Faith

by pardonthelitany

It's always a question of what you believe, isn't it? Reality can stretch and bend, if you let it. But Hermione has always liked solidity– firm lines, straightforward answers, and actions that lead to results. D/Hr

Faith

Draco Malfoy stood silently in a dark, hidden room across from his superior's desk.

"You understand the decision, Malfoy?" the seated man asked a second time.

Draco gritted his teeth, five years and the man still addressed him in the same exact tone his father had. He couldn't lie, though, not to his face. He had taken the rites, after all. It was worse than being a fucking Death Eater.

"No, sir."

"Oh," Prometheus asked, steepling his fingers over his lap. "And why not?"

"As I understood it, sir, my employment here was to grant them pardon."

Prometheus smiled, barring his teeth nastily. "Employment?"

Slavery, Draco corrected mentally.

Prometheus nodded, satisfied. "It's his own fault really."

Draco's eyes slipped closed. "Of course," he gritted out.

"I'll understand if you do not want to go, in fact I think that would be best."

"No," Draco said blatantly, "I should be there. She's still terrified of him. I can tell."

"Well, then, you will be even more of a liability. She's capable. Perhaps more so than you."

"She's my partner."

Prometheus laughed mirthlessly. "It's strange that you seem to actually believe that, Malfoy. No, she's not. There are no partners here. You are not comrades. You all are practically mercenaries. And you, you are far worse than that."

Draco opened his mouth, but a raised hand quelled him. "No. She will go alone. Three weeks time? And before then Nott and Goyle?" he asked without asking at all.

With a nod from the man opposite, Draco turned on his heel and stalked out of the office. His heart raced, pumping the blood too fast. There was no oxygen reaching his brain. And then he felt it, a calming spell, settling over the room. He snapped around angrily and came face to face with that… person.

He stared at her for a moment, wondering if he could really explain. Her wide brown eyes studied him honestly before she shrugged and turned back to her work. But he stopped himself from even thinking about including her.

She would understand, in the end; and then she would be fine with being used for just a little bit longer. Maybe.

…

Hermione Granger had given up on God long ago. Her parents were Church of England and very much in the comic sense. Which meant that they all went to church for Christmas and Easter and made the right faces and said the right things and feared perdition. But it didn't mean much more than that.

When she was four, Hermione had learned how to read. It was the only thing that saved her from the tragic bore of those services. She would open up the prayer book and pour over it, pausing only to stand or kneel as told.

And so she had fallen in love with language. For what could be more beautiful than pleas to nothing? Great words weaving prayers for guidance, for love, for understanding. All things that humans should know that they need; all things that humans need but cannot have.

When she was five, she had asked her parents for a copy of the bible. It was her first novel. Burning bushes, trees of knowledge, snakes that become staffs. Rains of sulfur, floods to wipe out evil. The Christian god was not a nice one. How was she to trust a man who could not control what he created?

Or, if it was all part of his plan... how could she trust a man who did not love what he had created?

And so Hermione had cast away God. After all, morals were nice and whatnot, but in life, she learned, it was all relative.

…

"Dear Lord, Give me the courage, in these times of darkness, to withstand whatever ill calls upon me and to survive in the aftermath of true horror. Dear Lord, give me courage. Courage. Courage. In Jesus Christ's name. Courage."

Hermione whispered it silently to herself, over and over again, as she waited. Just behind her, through the oak paneled wall, there was a group. A group that didn't know what was about to happen, but was surely about to die.

They were going to kill them all.

"Dear Lord," she began again, her mantra filling her ears, filling her soul. She understood, in that moment, why people prayed, why people believed. Everyone needs something to believe in. Even her. Especially her.

And she could no longer believe in herself.

"Courage. Courage. Courage," she repeated, over and over again. The words stumbled, mixed and disjointed, from her lips. They were no longer the same ones she had fallen in love with, now they were something else, something twisted and ugly.

This is how it happened every time. Every raid, she could taste belief. Every time she got closer to death she could taste God. He tasted bitter.

Her darkened eyes met cool grey ones moving towards her, and she stared desperately at the unfathomable look. Desperation was all she had in moments like this. And then there was a curt nod and everything else was cast away. A tug on her soul and she could feel the magic building beneath her fingertips, begging to be released.

She took a deep breath, waited for the right moment, and cast the charm. It was time for them to go.

…

Harry let his body fall to the ground as Hermione watched tiredly; it had been such a long morning. The sun was shining lazily down on them, and her eyes drifted around the noisy open space. It was the beginning of a long, hot summer. Ron was getting drinks at a nearby vendor, and she was waiting, rather impatiently, for that first cool sip.

"What's going on, Harry?" she asked, settling back into the grass. The ground was slightly damp, but she felt comforted by the cool. She fought to keep her eyes open.

"Just work," he said. Then, after a moment, he continued. "Our boss has finally ordered us to stop that faction I've been telling you about."

"Stop them?" Hermione said, watching the clouds drift across the sky; she had heard much of this before. "Why?"

"Ugh," Harry responded, "They're so… evil." Hermione's stomach clenched reflexively. "They make the Death Eaters look like kittens. They go in, kill everyone, leave, and then let us clean up the mess. I mean, who really gets to decide who lives and who dies?"

Hermione frowned, musing to herself. Yes, she thought, Who?

"But it's strange," Harry continued, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, "Their work is flawless, better than the most elite. It's almost as if they know all our strengths and weaknesses. They move like Unspeakables but it's just so… wrong."

Hermione reached over to ruffle Harry's hair, her fingers catching in the thick black strands. He leaned over to smile warily at her, and she grinned back reflexively.

"You need a haircut."

Hermione sat up as Ron approached and took the bottle of water gladly. The crisp water hit her tongue and relieved her heat. She felt clean.

"Talking about work?" Ron asked as he flopped onto the ground.

Harry sat up as well. "Yeah," he said with certain frustration.

Ron sighed. "It never stops, does it?"

Hermione smiled lightly, while in her mind cursing politics. "No, it never does."

"Let's change the subject; I'm so bloody sick of work," Ron said with an exasperated half-smile.

She felt the tension ease from her shoulders as if it had never been there at all, and smiled playfully at Ron. "Has Ginny shown you what she wants you to wear to the wedding?"

Laughter bubbled up out of her as Ron's face fell into his hands. "Yes. It's… purple. Oh dear lord. Purple. Can you believe it?"

"Well, you did agree to stand up on her side," Harry said, laughing as well, "She probably just wants to make you look more feminine."

"I think the intent is to make me look hideous," Ron said with a sigh. "It's purple for Christ's sake."

Hermione sank back into the grass as she listened to them, the warmth of the sun and of the conversation filling her with tender heat. But she couldn't chase the thought away. She told herself that she wasn't betraying them, that they wouldn't hate her in the end; but it was hard to convince herself.

…

Choice was one of those words that stuck in Hermione's throat. Much like 'Freedom', 'Fate', and 'Love'. Wasn't it, after all, practically a fact that the hardest things to face are those dreams that have been taken away?

What had happened that had stolen choice from her? Most days when she would ask that question, she would tell herself that it was all her fault and then allow a small moment to regret. And then she would chase it away.

Because if she was honest, her choices had stopped existing when she had chosen the wrong bathroom to cry in. After that, she chose to be friends with Harry Potter. She never would have traded that for anything, but so much of what she had become was because of that moment.

That one tiny choice.

And what it had led to was this.

She pondered for a whole day once on whether or not she would have chosen differently, knowing everything. She came to the same conclusion each time: it was easier just to blame herself.

…

Hermione shifted anxiously on her feet as she struggled to keep her back as straight as possible. Years bending over texts, though, had done nothing for her posture, and her spine ached furiously.

It was that time of month again, the time for inspections. Through narrowed eyes, she watched the man potter around the room distractedly. Her stomach twisted worriedly as he paused at her desk, picking up various artifacts and folders off of the tables and desks, unrolling the maps, studying the strategic plans.

His eyes turned toward hers, and he blinked. "Is this your desk?" he asked, his accent light and undeniably posh.

Hermione frowned, "Yes."

He had a look about him–hooked nose, gray wiry hair, and imperiously blue eyes. They watered between his pink, puffy eyelids as he glanced around distractedly. She had gotten the distinct feeling that he was not a friend of the organization and could not be trusted.

"Hmm," he said, and then fell back into silence.

Hermione turned to look at Draco, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched angrily. Now that she had noticed, Hermione couldn't ignore the waves of anger and resentment that flowed off of him.

It flooded her senses, and she felt her spine stiffen further.

"Hmm," the man said again, turning to look back at the three of them, standing shoulder to shoulder. "Well," he said impossibly slowly, his gravelly voice oozing out, "All appears to be in order. Thank you, Prometheus."

Her boss nodded curtly, his lips curling up into an empty smile. "Would you like to see the back rooms now?"

The man just nodded, and Hermione watched curiously as the two disappeared through the only door. As soon as it closed she relaxed, letting her arms dangle before she rolled her shoulders.

"I thought he would never fucking leave," she said irritably.

