possible, anything to keep them away from Death Eaters.

The Dark Curses section is about the same as any other book she's read from. Frankly, it's pretty tame — she studied Gormlaith Gaunt's tome for over a year, and her idea of Dark curses make this book look like fairytale magic. It starts with listing the more basic curses, explaining the consequences of them, and how to effectively perform them. 

All in all, the book is a dead end.

Just as she raises her wand to extinguish the candles, there's a quiet knock on her door. Several light taps and shifting shadows in the gap at the bottom. She quickly shoves the book in her nightstand drawer, covers it with loose papers and another book, then waves her wand to open the door.

Across the threshold, Ron is holding a half-empty beer bottle in one hand, and his wand in the other.

Hermione arches a brow. "Are you alright, Ron?"

"Yeah," He blinks several times, then clears his throat. "Mind if I come in?"

She side-glimpses her window, where the moon is way past it's apex, then decides that nothing good can come from Ron being in her room this late, half sloshed, and apparently, testy.

"I was just about to go to sleep, actually," She answers flatly, giving him a small smile. "We can talk in the morning, if you want?"

He seems disappointed by her answer.

"I just—" He curls his fingers into a fist, then rests it on her doorframe. Tense. His wand is aimed towards her room. "I wanted to apologise for earlier. Well, for my behaviour towards you lately. I'm just having a hard time with how... you handle things."

Her brows hike up her forehead and disappear into her hairline.

She wasn't expecting that, at all.

"Thank you, for saying that, Ronald," She smiles with a bit more meaning. "You know, I only do it to keep you all safe—"

"I know," He closes his eyes and exhales. "I'm trying to get it, Ginny keeps threatening me with her bloody stupid Bat Bogey Hex if I 'don't get the fuck over it soon'. She's a right bully, that one."

Hermione chuckles lightly. "She's not wrong, though. The quicker you get over it, the quicker we can be friends again, alright? I'm not gonna back down on this, and I need you—"

"You do?" His lips part, but his eyes brighten.

"— to get over yourself," She trails off, after she watches his eyes dampen again. Whoops. She rolls her eyes fondly. "And I suppose I need my best friend sometimes, too."

"Well, alright then," He grins. "Mostly, I came here to tell you to be careful tomorrow. That I can't lose you too."

Hermione tilts her head and smiles warmly. "Ditto."

Under the cover of nightfall, Hermione and her group of DA and resistance fighters Apparate into Falmouth, just outside of the Anti-Apparition wards around Pendennis Castle.

Hermione vaguely remembers visiting here as a child with her parents; it was a lovely weekend away in Cornwall. Falmouth was once a popular coastal tourist attraction — now, it's just another shell of what once was.

No-one visits here anymore, not after the raids. The population is abysmal, and the Death Eaters have ravaged it into what one can only be described as a destitute location. She doesn't dwell on it, not now.

Hermione sends several scouts ahead of them, heavily disillusioned, whilst she tries to figure out if there's a way to break the Anti-Apparition wards. She sweeps her wand across the space in front of her and casts a detection spell.

Caster-broken only, any attempts will lead to a Caterwauling Charm triggering.

It doesn't effect their plans, but it would have been easier to Disapparate the prisoners from inside, rather than out.

She hears a quiet whistle from beyond the wards. The signal. Hermione glances over her group, forty-two members, with Tonks and Neville at her back, then nods her head.

They each cast their strongest Disillusionment, Silencing Charm on their feet, then cross the boundary.

Hermione stays at the head of them. All she can hear is the faint trace of heavy, nervous breathing behind her, whilst they approach the prison wards.

She casts the detection spell again — the basic wards, the curses, and the magical traps to cause harm upon the unknown entities crossing are all banished within a minute. She's never cast and muttered spells as fast as she is doing now.

Hermione motions her wand in a tight anti-clockwise circle, then slashes her wand downwards in one fast cutting strike, and abolishes the Runic Command anchoring the wards permanently. She can feel the hum of the magicks vibrate in the air in front of her, resisting, until the webbing cracks and shatters.

"Move," Hermione whispers, then Tonks and Neville repeat so the others in the back can hear.

As she's carefully climbing the hill, where the castle is perched atop, she casts a quick Homenum Revelio, alerting her to two guards at the main gate entrance, a further four just inside a long corridor, then several more on each floor.

Two quick stunners drop the first two. Tonks stays behind to bind and hide them.

Hermione double checks the main gate for any further protection measures, and with the all clear, she points her wand at the mechanism just inside the gates, and slowly moves the lever anti-clockwise. When it creaks just a little too loudly, Neville casts a Silencing charm on it.

When the gate opens, they move inside like a team of elite marines; quiet, efficient, deadly. They stick to the walls and shadows. Smaller groups of five break off and turn down several corridors, then proceed to investigate.

Hermione presses her back against a stone wall, then peers her head around the corner. The cold and the grit of the stone sink into her back, despite her robes, possibly due to the death and Dark magic swirling through every inch of the prison.

According to the blueprints, the majority of the prisoners are locked up on the second floor — the castle, still in ruins, has been charmed and transfigured to look similar to a Muggle Prison — the walls are grey stone, icy, the air itself feels deader than she first imagined it would. She's careful not to breathe too heavily, lest a guard see the puff of it in the air in front of her.

Two more stunners drop the next guards.

They climb the stairs two-at-a-time. Hermione can't be sure on how many are still covering her back, and who's stayed behind to secure the rest of the prison. She focuses on controlling her breathing, strengthening her own mental walls, and sticking to the plan no matter what.

She doesn't stop to think when she see's many of the resistance fighters curled up into balls inside their cells, she doesn't hesitate when she lays eyes on Goldstein, shrivelled up in the corner of his cell, trembling, bloodied, and covered in his own waste, and she doesn't spare another moment to study any other prisoners. She just needs to get them out.

She feels the brush of a breeze against her back when the Disillusioned group behind her all fan out, casting Alohomora's on the gates. It's at least a level four in strength, so some aren't able to open them — they're assigned to getting the prisoners out and Disapparating them back to Grimmauld instead.

Hermione taps her wand on the lock, and the gate clicks open. She darts down beside Goldstein, reassures him that it's The Order, then pulls him heavily onto his feet. He's so weak, limp, and injured, another shell of what once was. There's a large gash across his abdomen, leaking blood, with his ribcage protruding through infected flesh. When she manages to pull him out of the cell, she passes him onto a resistance fighter for side-along.

It takes twenty minutes, but they make easy work of the first prison.

Outside, Tonks and Angelina have all the stunned Death Eaters lined up side-by-side, bound and incapacitated. The loud simultaneous crack of Disapparition radiates through the field.

She casts another Revelation charm, indicating to her that the area is clear, and everyone got out safely. Tonks and Angelina give her a long look, and in return, she gives a short nod.

Avada Kedrava is shot from their wands three times each.

Leave no evidence behind.

Hermione Apparates to Wimborne with Tonks, whilst Angelina disposes of the bodies discreetly. They pop into existence just outside of Kingston Lacy Manor, a historical landmark that has been just as desecrated as Falmouth. It's a converted prison now. She assumes they chose this building for it's ties to ancient and ancestral magic, as they tend to strengthen wards, but Voldemort's magic corrupted them. 

There's so much Dark magic radiating from it, it's poisoning the air.

This town was destroyed months ago, enforced with Death Eater patrols, and used to set up shops (similar to Diagon Alley) to sell magical wares and potion ingredients. It's, essentially, a black market town for those brave enough to step foot into. Normally, there's guards and Death Eaters patrolling, and even the shop and market stall owners would capture and sell out a resistance member, but now, it's as hollow as the rest of Britain.

What they arrive into isn't what she expected. The wards have all been broken, so Bill must be preparing Old Amersham now, waiting on her presence to deal with it. They're stronger, due to the Professors being held captive there, but not as strong as Kent.

But here, there's firefight.

Her and Tonks dart straight across the short field towards the entrance, praying to Godric that whomever is fighting hasn't been given the chance to alert You-Know-who yet, and bursts through the front doors. They crack against the walls adjacent.

Hermione casts a shield around herself and Tonks when two red curses aim there way towards them. Hermione pushes Tonks out of the way, and into what, she assumes, used to be the entrance parlour room. She hears her growl lowly and disobediently at her, but she doesn't come back — whilst she's throwing her own curses, she hears Tonks' fade further into the Manor.

Hermione breaks through his shield with a concentrated Wingardium Leviosa, then crushes his body against the two opposing walls repeatedly. He wails in terror as his bones break and break, and finally, there's sickening squelching sounds. He drops, broken and bloody. To ensure he's dead, she approaches, rips off his mask (unfamiliar recruit — young, likely new) then slashes a Diffindo across his throat, so his head only hangs on by a tendril of flesh.

She races through the entrance foyer, up the Grand Staircase, which is now rotten, spoiled with blood, and has mangled bodies dangling from the banisters — some Death Eater, some resistance — then heads towards the Main Wing that houses the cells.

As Hermione follows the bend in the banister, the decorated wallpaper that has no business brightening a prison, she hears many sets of dragonhide boots stalk into the foyer, just at the foot of the staircase. At the opposite end of the hallway, she spots several resistance carrying prisoners in their arms, or guiding the ones that can still walk, albeit slowly. In total there's sixteen people heading towards the staircase.

Towards twelve Death Eaters.

Hermione scans the area, thinking fast.

There's an unlit chandelier dangling above them. A simple flick of her wand ignites the candles wicks, then another sharp slash detaches it from it's bracket. It drops heavily onto six of them — the candles tip, and the flames catch on their robes.

Hermione braces herself against the banister by curling her free hand so tightly around it, that her knuckles bleed of their colour. She holds her wand aloft, then charging her magical energy to levels she probably shouldn't, draws a circle pattern above her.

The ground starts to rumble. The Death Eaters, just barely able to extinguish the fires, stand stock still as a boundary is cast around them, in the same shape of her wand movements.

She can feel the heavy pull on her magic, scorching within in her chest, as the ground cracks, and splits open, in the same circular shape. Their screams, they fade and fade, until she hears nothing but the ground re-sealing. All that's left is a hole in the carpets.

Once Hermione is certain the resistance and prisoners make it down the staircase and out of the exit without further interruption, she turns into the Main Wing.

It's the most depraved looking area of the house. But it should be like this — it's similar to Malfoy Manor in where it shouldn't be dressed up in fine art and expensive décor. It should look as though it's damp, murky, and struggling to hold it's foundations. It's poison. It's dark, save for the odd torch flickering on the wall, and nothing but a eery feeling of despair in the air.

She approaches the cells.

Most of them are open, except for a few with strengthened Lock Charms. Hermione breaks them, pulls the prisoners out, and proceeds to hand them off to DA members in passing. She tries not to feel guilty when she shoves Dennis Creevey, bleeding heavily from his thigh, into Luna's arms as she rounds the corner.

There's no time to worry, not now. She can see to them when this is over, and they're all safely back in Grimmauld. She has to follow protocol.

As she's exiting The Manor, just fifty yards away from the edge of the Anti-Apparition wards, a sharp crack bursts in front of her, and she's sent hurtling back in a billow of thick smoke, dirt, and grass. Whomever has just Apparated in, directly in front of her, must have travelled so far, they left a small crater in the ground. Hermione crashes onto the grass with a sharp hiss. There's a slight shooting pain through her lower back that keeps her down for a long moments, before she pushes herself back up with a quiet wince.

When she see's a spark of red lancing her way, tunnelling the air around it, she jolts onto her feet, spins to the left to dodge the hex, then points her wand at—

No! 

No, not now!

It's him, again.

He's becoming tiresome really — but there he is, cracked mask and all. What does surprise her is that he's alone. That can either mean one of two things; he's been sent to investigate a breach in the wards and he hasn't had time to alert You-Know-Who for reinforcements, or they're focused elsewhere. Either Old Amersham or Kent.

The worst case scenario is Kent. She needs to get there quick, Bill needs her for the wards, they're too powerful for him to do alone. She prays to whatever God is left that he hasn't been ambushed.

Hermione isn't here for the kill, not now, she just needs to get to the Apparition point, and away from him. He surely can't know about their plans, perhaps one of the Death Eaters inside alerted him, rather than You-Know-Who.

There's no time to speculate.

The final wave of resistance and prisoners start funnelling through the exit as she whips hex after hex upon the Death Eater. They give them a wide berth, careful to avoid the duel, and make it to the Apparition point.

Instead of sending Avada after Avada, she casts Bombarda Maxima's straight into his shield, one after the other, to back him up towards the edge. She's not narrowing the distance down enough.

He times her perfectly, as though he knows her techniques to a tee.

Idly, she wonders who trained him, or if he really does just think like her. 

Every third Bombarda she casts, she uses his temporary breathlessness and shield recovery to whip her wand behind her shoulder, focus on the spell and the power she puts behind it, then cuts it forward to send a fourth and stronger explosion.

On her third charged spell, as fissures begin to crack and splinter through his shield, he steps his left leg forward, holds his wand in two hands above his head, then sends a vortex of small silver daggers through the air at breakneck speed. Hermione watches them as if in slow motion, then starts angling and moving her wand to disappear them.

Most of them are gone.

There's maybe four that she missed, that in the six seconds that was available to her to vanish them, still remain. Her eyes widen when they speed through the air towards her, and from what she can make out, two are aimed at her heart, and another at her head, and the final—

She feels a strong arm hook around her waist in the final second, spin her away from the sharp edges, whilst he deflects the blades. The final one slides across her upper arm, but there's no pain.

Hermione processes the next thirty seconds carefully, as Neville pins her behind his back and duels the Death Eater. There's the tiniest falter in his attack just after Neville protected her that she didn't miss — she assumes he is re-calculating, but there's still that slacked posture he has every time something happens that he didn't plan — when he didn't get the chance to kill her.

Neville is fierce, though. The Death Eater has to respond with his full strength, because he's fast, strong, and precise. She can see the effect her training has had on him — he moves constantly, even if just to side-step an oncoming curse, so he can send his own back with equal force.

He has something a Death Eater can never have — power fuelled by emotions. He's protecting Hermione, he doesn't need much more than that to heighten his power.

When the Death Eater's shield finally gives way and shatters, Hermione breaks out of Neville's hold, points her wand at the ground surrounding him, then pulls vines through the Earth that instantly wrap around his arms, legs, and across his torso. He's pulled to the ground in one fell swoop. He struggles against them whilst she and Neville advance towards him — but there's no sound coming from him beyond the jerk in his breath each time he tries to pull on his bindings.

Hermione tries to vanish his mask with a flick of her wand. It doesn't work. She drops down on her knees beside him to try and pry it from his face, but again, it doesn't move so much as in inch.

"No," Hermione growls lowly, then tries to pull at his mask again. "You charmed it on, seriously?"

Another sound doesn't leave his lips — and she lacks the time, and the will, to counter it. She finds herself uncaring of his identity at this point, what good will knowing do her? He's likely just a bitter old man that can't stand her blood. That envisions this same dystopian future that Voldemort does. He's not worth the dirt on her boots, never mind her time.

She stands up, faces Neville, and wraps her arms around his neck. Impulse, bad idea, but he saved her life — and she's grateful and relieved for it. Even if the reminder of how wrong it feels is all she can comprehend, like it shouldn't be his arms around her.

He holds her like he's worried she's going to slip through his grasp and never return to him. Not through death, but through her own lack of feelings for him. He wraps his arms around her waist, and she's so small in his grip, that his hands can cover her ribcage on the second loop.

"Thank you," Hermione breathes into the hollow space of his clavicle, allowing herself this one selfish comfort. "Are you alright?"

He nods his head. She can feel the ends of his hair brush against her cheek.

Breaking the forced moment, is Bill's Patronus — a white whirl of light dances around her, then materialises into the shape of a wolf. Hermione let's go off Neville, but he keeps an arm around her waist.

Compromised. He's compromised — Hermione's a fool.

"Hermione," The wolf relays in Bill's voice. "Third is done. Meet me at—"

She waves her wand and banishes the Patronus before it can say 'Kent'. She doesn't want the Death Eater to know.

"I have to go," Hermione says hurriedly to Neville, pulling herself free from his arm. "Finish up here, I'll meet you later for—"

Neville snatches up her hand, tugs her back into him in a spin, and crashes his lips on hers. Oh Gods. She braces herself with her hands on his chest, and leans into it a little. It's not a sweet kiss, it's a Don't Die kiss. It's a I Hate To leave You kiss. It's a I Wish There Was More Here kiss.

And Hermione, she let's him have it, because he deserves it. She drinks in every moment of their mouths moving together as if she can get drunk on his taste alone. Beneath the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, there's fire and devotion, and something rougher. She's a fool, but it's an indulgence she allows herself as she just nearly died, might still do tonight, Neville could, and it'd be selfish to not let him have it.

Or so she'll tell herself when she will, one day, drop her walls, and let the guilt in.

Behind her, there's an almighty, rough scream. Not a pained scream, it doesn't sound like agony or imminent death. It's pure ice cold rage. It's deafening. It feels the like space around her is vibrating from it.

She hears the snap of her vines, of the ground rumbling, and the break in her magic. Raw fury takes shape and blasts through her. There's so much magic, it momentarily steals her breath away.

Fuck, it was him.

Neville releases his grip of her, shoves her back with his hands on her hips, and directs her to the Apparition point, just as The Death Eater stands up. Hermione can feel his ire, his Dark magic, his endless waves of conviction thrumming from him.

"GO!" Neville yells at her, as he dives away from a flurry of curses. "Don't worry — GO!"

Hermione doesn't hesitate; she squeezes her wand, crosses the boundary, and Disapparates.

Hermione arrives at Minnis-Bay a few seconds later, fully prepared to face an onslaught of Death Eaters — she has to assume the Death Eater called in reinforcements — but so long as Neville can keep him distracted long enough for them to break through the wards, then she can handle incoming newer recruits easily enough.

Kicking off too a full sprint across the sand, Hermione races to the waters edge, and stares out into the sea. There's nothing there. No island, no Bill, no prison, only the flicker of magic just a few feet into the surface of the water.

She soaks her boots and her charmed jeans as she makes for the boundary. Concealment spell. Nothing that will alert the prison, it's just to keep the location hidden from view, mostly from Muggles.

When she steps through it, she finds Bill, standing just a few feet away, up to his knees in water. He has his hands in the air, one holding his wand, as he works through the wards. Hermione can sense the strength of them without having to cast a detection spell.

Bill jerks his head towards her defensively, dropping his arms, and pointing his wand at her. After a long moment, recognition flickers across his eyes, and his shoulders drop with relief.

"Thank Merlin, Hermione," He says with a small smile, then continues with the wards. "I've broke the basic wards. It's the last of the charms and curses, then the Runes, they're too strong."

She trudges through the water and stops beside him, giving herself only a few seconds to recognise the pant to her breathing, the ache in her joints, the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat from magical exertion, before she raises her wand and her hand, and starts to murmur spells.

