Author's Note: This chapter was very difficult for me to write for a lot of reasons, though I've made peace with it now and hope that you all enjoy it. A HUGE thank you to my beta, who has been extraordinary through this whole process.
The Resilient
The eruption Hermione expected at Voldemort's fall never came. There were no shouts, no curses, and no explosions. She did not need to duck behind her chair to escape multiple green rays of death or sprint toward the doors like escape was her only chance of survival. No one even moved.
At least, not for a full thirty seconds.
Then there was an incomprehensible scream of outrage and grief, high, piercing, and guttural all at once. It was Bellatrix. She launched herself across the room, not at Hermione but at Voldemort's supine body. She rolled him over as if he weighed nothing, and her long, bony fingers fluttered over his corpse. Then she grabbed fistfuls of his cloak and started to sob as if she had lost a lover, not a Lord.
Most eyes in the room stared at the mad, crying woman on the floor. Severus Snape, however, stared at Hermione as if she had announced that she was going to be their new Dark Lord. She held his stare defiantly. Slowly his gaze shifted to Draco, whose resolve was just as firm as hers. Hermione recognized the flicker of comprehension behind his beetle-black, expressionless eyes, and stiffened. Then he spoke, his tone cautiously calm. "It would appear the Dark Lord has been assassinated."
This was the fuse that triggered the explosion and Hermione, inevitably, was the target of the blast. Cries and accusations flew at her from all sides, and not a few wands were leveled at her chest. Hermione took a reflexive step backward, fighting – not very successfully – the impulse to turn and run.
"Her dirty blood has poisoned our Lord!" accused Rodolphus. His wand shook visibly from shock and rage. Bellatrix's wails had evolved into a long, drawn-out screech, repeating a single, damning phrase.
"Murderer! Murderer! Mudblood murderer!"
"Mudblood bitch!" Channing Orman was at her side so quickly he might have been standing there all along. He looked at her with homicidal fury, arms outstretched and hands clawed. Whatever piece of sanity that had been holding him together finally snapped, revealing the psychopath underneath. "You killed our Lord, you little whore, and now I'll kill you!" It did not matter that he was wandless; his cold, hooked fingers found their way around Hermione's throat regardless. She could do nothing – not breathe, not speak, not even move. All she could do was wait for death at his hands.
A flash of pale blue light seared, crackled, and struck Orman square in the temple. He crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Hermione stumbled away from him and drew a great breath. Ozone saturated the air; she had never smelled anything so sweet.
She cleared the reflexive tears from her eyes and saw Orman clearly. His face was frozen in a furious half-shout, as if he had been petrified in the middle of a scream. His body looked ready to snap; Hermione thought she could hear the tendons and ligaments straining to keep everything connected. His brown eyes were open but unfocused. That was what chilled her most. For so long, she had lived in fear of those unpredictable, hate-filled orbs. To see them now, so dead and dull, was surreal.
The room was suddenly tense and silent save for Bellatrix's noisy sobs and the creaks and pops of Orman's tortured limbs. Draco gripped her arm and turned her toward him, shaking her out of her bewilderment. She tore her eyes away from the prone, now convulsively twitching man to the one who had felled him.
"Are you alright?" His voice was gruff and demanding.
She nodded, her eyes wide and awed. "Draco… What did you do?"
Draco's upper lip twisted into a teeth-baring grimace, but his eyes conveyed a meaning deeper than his answer: "I fixed it." She looked once more at her fallen tormentor, caught deliriously between horror and happiness. She hardly noticed when Draco let her go.
He clapped once. A house elf appeared at his side. "Take this piece of filth away," he ordered, nudging Orman with the toe of his shoe, "and fetch the coroner." The elf nodded and disappeared with a crack.
"What gives you the right?" Rodolphus protested at once. "You're the youngest one here! Surely Snape or myself, someone who has served him more faithfully! The Mudblood-"
"Silence, Rodolphus!" hissed Lucius. "The elves have bent themselves to Draco's will! There is no sense in arguing!"
"But-"
"He's right, Lestrange." It was Costinov. "He has worked closely with our Lord. The elves recognize his authority and will not identify another master until ordered to do so." He shot Draco a furtive look. "I do not think Malfoy will give that order."
"Not tonight," Draco agreed tersely. "Your patience, please, Rodolphus. This must be settled now. And I think we can all agree that, while she is a convenient scapegoat, Granger is not responsible for killing our Lord."
"But her blood! The girl-"
"Has no access to a wand, Rodolphus," Draco interrupted, "and even less experience with Dark Magic. But the rest of us are not so fortunate. Let us all retake our seats and await the coroner."
Rodolphus looked as if he was going to argue further. The Resilience members and Draco's parents took their seats after only a moment's hesitation, and Snape followed soon after. The odd man out, Rodolphus lost confidence in his argument and reluctantly sank back into his chair. Bellatrix remained on the floor, inconsolable. After a moment, muted conversation began. Once Draco saw that no one was going to leave, he turned to Hermione and spoke so that only she could hear.
"You have to go, now. Once you're out of sight, flush your wound with water. Don't ask why," he snarled, heading off her question. "Just do it. Make sure no one sees your wand. Then go to the dungeons. Accompany the servants to the cellar and lock them in for the night. And yes, you can tell them what happened," he snapped again before she could even think the question. "After that, go directly to my room. Lock yourself in. Admit no one. I do not want you involved in this."
His tone left little room for argument, but that had never stopped her before. Just as she took a breath to speak, Draco cut her off. "This is no time for a power struggle. Go. Now. And hurry!" He shoved her away from him.
