A/N: I hope you're healthy, safe, and able to find toilet paper ❤︎
I fear nothing.
. . .
Streetlight glistened off the cobblestone as factory smoke darkened the air once more, the storm settled at long last. Tom wasted no time navigating the damp streets, lightning splitting the sky in frantic bursts. The majority of residents had taken shelter from the downpour, taverns packed and shutters drawn, but ships continued sailing in the distance, their echoing horns reminding him of times long past.
Every dark alley and derelict building assaulted him with memory, bringing forth images of the last time he'd traversed these roads. Ducking and diving around newspaper trolleys and lampposts, horses squealing as he narrowly avoided a collision. Carriage drivers aiming rotten fruit at his head while he gestured offensively and laughed, indifferent to their threats. They'd called him a filthy street rat and he'd worn the title with pride, doing his utmost to become the most successful little pick-pocketer Horsleydown had ever known.
He was pulled from the reverie by Umbridge's exhausted huff. His teeth clenched, the uneven click of her heels stabbing through his mind like an ice-pick, rational thought fleeting.
"Walk faster," he demanded.
"I'm going as fast as I can!" She snapped, annoyance outpacing fear as she gathered her skirts and attempted to jump a puddle. Her short legs flailed, landing in the center with a wet splash and outraged squeal.
Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose, praying for patience. He'd allowed them to take shelter from the worst of the storm, knowing Grindelwald would be forced to do the same, but he refused to slow his pursuit now. "You certainly know your way around these parts," she continued, wringing her sopping skirts with a cringe. "I don't see why you need me."
Tom exhaled, keen on strangling her when a woman called out from the other side of the street. Her silhouette was framed by orange streetlight, cleavage ample and curls matted. He blinked quickly, overwhelmed by random memory, the recollection so intense he was suddenly ten-years-old again, racing along the same ash-caked street as evening faded to dusk above a smoking skyline. He tore through a gutter trench, splashing mud over the curb and across the tattered skirt of a woman hovering nearby.
"Oi! Slow it down, Tommy!" Her jagged voice called. "If I wash this dress one more time it'll split into rags!"
He flashed a boyish grin over his shoulder. "I'll buy you a new one, Ms. Goldie!"
"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say before running in the opposite direction!" She craned her neck as he charged up the street. "And steer clear of Jefferson's shop! Man says he'll tan your thieving hide the next time he sees ya!"
The memory dissolved on the sound of childish laughter, untainted by the horrors yet to come. Back in the present, the woman across the street followed his progress, flicking her cigarette and exhaling a torrent of smoke.
"Hello, handsome. Looking for some fun?" Her kohl-lined gaze shifted to his scowling companion, sharp laughter cutting through the night. "I'm rarely one to judge, luv, but I think you can find a damn sight better company than that."
Umbridge bared her teeth, staring forward. "I don't take offense from a clap-ridden whore."
"Why don't you say that to my face, bitch?" The woman challenged, stepping off the curb.
"I can't see it beneath ten-stones of spackle and modeling clay!"
Tom shook his head as they hissed like feral cats, grabbing Umbridge by the arm and dragging her away. "Enough."
She thrashed in his grip, unable to wrench free. "I won't be spoken down to by a simple-minded harlot!"
"Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me."
Her face puckered as he released her. "What am I even doing here? You obviously know the area, you can find the house on your own!"
"You need to identify the property."
"It was long ago," she muttered, adjusting her tattered gown. "During the night no less. I'm not certain I recall what it looks like."
"Let's hope your memory revives in the next few minutes. It's the only thing keeping you alive at present."
She raised her chin in defiance. "If you intended to kill me you'd have done so already."
"I intended for starvation to kill you in the attic." He quelled a satisfied grin as she stumbled, complexion paling at last. "Don't test me," he warned for good measure, solidifying her silence. Alas, the blissful reprieve only lasted a few seconds more; they rounded the corner and more women appeared, clustered before a condemned building in pursuit of dry ground.
"Filthy trollops," Umbridge muttered, teetering around a puddle. "Crawling the streets like cockroaches. You could catch disease just by treading in their shadow."
Tom gazed ahead, tone evenly measured. "Most are murdered before sickness takes them."
"A small blessing," she mused. "Less opportunity for their vile infection to spread." The muscle in his jaw clenched but she remained ignorant to the effect, eyes fixed to the group with contempt. "Only appropriate they should die here. Horsleydown, where whores lie down. This entire place should be raised to the ground like Sodom and Gomorrah, eradicate all the vermin in a lake of fire."
"Horsleydown derives from horses lie down next to the river, named for its epicenter of trade between the Thames and the railway. Once competing ports opened the family-owned businesses went bankrupt and the factories moved in."
"Of course," she laughed sharply. "And where there are hourly workers there are whores. They flock to the smoke, spreading their legs before the gates even open."
He exhaled slowly. "Prostitution doesn't afford the luxury of travel. The majority are born where they work, forced to alleys to make ends meet."
"Laziness, pure and simple." She scowled at the gathering before following him onto the adjoining road. "They could get a job if they tried. It's not a stroll in the park, I can certainly attest to that, but hard work pays off. Instead, they're eager to take the easy way out, lying on their backs while counting their filthy coin."
He rolled his head atop his shoulders, neck cracking as the image of Goldie's black eye resurfaced, lid swollen and hand trembling as she took a drag from her cigarette, watching him over the burning tip. "It ain't as bad as it looks, kid," she'd muttered through the blue-tinged smoke. "Besides, I got him back. Bastard won't be pissin' straight for a week."
"I doubt they view their lives as easy," Tom uttered, dispelling the shadow from his mind. "The factories don't hire women, it's spread their legs or watch their children starve."
"More like natural selection," she clipped. "The children are just as burdensome on society."
He dismissed her words like rubbish in the street. Still, try as he might, he couldn't shake the weight of his past, the sensation of Albus's hand on his shoulder returning like a dark phantom. Women had gathered on the balcony above, watching the famed-Admiral guide the scarred and battered boy up the street towards his private carriage. They'd called down with smiles and waves, colorful farewells overlapping, but Goldie's voice had risen above the feminine commotion.
"Oi, Tommy!"
He'd paused, glancing up through dead eyes to meet the sunken gaze, her complexion sallow from whatever wasting sickness had taken hold. "Make something of yourself, kid. See the world, go wherever it takes you, but never set foot in this place again, you hear?"
He'd held her stare, shouts and guffaws from the corner tavern filling the silence as he nodded shortly and allowed Albus to lead him the rest of the way. He'd been too exhausted to fight his guardian that afternoon… but he'd certainly felt up to the task that weekend, running away for the first of many times. He'd crossed the entire city by foot just to sit inside the moldy shed behind his old house, hours passing on end as he watched the rotten beam and pondered her final moments, wondering if she'd thought of him, if she'd thought of anything at all. Dirt and sweat had coated his back, wounds itching deep beneath the scarred surface, but he'd refused to budge until the throbbing ache rang through his entire body, every cut reopened with methodical care—
Enough. He treaded through a puddle as though destroying the memory, watching the murky images ripple to the far recesses of his mind.
"You've done enough talking for one evening, Dolores," he growled. "I don't want to hear your voice unless it's providing direction." She released a grating sound but offered no complaint, following with a trudging step as they neared the wharves.
The Thames shone black in the moonlight, an inky serpent beckoning him with its rhythmic tide. His hand slid into his pocket as the sound increased, fingers tracing the frayed ribbon while he navigated the uneven pavement. A breeze followed at his back, carrying notes of grease and saltwater, the familiar combination making his shoulder-blades tighten, dead nerve-endings yawning to life. And then a figure emerged from the alley ahead, ensnaring his interest like a rabbit before a fox.
The new-comer was headed in the same direction, face concealed, but his jittery movements were strikingly familiar. Umbridge's breath caught and Tom knew he wasn't imagining it. "Who is he?" He muttered, watching the retreating figure with predatory focus.
She inhaled shakily. "He was in the company of the Lestranges the last time I was here. I don't recall his name but his mannerisms are unforgettable."
Tom lifted his chin as yet another memory stretched at the back of his mind. A pointed face and nervous stammer, the name Rodolphus had used in the conservatory… "Quirrell," he recalled aloud.
"Yes, that's it," she whispered. Tom halted and turned without warning, directing his gleaming gaze upon her. She staggered in surprise, sweat beading across her brow and upper-lip as she stumbled backward. "W-what?"
"You've just exceeded your usefulness," he replied simply, stalking after her. "I no longer require your services."
"Please," she begged, lifting trembling hands. "I tried to help, I did everything you—" she gasped, colliding with a lamppost, its pulsing light reflecting off her damp cheeks.
Tom stopped just before her. "I won't reverse Ms. Granger's stay of execution. She intended for you to leave London so that's what you'll do." She sagged with relief, only to stiffen with dread as he leaned forward, speaking so low she had to hold her breath to hear the words. "But I never want to see your face again, Dolores, in this city or anywhere else I set foot. If you have the great fortune of spotting me first: run. Pack your bags and get far, far away. Because if we ever cross paths after tonight I will kill you, without a shred of hesitation or remorse."
She swallowed convulsively. "I—"
"Don't speak. Just go. Now." He didn't have to tell her twice. She pushed away from the post and bolted up the street as fast as her legs would allow, heels clicking across the stone and fading around the corner.
Tom released a slow breath and turned his attention to the other end of the street. Empty. His eyes gleamed as he ducked out of the streetlight and slipped into the nearest alley, cutting a determined path down its center. Vagrants lingered inside, eyeing him warily. He took no offense, knowing he was too well-dressed to pass as a resident and too confident in his mannerisms to pose as a client. They sized him up, one pulling a tarnished blade from his pocket, but made no advance in his direction. Tom stalked by without a glance, making it clear they weren't his prey for the evening. Within seconds he emerged on the other side, greeted by even more decrepit scenery. The majority of shops were boarded and vandalized but he paid his surroundings little mind, knowing the layout of this neighborhood like the back of his hand.
His attention fastened to a reedy shadow in the distance, twitching and jerking across the brick before fading from view. He quickly righted his course, pulling his collar high and rounding the corner, coming face-to-face with another group of street-walkers. His determined step and murderous glare did nothing to deter their enthusiasm, each accustomed to life-threatening situations on a nightly basis. They continued to preen and display, calling out as he strode past. One woman reached for his arm, glaring when he veered out of her path. "Fucking arsehole!" She screamed, throwing her cigarette at his coat. "Get out of our neighborhood, buggering prick!"
He smirked at her bravado, following the shadow around an abandoned rubber factory. Quirrell appeared halfway up the street, glancing over his shoulder as Tom joined him on the dark and desolate stretch of cobblestone. The jittery man blanched, facing forward and quickening his pace. Tom continued calmly, watching him bob and weave around rubbish like a nervous cat before glancing back a second time, stumbling over his feet. Tom bit back a sigh, knowing the stupidity to follow. True to form, Quirrell gazed back a third time, eye spasming as he burst into a dead run, fleeing across the pavement with a high-pitched yelp.
Tom ground his teeth and gave chase, reaching the flailing figure in only a few bounds. He caught Quirrel by the jacket and wrenched him back as he tried darting inside an alley, throwing him into the wall and pinning him flat with an arm across his throat.
"P-please!" The man begged. "Take my b-billfold! It's in my v-vest, I w-w-won't say any—"
"Shut up."
Quirrell's jaw trembled, broken pleas bubbling behind pursed lips. Tom raised a brow, impressed he was able to contain himself. "You don't recognize me," he mused, causing his prey to shudder.
"S-should I?"
"You're on your way to Madam Lestrange."
Quirrell gulped, the motion obstructed by the pressure on his throat. His eyes tracked over Tom's face carefully, recognition sparking. "You w-were at the auc-c-ction—"
"Very good," Tom clipped, eyes glinting in the moonlight. "Now take me to them."
"T-Them?"
He pressed his forearm down. Quirrell sputtered, squirming like a worm on the hook as his face turned a blistering red. "I know she's with the Dollmaker," Tom growled.
"She's m-meeting him… at the d-docks—"
"Docks?" His heart rioted. "He's leaving by ship?"
Quirrell's eyes started to bug, forcing Tom to relinquish his pressure before they popped out of his head and rolled down the alley. "I d-don't know," he wheezed. "S-she just t-told me to b-bring her c-c-cash—"
"Show me," Tom demanded, stepping back as Quirrell trembled violently, snuffing his resistance before it could kindle. "You're a sheep who's spent a lifetime among wolves; you know how to survive in this world." His chin lowered, shadows creeping along his face as clouds converged above. "Give me what I want and you'll live to see the morning."
Quirrell nodded with a whimper. "She's a f-few streets ov-ver—"
"Bella's no longer a part of this." Lightning spilled across the sky, illuminating Tom's metallic gaze. "Take me to the docks."
Padma cringed back as the needle pierced her skin, sinking into the vein with a soft pop.
"Hey!" Parvati shouted, rising from her chair. "Watch it!"
Padma sent her twin an exasperated look over the doctor's shoulder. "It's just a shot, Parvati. I'm fine."
Her sister crossed her arms, eyes narrowed on the syringe. "What are you injecting her with?"
"A simple saline solution," the physician explained, unaffected by her outburst. "This should help restore intravascular volume." He withdrew the needle, placing a cotton ball at the injection site. "Once your fluid levels are corrected we'll move onto a maintenance course of treatment."
Padma nodded, pressing her fingers to the cotton as he stepped back. "Thank you, doctor."
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me or one of the nurses," he offered, removing his gloves and tugging the privacy curtain wide. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed across the hall."
"Of course," Padma muttered, distracted by the rows of cots revealed through the parting in the fabric. Every bed was occupied by a gown-clad patient, painted eyes fixed blankly ahead while their bodies sat propped with coma-like stillness. Nurses moved between the rows, eyeing their charges warily, each at a loss. Parvati noticed the direction of her sister's gaze and strode to the curtain, tugging it closed.
