Chapter 21: Iron and the Devil

TW for violence.

Updated: 7/25/18

Tuesday, March 18th. Continued.

They hit the ground and begin to run, ducking low to stay hidden among the trees. They don't speak so they don't give away their position even as they move, and they need what breath they can muster to propel themselves faster. It doesn't even occur to Hermione to say so much as a word to the others. She's never read anything about the stomach-in-your-lungs feeling of forcing your feet to direct you towards war even as your brain shouts about what a horrible idea this is. For some reason, books tend to leave that part out. She remembers reading that someone—some muggle general or other—once said that "War is Hell." She doesn't know if this is true or not, but she doesn't have much time to think about it once they burst into the clearing.

The mansion is beautiful—old and brick and covered in ivy and looking like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The scent of rose bushes is carried towards them on the soft frozen breeze, but the house is at least one hundred yards from the edge of the wood. The space between here and there is all sloping, pristine snow. Hermione hates the snow; thinks it is horrible and hideous, not because of how it looks but because it means that they will be running in the open, exposed and never moving fast enough. The snow will slow them down. The snow will make them easy targets.

They push ahead even faster once they are out of the cover of the trees, despite the snow they're running through. Ginny is in the lead, Hermione watches her first-aid pack bounce from side to side as she crosses the frozen lawn—kicking up snow and sprinting beside Ernie, whose wand is drawn, but not aimed anywhere. Mallory follows, her eyes and wand trained on the windows above them. She is holding tightly onto Hermione's wrist, half-dragging her along because Hermione is panting and her legs feel like they are on fire and the snow is too deep for her to run well and it is like running in a dream or a nightmare and she doesn't think she can make it and she doesn't know where Justin and Lavender are but she can't hear them behind her and she can't turn around and now is not the time to be worrying about something like this but the air is cold as it rushes into her lungs and she is choking on—

A spell burns red across her retinas. Mallory throws up a shield charm just in time, but the blast from the magic still knocks them half a foot to the side and sends them sliding through thick snow, looking for balance. Hermione can feel cold wet water sliding into her sock over the top of her boot.

They run faster.

By the grace of god or the devil, they make it to the western entrance of the mansion—the door is hanging sideways off the hinges already, a sure sign that the Western Lead Group—Malfoy's group— already made it in. She is more relieved than she really thinks she should be.

They are to remain in the entryway as guards to keep the enemy out. If any enemy shows up, that is. Hermione presses a hand against her pocket, double-checking that their exit portkey is still there. Hermione's watch reads 6:16. They have just under two hours.

"Positions," snaps Mallory, all iron and orders. "Justin, Lavender—watch the door. Ernie, Hermione— help me secure this — would you call this a foyer or a hallway? Whatever. Let's just make sure we're in the clear and help me set the wards. Quick reminder: we've got until eight to activate the portkeys. Nobody forget that or else we're all fucked sideways to next Tuesday. Let's go."

Hermione shrugs the pack off and feels immediately lighter. She drops it beside Ginny's since the younger witch is already setting up the medical station. Hermione draws her wand and trots after Ernie and Mallory, even though her sides still burn from running. She catches up with them about fifteen feet down the dark corridor, and Mallory holds out a hand to press Hermione flat against the cold stone wall. She can see Ernie now in the light cast from Mallory's very faint Lumos, his eyes wide and shining. There is a thin sheen of sweat across his cheeks. He meets Hermione's gaze but doesn't smile.

The three of them remain like that for a few minutes, all straining to hear something; some sound of battle or shouts of triumph from either side, but the passageway is eerily silent. Like a tomb, Hermione thinks before she can stop herself, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

They edge forward a bit further, taking the foyer one tentative step at a time. Hermione crab walks behind Mallory and Ernie keeps pace with them on the opposite wall. After painfully long minutes, they reach their destination. The hallway leads to a round, open room, three different corridors forking out in different directions like yawning black mouths. To the left of the archway they walked through to enter the central room, they find their first portrait, but it has been so badly torn that Hermione can no longer tell what it was a painting of. This is good—they were meant to disable all paintings, photographs, and portraits upon entering the hall, just as an added precaution to keep reinforcements from showing up to help the enemy.

Mallory reaches out and tenderly touches the frayed scraps of cloth still hanging from the frame.

