Edited 8th June 2014

Author's Note: Brora is an actual village, and Google Maps was a great help in giving me some concept of what it looked like and of the Trio's travels in general. Regardless, I'm sure it's not a very accurate description of the town.


Control and a Lack Thereof

Brora was a tiny village by Muggle standards, Draco knew, but to someone who spent most of his time in the wizarding world, it was good-sized – a bleak reminder of just how terribly Muggles outnumbered magical folk. It was a pretty place, not that Draco spared an eye for it as he stalked along Harbour Road, scowling at the ground, shoulders hunched up around his ears, ignoring the damned unsettling Muggle cars as they drove past now and then. His boots squelched, and he curled his lip in disgust. The Muggle library he'd visited had provided him with a book that had a Muggle photograph of the mouth of the River Brora and the shore around it. Draco had aimed for the shore, and landed knee deep in water and mud.

He'd been about to scourgify and dry himself when a family of Muggles had come trotting past, the children frolicking like badly-behaved puppies, and he'd had to just start walking. He thanked Merlin that they hadn't seen him apparate, as was he was utter shite at memory charms. And then an elderly couple had come walking along behind him as he'd slouched along the road, and cars had passed, and then there was a Muggle giving him a funny look as she hung out wet clothing on ropes on her front lawn. Draco just hadn't felt comfortable performing magic in front of all those eyes he could feel staring at him even when he couldn't actually see any Muggles, so he sneered ferociously to himself and slouched along towards the town centre.

Every sloshing step made him hate the world more and more.

The sky was clear and the chill breeze refreshing and Draco didn't care – he just glared at his soggy boots squishing on the ground, his wet socks rubbing his feet raw. He paused beneath a rail bridge in the shadows at the side of the road and quickly cleaned and dried his jeans, boots, and socks with a few waves of his wand, and then turned up onto a road labelled 'S Brae'. He felt rather less hateful at the world now his jeans and boots were dry.

He crossed the bridge over the river and along into Brora proper, gritting his teeth as he questioned the Muggles in the shops, finding them strange and alien and yet still too similar for comfort. Alike, but unlike. If Muggles were completely strange, it would have been easier to hate them, and if they were more similar it would be easier to stop hating them. As it was, however, they made Draco uneasy, and a little disgusted, by them and by himself. He didn't like it. But Draco very ingratiatingly questioned the shopkeepers, polite and friendly, because the damned Muggles wouldn't help him if he was rude to them unless he hurt them. And he'd rather not do that.

Draco was sick of hurting things, whether they were lesser than him or not. He'd tried to explain it to Snape several weeks ago; 'I wouldn't consider a dog my equal, but I wouldn't fucking crucio it either.' Snape had given him a long, strange look, but had said nothing except to warn Draco not to speak like that where he could be heard.

Draco strode up the main street, hopefully unnoticeable in his Muggle kit; black tee-shirt, bottle green hooded jersey, dark jeans and brand new black boots, his hair glamoured to a dark blonde-brown and eyes a muddy hazel-blue, his wand out of sight up his sleeve. If he stumbled across Potter and the other two hopefully they wouldn't immediately recognise him like this. He stopped in at the Pharmacy, which looked like an apothecary, the Health Centre, which was crammed disgustingly full of sick Muggles and turned Draco's stomach, and a variety of other shops.

"I'm looking for some friends of mine – we're supposed to meet up here to go on holiday together, but I was held up, and it looks like they've gone and left without me, already. I was wondering if you'd seen them?" Draco asked the little old lady who sat behind the counter with her knitting in hand and stared at him placidly. He smiled his nicest smile, despising every moment of it, and widened his eyes slightly at the agreeable looking woman – Astoria had always told him that his eyes were his best feature. His smile vanished as he thought of Stori, and a horrible fucking lump of emotion choked in his throat and made his eyes threaten to water as his chest clamped tight.

"Och, ye poor boy," the woman said in a thick brogue. The stupid Muggle obviously thought he was upset about his friends. Dumb bitch, Draco thought viciously, making his grey eyes all wide and hopeful on her as he tried to push Stori back into the recesses of his mind. "But I'm not sure how I kin help ye."

"I thought maybe you might have seen them? There are three of them, all my age – a dark haired boy, about this tall, with glasses, another boy around my height, with ginger hair, and a girl with very bushy brown hair. I thought they might head up by rail to Helmsdale, because that's where we were supposed to be going, but I don't want to head off yet in case they're actually still here, and I miss them."