"No," Padma argued, sitting straighter. "We need to wake them."
"Neville and Hannah are taking care of it. They'll make it to our room soon."
"It's cruel to make them wait."
Parvati's jaw twitched, chewing on the words she undoubtedly wanted to say before relenting with a sigh, reaching for the fabric once more. Padma rose from the exam table, swaying with light-headedness. "Whoa!" Parvati shouted, rushing to her side and steadying her shoulders "You need to rest—"
"I've been in a coma for three days, I'm full-up on rest."
"Padma—"
"Parvati." She returned her sister's grip, squeezing in reassurance. "It's okay. I'm okay. But the others aren't. They need us."
Parvati searched her face before releasing another frustrated breath. Padma smiled, pecking her twin's cheek before edging past, still a bit wobbly but far-removed from the mind-numbing fatigue she'd felt upon waking.
"You start with the girls here."
"Where are you going?" Parvati asked.
Padma pushed the curtain aside. "Down the hall." She fought back a shudder as she navigated a row of frozen dolls. "I need to wake Dawn."
Parvati arched a brow. "Have you met her before?"
"We go way back," Padma muttered, reaching the door and slipping out before her sister could respond.
The hall was void of movement but alive with voices, the steady buzz emanating from an open room to her right. She peeked inside and a dozen more cots appeared, their mattresses unoccupied, blankets wadded and thrown to the ground as young women paced in circles and nurses wove anxiously between them, everyone equally perplexed.
Padma journeyed past the chaos and turned her inspection to the uniformed officers guarding the private wing. One of them glanced her way, nodding in silent greeting before resuming his rigid post. She returned the gesture and inhaled slowly, arriving at a closed-door at the end of the hall. She reached for the handle— only to gasp as it twisted of its own accord, the barrier parting swiftly to reveal a slight blonde wearing a serene expression.
For a heart-stopping moment, Padma thought it was Ariana and she was instantly transported back to Wonderland, the last two hours merely a dream, a cruel hallucination, reality fraying at the seams—
"Hello, Padma," the young woman greeted. "We've been expecting you."
Padma blinked, the girl's features gaining clarity before her eyes. "Oh…" she muttered, crawling back inside her body. "I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Luna," the girl supplied. "I'm a friend of Parvati. I met you a few days ago, we read Gulliver's Travels while I plaited your hair, then we were shot at and I picked glass out of your dress. I wish I'd had flowers."
Padma blinked again. "Flowers?"
"For your hair. I think hyacinth would pair beautifully with the color."
The words settled over her mind like a dense fog. Padma took them in stride, returning the blonde's welcoming grin and entering the room. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Luna." And then her gaze fell on the room's third occupant and her expression seized.
Dawn appeared different on the outside of the veil, almost unrecognizable to her dreamscape counterpart. Her pale limbs blended into the sterile linens, features sallow and gaunt, lacking the usual vibrancy Padma had grown accustomed to seeing. She was terrified to imagine what the girl had experienced in the real world. Then again, she wasn't eager to ponder what her own body had been through these last three years. Her hands pressed her middle, stomach knotting.
"I'll give you some privacy," Luna offered, hovering at the doorway.
Padma glanced sideways. "Thank you," she whispered, teetering nervously as the young woman left, shutting the door with a soft click and enclosing Padma with the lifeless body of her friend.
She approached the bed with a tentative step, perching gingerly on the edge and reaching for the girl's hand. Dawn's fingers felt as cold and frail as they appeared. Padma's chest burned, emotions multiplying until she was fit to burst, terrified the cure wouldn't work. That this would be the one exception, the continuation of her punishment for some terrible sin committed in a past life—
She shook her head, refusing to entertain the possibility. Dawn would wake and they'd find a way to heal from this nightmare together, neither woman alone in her suffering. She pressed Dawn's palm to her chest and leaned down, speaking low and clear, voice unwavering.
"Draíocht… draíocht… draíocht."
She held her breath and fell as still as the body laid beneath her, counting backward from ten to three before the fingers twitched in her grasp. Padma straightened, heartbeat quickening. "Dawn?" She prompted.
A soft moan permeated the air as Dawn's lids fluttered, eyes dazed and fixed to the ceiling. Padma's heart sank at her blank countenance, wondering if something went wrong. "Dawn… it's Padma."
The empty gaze flickered down, narrowing imperceptibly. "I'm still dreaming," Dawn whispered, hoarse and low.
Padma shook her head, pressing the borrowed palm over her heart so she could feel its pounding beat. "It's real," she supplied, searching the faraway expression. "You're awake. This is home."
Dawn blinked again, gaze widening. "Padma?"
Padma smiled, then laughed as Dawn sprung upright, coming to life like a jack-in-the-box to embrace her. She didn't make a sound, only trembled as Padma tightened her grasp, understanding the need for silence. Padma released her when she felt her companion pull back, untangling their arms and drying her cheeks as Dawn glanced around the barren room.
"Where's Hermione?" The girl asked, rubbing her throat as her voice cracked.
Padma folded her hands and smiled brightly. "Killing him for good."
Hermione followed Harry across the wet cobblestone, their footsteps mirroring the path of the gutter as it drained towards the river. Ship horns blared in the distance, the Thames glimmering behind rows of factories and warehouses. The buildings appeared derelict and grimier the closer they got to the water, pedestrians turning less curious and more hostile. But unlike their memorable excursion to All Hallows, Hermione didn't feel the instinctual need to cling to her friend's side this time around.
She maneuvered the streets with steady confidence, hand clenching for a phantom blade she knew wouldn't materialize. She remembered the weapon vibrantly, its pulsing blue light and vibrating hum one of the few memories yet to slip through her fingers like sand. Alas, Hermione knew it was futile clinging to her adventures in Wonderland. Law and reason dictated her life once again, she couldn't very well cut off a person's head for crossing her. A shame, really.
She sighed, earning her companion's sideways glance.
"Are you sure—"
"I'm fine, Harry," she replied without scorn.
"I can see that," he smirked. "I was going to ask if you wanted the gun."
She met his gaze as they rounded the corner, awaiting the punchline. "Very funny."
"I'm not joking."
She arched a brow. "You trust me with a gun?"
"As much as any sailor. You'll only shoot to kill, and most importantly, you know who needs killing."
Her lips parted, seconds passing as she processed his words. "A few weeks ago you refused to take me to the morgue."
"A lot has happened since then," he admitted, hands slipping inside his coat as a cool breeze swept past. "I see how capable you are. I'm sorry I ever doubted it."
Hermione grinned, chest warm despite the autumn chill. "Thank you," she whispered, navigating around a busted wagon. Its contents reeked of rotten fish, causing her to gag and quickened her pace. "But I trust your aim far better than mine," she continued, gasping for clean air. "At least from a distance. Point blank shouldn't be a problem."
He shook his head with a laugh. "Perhaps one of us should have gone to Horselydown. I don't think Theo and Malfoy share our violent enthusiasm."
"They won't need to. Grindelwald isn't there."
Harry's expression rapidly sobered. "How do you know?"
Her focus drifted to the river as the tide increased. "I just do." She forced a deep breath, algae and grease coating the back of her throat. "Which makes Draco the perfect choice. His aunt would never harm him."
"I think the feeling is mutual," Harry reflected, following her stare to the dark water.
"Draco will do what's right, Theo will give him the strength to follow through." She slowed before a cement blockade. "Just like us."
"What a pair," Harry grinned, lifting the chain.
She ducked beneath the heavy links with a nod of appreciation, rising on the other side as he followed suit. "I mean it, Harry. I can't finish this without you, without all of you. The girls are safe. What you did was incredible."
He emerged beside her on the wharf, slats creaking as they started down the desolate dock. "I just thought about what you'd have done in my situation—"
"No," she interjected, grasping his arm. "You've always been this way, brave and selfless. I'm sorry it took me so long to appreciate."
He gazed at her strangely, waves lapping the embankment as the wind increased. "You've always appreciated me."
She released him to stare at the path ahead. Ships pulled on their tethers, hulls groaning loudly before bumping the edge of the dock. "I think I've fallen short in that regard many times," she admitted. "I never understood the strength of teamwork until recently." Her gaze drifted to Tower Bridge, carriages traveling back and forth beneath the fog. "I was raised an only-child, forced to tackle problems alone. Then somewhere along the way necessity became preference. I thrived on independence and snubbed help when it was offered. It was selfish and prideful but mostly, it was terribly lonely." She released a weary breath, turning to face him. "But I've learned some problems are too big to face alone. And what's more, I don't want to. I trust my friends with my life, I can certainly trust their commitment to seeing this night through."
Harry grinned and snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side heedless of his battered ribs. She felt the rigid outline of the pistol in his waistband and found comfort in its presence. "Look at us," he declared. "Growing and changing in the midst of calamity."
"Growing and changing mean the same thing."
"Well, it was good while it lasted."
She slipped free of his hold with a laugh and eyed the wooden fence ahead, four-meters high with trespassing signs scattered across its front. "Stop distracting me, Harry Potter. We're on a mission."
"Apologies. It's just good to have you back."
Her skin twitched, feeling the unspoken question hanging in the air. "I really am fine," she assured him, knowing he needed to hear the words one more time.
"I'd rather you were happy."
She stopped before the fence, considering. "Talk to me after the sun comes up."
Harry grinned but before he could respond a flourish of voices emanated from a nearby building. "Shite!" He hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her behind a stack of shipping containers.
A group of men emerged from the darkness, strolling at a leisurely drunken gait. She held her breath from her crouched position as one of them stopped to pee off the side of the dock, stream echoing loudly. Finally, they continued on, stumbling beneath the barricade and disappearing up the street.
Harry rose carefully, inspecting the empty wharf before turning his attention to the wooden fence blocking their path. A chain bound its gate, heavy padlocks sealing it tight.
"Ideas?" She whispered, rising beside him.
"Shooting the locks will draw too much attention." He drew a hand over his mouth, eyes lifting. "We'll have to go over the top."
She bit back a groan. "I was really hoping you wouldn't say that."
"I don't know why you're complaining, you get the boost."
"Good point."
The slats groaned as Harry dropped to one knee and created a basket with his hands, cringing when she stepped into it. She bit her lip and pressed forward, eager to alleviate his cracked ribs of her weight, scrambling for the top of the barrier as he lifted her up.
"What's on the other side?" He grunted.
Her hands finally found purchase, arms trembling as she peeked over the side. "A stack of shipping crates, I can use them to descend." She pulled up with all her might, unable to hoist herself the remaining distance. "Just… a bit… more…"
"Get ready."
"For wha—!" She shrieked as he launched her like a rocket, limbs flailing before her legs straddled the top, hands clinging for dear life. "Harry!"
"Sorry," he panted, leaning against the fence and clutching his side.
"Oi!" They jolted at the deep brogue, orange light washing over their shocked faces. "What in the hell?" The voice continued, a wide-shouldered deckhand stepping out of the shadows with a lantern. He lifted it higher, shining it in Harry's eyes before his gaze drifted to Hermione, flashing with rage. "This is private property! Get down!"
Her attention shifted to his other hand, spotting a metal pipe. She rocked precariously, fingertips turning white against the fence. "Harry…"
"Go," he instructed calmly, straightening against the barrier as he adorned his Lieutenant skin. "I'll catch up."
She shook her head, clinging tighter to her narrow ledge. "But—"
"Find him." He glanced up, meeting her hesitant gaze. "Finish it."
Her throat felt tight but she nodded all the same. "I will."
She forced her gaze away as Harry started forward, swinging her leg over the side and dropping nearly a meter before hitting the containers. A muffled altercation drifted through the fence as Hermione began her careful descent but she pressed on, trusting her friend's ability to take care of himself. Her boots hit the private dock with a thud, wind whipping through her hair as she ran for the empty ships ahead. And as she slipped into the welcoming darkness she couldn't help but wish she'd taken up Harry's offer to carry the gun after all.
Draco ground his teeth with every step, sweat pooling at his nape as electricity sizzled through his calf.
"Christ," Theo muttered. "Look at you. We should have taken a—"
"We don't need a bloody carriage."
"You look like a vagrant who was mauled by wild hogs."
"I had to scale a fucking roof, what's your excuse?" Draco hissed.
"Guilty by association." Theo's gaze lingered on the blonde's swollen ankle. "We can slow—"
"Stop talking."
Theo shook his head. "Happily."
They passed a group of women on the corner, the majority focused on the churning sky above and muttering about their hair, but one broke away from the gathering, sidling towards them with a toothy grin.
"Hello gents," she greeted boisterously, looping an arm around Draco's shoulders. She reeked of cheap wine and body odor, the noxious combination intensifying the stabbing pain in his limb. "My, my, aren't you a pair. What brings you pretty lads round these parts?" She leaned into his side, exuding confidence he would have found amusing on any other night. But on this particular evening, his foul mood clung to him like a shadow, enveloping him fully as they neared the end of the street.
"Sight-seeing," he clipped, shrugging out of her hold.
She kept pace beside them, unfettered by the rebuke. "We're a popular tourist destination. Anything you're looking for in particular?"
"Parish Street."
She laughed sharply, causing him to cringe. "Why bother, luv? The tarts on Parish can't offer you anything I can't. Don't waste your time."
"I think I'll look for myself."
She scowled, lingering on the curb as they continued forward. "Fine! I'm charging double when you come crawling back!"
"Brilliant business acumen!"
"Fuck you!"
"Change of heart already?" Draco shouted into the damp night.
Theo shot him a pointed look as they rounded the corner. "Don't start," Draco hissed, scrubbing his face in exhaustion. "It's been a long night."
"And it's about to get longer," his friend announced. "We're on Parish."