The wards resist them for a long while. Ten minutes in, they start to worry. They're able to smash through the cursed barriers and the Cave Inimicum after eight minutes of repeatedly casting into them. But three minutes later, many failed attempts at carving the Runes, they can't drop the command.

"No," Hermione hisses, letting her hands drop and curl around her knees. She bends over and tries to restore order to her breathing. "We need — to think quickly, Bill. There — was Death Eaters at the last prison. Tom's Right-Hand too, he'll — have back up here in no time."

She struggles to get her words out without panting.

Bill pushes his hands through his hair and shakes. "Alright, alright — shall we try a convergence? I know the Runes are right, but they might be too big for us too handle separately. We underestimated them."

Hermione stands up straight, then slowly glances around the length of the wards. Each structured web of magicks reflects in the moonlight. The horizon, it's a sight to behold. The stars and the constellations dance and shine relentlessly above them, each one casting their light upon the wards.

They are big.

And Bill is probably right. Wards this size would take a whole team at least a few hours to break through them. But a convergence? Damn. They run the risk of magical depletion. And with her next assignment to infiltrate Hogwarts, she'll need all the energy and power she can get.

Even now, she can feel bruises forming across her body, there's the sting of open wounds, the drench of her blood coating her shirt from her abdomen, the slight trembling of her form, and the nausea deep in her stomach. She's already worn herself down to the point she's broaching on weak. She needs some strength for Hogwarts...

But without Kent, Hogwarts won't happen. She'll just have to get through it. 

She has potions, she can manage it.

"Alright," She exhales.

She unsheathes her dagger from her thigh holster, presses the edge of the blade to her palm, and a swipes a cut down the middle. Blood seeps from the wound slowly, not deep enough for any real pain. She hands over the dagger to Bill and waits whilst he repeats the process.

"Ready?" He asks, then extends his hand out towards her.

For an answer, she clasps her hand in his, holds tightly, then closes her eyes. It's mostly about permission, this form of magic boost, she has to let his magic and hers twine together and converge. And it's so easy with Bill to let it happen.

She can feel the core of her magic deep within her soul, the worn thing it is now, respond and latch onto the floods of it from Bill's. She imagines it to look the same as a Vow, swirls of gold magic lacing together, sealing them, and fuelling them.

Oh, and it's a rush. She can feel the boost sparking and crackling through her fingers, through their conjoined hands, and emitting from her body. The magic is like a breeze wisping around them, through them, carrying it through the large expanse of sea around them.

They open their eyes, point their wands at the wards, and carve.

The Runes scribe in a dazzling gold, pure and untainted magic, and by the time the fourth is complete, they've muttered the incantations under their breaths, and the wards come to life.

They don't resist.

They vanish as if they weren't there in the first place.

They both take a deep breath, release each others hands, and take in the scene before them; the first problem she encounters is the dementors. There's at least six hovering and floating around the prison, and there's Death Eaters patrolling the edge of the island.

The island itself appears to be nothing more than a barren wasteland. There's no natural life thriving, only skeleton trees, dirt in place of grass, grimy water crashing across the edge, and a desolate space around the prison.

The prison itself isn't as terrifying as Azkaban, it lacks the ability to instil instant fear, terror, and ice in ones being, but it's still just as void. It's in the shape of a tall rectangle, with sharp edges, black walls, and dead ivy with down the sides. The froth of the hightides skirt across it's base and curves upwards, only to crash back down as if it can't stand to touch something so unnatural.

Hermione and Bill Disillusion themselves with as much concentrated magic as they can put behind it, then Apparate to the island. When they're successful in relocating to the island, her theories confirming no Anti-Apparition wards is proven correct — Voldemort and his servants wouldn't waste time with boats, flying, or swimming across to reach the prison, they'd rather use an extensive amount of wards to protect it than lose the ability to pop over.

Hermione appears behind the first Death Eater and plunges her knife into the base of his skull. He dies instantly, no screams to alert any others. His blood sprays across her face, neck, and her sternum, through her shirt.

She uses her wand to careen him straight into the water. She banishes his blood from the dirt.

No evidence.

She moves onto the next, keeps herself low, then shoots an Avada at him, straight into his back. No sound, no evidence. In the distance, whilst she heads towards the main gate, she can hear the resistance Apparating in.

Bill meets her at the path that leads to the main gates, and whereas he stuns his mark, Hermione uses the Cutting Curse so strongly, she decapitates her target. For his part, Bill doesn't act surprised or disgusted, nor does he say anything to her or flinch.

He likely would if he knew his mark will be killed by an Order member as soon as Kent is liberated.

They cast another detection charm, and after finding only three basic wards, they break them, then enter in through the walnut oak double doors. It's such a medieval looking prison, it makes it easier to invade.

Before they enter, Hermione turns around to register the distorted air surrounding the disillusioned DA and resistance behind her. She can't tell exactly how many there are, but she can fathom a guess of at least twenty. And she can still hear the ongoing cracks of Apparition at the edge of the island.

Ready, they cross the threshold, and race straight through the main corridor. According to the blueprints, there's ten levels. Each cell has a prisoner, some doubled up, so they have a lot to get through. Every raid that has occurred over the past year and a half has saw many of their fighters captured, and they're all imprisoned here. It'll boost their armies abundantly. 

The first team break off to the right and scour the ground floor. Another team does the same with the left. Hermione would have preferred them to use weapons to disarm (or preferably maim and kill) the Death Eaters that come in their paths, rather than their wands, but they refused. She's still internally rolling her eyes, but she can't necessarily force them to go against their beliefs, so when she hears the start of duelling beyond the stone walls, she isn't surprised.

But she is wary.

Stealth would have been preferable. 

Hermione heads up the long, spiral staircase to the tenth floor. It's the most secure and well-guarded, so the prisoners must be high ranking Order members. She suspects she'll find Aberforth, Degalus, and Hestia up there.

She throws hexes down the cut off to the floors, within the archways, when she see's three Death Eaters patrolling, then proceeds to climb the stairs.

A part of her knew that this was too easy.

As Hermione reaches the top of the staircase, runs through the small, dark corridor towards the cells, she makes the foolish mistake of not casting any detection spells. She triggers a loud Caterwauling Charm that pierces her ears so sharply, she has to cover them to regather her bearings. She winces and pushes herself against the wall beside her when the alarm still ruptures her eardrums.

The ringing helps. It drowns out the wailing, the constant pressure in her head, and allows her to drop her hands.

She imagines a multitude of alerts have been sent to Voldemort at this point, too.

Screaming erupts from the lower levels of the prison when the charm reaches them.

"Fuck," She hisses, then takes off at top speed.

No time to waste. Assuming You-Know-Who has been alerted, they'll have exactly ten minutes to get as many out as they can before The Death Eaters from France will start portkeying in. It'll turn into a massacre, then.

She ignores the buzzing in her ears, the smell of damp, blood, and rotten flesh permeating through the air, as she reaches the end of the corridor. She casts a Lumos when the faint flicker of light from the torches fade to nothing.

The alarms start to fade into the distance, the further she moves down the corridor.

Not only have the prisoners here been made to suffer through torture, neglect, and isolation, but in sensory depravation, too. She can hear low moans of pain, groaning, and dry-heaving as she walks the width of five cells.

She sends out several balls of light from her wand, and hovers them across the walkway.

Hermione clasps a hand over her mouth when she opens the first cell; inside, Elphias Doge is nothing but a mutilated corpse. He's hunched up in a ball, his arms hanging loosely around his centre, as if he was trying to stop his innards from pouring out. It didn't work.

She opens the second cell with the same expectations as the first, but finds, instead, Hestia rocking back and forth on her cot, shrouded in darkness, and murmuring incoherently to herself. Her hair has been ripped from her scalp, mostly near her temples, as if she's held on for dear life. In the cover of shadows, she can't make out any further injuries.

There isn't even a single window in the cell.

Hermione swallows thickly, then takes several slow steps forward. "Hestia?"

No response.

"Hestia? It's me," Hermione reaches out to take her hand. "Hermione Granger, do you remember me?"

Her eyes seem to flicker more frantically as she registers Hermione's voice — she snaps her gaze onto her, then her hand, and now that's she present enough to register another presence in the cell, Hermione grasps her hand, pulls her up gently, then takes her onto the corridor. She's shaking in her arms. She only ever whimpers.

Hermione unlocks the third cell and finds Aberforth in a similar condition, though he's more coherent than Hestia. His injuries are more physical, than mental, but there's still a hollow vacancy in his eyes that is unmissable.

"Aberforth," Her voice registers in him. He stares at her as if he's trying to believe she's actually here. "We have to go. We have minutes until the Death Eaters arrive."

He nods his head shortly.

Hermione takes his hand, then pulls him up, only for his knees to buck, and a guttural roar to rip from his throat. But there's no time to worry about pain. She has a whole resistance to think off.

"Hermione?" She hears a familiar voice call out to her. "Are you here? Hermione!"

She breathes a sigh of relief when she hears Tonks' voice approaching her.

For once, she's happy Tonks feels the need to constantly seek her out and cover her.

"Here!" She calls back. "I'm here — I need help."

Tonks isn't Disillusioned. Tonks is covered in so much blood, it seems the only stretch of skin Hermione can see is over her eyes, where she's most likely wiped it away to see. She's shivering slightly.

Dark magic.

"I need you to side-along Hestia and Aberforth to Grimmauld," Hermione says, when Tonks is in front of her. "I need to get the other two out."

"I'll be back in a few minutes," She responds sternly, then Disapparates with them.

Firefight breaks out throughout the prison. The walls shake with the constant barrage of spells. Some of the Death Eaters still in Britain must have arrived.

Hermione, starting to feel her heart in her throat from the rising dread, unlocks the fourth cell. She can her the scrape of her boots on the stone floors as she steps inside cautiously.

The Lumos ball shows Degalus decomposing on his cot, his head dangling over the edge and crushed against the floor. His skull has split, and around him, there's a large body of dried, congealed blood. Hermione closes her eyes for long moments, hating the failure, the inability to act any sooner, and the crushing weight of death bearing down on her chest.

When she opens her eyes, they're glazed over.

The fifth cell, the one she has no intel on at all, possibly a newer inmate, takes a lot more to unlock than an Alohomora. She has to cast a detection charm on the lock, only to realise it's warded.

Hermione frowns at the readings. They're not as strong as the prisons overall wards, but it's still a lot for one single cell.

"Hello?" Hermione leans closer to the bars and tries to get a look in. "Hello? Is there anyone in there?"

She squints her eyes, looks deep into the cell, and even with the Lumos, she can't see any movement. She steps back, flicks through the readings, and see's a Concealment charm used in order to hide the contents of the wards.

Hermione shakily raises her wand and her hand, and sends a barrage of counter-spells into the wards that Bill taught her. The resistance is enough to break a sweat along her brow, but after a few minutes, the lock clicks.

The gate squeaks open.

With a large diagonal swipe of her wand, she cancels the Concealment charm on the cell.

Immediately, there's a loud shriek and a constant get the fuck away from me, get out, no, don't touch me, screaming at her from the farthest and darkest corner in the cell. The voice, though croaky and broken, likely from the screaming, still sounds familiar. It's silky, there's a thick accent, but she can't make it out through the hoarse, dryness of her throat.

"It's okay," Hermione reassures her softly. She slides her wand back into her forearm holster, and holds her hands up. "It's okay. My name is Hermione Granger. Have you heard of me?"

There's a deafening silence for a few moments, then a sharp inhale.

"H—He— Hermione?" The girl, she sounds so young, so broken. "From — ze Order?"

Hermione's heart stops, turns to ice, then sends shock horror blazing through her veins. She smacks her hand on her mouth and pushes hard against her lips. No, no, no — she can feel tears prickling behind her eyes. With a wave of her hand, the Lumos ball floats in and hovers between her and—

No.

A single tear escapes her eye. "Gabrielle?"

She whimpers and turns away from the light, shielding her eyes from the brightness as if it burned her, and cowers back into the corner.

Fuck, there's so much blood on her — she's wearing a t-shirt that was, at one point, white. Now, it's mostly red, black, and grey. There's tears in the fabric from either a Cutting Hex or blade. And her face, it's swollen over her left eye, and there's a gash in her cheek. How long could she have possibly been here for Fleur or Bill not to notice? Couldn't have been long, days maybe? She's not long had her fifteenth birthday...

Hermione's thoughts stop dead.

What Hermione see's next banishes the sadness and replaces it with a rage and hate she didn't think herself capable off. But whatever emptiness she had in her chest, obscured by occlumency, fills with depthless malice and cold fury. 

Her jeans, equally as dilapidated, are torn in the centre and coated in blood. The bile rises so far up her windpipe, she can feel the acid burn at the back of her tongue.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione murmurs, sounding torn and horrified. She slowly reaches down and carefully pulls her into her arms. "I'm not going to hurt you. No-one's going to hurt you again, I swear it. But I need to get you out of here."

Gabrielle nods her head fervently, repeatedly, and at the concept of her release, breaks down into a frenzied crying. Her tears soak through Hermione's robes. She keeps her firmly pressed to her side and supported in her free arm as she gets them out of the cell.

Hermione tries to Apparate — but nothing.

They must have put Anti-Apparition wards up at some point in the last five minutes. The forces from France must be starting to arrive.

Her heart is pounding in her chest for how angry and vengeful she feels. The adrenaline, the vivid imaginations of the blood soaked horrors she fully intends to inflict upon anyone that should get in her way replays in her mind on a loop, but above all, the unwavering protection she has for this sweet girl, fuels her.

She's trembling with her.

Hermione helps her down the staircase one slow step at a time, each whimper, sob, or groan that leaves her lips is like shrapnel to her heart. She hates this war, despises these vile, filthy, horrible Death Eaters that think they can do whatever they please to someone innocent.

A hex whizzes past her face, just a hairsbreadth away from her cheek, and Hermione, she see's red.

Approaching from the third floor corridor at a fast pace, is six Death Eaters. Her magic is so charged, it's reacting around her. The walls crumble and chip. The torches shake.

"Close your eyes," She whispers to Gabrielle.

When she feels her head buried in the crook of her neck, Hermione points her wand and, nonverbally, lands a Bombarda Maxima centre sternum at the first Death Eater. It burrows in his chest, he flies backwards in a mess of flesh, blood, and bone, taking two others with him in the shockwave.

She deflects a Curse, and throws it to another. By the time another hex is shot, she's split one in half with a strike of her wand, and decapitated another. The other two are getting closer, but they're hesitant. Fear.

She levitates a body in the path of an Avada, then flings the corpse at him. He's sent back, and the sixth is killed with an Avada.

Without the full control of her occlumency walls, she can feel the splinter of her soul, the ice and the darkness that claws it's way through her, and the feeling of despair that seeks to crush her.

It doesn't bother her for a second. She'll use it.

She makes it to the ground floor with Gabrielle unharmed. Only seven more Death Eaters needed disposing off. 

Once they reach the exit, Gabrielle hides her head in Hermione's shoulder again when she see's more Death Eaters running up the dirt path.

Hermione points her wand at the ground and, internally, she's screaming so harshly, so loudly, that her magic sends shockwaves through the Earth, they move and ripple towards the Death Eaters. They won't die, but they'll be knocked off their feet long enough for her to finish them. She's quite fond of the Liquid Glass curse; watching their blood turn to hot, molten glass, melting them from the inside out, brings her a great sense of satisfaction that she doesn't at all feel ashamed about.

She carries Gabrielle towards the edge of the beach.

Bill looks at them from the water, where she assumes he's trying to Disapparate.

He narrows his eyes, observing her closely, then he pales and screams upon recognition, "Gabrielle!"

Hermione almost breaks down when she see's him frantically charge towards them, tears spilling down his cheeks, and his eyes go so wide, she thinks they're going to bulge from their sockets.

"You need to get her home, Bill," Hermione tells him, her voice soft, contradicting the unending ire in her expression. "I'm going to get everyone out. Alright? Can you do that?"

He nods his head and cradles Gabrielle in his arms.

"Mione," He says, his voice shaky and breathy. "The water — couldn't break the Anti — Apparition point — safe."

Hermione nods, then returns to the prison. She's pulling herself through the crowds of escaped prisoners and Death Eaters, stepping over bodies and running through streams of blood. There's so much movement around her, she can only differentiate the Death Eaters from the resistance by the masks.

She hits any Death Eater that comes in her way. 

Bombarda.

Avada.

Suffocatus.

Sectumsempra.

Avada.

Avada.

Dagger to the heart, torn through his ribcage, and skewering his kidney.

Bombarda maxima.

Blood Boiling Hex.

Liquid Glass Curse.

She's hit in the back.

Her world is spun off its axis.

Hermione lunges forward when the pain erupts, as if lightening has struck her between her shoulder blades with a sharp, electrical crack. She falls and rolls, coughing and straining against the white-hot pain.

She squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself onto her knees. She coughs and coughs into her palms until spots of blood rip from her lungs and onto her skin.

Amongst the chaos, she can feel him.

Hermione slowly slides her line of sight onto the Death Eater with a crack in his mask. His robes are billowing around him, his wand is pointed directly at her, and she should feel angry—

She's not. Sorrow floods her when she realises she hasn't seen or heard Neville in the prison once.

Hermione gasps and leans back onto her haunches, watching him with crazed eyes, as he spits a Sectumsempra at her. She blocks it with a sharp wrist movement.

"Did you kill him?" She asks, too quiet that she thinks he didn't hear her. She jabs her wand forward and lets out an Avada. "DID YOU KILL HIM?"

She viciously shoves down any connection she may feel to pain, and flies to her feet. She forgoes any spells or curses she has on the tip of her tongue and sprints towards him. She must look deranged and feral, blocking and deflecting his spells, baring her teeth and racing towards him as fast a shooting bullet, then tackling him to the ground with one dive.

His back hits the floor with a loud thud and Hermione looms over him, her thighs bracketing his hips, as she brings fist after fist down upon his mask.

"YOU KILLED HIM!"

Her knuckles split and bleed as she hits him again and again. "DID YOU KILL HIM?"

His head twists from left to right when her fist connects with his mask, but he doesn't try to stop her. She doesn't care enough to read into it. She just wants to hurt him more than she's ever wanted to hurt someone before.

It's all his fault. Everything is his fault. He needs to hurt as much as she does.

And she has no compunctions over delivering it to him.

"WHERE'S NEVILLE?" She screams, her knuckles hurt, spittle leaves her mouth, and she pulls her arm back and drives a heavy blow to his jaw. "WHERE IS HE?"

He should be weak. He's not. He grips her hips so painfully, she can already feel the bruises forming.

He whips his head up, meets her face-to-mask, and roars, "HE'S ALIVE!"

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, and the sudden intake of air makes her head sway as if she's drank too much firewhisky and she can't balance herself. Her chest, his, are rising and falling so fast, so laboured, she thinks she can hear a mix of their heartbeats between them.

Her shoulders slump, and giving herself a long moment to catch her breath, she pulls her wand from her holster and drives it under his chin. He barely flinches, even as he inclines his head to open the gap between his jaw and throat.