Hermione took a few hesitant steps backward but at the stern set of his lips, turned and left the Grand Hall as quickly as she could without running. As soon as the red doors were out of sight, Hermione ducked into the space behind a suit of armor and cast her first spell: Aguamenti. The glorious feel of the magic far outweighed the stinging pain in her hand. The nausea and dizziness she had felt mere moments before drifted away with the blood and water. Once she felt steady enough, she watched in fascination as her skin knit back together, the result of another silent spell. Then she stripped off her shoes, lifted her long skirt, and broke into a run. She tore through the château, egged on by adrenaline, darting through hallway after hallway until she reached the dungeons.
Pushing aside the bad memories, she burst through the door and ran down the stairs.
"Voldemort is dead," she announced, cheeks rosy with exertion. She did not bother to hide her glee. The crew exchanged puzzled, disbelieving looks. "I'm to take you all back to the cellar." Without waiting to see if they would listen, she hurried up the stairs and trekked the familiar path to her old quarters. The servants filed past her one by one, completely silent. It was not until she closed and locked the door that she heard them cheer.
Hermione allowed herself another smile, but did not revel in it. She needed to get to Draco's room. Hoisting up her skirts once more, she continued her sprint through the château. She did not slow until she was safely barricaded behind a series of wards and locking charms.
She leaned against his door, heart pounding, and for the first time since she left the dining hall, allowed herself to think.
She had her wand.
Voldemort was dead.
The world had righted itself in the span of an evening.
The realization sent her spinning into sensory overload and Hermione surrendered to the mania. She laughed and cried and tore the beautiful, wretched dress from her body, shredding the delicate fabric with fingers and wand alike. She screamed in satisfaction as the corset fell away, leaving her bare breasted in the empty room, scraps of silk and taffeta still hanging about her waist.
Slowly, she lifted her wand, marveling at the feel of the wood grain between her fingers, relishing the tingling energy that filled every crevice of her body. She felt like a goddess, beautiful and terrible. Vengeful.
The wand moved by itself, an extension not of her arm but of her very being. It flicked, twisted, spun, and waved. It pointed, flung, and twirled. It created complex patterns in the air, each running into the next, combining in new and powerful ways that she would never be able to replicate. She had no target yet targeted everything, and the contents of the room shifted, flew, exploded, transformed, shrank, enlarged, disappeared, multiplied, and crashed accordingly.
Time was meaningless and when she came back to herself – minutes later? Hours? – Draco's effects had been torn into pieces. The bed had been reduced to a pile of fluffy down, ragged cotton, and broken wood. The wall separating the bathroom and bedroom had disintegrated and the contents of the closet were hovering expectantly in midair. The wardrobe was missing entirely.
Her chest heaved; suddenly, she felt very weak. Scrapes and scratches from the shrapnel marred her bare skin. A few bled freely. She sealed the shallow wounds as best she could and transfigured the lace and silk shift into a pair of modest silk pajamas. Then, with a broad sweep of her wand, Hermione set the room to right. Draco's wardrobe reappeared, the clothes hung themselves up, the bed reformed, the wall reconstructed itself and everything was back to normal, perfect and untouched.
But nothing was back to normal. The realizations hit her again, one after another, knocking the breath out of her.
Voldemort was dead. Actually dead.
She had reclaimed her wand.
And Draco had put something into that cup other than his blood.
She sank down onto the bed and surrendered again, not to mania this time but to emotion. Her fear and confusion were nothing compared to the joy she felt, the utter, elated relief that made her dizzy and nauseous all over again. She sobbed uncontrollably, choking with hysterical laughter. Her sides ached and her body was desperate for oxygen, but she couldn't stop, even when black spots dotted her vision. She didn't want to stop. It was over now, all of it. She had fought for survival and she had won. Despite the circumstances, despite the torture and abuse, she had won. She had survived.
Her sobs eventually tapered off, her breathing quieted, and the joy gave way to restlessness. She checked the clock: ten p.m. She had no idea what Draco was doing or when he would be back. For a wild moment, she considered leaving the room to find him and demand an explanation. She was armed now, after all, and a better witch than most despite being years out of practice. Her hand rested on the doorknob, but she could not bring herself to go further.
Draco had sent her here because it was dangerous for her elsewhere. Rodolphus' accusations and the pressure of Orman's fingers around her windpipe were not memories she would soon forget. And she was sure that, once Bellatrix came to her senses, Hermione would experience another brush with death. Draco had stolen her away from death's grasp before, but tonight? When the situation was so unpredictable? Hermione sighed; it would be unwise to tempt fate.
She retreated to the bed and tried to think the situation through. Tried to slow down the action and force it into a cohesive panorama. One that made sense. One that was actually possible. But the more she pieced together, the more things fell apart. For example, it was possible for Draco to get back to the Dragon's Keep sometime this week to synthesize that mysterious white powder. He had certainly had enough time. But how did he get the supplies so quickly? Certainly a Pureblooded wizard purchasing Muggle chemistry supplies in bulk would attract attention.
Another issue was that the laboratory had obviously been there for a while; its construction was not an impulse decision. But that meant Draco had to have planned to administer the powder – the poison? – sometime in the future, which meant that he had to plan to get close to Voldemort, which meant that Hermione accidentally revealing Resilience to Voldemort served an actual purpose, which meant…
A pounding headache accompanied her sudden nausea. She could not think of what that meant. Didn't dare to.
But her insistent mind would not let the subject drop. Whatever she suspected Draco of doing, whether good or bad, it would do her little good to jump to conclusions before she knew all the facts. It would be just as damaging to her psyche to pin down erroneous reasons as it would to deal with the million hypothetical questions whizzing around her brain. She needed a distraction.
