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XVIII: Four of Cups

It burned. She could feel the blaze blossoming over her shoulder as it spread like wildfire over her arm and up her neck.

The pain was unbearable. It paralyzed her movements, every muscle in her body taut as it braced against the burn. Her chest tightened under the weight of itself as she fought to breathe but she was afraid to move.

It spread over her skin. It permeated inward, down to the cellular level as her the membranes of her skill cells burst from deformity in an attempt to fight the cancerous cruelty that swept over her body.

She screamed, the pain bringing her to a boiling point. She had to release. She had to let go.

The scream was enough to force air out of her lungs, and she gasped to replenish her oxygen stores as she screamed again, thrashing.

"Shhhh."

Tears grew cold as they streamed down her face and her spine bent upward, any friction between her affected skin and what lay beneath her felt unbearable.

She could hear cackling.

A cold, chaotic, cruel sound that caused whatever skin wasn't on fire to prickle with a cold sweat.

"It's okay." The hushed, pressured words pierced through the cackle. Her vision was fuzzy and face contorted. It was like being stabbed by a million little knives over and over again. There was a silver blur against the hazy navy background. She couldn't see, she didn't care.

"Please stop," she begged as she shut her eyes tight. She could still hear the cackling as she saw the faint traces of madness before her in the shape of a woman. She felt her body recoil as the shape swirled, half defined and half a ghost in the black space of her mind.

"Here - " she felt a hard, cold sensation press against her lips as liquid poured into her mouth. She coughed as she fought against it. Another trick - perhaps a poison. The eyes lingered in her mind as she struggled to open her own. Forceful fingers were holding her jaw in place as the liquid dripped intentionally into her mouth, forcing it down her throat.

The world around slipped away, and her body shuddered as her tensed muscles finally gave in and released. She could still hear it. The faint laughter as the outline of Bellatrix Lestrange grew more hazy. The effects of the liquid made its way through her as a wash of cold, calm comfort swam over her from the inside out.

She could still see the outline of the piercing cold eyes. The maniacal cruelty that was her trademark. She could see the face as she blinked open, the face of Bellatrix fading away only to be replaced by focused, familiar, piercing silver eyes. She whimpered as she pressed her palm up against the figure before her, trying to push him away with barely enough force to make him sway. His forehead creased as he watched her body relax back into the bed, and within a few moments, Hermione succumbed to sleep once more.

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Hermione let out a shaky breath as she attempted to steady her nerves. The cave was filled with the sound of heavy beating rain, the world outside grey and blurred from her spot in the belly of the cave. Periodically, she could hear Draco outside as he moved around the outer rim, casting a protective barrier and various illusion and privacy charms nearby to ward off any unwanted visitors or creatures who might stumble upon their new home.

Home.

Hermione sighed. Despite only being stuck in their new abode a mere few days - was it three or five? Or ten? - she was beginning to feel her sense of comfort begin to wane. The rain had only started a few days ago, and yet it felt as though it may never stop. Visibility was awful, and it was near impossible to try and leave the cave for anything but necessity. The last thing they needed was to be lost, without shelter, without food, in the vicious wilderness of the Forbidden Forest. They didn't know where they were in respect to the castle or the lake.

Draco, to her relief, kept to himself. His mood seemed to dim with their surroundings, and any mention of the secret location he was planning on sharing with her stopped as the idea of venturing outside - with the exception of hunting for food or supplies - became less and less possible. He had stayed utterly tightlipped about what had happened and why they were there. Not like she had asked. A large part of her didn't even want to know. She didn't want the validation that she'd had awful taste in men that year.

Hermione sat up, steadying herself onto her knees. She stared at the small pile of bright emerald powder that she cupped in her hand. The jar next to her, nearly filled to the top with powder, was plenty but it was still finite. She didn't know what to expect - were Harry and Ron alright? Were they even alive?

The evening was such a blur, Hermione couldn't recall the last time she had seen the two. Perhaps in the dormitories? Or was it at dinner? A sense of tightness squeezed at her chest as the corners of her eyes stung. What she would give to know her two best friends were okay. What she would do for a hug from them. She wiped away her fallen tears and stared into the fireplace until her eyes began to ache.