Draco halted and searched for the street sign, exhaling swiftly as he confirmed their location. A scantily clad woman slipped into an alley with her client, the rest of the street overcome by fog. But a steady creaking drew his notice, the sound emanating from beyond the mist. He limped forward, pulse thundering as he breached the cloud and journeyed through the sea of grey, a broken swing-set materializing at the end of the road. Its rusted chains swayed in an invisible current, the neighboring garden dead and decayed. The building situated behind the tarnished structure appeared equally haunted, children's drawings decorating the busted windows while dark shutters slammed the scarred siding.
"The Grammar School," Draco muttered, stopping before the rod iron fence, overgrowth crawling its posts. "Which means…"
He and Theo slowly turned, tension mounting as they faced the brownstone across the street. It was in better condition than the majority of properties sharing the block but a far cry from any place he could imagine his Aunt stepping foot in. He leveled his shoulders and approached, spine tightening when he found the gate unlocked, ancient hinges groaning as he parted the barrier.
"Draco—"
"Wait down here."
"Not a chance," his friend responded, following him along the gravel path. Draco didn't bother arguing, retaining every ounce of energy for the battle ahead.
A note was pinned to the front door, elegant script recognizable at any distance. He ripped it free, reading its message before crumpling the paper in his fist.
Come up.
He tossed the scrap into a withered bush and wrenched the door wide, promptly met by a narrow stairwell leading up. Every step was another lash of agony to his brittle nerves, jaw locked and body trembling by the time he reached the second door. The handle refused to budge so he resorted to using his pounding fist, eager to dispel his pent aggression. There was shuffling from inside, the lock sliding loudly as his Aunt's shrill greeting filtered free.
"About bloody time! You should have been here hours—" The door cracked open, dark eyes widening on the other side. "Draco?" Her lips puckered like a fish. "What are you—"
He shouldered the barrier open, driving her back and storming inside, pain washed clean by a flood of adrenaline. "Where is he?" He demanded.
She shook her head, blood draining from her complexion. "You shouldn't be—"
"Where is he?" He shouted, turning in circles to inspect the filthy room, waiting for the monster to materialize from the shadows.
"Where is who?" She asked, attention shifting to Theo as he paced inside and closed the door. "What is—"
"No more games," Draco growled. "Where is the Dollmaker?"
Something sparked in the depths of her gaze, a struck match that failed to ignite. "So that's why you snuck into the auction," she whispered, wobbling backward as Draco drove her towards the warped mantle.
"I went for Hermione," he revealed, taking sinister pleasure in her reaction.
The air pressure changed along with her countenance, her blossoming rage a seismic force that shook the foundation of the hovel. He felt the vibration in his heels and stopped his forward charge, unsettled by the murderous gleam in her eyes. And then she opened her mouth and a feral scream rang forth, piercing enough to shatter glass. Draco covered his ears and staggered back, glancing at Theo for guidance. But his friend appeared equally dumbfounded—
And then the torturous wail died all at once, silence ringing with an eerie hum. Draco lowered his hands while Bella smoothed her hair, her bodice, her skirts, pupils blown wide as she watched them with calm calculation.
"My, my," she mused, expression smooth as fresh snow. "It seems half the guests were in attendance for the lovely Hermione Granger. Whatever did she do to earn the favor of so many? I simply must know." She began stalking forward, Draco her prey. His fists clenched, eager to stand his ground, but the malevolence of her voice propelled him back. "I've spent my entire life at the mercy of another's will, another's perversion, and yet an unremarkable little girl has a string of men wrapped so tightly around her finger they can barely breathe outside of her presence, little less think. So please tell me, Draco, my darling, what makes her so special? What makes her the center of your entire universe?"
He stumbled over a sun-bleached stool and collided with a side table, knocking a lantern to the ground. The glass shattered, oil spilling across the warped slats.
"I must learn her secret," Bella continued, eyes gleaming with manic light. "How to accomplish so much with nothing, how to want for nothing. Surely it's the key to escaping this waking nightmare once and for all." She sprung her attack, grasping his lapels and jerking him forward. "Tell me!"
He wrenched her off with a hiss. "You can share your sob story with the jury. It won't work on me."
"Sob story?" She tipped her head and cackled, the sound scurrying down his spine like spider legs. "You know nothing about my story. Nothing." She lunged again and he ducked aside, narrowly avoiding her painted talons as he collided with Theo, both men staggering with the impact.
"You were raised in the lap of luxury beside your sisters," Draco growled. "I know your history as well as theirs."
Her eyes flared with outrage. "They have no idea what I went through! All I did to protect—" she gasped suddenly, lids pressing tight as she clutched her head and doubled over, spasming violently. Draco barely had time to blink before her arms went limp and her body toppled sideways, hitting the ground with a thud and seizing immediately.
"Draco?" Theo urged. "What—"
"I can't!" She sobbed, eyes slitting open to gaze at the ceiling in abject horror. "I can't I can't I can't I can't—" Her words tapered as her jaw locked, eyes rolling back and limbs jerking.
"Fucking hell," Theo muttered, carding both hands through his hair. "Is she one of them?"
Draco's mouth hung wide, heart racing towards a stroke. "She can't be," he whispered. "She can't…"
"We need to do something or she's going to die."
"It isn't possible, she's faking—"
"Draco!" Theo shouted, earning his dazed stare. "She's fucking one of them! Say the bloody trigger!"
Draco's thoughts continued to spiral as he lowered to his knees, hands trembling as he struggled to pin her shoulders flat. "Draíocht… draíocht…" he hesitated, watching the frantic throb of her neck. "Draíocht," he concluded, turning rigid as she fell perfectly still, limbs splayed like a corpse.
"Fuck!" Theo shouted. "Is she dead?"
Draco stared at her chest, unable to see it move.
"Check her pulse—"
"Get down here and help me!" Draco demanded, prompting the man to drop beside him in sullen silence.
Draco took a steadying breath and reached for her neck, fingers twitching, but the moment he pressed the heated flesh she burst to life, jolting upright as though the floor was spring-loaded. The men fell back, watching in mutual shock as she panted desperately and clawed at her throat, tugging at an invisible noose. Her eyes maintained a dream-like quality as they flitted around the room, absorbing nothing until reaching her astounded audience.
"Draco? What are you doing here?" She muttered feebly, fingers encasing her neck as her eyes drifted sideways. "Theodore? How—" She cast her searching gaze back to the room. "Why are we…." Her lids fluttered, shoulders easing as her hands fell into her lap. "I'm dreaming," she whispered.
Draco scowled, senses returning in a feverish rush. "You can save the performance for the magistrate."
"I don't think it's an act," Theo muttered, continuing to watch with a grave expression.
"She's a talented liar," Draco declared, pushing to his feet and straightening his coat. "Hermione and Padma came back without any memory loss."
"Maybe she—"
"You must go," Bella announced suddenly, staring at the front door with ominous concentration. "He'll be here soon."
Draco tensed.
"The Dollmaker is coming?" Theo prompted, sitting on alert.
"I fucking knew it," Draco muttered, heart soaring triumphantly. "Potter's a bloody fool."
"You must go now," she hissed, wringing her skirt like a rag. "Stay in your room and don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
Draco paused, glancing down. "What?"
She rose swiftly. Theo shifted back, weary of her movements, but Draco stood his ground, certain of her duplicity — until she stood centered before him and his stone resolve wavered, the torment in her gaze so raw and absolute he felt robbed of breath, swaying back to escape its cold vacuum.
"It's alright, Cissy," she murmured, reaching up to take his face in her hands. "Please don't cry. Andy's gone but I'll protect you." He opened his mouth but no sound emitted. Then her touch retreated as quickly as it came. "Shite!" She gasped, spinning to the door. "He's here!"
Draco and Theo gazed at the barrier with mutual apprehension, tension mounting with every stuttered beat as her bristling terror became contagious.
"Go in the closet!" She yelled, grabbing his elbow and dragging him back. "Shut the door and cover your ears! Hurry!"
Draco staggered beneath her insistence, reaching for her arm. "Bella—"
"Don't touch me!" She screamed, releasing him as though burned and falling in a heap. Her arms wrapped her middle as her face pressed her knees, shoulders wracked by silent sobs.
Draco blinked quickly, questioning his sanity as much as hers. "I… I'm your nephew… Draco."
Her frantic breathing stilled. "Draco?" She echoed softly, glancing up through clumped lashes. Her features turned smooth, recognition slowly dawning. "You're so handsome… just like your father. But your mother on the inside, where it counts." Her dark eyes drifted, watching an unknown scene play out in a dust cloud. "I wonder if Saros would have been the same. Rodolphus's beautiful face and my black, decaying heart."
Draco swallowed thickly and looked at Theo but before his friend could lend assistance her words drew them back like a ripcord.
"It was foolish to name him. Selfish, really. But that's what I am. A vain, selfish creature… The doctors all warned me against it, with my injuries the chances of making it to term were so slim. But after six months I gave in. I couldn't help it." She tilted her head, hair spilling across her shoulders in dark tendrils, escaping its fallen pins. "I was decided on Caleb for weeks," she continued in a hollow voice. "Not because it held any particular meaning or glamour, simply because it broke from tradition. A name outside the cursed galaxy of our bloodline. A fresh chapter in a new book. And then I stumbled across the most beguiling little article and fell completely head over heels with Saros. I began embroidering his blanket that same afternoon."
She glanced up, meeting Draco's gaze with unnerving calm. "It means eclipse repeating. Such beautiful imagery, no?" Tears over spilled her lashes. "I didn't realize what I'd done. Condemning my baby to the never-ending eclipse of my life. The day I finished his blanket was the day he stopped breathing."
Draco swayed with the force of his heartbeat.
"The Doctors told me he was dead but I didn't believe them. I could still feel him moving inside me." Her hand drifted to her middle, pressing flat. "Sometimes I still feel him. Then the eclipse passes and I'm standing alone in the dark… always alone," she whispered, rocking back and forth in a narrow strip of moonlight. "Always in the dark."
The silence pressed upon them like a dense fog, numbing Draco's thoughts. Theo appeared similarly afflicted, slowly gathering to his feet and watching her carefully, unable to look away. But Bella made no further comment or advance, seemingly oblivious to their presence as she rocked in place and stared into the shadows.
"What should we do?" Theo inquired softly.
Draco tilted head, examining her at an angle. "Head to the wharf."
"What about Bella?"
"Leave her," Draco replied without inflection, breaking his rigid stance with a backward step.
"Do you want me to take her somewhere?"
"No," he replied, starting for the exit. "She's right where she needs to be." He glanced over his shoulder, met by Theo's reluctant stare. "Let's go," he instructed, gaze drifting to her moonlit figure. Her stare harbored the same hollowness as his chest, a cavern of echoes. Draco turned for the dark corridor, swallowed by an eclipse.
Harry edged forward, a knife twisting his ribs with every step. The pain was absolute, though it paled in comparison to a lead pipe bashing his skull. "I don't suppose we can settle this with peaceful conversation?"
The deckhand continued his approach, batting the weapon against his palm.
"I'll take that as a no," Harry muttered, side throbbing as he shrugged out of his coat. He braced for attack as the man charged, pipe whistling through the air like a cricket bat. Harry veered out of its path, stumbling with a grunt as red painted his vision, nerve-endings pulsing white-hot.
"You kids picked the wrong dock to pilfer," the hulking wall of muscle scathed. "Your pretty girlfriend will be shot on sight, and that's if she's lucky."
Harry struggled to maintain his footing. "We're not here to—" he ducked low, narrowly avoiding a blow to the head as the pipe sailed past his ear. His attacker growled in frustration, baring his teeth. "Screw it," Harry murmured, charging the man headlong before he could launch his next assault.
Quirrell stumbled over a crack in the pavement, colliding with his captor's shoulder. Tom scowled, gripping him by the collar and wrenching him forward, causing the imbecile to sputter and gasp as he stumbled across the cobblestone.
"Bloody hell. You're more useless than Umbridge." Tom pushed him forward. "Trying to delay me won't end well for you."
"I'm n-not!" Quirrell's entire body twitched as they turned the corner, a large gate appearing ahead. "T-This is it," he supplied, terror illuminated by the lanterns bordering their path. Tom lifted his chin, reading the sign arching above the entrance.
St. Katharine Docks
Fire unfurled in his gut, spreading across his chest and licking up his throat, eager to incinerate everything in its path. "Keep going," he instructed calmly, causing Quirrell to shudder and trip over a tin can.
"B-But… I sh-showed you where—"
"Your sole purpose is getting me inside, I highly suggest you continue proving useful."
Quirrell gulped and nodded frantically, falling into step without further discourse. Tom turned his attention to the dock and the two men guarding its entrance, both appearing supremely bored and well-armed. He felt the weight of the pistol on his hip, metal pulsing warm against his skin. But reaching for it now would result in a bloodbath, alerting Grindelwald to his arrival and destroying any chance of overtaking him. So Tom maintained his facade of indifference, hands calm at his sides as an inferno raged beneath his skin.
"And what've we 'ere?" One of the men asked, cigarette dangling from his lips and rifle slung over his shoulder.
"H-H-Hello, g-g-gentlemen—"
"Fuckin' hell," the other guard muttered, rubbing his brow as Quirrell flushed crimson. "Gives me a migraine every bloody time."
Tom's shoulder blades merged as he waited for Quirrell to provide their cover-story. Alas, the man continued to jitter and twitch like a useless bastard, leaving the responsibility to Tom.
"Who the hell are you?" The second guard asked outright, eyeing Tom with open suspicion.
Tom turned his gaze upon the stranger, mask firmly set. "An associate of Mr. Quirrell."
"Squirrel fetches nuts by himself."
"Tonight he has company."
The guards bristled, continuing to examine him at length. Tom maintained his composure as time bled out with agonizing slowness, the Dollmaker slipping further from his grasp with each passing second.