With an absent twist of her wand, she conjured a small flock of sparrows. The action was automatic and she blushed, ashamed that she had grown so used to life without her wand, that she had forgotten a piece of herself. She smiled as she sent the sparrows flitting about the room in formations. When she tired of that, she grabbed a small crystal paperweight and practiced her transfigurations, working her way from invertebrates to vertebrates with every animal she could think of as her subject.
When she next looked at the clock, it was close to midnight. The sparrows had settled atop the wardrobe and slept peacefully, their beaks tucked beneath their wings. The pure white rabbit she had been transfiguring from dog to rabbit and back again looked thoroughly annoyed. Hermione vanished the birds and relieved the crystal paperweight of its rabbit body. Then she yawned.
The bed was comfortable and warm, but when she shut her eyes there was nothing but questions and suspicions, images of a dead Voldemort and a convulsive Orman, and a desperate desire to talk to Draco. Hardly a mindset conducive to sleep.
Then an idea struck her, an idea so simple and elegant that she was ashamed to not have thought of it sooner. It was her human form that was giving her so much trouble, her human mind that besieged her with questions. But the simplified brain of an animal… Of a fox…
She pointed her wand at her face. The transformation worked immediately and completely. As a human, Hermione's emotions were too numerous and complex to figure out. As a fox, she was content just to have her life and a soft place to sleep. She padded across the duvet to the foot of the bed and curled up, facing the door. With another yawn that bared her small, sharp teeth, she tucked her nose under her tail and closed her eyes.
Around two a.m., the doorknob rattled. Hermione's sensitive ears picked up the sound at once and she roused quickly. It was not fast enough, however. Draco had already broken her enchantments, stepped inside and re-warded the door by the time she was standing.
He looked at her and sighed, smiling wearily. "I always thought your Animagus form was beautiful. Very fitting."
Hermione cocked her fox head at him and his smile grew. With a lithe motion, like water flowing over stone, she was human once more.
"You look like hell," she stated softly, tracing her fingers lightly over his cheek. Draco chuckled but did not take offense. How could he when it was true? His pale skin was drawn and dark circles ringed his eyes. His once-coiffed platinum hair stuck up wildly in some places – a sure sign that he had been running his fingers through it: an indication of stress that Hermione knew well. She wrapped him in her arms.
Draco buried his face in her neck and closed his eyes. She knew that he wanted nothing more than just to crawl into bed and sleep. But she knew that she could not let him. She needed answers and no matter how guilty she felt, she would have them tonight.
"I was worried about you," she confessed quietly, stroking his hair.
"Everything is fine," he said, his breath warming her neck. Hermione thought she heard the hint of a smile. "More than fine, actually. Here, I need to show you something." He strode over to his window and threw it open. Then he whistled, soft and low. After a moment, she heard the soft flapping of wings. A large eagle owl swept into the room, followed closely by a familiar barn owl.
Hermione gasped as the third impossible exploit of the night occurred. "Amaris?" The owl hooted uncertainly when Hermione held out her arm. She hesitated a second and then climbed carefully onto the proffered limb. Hermione's heart lifted as the owl's familiar weight settled on her forearm. She lifted the owl to her face. Amaris nibbled her nose affectionately.
"I made arrangements," Draco explained while Hermione cooed at her reclaimed familiar. "Atreo – my owl – led her to Malfoy Manor before the battle began. She left for a night, no doubt to find you, then came back, not knowing where else to go. I've cared for her ever since."
Hermione tore her eyes away from her old friend to stare at the man who had achieved the impossible. "And my wand?" she managed to choke out.
"The moment it flew out of your hands during the battle, I summoned it. It would have been destroyed otherwise."
Hermione stifled a sob and managed a sincere, "Thank you."
Draco nodded. "Let's sit down." Hermione said a reluctant goodnight to her owl and watched her fly away. Then she joined him on the bed, sitting cross legged and dragging a pillow across her lap.
"Voldemort is dead," he said without preemption. Hermione flinched in surprise: Draco had said his name! "Poisoned," he continued, ignoring her. "The coroner arrived not a minute after you left. She performed a full scan on him and determined the cause of death: it was a Muggle substance called potassium cyanide. He died almost instantaneously of asphyxiation."
Hermione nodded and narrowed her eyes. Coming to terms with Voldemort's death was a simple and joyous exercise, but its cause and manner were another story. The strange hidden room in Draco's tower laboratory, the Muggle equipment, the neatly labeled plastic containers… There was only one explanation. And now, with Draco before her, was the only time she could allow herself to admit it.
"You killed him." It was not a guess.
Draco met her eyes, gauging her reaction. After a long moment of silence, he answered her. "Yes. You saw my laboratory."
That wasn't a guess either.
He nodded and smirked. "I should have known. The day after, when you said you had seen something. I was afraid you would give it away."
"You should give me more credit."
"We were lucky. If he Legilimized you again, we would have been killed. I also hoped you wouldn't notice the delivery into the goblet."
"Draco, I'm not blind."
He chuckled. "It seemed to fool everyone else. Are you feeling well?"
A piece clicked into place. "The dizziness…"
"The poison getting into my blood was inevitable, but I've built up a bit of an immunity to it. The dose I slipped into the goblet was ultra concentrated. I never meant for it to hurt you."
"I'm alright now," she said, perhaps a bit too weakly as Draco looked unconvinced. "Does anyone else know it was you?"
He frowned. "Snape suspects something, but hardly a day goes by where he doesn't suspect something. But he's clever; I think he'll keep quiet until he works out how he's affected by the change. If anyone else suspects me, I don't know about it. I'm not sure it matters anyway. The issue has been… settled."