"It must have been the lead team," Hermione suggests.

"But they were just supposed to get through here and leave the portraits for us. Ernie, watch my back," Mallory hisses, and points her wand at the frame, murmuring words Hermione doesn't know. The frame glows a light green for an instant, and then the color fades back into shadow. "No," Mallory turns toward Hermione. "This wasn't done with magic."

The center archway rumbles and the rumbling builds into a massive crashing sound. It echoes around the empty room and floods their ears with high, angry clanging. Ernie and Hermione turn toward the hallway where the sound originated, their wand drawn in clenched fists.

"Ernie, cast now!" Mallory is already setting her own charms.

Ernie fumbles for a moment, and then something white shoots from the tip of his wand and streaks into the darkness, the light fading around the corner up ahead. Hermione murmurs "Protego Totalum" into the dark.

They sit in silence for what feels like forever. Hermione is leaning against the wall, hugging her arms across her chest to keep herself warm. The cold that followed them inside has seeped into her bones and she doesn't think she will ever be warm again. Her watch reads 6:35. From the hallway behind them, they hear a series of loud bangs and Lavender shouting, so the three of them take turns casting protective wards around their hallway and dash back to the entrance.

The door rattles on its newly mended hinges, and Lavender and Justin both have their wands trained on it. From the crack under the door, Hermione can make out the shadows of shoes close behind the wood and she crouches down and fires spell after spell at the feet and some of them make contact and some of them don't, but the barriers around the door hold fast and the Death Eaters can't get to them. After a few more dodged curses, the Death Eaters stop trying to get in that way.

The sounds come next in the form of boots clattering down the corridor, echoing and reverberating off the walls all around them and confusing everyone. All wands are drawn, but they have to wait in order to make sure that they're attacking the right people. They hold their breaths as a Patronus pelts down the hallway they are occupying. It comes to a halt in front of Mallory. It's a monkey, tail curved in an S behind its small, fuzzy body. "Auror Hartman and company trapped fighting Death Eaters near the west exit. Send help if possible," says a soft woman's voice.

"Ernie, let's move," Mallory barks out, and then the two of them are pelting back down the hallway. Hermione and Lavender stand shoulder to shoulder, watching them go, wands drawn and trained into the shadows.

A painfully long time passes. Hermione watches the minutes on her watch tick 6:41, 6:48, 6:55, 7:03...

They hear the smack of fast-running feet before they see Mallory and Ernie return, supporting a figure between them, and followed by two Aurors Hermione doesn't know. "They lost Patil," Mallory chokes out between gulps of air, "But got Zabini."

Zabini looks thin and worn out. He is taller than Hermione remembers him and his jawline a little firmer, but other than that, he is the same as the graceful, quiet boy from the Slug Club in her sixth year. His eyes and cheekbones are angled and sharp—they remind her of a cat or a fox—and his lips are full enough to curl into an easy sneer or a sensual pout. His eyes flick nervously from face to face, like he's looking for someone familiar. Even now, he is still much too good looking to be allowed. She remembers, when she was younger, envying the dark evenness of his skin and the symmetry of his features. He takes after his mother, everyone has always said. Yeah, well, so does Hermione, but no one ever mentions that with hushed awe.

There is a deep gash through his left eyebrow and Hermione fishes a bandage out of her pack and says, "Press this to it. I'll clear it up once the bleeding stops." He takes the herbed cloth and holds it obediently to his head. Then she goes to attend the two Aurors. Something isn't right. It feels off. 7:07.

"Ernie and I are going to see if we can find Patil. Justin, Lavender—come with us. Hermione—you're in charge. Everyone else, listen to her."

Hermione nods as the four of them take off down the corridor again. 7:08.

Hermione tends to one of the Aurors while Ginny tends to the other. The injuries are superficial; sustained from minor curses or grazes as worse ones flew by. A shadow moves behind Zabini and for one crazy moment, she thinks that there is someone against the wall, hanging upside-down above him, pointing one impossibly long finger down at him and laughing. She whips toward Zabini, who just gives her a blank look. No recognition. No malice. No laughter. He is slumped against the wall. No one is above him. There is nothing out of the ordinary, and although she manages to shake the strange apparition, she can't shake the feeling that something just isn't right. If only she could figure out what it was.

