A/N: Thank you for reading along. Reviews are love.
Part 2: Madness
I will not let you have me
without the madness
that makes me.
At dusk, her demon comes to her in the form of a man.
He is beautiful, all angles and sharp edges. His cheekbones cut to the quick, and his presence speaks of freedom in a haunting melody that reverberates deep in her damaged soul.
War changed Hermione; she would be a liar if she said it didn't. It had also, however, awakened her. Maybe it was the result of spending hour upon hour under Bellatrix's cursed blade. Maybe it was the warm thrill that travelled up her arm at each casting of Sectumsempra during the battle of Hogwarts. Whatever it might be, she is an addict of the gaping chasm that has opened inside her chest, the space that—had she ever demonstrated more than a passing interest in the classics—she might have described as housing her heart.
Something about the way he lurks in the shadows watching her calls to her. She knows him from Hogwarts, but there is something wholly different about the way he prowls from shadow to shadow, the certainty in each step he takes, the preternatural stillness of his stance.
When he exhales raggedly, she permits herself to meet his stare. It is hungry, an awareness beyond his own within him. She permits a small smile to grace her lips, and she waits.
Maybe she is broken. It would certainly explain why she enjoys the darkening of his gaze, the sincerity of destruction so clearly etched in the fine planes of his face, the harsh cut of his jaw.
She beckons him deep within Knockturn Alley, past Borgin and Burkes, beyond the White Wyvern, pausing only when she reaches a nondescript expanse of brick wall, through which she passes after a cursory glance behind them to ensure no one follows.
When he emerges on the other side, she allows him a cursory glance over the enclave before moving forward.
She remembers her first trip here well. The wynd is well-hidden; it is not often found without intention. Much like the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, the individual must be in need of the space. She'd stumbled upon it in the early days of her break with Harry and Ron.
It wasn't large—perhaps ten feet across, bordered by decrepit storefronts on either side. One dared not linger in the square; there were far too many beings that delighted in the taste of human flesh to dawdle, but she was a formidable opponent, made so by experience, and she doesn't anticipate challenges. Malfoy, however, draws attention, so she strides across the narrow hall as eyes appear in the dingy windows. He follows close behind, and she doesn't stop to allow his questions.
When she enters the building, the chatter within dies away.
She can feel his gaze on her shoulder, but she doesn't stop, cutting through the mass of bodies, and she orders a drink from the bar. Malfoy skirts around her, his eyes dancing over the side of her face as he holds his finger up, signalling the barkeep, who slides an additional drink to the man. She turns away without paying; the long-running tab is always paid in full, and no one questions her.
When she settles into a corner table, her back to the wall and forcing him to sit across from her, she takes a long pull from her drink, watching as he does the same. A chill lingers in the air, but she pays it no heed as she studies Malfoy.
He stares back at her over the rim of his glass as she allows her gaze to run over him. He's grown—certainly more rugged than he had been at Hogwarts. His wide shoulders are taut beneath his suit jacket, but the polished gentlemanly appearance does little to hide what lurks beneath the surface. He is coiled tight, a wire ready to explode from its confines, and she smiles into her whiskey, allowing the biting warmth of it to wash over her tongue and down her throat. It settles in her stomach before she allows herself to speak.
"This is the Ouroboros Society." She sees a flicker of recognition on his face, followed closely by apprehension, the grey gaze shuttering quickly.
Draco's eyes leave her face, instead tracing the worn tables and chairs of the dive suspiciously. "You treat this like it's some kind of honour, to be here amongst this ratty furniture and dodgy customers." He doesn't hide his sneer, and Hermione feels a wave of protective anger swell within her.
She inclines her head. "It's… exclusive." At his huffing laugh, her eyes narrow. "It's been decades since anyone has stepped foot in this space. Beyond you and I, the last visitors stumbled here by accident, and none of them returned. This place resides within and between worlds, and it only awakens when necessary."
Draco sobers, meeting her gaze. "And why have you chosen me to come with you?"
She tilts her head, studying him. "You're useful, Malfoy." She fixes her stare on his left palm, the one wrapped around his mug, and his complexion pales.
He clears his throat. "You said it only awakens when necessary. What is it?"
"We call it the Devourer." She waves her hand, and a sigil flickers to life on her palm: a dragon eating its tail, the words "One is All" in Latin dancing across its back. "It is born out of death, and to death it will return. It has no one home; it is neither good nor evil. It chooses its host, and through them, it works to cleanse the world."
A thrill of heat passes through Draco's gaze, and he quickly extinguishes it, but she allows him to see the triumph in her own. His voice is low when he responds. "And it has chosen you."
Within her, the darkness purrs. "I have become… something of a vessel. You see, when Bellatrix allowed me to bleed out on your drawing room floor, I died. But the last thing I saw was your gaze. We locked eyes, and I faded away into the darkness." She watches Draco's throat bob, uncomfortable at her candid discussion of her death.
"In that space, I was suspended, grey mist surrounding me, and I was approached by the Devourer, who gave me a choice. I could simply choose to fade away into an afterlife that may or may not exist, or I could be given a second chance. I could embrace the Devourer and become power."
Doubt flickers across his face. "The Granger I know wouldn't give agree so simply to such grave terms."
She snorts. "The Granger you knew died." She leans across the table, her fist coming down heavily on the splintered wooden surface as she loosens her control, just enough to allow the being to rise to the surface, to temper her words. "When you let me die on your drawing room floor, you created a tether."