She waited for him to go on. The way he said it and the deep furrows in his brow indicated that there was more. But he was not forthcoming. "Tell me," she demanded softly, though she thought she had an idea of what it could be.
"It was easy enough to throw suspicion off myself. I had nothing to gain by killing him and everything to gain if he lived: power, wealth, the honor of my blood running in his veins… But chalking it up to coincidence was not enough for Bellatrix." He spat her name as if it was an oath. "She demanded retribution. I denied her, said that I would be launching an investigation. She never had much patience or respect for due process. I turned for a second to talk to Aberjeen and then she was gone. It wasn't hard to follow her path of destruction – shredded tapestries, splintered frames, new holes in the walls – but by the time I reached the cellars, it was too late."
The news hit her like a hammer to the gut. "How many?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"All," Draco said. He choked on the word. "All of them."
Hermione drew a deep, shuddering breath. Denise, leverage over the president of the United States. Marsha Scrimgeour, whose only mistake had been to marry a righteous man. Anita, a supposed blood traitor who would not submit quietly to totalitarian rule. Leonard, a man without a past. Michael and Alexander, innocent members of the British royal family. All hostages of a madman, victims of a war they had not wanted.
"There was nothing I could do," he continued quietly, hollowly.
"You should have incapacitated her," Hermione countered, feeling nauseous once again. "Once she recovered from the shock you should have taken her wand and put her in chains. That's the only way to control her."
"It's not that simple…"
"Why? Why isn't it that simple? Stop evil people from doing evil things, Draco. That is simple. That is what you should have done. What you should have been doing this whole time!"
"And what makes you think I wasn't?" he said sternly.
And there was the heart of the matter, what Hermione had suspected but not dared to hope for.
"Malfoy, what have you done?" Draco straightened at the use of his surname and his eyes grew as cold as her tone.
"I did what was needed, Granger. I did what was needed to kill Voldemort." After a minute of silence – which was a minute too long, in her opinion – he heaved a sigh and sat upright. "I'm going to tell you everything, Hermione. You deserve it. But you have to know that, through it all, I did what I thought was right. And please, for the love of Merlin, let me get through this. It's going to be hard enough to tell without interruption."
Hermione considered for a moment, and Draco looked so pleading and beaten that she acquiesced with an annoyed, "Fine."
"Thank you." Draco took a deep breath and settled against the headboard. "You know my reason for betraying you. You know the choices I was presented, the path I chose to walk, and the regret I've lived with since. But what you don't know is how this changed me.
"When I made my decision, I knew how it would end. I knew that, if left unaltered, your life, and my life with it, would be forfeit. I wasn't lying when I said I couldn't live without you, Hermione. It was a possibility I at once refused and was forced to consider. If Voldemort had killed you on the battlefield, I would have killed him myself right after. I thought that was what would happen and I was prepared. I dreaded losing you, but the idea of immediate revenge and an equally swift end to my pathetic, empty life sustained me.
"Imagine my surprise, then, when he asked me what to do with you instead. An entire avenue of possibilities opened up before me. It was like we were being given a second chance at life. Because I couldn't ask him to kill you, Hermione, even if it meant his death soon after. It would have changed everything, I know," he said in response to the aghast look on her face, "but I couldn't watch you die. I couldn't martyr you. I couldn't stand that your last thought of me would be laced with hatred. So I sent you to Azkaban under a false name where you were placed in a low security cell. I knew you would have the best chance of survival there. It was just another weakness, just another example of my selfishness, but I can't bring myself to regret it. It kept you alive.
"That night… That first night you were away from me…" He shuddered at the memory. "I destroyed everything. I tore my life apart, tore myself apart. I was in agony but I knew it was just a shadow of what you felt. I couldn't stand it. I didn't want to live anymore, but I couldn't take my own life. As long as you breathed, I knew I had to keep breathing too. Because as long as you were breathing, I had hope. Hope that I had strength enough to save you, that you had strength enough to endure it. Hope that I could fix it – all of it.
"The first thing I did was master Occlumency. Soon, not even Voldemort could get past my defenses. Then I began my work.
"Voldemort's rule was unstable at first. Not only did the Muggles rebel, but there were also enough good wizards out there who refused to bend to his will. After a year of torture and death, however, even the strongest men caved. But they did not surrender fully; their support was no more than a survival tactic. It was the same thing I had done. I knew that if these wizards were anything like me, then they would want to change it. They would want to fix it too.
"It took blackmail, bribery, and the better part of six months to assemble the group you now know as Resilience. It was difficult: I had to pick men who worked for Voldemort but not closely enough to attract attention. And they had to be loyal. Costinov, for instance. A Pureblood and director of the chateau's serving staff. He was close enough to hear gossip from the more prominent members but inconspicuous enough to avoid an encounter with Voldemort. He also has a Muggle wife back in Russia and two fully grown daughters, who are both witches. He acted as my eyes and ears in the castle. In return, I arranged it so his wife was registered as a halfblooded witch, thus making their union, and their daughters, legitimate and safe."
"How did you do that?" Hermione asked. Draco quirked an eyebrow at the interruption, but she didn't care. "How did you fake the bloodlines?"
"Ah," Draco smiled. "Easily. The Malfoy family is one of the oldest in the wizarding world and my ancestors kept good records. They were also not keen on sharing. Our library holds the most extensive collection of wizarding genealogies in all of Britain, but the texts are private: only a Malfoy can read or alter them. Despite the obvious problem – that Malfoys are notorious liars – the genealogies are not questioned."
"That seems foolish, to place so much trust in one family."
"It was. Voldemort was slipping. In the beginning, he was so sure of his own invincibility that he ignored everything that wasn't an immediate threat. When Resilience first met, I told them that. Assured them of it. Despite the evidence, they laughed at me. Told me I was crazy. Several threatened to leave. But the more I talked, the more proof I offered, the more interested they became. Soon, we had bi-weekly meetings to brainstorm how we could kill him."