She glances at Zabini again. He is exactly where she left him, leaning against the wall, his left arm draped across his knees and his right hand still pressing the poultice to his face.

And then it clicks.

"Stupefy!" she shouts, her wand whipped out and trained on Zabini.

Even as she stuns him, all the other wands are pointed at her. Ginny looks at her with wide, fearful eyes. The Aurors don't even seem bothered. They raise their wands towards her heart and-

"He isn't right handed!" She screams, her voice hoarse with adrenaline. "This isn't him!"

Zabini is bound, even though the Aurors give her strange, penetrating looks.

Ernie and Mallory race back down the hall, Justin and Lavender close behind. Lavender is crying.

Hermione doesn't even need to ask why. As soon as they stop running, Ernie leans against a wall and vomits. When he straightens and wipes his sleeve across his mouth, there are tears in his eyes. Hermione looks to Mallory for guidance, but the Auror just shakes her head. Better not to know, but Hermione has never been good at accepting not-knowing as a decent state of being, and so she whispers, "What happened to her?"

"She was alive when we got there," Mallory whispers back. "But there was nothing we could do." Her mouth a thin, pale line. She looks like she's going to be sick, but she swallows and looks away from Hermione. She clears her throat. "Why is Zabini bound?"

"He was right-handed," Hermione explains.

Mallory blanches, wheeling back towards her, and then nods, regaining her composure. "I didn't have a chance to ask him any questions. Everything happened too fast. We'll wait to see if anyone else needs help getting out of here. Then we'll head back ourselves."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, a second patronus bounds down the hallway. "We've got Zabini, but we're trapped near the North exit. Send help if you can," says the Border Collie in Oliver Wood's voice.

Mallory lets out a long string of profanities and then she is leading Lavender, Justin, and Ernie back down the hall once more. Hermione checks her watch. 7:24.

7:33.

"Ginny," Hermione says, her voice low and tense as she digs into her pocket for a small lumpy object wrapped in cloth, "take the portkey. I'm going to find the others."

"What?" Ginny scrambles to her feet, her eyes wide. The fake Zabini and the two Aurors watch them. "No, that's stupid! What if you get lost?"

"Then I'll wait until they lift the anti-apparition wards and I'll disapparate," Hermione mumbles. "But I don't think any of the others are wearing a watch, so they might not know how late it's gotten. I've got to try to find them."

"You can't apparate into the safe houses from here," Ginny protests.

"I'll jump around first," Hermione's words are low and sharp.

"Take the portkey with you, then."

"You can't apparate, Ginny. You don't know how," Hermione points out, her voice hardening. She didn't expect a fight on this, and the more time she spends arguing with Ginny, the less likely it is that she'll find the others in time. "We're wasting time. Please."

Ginny looks like she's going to argue some more but thinks better of it at the last second. She nods once and holds out her hand.

"Thanks," Hermione says, pressing the wrapped portkey into her friend's palm.

"Good luck," Ginny replies.

Hermione turns and takes off down the dark hallway.

Twenty minutes later she is still running through dark halls, turning at random. She pauses when she runs past a slashed portrait hanging crooked on the wall. She is fairly certain that she's passed this same portrait at least twice already. She's running in circles.

Pausing to catch her breath, she calls to mind the floorplan that Robards showed them during their meeting, but it feels like it was a lifetime ago, and she can't place herself on it. It is 7:58. Her heart sinks into her boots. Even if she knew how to get back to Ginny, she won't have time. She is alone.

She doesn't hear them approach—doesn't see them, either—but suddenly she is being blown backward. Her spine collides with a wall but she keeps going, landing heavily on a rubble-studded floor and skidding for a few feet. She can feel the skin along her left arm and hand tear free against the wooden boards before she finally stops moving. She scrambles to her feet. Her ears are ringing and she can feel something warm dripping down the left side of her neck. She's damaged her eardrum. She knows because there is no sound in her left ear and her head feels uneven, like she's off balance somehow just by standing up.

Through the haze of settling debris, there is a wand pointed at her, and she dives and rolls to the left without even thinking about it and she doesn't stop until she is behind the broken wall. Tenderly, she scoots up until her back is against the jagged stone, and takes a deep, calming breath in through her nose, looking around.

She is in a kitchen, which looks remarkably unharmed, save for the rubble and a bloody smear where she landed. She can hear vague booming sounds from the other room, but they sound so far away that if she closes her eyes, she can pretend that they aren't there at all.