With a deep breath, Hermione flung the Floo Powder into the roaring fire where it erupted into a flurry of bright green flames.

"The Burrow!" she stated clearly.

Hermione leaned forward, pressing her face into, and then through, the flames until she no longer saw the inside of the fireplace but instead could make out a modest yet messy kitchen. The walls were made of red brick, and dishes were overflowing in the sink next to a lone sponge that had seen better days. The sight instantly warmed her insides as a rush of happy memories filled her mind. The familiar setting of her friend's home, a home she had visited countless times over the holidays - and which always smelled of fresh baked breads and pastries - was silent. It was odd to not hear the sound of laughter and mischief echoing through the Burrow.

"Is anyone there?" Hermione called out as loudly as she could.

Hermione waited, half-expecting a red haired Weasley to pop in and respond affably. She held her breath and felt the seconds go by like hours as she waited for something.

It was clear by the untouched nature of the space, with no half-eaten meals on the table, no playful chaos reverberating through the hallways, and no sense of life, that the Weasleys were not home.

With a defeated sigh, and a growing sense of dread, Hermione retreated back into the cave in the Forbidden Forest. It felt like it'd be so easy to walk through to the other side and enter the Weasley home via Floo Network had Dumbledore not placed barriers to magical transportation. Hermione reached into her jar for another small handful of Floo Powder and threw it into the fireplace yet again.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," she said clearly, though her voice shook. She hated going in blind, not knowing who or what would be on the other side. Was the Order residing in the Grimmauld Place? Or had the Death Eaters somehow found their way to the headquarters? It was the only safehouse she could remember. Swallowing her fears, Hermione leaned into the emerald fire. As her head entered the hearth of the Grimmauld Place's drawing room, Hermione could make out the familiar sights of two large glass cabinets and the daunting, large Black Family tapestry that covered the entire left wall. She could barely make out the black holes - burn marks marring the faces of the so-called blood traitors of the Black family - from where she peeked in.

Hermione jumped as she sensed movement in the corner of the room - a sign of life - and gasped with surprise, inhaling a lungful of soot which caused her to fall into a coughing fit. The movement stopped abruptly at the sound of her repeated, uncontrolled coughs.

"Oh, it's you," came a croak of a voice. Out from behind an elegant black leather divan sauntered into view a short elf with drooping bat-like ears and grey, worn skin that looked of old leather. It turned its large nose upward and away from her as it continued to dust the room. "Kreacher does not want to see Mudbloods in his mistress' home. Oh if she knew, if she knew of the traitors and werewolves and Mudbloods that have passed through these walls -"

"Kreacher," Hermione interrupted. The house elf looked up at her startled, as though seeing her for the first time, and leaned forward in a deep bow until his large beak-like nose touched the floor. "Kreacher, have you seen Harry? Harry Potter - o-or Ron Weasley? Are they there?"

The house elf turned around and continued to wave the duster over the coffee table which came to the height of his forehead.

"Kreacher does not know of any Harry Potter or Ron Weasley in his mistress' home," he responded, as though muttering to himself. "Kreacher does not wish to help the Mudblood or blood traitors. Kreacher must serve the House of Black and uphold his Mistress' honor. All the blood traitors, destroying the noblest of families. Kreacher must do what he can for the Black family."

"Kreacher it's very important - please tell me is Harry there?" Hermione asked, the desperation apparent in her tone as she felt the Floo Network closing around her.

"The Mudblood thinks Kreacher must help her," he continued to speak to himself as he shuffled to clean the carpet on the ground. "Kreacher does not help filth."

"Harry!" Hermione resorted to shouting. "Harry, are you there?" She hoped that her voice would carry to the next room in case he was in fact in the home. The angry face of the house elf snapped up toward her.

"The Mudblood must keep quiet, she is disturbing the peace. The silly, filthy girl does not understand they have all gone to look for the traitor and the girl. What a disgrace. What poisoned blood. Poor Miss Lestrange, she was ever so kind to Kreacher."