"The boss okayed this?" The first guard inquired around a stream of smoke.
Quirrell nodded spastically. "Y-y-y-yes."
Tom rubbed his forehead and prayed for patience, the urge to snap the man's neck overwhelming in appeal. "He's leaving the country tonight," he supplied tersely. "If we're late with delivery it'll cost us all our heads. I don't know about you gentlemen but I'm rather attached to mine."
The guard responded by blowing smoke in his face. Tom glanced away, fingers curling as he reconsidered a Wild West-style shoot-out. "Well then," the stranger muttered at length, smiling wide to reveal a row of yellow teeth. "Off you go."
The guards stepped to the gate and removed the chains in tandem before hauling the barrier aside. Tom eyed their rifles closely as he slipped through the gap, pausing only to yank the sputtering idiot through behind him. Quirrell yelped and hiccuped, much to the guards' amusement. Their loud guffaws continued long after the barrier closed at their backs.
Tom glanced either way down the wide stretch of warped slats, gaze lingering on Tower Bridge above. Fog hung heavy over the cables, traffic muffled by rushing water and the steady pounding of his heart. "Which ship?" He prompted.
A strong gust of wind knocked the tethered ships against the dock, creating a cacophony Quirrell had to shout over. "The v-very end, on t-the right!"
Tom narrowed his focus in the appointed direction. "We'll see," he muttered, continuing down the path at a determined pace.
Quirrell struggled to keep up, too terrified to attempt an escape, little less a lie. Sure enough, Tom knew he'd struck gold when he came upon a medium-sized vessel being unloaded at the end of the wharf, three men hauling crates down a ramp as lanterns burned softly at their feet. Their movements halted as the new arrivals drew closer but Tom's gaze remained fixed to the ship, heart skipping as he read the elegant calligraphy painted along the starboard panel.
Guinevere
His chest tightened with anticipation, certain his prey was near. Quirrell detected the change in his countenance, vibrating out of his skin. "P-Perhaps we sh-should—"
"Shut up," Tom commanded, focus shifting to the deckhands as they gathered around the stack of crates in the middle of the dock.
"Quirrell?" One of them asked, appearing older than his associates. "Who's this?" He glanced at the empty space behind them. "Where's Mistress Lestrange? I thought you were bringin' her."
"Y-Yes, well, y-you see—"
"There's been a change in plan," Tom replied flatly, tired of the bullshite. "Madam Lestrange sent me to deliver a message directly to our employer."
The deckhands glanced at each other before their leader spoke, skepticism tinging each word. "Yeah? And what's the message?"
Tom slipped his hands into his coat to resist reaching for his gun. The ribbon looped around his thumb, barely tight enough to keep him contained. "As I said, the message is for his ears alone. Where is he?"
The younger deckhands opened a flask, clearly uninterested in the exchange, but their Leader watched Tom with rapt focus, crossing his arm and bracing his feet apart. "I've never seen you before."
"I'm a trusted associate of—"
"Mistress Lestrange. So you've said."
Tom inhaled slowly, tension radiating through his shoulders and neck.
"Strange her sendin' you here and all," the man continued, solidifying his battle stance.
"And why is that?" Tom drawled, resigned to the fate of his evening.
"Bumby swung by earlier, see. Said we may be gettin' a late-night visitor… a tall, dark, and handsome fella."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be." A frigid breeze whistled past, spraying water across the dock and their boots. "He spoke very highly of you, said you were the most dangerous man in all of London and we ain't to trust a word out of your mouth."
"Did he now."
"That he did." The deckhands emptied the flask and turned their attention forward. "Funny how not thirty minutes later, Quirrell shows up with a stranger in tow, tellin' us Mistress Lestrange sent him on a top-secret mission to speak with the good Doc all by himself. Now surely you can see the situation that puts us in."
Tom's blood surged with the knowledge Grindelwald had departed only half an hour prior. "My, that certainly is a funny coincidence."
"Hm," the stranger lamented. "Unfortunate thing is… I don't believe in coincidences."
"Understandable," Tom conceded, removing his coat. "Quite similarly, I don't believe in mincing words." He tossed the garment aside, landing it across Quirrell's head. The man jolted and wailed like a ghost as Tom began rolling up his sleeves. "And since I highly doubt you'll volunteer the Dollmaker's next destination, I propose moving onto phase two of our cordial exchange."
The Leader smiled, his spot-ridden companions sharing looks of unease. "Proposal accepted."
"Quirrell," Tom prompted.
The trembling coat-rack peeled the fabric from his face. "Y-Y-Yess?"
"Leave," he growled before launching forward, his three adversaries following suit.
Their numbers lent them a greater advantage but Tom knew the green deckhands would defer to their boss for instruction. As anticipated, the Leader swung first, his sizable build creating a wide canvas for Tom to paint black and blue. He dodged the meaty fist and delivered twin blows to the kidneys and gut, forcing the air from his opponent's lungs in a powerful whoosh. The senior deckhand wheezed, grasping his side and hitting the ground like an anchor. The moment his knees cracked against the slats his companions rushed forward, taking it as their cue.
Tom readied his fists, satin cutting across his thumb as he ducked a wide right hook, narrowly avoiding the blow to his ribs. He swiveled to keep his gravity low, searching out an advantage. Sparring was exhausting and time-consuming but he was committed to seeing it through without the gun. He couldn't afford lending Grindelwald another head start, nor was he particularly keen on killing teenagers caught in a web they couldn't possibly comprehend.
He became distracted when Quirrell toppled sideways into a cluster of barrels, sending the heavy containers crashing and rolling into the river before charging the deck like a goat on cocaine. Tom ignored the spectacle, preoccupied with avoiding a crowbar to the skull. The flash of metal reminded him of Hermione's faithful poker, her clever strategy and feral bloodlust far more impressive than the disjointed attempts of the inebriated teenager staggering his way.
And then the second deckhand joined the attack and Tom knew it was time for the firearm, refusing to waste another ounce of energy on this fool's errand. He reached for his waistband and withdrew the pistol before spotting the Leader in his peripheral, back on his feet and pointing a shotgun at Tom's head. He dropped low, realizing too late it was merely a diversion. One of the deckhands charged him from the side, knocking him flat and reaching for his weapon. Tom took advantage of the boy's position, kneeing him in the groin and rolling his weight aside before sitting up and taking aim—
The first deckhand reappeared, swinging the crowbar like a cricket bat and hitting the side of the pistol. The weapon went off before flying out of Tom's hand, the bullet striking the ship's stern as the pistol spun end over end, hungrily consumed by the raging river.
"Goddammit," Tom hissed, rolling sideways as the crowbar sailed past his face and split the wood beside his head, lodging deep in the splintered beams. His would-be-executioner growled, struggling to free the hooked-end as his companion clutched his crotch and howled in misery from the fetal position. Tom paid their antics little mind, more concerned with the shotgun centered on his head for the second time that night.
The wharf was wide open, the crates too far away to provide shelter. The only possible cover was offered by the ship itself so he hauled upright and charged the ramp, knowing he was out of range when the disgruntled shooter released a colorful string of curses. But relief was fleeting as the deckhand finally managed to wrench his crowbar free, eager to spill Tom's brains across the wood.
Tom emerged inside the cargo hold and darted to the nearest open crate, grabbing its lid and raising it like a shield, blocking the bone-shattering strike before the bar cracked his skull like an egg. The hooked-end burst through the slats, wedged firm. Tom twisted the lid and wrenched the weapon from the sputtering teen's grasp before delivering a swift kick to the side of his knee, dislocating the joint and causing him to buckle. His shrill cry filled the night as Tom drove the edge of the lid against the back of his head, rendering him unconscious in a single blow.
Footsteps echoed up the ramp, prompting Tom to toss the busted lid and dive for shelter as the Leader took aim and fired. The explosion was immense but easily matched by the ground-shaking collision of ships slamming the wharf while the tide raged on. The pellets cast a wide spray, lodging in walls and crates and soft flesh, indiscriminate in their destruction. Tom hissed and rolled away to take inventory of his shoulder, blood saturating his arm in a warm trail, fabric and muscle shredded. Just a flesh wound, barely worth cataloguing. He kept low and continued navigating around the stacks, moving deeper into the cargo hold.
"Your luck just ran out!" The shooter called, boots scraping the bowed floor. "There're no weapons on the ship! Come out nice and quiet and I'll consider shooting you in the head, quick and painless!"
"A very generous offer," Tom conceded, reading labels as he went. "But I'm afraid I must decline."
The deckhand searched the rows like a seething bull, shotgun at the ready. "Then you're not the most dangerous man in all of London. You're the stupidest."
Tom shook his head, lamenting he had no one to share the irony with, and then he found the crate he wanted and rapidly recalibrated, gripping the sides and heaving it off the stack with a grunt. The lumbering giant heard the commotion and turned, firing without taking aim.
Tom ducked, pellets and wood raining overhead as the ship tilted precariously, seemingly affronted by the assault. The lanterns swayed in turn, casting dizzying patterns across the ceiling and walls as the deckhand cursed anew, shouldering boxes aside to get a better shot.
Tom seized the distraction, lifting his chosen crate and aiming it at the ground before dropping it with a grunt. The corner smashed hard, wood splintering as the frame began to buckle. He growled and bent low, repeating the motion until the walls started to cave, then stomped the lid until the box fell apart, loose straw and dark bottles spilling free.
He heard the racking of the shotgun and crouched low, another explosion ringing through his skull as buckshot tore a hole in the panel above. He reached for a bottle when his opponent growled, empty shells hitting the floor.
"Fucking with my staff is one thing," the man scathed, pulling fresh casings from his pocket. "Fucking with my liquor is another!"
Tom rotated the bottle and inspected the label. "Bourbon," he read aloud, arching a brow. "Smuggling American liquor in and trafficking brainwashed women out. An entrepreneur at heart."
"I don't know anything about any women," the stranger hissed, pumping the barrel and continuing forward. "I just unload the ship."
"Then my quarrel isn't with you."
The deckhand shook his head and stepped around the remaining stack, aiming the barrel—
But all he found was the busted crate and discarded bottles, straw flung in every direction. He bared his teeth, roaring above the howling wind. "You ain't getting out of here alive! I suggest enjoying a final drink and facing your fate like a good lad!"
"I'll keep that in mind."
He turned, pointing his gun at the back wall and following the sound of Tom's voice.
"Do you know why alcohol is measured by proof?" Tom prompted from the shadows. "The term dates back over a hundred years. British sailors would test the potency of rum by dropping it in gunpowder. If the wet powder still ignited it was proof their alcohol was strong enough to tax at a premium."
"Sounds to me like they just wanted to get loaded," the stranger replied, pivoting at Tom's low laughter, smirking as he spotted a flash of movement between the stacks.
"I don't disagree. And it seems Americans kept with the tradition. No doubt you're smuggling this brand because it contains nearly twice the legal limit of ethanol."
"Are you done talking yet?" The deckhand raised the barrel and leapt around the stack with a wide grin, but his expression soon fell when he found an empty row stretching before him. "Slippery fu—!" His words dissolved into a shocked bark as Tom emerged from between the crates and slammed the bottle over the shotgun, glass and liquor drenching everything in their path.
Tom hit the deck as another shot rang out, pellets assaulting the floor and lodging in his hip. But his growl of pain was swallowed by the man's wail of agony as his hands went up in flame, gunpowder residue igniting the bourbon in the heat of the blast. He threw the shotgun with a strangled wail, flames crawling up his arms as he staggered down the ramp and pushed past a bewildered junior deckhand in his mad pursuit of the water.
Tom rolled with a groan, blood soaking his pant leg as he reached for the discarded gun, pulling it into his lap and snapping open the chamber.
Empty.
He sighed, resigned to fishing the remaining ammunition from the man's pockets—
A loud splash, followed by a bubbling gurgle as the shrill scream sank beneath the waves. Tom closed his eyes, shaking his head and tossing the useless weapon aside before hauling himself upright and limping out of the cargo hold. The young man stood at the water's edge, watching his boss float face down atop its dark surface.
"I recommend fishing your associate from the river before he drowns," Tom muttered, inspecting his throbbing side with a clinical eye. "If you're quick about it, he has a chance of surviving infection."
The boy watched him disembark with a nervous gulp, raising his fists as Tom started across the deck. "I-I can't let you leave."
"Don't be foolish," Tom advised, losing patience faster than blood. "We both know how this will end."
The deckhand swayed, fists shaking. "B-Bumby will kill me if I don't try."
Tom rolled his neck atop his spine and glanced at the sky, watching a shooting star sail overhead and wishing it would strike the dock, ending this farce at last. Resolved to being alone in the universe he cracked his neck and turned his dark gaze forward. "Let's get on with it then."
He started in as the young man passed before the stack of crates, immediately pausing as something emerged from behind the pile, blocked by the teenager's wiry frame. Tom's shoulders drew wide as the deckhand staggered in place, eyes flaring wide and arms falling limp, the rest of his body following suit as he collapsed in a heap. Tom spared the boy no mind, the entirety of his focus possessed by the figure standing before him.
She panted hard, cheeks flushed, dropping the loose plank at her side without breaking his gaze. His blood surged, every vein throbbing as electricity spiraled through the air, rolling down his spine and snapping at his skin. She licked her lips and inhaled softly as though to speak; he held his breath and leaned forward, sanity hinging on her next words—
And then her eyes tracked lower, spotting the red painting his shoulder. "Oh my god, you've been shot!" She cried, rushing in until she stood just before him, fingertips hovering over the shredded fabric, warmth radiating from her palms. "Did the bullet go through?"