She pokes her face around the corner, aims, and shouts, "Stupefy!" before ducking back behind the wall. She knows that this is the time to be aiming to kill, but there are already the sparks and flashes of a wand fight and she cannot make out anything beyond shapes moving in the rubble. "Stupefy!" she calls again. And then she listens.

Through her good ear, she can hear shouts and the bang of spells heading away from her. Through her left, she can hear something that sounds like laughter or brittle bones rustling over dried grass. The sound is very close, quiet and loud all at once. She is confused at first because the sound comes as if through cotton and she cannot even hear her own breathing behind it. He is coming, the voice laughs and it is a death rattle and a scream of pain. Her right hand shakes as she whirls her wand to her left, to her right, but there is no one in the kitchen with her. He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!

Someone is running at her, and without thinking, she shouts "Impedimenta!" and the figure crashes to the ground. She rushes over to it and pulls the hood back on a face she doesn't recognize, snarling at her even while frozen. It is a man, somewhere around Lupin's age, from the looks of it. He has stubble on his round chin and watery blue eyes. His nose is small and flat. He is, overall, an ugly fellow, she has no trouble admitting, and one that the world will be better off without. He is a Death Eater. He is a killer. He would kill her without batting an eye. He would kill all of her friends. He may have already killed her friends. If she does not kill him, he will persist in trying to kill her and everyone she loves until he succeeds. She places the tip of her wand over where his heart should be, and her hands are slick with sweat. She likes to think that they do not shake. What would Harry do?

She knows the words. She has practiced saying them over and over again but she has never taken a life before. What will it feel like? Will anything change? She has to do this. She knows she does. Now. She has to do it now.

He is coming! the voice in her left ear whispers and shrieks, He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!

A shape, white as a ghost, darts out from the settling debris and pounces. But not on her. The monstrous creature drops to all fours beside her hexed Death Eater. Without sparing a thought for the man's face or his still-beating heart, the pale monster reaches out two enormous hands, places one on either side of the ugly face, and shakes the Death Eater the way Crookshanks might shake a mouse swiftly from side to side. She can hear the Death Eater's neck snap as he waves back and forth like a doll, like a cat toy, and she knows that he is dead. The creature turns its face to her, and she meets its gray eyes. Draco Malfoy, covered head to toe in bits of molding, siding, and wood, splinters dotting his face and arms, a streak of bright red blood smeared across his mouth like a ridiculous painted clown-smile. She is no less afraid.

He reaches for her but she recoils faster and aims her wand at him.

"Granger," he says, and his mouth sounds full and wet. "Granger, don't point that at me. Can you disapparate?"

She hesitates in backing away to put up a shield charm. A streak of orange light explodes beside Malfoy. "The others," she mumbles. He doesn't look at all perturbed by this situation. In fact, he takes advantage of her stillness to come right up beside her, gripping her left hand hard in his right one.

"Disapparate, Granger," he says, and he means it. She can tell. "More will come soon and they will find us."

"Stupefy!" she shouts out as a Death Eater rounds the corner.

He snarls at this, and she isn't sure if he's mad that she's still shooting stunners or mad that she's ignoring him. "Don't waste time. Leave them to me. I will even look for your friends." His teeth are red.

Something in the way he says it makes her angry. He says it like he doesn't expect to return; like he's going to die here. All at once, she realizes that this must be his intention exactly. He is here without his group. He is stained red and white. He has no wand. He has nothing and so he intends to be nothing. Hermione's heart breaks for this broken boy, resigned to death even after all this time.

She shakes her head. The motion hurts her injured ear but she doesn't care. "No." His hand is still clutching hers. She closes her fingers around his. "I won't leave without you." She looks up into his eyes. They are gray and rust and swallowed by huge pupils.

He doesn't seem surprised by her words; doesn't seem to register at all that she's said anything, but then his gaze slides down to her fingers wrapped around his, and he lets out a little sigh like he's resigned to something. "You have a talent for swooping in to save the day when you are least wanted. Did you know that?"

She isn't sure how to respond to this. It sounds like she should be offended but she isn't. Hermione Granger saves people. It's what she does and she is proud of it. In this world, there are good people and there are bad people and Hermione is, definitively, a good person. Good people save the day and win the war.