"Ah, well, it happens," Neville said with a reluctant grin. "We're under a lot of pressure from the Ministry right now."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Politics."

A glass shattered on the table, and she spun around. The fragments of her favorite mug littered the floor. "Draco! What are you doing?"

He let out a long sigh and sank into the green armchair. "Just some tension relief."

Hermione repaired it quickly, running her fingers over the uneven creases to smooth them. "Well, don't do it again. You scared the shit out of me."

Neville and Draco shared a look that Hermione didn't understand, and she tossed her arms up in frustration as Draco ignored her.

"I'm going home," Hermione snapped.

Both men looked up at her in surprise. "You're leaving early?" Neville asked at the same time that Draco said, "You can't."

She glared at both of them. Draco stood and crossed the room, stopping too close to her. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, and she could feel the healing magic spreading through her body.

"Just calm down," he said, "You can leave when Thompson does."

She glared at him, wanting very much to pull away. But it felt really good.

"And I'm sorry I broke your mug," he added with a smirk.

She felt herself smiling back at his empty apology; she was used to them by now. "I suppose I can forgive you."

He tipped his head, "Thank you."

…

There was a vendor serving ice cream on the corner, and Hermione paused to queue in the late June sun. The day was finally over, and it would be another four weeks before she had to deal with that again.

A hand rested gently on the small of her back, startling her, and though she remained still, she released her wand from her arm holster.

"Shh," Draco whispered in her ear, "It's just me."

She continued to draw her wand, and his hand closed around her wrist. "Feisty today?"

She didn't turn to look at him, but she did allow her hand to rest on his longer than necessary before she pulled it away from her wrist. She slid her wand back into position.

"What's going on?" she hissed.

"Hmm? With what?" he asked distractedly as his lips traveled down her hairline.

"With you and that man? You were so pissed off," she asked, curious.

"The inspector?" He pulled away slightly and met her eyes, mischief dancing on his face despite the straight line of his lips. She raised her eyebrows. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"

She glared at him and his expression hardened, all laughter gone.

"Absolutely nothing," he restated firmly, stepping back.

His eyes always got a bit colder when he was serious, tense, or hiding something. Hermione pinned the change on all of the above. So instead of pursuing it, she just shrugged. "Ice cream?"

There was a flash of relief across his face that, no, she was sure she hadn't imagined. He nodded, "Your treat?"

She chortled and rolled her eyes. "Sure, I'll buy the millionaire ice cream. But no more than a quid. You get to go home and roll in your piles of money while I remain horridly broke."

"Who would want to roll in a pile of galleons? Wouldn't that hurt?" Hermione closed her eyes and fought the chortle.

They fell into silence, standing far enough apart to not be mistaken as a couple, but close enough to look like they were together. Neither looked at one another. Hermione settled into the lack of sound, swallowed by the busy street noises. The breeze from the park across the street was blowing the smell of lilacs and peonies in their direction, and if she had closed her eyes, she was sure everything else would have disappeared.

After a long minute, when they were almost to the front, Hermione heard him speak. It was slow and quiet, almost inaudible. "I need a favor," he said, the words sliding over his tongue.

She knew exactly what he was doing, and her heart sped up. She glanced at the ground and she saw that they were standing in a large circle of brick. It was incredibly risky to do this here.

But she didn't tell him to shut up, just waited. If he was testing her loyalties, this was a strange way to do it.

"What do you know about soul magic?" he hissed, still soft, still slurred, the words mingling together.

She stared at the neck in front of her, wondering if anyone was listening and what he was thinking. "Very little," she said trying to mimic his style of talking and failing.

He smiled against her ear. "Start learning, it's for your own good."

She managed to suppress the shiver at the touch, but just barely. "What do you need to know?"

"How to sever a bound soul."

She whirled around to stare at him, shocked, and he blinked owlishly back. The breeze stirred around them, whipping Draco's blond hair into a silver halo, hovering over his head. The cool air felt wrong, sending very terrible chills down her spine.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Draco's fingers caught her lips. He brushed across the bottom one with his thumb gently, and she glanced down. A small twig had blow across over the red brick. The circle was broken.

She looked up at him with troubled eyes. His just looked determined and sad as his thumb traveled down her neck and brushed across her collarbone.

"Forget the ice cream," he murmured.

Hermione felt compelled to comply.

…

Hermione stared out the fake window of her prison longingly. The sun was shining through it, and even though she knew it to be raining outside, she wanted to escape the room. Her eyes darted to the clock, two more hours.

She turned back to her work on the table and flicked through the books impatiently. The answers weren't coming. With a frustrated sigh, she closed her eyes and sank into her mind, "Prometheus," she called. He heard her.

A few minutes later, the door opened into the room. His tall lanky figure stepped in, blinking in the bright sunlight. Not for the first time, she wondered what was on the other side of that door.

"What is it, Granger?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in irritation.

"I need a few books," she said, biting her lip and fighting against the rush of emotions that threatened to pull her forward whenever she saw him.

He scowled at her, but took the list. After glancing down at it, he glared up at her. "You're researching soul magic?"

"Know your enemy," she said loftily, trying to understand the anger on his face. He stared at her for a long time, and she felt him probing into her emotions. She offered him nothing but honesty, and he finally turned away.

"I'll have them sent down."

"Thank you," she said pleasantly enough, her fingers already itching for the illegal texts. Sometimes this job had really nice bonuses.

Her mind was cloudy, though, as she watched him walk away, and she glared at his back. She didn't know what was coming, but she knew that it would be bad.

…

Unlike her disposition, it was sunny out the following day. She perched herself on her window seat as she poured over one of the books Prometheus had brought back for her. Slowly, with a quiet sinking revelation, she realized that she might have been caught in the tiger's jaws.

So it was with anger and trepidation that she read. Tigers, after all, were known for their beauty, not their predictability. When would the jaws slam shut?

For hours she poured over the text, making notes and cursing herself and her own stupidity. She had never done that before–cursed her own stupidity, but it was becoming quite constant now.

When she reached the middle, the bit about enchantments of control, something in her snapped. The world around her reeled, and she thought she might cry. She slammed the book shut and began to pace.

All that trust had been destroyed. And it hadn't mattered in the past that she didn't like her boss. It hadn't mattered in the past that she didn't understand what she had gotten herself into. What mattered was that she no longer trusted it.

She really was going to cry, she thought; it had been so long since she had tasted tears. She sank back into the cushions, letting her face fall into her hands. She was completely and utterly fucked.

A knock on the door snapped her quickly back together, and she pulled herself up. It was Ron.

She stood up, pushed away her thoughts, and opened the door with a smile. There were a few things she could still trust, after all.

"You're late," she teased, poking his side.

He smiled and batted her hand away. "I know, I'm sorry. Harry's been running our team haggard at the office."

Hermione pulled her jacket from the closet. "It's okay, I was only joking. I hardly noticed anyway."

"Busy reading?" Ron asked with a knowing smile.

Hermione's face darkened. Spite. "Yes."

"You okay?" Ron asked, stepping forward and looking down at her with warm concern.

Malevolence. She shook herself, tossed him a smile that wasn't fake. "Yeah. Let's go."

She left the book sitting open by the window.

…

Hermione had always thought that she was a perfectly rational creature. She had always thought that emotion was just below thought and could be conquered by it. But then, about two years ago, she had experienced something that was far beyond her ability.

True anger. The type that rots away your soul, that grows more vicious with every injustice, that completely and utterly takes everything out of you.

It was anger that came with knowledge. Anger in response to hate. Anger that came with a sudden realization, one that she had never wanted to face.

Nothing had changed.

And it was the same now, she had realized as she delved further into that book. It was always the fucking same.

…

The paper held between her fingers dampened from her sweaty palms as she glanced across the room. He was avoiding her gaze. She glanced back down at her assignment, terrified of both the words written there and what would happed if she went through with this. And what would happen if she didn't.

She was bone-deep, shakily afraid. "I won't do this," she said, pulling in a few deep breaths. She glanced around at the three other people in the room, but she already was alone. She steadied herself; Draco still wouldn't look at her.

"I can't go," he snapped. "You can pull this off and you know it."

She glared at him, her eyes darting over to Prometheus's. Her superior shrugged. "He's right. Why are you putting up such a fight? Taking him will just be an added liability."

"It's just too last minute, why wasn't I briefed sooner? I haven't had time to–"

"Granger," came the warning. She stared into cold black eyes and felt the stone sinking in her stomach.

"Fine," Hermione snapped, feeling small. "Fine."

It was now or never. She put her hand on her hip and held out her hand. "Potion?"

A vial was placed in her outstretched fingers. She drained it.

"Portkey?"

Her gloved hand closed around the small coin just as it jerked her away.

...

When she was eleven, Hermione got invited to Hogwarts. The letter had sat nestled in her hands, giving her the shock of her life. Surprisingly enough, her first thought was not doubt. It was not even about the books she had managed to save from the fire that had set her last house ablaze and the other inexplicable things that happened to her–because of her. Her first thought was about Jesus.