"If I ever see you again, I'll kill you," She says through gritted, bared teeth. Her conviction deadly.

Hermione pushes him back, bolts up, and races towards the Apparition point. She's exhausted, injured, leaving behind a fight that she can't be sure who's winning, but when she reaches the water, she trudges through it as far as she can, spins and Disapparates to The Forbidden Forest.

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest, as bleak as always, fills Hermione with a different sort of apprehension.

It's quiet — too quiet. As though it's forcibly trying to be.

Still heavily Disillusioned, she wonders if Voldemort has upped the dark creatures guard in the forest to make up for the lack of Death Eaters. There's barely a rustle in the trees or break in the foliage, nothing.

It's all very worrying.

But too further add to her worry, it's been fifteen minutes, and Neville still hasn't arrived. She has to resist pacing, else said dark creatures might pick up on her footsteps and maul her. Instead, her anxiety has left her with fingernails bit down to the quick.

She doubts she'll be able to fully focus on her Occlumency whilst she's still waiting on Neville.

He wouldn't lie to her, would he? Her haunting Death Eater. He wouldn't claim Neville's alive, if he isn't. She's certain he wouldn't — not when she was minutes away from breaking his face. It felt good to finally express her anger with him through physical blows, rather than a back and forth duel that barely ever allows them to hit each other. Any moves they make against each other, that actually land, is usually just dumb luck.

But feeling the bones break under her fists, that was elation personified.

There's a crack of Apparition, a whispered Hermione? and quiet footsteps that banish her thoughts.

She spins around, and finally laying eyes upon Neville, looking a little worse-for-wear, but fully alive, floods her with relief. She breaks her Disillusion, but doesn't move.

She can't. She's fixed to the spot by the heat in his gaze, by his tense expression, and rigid form. He's clutching his wand at his side, his hand bloody, and leaking onto the handle of his wand.

"Mione," He breathes her name in relief.

He closes the distance between them in two heavy strides and draws her into his arms. She smiles on his shoulder and hesitantly loops her own around his neck.

"I thought you were dead," She murmurs, stroking two fingers along his shoulder. "What happened?"

"That Death Eater, he's a weird one," He speaks into her hair, his voice low. "He duelled me, tried to kill me, but eventually, he just stunned me. I thought he was maybe leaving me as pickings for another Death Eater. Tonks Rennervated me and got me out maybe a minute later — They're still at Kent."

"Update?" Hermione asks, releasing her arms from around his neck.

She inspects his injuries. There's a few deep cuts, swelling and bruising to his face, and lacerations and further bruising to his neck. She starts in healing him.

"Kent's a bloodbath, Mione," He tells her gravely. She taps her wand along his neck, muttering incantations. "Mostly Death Eater blood. Prisoners are all safely out and being treated at Grimmauld and St. Mungo's, but before I left, The Order, DA, and some of the resistance where still dealing with the Death Eaters. When I asked Ginny what was going on, she told me they're making a stand."

Whilst Hermione processes, she lifts up his shirt, just to above his ribcage, and starts knitting the skin back together with gentle motions from the tip of her wand.

She's relieved the prisoners are out. But that feeling is short lived when she comes to the conclusion that the battle is still raging on likely because of her mission here. They're keeping the Death Eaters distracted for as long as they can, so they don't interrupt her. They don't have much time.

Eventually, she nods, and finishes up by healing the swelling on his face. She opens her beaded bag, pulls out several replenishment potions, and shares them out between her and Neville.

She makes quick work of her own injuries; the cut in her palm, the bruising and scrapes on her arms, and the lacerations on her abdomen and thigh. She rolls up the short-sleeve of her t-shirt, points her wand at—

Hermione pauses, then frowns at the empty space on her upper arm. There should be a wound there, she's sure of it. The knife from the Death Eaters Conjuration spell...

No, she remembers it slicing her skin — but, she realises, there was no pain.

Shaking her head, she fixes her sleeve, and sums up her miscalculation as a side-effect of too much duelling. Honestly, so much was happening all at once, it isn't a surprise she thought it hit. It clearly didn't. She banishes the remaining thoughts from her head, and returns to the present.

"We need to go now," Hermione says, tapping her wand against a bruise on wrist. "We're wasting time."

"Got it! Let's go."

They make it through the Grounds relatively quickly. There's only five patrolling Death Eaters. They look more hurried and tense than normal, but she suspects that has to do with the Prisons Attacks, than anything occurring within Hogwarts.

The area feels off. There's still a niggling sense of uncertainty trying to break it's way through her walls — but due to limited time, she repeatedly shoves it to the back of her mind.

They cross through the Astronomy Tower, thanking Godric the wards are still compromised, quietly make their way through the DADA tower, and across the suspension bridge, before they set off for Ravenclaw's tower.

Hermione notices there are no dementors patrolling the skies tonight, which doesn't surprise her, they're probably at the prison, as she gets midway across the suspension bridge. She looks up to the clouds and frowns at the moon, just a slither away from full. Several grey clouds hover at the edges of the moon, dimming it's beams.

Hermione hears the same melancholic tune she did during her last visit here; the Grey Lady, still floating through the tower. They follow her voice, race through the long hallway, and come out on the roof terrace, overlooking the Paved Courtyard.

Helena is staring longingly, vacantly, at the night skies, her mind a far ways from here. She's a true beauty, Hermione notices, in spite of her ghostly nature. She's read many texts regarding the history of her and her mother, but none quite held true in there descriptions of her.

After finding Neville's Disillusioned form by tracking the faint distortion in the air, she taps two fingers on his shoulder, then waits for him to stand guard at the hallway entrance.

With a quick breath, Hermione breaks her Disillusion, then clears her throat.

Helena turns slowly to face her, her eyes sad, and her expression solemn, a stark opposite to the bright shimmer in her ethereal form, refracting the light from the moon and the stars.

"Helena, isn't it?" Hermione asks quietly, keeping a level tone. "The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower."

The only response she offers is a twitch of her jaw.

"You spoke with my friend, Harry Potter, a little while ago now—" Hermione cuts herself off and swallows away the wistfulness in her voice. "It was Luna Lovegood that sent him to you. Do you remember?"

Helena returns her gaze to the clouds. "I remember."

She nods shortly. "I assume you know why I'm here."

"You're too late," Helena snaps, her eyes scaringly wide. "My mother's diadem is lost."

"It's always been lost," Hermione can't help the retort. "But you know where it is. You told Harry, before the explosion, but not in time — the fires grew too strong, didn't they? I need to know what you told him."

Without any warning, Helena flies at her, and stops just a mere inch away from Hermione's face. She widens her eyes, but doesn't flinch or move away. Hogwarts' ghosts have never unsettled her before, but she has to admit, Helena is terrifying.

"You're too late," Her facial features turn crazed, her eyes a deep black shade, as she bares her teeth. "He came for it! He took it, and now it is lost!"

Her brow dips. "What do you mean? Who took it? Helena, you have to help me—"

"A Death Eater—"

"No," Hermione murmurs under her breath.

"— With a crack in his mask and waves of dark energy pulsing from his soul," Helena says calmly, in a way that tells Hermione that she's not calm in the slightest. She turns away and hovers back to the window. "He came in the dark of the night, alone, returned to the Room of Hidden Things, took my mother's diadem, and I haven't seen it since. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must possess it again."

Hermione closes her eyes tightly, her hands balling into fists at her sides, trying to think. "Can you sense it? Is that something you can do? Is it still in Hogwarts?"

"I don't believe so."

"We're too late," Hermione says, mostly to herself.

She looks away, towards where Neville is standing guard, and tries to process and contemplate her next moves.

She, again, wishes she could feel anger towards him. She can't. She's just... resigned to him, to the fact he's sometimes lucky enough to be a step or two ahead of her. She just needs to outsmart him. If he took the diadem and it's no longer on the grounds, then she has to assume Tom has hidden it away as he did with Nagini. There's a dull spark of hope that he didn't hand it over to his master and he's keeping it for himself, possibly for leverage, or something or another.

But it's not likely.

All that's left is The Facility.

She sighs, then offers a nod to Helena. "Thank you for your help — and I am sorry, about your Mother's diadem. I can promise you that I'm going to do everything I can to finally destroy it."

Without waiting on a response, she returns to Neville's side, re-casts her Disillusionment, then heads back through Ravenclaw Tower.

She keeps her ears open and her awareness in overdrive as they surreptitiously move through the halls; they stick to the walls mostly, check around the edge, before turning around the corridor and racing through the shadows. Hermione notices the paintings are still, and mostly empty. The candles and torches seem dimmer than last time, as though the Dark magic and death permeating the air are suffocating the flames. She hears the occasional scuttle and scratching from mice and the whip of winds.

They reach the entrance to Gryffindor Common Room, the Fat Lady still removed beneath the charred and torn canvas.

Hermione holds onto her wand tightly. She can, again, hear the faint hiss from flames, stirring of potions in cast-iron cauldrons, charmed knives chopping ingredients, and, with her heart now nothing more than stone in her chest, the whimpers and groans of the Muggles and Muggle-borns inside.

She swallows thickly, takes several steps towards the wrenched open door, and peers her head in the gap.

It smells like potions, copper, the metallic tang of blood, and fire. She shoves down her trepidation, and determinedly enters.

The corridor is longer than she remembers, but she doesn't put it past Voldemort to use extension charms on the common room, just to further his petty and vindictive need to spite Harry and her Gryffindor friends. There's lit torches guiding the path to the main room.

Hermione has to close her eyes for long moments to steady her breathing, to ensure her walls are still up, that she's focused and rational, and not letting emotion drive her, otherwise she won't be able to save anyone—

And they do, they need saving. She dreads to open her eyes, she can't look at the room like this — this was once her home, and now, where there was once the warmth and comfort of roaring embers, dated and worn red couches and armchairs, the large stone fireplace, peeling red wallpaper, and dangling tapestries, is metal examination tables, similar to that of a morgue, walls painted in either deep black or clinical white, long wooden tables lining each wall, filled with cauldrons, potions, and there ingredients, shelves of dismembered remains, and bodies. Nine of them in this room alone. She assumes there's more in the dormitories.

Gods, she can't tell if they're alive or dead.

She takes a deep breath, opens her eyes, and lets them steel over.

She races to the first exam table where there is a young girl, no older than sixteen, lying with a gash in her sternum that's cut to the bone, and on it's surface, the etching of runes.

Hermione reaches for her wrist, presses two fingertips to her pulse-point, and confirms she's still alive. Her chest is barely moving, her limbs aren't twitching or moving, so she suspects she's stunned. She won't be able to tell the state she's in until she's Rennervated, and she can't risk letting her presence be known until the last minute.

"Neville," Hermione whispers. "Come here."

"What is it?" He asks softly, quietly, as he approaches. She can feel his arm brush against hers when he's next to her.

"Do you know any healing spells?" She asks, her eyes still inspecting the young girl. "Any that can heal wounds this deep?"

"Yeah, I think so," She can hear him rake his fingers through his hair and let out a sharp exhale. If she wasn't occluding, she'd likely be as reactive as he is. "I can heal her."

"Alright, thank you," She says, then moves onto the next.

Male, mid-twenties, assumed to be Muggle. He has the same open wound on his sternum, the same runes carved into the bone, and stunned. A quick theory tells her this is what Snape does to them before moving them onto the next phase of testing.

"I'm going upstairs," She says in a low whisper. "Heal as many as you can. Leave them stunned until the last minute."

Hermione darts from the common room, up the winding staircase to the boys dormitories, and reaches the second room. It's decorated the exact same as the common room.

Except there's more bodies up here — ten, she counts. There's more blood leaking from them and onto the tables, there's several splatters of it up the walls, and there's dried stains of it on the stone floors. It's what she expects from horror movies, not her former home.

She claps her hand over her mouth and nose when the smell hits her; rotting flesh, decomposing corpses, spoiled blood, pungent potion ingredients, and bodily fluids.

The groans and whimpers she heard earlier were coming from here. Some are twitching, others are deadly still, and several of them are writhing in pain.

She doesn't waste any time. She bolts to those that are still and inspects them first. The closest to her is a male, appearing to be in his early thirties, and torn up in ways unimaginable. There's ribbons of flesh hanging from his abdomen, giving access to his organs. No other runes besides the one on his sternum. What skin remains is either pale or a fatal blue shade. There's a number 132 tattooed onto his wrist, and his eyes, frozen open, are a light pink shade. He's dead.

Hermione checks the other still bodies, three more of them. Their numbers are different, their eyes varying in colours, but they are also dead.

She moves onto the girl twitching restlessly on a table closest to the southmost wall, and casts a quick diagnostic on her. Heart rate, blood pressure, and general vitals are low, but she is still alive. According to the age chart, she's twenty-three and Muggle-born. Her injuries are vast; nerve damage, assumedly from torture, kidney and liver damage, deep wounds to her abdomen, thigh, and sternum. Her blood has toxins running through it, and there's runic damage to her spleen and sternum.

Dark magic runs thick through her veins.

She casts a wordless Petrificus Totallus, then proceeds to heal as many wounds as she can. She focuses first and foremost on the gash in her thigh, along with the other smaller incisions on her calf, ankle, and the underside of her knee. She'll need to be able to move quick. The skin knits back together slowly, as though her body is repelling her magic. Once it works, she repairs the gash in her sternum. She attempts a cleansing spell on her blood but it doesn't work. The Dark magic won't allow it.

The diagnostic confirms her vitals are slightly improved, not by much, but enough to get her out of here. Ten minutes in total to heal her. Too long.

She repeats the process on the two other Muggle-born's, then forcing down her rising fear, she slowly walks towards the final two. The two that are writhing in pain.

Tears prickle in her eyes when she recognises the first patient; Justin Finch-Fletchley. She inhales a series of sharp, quivering breaths when she see's his injuries. They're worse than any other.

The usual wounds, nerve damage from the Cruciatus, the changed eye colour (his are a dark orange shade), the Runes on his sternum, and tattooed number on his wrist 97. He must have been here a long while. But there's also scarring on his forearms that look like burns, nicks over his pulse-point on his neck, and the blood poisoning seems to run deeper than that of the others. His skin is pale, mottled, but red in a lot of areas from irritation.

She won't know the full extent of the damage on any of the victims here until she can get them out.

"I'm so sorry," She murmurs breathlessly, pained, then proceeds to stun him.

Hermione blinks away the tears in her eyes, then slams an extra mental wall in place. She heals all surface wounds she can, frantically searches through the shelves for any healing or replenishing potions she can find, then tips them into his mouth, before reading his vitals on a diagnostic. Stable enough to move. Fifteen minutes in total to heal him.

She keeps her motives cold and detached as she moves across the room, to the westmost wall, and approaches the last table. She knows who it is, long before she see's his face. It takes every ounce of mental strength she has to look at him.

Collin Creevey.

He looks almost dead, despite his violent thrashing. He arches his back up into the air, his head banging against the table, as the poison moves through him.

Hermione doesn't hesitate to stun him. Anything to stop him from injuring himself further. Fuck, none of them deserve this. Everything inside of her goes hollow, as endless as a trench, as she further inspects his wounds.

He's so young and innocent, she feels ready to vomit at the sight of him like this, at the level of torture that has been inflicted upon him.

His eyes are now an emerald green, her diagnostic tells her that his overall body has eighty-percent of scars, cuts and wounds, his bones are brittle, and the runic magic is deep set into a least three different areas, including his heart. His number is 82. He's been here the longest.

She theorises the blood poisoning worsens due to fighting the magic of the Runes, as she earlier discovered during her first visit. This must be the result of refusing to relinquish his magic.

She heals him gently. She tucks his fallen strands of hair back and away from his eyes, she Scourgify's the blood coating his hospital gown and skin, and magically bandages his abdomen to keep everything in place.

His vitals are the worst.

She gently tucks her hand under his neck, tips his head back, and angles a Blood Replenishing Potion to his mouth.

"Finite Incantatem."

She'd know that silky, condescending voice anywhere. How she missed his footsteps descending the stairs from the girls dormitory (which, she only just realises, are now linked together for better access, she assumes), or the flick of his wand, or his general presence, she doesn't know, but—

Hermione gasps when her Disillusionment breaks and spins quickly, only to see an incoming streak of white aimed directly at her chest, hurl her way. She pushes herself forward, leaning over Colin to dodge, then sends a stunner towards—

His robes billow around him as he sweeps to the left to dodge her spells. He ducks around the room, showing only glimpses of black hair and matching robes, until he's pointing his wand directly at her throat.

"Miss. Granger. What on earth are you doing here?"

"What do you think, Severus?" She snaps at him, seething, as she raises her own wand on him. She presses the tip against his chest. "You did this — look at them!"

"Expelliarmus," Neville, still Disillusioned, catches Snape's wand in one quick motion.

Hermione sneers at him, drags her wand up to his throat, and watches him carefully.

"Mr. Longbottom, I presume?" He asks silkily, in a snide tone, as his eyes point down at her wand. He doesn't dare to flinch or move so much as a finger as Hermione backs him away from Colin. "I dare say I'm quite surprised by your... attendance here with Miss. Granger."

"General Granger to you, Snape," She spits the words acidly.

It's always been important to her to remind those in the Order or the resistance of her position, as most of them still think her a hopeless child, with her nose buried in a book, and unwilling to go to the lengths required to win the war.

Snape says her name as if he's still her potions Professor, berating her for being a know-it-all. She will not abide it, not after years of giving up everything she once knew. Who she was.

Hermione snarls. "You never told any of us how severe the situation here is. How could you do this?"

Hermione sends a low voltage Stinging hex through to his neck and watches him stumble back several steps, hissing through his teeth. He sharply flicks his head up, snaps his robes behind him, and strides towards her quickly.

"I wouldn't dare think about hurting her," Neville, suddenly visible, stands in front of her. His wand directed at the spot between his eyes.

Snape's cold, dead, calculating expression never wavers. "As I feared, If The Order found out a moment to soon about the dire nature of The Facility, then I knew this would happen."

Hermione glowers at him. "This isn't a moment too soon. This is far too late. Do you know how many have died? That you and Nott have murdered for these tests?"

"Of course," He drawls, his eyes flitting between her wand and Neville's. "I have also prepared my notes on how to counter most of the curses inflicted upon them—"

"But not the Runes," Hermione says sternly. Matter-of-factly. The disgust and loathing evident in her tone.

"No," He admits, still cold. Still calculating. "I'm afraid I have not yet been able to countermand them."

Hermione blinks slowly, trying to gather as much restraint as she can.

She fails.

"I should let you burn here," She bares her teeth, digging her wand further into the tender flesh of his neck.

"Mione," Neville murmurs to her, without breaking eye contact with Snape. "We need him. The curses—"

"Watch him!" Hermione snaps, not necessarily at Neville. "I'll get the notes from his office."