A portion of the wall beside them explodes. Hermione ducks away from the fresh rain of molding. Malfoy hardly moves.

"If you are so determined to save me," he says, casually, in a slow drawl that seems entirely out of place in his red mouth. "Then what are you going to do about them?" His eyes indicate the hole in the wall and the Death Eaters beyond it.

And all at once she knows what to do.

She thinks about Luna, and immediately an ache starts in her chest. It's not fair, she tells herself and thinks about Hannah. Dean, bleeding out just days before she learns the potion that could have saved him. Fred, swallowed under a preventable curse. The ache swells and howls and hurts. The hurt makes her angry. The Death Eaters beyond the hole in the wall could be anyone. They could be no one. They don't have faces.

Ok, she thinks, like a sigh, like giving up on a losing battle. There's no reason to hold back, not on the account of a group of faceless murderers. Let the Devil take the lot of them. She has been holding the end of a leash so tightly with her heart that she can fell whatever she has been holding back cutting into her, straining for freedom. It aches to be let go. So she lets go.

Go ahead.

A shadow falls over the room, flowing inward from the corners, coalescing in a pool on the floor. In her bad ear, she can hear a deep rumbling laugh like a shriek, like a war cry, like the flapping of very large wings.

What remains of the wall bow outward, the beams of wood groaning as if under a massive weight, and then they break. There are screams from the other side of the hole.

Hermione whips her head around to watch, curiosity and something uglier compelling her to see what the monster will do, but there is a cold hand clamped across her eyes and a voice beside her right ear, "Don't watch," Malfoy whispers, and his breath is warm and stinks like rust. "It doesn't want to be seen."

There is a sound like a bucket of thick soup being dumped on a floor, ripping wet cloth, and then again and again. Tipping buckets. Spilling soup. Tearing fabric. The screaming stops. Hermione hears a sound like a wet rag hitting the far wall, and the smell of raw meat is overpowering. It sticks to the inside of her mouth, crawls up her nose, and sits in her brain. She sways a bit despite herself, but Malfoy's hands—one over her eyes and the other clutching hers—keep her steady. She leans forward against his hands. She trusts that he will hold her up. He does not waver.

"We should leave now," he says and because her back is pressed against his chest she can feel the rumble of his words reverberating in her sternum. "Can you walk?"

She nods, and he removes the hands from over her eyes. He is looking behind her. "You probably shouldn't turn around."

For the first time in memory, Hermione agrees with what Malfoy suggests. Instead, she really looks at the kitchen around them for the first time. What she sees makes her want to laugh.

There is a window above the sink opposite their wall and beside it, a door. She was this close to an exit the whole time and never even noticed.

And then she does laugh.

Malfoy gives her a strange look and so she points to the door with her free hand. He turns around for the first time, taking in their surroundings. Then he looks back at her. He raises an eyebrow and, "You're mad," he says flatly.

At this, she just laughs harder and walks past Malfoy toward the exit, tugging him behind her.

They push through the door and take off running for the copse of woods where they can disparate. Looking back on this, Hermione will remember the full moon and the white snow and their shadows, all three of them, black against the landscape.

When they reach the edge of the trees, they slow to a walk.

"It's going to be side-along," she warns, thinking it only fair to let him know before she does it. "And we're going somewhere before we go back." His eyes widen just as she begins to turn on the spot.

She and Malfoy appear with a pop between two trees and Malfoy drops her wrist as though it had burned him.

"Why are we here, Granger?" he demands, backing away from her and scanning the area around them. Moonlight is streaking through the trees around them, and he is dappled silver and gray in the light, the blood on his face black as pitch. His eyes are narrowed at her in suspicion, but the crazed look is gone from his gaze so she counts this as a victory, although if asked, she wouldn't be able to say when she started to really care.

"Forest of Dean," she pants back, still out of breath from their run. "I used to go camping here when I was a child."

"Fascinating," he quirks an eyebrow at her. "But I didn't ask you where we were. I asked you why we are here. Surely you aren't mad enough to think I have suddenly started caring about your dear childhood?"

She ignores the jab and asks, "Why do you try so hard?"

He stares at her. "Forgive me, Granger, but how hard did you hit your head?"

