Prologue

The sunset was a bloody orange on the night the Snatchers finally caught up with the Golden Trio. Frost choked the clearing where Hermione, Harry, and Ron had been hiding, and the newly budding hyacinths had been crushed by their failed escape.

Hermione's breath was coming to her in fast gasps, partially from exhaustion and partially from the ropes crushing her chest. She could hear Harry trying to inhale through his swollen lips, and she could feel Ron sagging in defeat beside her.

"Grab hold and make it tight," Greyback growled.

Filthy Snatcher fingernails dug into her hair as Greyback counted down to the Disapparation that would take the lot of them to Malfoy Manor. To Voldemort.

Why did Harry have to be so stubborn about saying the name out loud? Up until he had slipped up on the Taboo, she'd had a plan for everything, prepared for every circumstance she could possibly prepare for. But there was no such thing as a book that would instruct them on how to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, no effective weapon to prevent an ambush.

The logical side of Hermoine's brain told her to concentrate, to take in every detail, to come up with a plan. But as her insides stretched from Disapparation and her back pressed uncomfortably against the rest of the prisoners, the panic seeped in. Her mouth tasted of bile. When they landed on the hard dirt of a country road, she had to fight not to wretch.

Hermione could feel the group sway back and forth, trying to stay balanced. She tried to focus on her feet, but her vision swam with remembered images of her friends, of Ron's flushed face screaming her name only moments before, of the flash of confidence in Harry's eyes that had become so rare. Shaking her head only made it worse, prying loose the memory she'd fought so hard to forget. The backs of her parent's heads, silent, unaware, as her image slowly faded from every photograph in the house. The last time she would ever see her family. They would never know they'd had a daughter if she died tonight.

No.

No.

No.

She bit down on her tongue, hard. Hard enough to draw blood and clear her mind. She was the brightest witch of her age. She would live through this. They all would. They had all come too far and survived too much for it to end here.

Exhaling hard, she looked up from the ground. The sun had retreated fully, and the lights of a manor looming in front of them fought through a chilly fog.

"He's not here," Harry hissed in Hermione's ear. She glanced over at the grossly misshapen profile of her friend as best she could, given how tightly they were bound.

"What?" she whispered back.

"You-Know-Who," Harry muttered. "He's not—"

Harry's eyes glazed over, cut off by something she couldn't see. It wasn't the first time she had watched him slip into Voldemort's mind, and although she didn't like it, it was a relief to know they were momentarily safe from You-Know-Who's wrath. It bought enough time for her to focus on how they were going to get out of the fortress in front of them.

An iron gate guarding the entrance had twisted into the ugly face of a woman. Hermione shuddered, recognizing Bellatrix Lestrange in the sharp metal features. There would be no getting past that kind of enchantment. She instead scanned the hedgerows on either side of the gate, searching for another way out, her heart still thudding in her chest.

"State your purpose!" the gate shrieked with a voice like a knife on a grindstone.

"We've captured Harry Potter!" Greyback bellowed back, and Hermoine gripped Harry's wrist instinctively, though she could feel no reaction from him.

They would survive, she promised herself. Survive, or go down historically, taking as many Death Eaters with them as possible.

\\\

Draco could hear the Snatchers coming up the sprawling entryway to Malfoy Manor long before he could see them. He'd been sitting in the dusty library with one low lantern scattering light onto the walls, trying to convince himself that reading would be a better use of his time than pacing back and forth in his bedroom waiting for the Easter holiday to end.

The sound of Greyback's leather voice bellowing indecipherable words at the gate outside had offered a third option for filling time—not that the younger Malfoy was pleased about it. The thought of more torture in the family drawing room made his stomach writhe in discomfort.

He unfolded himself from the chair in which he'd been sitting and stood to peer into the foggy gloom out the window, steeling himself for what was to come. His mother was already striding towards the entrance of the property, her waspy form silhouetted against the wrought-iron fence. It had transfigured into the evil face of his aunt, and Draco couldn't see through it to identify who the Snatchers had caught this time.

A loud rap at the door dragged Draco's attention from the window. He said nothing, not expecting whoever was on the other side to wait for permission to enter. Sure enough, the door opened to reveal the hollow man that had once been his father striding into the room.

"Can you see who they brought yet?" Lucius asked, not looking at his son.

"No," Draco responded coolly, turning back to the window. His father hadn't looked at him in months, and Draco refused to let his gaze linger long on a man who wouldn't return it.

The exchange at the gate was brief. Narcissa peered closely at one of the prisoners before flicking her wand and beckoning the mass of people onto the front lawn. Draco could see five prisoners, bound together and struggling to walk forward. As they drew nearer, he could make out a goblin, and a boy with a shock of red hair.

A Weasley.

His gut lurched.

Why had this idiot weasel gotten himself caught? Draco clenched his jaw, ignoring the clammy sweat breaking on the back of his neck. The fear he felt wasn't for the unknown blood-traitor, but for himself. The Dark side despised the Weasleys, and there was no doubt that this one would be tortured until his vocal chords ripped. Draco could hardly sleep as it was, and he was every kind of not in the mood to have to drown out that kind of screaming. Again.

"We should go downstairs," said Lucius, his voice lilting in an excited way that Draco almost didn't recognize anymore.

"Yes, Father," he said, the response coming more out of habit than an actual desire to obey. He didn't ask about the tone of Lucius' voice, certain the older man had seen the red hair too.

The pair walked quickly down the dim hallway toward the drawing room, Draco looking resolutely at the back of his father's greasy head. Ever since Lucius' return from his stint in Azkaban, he had been different. The younger Malfoy couldn't recall a time when his father had appeared so unkempt. There were cracks in the man's titanium confidence, a waver of insanity in his eyes.

Everything Draco's father had done before the Hall of Prophecy, he had seemed to be doing for his family. But now, Draco wasn't so sure. He couldn't quite wrap his head around the necessity of spilling so much dirty blood onto the floors of a home that he'd grown up being told was pure and clean.

His father, Draco decided, stepping across the stained threshold of the drawing room, was waiting for a redemption that would never come.

a/n: Hello lovelies! Just so we're clear, this is only a prologue because nothing happens here that isn't pretty much canon, as far as the unfolding of events is concerned. I'll start messing with that stuff in chapter one. I am so excited for this, and I hope you are too. Leave a review if you read, I want to know what you think.

xoxo scrimmie