The old lady hadn't seen them. Draco felt the vein at his temple start to throb as he went to curry favour with the next Muggle.

"…have you seen them?"

"Sorry, son, but I havena. Have ye tried the inns and suchlike about?"

He hadn't. He went and did so, and came up empty-handed.

"P'raps the caravan park will've seen them?" The next shopkeeper offered helpfully. "Or they might be camping down the beach?"

"I'll try there. Thank you for your help."

The beach was beautiful, but empty, and Draco strode wearily back into town, heading down Rosslyn St this time. He tried the Post Office, Graham Begg, Sutherland Inn, and The Co-operative Food to no avail, and in the end accosted a random Muggle on the street, asking him in desperation.

"No, no one like that, I'm afraid. Mebbe ye should try t' station, if ye havena already?"

"I will, thank you," Draco grated, smiling politely for what felt like the thousandth time, wishing he could burn this whole sodding village to the ground, and cursing himself an idiot for not thinking of inquiring at the station sooner.

The rather imposing middle-aged Muggle at the station was very helpful, saying that she'd seen a group like that two days before, only the girl's hair had been short; but she'd mentioned Potter's scar, and that the girl had been very 'brusque', and Draco was bloody well sure it was them. Unfortunately the big Muggle woman explained apologetically that the last train of the day – Sunday – had just left, and there'd be none more 'til the next day, despite it only being two o'clock in the afternoon. Draco admitted temporary defeat and slogged back to the Sutherland Inn, and booked a room for the night.

Draco had stopped in at Gringotts before he'd apparated to Brora, and had pertinently withdrawn a very large amount of gold from the family vault - 500 galleons; more than enough to provide for whatever life might fling at him. He'd melted down around a hundred galleons of the gold and taken it in to a shop in Muggle London that Snape had told him about, a little place that exchanged the gold for Muggle currency – funny, dirty worthless-seeming coins and coloured rectangles of parchment-type stuff. This gave him what came out at what Draco worked out to be £500 – five hundred pounds, which he thought was an odd name for currency. Pounds were weight, not coin. Fucking weird Muggles.

At any rate, the Sutherland Inn was £40 per night for a single room, which Draco paid for resentfully, thinking it was far too expensive; not used to Muggle prices. Draco explored the room frowningly. He knew a bit about Muggle things – light switches, and other basics of 'alektrisity', like 'tellies' that played things kind of like photographs, only with sound, and 'jugs' that heated water for tea and coffee and such, and 'micro-wives', which were a sort of cooker thing that he supposed were for people who weren't married?

The bathroom was all pretty much the same as a magical one, although it took quite a while for the water to heat up, in comparison. The bed was plain but just a bed, and even the 'telly' didn't take too long to figure out, although it scared the bloody shit out of him when he first turned it on and it blared at him deafeningly, earning a thump on the wall from the neighbouring room. The tiny kitchenette was probably what confused him the most, but he just ignored the Muggle 'alektrikel' things and used his magic. The small, cold white box they kept little oddly wrapped bits of food and drink in gave Draco pause at first, but he soon figured out what it was, and couldn't help raising an eyebrow at Muggles' ingenuity.

He'd read the information left on the end table by the door though, and knew enough not to eat or drink from the white box, lest he want to pay prices that staggered belief. Instead Draco went down to the restaurant and ate a simple meal in a discreet corner, thinking darkly about how best to get himself and his parents' out of this damned mess, and coming up with nothing. He drank too much Muggle booze at the bar, and staggered upstairs to his room past midnight, falling onto the bed fully-clothed and passing out as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Draco had a restless sleep, plagued with nightmares about his mother and father being murdered in front of him, about having his eyes gouged out by Voldemort, about having to kill Granger to save his mother's life, and worst of all, nightmares about her. Draco often dreamt about her, maybe because he never let himself think about her during the day, always stuffed the happy memories down deep. He jerked awake just before dawn with his cheeks wet with tears, her name on his lips, like some kind of sentimental fucking fool.

Astoria.

It still hurt, in the middle of the night when the bed was empty, and he was alone in the dark.


"I still think we shouldn't take trains. They're too easy to track," Hermione insisted sternly, eyeing Harry, who was playing with a flame at the end of his wand, whisking it through the air like a Muggle sparkler and making patterns with it. He scrawled her name in loopy, fiery letters in the air, and cast her a lazy smile.

"Relax, Hermione. We move about too much to be found. We're fine."