She casts a quick Incarcerous around his wrists, pinned to his back, before bolting towards the staircase. She hears mutterings in the distance Miss. Granger, NO, Do not enter into my office — She's a reckless fool, then from Neville, talk about her that way again and I'll kill you myself.

She pushes open the heavy oak door and races into his office. She first rummages through his desk, flinging useless parchments containing potion lists, manufacturers, and scheduling. She tucks away a parchment containing the full names of every 'test subject' that's been admitted since July in her beaded bag — 141 in total. She feels sick to her stomach at how many they have done this too in just four months.

She believes the planning has been much longer in the making, though.

Hermione almost drops her wand and screams when she hears almighty pained roaring from behind her. She yelps slightly and turns around quickly, to the space behind the door, and is ready to Hex whomever is coming for her.

There's no-one.

She's shaking, sweating, and reeling from terror when she see's a cage, of sorts, on the wall next to the door. It's cylindrical, fully metal, without any windows or openings, and fully concealing whomever (or whatever is in there). She jumps and startles back when the roaring commences, only with pounding fists and fervent kicking added in.

"Mione?" Neville calls up to her, his voice echoing through the winding staircase. "Mione? Is everything alright? What's going on?"

She's got no words. No response. Nothing but a rising horror creeping up her throat and hitching her breath. She suddenly feels as if there's been a spell cast upon the room to banish all oxygen.

Her eyes, blown wide and affixed upon the container, scans the entire circumference of it; it looks only big enough to fit two, maybe three fully grown adults within it, unless it's been extended. Likely the case. Whoever or whatever is in there must have some free space to move, else they wouldn't be standing and inflicting a heavy assault upon the door.

She feels frozen to the spot, as immovable as mountain range, whilst she tries to figure out what to do; she can't be too long. It's been over an hour since her and Neville arrived at Hogwarts. How much longer can the Battle of Kent last?

With a shaky hand, she raises her wand, and casts a curse detection spell. She flicks through the readings, feeling deadened inside when she realises how heavily warded it is. There's runic spells and blood wards. It's impervious to damage, and charmed to hex any unauthorised personnel from unlocking it. It'll likely kill her if she doesn't break the wards correctly, and in the sequence they where cast.

She'll never be able to get in it.

She has to try.

"Neville," Hermione calls down to him whilst she flicks and motions her wand with expert precision, and banishes the basic wards. "Bring Snape up here."

As she hears their footsteps, Neville charging up the stairs and dragging Snape behind him, she's moving onto the more complex charms.

"I need Snape's blood," She tells him.

Neville doesn't hesitate.

Snape tries to jerk his arms back and away from Neville, but is unsuccessful. He snarls at her. "Miss. Gr—"

Hermione snaps her gaze onto him sharply, raising her chin, and directing her wand at him. A warning.

"— General Granger," He says through gritted teeth. "You cannot access the container. It will kill you. It has been treated to curse any Muggle-born to an immediate death from toxin inhalation. It only effects Muggle-born's."

Typical.

She can't even find it within herself to be bitter about it anymore. It's just the natural state of this New World she's found herself in. Anything and everything seems designed to bring about her end.

"Who is in here?" She asks, sliding her wand towards it.

"You won't like the answer," He answers.

"That... doesn't matter," She presses her lips together in a hard line. "I'm minutes away from destroying this place. I won't leave anyone to die."

For the briefest second, Snape's face falls, his eyes flicker with unease, and his expression looks almost as if he's scared. He occludes again within the space of five short seconds.

"And do you intend to leave me in here to die?" Snape stares at her, then adds, "You are aware of my place within The Order, you'll lose valuable information—"

Hermione scoffs so hard, it rattles her lungs.

"I suspect we'll only be losing a half-arsed spy, as opposed to a vital informant," She bites back, the muscle in her jaw rolling. "You sicken me. I should leave you to die."

"Mione—"

"Don't 'Mione' me, Neville — look at what he's done. If I hadn't of killed Nott, then the others downstairs might already be dead," She seethes, the magic in her fingertips crackling. "He deserves to die."

"If I die, then the test subject in the container dies with me. He is, for all intents and purposes, linked to my life," Snape says, pulling harder at his bindings. He hisses when they tighten. "If I live, then upon danger of an attack, the container moves to a guarded room in the castle, along with my notes. If you let me go this instance, I shall deliver them to The Order within the week. I swear it."

Hermione stills, blood rushing to her ears.

Her temples immediately start throbbing.

"HE?" She roars. "HE? THERE'S A HUMAN BEING IN THAT VILE CONTAINER?"

Accidental magic bursts from her fingertips and shakes the walls, forcing several shelves and there contents to smash onto the floor. She can smell the fumes from potions and ingredients and human remains disperse into the air.

"Lower your voice," Snape snarls at her, positively irate.

"Hermione," Neville cuts in, taking a frantic step closer to her. "We haven't got time to argue. We have to go."

She's fucking livid. She can't even process the idea of letting Snape go, of leaving whomever the poor soul is in that container behind to suffer under Voldemort and his sick, inhumane Death Eaters. She can't. She'll never forgive herself.

But she has to think of the others, too, and not just the Muggles and Muggle-borns downstairs, but The Order and the resistance currently still fighting to give her this time to save as many as she can. The War has never felt so heavy on her shoulders as it does now. Save the many, sacrifice the one. It's been something she's had to live by for far too long now.

Hermione closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. "Break his bindings, Neville."

She spins on her heel, heads for the bookcase lining the wall behind Snape's desk, and with one wide sweep of her wand, levitates the books into her bag. She's fortunate in this instance, that's she a dab hand at extension charms herself.

As Snape sweeps through the room, hand curled on the doorknob, she shoots an "Avada Kedavra," at the wall next to his face.

"If you dare think of betraying me or The Order again," She says through clenched teeth. "Next time, I won't miss."

He looks at her in mild astonishment. His mouth slightly slack, his eyes just a touch wider and searching, taking her measure anew.

He gives a short nod. "You'll have my findings within the week."

Once she hears his footsteps downstairs, she quickly turns to Neville, holds onto his forearms, and allows one deep, composing breath. 

"We need to Disillusion ourselves and the others and move as quickly as we can. Take this—" She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out a leather cloth. Inside, two portkeys. She places it into his palm. "The first one, the galleon, is from the prison raids, it'll take you straight to Grimmauld. The second is linked to the Gryffindor Common Room, you'll be able to come straight back to me. They only permit one time use for safety concerns, but there's also too many of us to take in one trip. They're too injured, we can't be sure they'll be able to hold on for the entire journey... This is why it has to be you. You'll be able to carry more than me. As soon as you can, with as many as you can safely hold onto, take them back to Grimmauld. I'll take as many as I can to the forest, then Apparate. Are we clear?"

Neville's eyes, now wide, flicker between her and the portkeys. In the brief silence, she's now very aware of how close he is. His head is bent so he may meet her eyes, and her neck, inclined enough to make her feel tiny against his height again, is almost as far back as it can go. There's concern, reluctance, and protection storming through his eyes.

She wishes he could occlude better, then.

He squares his shoulder. "I'm not leaving you here—"

"That's an order, Nev," It comes out softer than intended, quieter. "You have to take Colin and Justin, they won't be able to move on their own. A few of the others will be able to hold onto them long enough for you to be able to portkey them. I won't be able to hold so many of them. I can possibly side-along three of them safely once I'm out of the castle, if they're strong enough to hold themselves up after I finish healing them. If you have the time, you might be able to get a portkey from Grimmauld to get us out."

After a long, silent minute of vacillating, clearly warring with himself, he gives a small nod.

Hermione runs from the room, down the staircase, and towards the Muggles and Muggle-borns. Quickly, she does what she can to heal the remainder of them, and starts to Rennervate them. When the first wakes up with a terrified scream, she starts in Silencing them.

It takes a short while, but Neville, eventually, has Colin, Justin, and three others secured in his arms. He meets her eyes with an intense stare, terrified for her, before he awkwardly shakes of the leather cloth and portkeys from the room.

Nine remaining.

Hermione lets out a quick exhale, then starts to Rennervate and Silence another five of them. They're a lot more stable than Colin and Justin where, so she assumes it'll be easier for Neville to move them.

Five minutes later, he portkeys back into the room, arms empty, and as stiff as a board.

He's frozen. His face is ashen, and his eyes are wet with unshed tears. There's something in his expression that leaves her reeling in dread and paranoia.

"Mione," He says quietly, pain-stricken. "It's Ginny."

She thinks a bullet may have just pierced her heart.

"What? What about Ginny?" Hermione asks frantically, panicked. "Neville, please tell me Ginny isn't—"

"She's alive," He answers quickly, balling his hand into a fist at his side. "Sh— She's been cursed quite badly. Burnt. They need us back."

Hermione nods quickly, no time to process, as she Rennervates two more of the test subjects. She feels more hurried and reckless now, darting around the room with fast steps, uneven breathing, and trembling hands. The dread and despair is banging harshly against her walls, leaving a throbbing ache at the base of her skull.

"You'll have to take five. Can you manage that many? They can, for the most part, walk," She tells him rapidly, her eyes glancing around the room to each of them. "I can take four."

She Rennervates and Silences the remaining one, Disillusions them, then starts trying to huddle them in closely together. She doesn't know any of them. All muggles, nameless to her.

Three of Neville's can walk on their own properly, more conscious than the others, and they're all gesturing wildly to themselves, mouthing words Hermione doesn't have the time to decipher.

"We're here to help you," Is all she tells them to calm them.

"Did you get the portkey?" She asks Neville, as she adjusts the position of a girl next to her so she can lean her weight on her. Her hand is hanging low, practically on Hermione's shoulder. "You can take—"

"No," Neville says with finality, his eyes hard. "We're going to leave Hogwarts together. Portkey or not, I'm not leaving you to take any on your own. Once we're out of the castle, you'll take as many as you can with the portkey, and I'll Apparate them back. I'll be right behind you."

Hermione raises her chin, her expression stony. "You will not disregard a direct order from your—"

"Mione," Neville cuts in, his eyes narrowing. He looks quite commanding, firm. It makes her bristle. "I'm not following that order. And we're wasting time arguing. Let's go."

Before Hermione has the chance to fume at him, he turns away from her, and takes his prisoners through the remainder of the common room. There's two hanging off of him limply, supported in his arms, one leaning heavily against the male on his left, and two that are walking slowly hand-in-hand with the others. He still keeps a fast enough pace to avoid her, though.

She's furious with him.

She chose him because he follows orders, and to blatantly ignore her when the timing is this crucial, has her boiling with rage. She doubts she'll ever let him on a mission again; she should have listened to Moody, and chose Angelina as a partner instead.

Hermione struggles with her group as she pulls them through the common room. They're mostly able to stay on their feet, but the two she's carrying often falter or stumble in their steps, forcing her to stop and re-adjust them.

"Wait," Hermione whispers quietly, stopping in front of the distorted air ahead of her. 

She turns back around slowly, bringing the Muggles with her, as she assesses the entrance to the common room.

Carefully, she unhooks her arm from around the males waist on her right side, lets him slump against her, whilst she points her wand towards the common room entrance corridor.

With no remorse, she twists her wand slowly, and murmurs under her breath, "Fiendfyre."

From the tip of her wand, an inferno, in the shape of a Phoenix, erupts. It flies straight through the corridor, following her intent, before she slams the door shut behind it with a flick of her wand. It's awkward due to the lack of movement she's allowed because of her position, but she manages to ward the door enough for the fires to stay contained.

Even if Hermione could free them safely without containing the fires, she can't bring herself to destroy Hogwarts with such finality. It's home to a lot of people. It might, one day, be pivotal in rebuilding the Wizarding World, and restoring hope for the future generations. 

She can't be the one to crush that.

Hermione keeps a hold of her wand whilst she hoists up the male leaning against her, recasts their Disillusionments, and starts moving again.

The hardest part is getting them down the stairs and back into the main area of the castle.

She has to drag them across the suspension bridge, and regardless of their weak legs, they still don't let go of the other two's hands, keeping them together. As she kicks open one of the double-doors leading back into the DADA tower, the air grows colder. 

To her left, she can see ice crawling up the edge of the tower, stretching to the windows, and icing over the windows.

Above her, dementors are returning in wisps of black cloth.

"Fuck," She hisses, then pulls the others harder through the doors, and onto the corridor. After a few long moments, she hears the door click softly, telling her Neville and his group are inside now.

They're so close to the Astronomy tower, only a few more minutes. She wishes he'd just portkey them away, she thinks, he's compromised. But so is she. She could have portkeyed, too. He would have done that. She just can't leave him or any of the Muggles or Muggle-borns behind.

Her heart stalls when she hears the faint crack of Apparition in the distance. She hears Neville hiss a curse behind her. They move quicker.

She can see the Astronomy Tower—

Black smoke whirls around her as she reaches the door. No, no, no. Several more billows of smoke fly through the windows, assuming they came up the side of the building, and start materialising around her. Glass smashes somewhere behind her. The air grows thick with black smoke, funnelling in, and stealing the space.

Hermione holds her breath.

Oh Gods. The Death Eaters from Kent. They're coming back.

Bloody fucking fuck!

She narrows her eyes and tries to find where Neville is standing. It takes a minute of looking between Death Eaters to see the trace sign of rippling in the air, still back near the Tower entrance they've just come through. Having the extra weight of five people weighing him down must have meant he's moving slower.

Hermione casts a broad glance around the area; the Death Eaters know they're here, but can't quite make out where they are. They're casting blind Finite's and hexes, calling out for whomever is in here to show themselves, and mainly directing their spells inside the Astronomy Tower, rather than the mid-point in the hallway she's standing. There's three guards standing between her and Neville.

There's more inspecting the Tower behind her. Dragonhide boots, nonverbals spells, the whoosh of smoke encircling the Tower, and cackling in the distance is all she can hear.

Neville hasn't moved so much as an inch, she can't track his Disillusionment at all. Same can be said for her group, who are all frozen in abject horror. 

A curse strikes past her face, between two of the three Death Eaters between them, and narrowly misses Neville. A red spark fizzles out against the door behind him. 

Hermione slowly glances around, trying to calculate an escape route that spares as many lives as she can. She won't let any of them die, they've been through enough. They need healing immediately, and can't risk so much as another cut, never mind injuries from a firefight. 

She could possibly blast her way through the Astronomy Tower. She can't see how many Death Eaters are there, but with enough concentrated magic, she could take them — no, she won't be able to move as fast as she needs to with her group hanging off of her. 

She has to assume the castle is full with Death Eaters at this point, so there's no chance of going the way they came. She won't be able to protect them all, not even with even Neville supporting her. 

The Facility will be destroyed by now, so there will be a group there, at least, trying to extinguish the flames.

There's only one option.

Hermione lets out a quiet, thin exhale of breath.

This is it.

Once she stops trying to calculate, the pressure in her chest dissipates immediately. It's such an easy choice, it unburdens her immensely. She can save them all.

Hermione's breath catches when the world starts to turn in slow motion for her. She knows what she has to do. She's relieved she can't see Neville's face right now, because he'll know what she's thinking. He'll try and stop her.

He can't.

More Death Eaters start to close in on them, she can hear their footsteps loudening as they climb through the Astronomy Tower. 

This is the only choice she's made in years that she'll happily live with. Her stomach is in knots, but she's sure she'll be able to do it.

Like loosing a limb, a part of herself, she unhooks her beaded bag from around her shoulder, her breathing steady, as she hangs it from the neck of the girl leaning heavily beside her. She tucks her arm through it.

She leans in, lifts her chin slightly to ensure she's lucid enough to comprehend the situation, then whispers directly into her ear.

The girl gives a shaky nod.

Curses start closing in on them.

More Death Eaters start flying outside of the castle in a thick fog of black smoke, circling the tower. Trying to extinguish the spreading fires in the Gryffindor Tower. Some idiot must have opened the entrance by now.

Hermione carefully unwraps her arm from around the waist of the girl next to her, points her wand at the three Death Eaters in front of her, then strikes downwards, upwards, and back down again.

She hears Neville gasp when their heads roll from their bodies and hit the floor with a wet bounce.

The mere seconds she has before a Finite hits her, she steps back from her group, lets them fall to the ground, then uses Depulso to propel them towards Neville. His disillusion breaks when they collide with him, and thankfully, as he's been dropped onto his knees with them, she can see they're all touching. They're all in a group, overlapping, piled on the floor.

She knows there's a chance one or two of them may not be able to hold on for the whole journey, but it's a better option than the one they've been presented with; recapture, further testing, inevitable death. 

"Go," Hermione mouths with a small, easy smile, then throws up her shield to it's maximum strength.

"It's The Mudblood!" One of them announces. "Fucking get her!"

Just as the Death Eaters move to descend upon her, he gives her a broken lingering look for a long moment, then reaches into his shirt pocket for the portkey.

They're gone a moment later.

Hermione knows this school better than most, knows better than to try and fight her way through the Astronomy Tower and the grounds, and instead, barges through the doors ahead of her, and races across the suspension bridge.

There's too many Death Eaters to count, and more still Apparating and flying in. Her shield takes the brunt of the curses being thrown her way, but she keeps her pace fast, haphazard, as Unforgivables start fizzling past her. 

The bridge creaks for how heavy and fast her strides are. She whips her wand over her shoulder and casts a Bombarda Maxima, as she nears the door to the Houses Area. A quick glimpse up shows her two dementors dropping through the air and towards her.

She sends her otter up to them.

There's all manner of noises erupting from behind her; loud incantations, explosions from missed hexes, frustrated roars, and heavy stomps from their boots.

Instead of losing time to opening the approaching doors, she blasts them away, letting them break and splinter into the castle. She can hear the thrum of her blood pumping in her ears and the heavy panting of her breath as she continues to run past the Gryffindor Common Room, still ablaze, and towards the Clocktower.

Her only chance of exit is to the South of Hogwarts.

Space. She needs space.

There's too many curses, too many Death Eaters, and not enough space or time to face them. Her shield is weakening. She can see fissures in the webbing.

She doesn't stop as she spins, unleashes another Bombarda Maxima, then an Expluso, and turns back around to continue running. In this moment, she loathes how big this castle is, how long the stone hallways seem to stretch on endlessly for.

She has to quickly duck and dodge as a spell rebounds of the castle wall beside her to narrowly avoid the stone hitting her. She won't allow herself to panic. 

She throws her wand behind her shoulder and casts an Incendio. Her breathing becomes heavier, the more magical exhaustion starts to take root. She passes through the Clocktower, and given that she has a touch bit of space now that she's took a different turn than expected, she aims her wand at the ceiling above her, casts an Explosion Hex, and lets the bricks break and fall behind her, blocking off that exit.

Hermione runs down the winding staircase and into the Clocktower Courtyard.

The only observations she's granted before the Death Eaters fly in, one-by-one in a whirl of smoke, is that the walls haven't changed, the ground has more cracks and dirt stains on them than before, the moon is hanging midway through the sky, and there's finally enough space for her to unleash.