He couldn't process the question, couldn't feel his torn flesh or cold, bloodless limbs. He could only watch the play of lights across her hair, the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breath quickened—
"Tom?" She prompted, gazing up, face centered beneath him. "Did you hear me? We need to irrigate—"
He wasn't aware of his actions, surrendering to the animal clawing beneath his skin as he grabbed her arms and hauled her forward, abdomen tightening when their bodies collided, warm hands twisting his shirt as he searched her face. "You're awake," he whispered.
Her breath escaped in a rush, trailing across his chin, down his throat. "Oh, yes, right…" she uttered, blinking innocently. "Well, it's rather a long story but—" The words died with a gasp as he gripped the back of her neck and descended upon her.
The crate exploded on impact, wood scattering in every direction as Harry hit the pile like a wrecking ball. Busted slats dug into his back, an incessant ringing overtaking his senses as he tried summoning the strength to move. His opponent stalked forward, lip split and eye blackened, prompting Harry to scrub an exhausted hand over his own battered face, wishing he'd kept the bloody pipe handy after wrestling it from the man's grip.
No. He bared his teeth, struggling to sit upright. No more death.
He wasn't keen on killing anyone but the Dollmaker tonight, no matter how tempting the gun felt at his side, beckoning his hand. And then the stranger was upon him, pressing a boot to his shoulder and pinning him flat. "I was supposed to be at the pub by now," he scathed, wiping blood from his chin.
Harry grimaced, ribs stabbing into his lungs. "Don't let me keep you."
The deckhand began cracking his swollen knuckles when a third voice greeted them.
"Well, well… what do we have here?"
They glanced sideways, groaning in mutual frustration as two police officers appeared with lanterns in hand.
"Fuck," the stranger hissed, lifting the boot from Harry's chest to face the officers. "Evening, gentlemen. Fine weather we're having, no?" He smiled, erupting blood down his chin in a fresh trail.
"What did we tell you about disturbing the peace, Martin?"
"I wasn't disturbing nothing! I caught this little pissant and his girlfriend scaling the bloody gate, I'm just doing my job!"
"Your job is to notify us."
"I didn't think it was worth you fine gentlemen's time. Surely you have better things to do with your evening "
"Funny you should mention that," one of the officers mused, reaching into his jacket. "As it so happens, we planned on spending our evening with you regardless." He extracted a notepad and lifted the cover, skimming the page. "Does the name Jimmy Belmont ring any bells?"
The man lifted his chin, shoulders drawing tight. "Can't say it does."
"Hm. That's strange." The officer closed the pad, stuffing it back inside his uniform. "Mr. Belmont claims to know you real well. Says you quarreled with him over cards before busting a chair over his head and clearing his pockets of everything he owns."
"Wow, that is strange."
Harry rubbed his brow as the officers exchanged bracing looks. "It is indeed," one of them deadpanned, slowly reaching for his baton.
"Poor sod is obviously mistaken." The deckhand smiled anew, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm told I have a very familiar face."
"You don't say? Well, how's about we swing by the Yard and see if anyone else recognizes it?"
The first officer extracted his baton as his partner reached for iron manacles. Harry drummed his fingers atop his knee, watching as the deckhand bolted for the street.
"Fuck!" The officer dropped his lantern and gave chase, the howling wind smothering their pounding footsteps up the dark stretch of road.
"Don't you hate it when that happens?" Harry mused, sitting upright with a grimace.
The remaining officer glanced down. "Eh, almost forgot about you."
"I'm perfectly content with that arrangement."
"While normally I'd be compelled to look the other way, we've been given strict instructions to keep our eyes on the docks tonight." The officer crossed his arms. "Alright, kid, what did you come to steal?"
"Nothing." Harry leaned over, spitting blood on the cobblestone and wiping his mouth. "As I tried telling Martin, this is all a simple misunderstanding."
"I see. Well, unfortunately, your simple misunderstanding occurred in a complicated part of town. I'm going to have to verify your identity and collect your statement at the Yard."
Harry rubbed his eyes, wishing he was in any condition to make a break for it. "What if I told you there's a sadistic madman prowling the streets and the only way to stop him is to let me through those gates?"
"I'd tell you that's the third most entertaining story I've heard tonight. The first being Mr. Belmont's, of course."
"Naturally. And the second?"
"A pretty lass near St. Mary's, drunk off her gourd. Claimed the plants were trying to provoke her. Caught her hacking away at a maple for calling her a cow."
"Wow. That is pretty good." Harry scratched the back of his head, scalp tender. "Is Commissioner Bones still at the station?"
The officer blinked, lantern swaying at his side. "Yeah, he'll be there all night."
Harry nodded. "In that case…" he staggered to his feet with a low groan, wood and gravel raining from his coat as he faced the man with a strained grin. "Arrest me."
Parvati smoothed a hand along her front, fluffing her skirt and taming her hair, certain she looked like the victim of a rock-climbing accident. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, breath shuddering as she stared at the closed door, counting backward from ten and turning the knob at nine, unable to tolerate the wait. She strode inside without a knock, rounding a pillar and stopping in her tracks.
Blaise stared at the ceiling, scratching the skin around his bandaged shoulder. "I already told you, I don't want any more morphine—" his eyes flickered down, body tensing before pushing upright. "Parvati."
"Turning down morphine?" She asked, struggling to keep her voice unaffected as she closed the door. "I didn't know blood loss caused brain damage."
"On the contrary. I like to be lucid during my sponge baths with Ingrid."
"I hate to interrupt," she clipped, crossing her arms and pacing to the center of the room. "Perhaps I can fetch Ingrid for you now."
"That would be great. She's an elderly German with a unibrow and sultry limp, you can't miss her."
She tried containing her smirk but found it a lost cause. "You look like shite."
"You look beautiful," he replied, roaming her figure at length. She fidgeted beneath the inspection, dropping her arms and smoothing her skirts while silently scolding herself. "I heard everyone made it out okay," he continued.
She abandoned her preening with a nod. "We were all clever enough not to get shot."
His laughter was rich and deep, causing her to flush. "I'm a bloody idiot."
"I know," she agreed readily. "That's what I like most." His grin stretched wide, transforming his features. She linked her hands, squirming beneath his penetrating stare. "I meant to come sooner—"
"You were busy saving the world. How's Padma?"
She started forward, butterflies settling in the pit of her stomach. "Awake."
"No more seizures?"
"I mean awake awake." She pulled the chair closer to his bed, making a concerted effort not to stare at his bare chest. "She's out of the trance."
"How?" He asked, reaching out and grabbing her wrist to pull her towards the cot.
She bit her lip, perching on the edge of the thin mattress. "Hermione discovered the trigger. The girls are lucid and the staff is running around like headless chickens. They don't know what the hell is going on."
His palm settled in her lap. "Do we?"
"Not in the slightest," she affirmed, resting her hand over his.
"Hm. Back to normal then." He interlaced their fingers. "How are you making out in all this?"
Her grin turned brittle, chipping away in pieces. "Padma's return still feels surreal. I was so afraid to let her out of my sight, certain she'd disappear the moment I glanced away." She released a strained breath, idly tracing his thumbnail. "But she's fine without me. Better off even. I couldn't protect her the first time—"
"Enough of that," he gently admonished.
"I know, I just…. it's a lot to process and I haven't had time to really…" She shook her head, unsure how to continue.
"You both have a long road ahead. At least now you get to walk it together."
She laughed shortly, covertly wiping her tears. "That was lovely."
"I have my moments."
Her attention drifted to his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Like absolute shite up until a few minutes ago. Now I'm bloody fantastic."
She rolled her eyes, grinning despite her best efforts. "Does your mother know what happened?"
"Theo wrote a letter and sent a telegram," he replied flatly, the glimmer in his eyes snuffed out like a candle flame.
"She'll come, won't she?"
"After untangling herself from whatever rent-boy she's procured along her travels, maybe. It's hard to predict her movements. I stopped trying years ago."
Parvati nodded, unsure how to respond after knowing only love and affection during her own upbringing. The silence stretched thin as she worked up the nerve to continue.
"Blaise, I—" She glanced away. "When you were shot I didn't know what to do. It all happened so fast and then you were bleeding in my arms. I thought you were going to die." His grip tightened. "There are things I wish I had said but my mind went blank—"
"I remember everything you told me," he stated, tracing her knuckles. "I clung to every word."
"I meant it." She glanced sideways, their features illuminated by lantern glow. "You aren't a fool or a lush. Those are just the masks you wear to keep people at a distance. I know because I do that, too. It's safer, less painful. But you don't have to pretend with me. I won't treat you like your mother." She wet her lips. "I won't use you."
His thumb skimmed the inside of her wrist. "I know," he whispered, then awarded her his most roguish grin. "But those weren't the words I was referring to."
She blinked in confusion, drying her eyes.
"I believe you made me a promise," he continued. "If I lived, you'd kiss and smack me around."
"Or anything you bloody wanted," she whispered, tipping her head with a laugh. "I suppose I did say that…" she arched a brow. "So, what is it you want, Blaise Zabini?"
His eyes glimmered. "Lie beside me and I'll whisper it in your ear."
She sighed dramatically and rose from the cot as he adjusted on the pillows, sitting against his uninjured side and lifting her legs. Such intimacy was unfamiliar but she quickly acclimated to his warmth, canting towards him as his weight dipped the cot. He slid an arm behind her back and pulled her the rest of the way, his scent enveloped her.
"Well?" She prompted.
"Hm…" he mused with a widening grin. "I'll tell you later."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm beginning to think this was your plan all along. Get yourself shot and guilt me into falling into bed with you."
"Brilliant, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't go that far. A few shots of vodka are equally effective."
"Remind me to swing by the distillery when I'm discharged."
Parvati smiled, resting her hand atop his bare chest and feeling the steady pounding of his heart.
"I look forward to meeting Padma," he murmured.
She laid her head on his shoulder. "And I can't wait to meet your mum."
His laughter shook the cot until silence pulled them into its tranquil waters, his fingertips tracing slow patterns on her hip. "It's time, Parvati."
The intensity of his words gave her pause. "Time for what?" She asked, pushing back to meet his gaze.
His eyes flickered across her face, lingering at her mouth. "The terribly ill-timed kiss."
She blinked twice before bracing his chest. "I couldn't agree more," she whispered, melting into him as the lantern continued to burn.
Hermione gasped, sharing the steam of his breath as he directed the angle of her head, calloused fingertips pressing her nape. Her hands slid to his neck, tracing the steady throb of his artery, skimming the stubble of his jaw, their teeth colliding like hungry animals, desperation growing. And then his arm slid around her waist, a steel band pressing her forward and up, dangling her feet above the dock as her weight settled against him.
Her fingers moved into his hair, raking his scalp. His entire body twitched like a heartbeat, arms tightening painfully while his groan echoed inside the caverns of her mouth. She gripped his shoulders, dizzy and breathless as he hissed, lowering her so abruptly she staggered with the impact, gasping and dazed.
Then she saw the red glistening across her palm and reality returned with crushing swiftness.
"I'm so sorry!" She panted, trying to steady her thoughts as a fever raged beneath her skin. "You're still bleeding. We need to—"
He grasped her chin and tipped her face up, pupils blown wide. "How?" He asked, voice so thick she barely recognized it.
Hermione swallowed tentatively. "It's… complicated," she hedged, unsure what to divulge without sounding insane. "I discovered the trigger to release their minds. The women from the auction are being revived at the hospital. They're free." She reached up and skimmed his jaw, eyes drifting to his lips. "There's so much I want to tell you—"
She wasn't given the chance, jerked forward for another kiss she was happy to reciprocate, moaning against his mouth and gripping his waist, mindful of his shoulder. But as she brushed his sides he groaned anew, the sound rooted in pain rather than pleasure. She felt his body tense and stepped back, warmth bathing her hand as it received a fresh coating of blood.
"Your side!" She gasped.
"I'm fine."
"Tom—" She fell silent as he reached for her again, masculine purpose clouding his visage, and shifted out of his path, spotting red on his thumb. At first she thought he was cut but upon closer inspection she realized it was satin, a frayed and familiar ribbon wrapping his palm. Her pulse skipped, gaze lingering on the sight until he tightened his fist and dropped his arm.
"I have to finish this, Hermione. I have to find him." His eyes gleamed as dark as the water beside them. "I'm too close to turn back now."
"I'm here to help you," she vowed.
He continued to search her face as though still trying to reconcile her appearance. "He's nearby. I can feel it."
"I saw Quirrell running past me, you might be able to catch—"
"He's useless," Tom declared, stepping back and turning for the river. "We'll cover more ground without him."
She watched him pace the edge of the wharf, staring at ships in the distance. "Dumbledore deployed sailors at every bridge and checkpoint," she explained. "Even with false papers, they'll have his physical description."
"Grindelwald is a snake, he'll find a way to slither past."
Her gaze drifted to Tower Bridge, their bodies encased by its massive shadow, and for a heart-stopping instant she saw wildflowers and vines crawling over its rusted cables, glowing eyes watching them from the mist. She blinked and the image dissolved, nocturnal eyes replaced by lanterns in the fog.
Carriages traveled in either direction, oblivious to the violence over forty-meters below. The howling winds and whirling engines had surely masked the gunfire but the dock was still exposed to prying eyes from above. And if there was one thing Hermione knew with utter certainty, it was that Grindelwald hated having an audience.
"Hermione?" Tom prompted, drawn by her prolonged silence.
"A snake…" she whispered, sensing his eyes upon her. "Snakes burrow underground to evade predators."
He followed her stare across the water. "There's no subterranean path."
"Not here," she affirmed, lightning illuminating the sky as she met his gaze. "But the Thames Tunnel is only two kilometers away."
Electricity danced in his eyes. "Let's go," he said, thunder crashing as he strode past, taking her hand and breaking into a dead run.
Daphne bit her lip and opened the door, grimacing as the hinges groaned. She held her breath and counted to three before creeping daintily over the threshold with her shoes in hand.