Jesus was a wizard. That, she could understand. The foolish bastard, serving something that made no sense. Bettering something that could not be bettered. From there, she started tracing ideas, things of her past, things from others' pasts that previously hadn't made sense. She wrote a long series of questions, and when McGonagal showed up the next day, she spent the entire time searching for answers.

McGonagal had just snorted at her Jesus question. Rightly so, Hermione realized.

But Hermione had never stopped looking up to the older witch. The one who had granted her so much knowledge with her simple presence. And, so, Hermione learned all about pragmatism.

There's no point in asking questions without answers. What is truth? It is what we know. It is what we can know. There is nothing but knowledge.

…

She pushed open the door, sweeping into the room in a rush of blackness; the lights snuffed out and the fire disappeared. As if they were never there at all.

She didn't speak as the first man went down in a flash of green that was a bit too bright. But then her wand had been pulled from her burning fingertips and she had to resort to messier tactics.

A quick spin and a duck to avoid the next spells, and then blood spurted from her second victim wide, warm arcs that she felt hit her skin. The third followed with a thump, and then three more went down easily enough. The darkness was enough to snuff out the weakest soul. It wasn't a fair game to play, but it was a simple one.

Hermione took several deep, gulping breaths as she retrieved her wand and turned towards the man in front of the antique fireplace. She could just make out his outline with her eyes, but in her mind, she could feel his surprise, his fear, could see his widened eyes and his lips drawn into a straight line.

He fell with rapidity, the shocked look replaced by something else, and then the lights came back on.

Astonished, Hermione turned to face the final person. She didn't even question the extra presence as she snapped her fingers and his wand flew into her hand. How had he known that spell?

His eyes met hers, so filled with fear, and the anguish spiked within her. She stared at him, hesitant when she shouldn't have been, wondering. She knew this man. Knew him when she shouldn't. Blood pounded through her ears as she stared at him. What the fuck was going on?

"What?" he gasped as her hand reached for his neck. "Why?" he hissed. His hands pounded against her arm as she lifted him slightly. He fought back furiously, but it hardly mattered. She couldn't hear anything over the questions racing through her mind.

Anger and hate flooded from him into her, and she pushed back. "That bastard," he ground out with his last breath and she dropped him in shock.

Kneeling over quickly, she stared into his empty eyes.

Dead, she thought, looking around, they were all dead. She shrugged away that familiar trepidation and stared at his face. She was searching for recognition. She had known him once before.

"Almighty God," she whispered, closing her eyes and sliding back into herself, "Give me the courage to survive. To walk away. Courage."

And for a moment, it hardly mattered that she didn't believe. After all, a prayer is just words strung together in an empty room. Someone has to speak them, but they don't have to reach anyone.

She glanced at her watch, fighting to get her mind back under control. Four minutes. Hermione had four minutes left until Aurors swarmed the house, surely bringing Harry or Ron with them. She had four minutes to get out.

Therein lied the problem. There was no easy way out for her. A Mudblood like herself had very few ways in and no way out. Well, except dead. All with tainted blood were trapped in. Or out. Hermione didn't have time to think about which would be better.

Instead she thought about what a stupid word 'trapped' was. Just thinking it only made it more so. She cursed Draco, setting to work.

She pulled off her long gray leather gloves and carefully folded them. Covered in blood or not, they were expensive. They went into her pocket. She walked over to the blond corpse who was a little farther away than the rest and stared at his empty face. He would have a knife on him. Silly old man.

She pulled it out of its sheath, taking a moment to delve. There was no black magic residue on it. Just a plain, evil looking blade. She frowned. It wasn't much, but it was a start. She opened her eyes and kneeled down to grab his limp hand. Holding it over the blade, she drew it across his cheek. Blood. That's what she needed. Gifted blood.

He was too dead to bleed, but with pressure, she covered her hands in it.

After that and a few tricky wandless spells, she had a minute. Just one to open the window. But it was all she needed.

Hermione slunk away from the grounds, watching from afar as the Aurors arrived. Lights from spells cast illuminated the heady night. With a small smile and a whispered 'thank you' she disappeared silently. Another successful mission. Another pretty feather to tuck into the organization's cap, which would, of course, be hidden away immediately after.

...

Hermione knew little of true remorse. She had lost many, watched many lose others, but she had never truly believed that she was at fault. And that was the key to remorse wasn't it? Acknowledgement that you are at fault for someone else's, or even your own, pain. A bitter combination of regret and sorrow. She had always loved the romantic, poignant quality of the word in and of itself, but she had never understood what it meant.

Not fully. But then she had lost her purpose, lost part of her soul, lost herself, and, finally, baking in the mid-July heat, she had lost her trust in the fact that it had all had meaning. So it was with great remorse that she steadied herself and prayed.

And then she asked that question: Why?

…

The room where she apparated to was far lighter than she expected. Her eyes snapped closed and then open again. Always be ready.

"You're cutting it awful close, you know," a cold voice said from behind her.

She turned and looked at him silently, taking in his both angry and exhausted expression. "If you had come with me, it would have taken half the time," she said, cold in response.

He glared at her, and she had to remind herself that he was not angry at her, or at least, not really. She crossed the small space, stepping gingerly off the apparation platform and taking her favorite seat on the red Victorian couch.

"What are you still doing awake anyway?" she asked as she loosened her robes.

"I couldn't sleep."

She cocked her head at him; he looked so much like his father. Would he make the same face after death? Would his eyes take on the same look, glassy as mirrors and emptied of all hate?

She couldn't imagine him without his hate.

The door at the far end of the room opened quietly, and Hermione turned to face the man who had just walked in.

"Alright there, Mione?" Neville asked.

"Yeah, of course," Hermione said, fighting a scowl. There was only the three of them, everyday; it did nothing to get angry at the few people she had to rely on. Her eyes skirted between the two men; she could trust them, right?

"You're drenched."

She glanced down at her grey shirt that she wore under her robes. There was so much red on it now, it appeared tie-dyed. She shrugged and let her head fall back on the couch. "Yeah, it was messy. By the way, Draco," she growled, looking over at him, "Next time you get a lead could you double-check it a bit more thoroughly?"

He glared back at her bitterly. The door opened again, bumping into the cart Neville had pulled with him into the room. Prometheus glared irritably at him; "Move that, Longbottom."

Neville complied before rifling through the contents and bringing two small vials over the Hermione. Prometheus sat down on the chair across from Hermione and leveled her with a look. "What was wrong with the lead?"

She had to fight not to glower at him, and instead ignored the question, taking the replenishing potions from Neville with a grateful smile. Her eyes went back to her superior, taking in his ever-slicked back black hair and his narrow face. He looked like the devil classicized.

She shook that thought away, replacing it with a new one. He was the devil. And like all devils, she told herself as her only relief, he would have to be sent to hell.

She shot Draco a very wry smile. "There was just a bit of a… misinterpretation. But it was nothing I couldn't handle."

"How much of a misinterpretation?" Prometheus asked, barring his teeth in what was half a smile and half a scowl.

"About four." Prometheus looked momentarily taken aback. She could feel, through the bond, a rush of shock, suspicion, and anger. But then it was gone.

The room was deadly quiet. "So there were eight in total?"

"Yes."

"Did you meet any trouble?"

Hermione glanced down at her shirtfront, looking back up at Prometheus with an empty smile that was also half a scowl. "Just a bit. But, like I said, I handled it."

Prometheus nodded and stood. "I'll get a report in the morning?"

Hermione nodded, though it wasn't really a question. Once the door closed, she groaned and sank even further back into the couch. "I don't see why I should have to write a bloody report when he just burns it after reading."

"He has an eidetic memory," Neville began, "You know if you tell him–"

"It was a rhetorical question, Neville," Draco said, cutting the other man off immediately despite the cool quiet of his voice. "And, Hermione," she opened her eyes, meeting Draco's across the room. He was still standing, his left hand clenching the mantel over the large fireplace. "I'm sorry."

She allowed herself a moment to believe that he was and smiled lightly. "I'm going to go get cleaned up. You two should head to bed. There wont be much work until the ministry calms down. And you," she said looking pointedly at Draco, "Will have to face the public tomorrow."

Hermione smiled at them, her calm easy smile, and did a bit of magic to suck the tension from the air. It wasn't much, but it was all that could be offered.

Draco met her eyes from across the room and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head once, "Not tonight." She could just imagine his face above hers, empty and slack-jawed. She could just imagine how much anger was boiling beneath the surface of his resigned frown.

He bowed his head slightly in response, and Hermione climbed the stairs to the apparition platform and disappeared.

…

When Hermione was just barely eighteen, she had watched her best friend vanquish a very evil wizard. While the correct response was surely awe or relief, she felt more trepidation. After all, what was there to stand on now? Just ceremony.

Hermione hadn't believed in that. She had believed in herself. So, when all was said and done, it wasn't really a surprise to see her become slightly reclusive and very much obsessed with meditation. Her favorite was Chén. Vanquish all evil, starting with the evil in oneself. Easy enough.