Four Death Eaters between her and her exit on the opposite of the courtyard are subdued by her magic pulling vines through the ground and pinning them down to the floor. More swoop in. The next three are decapitated, two are disembowelled, and when one gets too close to her, she reaches down to her thigh holster, pulls out of her dagger, and lets him run straight onto the blade. With one hard jerk of her arm, she cuts a wound across his abdomen and lets him drop.

There's something about watching his eyes grow duller by the moment that satisfies her endlessly.

It's just before she reaches the centre of the courtyard, that the remaining army of Death Eaters land in, step out of their smoke, and overwhelm her. They've surrounded her completely.

One takes a heavy step forward, his wand aloft. "Give in now, Mud—"

Hermione Avada's him before he can finish the word. It seems that was the only chance they where willing to give her, as the Courtyard erupts once more.

She re-energizes her shield, lets it block the majority of the hexes and curses thrown her way, and tries to think of an escape plan as she ducks, dodges, and pivots away from the Unforgivables, so she can retaliate.

It feels like there's lightening scorching through her veins for every spell she casts. Her hand, gripping her wand tightly like a lifeline, burns, all the way up to her shoulder.

It's no good, there's nothing she can do. Even as she points her wand at the ground in front of her, opening it up to swallow eight of them, the rest all dodge back, and miss it. She seals it, but again there's too many. Her spells hit most of her marks, but they fly in more and more by the minute. She was too late getting them out, not quick enough to finish up here before they retreated from Kent.

Her shield breaks and a Diffindo streaks across her jaw. She doesn't react, there's no time for that. There's blood seeping down from the wound and gathering in the hollow of her clavicle.

Hermione tries her shield again, it comes out weaker this time, then points a Depulso at the ground ahead of her. She watches as it bounces and ricochets through the wide expanse of space and knocks at least ten of them back. A lot of them make feared gasps and reckless casting in response. 

They're moving around the edges of the Courtyard. All she can see is a mess of spells, billowing robes, silver gleams of masks, and bodies dropping after hitting them. Her skin starts to heat when they're spells land stronger.

The bodies pile up.

More come in their place.

Magical depletion is close; she can't use her Order given flight, as she'll be too outnumbered in the air to do any real damage to them, and they'll be quicker to capture her than down here. At least, here, she can machine gun curses, hexes, and jinxes until her shield finally gives.

She ducks down and rolls when she just see's an Avada coming towards her. As she jumps up to her feet, she sends three successive Avada's at the closest Death Eaters to her. Outside, the grounds have filled with Death Eaters. 

The armies really have been recalled.

Dread is stuck in her throat, her breathing is too heavy, and the sweat thickly coats her brow as she tries to keep up. She can't go on much longer like this. They're closing in on her. 

She pivots to the left, standing dead in the centre of the Death Eaters, running the risk of magical depletion, as she points her wand up to the sky, and yells, "Protego Diabolica."

For a moment, the area becomes deathly silent.

The blue flames erupt from the tip of her wand and roar to life around her. She turns in a slow circle, lowering her wand as she does, and sweeps the flames across the Courtyard at every angle. There's many screams of fear and horror as it blasts through one side of the Death Eaters, instantly eviscerating them on the spot. She watches as they turn to nothing but ash and dust. Some try to hit her with spells, but the flames devour them, and their casters burn, too.

Right through her core, she feels the ice run through her as body after body drops. She'll never truly know how many she's killed tonight, but hopefully it's enough to weaken Voldemort's ranks.

Tears of exhaustion roll down her cheeks as she holds the spell. She struggles for breath, her arms and legs ache, but she starts to feel the slight twinge of hope, the more she hears the screaming surrounding her. Some of the Death Eaters do the wise thing and fly away in their own black smoke, before the flames engulf them.

Surprise grips her when, through the blue flames, she see's The Dark Mark takes shape in the skies above her. The skull, the snake, it moves through the clouds, and hangs prominently in front of the moon, shielding the natural light.

Voldemort must be here.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, pounding against her ribcage, as she struggles with the strength of the spell. If she can make the flames follow her, then she might be able to make it out, after all—

Everything comes crashing apart around her. Her whole world, destroyed.

A plume of black smoke hurls straight for her with a force as great as an avalanche, coming in from over the wall of the Courtyard, as the blue flames are focusing in on her left — where the biggest group of Death Eaters are.

The spell must pick up on her intent, as they start to readjust. Her heart rate elevates to the point of dizziness.

The blue flames whirl towards her at the same time as the black smoke.

The Death Eater crosses through them.

There colours mix and entwine.

Terror swamps her, weakening her knees, and turning her legs to liquid.

The blue flames wrap around him as, through the black smoke, his hand appears first, reaches out, and grips her around the throat like a vice. Hermione gasps several times as he comes into full view, his tall, broad, looming figure, and the crack in his mask.

As soon as her air supply is cut off, her spell drops, and the blue flames extinguish.

She immediately throws her hands around his and tries to wrench free his hold of her. Even as she tries to kick him, he either dodges or acts unaffected by her. He snatches her wand away before she can use it, and her hits don't quite land as they did back in Kent.

"Let me go," She rasps, her voice hoarse.

Staring into the hollow, dark eye spaces of his mask, feels like her future; void, empty, hopeless.

A single tear burns a track down her cheek.

He pulls her in closer, and she can feel him sneer in response, as he jabs his wand against her chest.

Her vision swims and tunnels, black spots breaking out through what remains of her sight, until she hears "Stupefy," then her body seizes, and everything turns to a cold, unyielding void.

Chapter Text

As Hermione starts to come too, the Stupefy slowly wearing off and leaving her feeling dazed, the first thing she feels is the migraine blooming a white-hot pain at the back of her skull. Her magical depletion, weakening her already dangerously enfeebled form, stops her from being able to move. Her limbs are unresponsive, heavy — moving?

She can feel her knees drag and scrape across hard stone floors. Both of her arms are aloft, with hands curled around her biceps, and pulling her along despite her dead-weight.

Her right eye throbs, and she wonders then, how many Death Eaters got their hits on her after she was stunned. Fucking cowards.

She hears two large double-doors open. Her head hangs limp, only bobbing up and down as she's dragged through what she thinks is the Great Hall. From her peripherals, she can see the long, wooden dining tables on either side of her, and the reflection of the night sky charm on the floor.

The House tapestries are gone. In they're place is just Slytherin banners. 

She see's pools of blood everywhere — beneath the tables, on her knees and calves as she slides through them, and longer, broader bodies of thick crimson spilling around Death Eaters feet. They're injured - the ones that survived her attack.

Hermione's thinking of Ginny. No-one else and nothing else. Is she alive? Please let her be alive. They needed both her and Neville back, but she hasn't returned. She may never again. Would they be able to help her? Would they come to Hogwarts and risk another fight? So soon after Kent?

No. They wouldn't. She wouldn't want them too either.

Don't come. Please, don't come, she repeats in her head like a mantra.

Next minute, she's thrown to the floor, and instinctively, she throws her hands forward, and catches herself before her face can smack the puddle of blood in front of her. The tips of her fingers catch it, and it's still warm. She lifts her hands, turns them, and eyes the blood wearily. Witch? Wizard? Muggle? Muggleborn? Death Eater? Animal? She can't tell.

Nausea roils in her stomach—

Don't think, don't feel, just get out of here.

Around her, there's lots of inaudible talking, hissing, growling, and the occasional The Mudblood spit she can hear.

Hermione lets their hate fuel her, as she always has. She won't take whatever 'punishments' they seem fit to dole on her with her head down and her tail tucked between her thighs. No, she'll fight them to her last dying breath.

So, scrambling for purchase on the floors, she weakly pushes herself up onto her haunches. She sways and her eye sight clouds for long moments, but it clears enough for her to see, what she assumes, is a large portion of His remaining army crowding at the edges of the room. Some aren't wearing masks, her former Slytherin classmates mostly; Nott, Zabini, Flint, Goyle, and Montague.

Yaxley and Rookwood are standing ahead of her, de-masked, too.

She doesn't hear footsteps, that's not what alerts her to Him.

It's the dead silence that falls around her when she feels the air shift. Darkness like she's never felt before sweeps past her, snake-like in his movements, as he slithers towards his throne.

Where there was once the faculty table, seating her beloved Professors, now there's a ghastly black and marble dais, with a silver and emerald throne in the centre.

The Great Hall isn't what it used to be. There's silver snake sculptures attached to the structure on three out of the four walls, two most prominently framing His throne. It's darker, colder, and emptier than it ever has been before, even with the sconces, torches, and floating candles. They're dimmer, much like the rest of the castle.

She'd like to think this is the castle's way of fighting back, but she's not naïve enough to believe it.

Hermione refuses to look at Him; but his presence alone is enough to give her the strength to get onto her knees, and try to stand on wobbly legs. There's growling and hissing and the same monotonous crap as always as she tries — Defiant wretch, Filthy mudblood, On your knees, dog.

She makes it halfway up, trying to steady her laboured breathing, when heavy strides close in behind her, bringing another deafening silence to the large room.

A quiet gasp is stolen from her lungs as she feels a tight fist wrench in her hair, and push her back down onto her knees. She tries to pull her head forward, sideways, back, trying to break free. He only binds her hands in rope.

"Fuck you," She spits to, she assumes, The Death Eater with the cracked mask.

There's another bout of disagreeing hissing, spitting, and growling at her behaviour, like they can't believe she'd dare to defy a Death Eater.

She, honestly, can't wait to murder them all.

"The Mudblood."

His voice, His hissing, strikes dread in her heart. The room falls silent again, all she can hear is the pitter patter of wet boots shifting — blood, she assumes. The Death Eater grips her hair tighter and points her face at Him. She juts her chin up, and refuses to look at him. She won't. She focuses on a dim sconce on the wall to the right of His shoulder.

A spell hits her in the back, and she can feel several of the bones in her ribcage crack. She bites down on her tongue so hard, she draws blood. She won't give them the satisfaction of any pained noises.

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut in protest for a minute, begrudgingly (pridefully) opens them, then slowly slides her gaze from the ceiling, and lets her glares land upon Voldemort's crimson eyes.

"Ah," Voldemort holds his wand gingerly between his thumb and index finger and points it at the ground at her knees. "You have done well, my Right-Hand. The Mudblood has finally been captured."

"My Lord," Right-Hand nods in acknowledgement.

Hermione realises that his voice isn't as deep as usual, nor rough or distorted. It's silky. Familiar. She can't quite place it through the ringing in her ears.

Voldemort's eyes narrow and inspect her curiously. The same look he measured her with during the Final Battle. She would expect him to be more disgusted and contemptuous, but rather, she see's the intrigue and meticulous appraisal Lucius had informed her she forced out of him.

It's an advantage; she can use that. She can be intriguing if it gets her out of here quicker.

He gives her another long look as he starts to pace slowly, predatory, in front of her. Spanning the short width of his throne area. His bare feet slosh through a larger well of blood. Hermione suppresses the urge to grimace with disgust.

Voldemort, after what feels like eons of observing her, shifts his gaze momentarily onto the Death Eater at her back.

"She has eluded you, has she not?" Voldemort asks tauntingly, like this is all just an amusing, sick game. "Has she not escaped my armies clutches for quite some time now? Murdered us by the hundreds? A Mudblood, outsmarting even my most trusted and powerful of my servants?"

He grins maniacally as the entire hall falls silent in agreement.

"Yesss," He hisses, sweeping his wand to the left, the right, then back on her again. "This is The Mudblood that has struck down many of us. That thought she could inflict her filthy, stolen magic upon me — Release her!"

She feels her head whip back harshly, her hair pulling against the sensitive stretch of skin at the base of her scalp, before she's lunged forward. Her cheek hits the stone with a cracking slap, the sound echoing through the silence. She grits her teeth to nearly fracturing and devastating effects when she realises her forehead is now slick with blood.

It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

She holds her breath and weakly pulls herself back up onto her haunches, her body shaking with the lingering pain, the lack of magic sating her core, and the migraine splitting her brain in half — Don't think, don't move, just get out of here.

Blood drips down her face.

"Do you not speak, girl?" Voldemort spits at her, his eyes growing redder and redder with ire.

She doesn't say anything.

Furious, Voldemort takes an extra step towards her, levelling his wand at her, but eyeing the Death Eater instead. "Invade her mind."

Behind her, she can hear him shifting, his feet tapping quietly as though he either doesn't want too, or can't. She has to go with the latter, she can't imagine he has any morals pertaining to privacy or boundaries.

She almost scoffs at the thought.

"My Lord—"

Voldemort snaps his eyes above her, onto him, baring his teeth, and darting his wand onto him.

"Remove your mask and invade her mind," He commands him, his tone cruel and cutting. He does not need to yell to instil fear into these morons. The unspoken promise of an Unforgiveable does that. "I would claim you to be my most skilled Legilimens," He sweeps his hand at her. "So, perform."

Hermione hears the quietest breath exhale through his teeth, then firm steps. He's straightening out, remembering himself, she thinks. Then he's beside her, staring down at her, and she doesn't need to look to know his piercing gaze is focused solely on her. His task, his mission. He wouldn't dare displease his master, would he?

There's a poorly timed thrill of anticipation blazing through her at the prospect of finally seeing his face.

She won't deny her curiosity.

To her left, she watches out of the corner of her eye as he raises his hand, reaches for his mask, his long fingers grasping at the jaw, then he dips his head and removes it with one smooth pull.

It's held loosely in his hand, dangling at his side.

Hermione's eyes slowly widen as she tries to process.

No.

There's surprised gasps, shocked murmurs, and shuffling — Of course, his identity was unknown to the armies, too. That's why he was hesitant to invade her mind, he knew his identity would be finally revealed.

His cracked mask, still in his fingers at his side, is hovering just next to her face. Mocking her.

So many many thoughts, images, and memories sear across her mind at once; platinum blonde hair, silver eyes, a sharp jaw, and his wretched mouth sneering no-one asked your opinion, you filthy little mudblood — then her head starts hurting again, as it did when she first lay eyes on Narcissa — the battlefields she duelled him on, punching him repeatedly in the face in Kent. The fucker must have healed himself — Her rage boils and boils — The Protego Diabolica's, the times he let her go, when she let him go, he didn't kill Neville — there must be someone cracking a whip at the base of her skull, because something hurts. Her teeth hurt, she's grinding them too hard. She's shaking with rage —

Then, he meets her eyes.

She's breathing heavier, the room is so silent, so thick with palpable tension, that she can feel it sinking down, and writhing in her own chest.

Oh Gods, she's going to kill him, and she's not going to be able to stop herself.

His mouth curls upwards into a small, malicious smirk. His expression is cold, empty, and dead. He occludes too, but that doesn't matter. She reads him for what he is; not a coward on a beach in Morocco, but a War Criminal, Voldemort's Right-Hand. A coward in every other way.

He's killed her friends. He's killed so many people.

Hermione doesn't quite register her screams of rage, or the adrenaline coursing through her veins, jolting her onto her feet, and lunging for him like she's a wild animal — right now, she is — She's so angry, so filled to the brim with a sudden surge of magical energy, that her bindings snap, and she reaches out to grab his face.

He side-steps at just the right moment to grab her wrists and stay her.

"You fucking coward," Hermione roars into his face, her eyes feral.

He looks neither offended or effected at all by her outbursts. In fact, he looks amused — Death, death, death. Godric, she needs to see the life leave his eyes.

"Mudblood," He smirks at her, raising his chin with a sick sense of eloquence. Pure-blood twat. "Still as wild as ever, I see."

Just as she opens her mouth to spit her own vicious, vile slurs, and death threats at him, there's a loud, unhinged bout of laughter emanating from behind her. Hermione gives a tiny, quick side-glance to Him, to see his mouth shaped in a grin as wide as the Cheshire cat's.

But she can't stop staring at him. Draco Malfoy. Her first bully, the thorn in her side, and now, her haunting Death Eater, the one that just won't die no matter how hard she fucking tries. That won't stop haunting her. And he's changed so much since school — The boy is long lost in him. In his place is a man, a stone cold, deadened man, with sharper features, a muscular physique, depthless eyes, and he's taller, more on par with Neville, so that she has to despise herself further for tilting her head so far back to glare her daggers into his eyes.

"My, my, Draco," Voldemort drawls mirthfully. "I can see why she has eluded you for so long — no matter."

Hermione is caught in a magical trap. Voldemort's wand, pointed at her chest, whips to the side, forcing her body with it. She's levitating just a few inches from the ground as she's brought back into the centre of the room.

A display.

The noise in the background drowns out as she briefly flits her gaze between Him and Malfoy; when her eyes land on the silver in his, there's a jab, a pressure, a streak of pain at the back of her head. She can't explain it beyond how deeply her hatred effects her physically. She purses her lips and squeezes her eyes shut to suppress a whimper at a particularly harsh crack of hot pain in her temple.

"Now, Draco," Voldemort drops his wand, which, effectively, drops her back onto her knees too. "Her memories."

"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy says silkily, then bows his head like it's such an honour to serve him.

She scoffs noticeably. But not a soul does anything about it, they don't so much as whisper their disapproval whilst the room is this tense. It's an odd turn of events she can't fathom.

Malfoy straightens up, rigid, then firmly walks towards her, his hand clutching at his hawthorn wand. She won't make a spectacle of herself trying to fight him again, she shouldn't have let her anger get the better of her in the first place. She won't amuse them.

She occludes instead.

He looms over her, jabs the tip of his wand between her eyes, and casts, "Legilimens."

Malfoy dives in without hesitation.

The Great Halls fades out of existence and is replaced by her house. Her house hidden behind her walls. Malfoy isn't gentle as he tries to break through them; in her mind, they're just figures. She watches as he whips spell after spell on them — there's splintering as the brick tries to chip — he growls and points his wand at it, a large explosion rebounds from her wall, and echoes through the spaces of her mind.

It hurts, but not as much as it could do.

She thinks Voldemort would be worse.

Hermione focuses on the tether of Malfoy's magic grounding him here. It feels like a thin cord wrapping around her mind, fraying at the edges the longer he fails, and it's easier to see as he resorts to physically pounding his fists on the walls. His face is contorted, twisted with what appears to be pain, like this is hurting him more than her.

She visualises the cord unravelling, until she can snap it. "Out."

The Great Hall slams back into existence.

Malfoy rears back and presses a hard fist against his temple. Good. She hopes it hurts, she prays to Merlin his mind is just as splintered as hers. That she can ruin him.

Hermione, feeling more exhausted than earlier now that the adrenaline has drained away from her, still manages a sharp smirk.

She ignores the waves of noise around her.

"Draco?" Voldemort tilts his head ever so slightly. "Did The Mudblood push you from her mind?"

Malfoy drops his fist immediately and turns around to face Voldemort, whom is now sitting lazily upon his throne. He must have expected this too take longer. If he had gained access, it likely would have took hours and hours, maybe days, to sift through her memories.

"My Lord, The Mudblood is a skilled Occlumens," He explains, his expression stony. Detached. "According to Severus, she is a natural."