Hermione frowned and looked away, staring at the lively little burn rushing by, icy cold and clear, where Ron was crouching on the muddy bank, trying and failing to catch the brown trout that slipped through the water. "Famous last words," she muttered, not agreeing with Harry and Ron's laissé faire attitudes over the past few days, her mood not improved by the fact that today and tomorrow were her turn to wear the horcrux. She scrunched down into the warm of her scarf and jersey, and tugged her hat down more firmly over her ears – even though the sheep valleys, as the locals called them, were sheltered from the worst of the cutting wind, it was still cold despite summer still clinging on by a thread.

"Oh, come on. Relax. There aren't any magical communities nearby – that's precisely why we're up this way. So who's to recognise us?"

"We should have apparated, then." Hermione reached out to her right and plucked several kingcups off a nearby plant and started making a cheery yellow chain of them to keep her chilled fingers busy, eyes on Ron, who was splashing and swearing in the stream, but insisted he was having a grand old time. Harry made a disgusted sound.

"We didn't have any good photos of Helmsdale to fix on, and it was very clever of you to think of it, Hermione, don't get me wrong, but I hate that new sort of apparition you've come up with. It's bloody awful."

"It's very useful!" Hermione defended her discovery indignantly, although Harry knew she agreed with him on it being awful. It involved focusing on a clear point near the horizon with a pair of binoculars, getting that point fixed in your mind, and disapparating there – nearly five kilometres crossed in under a minute, on average. Although that rather depended on the time spent reeling and retching after the apparition, which varied. And then one just rinsed and repeated – over and over and over. It was a faster way to travel than walking, but as tiring as walking the distance for the person apparating, not to mention extremely nauseating to disapparate so many times in a row.

Harry and Ron detested it vocally, and Hermione did so silently.

"Well it is, but it's still horrible. You have to admit it, Hermione. Spending an afternoon apparating to one spot after another in quick bloody succession and trying not to throw up everywhere isn't fun."

"It's less likely to get us spotted than taking a Muggle train in broad daylight," Hermione insisted, and then they both lapsed into weary silence.

It was quite lovely down here in the sheep valley, with sunset coming on and casting the world into light and shadow – dark greens where the light couldn't reach, bathed in fiery shades where it could. Meadow sweet, kingcups, orchids, and other marsh flowers Hermione didn't know gave bits of colour in the gloomy parts of the valley, and shone where the light of the sun hit them. And Ron stood with a rather large fish in hand triumphant in the middle of the stream, and let out a whoop, and Harry chuckled and clapped exaggeratedly. The sunset caught Ron's hair and turned it to glinting flames, and he grinned at Hermione and Harry for a moment, waving the trout in the air before fumbling the wriggling fish and nearly dropping it, swearing up a storm as he held it tighter and splashed up out of the water.

"Slippery fucking bugger," Ron gasped, bending down by a rock jutting out of the stream bank and Hermione flinched as he cracked the fish over it violently with a crunch, without so much as a warning.

"God, Ron."

"I had to put it out of its misery, 'Mione," Ron said apologetically, trying to still the fish's death spasms in both hands. "Besides, dinner won't catch itself!"

"We have food, Ron."

"Ah, but the more we catch ourselves for free, the less money we have to steal from Muggles," Ron said archly, as he fished out a wicked looking pocket knife and began to expertly gut the thing down by the burn edge – he'd had a lot of experience over the last four years, as Hermione and Harry were both squeamish. "And I know how much you hate that." Ron shot Hermione a sly look over his shoulder and she stuck her tongue out at him, and tossed a kingcup that fell several metres short of Ron.

"You're such an arse."

"Yeah, well so are you," he responded automatically, not looking up from his job of preparing the trout, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Things were finally evening out between her and Ron, after months of awkwardness. After a year on the run, with no other girls around to distract Ron from her, he'd finally noticed Hermione's existence as a potential female partner. They'd been together for two and half years, before things had finally petered out and fallen apart six months ago.

Hermione would have thought she'd be devastated when she caught Ron snogging that Muggle woman in Japan, but funnily enough, she hadn't been. Just highly irritated that he'd gone behind her back and not had the bollocks to tell her he didn't want to be together anymore. Things had been falling apart for a good long time before then – when it came right down to it they had only really been together because they'd had no one else to be with.

It was a strange thing, to realise the crush you'd held all through your pre-teen and teenage years had been destined to come to nothing, because you just weren't really suited. It hadn't been an explosive ending, although to be fair, they'd had a few rows when Ron had tried to apologise about his indiscretion. It had been a quiet, sad, inevitable sort of ending, which had left all of them, including Harry, a little lost for several months.