Long days and nights were spent in her flat, fasting as she avoided people, avoided books. She dove into herself and controlled her mind. It wasn't all that hard, in the long run, just involved. There was almost nothing that she loved more, though, than a clear task.

Two years passed. A steady two years during which the wizarding world celebrated–basked in their newfound 'freedom'. She emerged on a sunny afternoon, slow and peaceful, and took her seat between Ron and Harry. They shot her grateful smiles; hers was calm.

It was truly a shock, then, to find that fighting oneself was pointless. Perhaps she had eradicated most of the evil within herself, but there was still much left in the world. There was anger then, and she fought it.

She pursed her lips. And so the doubt began to sink in, it's tiny claws grabbing on, stretching deeper and deeper beneath the skin, pulling on her heartstrings. Pulling on her very soul.

And so when Draco Malfoy came to see her one day, she had taken the envelope he had offered her.

Doubt is at the very root of evil, after all.

…

Hermione shrugged off her robes in her kitchen. They were covered in blood. Gingerly, she carried them to the bathroom, where she filled her tub with water. A few potions added, and she began to strip. Anything with blood went into the bath. Her robe, her shirt, her bra, her socks, her jeans. There were even a few stains on her pants, but with a flick of her wand, those were incinerated.

She thought of that moment of suspicion. That second when Prometheus hadn't been able to control himself. She smiled to herself, pleased. Everyone had weaknesses.

She tried to stop the thought that ran through her head, wondering bitterly if he could hear it. He needs to be taken down.

Naked, except for her wand holster and the blade she wore against her back, she slowly set to work on cleansing herself. Getting blood off the clothes was so much easier than the body. Because even after if came off, even after the manicures and the bubble baths and the scorching saunas, there were still stains that she could trace with her fingertips for days.

She could always see the angry splotches, covering her almost completely now; but then Draco would whisper, "You're so clean," against her skin.

"How do you stay so clean?"

After she was satisfied enough, Hermione had drained the bath and pulled out the washing, perfectly clean. She dried them wandlessly, having found that now, when she used her wand to dry her clothes, she normally set them alight.

She had always been very good at fires.

Then she ran a bubble bath and sank into the heat with an expression of absolute and complete bliss.

For now, it was over.

…

Hermione stepped into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement the next afternoon, fully intent on pulling both Ron and Harry out for lunch. But the place was a mess, absolutely alive with excitement and at least twice as busy as usual.

Harry spotted her from across the room as soon as she walked in and waved. She smiled back and pointed to his office. He nodded, and she walked into the small space.

Harry had never been a neat person, which had become even clearer when he had stopped living with others. Now he let his dishes pile up, his laundry accumulate, and the dust covered all surfaces. His office was no exception from the messiness that had overtaken his life, but today it far surpassed the usual disorganization. She moved a file box from his chair, peering into it curiously.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry said, breezing into room. He was grinning.

"This place is an absolute sty, Harry. What's going on?"

"Just–"

There was a chorus of people calling his name; he glanced back and forth between Hermione and the room. "I know you came for lunch, but I'm going to have to bail."

"That's okay," she said, feeling something in the pit of her stomach sinking. "Anything exciting happen?"

Harry's grin widened, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "They screwed up, Hermione, that group I've been tracking. We've got a huge lead."

Hermione's heart sort of skidded to a stop. She knew she had been sloppy, she knew she had been short on time; but she had thought she had pulled it off soundly. The sick feeling in her stomach worsened; it had been a long time since she had seen Harry looking as encouraged as he did right now.

She swallowed heavily, yet her smile was sunny as she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "That's great, Harry. When you see Ron, will you tell him I stopped by?"

Harry nodded, giving her a quick hug, and Hermione turned tail and almost ran from the building. How much time did she have?

Enough?

Impossible.

…

At the age of fourteen, Hermione had learned all about fear. Real fear wasn't something people experienced in regards to themselves, it was something that attacked and set in when your loved ones were in danger.

She had been standing in a shack, her two best friends in peril, as an escaped murderer and a werewolf talked about things she didn't understand.

And there, standing there, she had felt the panic. If only she could understand, maybe she could save them. If only she could save them. She had to save them. She had to understand.

That was fear. There is no way that courage can overcome that sort of fear. There is no way to do anything but hang on, but survive, until it's over. And then you can go back to fearing for yourself, which is just a tiny buzzing at the back of your conscious. Just nothing compared to the roar of real fear.

…

This was not real fear; it was real panic. She stood in her living room and looked around. She replayed the night. But she knew where she had screwed up. She had taken off her gloves. That never would have been a problem, not normally, but because of the blood on the window…

There just hadn't been enough time to vanish it.

A memory touched her and she hurried into her room, where she flipped through her work robes to the back of the closet where the robes with special enchantments and pockets hung. Her hand reached into the pocket and her fingers closed around leather and she pulled out a glove.

Just one glove.

Her stomach dropped, as she stared at the long gray leather glove. Ladies medium, cinched at the side, Chanel. Worn in and reinforced for wandless casting. Siphons for her magic.

There was no blood on it now, but still, she stared.

Fucking hell, she was going to be crucified.

…

Hermione had always thought that she had conquered the eastern ways. She had spent two years doing nothing but going further and further into herself, after all. But that was the real problem, wasn't it? There's no way to conquer that sort of learning. And after all that time, she still hadn't been able to give one thing up. The most important thing: her desire for self-preservation.

…

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she stared at her sheathed dagger. She reached for it, but had to stop. Once, twice her hand stretched out, but her fingers wouldn't close around the hilt. In the end, it was all about betrayal, wasn't it?

The organization had been created at the end of the first Voldemort war and had been very unsuccessful until after his death. It had been started by the Ministry top brass, though there were only a few who knew about it now. It was always kept as small as possible, and used only when needed. They were there, as she had been told, to keep what had happened once before from ever happening again. So of course she had taken the blasted envelope. The stupid rites. Of course she had made her oath, and kept to it.

Could she betray it now? Would it mean betraying herself? She stared into the fire and made up her mind; either way she was betraying herself.

The sun disappeared from her window with a snap, and suddenly it was dark. Her hand closed around the hilt, and she knew what she would have to do.

The delicate blade rested lightly on her forearm and Hermione winced right before the slashed the skin quickly. Her blood spurted out and she hissed, trying to aim over her large salad bowl. The blood flowed quickly, hot and sticky, and she watched, oddly detached. When she thought she was about to pass out, she covered the deep gash with a towel and reached for the vial of Neville's replenishing potion.

With hands that were growing steadier, she healed herself. Then, feeling slightly drunk with age-old power, she carried the bowl into her living room. The carpet came up, rolled into a corner, and on the wooden floor she painted a circle in blood. She was careful not to step into it as she walked over to the fireplace.

She kneeled before it, lighting it with her wand. Watching the flames carefully, she debated. This was the last step she could take without turning back. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the black bricks behind the flames, and she found herself hoping that it wasn't too hot in hell.

A bit of Floo powder and then she was calling his name. "Draco!" she hissed as loudly as she could. "Draco!"

He came, eventually, looking put out but unsurprised.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, "What do you think?" he asked with a tired glare, "I was sleeping. Do you need me?"

He smirked suddenly, knowingly, and Hermione felt that familiar fire in her belly. She tempered it as he kneeled in front of the fire. Quickly, she reached out and grabbed him, "Yes, let's go."

With a whoosh that took quite a bit of magic out of her, she pulled him through. He coughed, choking on the soot, and was about to begin a long tirade when he stopped.

He was staring at the circle of blood. His look was harsh and colder than ever when he met her eyes. "Hermione, what–"

"Shut up!" she snapped and pulled him to his feet. She conjured and hourglass turning it over as the two stepped into the circle.

He was strangely pliant to her wishes, and when they stood, protected, she noticed that there was quite a bit of worry on his face. Worry and …hope? Relief?

He caught her looking, though. "What the fuck, Hermione?"

"I fucked up," she said. "Badly."

He sighed, pinching his brow. "How badly?"

"Badly enough so that I drew a circle in blood."

He glanced around than met her eyes. "Well, it's not dark magic, so I guess not that badly."

Her hands went to her hips and she stomped her foot. The smirk on his lips faded. "This is blood magic, Draco, of course it's dark."

"Well, technically, you used your own blood, so it was given willingly. And also, the intent is to protect, not just yourself, but both of us. So, really, not that dark. Then again," he mused, countering himself, "It's actually soul magic, so that might…"

He trailed off at her glare before shrugging. "It's not that dark."

Hermione felt the desire to stomp her foot again, but with him here, smirking lightly and standing in a circle of blood as if he did it every day, she could feel herself calming down easily. "I guess so, but still…"

"We don't have time to debate the defining factors of dark magic right now," he said waving his hand imperiously, as if he hadn't started it. She felt a smile forming on her lips.

His eyes turned back to hers, suddenly serious and still very, very cold. "How much time do we have?"

"Four minutes," she said softly.

"Start talking then."

"I left a glove at the scene."

He blinked at her, speechless. The storm was coming.

"Are you fucking kidding?" He asked, the anger of a very-powerful wizard rippling through the room. She had forgotten that anger. The anger in him.