Hermione shook her head. "No, I was there for the first Resilience meeting. I was eavesdropping. I heard them elect you their leader. How could this have-"
Draco held out a hand to silence her. "Let me continue. We considered assaulting the château, but its wards are ancient, nearly impenetrable. We could have hired foreign hit wizards to attempt a public assassination, but Voldemort rarely made public appearances. And contracting outside help was risky anyway – a secret isn't a secret if everybody knows it. We needed someone on the inside, someone who could get one of us close enough to Voldemort to do something – anything – that might kill him.
"That, unfortunately, is where you come in. I told them about you, you see. Everything. I had to in order to gain their trust. And they all knew that, while I wanted to exterminate Voldemort, my main objective was to free you and keep you safe. Smithe – the American – oversees Azkaban. The wizarding prisons in the United States are brutal and efficient," he explained in response to Hermione's quizzical look, "and Smithe ran them all. He has a flair for cruelty, which is why Voldemort had him brought over. And his son is a Squib – no better than a Muggleborn – which is why he agreed to help me. As a favor, he told me you were still alive. What he wasn't sure of was if you were still sane. So he hired a doctor to perform exams on all prisoners."
"I remember that visit…" Hermione muttered darkly.
Draco frowned and his voice dropped an octave. "I objected to him. Another doctor – any other doctor – would have been preferable. But this was the only one we were sure was self serving enough to take his due and keep his mouth shut. Once he reported to me that you were in acceptable mental health, we called a meeting. Trundle introduced a piece of legislation – the slave initiative – and set up the Azkaban auction.
"Once you were with Brannon, we started to plan. From Costinov, we learned that one of Voldemort's human servants was ill. He would need to be replaced eventually, and by someone interesting. We knew Voldemort was a collector, and Aberjeen suggested that the last member of the Golden Trio would be too tempting a trophy to resist.
"I fought him. I fought them all. Aberjeen still has the scars. We had just freed you from Azkaban, I argued. It wasn't right to throw you to the snakes again so quickly. You couldn't handle it. You weren't ready. But they knew our history. They used it against me. Suddenly I was the one being blackmailed. I was the one being bribed." His voice shook and he reached for her hand. "I didn't want that for you. I never did. But I was outnumbered."
"You could have left." She tried to remove her hand from his grasp but he held on tightly.
"Could I have?" He whispered. "I'm not so sure. Brannon had you then, and leaving them would have meant leaving you. And they would have used you anyway, ready or not. So I stayed. You would be our insider, yes, but I would make sure you were as prepared as you could be for it.
"Our first hurdle was to introduce you to Resilience's cover story. I knew you would never give Voldemort information willingly: your reticence would force him to Legilimize you. That, oddly enough, was our opening. If we could convince you that Resilience was important enough to remember, it would only be a matter of time before Voldemort found the information. That would give us a way in. It was all we needed from you, and it worked."
"Barely," Hermione cut in. "What if I had never asked Bra-" she choked on the name. "Him to go upstairs? What if I never eavesdropped?"
"He would have let you go upstairs eventually; the bastard was infuriatingly slow to act on the group's behalf. As for the eavesdropping…" Draco shrugged. "It was a gamble, but one I felt was in our favor. You're naturally curious. After a few meetings, you would have listened. We were just lucky you did it sooner than later."
"So then you took me to the Keep," Hermione continued. "Why did you bother with the training? If you wanted me to expose Resilience to Voldemort, Occlumency just would have gotten in the way of that. And why not just tell me the plan? It would have simplified everything."
"I had you learn Occlumency to protect you and Resilience from others. Voldemort was a strong Legilimens and, with time, I believe you could have kept him out. But filth like Orman could perform Legilimency, too. Not very well, but well enough to leech information from unguarded minds. If Orman had discovered your secret…" They both shuddered at the thought.
"And to answer your second question: we kept you in the dark to keep you safe. Smithe and Draunet were more than willing to let you in on the secret, but Voldemort would have read the truth in your thoughts. You had to bear information about Resilience's cover story only. You needed to let him think that we were an undercover group working for the betterment of his world. You needed to be innocent. That's why we kept you ignorant."
"So the cooking? The self defense?"
"The cooking reminded me of potions: I thought you'd enjoy it. I thought the self defense would be useful in dealing with Orman."
"You were right."
Draco frowned and Hermione was grateful he did not ask for an elaboration. "The rest you know," he continued. "Nott came for you, Voldemort found you, you led me to Voldemort."
"The Fountain of Youth?"
"Nothing I could ever have predicted, but perfect for what I needed to do. His death needed to be public so that suspicion did not rest on one person. The feast was public enough. I'm just glad it was not larger – even with the Resilience members and my parents, it would have been a tough fight for us to win."
Hermione blinked in surprise. "Your parents knew what you were doing?"
"Mother did. She knew the night after the battle that I had changed: it was in her eyes. It did not take her long to figure out why. Father only suspected, I think."
"He didn't stop you?"
Draco gave her a considering look. "You know my father as heartless and cruel. For a while, that was all I knew as well. But he cares about my mother, deeply. He'll do anything to see her smile, even if it meant keeping you alive. So he stayed out of my way, directed agendas as necessary… He helped, in his own way."
"And that's it?"
He laughed. "That's it. That's everything. Now you know the truth."
"I'm free to ask questions?"
"You've been doing so all along despite my request."