It was only in the last month that they'd really found their comfort zone again – all friends together, with none of the awkwardness. Ron occasionally had a discreet snog with a Muggle, Harry quietly pined after Ginny, and Hermione…well, to her shame Hermione had still ended up in bed with Ron several times since their relationship had finished. It was hard to break old habits, and Ron really was comforting when she was feeling miserable, or sexually frustrated – because witches had needs too, damnit. And Ron was like an old shoe that fit her perfectly thanks to long wear, or someone who knew right where to scratch that itch you had, on the rare occasion you got itchy.

Hermione flushed red and focused on her kingcup chain, instead of Ron's broad back and shoulders, and the quick, sure movements of his hands with the pocket knife. She was terrible; acting like Lavender Brown – she should be ashamed of herself. Hermione hadn't ended up in bed with Ron in over a fortnight though, and she'd told him afterward that it had been the last time – and by Merlin, she meant it this time. There was no point in dragged things out between them with casual sex even if it didn't seem to affect their friendship negatively; Hermione wasn't that sort of girl. Hermione Jean Granger didn't have casual sex and certainly not casual sex with her current best friend and ex-boyfriend, who had cheated on her.

She finished her kingcup chain and reached over to Harry, yanking his woolly hat off and making him jump with fright, laying the bright yellow flower over his ruffled black hair.

"There. Positively gorgeous," she said with satisfaction, and smiled at him, feeling a little more cheerful now, and Harry beamed crookedly at her, fingers going up to pat gingerly at the coronet. Ron snorted at the sight as he took the cleaned and ready trout through to the tent to be cooked.

"Well, don't you look pretty, Harry. Should I be calling you Queen Harry?"

"Make sure you do, commoner," Harry said in plummy tones, glaring frightfully at Ron, and Hermione huffed quiet laughter at Harry's silliness. She shuffled over to Harry on the chill, damp grass, and leant her head on his shoulder, sighing quietly. It was nice, to find the good, silly moments in life. If they couldn't do that, they would have gone mad or lost hope a long, long time ago. Harry slung his arm around Hermione's shoulders and leant his flower-crowned head against hers, and sighed too. The light was dying, and the air was getting damper and chillier by the moment, but they didn't stir. Harry was warm against Hermione, and she against him, and for a while she could ignore the angry buzzing of the horcrux around her neck. And then the tent flap rustled.

"'Mione, could you cook the fish?" Ron called hopefully, and Hermione scowled.

"No!" she shot back decisively. She was sick of being cook for the boys, day and night. "You caught it, you bloody cook it!"

"That's not fair!"

"Then let it go to waste," she snapped back, and Ron made a rude sound and disappeared back into the tent.

"Grouch," Harry said affectionately, and Hermione harrumphed.

"He knows I hate cooking those poor fish he kills. And squirrels, and rabbits, and –"

"I know, I know, Hermione. It's gross. But we should just be thankful that one of us can catch wild game. If it was left up to the two of us, we'd either steal all the time, or starve," Harry said fairly, and Hermione nodded.

"I know. To be honest, I just feel horrible, and I don't want to cook."

"Cramps?" Harry asked sympathetically, his hand slipping down Hermione's back to rub at the small of it, and she let out a little sigh of contentment as Harry hit a sore spot, and nodded.

Harry, unlike Ron, didn't get all embarrassed and awkward when talk of feminine hygiene came up; Hermione suspected it was his Muggle heritage. Muggles were far more open about that sort of thing than the wizarding world, which funnily enough was much more old-fashioned than Muggles, and actually used cloth pads. Of course, being as they had magic, witches could scourgify them easily, but still – Hermione wrinkled her nose up at the thought of cloth pads. Horrid. No, it was tampons all the way for Hermione, and if they were somewhere where she couldn't dispose of them the Muggle way she just vanished them. It was the cramps that crippled her – she didn't get them often, but when she did, even ibuprofen or paracetamol didn't make a dent in them, and they had no pain potions right now.

"I got an owl from Ginny last night," Harry said quietly, and there was a crinkling sound as he pulled the bit of parchment out of his pocket. "She's all right, and so is everyone else," he added to reassure her, because they were only supposed to owl or send patronuses in emergencies. Hermione felt sympathy pang through her for her friends, kept apart for four long years, having only seen each other in person a handful of times since their separation.