Something flickers across Voldemort's eyes, his cruel expression betraying his growing intrigue. It reads like Impossible, she's a Mudblood. She can't be natural. He rises from his throne and walks slowly towards her, all trace amusement vanishing from him.

She raises her chin defiantly as he stares down at her. Unreadable.

It's the wrong (right) move.

Voldemort sneers and points his wand at her. Cold rage evident. "Crucio."

Hermione winches as the curse takes effect. She's thrown back onto the floor, her head colliding with stone, as she writhes and screams through the pain. And coming from Voldemort, it's what she imagines a thousand aneurysms rippling through her brain at once to feel like. Her muscles tense and twitch, as though they're ripping and shredding repeatedly. Her veins bulge and throb. It's horrid and she hates it. And normally, she can withstand it better than this. But there's endless hatred and malice in Voldemort, concentrated fully on her.

It's mind-breaking.

After a minute, it stops.

Hermione, curled up in a ball, lets her limbs unfurl and splay out. She stares numbly up at the night sky charm; dark clouds, a covered moon, nay a star in sight. Her hands twitch, her muscles burn, and her head hurts. It hurts so much more than it ever has done before.

It's too much.

"Explain her to me, Draco," Voldemort insists, his intrigued stares still focused on her. "A skilled Occlumens. When did she develop her skill? What else has she learnt?"

"My Lord, Snape informed me she harnessed her skill during our school years—"

Voldemort snaps his gaze onto him sharply, assessing him. Malfoy lowers his head out of — what? — Respect? Fear? She internally scoffs despite the pain.

"Yesss," He drawls in a hiss, caressing his wand. He's staring down at her again. "You both attended Hogwarts."

"Yes, My Lord. An insufferable know-it-all, a stain on our education. Potter's Mudblood — The Golden Girl, they call her," Malfoy sneers, his voice low and cold. "She visited Snape during our fifth year, I believe, at which point, he recognised her as a natural Occlumens. She studied Occlumency further, as well as The Dark Arts. She dabbled in combat training. And as you are aware, she is currently the General to The Order of the Phoenix and second-in-command to Sirius Black."

The crowds react; growling, hissing, slurs, and curses. Hermione doesn't pay attention to anything beyond Malfoy's in-depth description of her accomplishments. How can he possibly know so much?

Snape, most likely.

For a moment, she worries if there's a spy somewhere in her ranks, like Lucius is for them, that isn't Snape.

Confliction crosses His expression. "The Dark Arts, you say?"

Malfoy nods shortly. "Yes, My Lord."

"And not just a General, of course — A Right-Hand, much like yourself, Draco?" His red eyes narrow studiously at her.

"Yes."

"The Order of the Phoenix," He spits the words in disdain. Then, his foot is on her limp arm, turning it to reveal her inner forearm. "That explains this. Her form of covering Bellatrix's mark."

She watches as Malfoy glimpses down at her arm, at her vivid and bright tattoo of Fawkes. Of burning reds and flamed oranges. Of the tip of his tail touching her wrist and spreading up and over her slur. His face just below the crease in her elbow.

It's the most beautiful tragedy, to have Fawkes now, because of a war. Because of the death of Dumbledore.

It's this reminder that forces her to not lie limp on the ground anymore. It's the reminder of those that she's loves, that's she has also loved and lost, it's seeing Harry in her minds eye, standing for their cause no matter what, holding himself tall and defiantly in the face of His tyranny, even after death and resurrection, that forces her weak limbs to move.

For Harry. Even now, For Harry, always.

Her face scrunches and her mouth twists in pain, as she braces her hands on the floor at either side of her, and slowly pulls herself up to lean back on her ankles. Her knees won't touch the ground. Even as Voldemort's eyes widen slightly, then return to normal a second later, and the Death Eaters all spit their profanities at her, and Malfoy clenches his jaw at her, she juts her chin up and steadies her breathing.

It's unfathomable pain. But it's worth it.

The tension breaks when, after a minute, Voldemort laughs. The rest of the room laughs with him. The sound echoes and bounces from the walls, hitting her ears like a sharp hex.

"She is strong, isn't she?" Voldemort says breathlessly as his laughter fades out. "A fool."

He looks at Malfoy for confirmation. He gives it in form of a small nod, like a well-trained puppy.

"Let's proceed," Voldemort waves a hand, then spins sharply to face her head-on. "I'm going to invade your mind. You will not withhold from me. If you dare to put up a fight against me, Mudblood, I will torture you within an inch of your life. Do you understand?"

Hermione subtly swallows, then sneers. "I will not let you in my mind. I'd sooner die."

"Ahh," He clicks his tongue several times. Hermione just notices the smallest flicker in Malfoy's expression, as if he's worried she'll be able to attack Him like this. She's internally rolling her eyes. "You are of no use to me dead, child. You do serve a purpose for me. But I want your memories, from your school years. If you do not submit them to me, I will destroy your mind until you are but a shell of what you are now."

Hermione frowns slightly. Is he bargaining with her? Sure, he's threatening her, using her life as his leverage — but he's still demanding submission. He's not taking it.

He thinks her useful. He has a purpose for her — bile rises up her throat at the thought — that doesn't involve her death. It has to be The Facility. Destroyed now, but he can test on her anywhere. He could do it here, in front of everyone, make a right show of it.

But that's not purpose.

She has to get out of here. Or find a way to kill herself.

In retrospect, she's not so much concerned over her school years. She only ever frets over them when it concerns The Order, as they don't approve of her methods, her use of The Dark Arts and how in-depth she studied them. They'd sooner dismiss her as General than accept she's good at Dark magic, that her use of them may win the war. It's always been a risk she's never been willing to take. Even if the day ever comes that they may win against Him, they'll never allow her methods to secure that win to be known.

She's fine with that, always has been.

But here? So what if Voldemort watches her study books endlessly? So what if he happens to see her murder hundreds of his servants? It'll distract him.

Then, she'll either get out, or die.

Godsdamnit. Hermione closes her eyes, and, very quickly, opens up her jewellery box in her hidden attic, lets out the relevant memories, and manipulates them into her second floor bedroom, hiding them in a box under her bed. She won't let him have them that easy.

"Fine," She grinds out.

Voldemort smiles slowly, points his wand at her temple, and sinks into her mind.

Hermione lets her walls drop.

He stops outside of her childhood home, inspecting it curiously. He barges through the front door, then enters into the first room. The living room. He sifts through the memories of her as a child, and she's long manipulated the scenes so that the faces of her parents are shielded, just in case this ever happened. He watches her learn to ride a bike, her birthdays, and he seems particularly interested in her bursts of accidental magic as a toddler.

Hermione watches on wistfully as her life replays before her eyes.

As she grows, she reads. This is where he becomes bored, then swims through the remainder of the ground floor.

She stops in his exploration by slamming doors closed and directing him to her memories of fifth and sixth year.

Hermione enters into the library in a fit of tears and determination. They bet on her and Ronald? BETS! How could they laugh? How could they treat an impending war with such frivolity? She bypasses her comforting aisles of potions, charms, and transfiguration, then Runes and Arithmancy. She clutches her permission slip tightly in her hand and flies towards Madam Pince, sitting stoically at her desk. Wafting through parchments and magically re-shelving books.

Hermione ducks as one sweeps overhead.

"Miss. Granger," She greets her. "How can I be of assistance today?"

Nervously, Hermione extends the permission slip towards her. She doesn't say anything.

Pince eyes her sharply. "The Restricted Section?"

"Yes, Madam Pince."

"Professor Snape?"

Hermione nods.

"Right — this way, then."

Hermione dutifully follows her through the main corridor between aisles, twisting her fingers nervously, until they reach the gates. She taps her wand and they unlock.

"Thank you, Madam Pince."

Hermione walks at a leisurely pace for long moments as Pince fades back into the main library. Then, she's rushing towards the back shelves, where lies the forbidden books: Advanced Dark Arts, The Study of The Dark Arts, Dark Magic and it's Effects, Curses and Counter-Curses, Book of the Forbidden, Defence Against The Dark Arts, The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts.

She levitates them into a stack on the table closest to the window. She stares out at the sunset, finding a level of peace in the silver ambience and calm serenity of the lake, before delving.

Hermione sits in the same chair overnight, reading book after book. Her hand, stiff, aches from scribbling endless notes upon parchment, soaking up the knowledge. Exploring her magic in a way she's never done before.

She learns the theory on boiling blood with a simple tug-back of her wand, providing she's powerful enough to do so. She understands the wand work for the Suffocation Hex, the cost of performing Unforgivables — she realises in that moment, she'd happily pay it, providing she never see's a loved one fall — it doesn't bother her to imagine decapitating a Death Eater with a strong Slicing Hex, nor does she believe it'd bother her to watch them explode.

But mostly, what she learns from her first time exploring this brand of magic, that it isn't all theory. It's intuition. It's channelling her negative and hateful feelings and directing them. It's instinct and intent. She'll struggle at first, she knows this, but she'll learn.

She could do it, so long as everyone lives. Her soul is nothing in comparison.

The memory fades as Voldemort moves on and tries sifting through her memories again. He skims through her combat training, not at all bothered by her kicking training dummies, or learning to duck and dive. He doesn't care for Ginny trying to help her, considering her skill in Quidditch. He watches one session where she is practicing by herself, when she would try to perfect her technique by kicking and punching thin air. Her endless hours in the libraries, her books, her notes. She stops him from trying to view her memories of The Order and Sirius. He finds his way back to sixth year, when she would practice wand work and spells alone. She see's a shadow following her, her Dark magic a tempest to her soul—

She re-directs him.

"Occlumency for experts," Hermione reads the title, then opens the book.

She's read everything Hogwarts library has to offer on Natural-Borne Occlumency, but this book, it's rare.

She pours over the first few chapters. It tells her it's best to imagine a secure location. One that is vast enough to hide her most treasured and private memories. Somewhere she can hide the biggest of secrets in the smallest of locations. A single box hidden in a mountain of them or a hole dug so far underground, re-covered, and buried beneath structure after structure in an endless field.

Hermione tries to focus on a library, tries to bind her memories in a book, but it's impossible. Most of her knowledge is from books. In a moment of life and death, could she differentiate? Would she reveal one of her mental books? No.

Instead, she chooses Hampst—

Hermione forces Voldemort out of that memory and tries to re-direct him again.

She feels his fury like a hammer to the skull when she pushes him back. His roars echo through her mental spaces for her defiance as He takes back control and whirls through her second floor memories.

She can't panic, no, she can't.

She focuses. But he charges through the nearest door, her parents old bedroom, and rips through it during her distraction. Private drawers in her mum's dressing table are slung open, unleashing the contained memories—

Hermione returns to the restricted section during a winters night. It's unlike her, to stay in Hogwarts during the Christmas Holidays, but finds she's better able to study without her friends constantly interrogating her.

She loves Harry and Ron, but if they keep trying to follow her, steal her books, and question how she's grown so strong, then she may hex them, too.

She stares out at the snow falling over the Black Lake, the moonlight reflecting against every twinkling snowflake, and the wind blowing them in a flurry.

Sixth year.

When she returns to her table, she finds another book. Curious still on how these books arrive, she picks it up, turns it to view the title page—

"No!" Hermione forces him out.

He tries to pry back into it with brute force and cunning manoeuvres, but she seals the drawer, pushes him out, and slams the bedroom door closed. She's getting reckless now, frantic—

"Harry," Hermione grins, then leaps into his arms. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Mione," He squeezes his arms around her. "How was Christmas in Hogwarts, then?"

"Dull," She lies, her eyes flickering over his shoulder as she watches a shadow sweep around her and out of the Great Hall. Too much training, the darkness follows her. She hates that it's around Harry, too. "How was the burrow?"

"Lovely," He says in a happy sigh. "You were missed. You should have come. I know your parents where out of town—"

"NO!" Hermione roars, and she can feel her eyes welling with tears. "OUT!"

In her grief and her rage, she slams shut all of her house's doors, shoving Him out through the front, then firmly rebuilds her walls around them. She finds the cord, the tether, reaches for it and pulls on it until it snaps.

The whole process stings more than it did with Malfoy. But as the Great Hall comes back into view, she's relieved it worked.

Breathless, she slumps back onto her haunches, and bites down on her lower lip as she works through the initial pain of the Legilimency headache. Her occluding, her rebuilding, and allowing another to waltz through her memories is another knife to the temple. Flashes of lights and dots swarm through her vision.

She could hear a pin drop for how silent everyone is.

Voldemort stills.

She can't tell if he's irate with her for managing to force him out, or if he's dissatisfied with what she showed him. His expression is unreadable. Even his eyes, usually glittering with interest, only stare blankly down at her.

He brushes a bony finger across his mouth, deep in contemplation.

For a moment, out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she see's Malfoy grip his wand tighter, angry for his master at her defiance. His eyes flickering. But when she looks over at him, he's unmoved. Staring blankly over her head.

"There's something wrong with her memories," Voldemort, finally, says, after minutes of waiting. He strokes the tip of his wand from her temple and along her cheekbone. "There's pieces missing."

"My Lord?" Malfoy queries, his robes sweeping around him, as he lets his guard down of her, and looks at Him.

"Yesss — Fragments. Dark spots in her memories that can't be accounted for. Shadows and smoke," Voldemort says lowly. He points his wand tip under Hermione's jaw and raises her head. "Care to explain yourself, Mudblood?"

Her mouth curls, almost a snarl. She refuses to glance down at his wand. He won't kill her, he lost that edge when he claimed her useful and intriguing. She won't push him, not too far, she will not stake her life on his ability to be rational, and she will not be able to escape here if she's Crucio'd again.

Behind him, Malfoy is watching their exchange with heavily appraising eyes. His wand hand twitches, ready to protect his master at the drop of a hat. Another furtive glimpse of the room, as far as her peripherals can stretch without jerking her chin, shows her the majority of the Death Eaters are mildly interested in this exchange, at least enough to stop in their mutterings and cursing.

Hermione sniffs, then meets Voldemort's eyes. "I've spent several years burying my memories. The longer I've ignored them, the more I've forgotten. It's not uncommon to have splintered memories — and as for the smoke, that's how I imagine the effects of Dark magic to follow me."

Voldemort pauses, seemingly considering her answer. He doesn't remove his wand from her jaw. Again, there's nothing in his expression that she can read upon to fathom if he's satisfied with her answer or not.

Even she isn't satisfied with her answer. She is aware of the missing parts in her memories, it's caused her much confusion in the past, but she came to the conclusion a while ago that there's more there beyond too much occluding. Lucius would agree with her too, apparently. He's only ever been the one to call her out on it.

And where is Lucius? France, still? Perhaps it wise he isn't here, she doubts she'd be able to contain her rage and any further outbursts at his presence, too.

It all makes sense now, though. Why he acted so abruptly when she questioned him about Voldemort's Right-Hand. Now that she's truly thinking about it, his answers regarding Malfoy where vague. She never thought to question him further, has always assumed Malfoy to be a coward, he was just confirming the theory she had.

She's going to hex him ruthlessly, too.

After a few more minutes of strained silence, Voldemort withdraws his wand sharply, and turns away from her in a billow of robes.

"Leave us," Voldemort orders the room. "Not you, Draco."

He freezes, then tensely turns around to face his master again. Voldemort gestures his wand at him to approach, and they both hover near the throne area whilst the Death Eaters all file out in an orderly fashion.

The Great Hall's doors close softly, then Voldemort casts a Silencing spell on it — he, apparently, doesn't even want his inner-circle to know his plans for her. Yet.

"I have a task for you, Draco," He whispers near his ear, his back facing Hermione. She strains to listen in. "I want her memories intact. They may be relevant to the Order and their machinations."

"I shall endeavour to retrieve them, My Lord," He bows his head.

"After her little stunt with The Facility, you will need to take her too..." His voice fades out, too quiet. Too hushed. She pushes forward and points her ear down. "— I want her put to use after... Must be ready... Death..."

Hermione slumps down, too exhausted and sore to try and listen to broken conversations. They must know she's trying to eavesdrop, so they're dropping their voices a decibel or two lower.

The odd whisper she hears doesn't make any sense stringed together: School — Wand — Alive, unharmed — The Beast — Death — Test — Yours, Draco — Responsibility — Report daily.

"She is too valuable an asset to The Order for us to mis-manage her," Voldemort's voice grows louder minutes later. They walk towards her, Malfoy at his back. "I am entrusting you with her care."

"I will not displease you, My Lord," Well-trained puppy, Malfoy, says. His eyes sharp.

"Once you have her readings, I will return to France," He declares, running his wand tip along his knuckles. "Lucius is currently heading negotiations. I will have a report in several days. I expect your results within that time frame."

Hermione wants to Avada them both in the chest for talking about her as if she isn't in the room. She wants to torture Him for even daring to put her in Malfoy's care — whatever that is supposed to mean.

Can't be anything good.

Alive, unharmed. Mis-manage her. An asset.

"If you, or the Mudblood, have any issues with my faithful servants then send them to me immediately," Voldemort orders. "They will be handled."

Which, to Hermione, loosely translates to they will not touch her unless I deem it so.

"Of course, My Lord," Malfoy bows his head respectfully. He hasn't looked at her once since his failed attempt at invading her mind. "I will not disappoint you. The Mudblood shan't be harmed."

Voldemort smiles slowly, determined, his eyes glittering. "Then, proceed. You are dismissed, Right-Hand. You have three days."

He raises his wand rapidly between lazy fingers, points it at her sternum, and stuns her.

Chapter Text

Hermione only vaguely recalls waking several times during her stasis; the first, when Malfoy underestimated her ability to breakthrough a stunner quicker than anticipated, which lead to him stunning her again, then dosing her with Draught of Living Death instead.

Of the momentary glimpses she had of her surroundings, she's only been able to make out overhead lights (which painfully reminds her of sitting in her Father's dentistry chair) cauldron's bubbling, and unimaginable pain rippling through her body, her blood soaking through to the examination table. And lastly, she fathomed a guess she is in the former potions classroom, considering she destroyed The Facility.

During her suspended animation, she's dreamt. Not much, but she theorises as the potion nears it's expiry and requires top-up, she becomes lucid enough to dream. First, she imagined gold twines, sparkling shimmery tendrils interlaced, forming some kind-of pattern, hovering above her chest.

She dreamt of Tonks and Sirius, their moments unburdened by the war, laughing and talking over a glass of firewhisky around that ridiculous and ancient dining table they use to plan the next stages of the war at.

She was hugging Harry and Ron in first year, after they defeated Quirrell. Then second year, after The Chamber. Then third, when they saved Sirius. Fourth, after the Black Lake task, and comforting Harry whilst he explained what happened to Cedric. Fifth, a brief hug after the Department of Mysteries. Sixth, only once after Christmas. The year hunting horcruxes, nothing. Malfoy Manor, they briefly touched when they escaped, but then, she swore into position of General to The Order and they barely saw her unless it was for a horcrux related mission.