She ignored the gentle reproach and sat back, replaying all she had heard. Her brow furrowed. "Everything seems so straightforward. Impossible and improbable, but easy enough to understand. But there's one detail that doesn't make sense. Why Brannon? If Smithe oversaw Azkaban and Trundle set up the auction, what stopped you from taking me away?" Though he had worn a frown for much of the evening, the lines around his mouth deepened still. He looked more unhappy than Hermione had ever seen him. She felt like she was about to hear something they both would regret.
"Ask something else," he said thickly. "Anything else." Hermione set her chin; Draco paled. After a moment, he cleared his throat, though it did him little good. "I had to let him take you." His voice was weak and distant. "I didn't have a choice."
Her anger flared red and hot as the memory of the excuse seared through her mind. Before the battle of Hogwarts, before he Stupefied her and put her in Azkaban, when he visited her at Brannon's party… "How dare you?" Draco recoiled as if slapped. "How dare you use that excuse on me again? What was the problem this time? Was there another woman you had promised to bid on? Or was I simply not worth one hundred Galleons?"
Draco's mouth twisted into a fierce snarl and his silver eyes sparked with indignation. "Don't insult me like that."
"Then don't you insult me. Tell me the truth."
"The truth?" He let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "The truth is that there was never another after you. The truth is that you're worth every vault in Gringott's to me. The truth is that I made a mistake. One that I would do anything to forget. One that nearly killed me."
His tone fell from sardonic to tortured in less than ten seconds, and the change was so abrupt that it left Hermione feeling guilty for goading him.
"The man you called Master is named Thomas Brannon. He is one of the most unfortunate men I know. Though he was a year older than me, we were childhood mates. Our fathers were business partners. We saw each other every year until Hogwarts. Though he went to Durmstrang, our lives were very much the same – our worldviews, our loyalties, even our futures, though neither of us knew it then.
"When he was sixteen, Brannon went on holiday to Italy and fell in love with a Muggle named Adelina. He wrote to her constantly, visited her every holiday, sent me letters oozing with happiness, describing everything about her. How she looked, the way she talked, her grace, her compassion… She knew he was a wizard and, despite where he came from, they eloped as soon as he turned seventeen.
"But then his father found out what he had done… How he had soiled the family name. Brannon was prepared to give up everything for her – prepared to die for her – but his father reached her first. He could do nothing but watch it happen…" Draco's voice cracked. "He died that day too. He dedicated himself to Voldemort afterwards, just going through the motions. Surviving, not living. When Voldemort took over, Brannon was put in charge of monitoring Apparition across Britain. It was how we were able to meet in secret without raising eyebrows: Brannon could make it look as if the meetings never happened. He was integral to our group.
"He was also almost its downfall. I knew about Brannon's past, knew how losing Adelina destroyed him. It was my story too. And I thought he would want to avenge her memory, destroy the man who destroyed her. That's why I recruited him. I thought I would have an ally, a man who knew more about my pain than anyone had a right to. I thought I could trust him, him above all others."
Draco broke off and buried his face in his hands. The next three words seemed to cost him everything.
"I was wrong. Brannon changed that day. He lost himself, became someone, something different. A few months into our scheme, he approached me. He threatened to expose us all, to turn us over to Voldemort. I offered him everything I could – money, influence… He made me swear an unbreakable oath: anything he wanted. I agreed.
"And then he asked for you."
For a moment, Draco lost control. He clapped his hand to his mouth to stifle the escaping sobs, sounds of a loss that was still fresh, a gaping wound left unhealed. Hermione trembled, trying and failing to ignore the loud rushing sound in her ears and the pain stabbing at her heart.
"I was there that night, Hermione," he confessed through gasping breaths. "I saw him take you."
The confession punched a hole through her chest and pain – physical pain – exploded around it. The room careened as she clutched the pillow tightly, trying to stay upright. She fought for breath but the air was too thick and cloying. Her head spun, her heart disintegrated, and logical thought escaped her. There was only one fact now, only one aspect to the epic that had been the last three years.
Draco had let her go.
He had watched in silence as another man bought her body. He had watched as her future became nothing more than a strange man in a dark dungeon. Velvet and incarceration. Lace and rape. He had not stopped it from happening. He had done nothing.
A pawn.
That's what she was.
A pawn.
Just like she had thought.
She rose from the bed. He let her go.
"You looked right at me," he whispered, his grey eyes faraway and full of agony. "Seeing you again after so long… It was like a Stunner to the chest. But the way you fought, the way you spat at the auctioneer and glared out at all of us… I'll never forget how proud I was in that moment. You were still you. Still stubborn, still perfect. And there I was, still selfish, still despicable, still ruining your life. I've never hated myself as much as I did that night."
"Why me?"
Draco could not meet her eyes. "You look like her. He wanted a piece of her back. And I think he wanted to damage someone like he had been damaged. The woman he loved died; the woman I loved was alive. But when he took you, Hermione… When he bought you and took you away with him…" Draco's entire body shook. "I could imagine his pain. I wish I could do my life over again and change it all, but if I could only change one thing, it would be to never have let you go to him."
Hermione could do nothing but let the waves of realization wash over her. Brannon had lied to her. He had never been her protector. He had been her jailer, her rapist, and nothing more. Yet she was forced to pity him. Pity him! He who had forgotten pity, and mercy, who had listened to her beg and silenced her cries! Her Master – an epithet! A curse! – was more selfish than Draco and more twisted than Orman. He had stolen everything from her and, without question, she hated him for it. Hated him to the depths of her soul. But this loathing, as intense as it was, was just a fraction of what Draco's confession had triggered.