"How is she?" Hermione asked softly – Harry wouldn't have mentioned the owl if he didn't want to share it with her. He cleared his throat, and began to read:

"Harry –

Don't worry, everyone's fine. I miss you, though. I even miss Ron, blasted brother of mine. I can't believe he and Hermione broke up –"

Here Harry shot a nervous glance at Hermione, who had sat up and was watching Harry as he read. "I swear I didn't tell her, Hermione. Ron must've told her or something, though I don't know when."

Hermione laughed. "It's fine, Harry. I wrote to her a few months ago and gave the letter to Lee Jordan when we saw him, to pass on to Ginny."

"Oh, good." Harry mumbled and then continued reading:

"– But then he's such an idiot I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he'd screw things up.

Anyway, I'm writing mostly to let you all know that Bill and Fleur have had a baby! A little girl, Victoire. She's absolutely beautiful – for a newborn, at least, which isn't saying much in my opinion. She's scrunchy and red and wrinkled, and cries a lot, and is utterly perfect according to everyone else.

It took Fleur two days of labour, Bill nearly fainted, and mum is so swollen with grandmotherly pride I think she's going to explode. She's already knitted Victoire a Weasley family jersey, which I think horrified Fleur – she's still a stuck up cow. Although, to be fair, mum's jerseys are…unique.

So tell Ron he's an Uncle, please, and give the big git a hug from me, and say 'hi' to Hermione from me. I miss her."

Harry looked up at Hermione and scratched the back of his head, sending the coronet of kingcups lopsided, and smiled just as lopsidedly. "And then it's just, um, personal stuff." He blushed and Hermione went a little pink herself, and cleared her throat loudly.

"So Bill and Fleur had a baby? I didn't even know she was pregnant!" she burst out with, to cover the awkward moment. She felt horribly out of touch, and she couldn't imagine how much worse it must feel for Harry and Ron, whose girlfriend and family were the ones they were separated from. Oh sure, Hermione was separated from her parents and that was awful, but with the memory charms she'd performed on them she couldn't be in contact with them. Technically Harry and Ron could be in contact with the people they loved, but it just wasn't safe so they refused to risk it. She thought it was harder for them to have the choice and not take it, than it was for her.

"Well, it's the middle of August now, and we last saw them all in…mid-January, right?" Harry ventured, dark brows all crunched together as he tried to remember – the months all blurred together, especially this past year, with all the running they'd done. But Hermione though Harry was right – they'd stopped in at the Burrow mid-January for an afternoon, for a late Christmas celebration.

"Yes. That sounds about right, Harry. Fleur must have only been coming up on three months pregnant then. She probably wasn't telling anyone yet – and she wasn't there anyway, she was sick."

"Ahh," Harry said knowingly, pleased with himself for figuring it out as he deduced: "It was probably morning sickness."

"Maybe," Hermione said absently, the gloom of dusk matching her mood.

She should have been happy to hear from Ginny, and hear the wonderful news about the newest little Weasley, but she wasn't. Hermione just felt more disconnected than ever, more cut off and isolated. The Weasleys' would always be like family, but now that she'd given up on Ron altogether, they would never truly be Hermione's family. Her only family was a handful of Muggles scattered through England that she'd never had much to do with, and her parents off in Australia with currently no memory of her. Of course Hermione had all her friends from Hogwarts, but if she was honest they had mostly been Harry and Ron's friends or just acquaintances of hers and not real friends. She had been too bossy, too brusque, to make good friends. And besides, they were all scattered now anyway – dead, or in hiding, or fighting the war.

Hermione might as well be out here with Harry and Ron; she had nowhere else to be, and no one but these two who really, truly loved her.

"Earth to Hermione," Harry was looking down at her in the dying light, a faint, slightly worried smile on his face, holding out his hand to help her up. She blinked and tipped her face up to him, and clasped his hand, struggled to her feet with his help.

"Sorry, Harry. I was just…lost in my thoughts."

"You sure were. The trout is ready. Ron just called – bloody well bellowed, actually – and you didn't even twitch. Just stared at the stream, and I swear to god you didn't blink for a full minute."

"I just drifted off. I'm tired, I suppose. My brain's overworked with all this research I've been doing. And I'm still no closer to working out how to destroy this horrid thing. Fiendfyre's too dangerous, and the…" Hermione broke off her mumbles with a gigantic yawn, her brain going onto autopilot as she brushed off the seat of her jeans and stretched cold, stiff muscles. Harry eyed her worriedly.

"Are you sure you're all right? You don't want me to take the horcrux tonight, do you?" he asked solicitously as they wandered over to the tent, nestled on a little piece of mostly flat grass right beside the wee burn. Hermione shook her head.

