Chapter Two


March 2004

Hermione stared across the table. "Beg your pardon?"

"I need you to marry Theo," Draco repeated his request—no, demand. Fake life debt and everything.

"Caught that bit," she said irritably. "Go back to the 'or he's going to die' portion of the worst marriage proposal ever."

Draco sighed and began picking at the paper coffee cup with his thumbnail, a nervous habit he had picked up years earlier whenever they went out in Wizarding areas of Britain and people recognised him for being a former Death Eater. Few people had the nerve to say anything, especially if he was with her or any number of other Gryffindors or members of Dumbledore's Army that he got suckered into befriending thanks to Luna. Still, the nervous habit remained.

"Theo's sick," he said, not even trying to do that thing all Slytherins did when they were upset about something and put on an emotionless mask of indifference to hide their feelings that made them vulnerable.

She shook her head, trying to work her way around the fact that Draco was genuinely upset and allowing her to see it—which was a miracle in and of itself. "So get him a Healer, not a wife."

He looked up from his torn paper cup and glared at her. "Would you shut up for a minute?"

Hermione frowned, feeling genuinely guilty. "Sorry. Is your friend really dying?"

"It's a curse that's killing him. Considering he's a Curse-Breaker and hasn't figured out how to cure himself, we're . . ." Draco sighed and rubbed at his forehead, tussling his hair a touch as he tried to massage out the obvious stress-induced headache.

Instinctively, Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a small plastic bottle, popping the top and handing over two pills, grateful when he took them willingly as opposed to the usual fit he threw anytime she tried to "poison him with Muggle nonsense."

"We're not hopeful," he said quietly after throwing back the painkillers and drinking the rest of his cold coffee, taking care not to sip from the torn edges or risk spilling it on his white silk shirt.

"We?"

"Blaise knows. Pansy and Daphne too. We've known about this for a while."

Despite working with magical beings and creatures for the past several years, Hermione considered herself well educated in curses considering she spent the majority of her childhood being Harry Potter's best friend. Dealing with Dark Magic pretty much came with the job description.

"Was it something he touched? I know that Curse-Breakers deal with Dark Artifacts all the time."

Draco shook his head. "No. He was cursed by someone."

"Can you find the person? I know it's a longshot, but they might have the cure. Surely between the lot of you, money wouldn't be a problem if that's all the person wanted." As the thought occurred to her, she asked, "Is this revenge?"

"Oh, it's most certainly revenge," Draco said bitterly. "But finding the person who cursed him won't help."

"Why not?"

He slowly looked up at her, his grey eyes the light colour of sunshine hidden behind storm clouds. His lips were tight, and his jaw ticked, and he took a breath before speaking again. "Because Potter killed him."

She felt an old familiar sense of dread sink into the pit of her stomach. "Riddle cursed Nott?" she asked and Draco nodded. "It's been . . . Draco it's been almost six years. It's taken that long for this curse to take effect?"

"No, it's taken almost seven years," he corrected her. "Theo was cursed when he took the Dark Mark just before we all went back to Hogwarts and you and the dastardly duo went on the run."

"Seven years?" She took into account the relevance of the number in reference to Arithmancy. Seven was the most powerful magical number. Seven Horcruxes.

"What can I say, the Dark Lord had a fetish for magical numbers."

Hermione cringed angrily. "Don't call him that. He wasn't any Lord. Say Voldemort," she said and waited for Draco to flinch—because he still did all these years later. "If you can't manage that, call him Tom Riddle."

He stared at her the way he used to when they were younger; it unnerved her.

"Granger, the man fed a woman to his snake on my dining room table. You don't call that bloke 'Tom.' And stop distracting me. So . . . Riddle," Draco said scathingly as he rolled his eyes, "was completely mental when he came back at the end of fourth year. I was at Hogwarts most of the time, but when I was home . . . let's just say he was a lovely example for Bellatrix."

Hermione's posture stiffened. "Noted."

"Our guess is that he didn't trust his followers by the end which, considering the Snape factor, was probably smart thinking on his part. When the new generation of Death Eaters took the Dark Mark, he layered in a curse that slowly, over seven years, drains a person's magical core."

Hermione could not stop herself from gasping.

"And you know what happens when a core is depleted."

She nodded. "You die."

It was why the Killing Curse was so effective. Unlike other curses that attack the body, the Killing Curse went straight for the magical core. It was one of the reasons Unspeakables were constantly trying to approach Harry, desperate to find out how he had survived the curse twice.

"Five points to Gryffindor," Draco said. "We figure that Riddle thought he would win the war, and if any of our parents tried to usurp him, he could hold us hostage. We were already infected with the curse when we took the Mark, so it's not like he would have had to put much effort into threatening us. All he had to do is withhold the cure to ensure their loyalty. Fortunately, for the rest of the world—and unfortunate for those he Marked—Potter won, and the cure died with Riddle."

"So, how are you alive? You took the Dark Mark eight years ago."

She watched him twist his wedding band around his finger as he ignored her question and continued his tale. "We first suspected something had happened when Warrington died."

Hermione furrowed her brow, searching her memory for the name. "Cassius Warrington. I remember that case," she said after a few seconds. "Harry worked on it. They thought he'd been poisoned."

"Similar effects as the curse. They were never able to trace anything though. He wasn't the first to die. Flint was."

"Marcus? He died in a Quidditch accident, everyone knows that. Ginny was there when it happened."

It had been all over the Daily Prophet for weeks. The famous Quidditch-star-turned-addict showed up to a game loaded on a multitude of things they later found in his blood. In the middle of a match—and not even an important one—Marcus slipped off of his broom, did nothing to save himself, and crashed into the ground after falling a good two-hundred feet, breaking his neck.