"What are you talk-"

With a sound of a whip, Hermione was thrust backwards out of the fireplace as the green faded back into its natural orange and red burning flames. Hermione ran her fingers over her eyebrows which had gathered with tiny beads of sweat. The words of the house elf confused her more than she felt comfortable with. Who had gone to look for "the traitor?" The Order or the Death Eaters?

Perhaps the Order had finally learned of Draco's role as a Death Eater. Hermione's skin prickled with goosebumps and an uneasy sense of dread reared its ugly head again. And why were they looking for "the girl" - Miss Lestrange? Hermione leaned back onto the ground, contemplating Kreacher's cryptic message. Whatever he meant, it did not bode well for Draco that either group was hunting him.

Hermione's head felt heavy. She grabbed the jar of Floo Powder and crawled over to her bookbag, reaching to place it in its designated spot. As she did so, she felt something rough and sharp scrape against her wrist.

"Huh?" She withdrew the intruding item to inspect it and as she took a quick look, she felt the hot rush of emotion. She held several pieces of her shattered wand in her palm, and within a few of the pieces lay the limp, brown, string core of her wand. Hermione swallowed, steadying her nerves as she attempted to reassemble the pieces together. She put the pieces in order, from the thicker base where her fingers would wrap around with comfortable familiarity, where she had held for six years and cast countless charms, up to the responsive tip that had never faltered in expelling magic. As she glanced at the pieces before her, it was undeniable. The wand fell several inches short of what it used to be. With pieces missing, and the edges jagged and imperfect, it was impossible to assemble it together with magic.

Her face fell, and she slumped forward, a sense of dread overcoming her as she fought to swallow the lump that gathered in her throat. Not hearing from Harry or Ron was difficult to cope with as it was, but staring down at her primary magical tool as it lay lifeless in pieces before her made her want to curl up into a tight ball and cry.

She refused. Looking down at the mess, she refused to feel sorry for herself anymore. Helplessness was not an option for her as she was trapped in a cave with only one other person around: a Death Eater. She had to try. She was grateful that despite Draco's allegiance, in as much as one could be grateful when stuck with the enemy, he had not tried to hurt her in any way. She wasn't sure why. He hadn't tried to do anything to her, except perhaps keep her company and provide for her. It was a twisted game he was playing, but she had other things to concern herself with, like fixing her wand. And getting the hell out of there.

Not all hope was lost. She knew that. Hermione had read about the possibility of wand restoration in the past. Though the art was fickle and required highly precise tools, and in all likelihood the wand would not retain much of its original power, it was theoretically possible to keep the magic in the wand alive. She sighed, rubbing her eyes as she teetered on the edge of despair, barely able to pull herself back. It didn't matter what she thought the outcome would be, or how futile a project it would be. She had to try. Hermione reached into the crevices of her expansive bookbag and retreated several books. She prayed they held the solutions she needed as she stared anxiously at the pieces of her once powerful and trusted wand.

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"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Hermione's eyes remained glued as she sat still as a cat, not deigning to breathe lest she be distracted and miss any minuscule movement.

She could hear Draco shuffling around in the cave, preparing their meal and setting the space. She paid him no mind as she held her newly designed wand and watched as the goblet in front of her barely shifted. She sighed, grabbed the spell-o-tape, and began maneuvering the wand pieces closer and further apart yet again. Her new wand was merely a long walnut branch - surprisingly easy to find in the forbidden forest. On the branch, she had assembled the pieces of her old wand, careful to align the segments of dragon heartstring so each end touched from the base of the wand to the tip. All of this was held together with lots and lots of spell-o-tape.

"Okay," Hermione whispered to herself, looking around. Most of her bag had been emptied in a circle around her, just in case something gave her inspiration. Textbooks lay open on different pages, her fingers having drawn over the words in an effort to find information on wand repair. She had contemplated adding the fluid from crushed Fanged Geranium to strengthen the bond of the wand's core and increase its magical properties, but the plants were not likely to be found during the cold season.

Hermione let out a sharp exhale as she raised the wand, pointing it at a goblet three feet away.

"Wingardium Leviosa." She waited with bated breath as she watched the goblet with scrutiny for what may have been the hundredth time. Although it took a few seconds, the goblet lifted to the air as if it was thrown upwards and came crashing back down to the floor.