"No, really, Harry, I'm fine. I'm just tired and achy and crampy, and well, miserable. But not filled with a horcrux rage tonight, don't worry."

"Okay then," Harry said as he ducked into the tent ahead of Hermione, the smell of slightly overdone fish greeting her the moment she stepped through the doorway. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, Harry. But thank you."

Hermione smiled brightly and chattered about baby Victoire over blackened fish and tinned baked beans with Victoire's proud Uncle, and her almost-certainly-Uncle-to-be. She toasted the child with a couple of mugs of cocoa liberally dosed with chocolate liqueur, and she and Harry teased Ron over the Muggle things he still didn't know much about, and laughed at Ron's funny stories, and then nodded along patiently when the boys began chatting Quidditch. Hermione was, in fact, generally the life of the little three-person impromptu party they'd held in their homey tent that evening. But the night grew later, and before long Hermione made her excuses and went through to her room, and finally dropped her happy mask.

She lay beneath the covers and stared at the fabric that swathed the magical ceiling, telling herself that she wasn't going to get up and slip into Ron's bed once the two boys went to sleep no matter how lonely she felt, because that could lead nowhere but trouble. But god was she lonely. So lonely. Ron had his family to go back to after the war, and Harry had Ginny, and Hermione just had a trip to Australia to find her parents and try to restore their addled memories. And if – if – she succeeded, she got to explain to them why she'd essentially torn apart their minds, and stolen however many years of their lives from them, without so much as asking. She didn't imagine they would be happy about that. So she had nothing to look forward to, nothing to keep her going other than that the other side winning was unthinkable. There was no reward waiting for her at the conclusion of the war.

Her fingers played unconsciously with the locket as her thoughts tangled down darker and darker paths.

Midnight came and went, and she was aware past her dulled, despairing thoughts that the boys were getting more and more raucous – they were drinking too much. They were getting right trolleyed, when really one of them should be keeping watch. Hermione supposed she should go out there and keep watch herself if neither of them were going to, but she didn't. She couldn't summon the energy to care, stuck in a downward spiral of despondency, which even though she knew was mostly caused by the horcrux she still couldn't snap herself out of.

And then there was a crack, and then an explosion, and a yell, and Hermione jerked bolt upright in bed with her heart pounding in her chest wildly. Attack. They were being attacked. Terror suffused her as she heard more yells from out in the living area of the tent, and she wrenched the horcrux free from her neck and snapped the chain, implementing the contingency plan she'd decided on some months ago.

In the dim light that filtered in from the living area, lit up now with the occasional flare of a hex or curse, Hermione waved her wand over the locket and shrank it down – non-destructive spells worked fine on the magically protected horcrux, she'd tested it – and then swallowed it. Disposing of the evidence and making sure that no one would know they had the horcrux, and no one could easily get to it. Of course if the Death Eaters knew, they'd probably just slit her open, but they wouldn't know unless she told them.

Hermione was on her feet, bursting through the cloth that separated her from the living area with her wand up and ready, shivering from fear and cold, in just her thin pyjama trousers and tee shirt. She was confronted with shocking flares of light and her eyes scanned the scene. One lone enemy figure, duelling like a madman. It was Draco Malfoy, Hermione realised after a confused moment, in Muggle clothes with his hair disconcertingly dark. Hermione's head whirled and her stomach felt sick – although that could have just been the horcrux. Ron was swaying on his feet, his shirt saturated with dark blood, his wand hanging loose in his hand while Harry duelled fiercely with Malfoy. Harry was losing. He was drunk, he and Ron were both drunk, Hermione remembered furiously.

She stalked forward and slashed her wand; a cutting hex that sliced across Malfoy's arm, opening a deep gash. He whirled on her and whipped his wand around silently, and she felt a force hit her hard, smashing the air out of her, and then she was flying back with her arms and legs flailing helplessly. Her back and head cracked into a tent pole and she screamed despite herself, her wand flying from her hand on impact, the world spinning. She fell heavily, sick and retching and dazed. Shoving herself to all fours and searching for her wand with shaking hands. Harry was screaming spells, furious and determined, Ron managing the occasional hex although it sounded like he was about to pass out, and she was still searching for her damn wand.

Malfoy was eerily silent – it sounded like Harry and Ron were duelling with thin air, and Hermione dizzily looked up to see the tall Death Eater shielding and dodging and casting hexes with a grim expression on his face. Lips flattened and nostrils flared, the vein in his temple throbbing.