"Yes, they said he had been drinking, which was true," Draco admitted. "But Flint's mother told Daphne that, prior to his death, all he did was drink because it numbed the pain. Potions weren't working."

"Oh my God."

"Then Montague died a week after Warrington, and we all knew it was a pattern. But then Pucey survived long enough to make it to his wedding."

"Daphne's sister, right?"

Draco nodded, picking at his cup again. "He was sick right up until the bonding ceremony. Then, just like that, Adrian was fine and never had another problem. We stopped worrying until last year when it was leading up to the seventh year since I took the Dark Mark. I waited to get sick." He wore a guilty expression on his face. Hermione assumed that during his moments of anxiety Draco would take his worries out on Luna, who very likely was nothing but the adoring and caring person that she was, irritable husband be damned. "I waited for something bad to happen, but nothing did. The anniversary of the day I took the Mark came and went. So, we thought we'd been paranoid about the others."

Hermione frowned. "I'm sensing an 'until' coming up."

"Until just before Christmas when Goyle died. He and Crabbe had taken the Mark over the holidays during sixth year. Healers at St Mungo's couldn't figure out what killed him, but we all knew."

Hermione wanted to offer him comfort but knew better. That was not their friendship. She assumed he had Luna for that or, at the very least Pansy and Daphne.

"Theo started getting sick about two weeks later."

"But you and Pucey were fine? Are you sure the curse wasn't specific to individuals? Your father was technically Voldemort's right hand, maybe you were spared," she suggested and then immediately regretted it when she was met with a glare.

"Granger," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation as though they'd had this conversation before, "if it was given to specific individuals, I would have been the first gone just to make a point. No, Pucey and I were saved because of Astoria and Luna."

She made a face of disbelief and confusion at his words, curious as to how two witches with no experience in curses or Dark Magic had . . . "Mother of Merlin! The bonding ceremony!"

Draco nodded and touched the tip of his nose with his index finger. "The curse drains our magical cores, but a marriage bonds our cores together with our wives. The witches are completely unaffected," he said before she had a chance to wonder about contamination or potential contagion. "Pucey and I did a few tests and found that the longer we're married, the stronger our cores become. They're not only keeping us alive, they're curing us."

She nodded in understanding. "So you need Theo to get married to save his life."

He sighed in what sounded like relief, and Hermione could not help but wonder how many times he'd had to tell this story.

"And we would have had more time to look for a witch, but Theo, the fucker, up and ran off at the beginning of January, likely hiding from the truth," Draco said bitterly. "He got back two days ago, locked himself behind the wards of his house, and won't come out. He's letting himself die."

She understood the anger and sadness in Draco's tone. She remembered she and Ron shared a similar one years ago when Harry up and disappeared in the middle of battle to wander off into the Forbidden Forest to just let himself die. Being friends with someone like that took its toll over the years.

"Why me?" she blurted out.

Draco winced, looking uncomfortable. "Because every other witch we know is either married or has a problem with former Death Eaters. Don't think we haven't tried asking others. Blaise worked his charm all over Britain and even hung around the Three Broomsticks to try and grab the attention of the witches that will graduate Hogwarts this year. No takers."

She glowered at him, completely offended. "So I'm the last straw? The filthy Mudblood that's not worthy to marry one of you precious boys until it's a matter of life or death?"

"Shut up, Granger," Draco snapped at her. "None of us have brought up that shit for years except for Pansy and, in her defence, you did tell her she was being a cow. Besides, Theo's not like that."

Hermione scoffed. "Not like what? The rest of you?"

"Yes," Draco answered coolly. "Or how we used to be. Theo never cared."

She had trouble believing that, figuring that Draco would do just about anything at this point to trick her into marrying his friend.

"He still took the Mark," she insisted. "And I've had the unfortunate circumstance of meeting his father several times," she said as she recalled the Department of Mysteries and the final Battle of Hogwarts. Theo's father was not a wholly stable individual that Hermione often categorised alongside others like the Lestrange brothers and Bellatrix. Dark Magic and dementors never did mix well.

"Malfoy, I'm . . . I'm sorry, but I can't marry Nott. He's a stranger. We'd be bonded for life. There's no divorce in the Wizarding world. And it sounds to me like he's made his decision." She took a breath and then stood, the discomfort and guilt were already eating away at her, and she knew that Draco knew this would happen. Her bleeding Gryffindor heart.

"Granger, don't leave."

When she made for the door, he shouted, "Please!"

The desperation in his voice was something she had never heard before. She turned back and watched as he corrected his expression to hide the fact that he had just literally begged her for something.

"Just . . ." He clenched his teeth, reeling his pride back in place. "Just think about it."

"Draco—"

"Granger, if we don't figure something out, Daphne says she's going to break it off with Potter and marry Theo herself. We'll Imperius him to the ceremony if we need to. I won't allow that fucking psychopath to kill another one of my friends," Draco snarled, drawing the attention of several nearby Muggles. A quick glare in their direction and they all turned their attentions back to whatever it was they had been doing before Draco started shouting about psychopaths.

Hermione, shocked by the threat—and it very clearly was a threat—shook her head. "No. Daphne loves Harry. She wouldn't throw her life away like that to—"

"Save a friend?" Draco raised a questioning brow. "What would you sacrifice to save a friend, Granger?"

She ran the pad of her thumb over the raised scar on her forearm, remembering the pain and the anguish from Bellatrix's Cruciatus Curse and the sharp stab of her dagger. But most of all, she remembered the feeling of a strange relief when she had been separated from Harry and Ron in Malfoy Manor.

"Leave the girl," Bellatrix had said. The first thing that Hermione thought was: If I die, maybe Harry and Ron will have a chance.

"I . . . I'll think about it."