A lumbering mass entered at her back, promptly colliding with the entry table and knocking its contents to the floor, a vase shattering across the marble.
"Greg!" She hissed, whirling around.
"Fuck! I didn't see it!"
"You're worse than a bull in a china shop!" She held his gaze before erupting into laughter, her husband quickly following suit. Their hushed exchange was cut short as footsteps proceeded down the hall. "Shite!" She whispered, pushing him towards the door. "Go! Wait outside!"
"But—"
"I'll be out in twenty minutes! Hurry!" She shut the door in his face and turned, face awash in candlelight as the elderly butler rounded the corner.
"W-Who's there?" He called. "I warn you, I'm armed!" He entered the foyer, shadows magnified in the hallows of his face as he lifted the lantern. "Lady Daphne!" He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Terribly sorry, Leopold," she offered sweetly, stepping away from the door. "But I'm touched you were prepared to defend our household with salad tongs."
He glanced down, inspecting his weapon of choice. "They were sitting on the table, I thought I might pluck the burglar's eyes out."
"I've never felt safer, or had a greater craving for olives."
His eyes drifted to the floor, widening anew. "Oh, dear! Do mind the glass, Miss Daphne. I'll get the broom—"
"Don't bother," she said quickly. "Go to bed, Leopold, I'll take care of the mess."
"Please, allow me—"
"That's an order, made with affection."
He studied her curiously. "Of course, Miss Daphne. I'm relieved you made it home soundly. The staff was quite worried about you and your sister, we thought perhaps you joined your father in Rome."
"Astoria isn't home?"
"She departed early this morning with several suitcases in tow."
"What?" She yelled, causing the poor man to turn an alarming shade of grey.
"Goodness, should I notify the authorities?"
Her mind spun. "No, I…" she placed a hand to her neck, dread creeping up her spine. "Dammit!"
"Quite right, Lady Daphne."
She rushed to the door and flung it wide. "Greg, get in here!"
He glanced up from the rose bushes, blinking in perplexity. "I thought you said—"
"Now, please!"
The butler sputtered like a dying engine. "Miss Daphne, I hardly think it appropriate for a gentleman caller to pay you a visit at such an hour—"
"He isn't a caller, he's my husband." She jolted as Leopold dropped the lantern, glass shattering at his slippered feet. "Greg, luv," she prompted calmly. "Would you please sweep the marble while I run upstairs?"
Greg glanced between his wife and the ghostly butler. "Of course, is everything—"
"Husband?" Leopold gasped.
"I know, it's a lot to process," she sighed, already halfway up the staircase. "Sit down if you begin feeling faint. I'll be right back."
Greg shuffled awkwardly, clearing his throat to address his elderly companion. "Um… where do you keep the broom?"
"Did she say husband?"
Their voices soon faded, replaced by her harried breath as she emerged on the second floor, dropping her shoes and rushing for her sister's bedroom. The door stood ajar, the inside dark. She clicked on the gaslight, pulse stuttering when she wrenched open the wardrobe and found it empty, wooden hangers knocking together. She moved to the dresser, pulling open drawer after drawer, moonlight illuminating their barren interiors.
She left… Her vision swam. Did something happen? Where did she go?
She spun in a frantic circle, stumbling to a halt as a flash of white appeared on the duvet. A piece of paper, neatly folded. Her fingers trembled as she peeled it open, blinking at the two simple words it contained.
Your nightstand.
She crumpled the note and raced across the hall, clipping her shoulder against the doorframe en route to her side table. Its drawer was ajar, a piece of parchment waiting inside. She clicked on her lantern and sank to the floor, reading the missive by its warm glow.
A soft rap sounded at her door.
"Daph, luv?" She gazed up as Greg peeked his head in. "Are you alright?" He asked, concern etching his features.
"Tori's gone," she whispered.
He stepped inside. "Where did she go?"
"Barcelona."
His step faltered. "How did she manage that?"
"Pansy gave her access to her accounts," she muttered, bringing the letter to her lap. "Tori deposited her book advance. It'll tide her over until the first printing sells."
He lowered to the floor beside her. "Want to go after her?"
"No," she murmured, leaning into his side. "We'll let her get settled, enjoy her independence. Then, when she least expects it, I'll pay a visit and make her life absolute hell for leaving me with a bloody note."
He grinned, lips pressing her temple. "Sounds like a plan. We're still honeymooning in Paris then?"
"I don't think so," she sighed. "Let's just move there."
He tilted his head, considering. "I love baguettes," he mused. She laughed, grabbing his shirt and pulling him in. "Do you think they call French toast 'toast'?" He pondered against her lips.
She shook her head and started to rise. "Help me pack."
He grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap. "What do they call regular toast?"
More laughter bubbled forth as he continued prattling questions, her only recourse to silence him with another kiss.
Sirius arrived at the stoop with a heaving sigh, rubbing his nape as he waited for the other boot to drop. The last few days felt like a fever dream, the kind of madness found in books and gossip rags. His life had never followed an ordered path but this was proving excessive even for him. Alas, he was grateful to escape the demolished confines of Grimmauld for a few hours, the change of scenery helping clear his mind.
He rapped softly on the door but it flew open as if he'd kicked it in, Dumbledore appearing on the other side in a whirlwind. "Sirius," he greeted, sounding both relieved and disappointed.
"Albus."
The Senior Officer released a weary breath, shifting back. "Do come in."
Sirius did as bade, casting a sweeping glance around the room. He'd known the Admiral for more than two decades but had never stepped foot inside his home. It felt strange seeing the quaint decorations adorning the walls, almost as strange as seeing the infamous Naval Commander in a robe and house slippers. He noted the white stubble marring his jaw, shadows framing his eyes. The most unkempt he'd ever appeared, even after months at sea.
"I see you're faring about as well as me tonight," Sirius mused.
Albus nodded solemnly, closing the door. "You know then."
"Enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my life."
"I thought you might be an officer come to tell me Tom is dead." He rubbed his eyes beneath his spectacles. "Not that they'd think to come here. It's been many years since I was considered…" His hand dropped, gaze turning distant. "If I didn't hear anything by morning I was resolved to visit the morgues. The thought of—" He shook his head, features tense with chagrin. "Apologies. I find myself rambling like an old fool more often these days."
"Not an old fool. A concerned parent."
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound lacking warmth. "I'm far removed from such a title, I assure you."
"It's not just about blood."
"My bond with Tom is nothing like what you share with Harry." The Admiral started across the room, glancing over his shoulder as he entered the hall. "Please, come and sit. I would enjoy the company. Would you like some tea?"
Sirius shook his head, following him into the den. "I can barely keep water down."
"I am similarly plagued," Albus sighed, folding into a plush chair.
Sirius took perch on the couch, knees popping with the motion. "Christ," he groaned. "Aging is bloody awful."
"Hm. I thought the same at your age."
"And now?"
"I've come to appreciate the natural cycle of things. Youth is as much a blessing as a curse. But with age comes a treasure trove of memories, which is perhaps the most precious gift of all."
Sirius leaned into the cushions, boot propped against his knee. "I can think of a few I wouldn't mind tossing into the rubbish bin."
"Forgetting is merely a form of denial. Our minds cling to the worst of our sins. Pain is built into our design from birth." The Admiral tilted his head, fingers drumming the armrest. "I think my senility just evolved into existential melancholy."
"I'm sure they have a tonic for that," Sirius mused, foot tapping the floor.
"You seem restless," Albus observed. "I suspect you didn't come here to sit with an old man."
"No," Sirius stated plainly. "I came for a game of whist. I heard through the grape-vine you're an undefeated champion."
"Of all the rumors surrounding me, that may be my favorite."
"Happy to brighten your night." Sirius leaned forward, glancing around the room. "Have a deck handy?"
"Sirius." The deep cadence caused him to straighten. "Why did you come?"
"I heard you stationed sailors around the city," he admitted, sinking back. "Figured you'll be the first to know if… anything develops."
Dumbledore absorbed the words with stoic indifference. "Where is Harry?"
"Breaking into private property," Sirius replied, foot restarting its incessant tapping. "He took a gun. And Hermione." He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing, Albus. I don't know how to be a father. I was never meant to be one. That was James's job. He's supposed to be the one saying No, Harry, you can't go stalking a mad man through the streets. It's a weeknight."
The Admiral watched him over the top of his spectacles. "You've done your best."
"My best isn't good enough. I wasn't there when his ship got attacked and I'm not with him now. I just handed him the gun and watched him walk away… then I let the others do the same. They're only kids."
"Harry's a lieutenant who's proven himself in battle countless times. And from what I've heard, the victory at Grimmauld was no less impressive."
Sirius blinked. "The attack made the newspaper?" He asked. Albus's glacial stare glittered in response. Sirius laughed shortly, shaking his head. "'Course not. Forgot who I was talking to."
"You're as much a father to that boy as James was," Albus continued. "Further proven by your doubts. He was plagued by the same misgivings at one time or another, as I'm sure you recall."
The words were spoken in assurance but did little to dispel the burning ache behind his eyes. "I feel like I'm failing him," Sirius whispered. "When Harry was a boy he told me everything. Now he tells me nothing."
"Then you truly are a parent."
Sirius tried to smile, drained by the effort. "I don't think he trusts me."
"Surely you jest."
A tenuous beat. Sirius rubbed his brow before linking his hands and staring at the floor. "He trusts me with his life but not his secrets… I'm afraid he thinks I'll be ashamed of him. But there's nothing that would stop me from loving him, nothing that would make me turn my back. And if he doubts that for even a second then I've done a shite job." He closed his eyes, jaw tensing. "Bloody hell, I'm rambling. Senility must be contagious."
"Someone once told me it's called being a good parent."
"Sounds like a real dumbarse."
"That's one of his many nicknames," Dumbledore mused. Sirius smirked, heart thrumming against the hollow drum in his chest. "You're a fierce sailor," Albus continued. "You were an excellent Captain and I've no doubt you'll make a wise and competent Admiral. But all your Naval accomplishments pale in comparison to your success as a father. Harry is lucky to have someone so devoted, so invested, and he knows it. I see the love and admiration shining in his eyes every time he looks at you. He trusts you implicitly, and if he's keeping a secret then it's par for the course of youth. He'll come around in his own time, and that moment has far less to do with you than it does him."
Sirius blinked. "Thank you, Albus," he whispered, throat inexplicably tight. "And… I'm so sorry about what happened to your sister. I never knew."
Dumbledore tilted his head, eyes flickering. "I assume Ms. Granger informed you?"
"Only to explain your connection to this mess. She never mentioned your relationship to Riddle."
"My connection to Tom evades even me," Dumbledore uttered, glancing at the rain-specked window. "The reason I know you haven't failed Harry is because I know what failure looks like. I see it staring back at me from the mirror every morning."
Sirius opened his mouth but was silenced by a staying hand.
"It's alright," Albus assured him. "I've come to terms with my mistakes. And though it's too late for me, I hope passing this knowledge forward will spare you from future heartache."
Sirius gripped his knees, rendered motionless by the intensity of his mentor's voice.
"Love them for who they are, not who you want them to be. The present is the only thing that's real, the only thing truly worth protecting."
Sirius watched him in silence, sinking back with a weary sigh. "Christ. You sure you don't want to go a round of whist?"
"I think I prefer the quiet," Dumbledore smiled, glancing back to the window.
Sirius copied his movements, watching droplets cut across the pane. "Me, too."
Tom cringed, fire blazing a searing path across his hip and shoulder, a jarring contrast to the brittle cold saturating his limbs. His grip tightened on Hermione, her pulse thrumming against his palm as they navigated the desolate riverbank. She moved with speed and determination but was unable to match his natural gait. He slowed his step to accommodate her, refusing to relinquish his hold, certain she'd dissolve to smoke the moment his back was turned.
"Shite!" She hissed, tugging her arm away. He spun quickly, shoulders easing when he identified the source of her frustration, the sewer grate trapping her heel. He moved in, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her up, freeing her shoe while she gripped his shoulders. "I can see it," she murmured beside his ear.
He set her down and turned, spotting the tunnel in the distance, its dark opening impeded by barrels and ropes, a large sign denoting maintenance work.
"It's closed," she observed, retaking his hand as they drew closer. "Shouldn't there be a guard on duty?"
"Yes," he muttered, eyes narrowed on the abandoned post. "Unless he was paid to stand down."
She gripped his arm as he led her through the blockade. "Grindelwald is in there," she declared, voice firm with certainty. Tom stopped before the entrance and glanced down, but before he could utter a syllable she bristled. "Don't even think about telling me to wait out here."
His eyes tracked across her face, amusement easing the pain in his mottled flesh. "I wouldn't waste my breath," he murmured, lips twitching as he released her hand. "Stay behind me."
He was prepared for further argument but she relented without debate, following at his back as they embarked up the cement path. Darkness encased them like a shroud, as did the echoing churn of the river, the sound growing louder the further they journeyed.
A lantern was strung every few meters, creating a narrow bubble of orange light alternated by dense shadow. The tunnel dipped and the temperature dropped, a collection of tools appearing in their path. Hermione edged around a saw and tripped over a wheelbarrow, falling sideways with a gasp. Tom caught her before she made jarring impact with the ground, hauling her upright by the waist.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded, features obscured by darkness as he guided her around a lumber cart, five meters passing before he heard the telltale scrape of stone. The light ahead was blocked by crates but legs extended beyond the boxes, a man seated upon a lid, face hidden by the stack. Tom's eyes blazed, steps echoing loudly on approach.
"Bella?" A familiar voice asked. "What took so bloody long?" The figure stood, rounding the crates. "We were supposed to leave an hour—" Gaslight illuminated Grindelwald's face, capturing his flash of shock in bright clarity. "Tom," he muttered, arching a gray brow. "Impressive."
And then Hermione emerged in the light and he staggered back.