She had forgotten it in the same way that she could never forget the rest of him.

"Why'd you even take them off?"

"I had to escape. There was no time."

"Wait. Stop. Are you telling me that you not only took off your gloves, accidentally dropping one, but that you also did magic without them on? Did you touch anything?"

Hermione stared at the floor. His reaction gave this much away: she was really royally and utterly fucked. "Yes."

"Is this what you call handling it, Hermione?" he snapped. "Because–"

"Shut up!" she snapped, "Just, I know, okay? It's the stupidest thing I've ever done. I don't need you to tell me that."

He was staring at her searchingly, "You're wrong."

"What?" she asked tiredly.

"It's not the stupidest thing you've ever done."

Hermione bristled, preparing all sorts of nasty words to fling at him, but he cut her off. "It's neither here nor there, really." He sighed, long and hard. "Tell me what happened."

And so Hermione did. She told him about the wards, which he knew about already, and then she told him about the blood she had taken to escape through the window. She told him in soft, hidden whispers about the magic she had poured into his father's blood that had let her out. And then she told him about what Harry said. She said it all with shame, tears escaping through half-closed eyelids.

When she came to a stop, he was staring at her. She met his eyes slowly, and what she saw in them did nothing to calm her nerves. "That blood is going to be charged with magical energy. If we're lucky, the Aurors wont notice it right away, and it'll be worthless. If we're lucky, nothing will pan out with the glove. If we're lucky they're sitting back thinking about what a wonderful service you've done for this world." His last words were harsher than before, resplendent with his own loss.

She didn't comment on the fact that he used the word 'we' and let herself feel comforted in a way that she hadn't ever since she had left to battle on her own. She didn't feel so alone in this circle.

"I don't believe in luck," she said softly.

The circle was fading quickly. "Neither do I." They were silent. "He's going to turn you in."

"I know."

Hermione stared at Draco with acceptance, or something closer to it than she had ever gotten before. He looked sad, sad and torn. "You'll need to sever the enchantment before you're taken away if you want to keep your memories."

There were tears forming in her eyes, and Hermione could see certainty in her future. She did not want to die. "Will you help me?"

He stared at her soundlessly, something foreign in those eyes that she had gotten to know so well. He was looking at her as if they were about to go into battle, as he always did before murder. And there was something else, something far harsher than anger hovering below the surface.

She could count on his loyalties, considering that he didn't have any.

"You'll have to teach me how." He glanced away quickly, muttering to himself.

Her eyes narrowed, glancing at the hourglass. Forty-five seconds. "What is going on, Draco? You've been weird for weeks."

"I can't tell you," he said softly.

"What are you planning?" she asked impatiently.

"I guess it's 'were' now," he said with a sigh. "You really threw a big fucking wrench into the spokes."

She frowned at him. "Well, Gee, I'm so. Fucking. Sorry."

"Hermione…" he began, and then trailed off. She followed his eyes and watched as the last grain of sand in the hourglass fell through the narrowest portion, and the entire thing disappeared.

Hermione looked up at Draco and then looped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Hard. The circle faded away completely as he kissed her back.

…

There was nothing that Hermione loved more than used bookstores. Muggle used bookstores. It wasn't just about being surrounded by books, by knowledge. It wasn't just the nostalgic feeling that comes with comparing your own age to everyone else's. It was more the search. The search through piles and piles of dusty books and memories for something that held meaning to her. And it was the smell. Musty and old and that incredibly organic scent of pages and ink that reminded her that people and words all came from the earth.

Humans come from the earth. And they go back there in the end.

The best experience in her life, the moment she thought could never be topped, was when she was stumbling through a shop in Kent and she had found, much to her great surprise, a first edition copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. The swell of her heart, the fluttering of her soul, the very magic that poured out of her as she reverently touched the cover was immeasurable. She remembered her hands had jumped on contact, surprised with its reality.

It was a moment that she thought could never be bested. The moment when she had touched originality, when she had seen, much to her overwhelming delight, that humans, though always cycling through the earth, never really disappear. It was the moment that she thought could never be bested.

She was wrong.

Because there is nothing that compares to the knowledge of 'last'. And that's what she was thinking of when Draco's hands buried in her hair.

Last.

She had read once that one of the bitterest ironies about being human, the saddest of all sad truths, is never knowing when the last time comes. But she knew now. And she held onto the feeling of his skin against hers. His lips and his eyes and those few moments, arching above him, when she could believe.

When she could believe in him.

…

"It's going to hurt," Draco said softly.

"I know," she replied, meeting his eyes and wondering if he knew that it was going to hurt him as well. Prometheus wouldn't be able to see her anymore, after she stepped out of this very last circle.

Her savior, humanity's savior, the man who had offered her a bit of fire, a bit of purpose, would be cut off.

And she wondered what would hurt more, the actual severing of her soul or the knowledge that she was losing a part of herself. Probably both. He had broken her trust already, though, and she thought that perhaps she had already given that part up.

Draco's hands lay on her naked chest. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, and the magic pulsated around them. "Do it fast, just like a plaster," she said before chanting those syllables she had first read only days ago. It felt like a lifetime. She had never thought she'd use them. Hoped, but not believed. There was a difference.

"This is one fucked up plaster," he responded before his face scrunched up in concentration.

Then she screamed.

…

Belief was always tricky with Hermione. And not just because whenever she spelled it, she had to fight not to put the 'e' before the 'i'. It was tricky because she knew that it was so much more powerful than knowledge, but she couldn't bring herself to believe even that.

When she had been young, she had believed in what her parents said. Then she had believed in Harry Potter. Then she had believed in herself. Then she had believed in nothing.

Where had it all started, after all?

When she had found something to believe in? She had always, though, always believed in knowledge. It existed; and it was the gateway to truth. And though she wasn't sure if she believed in truth, everything is relative, after all, she believed that knowledge would lead her somewhere.

Belief, to her, was flexible. Just like Draco Malfoy. She didn't understand either, and whenever she tried, the meaning jumped out of sight. If understanding was a firefly that she was desperately trying to hold on to, when it came to those two, it was one that could apparate in and out of her grasp rapidly.

…

When she woke up, two days later, someone was pounding at her door. She briefly thought of running, but then changed her mind. She got out of bed, threw on a sweater, and went to the door in resignation.

She let the Aurors in and calmly turned around, her hands fisted behind her back so that they could shackle her.

"You are under arrest for the murder of four ministry officials, two foreign delegates, one foreign official, and Lucius Malfoy, a candidate for the Minister of Magic. We have evidence of dark magicks and multiple Unforgivable Curses. If you agree to be taken in, you hereby surrender all rights and will submit to interrogation and imprisonment."

Hermione impatiently waved the hands she was holding behind her back and waited, saying nothing. She didn't even bother to tell him that she had only used one Unforgivable. Instead she just waited; and though she recognized the voice, she absolutely refused to meet Terry Boot's eyes.

The shackles were cold. She tried to warm them with a bit of wandless magic, but they contained it, and she felt harsh sparks crack against her wrists.

Terry chuckled soundlessly as she turned to look at him. "None of that now," he said with malicious bite.

She sighed, not a good impression to make. With a heavy heart, she followed him out the door, watching as three men stepped inside the flat to cordon it off and search. She recognized Neville's most used disguise as he entered.

When he left there would be nothing there to find.

She tried to meet his eyes, but all she caught was a sadness so pure and a very real fear.

She waited patiently as Terry searched his pockets for the Portkey that would take them away. And it was then that she knew it was really over.

But there was no panic, just a buzzing at the back of her mind. That constant continuous whirr that reminded her that, for the time being, she was still alive.

…

Draco Malfoy had never fully believed in anything. Not like Hermione. He could remember her dancing around the school, shaking her tin of badges for that stupid attempt at House Elf liberation. He could remember cursing her, "Stupid Mudblood" as he had stormed back to his room. But, even then, he hadn't really remembered believing it.

Because she was a real person, just like all of them. So maybe he had believed in fear. From the beginning, yes, he had believed in fear.

But then, god damn it all, she had been recruited, and he had been sent with the invitation. She had stood there, and then she had brought purpose to a fight that he wasn't certain he should be fighting. That anyone should be fighting.

For him, it had been a relatively short road, getting to the organization. But his life had ended up being his only bargaining chip. So he had traded it for something more important, then lost even that; and now, scowling at the floor, he bitterly regretted it.

She had come to them, though, with all her fiery desire to do right, and had turned everything upside down.

And shit, he had wanted to warn her; he had tried to warn her. But now she was sitting in an Azkaban cell where, admittedly, he had figured she would end up eventually.

The door at the far side of the room opened and Draco straightened in the desk chair slowly.

The man, pudgy and awkward, entered the room and with a sigh dropped his coat on the couch. He flipped on the light, half-turned, and then started when he saw Draco there.

"What? Malfoy?"

"Hello, Michael. How are you today?" He asked, a calm, feral smile pulling deliberately at the corner of his lips.

The man took a step back. "What? How do you know–What are you doing here? Did Prometheus send you?"