It was an earthquake. A violent upheaval of the foundation upon which she had built her new life. It was the soiled stone floor of Azkaban, the dark cold walls of Brannon's cell, the infinite ceiling of Draco's tower. It was all rubble now. Ash and smoke and oblivion. She could hear the pounding force of its disintegration. Could smell the rotting stink her once-impenetrable stone fantasy had hidden for years. Could feel the weight of her lies – his lies – crush her until she was as insignificant and ugly as the world that had been built around her, and twice as ugly as the one it had been hiding.
She was silent for a long time.
"Damn it, Hermione. Say something."
She turned her eyes to his slowly. "What do you want me to say, Draco?" she asked him evenly, trying not to choke on the emotion she held back. "That you did the right thing? That I forgive you?"
"No. I don't want any of that. I don't deserve-"
"Then what? What is there to say? What more do you want? I've given you everything – my body, my trust, my love, my life. It's never been enough. And now you ask for more?" She laughed mirthlessly. "There's nothing left anymore, Draco. I'm empty. There's nothing else for you to have."
"That's not true," he whispered ardently. He rose and took a step toward her. "You know that's not true."
Her fortress may have repelled the lie once, but its crumbled walls let it pass through unimpeded. She was surprised at how much it stung. "Don't tell me what truth is! Not when you don't even know yourself! What's true is what's happened. And what's happened is this: you sold me out to protect yourself and bought me back as soon as it was safe. But not for good. No, you bought me back just long enough to build me into your own, personal weapon, and then you sent me away again. You used me, Draco! You lied and manipulated and played your part perfectly, I might add. Too well, in fact, because you made me believe it! You made me believe that what you were doing was for my own benefit. You made me believe that you cared about me, that you loved me, when all you really loved was yourself and your damned agenda!
The fire in her eyes blazed hot and Draco flinched away, burned. She continued her invective.
"And do you know what the worst part is? The part that I can't stand? It's that I understand. I get it. The destruction of my life, of everything I claimed as my own, served a higher purpose. I see the role I played in helping to kill Voldemort. I know what I did. And the noble part of me? It rejoices. What is my life when compared to those of an entire population? If I had to sacrifice myself for the good of so many others, so be it. I'd do it again without hesitation. Because I am that noble, Draco. I am that good. And losing myself to save the world is something I can live with.
"But what I can't live with is the means. What I can't live with is you."
Her tears fell freely, and she was surprised to see that Draco was trembling as much as she was. "That's not how this is, this isn't how I meant it, it's not what-" He reached toward her and she backed away from him just as quickly.
"I can come to terms with what's been done to me with time," she continued steadily, "but I don't know if I can move past how it's been done. My life may be nothing when compared to several million, but it's still my life. I still have to live it. Saving the world may be a balm, but it is far from an instant fix. I'm damaged, Draco. Irreparably. And it's your fault."
"I know."
"You what?" Her incredulity incensed him and his trembling abated just long enough for him to mount a defense.
"I said I know! I know what I did to you. I know the hell I put you through and what it cost you, because it cost me the same. Hurting you was like hurting myself, Hermione! I can't begin to describe what kind of torture it was to have you so close and so far away! To know what you were going into and being powerless to stop it!"
"You weren't powerless!"
"I was! Brannon held your life in his hands and then Resilience commandeered you the moment I thought I could get you back! They backed me into a corner and still I couldn't see another way to kill him! I didn't see another way to fix it! And that left you! If I was cleverer, wiser, I could have found a way around it, but the window was there and we had to take the risk! I didn't want it. Taking your life wasn't my intention when I first put you in Azkaban, but that's what happened. And the regret I feel burns through me every single day. What I did was unforgiveable. I knew it then and I know it now. But I can't bring myself to regret Voldemort's death. I can't."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm just…" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I'm so confused. I don't know what to feel. What to believe. I'm so tired. I'm so… So broken."
The admission was soft and hollow. She had tried so hard to let it not be the truth, had tried to remain whole for herself, for the memory of her deceased family and friends, for sheer pride. But she had failed. She was one million little pieces scattered by the wind. As insignificant as a grain of sand on an infinite beach. Shattered. Undone.
"Will you let me pick up the pieces?"
His words were no more than a shuddering whisper, but Hermione heard them as if he shouted. The memory was there before she could stop it. The salty ocean wind. The frigid autumn air. The dark water churning below her, tempting and repellant. And Draco, rolling her away from the edge. Draco, his body the only warmth she had felt in days and his words the only hope she had felt in years. He was there for her. He always had been. He always would be. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I don't know if you can," she confessed.
"Let me try. Hermione…"
He stepped toward her and took her hand, the one with the scar. An echo of the magic that had raced through her blood at the feast pulsed through her veins again, and with it, a deep, almost subconscious understanding. In a moment so fleeting it was almost indescribable, she knew what it was to be Draco Malfoy. In that instance, she knew him, knew everything about him, saw into his very soul. Her pain doubled, tripled, increased so quickly that her knees buckled. Draco crashed to the floor with her. He leaned against her as if she was his only support, and she did the same, physically unable to hold herself upright. He was her pillar just as she was his.
His breath on her neck came in hot, frantic puffs, and it was a minute before either of them could move without the help of the other.
"What happened to us?" she asked weakly. "At the feast, when our blood combined…"
Draco's body shuddered violently and Hermione was hit with a fierce spasm of pain that made her gasp. He wrenched his hand away from hers. The tingling disappeared, the pain abated, and Hermione fell back, chest heaving.
"Noticed that, did you?" Though still breathless himself, Draco's tone was sharp and angry. "If you value your sanity, and mine, you will not ask again. Not right now. Not tonight."
"What happened?" she snarled, gasping.