"Not bad," Draco commented from the other side of the room, drawing her attention. She suddenly became aware of her setting - how warm it felt and smelled. The fireplace roared and crackled with hearty flames that overpowered the cold air from the rain outside, and kept everything nice and toasty. The smell of fats, spices, and herbs filled her senses and her stomach growled in recognition. Draco, unruffled by her lack of response to him, continued to move in and out of the cave bringing in different root vegetables and preparing whatever delicious smell that was near the hearth.

Hermione frowned and dropped the wand, pacing around the room as she took in all of the different items on the floor and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

"What am I doing wrong?" she whispered to herself as she scratched her head. "Find a base that is similar to the wood of your wand - check. Align the core of the wand - check. Adhere the pieces together - check. What am I missing?"

"Could I try a reparative spell on it?"

She scowled and folded her arms in front of her chest. She wasn't asking him, she was trying to figure it out.

"What - no, you can't use reparative magic on a wand." She rolled her eyes at the silly statement. "I don't even know if it's worth trying anymore..." She held the ugly thing in her hand. It was bent, and bulky, and just a mess, but it was her wand. Though she knew the chances of ever being able to do a full spell with it again was undoubtedly impossible, she felt dread at the idea of giving up.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" she said, pointing the wand at the goblet again. The goblet went soaring upward and hit the ceiling of jagged rock, bending visibly upon impact.

"Well it's going in the right direction, at least."

Hermione's lips tightened into a thin line and she unclenched her jaw, feeling the physical strain of frustration in her neck.

"Dinner's almost ready, Granger." She turned toward his voice to find that a table had been set with small candleless flames hovering overhead, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls as it gently illuminated the space. The room suddenly felt intentional and not as if they were trapped in a cave in the middle of a forest. Despite the inherently pleasing appearance, Hermione found it a bit eerie. This wasn't her home, or somewhere nice to have dinner. She was stranded here.

"I can't right now," she muttered, straightening the goblet in its designated spot once more. If she held the last three pieces in place, and minimized the size of her wand movements by a third of an inch, then perhaps that might help maintain the flow of magic.

"You haven't eaten all day." She blinked in irritation as his voice fragmented her focus. "Come have dinner, you must be exhausted."

She was, but what did that matter? Progress was being made. She stared intently on the goblet, but as the scent waded toward her and the hollow-feeling in her stomach grew, she knew it was impossible to maintain complete concentration.

She dragged herself up. Her feet felt leaden after having sat on them for most of the day. She slipped into the chair noiselessly as Draco continued to shift above the fire, his sleeves folded at the elbow as his forearms flexed and unflexed while stirring the large cauldron. It felt foreign to see him slaving over a steaming pot of food. Had the wealthy Slytherin ever worked for his meal before? Hermione placed a hand on her growling stomach as she watched Draco pour several ladles of chunky stew into a bowl.

Draco silently brought a bowl to her. He brushed his hair back with his free hand, pushing the strands that had stuck to the sweat of his brow. "I'm not much of a cook," he admitted as he watched her take her spoon and dip it into the translucent brown liquid. The bowl was full of vegetables - potatoes and carrots - that Hermione would sometimes hear being chopped away by an enchanted knife - and thick pieces of gamey meat. She brought the spoon to her lips and sipped, careful not to let the steaming liquid scald her. Instantly the sweetness of the carrots and fat from the broth coated her tongue. She closed her eyes, letting the flavor be her only sensation for the moment.

"Mmm," her body responded involuntarily as she dipped the spoon and quickly went for a second bite. Hot steam rose over her face as she continued to eat. His features softened at her words before he turned to fetch a bowl for himself, returning to the table.

Hermione flinched as she felt something moving against her leg and looked up to Draco who appeared to be distracted in his own dinner.

"Hm?" she murmured to herself before she could see the source of the movement, as white fluff bounced against her. "Oh no," she mumbled to herself, "I forgot your veggies, little bun." Hermione drew away to rise from the table before Draco shook his hand at her.