"It's not possible," he whispered, shoulders drawing level. "Hermione, marbhadh," he hissed. She crossed her arms, standing at Tom's side. "Marbhadh!" He shouted, voice cracking like a whip in their brick confines.
She tilted her head, candlelight burning in her gaze. "Sorry, Gellert, that's not the magic word."
His countenance paled. "How…"
"I told you when our session began, she'd tell me everything I needed to know."
Tom hadn't the faintest bloody clue what she was talking about but Grindelwald seemed to understand perfectly, the look on his face indescribable. Tom didn't waste time trying to solve the puzzle, eager to finish this game of cat and mouse once and for all, but no sooner had he shifted forward than a revolver was pointed in his face.
He clenched his teeth, halting abruptly. "You'd be a fool to fire that in here."
"Desperate times. Better to be deaf than dead." Grindelwald tilted his head in contemplation. "I take it Bella won't be joining us?" Tom's eyes narrowed. "What a shame," the Dollmaker continued. "I was counting on that money. Seems I'll have to start selling products abroad sooner than expected."
"It ends tonight," Tom vowed.
"Yes." Grindelwald aimed the gun at Tom's head. "It does."
"No!" Hermione shouted, attempting to intercede. Tom caught her arm in a bruising vice and dragged her back.
"Tell me one thing," Grindelwald bid with gleaming eyes. "Did Albus finally confess his sins?"
"He showed me the note," Tom scathed, maneuvering Hermione's struggling form behind him.
Grindelwald's gaze flickered. "He saved it? How glorious. Of course he did." Bitter laughter erupted from his mouth, giving way to a sinister wistfulness. "So, do you remember now?"
"I've never forgotten," Tom muttered, rooted in place by Hermione's hands on his back, fingers twisting in his shirt.
Grindelwald searched his face, a slow smile curving his lips. "No, I see the mist still hasn't cleared." He tilted his head, idle in his inspection. "You may not recall my presence but surely the coin-lock shines brightly in your memory."
Red overtook Tom's vision, unamused by the tedious small talk. "I've no idea what—" he stopped short, recalling the golden token he'd found at the Dollmaker's house. "The cabinet," he muttered, heart hammering against his ribs.
"You were so fascinated by the engineering, so devoted to cracking it. Such a clever boy."
Tom blinked, images rising like ghosts from the graveyard of his mind, triggered by the simple flash of gold. He blinked again and was eleven-years-old, lying on a filthy floor as a pair of boots retreated from his bleeding, broken body. He'd fought the urge to faint; unconsciousness spelled death and Tom was determined to survive. His mother needed him, would always need him, unable to survive in this world alone.
The man who'd spent hours methodically beating and torturing him collapsed to his knees at the center of the room, wracked by violent shudders and dry-heaves, blood-drenched hands trembling against the floor. "Please, no more…" he'd begged, face hidden from Tom's view.
"Oh, Thomas," a deep voice sighed from the shadows. "Such a disappointment." The Dollmaker emerged from the darkness like the Grim Reaper himself, pacing to a starburst cabinet against the wall. The ornate design stood in stark contrast to the shredded wallpaper and stained baseboards. "At this rate, we'll run out within a week's time," the demon lamented, dropping a shiny coin inside the plate and rotating it sideways.
Young Tom swallowed weakly, hypnotized by the treasure trove of glistening bottles found inside. But the Reaper reached for one vial in particular, the same he'd been grabbing all day, a pearly blue liquid that shimmered like a jar of marbles. It was the last coherent thought Tom managed before succumbing to his injuries, awaking days later in a hospital bed with Albus's grave face above him.
Tom shook his head, dispelling the memory like a cloud of smoke. "I don't understand," he muttered, stomach twisting in knots.
"I think you do," Grindelwald replied with a knowing grin, the same one he'd worn throughout Tom's involuntary trip down memory lane. "Your father was a brilliant doctor, but even the most disciplined minds are laid to waste by the whims of a beautiful woman. You and I know better than most."
Tom lifted his chin, shoulder blades drawing tight at the warm press of her palm.
"Your mother distracted him at every turn like the nuisance she was," Grindelwald continued. "Capsizing his unlimited potential for the simple pleasure of leading him astray. Then she attempted to trap him with an unplanned pregnancy, demanding they leave England and curtailing my every attempt at raising him to greatness. He was my greatest student, the one to inherit my legacy, I refused to lose him to some backwoods harlot."
"She was pregnant before you turned her?" Tom muttered.
"Merope was a nurse," Hermione replied, earning both men's gazes. "She worked at the hospital with your father and was passionate about helping people, everyone loves her." She blinked, shaking her head. "Loved her." Her gaze shifted to Grindelwald, rage darkening her features. "You made her into a doll to keep Thomas tethered to your side."
"I agreed to reverse the treatment if he stayed with me for a year," he replied, holding the revolver steady. "I knew I'd be able to spark his passion in the field. But he released her like a fool, claiming she escaped. I knew he planned on joining her later, thinking he could reverse the effects himself… but he didn't know the cure. I've never told anyone the cure." His jaw twitched, eyes narrowing. "Alas, he became entirely useless, stifled by his obsession with finding a whore and her bastard. There was only one thing for it."
Tom swayed, the tunnel walls closing in. "You made him into one of your creatures."
"It wasn't an easy task," Grindelwald confirmed with chilling indifference. "Though certainly less challenging than treating Ms. Granger. Unfortunately, he was never the same after. Brilliance limited by the mental blocks necessary to prevent him from exposing our operation, my only remaining option was to kill him… until one magnificent day when a parcel arrived." His eyes gleamed with malevolent delight. "Dear Merope had written, detailing your whereabouts and begging Thomas to come play house. I researched the deed and realized fate was truly a conniving bedfellow; Dumbledore had purchased the home and assumed the role of great protector. Killing you became as much for me as it was for Thomas. Only your death could free us from the consuming burden of obsession."
Tom swayed in place, numb to Hermione's steadying hands.
"Alas, when the moment finally came he refused," Grindelwald recounted, voice tinged by the same disappointment Tom heard in his memory. "No amount of treatment could sway him and one more drop of Devil's Breath would've surely stopped his heart. So I made him a deal: you could continue living under the sole condition he never speak to you again. Needless to say, Thomas accepted, holding true to the bargain for ten years… until you arrived at his door." His smile widened. "I saw the pictures of the crime scene. A truly spectacular work of art. I daresay you received revenge with sizable interest."
Tom curled his fists, recalling the warmth of his father's blood saturating his hands and forearms, a striking contrast to the desolate cold permeating his bones that dead autumn morning a decade prior. Hatred and disgust boiled inside him, a feral growl escaping as he charged, catching the Dollmaker's wrist as the trigger went off. The explosion was deafening, Hermione's shocked gasp overtaken by the ringing in his ears.
"Get down!" He yelled at her, wrestling for the weapon.
The revolver fired a second time, the bullet ricocheting off the curved ceiling. Hermione screamed and fell to the ground in a heap, blood splattering the stone. Tom's heart skipped as he abandoned his efforts and rushed to her side, dropping low and pulling her towards him.
"Let me see," he commanded, voice tightly contained as he searched for the bullet wound.
She sat up slowly, clutching her arm. "I'm okay," she muttered, tears in her eyes and red on her fingers. "It just grazed me."
Footsteps echoed behind them. They turned as the Dollmaker aimed the gun down.
"Just leave," Tom hissed at him, attempting to shift in front of her.
"Leave?" Grindelwald laughed. "I thought you were keen on finishing this here and now?"
"Then shoot me," Tom demanded. "Settle your score with Albus and go—"
"No!" Hermione screamed, trying to scramble forward.
"You have no reason to kill her," Tom continued, ignoring her protests. "She's no threat to you outside of London. Letting her live only prolongs your legend, your infamy."
"Very persuasive, Tom. No doubt a skill inherited from your silver-tongued mother. But I'm an old man with no interest in legend or infamy, only peace and solitude as I live out the remainder of my days."
"Everything you've ever done has been about creating a name for yourself!" Hermione scathed, still attempting to surmount Tom's physical blockade. "It stopped being about Ariana long ago. You didn't commit your crimes in her name, you did them in the Dollmaker's."
Hatred flared in his eyes. Tom's heartbeat slowed, an eerie calm suffusing his spine as he held the Dollmaker's gaze over the barrel.
Hermione wasn't so easily quelled, surging forward with one last Hail Mary attempt at prolonging Tom's fate. "Don't you want to know how I broke free of the trance? If you kill him I'll never tell you!"
Grindelwald arched a brow, focus unwavering from his target. "Then it's one more disappointment I'll have to live with," he rued, pulling the trigger and shooting Tom in the chest.
Draco disembarked Tower Bridge with a weighted sigh, Theo flanking him in silence. They'd navigated the streets in the same sullen formation until reaching the checkpoint, forced to identify themselves to sailors stationed at the crossing. The men had held lanterns to their faces and examined them with care, dutifully hunting a ghost. Eventually, they'd allowed them to pass, moving their inspection to the next round of foot traffic on the bridge. But the path beside the riverbank was static and gray-washed as a photograph.
Theo lifted his chin, watching fog settle over the Thames in a thick cloud. "Do you really think we can stop it?"
Draco glanced over his shoulder at the unexpected inquiry.
"Stop him," Theo clarified, voice smothered by the frigid wind. "This evil runs deep and spreads far… is it really possible to end something rooted in the depths of so many souls?"
Draco blinked, contemplating the words, spared from providing a response as a jarring crack echoed through the stillness. They jolted, Draco turning for the water as his companion gazed up.
"Thunder," Nott muttered, staring at the starless sky.
Draco shook his head. "I didn't see any lightning." He gripped the handrail and gazed at the frothing tide below, ships banging the wharf in the distance.
"Was it—"
"I think so."
Theo swallowed thickly, panic framing each breath. "Harry has a gun."
"So does half the neighborhood," Draco muttered, shoulder blades aching with the same gnawing fear as he pushed back from the railing. "Come on," he instructed, breaking into a dead run. "It came from the east."
Time slowed as the shot rang out, a sonic blast ringing in her ears as Tom jerked with the impact, falling into her body.
"No!" She screamed, reality speeding up as blood flowed down his chest in a narrow river. She pressed her hands to the wound, bones shifting beneath her trembling fingers as Grindelwald turned his sights on her, aiming the revolver at her head. Her lips parted on a breathless gasp, mind rendered utterly blank in her final moments.
Tom surged forward with a pained grunt, knocking her flat and shielding her body with his own as the trigger went off a third time. She cringed, awaiting the agonizing blast but hearing only a hollow click, the chamber rotating to no avail. Tom's weight pressed heavy upon her, his labored breath in her ear as another click click click echoed off the stone.
Grindelwald cursed low and threw the empty gun aside, prompting Tom to push away, at last, complexion bloodless as red saturated his front, glistening across her chest and bodice. She cried out, reaching for him as he collapsed at her side.
"Well," the Dollmaker lamented. "Seems I granted him his final wish after all. Enjoy life, Ms. Granger. You've certainly earned it." His focus shifted to the pale figure at his feet. "In the end, I was wrong about Thomas… but not about you. You're extraordinary, Tom. Thank you for proving a worthy adversary. It was entertaining while it lasted." He backed away slowly, fading into the shadows before continuing down the tunnel, leaving Hermione to tremble over Tom's sprawled body.
"Go after him," he hissed, breath shuddering.
She shook her head, frantically searching for the entry wound. "You'll bleed to death."
"Hermi—" he gritted his teeth, tendons straining in his neck as she pressed down on the source. Blood rushed past her fingers, a spongy mass dimpling beneath her touch.
"Oh my god," she whispered, removing her hands to feel beneath his collar. She grazed the jagged bone, causing him to growl like an animal. "The bullet split your clavicle."
"That explains the crunch—" he grunted as she continued her gentle prodding, each touch a desperate bid to prove her suspicions wrong.
"It travelled through the pectoral and entered the top of your lung," she muttered, unable to deny the grave truth.
He set his jaw and held her gaze, both parties sensing what the other wanted and equally put out about it. His eyes narrowed. "Don't—"
"I thought you knew better than to waste your breath," she huffed, removing her coat with determination. "You know as well as I do what happens if the lung collapses. I have to plug the wound before air gets in." She grabbed her sleeve and tugged violently, ripping the seam.
Tom coughed, dry and whistling. "There isn't time—"
"If the pressure migrates to your pleural cavity you'll go into cardiac arrest. I've seen it happen before, it took the man half an hour to die and the pain looked excruciating." She pulled the material away, wrapping it around her hand and pressing it to the wound.
Tom hissed and flinched back, baring his teeth. "He's getting away—"
"You'll find him again, which will be exponentially easier if you're alive."
"He'll go underground, take more victims—" another sputtering cough.
Her eyes burned, hands shaking harder. "I'm not letting you die, so either talk me through what to do or watch me stumble along while he boards a ship to America!"
He awarded her with his most withering glare but she refused to balk. "Sit me up," he finally relented, aggravation carving trenches in his face. "Gravity will help keep the lung open."
She nodded, shifting behind him to maneuver her knees beneath his back, gripping under his arms and hauling him upright with a groan. His weight was immense, muscles rigid as he growled beneath her, using his legs to help propel his mass across the floor. She released him with a gasp, propping him against the wall and panting hard.
"Rip your skirt," he instructed, voice tight with misery. "Long strips to create a binding." He erupted into a coughing fit as she lowered beside him and set to work, gathering her skirt and biting into the hem, feral in her haste. He watched as she tore it to shreds, face paler than chalk.
"Will it be tight enough?" She asked.
"It'll do."
She remained focused on her task, trying to pretend he was just another patient, another opportunity to learn. But the delusion refused to take shape, blown apart by his every strained breath. "I need to find a medic—"
"If I remain seated I'll be fine."
"You're still bleeding out," she argued.