She needed her wand, she reminded herself confusedly, and turned back to searching the tent floor with frantic hands. And then – thank Merlin – she heard Harry make a yell of triumph, and a groan that must have come from Malfoy cut the air. Hermione spun around on all fours to see what was going on, and then suddenly Malfoy was looming over her and she jerked back with a shriek as he bent down and seized her arm in an iron grip. Hermione screamed with anger and fear again, lashing out with her fists and feet, catching Malfoy in the cheek and jaw with two wild punches, and kneeing him hard in the shin, and thigh.

She could hear Ron roaring something, and Harry yelling, but then Malfoy had wrenched Hermione to her feet – she fighting him all the way and thrashing in his arms because she couldn't let this happen. She couldn't be captured and tortured. Couldn't fail Harry. Couldn't couldn't couldn't. She smacked her head back and struck Malfoy's chest ineffectively, tried to wriggle away from him like the fish Ron had caught earlier, stomped her foot down on his, but her bare heel had little effect on his booted toes. She clawed wildly at Malfoy and gouged the skin of his throat, and slammed her fist for his bollocks only to catch him bruisingly hard on the thigh. He was panting and gasping, grunting with pain when she hit him, but he wouldn't let go.

She was screaming, she knew. Obscenities that weren't at all like her. "Let me go you bastard, let me go, I'll fucking kill you Malfoy, let me go, I hate you, fuck, shit, bastard let me –"

And then Malfoy's wand jammed into her temple and everything, including herself, froze. A silence descended over the tent, like death, like the eye of the storm, and Hermione let out a shuddering breath. Malfoy held her upper arm so hard it felt like the bastard was going to snap it in two, keeping her locked in front of him like a human shield, his wand at her head. She blinked around in the dim light, vision doubling and head aching fiercely, and saw Harry and Ron were staring at her and Malfoy in horror. She tried to test whether she could break free, but Malfoy just tightened his grip with a growl, and a cry of pain broke from her lips and her knees went weak at the pain flaring in her arm.

"Let her go," Ron said in a voice that shook with fury, and Malfoy's chest moved against her back as he dragged in breath that sounded painful. Good.

"No. Drop your wands or I'll kill her."

Harry's eyes flicked to Hermione's throat suddenly. "Hermione, where's the –" She glared at him and he snapped his mouth shut, but the damage was done. Malfoy shifted his grip and then shook her like an animal, until her teeth rattled in her head and it felt like he was going to give her whiplash. She hated him. Her body ached all over and she wanted to cry.

"Where's the what, Granger? Potter? Tell me, or I won't kill her, I'll just make you all wish I had." There was a harsh, desperate edge to Malfoy's voice, and Hermione cringed in fear, believing that he would carry through with his threat and not wanting to know details. Terror made her feel icy and numb, and her skin crawled where his body pressed against hers. She told herself that what happened to her didn't matter.

"Harry, don't –" she tried and Malfoy shook her again, her teeth sinking into her tongue hard enough to draw blood. His chest expanded and caved behind her with each breath he wrenched in, hissing through his teeth, body trembling as though he had hold of a live wire. A groan rattled out of him, and he almost slumped on her once he'd finished shaking her like a ragdoll. She spat blood on the floor and he made a sickened sound before speaking.

"Shut up, mudblood. And you, Potter, look at me and speak up quick – unless you want me to tear the bitch apart to the point where all the Healers in St Mungo's wouldn't be able to put her together again," Malfoy said and Hermione whimpered, his body branding hot and his arm like iron around her. Malfoy's wand trailed lightly from her temple, down to dig hard into her cheek, beside her mouth. "I could begin with her pretty little face, and end with her pretty little cun–"

"Shut up, you bastard!" Ron snarled, rocking on his feet on the spot, hands clenching and a helpless, dreadful rage on his face. Hermione met his eyes and they locked gazes. His eyes said: I won't let him, and she tried to silently communicate her acceptance of the situation, that she would willingly die to save him and Harry. Malfoy chuckled quietly and humourlessly.

"Even you won't want the whore once I'm through with her, Weasel," Malfoy said with that desperate viciousness to his tone – urgency ringing sharp, and – and…a faint wobble of uncertainty? Was he bluffing? His fingers gouged deep bruises into her bicep as he pulled her tighter against him, thrusting his hips out against her in a show of lewdness that made her want to crawl out of her skin."I'll let you watch though, while I do it. I think I'll start by fuc–"

"A hallow!" Harry shouted in a cracked voice, his face drained of colour and filled with a sick fear for Hermione as he stared Malfoy down, hate in his green eyes. "We have a Deathly Hallow."