She glares back at him, "Something happened to you. I want to know what it is. Tell me." She straightens her back and tilts her chin up. She means the Death Eaters. She means that she has known him long enough and seen him fight often enough that she cannot reconcile who he is now with who he was in school.

In the thick silence between them, she realizes she's given him a command. One he'll have to obey. She's furious, desperate, but shame claws at the back of her mind anyway.

"War," he answers simply.

"No," the answer comes quickly to her, and she is sure of herself. "That's not all it is. You're dangerous, Malfoy, and I want to know what the difference between us and them is. Why will you," rip out their throats with your teeth, shake them like a cat, kill them like they are nothing when I know you know them by name, "Fight against them and not us. You chose this. I know you did. What happened?"

He barks out a laugh. "Why should I answer you?" he sneers. "I owe you my freedom, my life, but not answers to all of your petty, invasive questions."

She didn't anticipate it would be so hard to get an answer out of him. This shouldn't be like pulling teeth. She grimaces at the metaphor.

"And a better question: Why bring me here for something as petty as that? Are you asking me to kill you and take your wand? Is that what you want?"

Without thinking, she points her wand at his legs, and then Malfoy is on his knees, his hands buried in dead leaves. She doesn't even have to say anything. "Clever, Mudblood," he chuckles and the sound sends a shiver up her spine. It suddenly feels very stupid to be out here alone with him. "But you won't always consider that first."

She levels her wand at his face. "I want answers, Malfoy," and her voice doesn't waver, although her aim does. She presses her thumb hard into the side of her wand, willing Malfoy not to notice the tremor. "I don't know how or why you got separated from your group. I don't know why you're on our side at all. I want to know—"

"Yes, yes," he actually has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You want to know everything. But I cannot guarantee anything for you, Granger. You might be able to make me talk, but you have no way of knowing if it's the truth and should you kill me—which, let's face it, you don't have the stomach to do—then more questions will be asked about your loyalty than mine. We both know that you can never let that happen and you are not dumb enough to think you can force an answer out of me."

She really shouldn't have brought him here. She doesn't know what she was thinking—no, she does, but she chooses not to think about that now, just in case he can read her thoughts. Which in itself is a crazy thing to think.

"Please, Malfoy," she tries instead, "I just want to know why you are so good at killing without a wand. You were hardly the heartiest wizard at Hogwarts. You have to admit it's a bit strange." She hopes he takes it as an insult; it's meant to be one.

"What do you want? Proof that I am me? A litany of my life in excruciating detail printed in one of your oversized books so you can peruse my history at your leisure? I hate to be the first to tell you this, Granger, but people are not literature. You can't just pin down the turning point in someone's life or the exact moment they were no longer recognizable as themselves. That's not how it works out here." He says it slowly, like he's explaining something simple to a child or imbecile.

She bucks against the tone. "I want to know what you did for You Know Who before you came to us, why he wants you dead, and why he didn't kill you when he had the chance."

A smile ghosts across his face, which pulls the bloody mask around his mouth in grotesque shapes, "That is the question, isn't it—why am I alive today? If anyone would know that, it should be you. But, tell me, Granger, what's in this for me, hm? What will I get in return for this baring of my soul?"

"I hardly think of it as a baring of your soul," she mutters. "Those are pretty straightforward questions, all things—"

"But the answers are ones only I know and knowledge is never free." He is looking at her with a calculation that she doesn't like.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Information of my own. A question for a question."

"Fine," she repeats. "What do you want to know?"

"Who, precisely, have you told about the Vow?" He nods down at his wrist, still hidden among the leaves.

He can't be comfortable, crouched over the dirt like that, and so she lets him up. As the jinx fades, he stands and she doesn't miss the way he shakes his knees as though the muscles are stiff.

She gives him a long, serious look, "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know how many people know your death will set me free." He gives her an even look.

This information jolts her slightly, and she blinks rapidly at him.

"Oh, don't give me that doe-y look. You had to have guessed that Dawlish didn't tell you everything. He never specified a third person who could give me orders, and I doubt you'll do so, either." Malfoy actually lets out a harsh laugh, "Please. The reason he didn't give the Vow to one of his Aurors was that they're more valuable alive than you are and I'd never have agreed to it. Think about it: What good are you? Can't even shoot to kill and only useful when someone has a magical puzzle to figure out. Why would they possibly entrust this to someone like you?"