"Don't bother getting up, I'll get it. Accio carrots!" With an instant whir, the leftover vegetables flew to Draco who caught them with ease and dropped them on the floor next to her. The small rabbit hopped over and began to nibble on his dinner, none the wiser. Hermione's lips pursed as she glared at a piece of potato, her appetite suddenly diminished.

"What?" Draco lifted the spoon to his lips, though his eyes remained on her.

"I could have gotten them," she stated coldly.

"Well now you don't have to," he responded after swallowing. Hermione scoffed in response, pushing the bowl away.

"You don't get it." Draco straightened, his eyes boring into her as he tried to assess the situation, his confusion unveiled.

"What are you on about, Granger?"

"You don't have to show off all the time, you know," she responded, her jaw clenching as she drew circles in her food, keeping her eyes and temper down. He must have known how frustrating it was to not have her wand for menial tasks such as that, and it was like he didn't even care that he'd rendered her useless. It would be impossible to explain to him. How could he know what it would feel like to be without magic, utterly incapable in the midst of a crisis and forced to rely on him for basic daily tasks. Hermione didn't even know how the damage had been done - if he had perhaps snapped her wand and forced her in this situation, alone and without any defenses.

She was exhausted. She felt as though her mind had been stuffed with rags to the point that pressure built in her temple and the back of her eye sockets. Her bones ached and the raw, open wound on her shoulders and neck throbbed regularly. She'd had no respite. Everything felt awful and she had no wand.

"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she sighed, "I don't expect you to understand."

With a heavy, irritated huff, Draco ran his fingers through his hair, dropping his eyes as his expression grew hard and impatient. It wasn't enough that he felt like a complete outsider even with her. He couldn't vent to her about what he had gone through. He had committed murder. He had abandoned Hogwarts and his family and the Dark Lord. He didn't have a home, he didn't have anywhere to turn to for comfort. He had burned every bridge possible, and he had no one to turn to to even discuss it. And now here she was whining about absolutely nothing noteworthy.

"Right. Fantastic then. Just go ahead and complain about whatever it is you're complaining about and leave me to wonder what your bloody problem is."

"It's you," Hermione said icily, lifting her eyes to meet his. She could see the surprise flash across his features before it dissipated into steely resolve.

It felt like a knife had pierced his side. He grew stiff, his muscles bracing against the psychological assault.

"Really?"

"Yes," she responded, her voice quavering as she felt the warm rush of the days despair, which she had hastily bottled up, rise to her throat. "You're insensitive. And cruel. You don't care at all what I've gone through, you're enjoying this hell you've put me in."

Everything felt suspended in the tension of their gaze. If it was confusion, pain, or anger that Draco felt, it would have taken severe sleuthing for Hermione to see it under his cold, intense exterior.

Though invisible to the naked eye, something snapped within him. Whatever fortifications he'd had for withstanding her accusations had quickly dissipated. He broke eye contact, withdrawing from the table and from her as he swiftly grabbed his cloak and made his way toward the entrance of the cave.

"Where are you going?" Hermione demanded. He paused for a moment and turned on his heel. With furrowed brows and icy eyes, he glared at her.

"You're being a fucking brat."

Hermione's ears rang, her blood boiling. Everything in the room was deathly still under the weight of the tension.

"I have done everything I can to make sure you're comfortable and safe here," he spat as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, his voice hoarse and tight as he spoke. His hands gestured to the fireplace where the cauldron continued to bubble with the aromatic stew and to the cozy room they had formed together, fortified and well-guarded by magic he had placed around the perimeter most of the day.

"And to be truthful," he continued, exercising an immense amount of control as he let out an intentionally slow exhale, "I am sick and tired of being blamed for this - for us being here. I'm stuck here just as much as you. You think I like being here? Having to hunt for food? Having to watch you mash herbs for your burn when we could just buy a sodding potion? D'you have any idea how bloody dangerous the forest is?"

He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"No, Granger, I am not 'enjoying this.' I'm stuck here too. Am I complaining? No. Am I making your life a living bloody hell? No. You've been - cruel to me. And honestly, I - I can't - I won't deal with it any longer."

He looked at her once more as she stared back, bewildered.

"Goodbye, Hermione."

And with the turn of his heel, Draco disappeared into the night.

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