Only again, before the Final Battle, when they let go off all difficulties and strain between them, and embraced each other for several minutes on the sixth floor staircase.

The explosion rattles through her head, until it fades again.

Sometimes, she dreams of Neville. His arms encompassing her. Firm words and warnings defending her. She dreams he's still alive, that they managed to heal The Facility's test subjects and Ginny, and he's not trying to rescue her.

When the Draught of Living Death is administered again, she looses the ability to think. Only the occasional vague dream to keep her sane.

She dreamt of The Room of Requirement, those bets, the useless Stunners, her dismissal to Harry when he questioned her of her whereabouts at night.

"The library, obviously. Where else?"

She would always laugh and play of his concern as unfounded and ridiculous, that it was all in his head. She hated lying and gaslighting him. She regrets it deeply.

In sixth year, she supposes he did the same to her with the Advanced Potions textbook.

But she was also lying to him, sneaking around training and performing Dark Magic in the same room they formed the DA together — so they where even, right?

Wrong.

She dreamt of her training, each curse leaving black smoke in the shape of large, firm hands covering her ribcage and crushing her body into it. Darkness. Void. Emptiness. Long wisps of smoke would wrap around her throat and steal her breath, drowning her in clouds of fog. Her fading white light submerged in it.

Hermione wakes gasping for air, all accessibility to her lungs broken. There's no tangibility to her body or mind. Only the black smoke, it's funnelling through her, she can't breathe. Everything feels numb and hollow, like she's been dragged underwater, and there's an agonising pressure seeking to submerge her. 

"Calm down, Mudblood," She hears a lazy drawl somewhere in the fog. Distant. Reaching for her. "You are prone to hurting yourself if you continue to thrash like that."

He only angers her further, which does not prevent thrashing — is she thrashing? She can't tell. She's numb, detached from her body completely. There's only the smoke, encompassing her lucidity.

She can't move. She can't breathe. She can think now, but it's hard to rationalise, almost impossible to string together coherent thoughts. It's just breathe, smoke, death, I'm dying, cold, ice—

"Mudblood!" The Death Eater with the cracked mask snaps — no, she knows his name now. It's Malfoy. Chauvinistic Pig and Bigot. "Breathe. The potion is wearing off. You'll be just fine in a moment."

Hermione breathes slowly, shallowly. The further he incenses her, the more she wants to wake, so she can hex and kill him. His motivation is a rather useful tactic for her in this instance.

"Breathe," He coaxes her. She can feel two fingers on her wrist, checking her pulse. "That's it — well done. You're breathing. A basic Muggle function—"

"Fuck — You," Hermione grinds out. It's weak sounding, painful, and hoarse. But clearly understandable.

He laughs lightly at her.

Her throat is so dry, it feels like sandpaper when she talks — she's recognises she's talking now, a moment later. Good. The smoke and the fog in her head is dispersing.

She blinks, only half-lidded, until a blinding light stabs at her irises like a thousand prickling needles, and she squeezes them shut again.

Once the pressure in her head abates, the pain hits her like a Bombarda to the temple. She winces and moves to push her fist to the spot, but is unable. She's bound. All she can move is her mid-riff, thrashing, as her back arches up to fight the discomfort and pain.

There's a large hand on the back of her head, lifting her, and he's pressing the rim of a potion vial to her lips.

She purses them shut and opens her eyes. Too fast. The light burns as if it's molten lava pouring through her eye sockets and scorching her brain.

Once her sights clear and sway slowly back into solidity, the first thing Hermione recognises is a lamplight, presumably magically powered, rather than electric. She squints her eyes at it long enough for Chauvinistic Pig to realise and knock it away from her.

The relief is instant, a warm flood of sunlight in her head. She can't slouch, as he has hold of her head still.

Finally, she flicks her gaze up to look at him, where he's leaning over her, and still trying to force the potion past her lips. Once their eyes meet, she can feel his fingers twitch and tense around her head, as if he can't stand the idea of her so much as looking at him. 

She wants to kill him.

His lips are in a thin, flat line. His eyes a dull grey staring down at her with a level of intensity that makes her stomach wrench. Again. He's occluding, which explains his cold expression, but albeit smooth marble facial features. There really isn't anything left of the boy she knew during school. She remembers, some time at the start of fifth year, being baffled by how quickly he changed; he grew taller, more muscular, stoic, as if that summer pried out every bit of boyishness he had left. Beyond him insulting her, Harry, and Ronald during the year, she can't recall any other times of observation.

But that does make it all the more easier to, eventually, kill him, and not feel even the slightest twinge of guilt over it.

Hermione tilts her head ever so slightly, his hand moving along with her, as the thought strikes her, that none of them are the same as they where in school. Not anymore. The war has changed them all. Some more than others. Others cling to the same beliefs that drove them during those years. But for the some, for her, reality swept in and bludgeoned them with the harshness of war and the lengths needed to survive and win.

The pause between them, this dreaded, intense silence, has lingered too long. He's staring down at her with an inscrutable but calculating gaze. Her dry lips part and crack under it—

Malfoy isn't gentle when he seizes the opportunity to empty the potion down her throat and push his hand up into her jaw, to force her lips together. His other hand on the back of her head holds her firmer, so she may not whip backwards and spit it out and onto his face. She screams mutely, frantically, as the potion swishes around her mouth.

He simply arches a brow at her, with mirth, when she stops struggling.

It's Pain Relief potion. She'd recognise the wormwood and dittany anywhere. She swallows it.

Malfoy releases her and turns to a metal tray, placed on a school desk beside him, and retrieves another vial. "Blood Replenishing Potion. Are you going to drink it? Or do we have to fuss again?"

Hermione snarls at him for an answer.

His mouth twitches. "Good."

His hand is on the back of her head again. He's, oddly, warm to the touch — but she remembers being informed that Dark Magic doesn't effect him as it should either. He lifts her head, presses the edge of the vial to her lips, and slowly empties it into her mouth.

Once she tastes the Powered Unicorn Horn on the tip of her tongue, she swallows it.

They take effect a minute later, she can feel her body start to return to life. Her blood feels thicker in her veins, faster, pumping directly to her heart, and the pain relief has cured her aches and raw throat.

Whilst he's tinkering with a cauldron and mixing apparatuses behind her, she tries to get a grip on her situation.

As she stares at the familiar tall ceilings of Snape's old potions classroom, she replays the scene in the Great Hall with Voldemort over and over again in her head.

She's captured.

General to The Order, captured.

Did Malfoy try and read her memories again? Surely if he did, and succeeded, then she wouldn't still be here.

Her walls are strong, she shouldn't doubt them.

Her house is a fortress; the doors to her most important memories are, always, as a foundation, concealed and/or vanished. The only way to access them is if she wilfully conjures them. Only the first floor is accessible, but those memories are inconsequential, even the images of her parents are modified. It's better this way, to not have access to her memories, always has been, it allows her to be detached and rational in the face of the war. It's how she's survived so long, she'd bet.

And she's under his care — because she's been deigned useful by Voldemort.

Panic starts to creep it's way towards her heart, niggling through her chest, and diving straight for her core. Useful. Why is she useful? What does He possibly hope to gain by keeping her? All his efforts will provide Him with is a hex to the face — but then, he'll kill her without a second thought.

She can't be that useful to him, surely.

The panic is intermixing with dread. Her vision starts to tunnel with something that looks an awful lot like black smoke again. She can't be sure if it's just a panic attack, or if the taint of Dark magic in her soul is worsening and effecting her more frequently. She did, after all, take on an entire army of Death Eaters with Dark magi, she shouldn't be surprised...

Her breath hitches and lodges in her throat. Where is she? How long has she been out? What have they done to her? She has to escape. She can't—

"Breathe, Granger."

She stills, can feel herself paling. Granger — Not Mudblood.

His tone, the way her surname effortlessly rolls off his tongue, doesn't hold his typical hatred or malice. He's following Voldemort's orders to keep her safe and unharmed, even by her own making. She does, in fact, need to breathe to remain alive. But there is still a resigned edge, a softness to his tone that is entirely unprecedented for him.

At some point during her crazed thoughts and observations, she failed to become aware that she is breathing steadily again. Godsdamn him. Cunning and manipulative, stereo-typical Slytherin.

After a minute, without trying to look at him, Hermione asks, "What did you do to me?"

Pain Relief and Blood-Replenishing Potions does tell her that he has, probably, tested on her, but she's too anxious to look down and inspect her own body. She can't see the same wounds inflicted upon The Facility's victims on herself. Can't see a scar on her sternum that would indicate to her that they carved Runes into her bones. She's terrified to learn if she's been cut into ribbons, only to be healed poorly, and left littered with scars.

If they healed her. What if they numbed her? If she looks down, will she see her innards spread across her abdomen and pouring from the examination table? No. Fuck. She can feel herself shaking at the mere thought alone.

Are her eyes the same colour still? Has she been tortured again? She doesn't think she wants to know.

She can hear a sigh, the clank of a glass stirrer dropping into a cauldron, then his footsteps moving behind her. He has this state of presence that has the ability to suck all oxygen out of the room with his strength of power alone, alerting anyone in the immediate vicinity of his attendance.

Not that she recognises he's powerful.

But, honestly, she can't technically deny it. He's untainted by persistent use of Dark Magic. He has the power to enact Voldemort's will, to be his Right-Hand, so that does tell her something.

There's been many a time when she's picked up the Daily Prophet and seen his cracked mask displayed on the front page, after enacting His will:

Right-Hand destroys Muggle Village. The third this month. Our Lord is pleased.

Right-Hand executes Resistance Fighters.

Who is the Death Eater behind the cracked mask? The Dark Lord's protégé? Or just another enthusiastic loyalist?

Right-Hand is in France, negotiating with blood for allegiance. See how many towns he's destroyed so far, on page five.

Right-Hand, everything we know, including his death toll — hint: it's in the hundreds. See page two for more.

There's been many images of him, pointing his wand and executing a member of the resistance, or swarming through a Muggle town, and leaving fire in his wake. 

More than that, when Hermione has been there in person, the only one that could stop him from inflicting his destruction and his death, as he was too busy trying to stop her. There's been a couple of newspapers with their duel on the cover. 

When he comes into view, Hermione follows his every move as he rounds the desk, stands beside her with his hip resting against the examination table, and slowly raising his arms to fold them across his chest. His relaxed posture, mixed with his shirt sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, revealing the muscles and veins in his arms and his Dark Mark, his slicked back hair, and tailored suit pants, gives blank, but yet, aristocratic indifference.

He really isn't effected by hurting, torturing, and testing on her at all.

Gone is Malfoy, annoying schoolboy prat. And in his place, Death Eater Right-Hand and likely protégé to Voldemort.

She's not going to be able to use him, or evade him easily to escape. She's not going to be able to anger him enough so that he can kill her, and in turn, keep Order secrets safe. But she does need to get out of here, so she has to be smarter than that.

Malfoy studies her. "And, pray tell, why you believe I would tell you?"

Hermione narrows her eyes. "I'm useful, remember?"

He laughs faintly. "Don't overestimate your value, Mudblood."

"Don't underestimate me," She says, warning in her tone. "How long do you think your bindings can hold me?"

"Long enough," He ghosts a smirk, like a true snake. "The Dark Lord—"

She scoffs.

"— Will be arriving shortly to receive my final report."

"On, what?" She grinds out.

"What I've done to you," He responds simply.

She groans and lets her head fall back onto the table again, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling. Still an annoying prat, it seems. She wishes she could punch him, or hurt him, or at least be able to kick away her indignant frustrations.

She won't. She'll pry out those answers with the only leverage she has left, the reason why, she assumes, he's been hesitant and resigned to her—

"How long do you think until He arrives?" Hermione asks, her voice silky. Indifferent. "Long enough for us to discuss your Mother?"

She hears the brush of fabric against the table, then his arms dropping by his sides. She assumes he's all tense and fisting his hands. It's nice, to be able to get under his skin, too.

"I can give you a report of my own," She sneers, still without looking at him. "It's quite a lengthy one. A lot was done to your mother—"

Malfoy growls lowly, a threatening rumble in the back of his throat, as he strides forward heavily and grips the width of her jaw with punishing strength. He jerks her head up as far as it can go (which isn't very far), lowers his face to hers, and grits his teeth.

"Do. Not. Speak of my Mother," The muscle in his jaw ripples. He leans in closer to her so his lips are just a centimetre away from hers. "I will end you."

Hemione smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Or perhaps we could discuss your Father—"

He squeezes her jaw harder and tips her head back as if she's a rag doll. His breath is hot on her mouth. "You wouldn't. My mother is innocent. My father is useful to your Order—"

"You're doing it again," She murmurs, amused. "Underestimating me. You shouldn't. I've grown rather spiteful over the years. I'd go to all the effort of obtaining a new spy, and leverage over you, just to watch you hurt."

He falls deathly silent.

Something flickers across his eyes. Emotion, of some kind. She doesn't think he knows many of those, so assumes it's rage.

Malfoy, apparently, chooses to surprise her.

"What happened to you?" He rasps, this hoarse tone of voice similar to the one she became accustomed to during battles. His eyes are fierce on hers, glittering. "You're so—"

"What?" Hermione spits acidly. Resentfully. "Cold? Cruel? Heartless? Believe me, I've heard it all before."

He visibly studies her, seeming rather tense. "I was going to say different."

"Different," Hermione echoes, then laughs hollowly. "Take a look around, Malfoy. Why do you think I'm different? You are currently holding me against my will and testing on me! During a fucking war that you may as well have started, you absolute cretin!"

His expression wavers. Something softer. Hurt, maybe? — No. Impossible. She hasn't hurt him enough yet.

She's painfully aware of his breathing slowing.

She cocks her head, slowly, letting her face near him. "I healed your mother, you know? Before you captured me. She was fine. I can't say she still is now. If the Order believe her to have information—"

Malfoy's lips part ever so slightly as he blinks several times, the silver in his eyes resurfacing. "You healed her? She's... Alive?"

Hermione opens her mouth, but her breath catches. Of course, Narcissa was practically on deaths door the last time he saw her. Her mouth closes and opens several times upon seeing the hope, the pain, and the desperation flickering in his gaze, unsure of how to proceed. 

She frowns, then tries again. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

More silver creeps back into his irises, sparking the dull grey back to life. His brow dips slowly, and he's searching for something in her eyes, that she can tell is making him nervous and tense.

He draws in a quiet, ragged breath.

"I knew you would," Malfoy murmurs. He swallows, and her gaze drops there, following the movement.

It's when Hermione slides her gaze back up to his eyes — his now fully silver, fervent eyes — that she realises how close they are. Too close. How heavy their breathing is, dizzyingly so.

She could likely prod into his mind using Legilimency now, he has no obvious mental barriers, no walls she'd have to pry down. But she has to assume he'd be effective at forcing her out, too. That he, too, must have things in place to shield his more important memories.

Malfoy looks a little vulnerable still. A touch more open at the mention of his mother, whom he claims is innocent, but yet, doesn't hold that same sentimentality for his father, whom is just useful.

She takes advantage. "So, you owe me big, Malfoy. I helped your mum. Tell me what you did to me."

He seems to be considering this. His grip of her jaw loosens enough for the pressure to stop stinging, but he doesn't let her go, or move even so much as inch away from her face. The more she tries to move, her elbows bend, and rub against the irritated skin beneath her bindings.

He vacillates. She can see him warring with himself through his expression, the way it wavers, then re-firms again a moment later. 

"Primarily, I performed invasive surgery to your sternum. I needed access to your magical signature, The Dark Lord is interested in your capabilities," He explains quietly, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "You where not tested on to the same degree as the previous test subjects."

Hermione sucks in a quick breath.

She blinks back the tears in her eyes.

No, no, she doesn't know where to begin in trying to process that. Her magical signature? Invasive surgery? She lay here, for only Merlin knows how long, comatose and exposed to him, whilst he sliced open her chest and — what? — read the potency of her magic? How? A spell? Why did he need to cut her open to see that?

Her sternum — her magical signature — bones — runes on bones.

Pieces start to click in place. Is her magic infused in her bones somehow? In her physical being? Or is it just a soul thing, still? The deeper he cut into her, the better to retrieve more accurate readings? She has a soul, that much she can tell — it fucks with her constantly — but she always imagined it to be a fuel, rather than something accessible and readable.

Is that why Voldemort is carving Runes into test subjects sternums? To access whatever pure magical energy they may currently possess? It's a long shot, but it's still a theory.

But to perform invasive surgery on her would imply that he can access it, in some way — She'd bet her left leg he's tested her 'filthy' blood too. Is it in her blood? S

he hates this, not knowing.

And not knowing what was done to her too.

She can't stand that the sound she can hear is the potions mixing and simmering in the background, bringing an already ominous sense of dread to the emptiness of the room.

Hermione pulls herself free from her endless thoughts, and continues with her interrogation. "Did you try reading my memories again?"

Malfoy nods. "Yes."

"And?"

"And nothing," His brows furrow, as he narrows his eyes appraisingly. Trying to find something within her. "They are splintered. I'm currently unable to restore them."

"Did you carve runes into me?" Hermione asks, a nervous tremble in her voice betraying her dread for the answer.

He hesitates for a few long moments, his fingers twitching across her jaw. "No. The Dark Lord does not want your power, yet. He wants to use you first."

She'll ignore that, for now, not immediately relevant. She doubts Malfoy is even allowed to relay His intended uses for her, so she won't waste any of her questions.

"How did you read my magical signature?" She goes with instead. 

Malfoy lets out a long, quiet sigh. "A Soul Ritual."

"I hate you," She says with deadly conviction. Her lip curls up into a snarl. "You disgust me."

He blinks slowly, exhales, then when he opens his eyes again, their glazed over, hard like steel. Occluded.

"The feeling is, irrevocably, mutual," His mouth twitches, then he flicks his wrist away, and jerks her head back. "Perhaps the Dark Lord will get his uses out of you and perhaps you will serve your purpose. But you'll still always be lower than the filth beneath his feet."

She rolls her eyes dramatically.

"You wound me," Hermione says dryly. "Please, do go on. I'm fascinated to learn why you think I would do anything for him, let alone serve his purposes."

Malfoy curls a slow, dangerous smirk on his lips. "Trust me, once he shows you his leverage, you won't be able to refuse him. Get comfortable with your surroundings, Granger, they're all you're going to be seeing for a long time."

He gifts her one final, wonderous snarl, before he's storming through the room, and straight out of the door. He slams it behind him with finality. She scoffs loudly, only hoping he heard her through the fit of his tantrum.

Hermione, still staring at the same crack in the ceiling as earlier, thinks of the loved ones she's left behind. Their comfort and feeling of home. With the idea of being stuck here for any length of time, the reality hits her that she never told them she appreciated them enough. That she loves them. That she didn't let her walls down long enough to show them what they truly mean to her.

Ron, Ginny, Bill, George, and Charlie. Her chosen family, what remains of them. Those that have put up with her for literal years, that have loved her, even during the last few years when she wasn't able to feel it. She'd like to think she'd know if something has happened to them, if Ginny wasn't healed in time, but she's rather doubtful in her instinctive magic to fully believe it at this moment in time.