She doesn't tell him to shut up even though his words sting because they are the truth. She has never considered any of this and a cold, calculating part of her is glad that something is finally being made clear.

He continues speaking and takes a step toward her. "The more who know, the better the chance that someone will make an attempt on your life, allowing me a chance for freedom. I can't kill you, of course," his eyes flick to the side and she is unsure how to interpret this statement, "but for any of them," he grins wickedly and he is the monster at war again, "it would be easy."

Who, she wants to know, would try to kill me to set Malfoy free? The answer, though, is obvious: the mole. Whoever is spying on them. If the mole thinks Malfoy is only fighting for them because of the vow, then eliminating her will set him free. He'll be a fox in a henhouse at the safehouses. This is also why he assumes she won't tell anyone else about the Vow because she cannot risk the wrong person finding out. But does Malfoy know who it is? Are they working together? The very idea chills her bones. She wants to ask why it would be easy and, as if sensing her budding questions he says, "I just answered one of yours. Now answer mine."

"Huh?" She starts, blinking rapidly. And then, "Oh." He's answered her question, but not the one she thought she'd asked. He was telling her why he wanted to know. Clever. But then she is scrambling to form a response, since he is obviously waiting for one, watching her like an insect in a jar, pinned under his cold eyes. It takes her a second to realize that he still wants to know how many people she's told about this. "Three."

He narrows his eyes, "Potter and the Weasel are easy enough to guess, but who is the third?"

"I answered one question of yours. Now you answer mine. What did you do for You Know Who before…everything happened?"

He gives her a sour look but plays along. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

"Who watches the watchmen?" she glares at him. "That isn't an-"

"I hunted them. The deserters. The ones who fled His ranks or turned from the cause. I hunted them down, and I made them pay. I did. I was the watcher. I watched the watchmen. And their shrieks ring soft and sweet in my dreams to this day." His eyes are glassy again, and she knows that she is losing him to memory.

She swallows, but her mouth is dry. "Fine," if she keeps talking, maybe he will stay focused long enough to give her what she needs to know. "Do you have another question for me?"

His eyes snap back to her, "No lies, Granger. No lies between us. There is bad blood, there is hatred, but there will be no lies. I detest lies, and I will know if you do not tell me the truth."

"Thanks for the warning, Sherlock," she can't help but roll her eyes at the not-so-subtle threat.

His eyes narrow and he looks offended. "What is a 'sherlo—"

"It's a muggle reference," she waves away impatiently. "Not an insult. Just get to the point. They're going to suspect something if we take too long."

"The names of the three you told. All three."

Her heart sinks but she hides her disappointment. She was hoping he would only ask the name of the third person she told, assuming wrongly that Harry and Ron were the first two. "Lupin, Ginny, and Mallory Bulstrode." She sighs through her nose. The other information she wants had better be worth this.

He doesn't answer, and so she continues. "What happened that made you, er, fall out of His favor. Your job sounds important. If you were then like you are now, I imagine you were good at it too."

He stares long and hard at her as if waiting for her to change her mind, but she will not. This is important. This is how she will piece together where he fits into this mess. And his reluctance to answer only makes her that much hungrier for the information. "Hurry up. We don't have long," she reminds again.

"Hannah Elizabeth Abbott and Luna Penelope Ariadne Lovegood," Malfoy replies as calmly as if he is stating that the sky is blue. "But I was not then like I am now."

She remembers, then, what Hannah had gasped out before she died—that Malfoy had attempted to help them escape at great personal risk. They thought he was killed for it. He is still a coward in her mind, even if he is a crazy one, so next, she asks, "Why?"

"Does Mallory get many letters from her sister?"

"From Millicent?" Hermione is thrown by the question. Then she catches herself and, before she can have wasted another question, she hurries to say, "I'm not asking. I'm just surprised. No, I don't think she does. I haven't seen them if she has." She wants to ask why, but that isn't the most important thing right now. "Why did you save them?" she asks again.

He looks thoughtfully at her for a minute, his eyes dark are inscrutable in the moonlight. "Why indeed, Granger. I have spent much time wondering that myself. It was so long ago. I hardly believe it ever happened at all. I suppose it began with blood."

"Blood?" she echoes, although she thinks she already knows.

"What, Granger, is the thing that separates you from me?"