Malfoy snorted; an evil, horrible sound. "You mean you have a horcrux, Potter?"

"How…?"

"My godfather, of course, Potter, you idiot. Anyone with a sufficiently focused mind can learn Legilimency and Occlumency, which must be why you never could. So, mudblood Granger had the horcrux tonight. Where is it then?" Malfoy shook her once more, and she whimpered involuntarily as her aching head and back flared up with a network shooting pains. "Where?" he demanded, hand twisting on her arm and balance faltering, nearly alling and pulling her down with him, desperation so clear in his voice. Hermione winced at the pain in her bruising arm and struggled to stay upright.

"I threw – threw it away."

"Liar. I don't even have to look in your fucking eyes to know you're lying. Tell me." His hand shifted and she made a wretched sound as it closed over one of her breasts, squeezing to the point of pain, but a sick, purely physiological reaction sparked between her legs. His wand drove harder against her skin, digging a deep dimple into her cheek, and Hermione was dazed and scared and in pain as his fingers caged and crushed around her breast, so intrusive, so violating and maybe he wasn't bluffing and she broke.

"I swallowed it!" Tears immediately clouded her eyes, and she wished she could take it back, but it was too late. Too late. Oh Merlin, she was such a coward.

"It's all right, Hermione, it's all –" Ron was saying, trying to reassure her while Malfoy mumbled to himself like a madman: "Granger and the horcrux. Granger and the horcrux. Two for the price of one? Shit. Shit, I should take them both back…shit…"

Hermione's blood ran cold. Voldemort would be positively ecstatic to have her, and one of his horcruxes, dropped into his lap. And she would get to die an excruciating, slow death – if she was lucky. Hermione trembled as the reality began to set in, and her bravery deserted her, Malfoy's hand still a cage around her breast. She couldn't be brave in the face of being tortured at Voldemort's hands, she just couldn't. She couldn't go through torture and suffering and humiliation and…and, Voldemort. He really would tear her apart until there was nothing left but a mewling wreck.

"Malfoy…we can talk about –" Harry began, and then Hermione felt herself spin on the spot along with Malfoy, and the familiar sickness of displacement rushed over her. She wanted to shriek with rage but they were already apparating, away from Harry and Ron, away, away from any hope. Oh Merlin, no. Hermione always tried to be as brave as she could be, to be worthy of being in Gryffindor, but she couldn't face Voldemort, she couldn't. She would rather die. She'd heard what he did. She'd heard the stories, and they had come to life in gleaming, dripping nightmares.

She would rather die.

All this flashed through her mind in the split second as they were disapparating, and Hermione came to her decision and fought Malfoy just as they wrenched out of existence. Everything was rushing by, and she tried to get away from Malfoy because she'd rather be fatally splinched than be taken to Voldemort and used as a toy and hurt and mutilated and…

A searing pain tore right through her thigh and she screamed aloud as they tumbled onto plain, dark blue carpet. Her blood was puddling across it, drenching it, staining it dark. She fell back and screamed, staring up at Muggle light fixtures. Malfoy hadn't taken her to Voldemort, she thought dazedly, the pain ripping through her like nothing else she'd ever felt. She felt herself spasm and her heart jerk in her chest, and as if from very, very far away, could hear Malfoy swearing at her, saying horrible, awful things.

Suddenly her animalistic screams were silenced – Malfoy had cast a silencio on her, she realised muzzily through the pain, and she hated him for taking her voice away because she needed to scream. And then his hands were on her, ripping away her pyjama trousers with no heed for her modesty, and her thigh hurt and hurt, and she twisted her head to look down.

A blurred, nightmarish view of Malfoy hunched over her, her thigh a dripping mass of bloody, splinched meat, his wand waving as he muttered a lilting healing spell through fear-white lips. Her head fell back to the carpet with a thunk, she stared up at the flickering white bulb with the moths banging into it and dying. Her mouth was stretched wide with soundless screams, and her hands were fists, short nails cutting into her palms. Malfoy's voice cut through her pain, healing her, afraid, furious.

He hadn't taken her to Voldemort – why hadn't he; what did he have planned, Hermione wondered disconnectedly. Little lightening sharp moments of half-clarity smeared through the agony and the blood loss and she struggled to speak despite the silencio, to ask him why, before she passed into the comforting, painless, depths of blackness.


Thank you for reading! Reviews and concrit welcomed :) Liss xx