Did Tonks survive and escape the prisons? Was she cursed too? Gods, she can't imagine life without Tonks now. She's the sister she never had. The only other that understands Hermione completely.

Sirius and Shacklebolt, the two most infuriating wizards in her life, that swept into her heart whether she wanted them too or not, are they alive? Are they safe? Are they running The Order appropriately or trying to devise a way to break her out of her captivity?

Hermione believes they'll come for her. She estimates it'll take them, at most, six months to rebuild their ranks, heal and train the prisoners they rescued, and plot an infiltration...

Surely they wouldn't just send Neville, would they? Do they think him capable of breaching Hogwarts, per their usual strategy, alone? Could he manage it? Would Sirius use him like that? She knows the answer to that question is a resounding yes, providing they can believe 100% that he won't further risk her or him.

He's strong, but unless given the opportunity for an empty castle, then she doubts he'll be able to manage it.

A small part of her recognises Sirius won't plan a mission so haphazardly, considering they don't even know if she's alive, never mind what condition she's in, or the conditions to her capture. Unless Sirius can reach Lucius in France, they won't know that she's constantly under Malfoy's 'care' now. They'll never get her alone.

They'd have to storm the castle.

That won't do. She'd prefer they not risk it all just for her. She's only one life in a War that needs to be won, that will alter the future of Wizarding Kind for the better. They wouldn't risk it — Her.

Her heart twinges slightly for Neville. She, oddly, misses him. She's thought about him a lot, even managed to dream of him during her stasis. She's empty, but he has a way of helping her forget.

A bitter, burning tear drops out of the corner of her eye and rolls down her temple. She can feel the wet spot in her hair where it's landed.

Her brief sadness only makes her angry — because she's a fucking idiot! She shouldn't be lying down on an examination table crying, she needs to get the bloody hell out of here.

She blinks away the wetness in her eyes, and using the distraction, she finally breaks her staring competition with the ceiling, and glances down at her sternum. She's still wearing her full field gear, sans robes, though it looks repaired and cleaned.

She juts her chest out to open a gap between her sternum and her shirt, pushes her chin down as far as it can go, and inspects it closely.

There, striking down the path of her sternum, is an irritated red wound marring her skin. It's a clean cut, deep, but angry looking.

Hermione draws in a shaky breath, suppressing another pathetic tear, as she realises not only did Malfoy violate her body with invasive surgery, but he had to strip her from the waist up also to do this.

She feels like she's going to be sick, like she wants to scream, cry, vomit, and stab herself repeatedly just to expel the feel of him away from her insides. He's touched her. Touched her in ways that'll never leave her.

The air vibrates with the waves of anger pulsing from her. She's going to kill him. She's going to kill his entire family and raze his Manor to the ground, erasing every smidge of his bloodline away from the world until the name Malfoy is nothing but a phantom whisper in the wind.

Her bindings break.

The snap is enough to break her out of her enraged reverie. Her brows dip as she looks down to her wrists, her hands balled up into fists, and see's the rope slowly falling from the table. She's breathing heavy, too, apparently.

Hermione wasn't even aware of the burst of magic, not until it happened — they really haven't suppressed her magic at all.

She won't waste time growing wary over why they've let her keep her magic, only that they must be confident in keeping her captive without the use of magic suppressants.

Cocky bastards.

Slowly, carefully, Hermione raises her left arm, and outstretches her fingers. Everything feels stiff, but moveable. There's no alarms triggering at her sudden movement, or shocks to her system for breaking the magic. She lifts her right arm slightly from the table, and again, nothing happens.

No. She can't go running through the castle trying to escape. They'll catch her in a heartbeat, and if it's a Death Eater that hasn't been informed that she's under Malfoy's 'protection', then they could possibly kill her.

She needs to think. She needs to be smart about this. She doesn't even have her wand.

Ignoring the stiffness of her limbs and her aching muscles, she sits up, and observes her surroundings.

The classroom is much the same, except for the added equipment needed to test on her — the exam table, the metal counters, cauldrons, potion ingredients, and a shelf lining the wall that has a jar on it with the green fluid required to preserve human remains.

Nausea bubbles up in her stomach again. They really are going to test on her, they're going to hack pieces off of her one-by-one until there's nothing left of her.

Images of bloody murder flash through her head.

A weapon. She needs a weapon — she darts frantic glances around the room, too frantic that she almost missed the small knife next to Malfoy's cauldron, simmering under a stasis charm. A butterfly knife. Probably used to chop or crush smaller ingredients that require a level amount of care.

Hermione awkwardly steps down from the table, her legs protesting in agony, as she clambers towards the cauldron heavily, and pockets the butterfly knife.

She peeks into the cauldron — and there's a thick, slimy, and purple concoction bubbling inside it. It stinks, something rather similar to the troll she faced in the dungeons with Harry and Ron. Sulfuric. Not even remotely familiar to her. Must be something new—

"Yes, My Lord. I have successfully managed..."

She inhales a sharp breath — Oh No — as she registers Malfoy's voice, two sets of feet approaching, and a thrum of Dark magic skating through the air. Good Godric, they're going to test on her again already.

But they can't know she got free...

"And, tell me, are the results what we predicted?"

Keeping her steps as quiet, but as fast as she is able, she strides across the room, climbs back onto the exam table, and lies down. The cold presses into every free space of skin available—

"Not quite. There's more. I find it may be better to show you, than tell you, My Lord."

There's a slight pause. "Very well."

Fuck. With a flick of her fingers, the snapped ropes pull taut in the air, lash towards her, and curl around her wrists and ankles. They pin her down by the legs of the table, and magically seal themselves. No evidence left of the breakage, nor are they as tight as earlier, in case she needs to make a, what will be, futile escape.

The door pushes open, the iron handle knocks against the wood, and she hears the brush of robes against legs as they enter into the room. She closes her eyes to feign sleep, but even without her sights, she couldn't mistake Voldemort's presence for any another's. The swell of death and unnatural immortality pours from him.

"The Mudblood is awake, My Lord," Malfoy says matter-of-factly as he comes to her bedside. She tsks out of habit, at the utter betrayal. Git. "She is not under any spells or potions to immobilise her."

Hermione still keeps her eyes stubbornly closed.

"And why have you chose to allow her to rouse, Draco?" Voldemort says silkily, his tone of voice level. If he's disappointed in Malfoy, he doesn't make it overtly known. "She is not incapable of overpowering you, as you are aware."

Internally, she's sniggering. Hopefully, it doesn't show on her face too much.

"I'd like to think she knows better than to attempt an escape," Malfoy drawls with mirth. She can practically feel his smirk. "She is, apparently, the Brightest Witch of her Age, after all."

Voldemort laughs hollowly, though she can picture that horrid, wide, satisfied grin on his face still. She wants to blast it off his mouth with a flick of her wrist.

"I am limited for time, we must proceed," Voldemort hisses, then presses the tip of his wand to her sternum. "Signataro Revelare."

There's a slight pull deep in Hermione's chest that forces her eyes to blast open. She doesn't focus on the two heads floating over her, the crimson, and dull grey irises piercing her.

But the tug within her.

It grows more painful as Voldemort concentrates heavily on the spell. Something inside her... inner core, maybe, is attached to his wandtip. His ritual. Pulling it up.

He bares his teeth as he pulls and wrenches, and fuck, it hurts. A low growl rumbles in her throat in protest as his spell drives through her, attaches to something, then digs it's way through her sternum as if this spell has claws.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears a girl screaming. She can't tell how far through the fog in her head, the black smoke in her lungs, and the white noise in her ears.

There's a rip, something tearing inside her, and weakening her until her body goes limp. Is she thrashing again? There's a tingle in her back that may tell her she dropped heavily back onto the table.

There's a final niggling sensation under her skin, right in the centre of the new sternum wound, that scratches and scratches, trying to break it's way through. It feels horrible, sickening, as if there's thousands of tiny spiders trying to burrow their way free. Her whole form is tensing against it.

All of a sudden, the pressure stops.

It's preternaturally still and quiet now.

Hermione inhales, then exhales, trying to move past the pit of dread in her stomach, and opens a heavy eye.

Gold lights.

That's all she can make out. It's blurry. She narrows her eyes into dark slits, trying to pinpoint the shape, and concentrate on it. The severity of her poor vision has to be from the spell's after-effects.

But it's so bright, so golden, it breaks through the haze.

It's so beautiful, it steals her breath away.

Hovering over her sternum, is the reading. Her magical signature. It's more defined than she expected it to be. The very few times she's considered what her signature must look like, it's not that. She imagined a bright ball of light, an orb, or something — but this, it's like vines. Golden, radiant vines.

Hundreds of them, intwining and weaving together continuously to form a tight, long, mass of energy. As if it's ivy growing around the trunk of a tree and encompassing her being. The light is blinding. It's almost impossible to make out the true shape.

"Pure."

Voldemort's voice emerges through her stupor, through her stunned observations, and shatters her moment of clarity. The dread never left her, but now that's she fully cognizant, she's reminded of it.

She looks past His shoulder and focuses on Malfoy for long moments. He's dressed the same as earlier, meaning not enough time passed in her isolation for him to leave and change. He's standing as taut as a drawn wire, with his arms crossed and his wand pointing out of the crook in his elbow, seemingly prepared for an attack — but his expression surprises her the most, it's not as coolly indifferent as earlier. There's an emotion of some kind flashing through his eyes.

Although, she could be mistaking it for the increasing brightness of her magical signature reflecting and glaring in the dark of his contracted pupils.

"Is this not almost exactly the same as your signature, Draco?" Voldemort asks, ice in his tone. He flicks his wand and her signature starts to circle slowly, revealing different points.

"Yes, My Lord."

"Reveal it."

Malfoy uncrosses his arms, swishes his wand widely in the space in front of him, and murmurs a conjuring spell. Out of the tip of his wand, the same golden vines fly out and begin to wind together.

Just one swish of his wand, no agonising pain, and he's able to conjure his own magical signature? Is it just a previous reading that he's conjured? Or did they test on her just to be spiteful? She wonders then, if Malfoy were to remove his shirt, would he have the same scar on his sternum? She loathes having more questions than answers.

Hermione watches closely, as she wasn't able to with her own at the start of the ritual, as they weave together and take shape. The vines find each other consistently and persistently, they intertwine, grow, widen, and clasp together until it's swirling movement resemble something like a tree, until it's just a mass of bright energy.

The more the vines bundle together, the more complicated it becomes. If she believed the depiction of the Nordic Tree of Life, Yggdrasil, then she'd compare it to that, the more it grows and grows.

They meld together as if it has it's own set of fingerprints.

It's dazzlingly beautiful and complicated.

She flits her gaze between Malfoy's and her own, now that they've both fully grown and revealed themselves. And besides the few black vines on her own, likely from the corruption of her use of Dark magic without the Purification Ritual, then she would conclude that they are almost exactly the same. His is more branched than hers.

Is that due to his family's inbreeding? Is that the 'purity' to his line? His thousand years of Malfoy ancestry? Is it so interwoven in his magical core that it branches in his signature, too?

Hermione's tree (yes, now that it's grown, she can see more of a resemblance to Yggdrasil than anything else) has vines that branch off, but there's less. 

But the energy, the power, emanating from it, it feels ancient. Natural. Powerful beyond anything she considered herself capable of.

There's been very few moments in her life that she's been rendered speechless and flabbergasted.

This is one of those moments.

"Her magic does have roots," Voldemort surmises, still inspecting her signature closely. Intently. "Not as definitive or as extensive as your own, but there is ties to an ancient form of magic, to a magical bloodline a far ways back. Does this mean her kind did steal our power? Is that something we can prove?"

Malfoy swallows, and as if trying to brace himself, he closes his eyes and breathes heavily through his nose.

"My Lord," He starts, trying to keep a firm, level voice. "The roots of her magic emerge from the centre of her signature and disperse, indicating an origins point. I believe her bloodline does contain ties to ancient and natural magic."

Voldemort considers her. "Did you confirm her parents are Muggles?"

"Yes," The muscle in his jaw ripples. "I ran the trace on her parentage myself. I headed the search for her parents and found her childhood home in a suburb in London called Hampstead. Her parents where gone, but there was evidence enough in the property alone to confirm a Muggle upbringing."

Voldemort grits his teeth subtly. Clearly irate by his answer. He vanishes the image of her magical signature and grips his wand tighter.

He whips around so fast, Hermione's head doesn't fully catch up on what is happening, barely able to hear the Crucio, until she hears Malfoy on the ground growling. Quiet, pained growls. Voldemort is torturing him.

She snaps her head up sharply to see Malfoy on his knees, his fists pushing into the ground in front of him, and hunched over. His head is bowed and his body is straining against the spell. He's so tense, it looks like he could rip through his shirt at any given moment.

"Are you suggesting her blood is pure, Draco?" He sneers at him, his teeth bared. His cruelty is relentless. "Is that what you believe? Is that why you waited to show me, rather than report your findings verbally?"

"No, my — lord," He grinds out weakly, his voice sounding small. His breathing is dangerously uneven. "She — not — blood. No ties — to pure-blood — heritage — not pure."

Hermione widens her eyes slightly. Fuck, there's a pang in heart again, a small echo of familiarity reverberating through her chest.

She hates it.

She despises the Cruciatus Curse more (unless, apparently, she uses it herself. But that's different), can't stand the pained noises leaving Malfoy's lips because of it. The faint cackling from Bellatrix in the Manor loops through her head when she witnesses it. Even her forearm is reacting to it, the lingering remnants of Bellatrix's curse and faint silver scarring still haunting her.

Malfoy did help her, that day. She loath to admit it, but if he hadn't of arrived when he did, called off Bellatrix using Voldemort's name, then she possibly would have went insane. She blames him a lot for what happened to her in the Manor, after Bellatrix tortured her, but he did stop her at great risk to his life and the lives of his parents.

She sighs, then wars with herself on what to do here. She could break her bindings and stab Voldemort with the knife to end the spell, but that's a laughably terrible idea. He'd just kill them both.

She could use this temporary distraction to try and make a run for it. She could, possibly, evade them long enough to make it out of the Astronomy Tower and Apparate out of the forbidden forest. But she'd have a fight on her hands eventually.

She weighs her options, her thoughts drowning out by the sound of the Cruciatus — of Malfoy's pained noises.

Hermione sighs inwardly. The other option — it's dangerous. It leaves her unguarded. But... Voldemort's distracted and she can do it.

Good Fucking Godric.

Possibly making the biggest mistake of her life, she closes her eyes, concentrates, then tries to focus on Malfoy. His scream. The only scream he's allowed to break through his lips during the last two minutes — Hermione remembers how deeply painful two minutes of Cruciatus is. Using Legilimency, she opens her eye and sinks into his mind — not to observe, not to break down his mental walls, but to build a softer wall around his mind, like a cushion.

It's won't help his current situation much, but it will relieve the agony of mental damage, shut him off from the pain. His mind will feel it like a caress, a softening to the blow of intrusive magic.

He didn't test on her, not by his own will anyway. He braced himself for the inevitably of being tortured by (sort-of) defending the purity of her magic. Not her blood, but her magic. Her not stolen magic, but tied to natural roots magic — Hermione has studied, practiced, and mastered Elemental Magic for years, magic is everywhere, even in the air surrounding her. The smallest trace of it is Natural. How can they be so ignorant to think it's stolen from pure-bloods? Gods, the notion has baffled her for years — but Malfoy knew this would happen to him, that he'd pay for being honest. And he did help her in his own way, back in the Manor. It's enough to validate her actions.

He sucks in a breath and visibly untenses for the quickest moment, then starts groaning and growling again. It's working, she believes. She can feel the lessening of damage through this mental link between them, but his acting is confirmation that his pain is reduced.

Hermione's not certain it will work, but she tries to push through a thought to him. "Just hold on a little longer."

There's a brief, almost imperceptible flash across his eyes, then he lets out a scream.

Hermione swallows thickly. "You can hear me?"

Malfoy doesn't give any obvious signs of responding — she doesn't care, she closes her eyes and sends out another hum of magic through the link, an extra layer of protection in his mind.

It's been three minutes. He'll be lucky if this measure of protection is enough to prevent any lasting damage.

"I can stop him. I stole your knife."

He growls like an animal trapped in a claw trap and shakes his head in a way that doesn't betray her voice in his head. He passes it off as a twitchy, jerking movement from the pain.

She sends out one final caress, and blooming at the base of her skull, is the blinding pain that she normally associates with—

There's flashes.

This is more than usual. She thinks there's breakage in her head — either her mental inclinations or her skull, she can't say. But there's a perceptible imprinting. There's images, words—

It's the restricted section, late at night during early winter. The winds blast forcefully outside, as if preternaturally. There's no other students studying in the main-library, she's always alone at this time of night.

Hermione's reading. It's: Advanced Dark Arts, and she's about halfway through. She still has Arithmancy equations and Rune translations to complete for her homework, too.

There's a shadow lurking amongst the shelves, creeping towards her, watching her. It wants to suffocate her. She, tentatively, glances over her shoulder.

There's nothing.

There's the shadow. The smoke. It's fingers, like long dementor claws, curling towards her back. It's reaching for her. It's smoothing over the pages of her book and crawling towards her—

Voldemort, finally, drops the spell, and she comes back with a silent breath, as she tries to recall the memory. The shadow. There's so many similar ones in her head, she can't pinpoint it exactly.

Malfoy's body slumps weakly, still hunched over and breathing heavy, but his muscles relax enough to stop them from rippling through his shirt. His hands twitch and he's distinctively pale.

Hermione breaks the link to his mind and returns her walls to her own mind. She uses the temporary silence and distraction to lie back down, close her eyes, and occlude.

"I want her tested on for susceptibility to Runic commands, then put to work in The Facility, once the construction is complete," Voldemort orders him nastily, still pointing his wand at Malfoy. His face twisted with cold rage. "She is your charge, my Right-Hand, I expect you to keep her in line. I expect you to restore her memories, and report to me her knowledge on The Order and her prior years during her schooling — Do Not fail me."

Left unsaid is what he will do to not just Malfoy, but Lucius, Narcissa, and even herself, if he does fail him. 

Hermione is feeling extremely bitter that her life is suddenly dependent on him.

"Y—Yes, My Lord," Malfoy stammers out, breathless. He weakly lifts his head to meet his eyes, bow, then keel back over again. "I will not disappoint you."

Hermione wants to bolt up, tell Voldemort to kindly fuck off, as she will not be subject to testing and bodily runic commands, nor would she ever be put to work in The Facility — but decides against fairly quickly, as he's positively irate enough. He'll either kill her for her 'disobedience' or take it out on Malfoy again, as she's to remain alive and unharmed.

Voldemort's robes whip around him as he turns, then disappears in a whirl of black smoke.

Next, she's stunned.

She doesn't wake up for another week.