He is going to make her work for her answer, then. She can think of many things to say to that, but she knows, immediately, which thing he is talking about, and the answer makes her feel naked and ashamed before the words are even out of her mouth, "Blood status."

He nods, "Yes. That is correct. And what, then, is the difference between The Dark Lord and me?"

Ah. Now she knows where this is going and is just waiting for confirmation. "Blood status," she says again. "He's a half-blood, which you think isn't the same as you at all." Like different species, she mentally adds, and she is angrier than she really has the right to be at this moment and she doesn't want to look too closely at why. She reminds herself that she has all the power in this situation and his biased, prejudiced opinion of her doesn't matter at all, no matter what her suddenly ash-filled stomach seems to be trying to indicate. She has the wand. She is the witch.

He nods again; like she just got a question right on a test. "Cleverest witch. I have spent so much time with blood. Even when I served The Dark Lord, there was much bloodshed. I am so familiar with it. So much pure blood spilled on a half-blood's orders. So many noble family lines ended. And for what?"

Before she has to answer, though, he continues.

"Nothing but pride. Nothing but orders. And all that begging for their lives. So I think—and I cannot be sure anymore—I began to ask myself why. I minded death then. So I asked myself why should I hunt my fellows? Blood has always been very important to me. Pure blood is a rare and wonderful thing. It tells the stories of families who have stuck together and taken care of one another for as long as there has been magic. It ought to be preserved, not hunted down like vermin and wasted watering dirt. So much blood. Blood to drown the world. Why did I have to obey any orders at all? Perhaps I was tired. No, I think I was tired. And I knew the girls. Remembered them from school. Perhaps that mattered. I cannot say for certain. And so I let them go, and I killed the curs who tried to stop me. And I enjoyed it." His grin widens at these words. "I enjoyed killing those who stood in my way. That is why I lost the Dark Lord's favor." He licks his lips and she wonders who or what he is now, for he is unrecognizable as the boy she hated in school.

"But why didn't he kill you? The way he had you kill the other defectors and traitors?"

The smile fades from his face as he returns to the present yet again. "No more questions. There is nothing more I want to ask so I have nothing more to tell."

This means the conversation is done. She's spent all of the questions he would answer, but she doesn't regret it. She's starting to make sense of this upside-down world. At least she knows why Malfoy isn't with the Death Eaters anymore and she admits to herself that it makes sense he'd get sick of all that precious pure-blood blood. Without another word, Hermione wraps her fingers around his wrist and apparates them both to Andromeda's backyard.

She lets go of Malfoy's wrist at once, and then Ginny, Mallory, Lavender, Justin, and Ernie are all around her, wrapping her in hugs and all talking at once. Lavender is crying, Ginny is swearing like Ron. Mallory is giving her a stern talking-to that she isn't listening to at all. Hermione watches over Justin's left shoulder as Malfoy slinks through the doorway and into the kitchen.

After a few minutes, she's led inside. Andromeda repairs her ear with a flick of her wand and then returns to wiping the blood from the table with a wet rag and shaking hands.

An hour later, Andromeda's kitchen is packed with Aurors and Order members. Some sport wounds, bandages and torn clothing, some look tired and some, chillingly, smile.

All-in-all, they lost four fighters and three more were injured. The only one on either list that Hermione knows is Parvati Patil, and there won't even be a body to send home to her family. Zabini was rescued, though—early on in the mission and not by her group. The Zabini that she identified as a fake is a John Doe. No one knows his name, where he is from, or what his allegiance to Voldemort might be. He is kept in some secure location or another. The Order's best legilimens can't get anything out of him, nor can the veritaserum. His memory is completely blank. All he knows is that he was supposed to remember to drink something every hour and to go willingly when he was taken. He doesn't even know his own name.

Hermione watches as Malfoy folds his arms across his chest and lingers in a corner, well away from the excitement that she is in the center of.

The team responsible for finding the real Zabini is rewarded with the promised bottle of Ogden's, but they pass it around to anyone who is thirsty. There are toasts and the taking of shots. Like a team. When the bottle is empty, someone pulls out another.

"To Samuel Smith!"

"To Parvati!"

"To war!"

"To the snake-faced son of a bitch!"

"To Harry Potter!"

"Yes — to the Boy Who Lived!"

End of Part 1.