"Prometheus is otherwise engaged," Draco said, slowly rising. "He's a bit… distracted at the moment."

Michael took a step back; Draco took one forward. "What do you want?"

Draco's smile widened, baring teeth. "I was really hoping you would ask that, actually. I want to know how many other people are in the building right now. And how many of them know about your little pet project."

"I–I–I don't know!" Michael stuttered.

"Oh," Draco said, drawing his wand from his sleeve, "So, no one then. That's fantastic. It makes it so much easier to walk away guilt-free after I set this place ablaze."

"From what I've heard, you never have any guilt," Michael said, edging away.

Draco chuckled, "Ah, well, at least you learned something important. But, I'm afraid there is no knowledge that can help you here. This cozy little office block of yours–it's going to burn. Just like all of you, just like me."

Michael gaped. "But the papers! There are so many papers! They won't burn; they're enchanted!"

"Really," Draco said patiently, "Well, that's okay, Ministry regulations, I suppose. I have a spell to best that."

Michael's eye flashed with surprise and Draco allowed a short moment to feel triumph.

"Please, please, don't kill me."

"Oh, Michael," Draco said condescendingly. "I'm not going to kill you; I'm going to show you what you did."

Right on time, a paper airplane flew into the room. Draco plucked it from the air. He scanned it and then handed it over. "Oh, don't worry, it's good news," he said encouragingly as Michael stared at it in trepidation.

Michael stared at the note, expressions flashing across his face. His face paled drastically, the expression one that expressed exactly what he was feeling. There would be no justice for him. At least not in his sense.

"But this is… this is EVERYONE!"

Draco nodded, "I was sort of hoping you'd react that way. Yes, that's everyone."

"You killed them all?"

"Well," Draco admitted with a reluctant shrug, "I had help with a few." Michael stared at him in shock and Draco's lips curled up into a sinister smile. "You can keep a snake as a pet Michael, but you shouldn't feed it both motive and method."

"What–What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to make you watch the snake strike. Once more."

Michael shuddered as Draco reached for him, and then they were standing outside, staring at the building. And it was burning. Vibrant, green, evil looking flames licked at the structure contentedly.

"It will never work!" Michael said, somewhat victoriously.

Draco still held him, his hands digging into the other man's arm. He met Michael's blue eyes and smiled. The air rippled around them, fierce with magic.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Finite Incantem," he whispered. The quiet words echoed with raw power, and suddenly, the crackling of the flames was drowned out by the crashes and shattering sounds coming from the building. With a shuddering shake of the earth, the building gave out and collapsed upon itself. Rubble flew in all directions, and Michael flinched. The debris never reached them, though.

His cold gray eyes turned to Michael. "Pretty fucking awesome, right?"

Michael whimpered. Heat was flowing off of Draco, flaying him.

"Do you see what you've done?"

He nodded.

"It's not really your fault, I guess," Draco said with a patronizing sigh. "It's not your fault you give power to the wrong people. But I would suggest, that in the future, you pick you targets more carefully."

"And your enemies," he added with extra malice. He could still feel Hermione's soul brushing against his, after all, and she was in pain.

"So you're going to let me go?" Michael asked unevenly.

"Sure," Draco said smirking. He let go of the man who turned so quickly, he almost stumbled. Draco reached out to balance him and then placed his hands on either side of Michael's head. A quick twist and the body crumpled to the ground.

Draco stared down at his gloved hands and rolled his eyes. Ugh, he thought, killing by hand. His nose wrinkled in disgust before he brushed his hands against one another. One more thing to do before he's barred completely from the Ministry.

But first, back to Head Quarters. He disappeared silently as the sirens approached.

…

Hermione knew all about malice. She had learned at the tender age of eleven that people would hurt for fun. It was Draco Malfoy who taught her that lesson.

She often wondered why she had let him into her flat that day, close to two years ago. But she had and questioning the past would never change it. Not that she would.

It must have been with malice, she tries to tell herself that he handed her that invitation. But thinking of him out only to hurt her left her feeling bitter. So instead she focused on something else when the Veritasserum was brought out. She focused on her memories of him, softened by time, as he had looked at her after she had saved his life.

There were so many times when she had done that.

And, perhaps, just a little bit, just once or twice, she had done it out of malice. Of course the two of them had never been all that different.

…

A door at the end of the hall clattered open, and Hermione struggled to look up as feet traveled down the dark stone corridor. Her back hurt too much to move, though, aching in a pressing way that kept her against the cold stone floor.

The footsteps stopped and, lying there, she knew that she had been broken. Oh, she would never talk. No, never. But before, she never would have left her back to an enemy that would surely attack. The training alone had been enough to teach her that.

She waited patiently, hanging on to her last bit of strength as she dreaded whatever was to come next. Instead there was nothing.

Just silence.

And then a very quiet, "Oh, shit."

Harry.

Oh, shit.

The cell door opened, and gentle, healing hands started to brush hair from her eyes. "Hermione?"

Her eyes slid open to meet terrified green ones. "Take the cuffs off," she ground out.

He looked unsure; the sob built in her chest, angry and unrelenting. Slowly, he did as she asked. The built up magic spilled out of her, flowing from her hands as she tried to heal herself.

It was shoddy; healing yourself was next to impossible, but with Harry there, it was easier than it should have been.

She wanted to lecture him then. He was always so impetuous, and he never bothered to learn how to stem that ever-constant flow of magic from his body. It was so thick in the air that she could steal it, suck it from him, pop her shoulder back into place and heal a few cuts.

He watched in shock as she slowly sat up, the blemishes and bruises fading.

"They're going to be angry with you, you know," she said softly.

"What–Why?" he asked, still staring at her at a loss. A constant one.

"You let me undo most of their handiwork," she replied with a sarcastic grin. She rotated her shoulder. So much better already.

"Hermione, what happened?"

She met his eyes; there wasn't anyway that she could tell him. After all, he had been trained as an Auror. He had been tracking her team for almost a year, trying to fight their evil. It didn't matter if they were on the same side. He worked for the Ministry. The Ministry pretended that she did not exist.

"What did they tell you happened?"

Harry's eyes closed behind his glasses, and Hermione contemplated, much to her great shame, hitting him over the head and running for it. It was a shaky plan, at best, she said to herself. She fought the impulse.

"That's… that's impossible," he cried, sitting down on the bed slowly. "Tell me you're innocent, Hermione. Please, tell me you're innocent."

"Oh, Harry," she said with a small sigh before she covered his hand with her own, "You know I can't."

His shoulders slumped forward heavily, and Hermione stared at him with tears forming in her eyes. She blinked them away.

"Oh, Hermione," he said softly, "Oh, Mione, I am so sorry."

"So am I," she said, tilting towards him, her heart aching with every uneven breath he took.

For a long time, they just sat, still and silent, listening to the sound of Harry's ragged breathing and the constant dripping of water from somewhere within the cell.

Then he spoke. "Ron wants to see you."

Hermione glanced down at herself, taking in the dried blood, the sweat, and the grime that covered what used to be her pajamas. She was in a right state, and the thought of Ron seeing her made her cringe.

"Well, it's not like I can say 'no'," she whispered sadly.

Harry shuddered; "Do you want to see him?"

She bit back her immediate response and nodded.

…

As Hermione lay on the stone floor, the cool contrasting to her feverish skin, she defined camaraderie. Prometheus had always said it with a gentle snarl, yet she had always been drawn to that word–comrade. But she had learned; people are meant to be alone.

It wasn't until Harry's twentieth birthday that Hermione had left her two years of self-exile. She had been wearing a big sunbonnet that day. It was straw and had a blue ribbon with a wide brim that cast her face in shadow.

She had been wearing it when Ginny had approached her with a smile. "I'm so glad you're back, Hermione. You are back, right?"

Hermione had smiled at the other girl who had always seemed so much younger than she. But, then again, she had considered, who hadn't? Dumbledore, she thought. But he was long dead. Later, Prometheus. But that was later.

"Yes."

"The boys missed you so much," Ginny said after tossing her a relieved look. "You three have this strange connection, they're totally different now that you're back."

Hermione wasn't exactly sure how much had changed in the six hours since she had arrived at the Burrow, but she probably just couldn't see it. So she offered her hat to Ginny, who was beginning to burn in the July sun. It was a small gift in return for what she had been given. And, yet, Ginny had smiled, pulling it on over her red hair, and then left Hermione to her thoughts.

Hermione had always felt connected to Harry and Ron in a way that she had never thought possible. Their friendship brought them closer than people were really supposed to be, she guessed.

People were supposed to be alone. But two years in exile hadn't changed the fact that she could recognize Ron's footsteps as he walked over to her. He sat down and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She felt warm all over.

It was three weeks later that Draco Malfoy had handed her an invitation to purpose, and in the aftermath of a great war that everyone else seemed to think was over, she had taken it, signing her life and her soul away.

The enchantment was put into place at initiation. She had, in an act of great stupidity, gone along with it. After all, everyone wanted to belong to something, and she really wanted to belong to the organization. For very good reason, she had known. She knew.