"Granger, what—"
She continues, ignoring the interruption. "That tether allowed me to cross back through the Veil and begin the Devourer's work."
She saw the hesitation in his eyes warring with the curiosity that got the better of him. "And what is that work?"
Leaning backward in the chair, she muses how to phrase her answer. In the end, honesty wins. "It's quite simple, really. The Ouroboros Society seeks to rid the world of those… less than savory individuals. The Devourer consumes their power, thus maintaining the balance but destroying the threat."
Draco's eyes lock on hers, and Hermione recognizes the flash of fear coupled with intrigue in his gaze. "You're mad," he breathes.
"Quite," she allows, "but I exist within the grey, neither alive nor dead, and I am tied to the promise I made. Without it, I cease to exist."
Hermione lounges in the chair, watching his mind race through the information she's given him. It's enough to make her laugh, calling back to their time in Hogwarts when she would watch him from beneath lowered lashes. He's silent when she adds, "I could help you, you know."
When he raises an apprehensive brow, she continues. "You're powerful, yes, but you lack the necessary means to conduct the… business" —her nose wrinkles— "that you typically engage in."
Heat flares deep in his gaze. "And how would you know of my business?"
"Six months is a long time to watch someone, dear." Her gaze flits over his features. "I've found that, in this half-life, I've become rather bored of playing by the rules. They don't serve my purposes, and I rather think that you would be more than capable to help me should you rid yourself of the honour you're so preoccupied with."
His already pale skin turns clammy, and she watches his fists coil into themselves.
"Per your argument, you should want to eliminate me, if this— thing wants you to eliminate those that 'dance in the dark.'" His nose wrinkles at his words, a poor attempt to hide the fear she senses in his posture.
She inclines her head; there's no use in denying the truth. "Normally, yes. But, as I've said, you've created a tether. Your magic calls to mine. I wonder why that might be." With a cock of her head, she once more eyes the hands that are wrapped around the cheap glass.
The line of his throats bobs, and he slowly unfurls his hands from their deathly grasp on his rocks glass, placing his palm upward on the tabletop. He closes his eyes, and she sees his certainty waver for only a moment before a glamour on his hand shimmers and fades away.
Wrapped around a crushed skull is another dragon, the likeness to her own sending a thrill through her, and it, too, bears words across its back: "and by it All." Heartbeats hammer in her chest, and she resists the urge to reach out and run her hand over the raised edges of the mark; it is inflamed, newly raised from the skin, and the entity within her purrs in satisfaction.
When he rapidly clenches his fists and slides them off the table and into his lap, she smiles. "I think we can come to an understanding."
She unfolds herself from the table, beckoning him to follow after she throws down a handful of silver coins he doesn't recognize. He follows her to the back of the bar, in the shadows of which she removes the glamour from a stairwell. As they ascend them, she feels his gaze on her, the way it traces the lines of her curves, whether or not he wants to, and she smiles to herself. Oh yes, he would do just fine.
After several flights of the stairs, they finally reach a landing that leads to a long hallway, at the end of which is a heavy wooden door. Their footsteps echo in the space, and the swish of her wand is deafening as she unlocks it. A heavy click precedes its opening, and the hinges screech their protest, but Hermione slips through the opening. It slams shut as soon as they've both crossed the threshold.
Hermione ignores Draco's huffs behind her, choosing instead to light the candles that are placed throughout the loft. Cobwebs dance around her, catching in her curls, but she pays them no mind. A pentagram is already outlined on the floor, and she is careful to avoid marring its lines.
Her task complete, she motions the man forward. His apprehension is palpable, but the sheen in his eyes betray his anticipation. When he stops in front of her, her tongue flickers out to wet her lips, and he watches, transfixed.
"In this room, you will do well to remember who it is that you serve." Hermione's voice is low, nearly rumbling and almost entirely divorced from the breathy feminine trill of her youth. "Tell me, Draco—" She passes in front of him, one hand reaching up to trail over his shoulder and along the line of his back. The being within her purrs in satisfaction at the tremor that wracks his body. "—do you enjoy the power of destroying another human?"
Malfoy takes a moment to answer, and Hermione leans in until her face nearly rests against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of her cigarette that still clings to his skin. She prompts him. "Do you feel it inside you, that darkness, that satisfaction, in making someone beg? In holding their fragile potentiality in the palm of your hand?"
His throat bobs before he answers. "I feel it. It's—it feels like it's curled in my chest, waiting to strike."
A smile ghosts over her lips, and she leans up onto the balls of her feet to whisper to him, her lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. "And when does it feel the best. When do you just want to let go?"
His hands tremble, and his words are barely audible. "Right now."
Satisfaction races through her, and the Devourer crows within her. She leans forward, pressing herself to his back and running a hand over his torso. "I can make you feel like that all the time," she murmurs to him, allowing her hands to explore his chest, to revel in the low groan he emits. "Think of the power, the satisfaction." When she pulls away, he almost deflates at the loss. "I can help you destroy those that destroyed you."
"How?" His desperation is palpable, and he sways on the spot.
She knows; she has him. Her smile is feral when she faces him again. "Accept it: the madness, the anger, the hatred. Accept it, and together we can work to destroy Voldemort, to begin our reign, to right the horrible wrongs that have been wrought on the wizarding world. On your family. On you." She caresses his cheek, and he leans into the touch, eyes closed.
When he finally opens them, his pupils are blown wide and his breathing is laboured. "Show me."
To be updated Friday.