He rose to his feet laboriously and turned away from her. When he spoke, it was in a mockingly lofty tone. "The magic of the Malfoy blood is stronger than that of our wands. It has the power to protect, to seal contracts, even to form bonds. And there is a certain bond between a man and a woman… A bond that forms when matched souls meet… When the blood of each runs thick and fierce with love for the other…"
Hermione had struggled to her feet too but now, as the room teetered, she wished she hadn't. This was the grain of sand that tipped the scales, and everything was out of balance. "No," she breathed. She did not realize she was backing away from him until she hit the wall. He had not turned to face her yet.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Malfoy." His laugh was bitter and joyless.
She could not speak. She could not breathe. "Did you…" She choked on the words, unsure of whether or not she even wanted to know the answer.
"Know?" He finished for her. His head dropped. "Yes. But our blood was not to be shared tonight. Combined in the goblet, yes, but never vein to vein. That it did was a mistake… Voldemort's final act of cruelty."
"Were you ever going to tell me?"
"Of course. Of course I was. I just didn't think tonight, with all that has happened…"
"You're a coward," she hissed. "You haven't changed at all."
"I have, I've tried-"
"Divorce me, then. Divorce me tonight. I don't… I don't want this."
"I can't," he growled. "Once blood is shared before witnesses, the oath is made. It is, by nature, unbreakable. We will always be connected."
"I never even had a choice," Hermione realized quietly, her voice thick with grief. "The one decision that should solely mine is still made for me."
"You think I wanted this?"
"No, but it's awfully convenient, isn't it? For you? The woman you love, bound to you forever, whether or not she wants to be?"
"That's never what I wanted, Hermione, and you know that! What I want – all I've ever wanted – is for you to be happy. To be free!"
There was her opening. "Do you mean that?"
Draco hesitated. "I do."
"Then you know what I have to do."
It took only a second for Draco to understand what she meant and in that second, the man Hermione knew – the man Draco had been for the past three years –disappeared. The fight that had kept him standing tall and proud rushed away. The evenness and control of his face and voice vanished. He looked like a man who was sure he had reached rock bottom and was then thrown a shovel. Like a man who was certain he had nothing more to lose only to learn that he had been utterly and hopelessly wrong.
"I've lost you so many times," he said huskily. "I don't know if I can survive another. I need you… I need you with me. Stay. Please."
"There's too much between us. I can't even think straight. I need time. I need space."
Every second she spent under the scrutiny of those tortured steel eyes weakened her resolve. She turned away from him, unable to face the damage she had done. He gasped again, a single word: "Please." She pretended not to recognize his pain, pretended that it did not send a dagger into the remains of her heart, that it did not make her feel like a murderer.
His breathing was shallow and uneven and, after several minutes, when Hermione had still not turned around, he spoke very quietly. "If this is what you desire, it is what you shall have." Then he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. After a full minute, he spoke. His voice was wooden and robotic, too tightly controlled to last. A fragile façade. Hermione wanted to be gone before it collapsed entirely. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him place a piece of parchment on the table near the hearth. "Here is a list of every Malfoy estate on the planet. Go elsewhere if you must but I beg you, for my sanity, start there. You will always find peace and protection beneath a Malfoy roof."
Hermione turned and grabbed the parchment without meeting his eyes. She skimmed it; there were over twenty properties listed.
"By right, half of my fortune is yours, as is every resource I can lay claim to. There are personal safes in each house. You will find the keys and combinations when you arrive. Use it and do not hesitate. It's the only thing I can give you now."
She shook her head. "No, I don't want it. I never wanted-"
"I don't care!" His composed mask fractured. "This is what your bond with me entails! This is the price of freedom!" He threw a handful of Floo Powder onto the embers. A green fire blazed to life and burned away his sudden anger. In its place was the feeble, damaged Draco, the one that made her sick to her stomach. Just as broken as she was. Just as irreparable. "I swear not to look for you once you've left," he croaked, shaking. "You'll never see me again."
"But you'll never leave me."
He shook his head. "Never."
"I owe you my life." Her voice was hoarse and final. Each word was a blow. Each sentence an execution. It was too late – too late for them both. There was no going back now.
"No… " Her tone dissolved his resolution. Draco's mask collapsed and Hermione witnessed the destruction of a man. But she did not stop. Could not.
"But I can't let you have it."
"Please, Hermione… Please. Don't." He stepped toward her, reaching, desperate for her touch, her reality, a taste of her certainty.
She shook her head, unyielding. "I've been noble for far too long. It's my turn to be selfish. But I'll never forget you, Draco."
"What can I do?" He grasped her upper arms tightly, but the bruises didn't matter. She shrugged away from him.
"Let me go. Take responsibility. Be resilient."
"No. No, Hermione, you don't understand. I can't."
"You will. You must." She reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand. He closed his eyes, tears leaking from each corner, and leaned into her warmth. Hermione shuddered. "Don't hate me for this," she whispered.
His eyes remained closed. "You know I never could." He gasped as Hermione's palm dropped away from his face. His silver eyes opened.
In that moment, as their eyes locked and he witnessed her truth, it became absolute. His hands loosed and fell to her wrists, then her palms, where their scarred skin met fleetingly. She felt his anguish, his desperation, his desire, and his grief. She felt his hatred and his loneliness and his regret. But most of all, she felt his love. She felt his love and it burned into every crevice, every niche, every cell and every atom of her body, and filled her with such disgust that she stepped away from him.
Then her world was an inferno. Spinning. Roaring. Changing.
And then he was gone.
And then she was collapsing onto an unfamiliar and cold marble hearth, crying soot-stained tears. Pain tore its way through body, her heart, and into her soul, devouring her from the inside.
And then reality finally hit and Hermione realized what she had done.
What she had done was goodbye.
And that goodbye was forever.