But this enchantment, this evil play with soul magic that she hadn't bothered to understand at the time, had tied her to someone else. To her own devil.

She had disliked Prometheus since the beginning, but the enchantment was a bond much stronger than that, much like that of love. Or at least how she thought love might be. He was always with her. He could always know, if he wanted to. It had twisted her, this strange spell, bound her to something, almost forced her to believe in something. And, as she poured over those books, looking for an answer to someone else's question, she had come to hate him.

They were connected. But it wasn't right. It didn't release her, it allowed her to be tethered. When the enchantment had been cast, she had thought it wasn't forever.

And as she thought back to that day in the sun, she could see the difference. She could finally understand something about camaraderie that she hadn't before. And she could feel the connections that she might still have.

And she cried, short tearless sobs to nothing. "God, grant me courage, grant me love," she whispered. And maybe, just a little bit, she defined herself there too.

…

Hermione stared at her hands distractedly. The lines were defined strongly by the collected dirt, and there were scabbing red rings around her wrists where the shackles had been. She was too tired to clean herself properly, but it didn't stop her from trying. She had to be clean.

Ron had always been different from Harry that way. Maybe it was the way that they were always competing, trying to prove something that made no sense. Or maybe it was just because of that lingering desire, the need to be desirable. And now, sitting in the cell, waiting for him, the thing that she dreaded most was having him see her like this.

It was empty, thinking that way. She still knew that much.

The door at the end of the hall opened loudly, and Hermione's jerked her head up, swallowed by a familiar trepidation. The sinking of her stomach, the tightening in her throat. It was an acknowledgement of all she had done; it was the way she felt when looking into death.

She waited, listening to the familiar footsteps grow closer as her fingers tightened on the edge of the mattress.

And then he was there, his freckles stark against his pale skin, his eyes black in the dim light, and she felt the hot tears coming once again. No matter how many times she had lectured Ron, had threatened him with certain imprisonment, she had never imagined looking at him through cast iron bars.

"Hermione," he said, her name escaping through his lips with his breath, a great whoosh of relief and fear.

She stood and crossed to the bars, stretching her arms through, reaching out for an awkward hug. It felt so good to be nestled in his arms again, to feel his heartbeat against her cheek. Her eyes slipped closed and the first tear trickled out, as everything else eased away.

How long had it been since she had actually tasted tears? They tasted human.

"Are you alright?" Ron asked in a choked voice as he released her.

Hermione stepped back, and wiped anxiously at her face. "Dandy."

A lackluster smirk rose and fell on Ron's face. "Harry says that you confessed."

She snorted, "Not exactly."

"But you won't deny it?"

"No."

The word slapped him in the face, she could tell, even if he had already accepted the truth. "How could you, Hermione? I mean, how could you keep something like this from us? A secret this big? After everything–it's like I don't even know you at all."

The sob ricocheted around her chest; and there was regret. "Of course you know me."

He stared at her silently, taking her in, and then heaved a great breath. She could feel it coming, the ranting and raving.

"Ron, wait," she said, reaching out through the bars. He flinched backwards, and she felt her lip tremble. With a steadying breath, she waited, her hand still outstretched. "There's something I have to tell you."

His hand reached for hers shakily.

"Tell you as my friend. My best friend. Something that you can't share. Can I tr–" she broke off, "Can I tell you?"

His fingers squeezed her hand gently. "Of course you can trust me, Hermione," he said pleadingly, "But you can't say anything pertaining to the case and expect me–"

"I need you to promise me–promise me you won't say a word. This is so much more important to you and me than to some stupid case. So I need you to promise me because I need you to know."

Ron stared at her, his eyes reluctant and hungry all at once; the emotions still vividly clear, despite the tears filling his eyes. His hand reached out and brushed her cheek, feeling clean and warm against her skin.

She didn't wait for his promise; she wouldn't. "This group that you've been tracking, that I'm a–"

"Mione," he warned.

"That I'm a part of," she continued, "It's part of your ministry. It's–"

The spells placed on her body raged inside her, burning her tongue, and she cried out, falling to her knees. She pushed back against the magical pain, focusing on the throbbing in her elbow that had smacked against the bars.

"Hermione!" Ron called, from very far away. She felt him kneel beside her and tried to pull herself upright. A hand stroked her hair gently. "I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to."

"Why?"

"That's the best question you've ever asked," she said with a tired smile, the spinning cell finally settling. "I'm sorry I don't have an answer for you." She looked at him sadly, staring at him with regret and wondering where all that betrayal he had been feeling earlier had gone.

"Why tell me?" he asked softly.

"Oh, Ron," she said with a soft sigh. "I had to tell you. And I am sorry. I'm so very sorry."

Her sighs turned into sobs as she heard the door at the end of the hall open, and she was only vaguely aware of Ron's footsteps traveling away. But the sound of the door slamming again shocked her back into life, and the tears dried up.

As if they had never been there at all.

…

After that, she didn't see Harry or Ron again. Bereft. She was bereft. Her soul had been severed, a portion of it cut away to undo what she had let be done. She hadn't noticed that much of a difference in the beginning, hadn't seen the way that the connection granted her strength. She had already had that before.

Now, though–now, she could feel it. The absence.

She couldn't think she would be rescued. Not like that three days she had spent in a Russian Military camp. She couldn't hope she wasn't alone because she could feel it now. She was. And it was dark. Darker than soul-snuffing spells, darker than the blackness with which they fought. Dark because it was empty.

Ron's betrayed expression crossed before her eyes along with the sound of Harry's sobs, and she wanted to reach out. She wanted to tell then that she was sorry. She would have pursed her lips, but she had chewed them too much. She wanted to make them believe.

She wondered if that connection had been severed as well. She knew it hadn't.

The door at the end of the hall opened again. It was the first time it had since Ron had come.

The man who stood in front of the bars was not a friend, though.

"The Kiss?" she asked, staring up at dull eyes.

He frowned at her, "Of course not. You were once a hero. We could no sooner give you the Kiss than we could chop off Harry Potter's head in the middle of Diagon Alley."

She flinched at the mention of Harry's name.

"In three days you will be transported to Azkaban."

She nodded, tracing patterns on the stone floor beneath her feet. It might be better to get the kiss, she thought sadly. Sad because she had gotten that far. At least then there would be no boredom. There would be no remorse. There would be no enemies.

The clipped feet sounded off evenly until the door slammed again, and Hermione sighed and stretched out on the floor.

She was growing stronger, finally. And despite the chill wracking her body with shivers, she stored her magic. She didn't know if it would help, but preservation was key.

…

Draco had said that to her once, what seemed like lifetimes ago, when she was training. She had to train, to make sure she was ready. She had to train her mind and her body and her soul.

"Preservation is key. Being caught means death. Fucking up means betrayal." She had gotten her dirty mouth from him, that's for sure. But she had also gotten other things. Things like hatred and meaning. Knowledge. Belief?

The first time he had kissed her, she hadn't wondered why. She had just let him, because letting him was far easier than fighting him. Draco was a force, powerful, not to be understood, and determined.

So she had let him and let herself, and they had broken quite a bit of glass, that first time in the training room.

But she had finally understood what magic was, and though she'd never be able to explain it, she could feel it. She could feel it pulsing beneath her skin, longing to get out, to be released.

There is danger in knowledge, after all, power. The pull to release it was born of that.

Her training ended the next day. But most everything else began.

…

A stranger stood before her, but she knew who it was. The cell door opened and she hissed, "You shouldn't be here."

"You didn't think I would leave you here, did you?"

She glared angrily up at him. "I had hoped you would be smart enough."

"I was smart enough to buy some time from that speccy git who's been working tirelessly to get you off. He got you out a life sentence. I guess that's something to be grateful for."

"I'm supposed to be going to Azkaban tomorrow."

"I know," he said, "But you didn't really want to, did you? I mean, it is summer, but I imagine it's dreadfully chilly even at this time of year."

She watched him enter the cell and sit down before her. He was unbuttoning his robes, and then his shirt, baring his chest. The tattoos there made her touch her own breast sadly. Briefly, she lamented the loss.

"Draco, what the fuck is going on?"

He looked up at her distractedly. "Scotland's awful dreary," he said, pulling out a long, thin dagger. It was double edged. A memory pulled at her…

"There is no past, and there is certainly no future. It's a double edged-sword, Hermione, we don't really exist." "Is that a warning, Draco?" she asked, spitting his name back at him, "Because almost all swords are double-edged."

Her eyes slid forward, longing for something just beyond that. She didn't ask how he gotten the blade past the security. Instead she leaned forward on her own knees.

"Draco, seriously, what the fuck is going on?"

He shrugged at her, "You have shit timing, you know? You just had to pick the worst time to get sent to prison. We're just lucky these bastards are so fucking greedy."

"Well, damn," she said bitingly, "I'm so fucking sorry."

"Don't sweat it," he said, "I think it's covered. Hopefully. Maybe. Well, probably not." He was sort of rambling, and sort of just not paying attention. He drew the dagger swiftly across his palm, sending small droplets of blood into the air.

"What are you doing?" she snapped as he smeared his tattoos with his blood. "Dark magic in a ministry cell? We'll both be killed."

"Probably," he said with a smirk. "You really do have poor timing. In just a few weeks, I would have been ready. Instead, you've got me running in circles, pulling off very risky assassinations left and right."

She gaped at his half-smile. "What?"

"The knife's a Portkey, activated for two. Get us out of here as soon as it's over."

"Wait! What?" She stared in shock at the knife, glad for something else to focus on. "Did Prometheus?"

"Oh, hell no," Draco said, pausing in the middle of his chant. "Neville."

"He'll be killed."

"Maybe. Give him a bit of credit. He can cover his tracks, unlike you."

She glowered at him.

"You know, it helps if you chant too," he said gently.

She sighed, could it be helped? So she placed her hands on his chest, and began. She could sense it, as soon as she started. She could sense the shape of his soul. Not quite a sphere, not quite amorphous. The warmth of his chest immediately warmed her cool fingertips, the blood sliding slightly underneath her palms. It was so beautiful, just like she believed it would be. A sob caught in her throat.

She chanted. Beautiful in a way that something so delicate, so dangerous should not be.

Her eyes slid closed as she touched his soul. He shuddered beneath her fingertips and she reached out again. This time she grabbed it forcefully and pulled with all her might.

He gasped and she felt it coming towards her, peeling slowly away from whatever held it. She jerked, once, twice, and he was free.

There was no scream from him, just a whimper before he slumped forward against her chest. And then the alarm went off. She grabbed the knife and then pressed it against Draco's arm. And then they were gone.

…

She had always had enough courage before, she thought.

Maybe, after all, she did understand love.

"We have to save each other, Hermione," his voice whispered plaintively in her ear. "You'll see; I can save us both."

Was she dreaming? Was she dead? Was this really how it had happened?

His fingers trailed down her bared spine. "I thought you didn't need saving," she said sighing into the touch.

His lips were laughing against her skin, frailty in a touch. They could be broken now, broken so easily. Yes.

"I guess I do now."

She smiled sadly, "I ruined you."

"You ruined lots of people, what made you think I would be any different?"

Fingers on her hips, gentle, patient.

"You did."

"I can still hate you, if that helps." His mouth on the shell of her ear; sharp teeth over her skin. They didn't bite.

"It might."

"It doesn't mean I won't save you."

"What do I need saving from?" she asked, feeling the heat of skin on skin. She had laughed at his answer and then forgotten it. Yes.

Courage, she thought. More to lose… perhaps.

…

They spun and spun and spun. And Hermione prayed. "Dear Lord, Give me the courage, in these times of darkness, to withstand whatever ill calls upon me and to survive in the aftermath of true horror. Dear Lord, give me courage. Courage. Courage. Courage. Courage."

It was her mantra. And it was long after they set down in the room she had grown so used to that she stopped. "Courage," she whispered, "I need courage."

Draco was still out cold, lying on the edge of the royal blue and green carpet a few feet away. The red couch looked as it usually did, but there was a note pinned to the back, where she always sat. She stumbled forward, utterly disoriented and stared at it.

It looked like just squiggles on paper. And then she realized that her eyes wouldn't focus. She closed them and counted to five. When she opened them, there was a word written there.

It said 'reserved' in Neville's wide, wobbly hand. She fought a disbelieving laugh and took her seat, laying her head back and totally expecting to fall asleep from simple exhaustion. She could feel herself falling away, falling apart. There was magic in her, rippling with desire to be released. And there were emotions pulling her every which way, ripping at her. Truth, she thought, I need answers. She was too tired and too ringing.

But then the door opened behind her, and the question that she hadn't asked previously came to mind. Why in God's name had Draco brought them here?

She stood shakily and turned around. Prometheus stared at her in poorly-masked surprise. "Hello, Hermione."

She couldn't speak, just took a step back. It was impossible now to resist him. He had a piece of her still attached to him. In his presence, she was under his control. This was the after affect, she knew. What had those pages told her?

Soul magic is dark magic, bonding magic, battle magic. It calls you and kills you. When she had read it, she had snorted. She could remember thinking, why not just put a big 'do not touch' label on it. But then, slowly, she had understood. And that anger had come. But she didn't fight it now.

"Am I to be killed?" she ground out, finding her voice. "Is that why I was brought here?"

His jaw clenched, and she could tell that he hadn't known of this plan. But he said nothing, growing closer with each step.

Her feet were rooted to the floor. Her eyes were darting around. Draco was still lying there, but he was getting closer to consciousness.

She could still feel his soul, she realized suddenly. It was a startlingly bright realization.

Had he inadvertently tied himself to her when he had broken the enchantment on her as well? Is that why he'd saved her? No, but it had helped.

Prometheus was standing in front of her now. Maybe she could break free. "Your ignorance might be the only thing that can save you," he said, "Perhaps."

He smiled his scowl-like smile, and Hermione's hand twitched around the knife. He had called her ignorant, of all things. She stared at him, trying to figure out what was going through his mind. But he had a part of her, not the other way around. He looked worried, though, more so than usual. And she grasped that, that tiny bit of hope.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she said aloud, meeting the beetle black eyes that glared at her.

He looked confused for a moment, but Hermione did not have time to gloat. She pulled hard on Draco's soul and sank the blade into Prometheus's chest.

Black blood spilled out over the hilt, and Hermione stared at it in shock as she fell to the ground. In the background, she could here Draco coughing.

"Damn it, Hermione," he said, heaving large breaths. "That fucking hurt."

She opened her eyes, staring up at the man who was still standing, knife in his chest. His hands were covered in motor-oil black, and he was gaping at the slimy substance.

"What?" he asked softly, sinking to his knees.

Hermione seized her chance and reached for the knife again. She pulled it out and stabbed him again. And again. And again.

She was shaking and sobbing over a very dead body, the pent up emotion just spilling out, everything just spilling out. Draco slowly tried to pull her off of him.

"Stop, Hermione," he said in her ear, taking the knife. "Just stop."

"But he's evil," she said, burying her face into his familiar chest.

"He's not your evil, though. He's not anything, not anymore."

It was like being set free from a prison she had forgotten she was in. The warmth around her felt good, but good in a way that she had forgotten she could feel. The lips on her forehead were soft. They were new.

The haze that had floated around her, that had watched her kill, that had watched her breathe, was gone.

"What did you do?" she asked, punching his chest as hard as she could. It wasn't very hard.

She looked up at him, "Have a little faith, Hermione. It's not that difficult." She was about to contradict him, but he looked too tired, drained.

She could sigh. So she did. Then she pursed her lips. "I'm exhausted."

Draco chuckled.

The door behind her opened, and she jumped. "Shh."

"Oh, wow," a voice said. Neville. "I guess mailing the Prophet his suicide letter was a bit premature. Most people don't kill themselves by stabbing themselves–" Hermione pulled away and turned to look at Neville's crouched form, "–eleven times. Nice form, Hermione."

He looked up at her, all smiles and relief. "I guess I'll just have to fix that."

She gaped at him. "Neville?"

"Yes?"

"You poisoned him?"

"Well, yes. Couldn't have you sent to Azkaban, after all. Although my plan was far simpler. I just wanted to break you out of prison. Draco wanted to take on the whole organization."

"Wha–" Hermione said, something in her mind clicking. "The ministry officials. There were four of them. I knew I recognized one."

"Yes." Draco said, looking away. "It was a start. One that you fucked up, mind you."

"But…"

"Let it be."

"Yes, Hermione, let it be," Neville said in an unusually commanding tone. "Now drink this."

She took the potion and swallowed while Neville went to work on the body. There was still black blood all over Prometheus's clothing, but the stab wounds healed in the most sickening of ways. "Easy enough to heal the dead," Neville said standing. "Though, sort of gross."

"What was his name?" she asked. "His real name?"

"Does it matter?" Draco asked. "He was, and always will be, Prometheus."

The one who played tricks on the gods. The one who had brought the rest of us salvation. The cursed one. The punished. He would bear their sins. She frowned down at the body, and then she sighed, feeling the cool potion working already. She was healing. Replenished, she looked around the room. "I guess not." She would be happy to never come back here. "Now what?"

Neville and Draco looked at her incredulously. "Now we run."

"And then?"

"We wait."

She nodded once, wondering why exactly Draco and Neville were moving exactly as they were. And then she blacked out. Finally.

…

Pride. What had Hermione ever had to be proud of? She'd had people. She'd had objects. She had intelligence, which she had worn like a mantle over her shoulders. She'd had an endless list of what could be considered accomplishments.

At many points, she'd had purpose. She'd had stamina; she'd had fear. She'd overcome some of that–did that mean that she had courage?

She'd had secrets, and she had kept most of them. She'd had desires, and she'd fulfilled a few of them.

She'd had herself. She had Harry. She had Ron. They were waiting for her now. She had trust. She had hope.

She had a soul.

Her head was resting on a very nice-smelling pillow. She had love? She would work on the faith later.

She had lived.

She was waking up.