His chest deflated, a torrent of air whistling free. "I have an hour."
Hermione shuddered, tears blurring her vision as he coughed again. She leaned forward with the fabric, stretching it across his chest.
"I can tie it," he muttered. "Go now."
"Tom—"
He grabbed her hand, his blood filling the cracks of her palm. "Please, Hermione."
She swallowed convulsively, rendered helpless by the anguish in his voice, the determination in his eyes. "If you die, I'll never forgive you," she whispered, tears overspilling her lashes.
His thumb stroked across her wrist before he reached for the binding. "The pistol," he groaned, fumbling with the knot. "Take it."
She leaned back, drying her face. "It's empty."
"Check."
She sighed but did as instructed, limbs trembling as she searched the dark ground, finally discovering the weapon beside a folded tarp. She scurried back to Tom with her prize, opening the barrel against her palm and blinking at the chambers. "There are two bullets left."
"It must have jammed," he muttered.
She closed the cylinder, not as certain, but her musings were interrupted when Tom glanced up, the intensity of his words falling heavy on her shoulders. "He can't leave London, Hermione."
Her eyes flashed. "He's not going anywhere," she vowed, watching him tie the binding with her ribbon encircling his thumb, satin dark with blood.
"How did you know she was a nurse?" He murmured.
Her gaze flickered up, pulse quickening at the steady focus of his stare. "Keep breathing and I'll tell you everything," she promised, lowering the gun and bracing a hand to his knee. "I'll be back soon."
He swallowed heavily as she pushed away, leaning his head against the brick and watching as she took off down the tunnel, blood-stained dress washed clean by darkness.
Susan tucked the girl's arm into the compartment and stepped back, making certain the silent passenger was cleared of the door before closing it. She paced to the front of the carriage and glanced at the officer. "She's the last. Are there any beds left?"
"Lots," he replied, adjusting the reins. "As soon as the girls wake up they're moved into—"
"Wake up?"
"You know, come out of the trance."
Susan blinked. "They're recovered?"
"Yeah, it's a madhouse over there."
She backed away quickly. "Go ahead, I'll be right behind you."
The officer nodded, urging the horses forward as she flew up the steps and into the station. The lobby was finally empty of detainees, party-guests funneled into cells and nearby holding facilities as dawn approached. She darted across the floor, spotting a familiar figure leaning against the front desk.
"Ron!" He glanced up, eyes red with exhaustion. "Have you seen my father?" She asked.
"No, thank god," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "Every time he looks at me it's like he's fantasizing about using my head for target practice." He shrugged tiredly. "I dunno, maybe that's just his face."
"No," she dissented, arriving at his side. "He's thinking about killing you." Ron blinked as she leaned up and pecked his cheek. "Stay here," she instructed, hurrying into the hall and glancing into every open doorway she passed. "Dad?" She called, trotting down the steps and emerging into a dark corridor.
"Dad?" She repeated, biting her lip and peering into the first room. A man glanced up from his chair, adorned in a suit and chained to a desk. His eyes widened with hope, lips parting— She ducked away before he could speak, quickening her pace before halting outright as a door flew open at her side.
She staggered back with an apology at the ready, only to discover Rodolphus Lestrange towering above her, dried blood staining his collar and neck. Susan paled and collided with the wall, exhaling swiftly when she caught sight of his bound wrists. An officer directed him forward, hidden behind the wide-set of his captive's shoulders.
Rodolphus entered the corridor and drew even closer, causing her heart to stutter as she flattened against the panelling. "Is she here?" He asked, voice deepened by fatigue.
Susan blinked, pulse skipping wildly as her father emerged from the same interview room. "As I told you, Mr. Lestrange," he replied evenly, "your wife is still missing. But rest assured, we'll find her." Rodolphus scowled over his shoulder, not phasing the Commissioner in the slightest. "Take him back to his cell."
The officer nodded, pushing the giant forward. She watched their progress closely, waiting for Lestrange to overpower the man. But he trudged along in sullen silence until reaching the end of the hall, flashing her one last murderous look before rounding the corner.
"Hello, sweetheart," her father said, jarring her from the haunting encounter. "I thought you were heading to the hospital."
Susan peeled off the wall, eager to dispel the acid from her skin. "I am," she replied, rubbing her arms. "I just came to tell you the girls are recovering."
"Really?" He lowered the folder in his hands. "How?"
"I'm not—"
"Sir?" A new voice hedged. They glanced at the stairs, a uniformed officer appearing at the bottom.
"Rutter?" Her father asked. "I thought I stationed you on patrol duty."
"You did, Sir. But there's—"
"Bloody hell!" Ron shouted from the lobby, causing Susan to stand at attention while her father's eye twitched.
The officer gestured to the ceiling. "We have a situation upstairs."
"We have a situation everywhere."
"I understand, Sir. But I made an arrest at the riverbank, two men were fighting—"
"Release them," the Commissioner sighed, returning to his paperwork. "We're overrun with perverts, there's no room for the drunks."
"I issued a warning and told him he could go," Rutter continued, shifting awkwardly. "But he insists on speaking to you."
Her father tensed, gaze sharp as he asked the obvious question. "What's his name?"
"Harry Potter."
Susan darted for the stairwell while her father followed at a calmer pace, the officer dodging out of her path as she charged up the steps and entered the lobby on a breathless huff. As usual, she spotted Ron first, his flaming hair beckoning her forward as he talked to someone near the door. He heard her arrival and turned, revealing his companion to her eager gaze.
"Oh my god!" She gasped. "What happened to your face?"
Harry blinked, confusion rippling across his swollen features until touching his bruised eye, seeming to recall his beaten-to-hell appearance. "A slight misunderstanding," he deadpanned.
Her father finally arrived, pacing across the checkered tile to set his file on the desk. "It seems you've had another eventful night, Mr. Potter."
"I tracked the source of the Devil's Breath," Harry declared without preamble.
"Devil's Breath?"
"I thought it was an urban legend," Susan whispered, recalling the outlandish tales she'd overheard in the smoky halls of the opium den.
Harry's gaze cut bright with intensity. "Unfortunately not. And it's being smuggled into London by the boatload."
"I assume it's a street-drug relating to the Dollmaker?" Her father mused, taking the announcement in stride.
"His name is Gellert Grindelwald."
Ron laughed, propping against the counter. "Grindy-what? Sounds like a shabby cartoon vill—" he trailed off as her father pressed him with a narrow stare. He cleared his throat, face and ears blistering. "Sorry."
Her father glanced forward. "Come to my office, I need to make a record of this conversation."
"There isn't time," Harry argued. "I sent Hermione ahead—"
"You found her?" Ron asked sharply, embarrassment forgotten in wake of the news.
Her father appeared equally affected. "Where's Riddle?"
"I've no idea, but Grindelwald will be using his connections to set sail from London tonight."
Her father nodded, already en route to the door. "Lead the way."
Tom tipped his head back to stare at the domed ceiling, cringing with the motion. The fire raging through his chest wasn't the worst pain of his life but it certainly was the most insistent, each searing breath a countdown to the end. His vision began to dim, oxygen and blood depleting with every sluggish beat, the pressure immense.
"Keep breathing and I'll tell you everything."
Red continued to pour from the wound despite his best efforts to mitigate the flow. No matter. Better out than in, he'd rather die from exsanguination than choking on his own blood.
He'd lied about the hour. Anything to get her to leave. Still, he had no intention of making her slay the demon alone.
"Learn from my mistakes, Tom. You've made a career of hunting a madman, don't let it cost you the one thing you're trying to protect."
He reached for the neighboring cart with a groan, gritting his teeth against the stabbing ache of his shattered clavicle. The heat in his lungs intensified as he hauled upright, vision tunneling.
"If you die, I'll never forgive you."
The shadows deepened, walls descending as he listed against the brick, taking in just enough air to stay conscious. His shoulder throbbed, blood marking his path as he stumbled forward, pausing every meter to press his forehead to the cool stone, hands curled against the brick.
"We read of Lancelot, by love constrained,"
He shook his head, pushing off the wall with a blood-slick hand. "No…" he growled. "Get out… of my head."
If this was to be his last night on earth, Albus would not be the final voice he heard.
"I only wanted to protect you."
"I know," he replied to the darkness, staggering on. "But this… was always… my ending."
"Vanquishing him doesn't have to be the final chapter of your story. Trust me when I say it's never too late to start again."
He tripped over an unseen obstacle, catching himself against a stack of crates with a pained shout, pressure increasing ten-fold.
"Please. Survive this."
He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the binding, fresh blood rolling past his fingers, propelled by the disjointed thrum of his heart.
"Even if you don't return. Even if I never see you again."
He opened his mouth, fighting for breath.
"Please survive."
His vision clouded as his knees gave out, body hitting the ground like a bag of rocks. He was too breathless to howl with the impact, excruciating as it was, possessing only the energy to roll onto his back in a vain attempt to open his airway.
"Tom," a voice echoed, no longer distinguishable from dream or reality. "Get up."
He glanced sideways from his sprawled position, sweat dripping into his eyes as the faint silhouette of a woman swayed in the distance. Lanterns burned behind her head, casting her features into darkness. His heart rolled inside his chest, unable to manage a full beat. "Hermione?" He muttered, tongue heavy in his mouth.
"Can you feel it?" She asked, voice distorted when it reached him. His lips parted as a cool breeze caressed his face, carrying the scent of grease and salt. "You're almost there," she urged.
He wanted to scold her for coming back but hadn't the energy, gathering the last of his strength to roll onto his less-injured side, pushing up with trembling arms. By the time he made it to his feet, he was certain his heart would explode.
"Brace the wall," she instructed. He did as bade, taking strange comfort in the simple directive, the calm certainty. "That's it. Now walk."
He tried to swallow, mouth frustratingly dry, and trudged towards her, supported by the wall. The bricks felt like ice, cold as the sludge churning through his veins. He grew eager for her warmth, even as a distant part of his mind registered the absurdity of her presence. The real Hermione would be at his side by now, hauling him up with every last ounce of her strength before proudly displaying the Dollmaker's severed head. His limbs grew heavy as he accepted the probability this was merely a hallucination.
"Does it matter?" She asked, starting a slow backward pace.
He released a strained breath, supposing it didn't and continuing onward, determined to make it out before his chest burst like an overheated grape.
A few more meters and moonlight appeared, shining in narrow strips across her figure. His breath came faster as her outline solidified, unrecognizable yet startlingly familiar. He shook his head, shoulder clipping the wall as his pace quickened, a distance voice whispering incessantly at the back of his mind.
He pushed off the brick and stumbled to the center of the tunnel, the pressure in his torso surpassing the pain. The lung would collapse soon, his only chance of survival was making it out. Perhaps a pedestrian would find his body and call the police after robbing it. There was little chance he'd arrive at a hospital in time but at least Hermione and Albus would have closure—
"Don't say that," she commanded sharply.
He blinked, lips parting. "I… didn't." Another step. "Who… are you?"
She stopped her slow retreat at the exit. The closer he approached the more she came into focus. The wave of her hair, the line of her neck and curve of her shoulder, the shadows on her face rapidly receding. His eyes stung, head swimming like a drunk. "You… aren't… real…"
"Perhaps not, but I'm still your mother. Now keep walking."
His throat burned, drawn tight by an invisible noose as he staggered forward, reaching out a trembling hand—
The lung collapsed, taking his body with it. He hit the ground in a choking fit, blood spilling across the ground and pouring into the cavity.
"Shh, it's alright," she murmured, dropping beside him. "Move onto your side, darling. It's going to be okay." He rolled through the force of his convulsions, staring at the faded patterns on her skirt. "Put your arm back, open your other lung."
He tried to obey but his limbs refused to respond, muscles starved for oxygen. Then her hands lighted upon him, colder than the cement beneath his cheek, maneuvering his body with confidence and ease. His eyes drifted up, watching concentration mold her features as she worked. Her skin glowed pale in the moonlight, eyes sunken and bruised, throat violet with rope burn. She was even adorned in the same outfit he'd found her in, feet bare and filthy as the day they'd swayed above his head.
He struggled to wet his lips, to form a comprehensive thought. "You're… dead."
"Yes," she affirmed, adjusting his arm until his ribs no longer felt like they were cracking down the middle.
"Am I?" He asked.
"Don't be silly."
He fell pliant beneath her touch as she positioned him at just the right angle to allow a shallow breath to pass, shuddering on the exhale.
She leaned back and met his watchful stare, fingertips resting on his arm. "You were with me in my final moments, Tom. I thought only of you." He fell perfectly motionless as she laid a hand to his cheek, unable to escape the hallucination, unsure if he wanted to. "I'm so sorry, my darling, more than I can ever amend for. But know I loved you with every breath, including my last."
Something cold and wet ran from the corner of his eye to his temple, quickly swept away by her thumb. "I'm sorry I let go," she whispered. "But you have to keep fighting."
The pain in his chest spread to each limb. "I tried… to stop him…" his breath faded as red pooled beneath him.
"You did good, my love. I'm so proud of you." Her tears rolled freely, speckling the cobblestone between them. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out but lacking the strength.
"Stay…" he muttered, not fearing death but getting lost in the darkness of whatever came after.
"I'm here." Her fingertips stroked a soft path from cheek to temple, gliding through his hair. "I'm with you always," she murmured, then began to hum.
He wanted to watch her face but the sky beyond became distracting, the night awash with brilliant light. A kaleidoscope danced across the atmosphere, dispelling the fog in a spectacular burst.
"I saw an explosion of color. Greens, blues, purples, and reds, crashing like waves over the stars. I thought I was seeing the gateway to heaven."
His eyes drifted shut, bright patterns coalescing behind his lids.
"You don't belong here, Hermione."
He saw her face in his mind, a gentle humming encasing him as he sank into the earth.
"Neither do you," her phantom whispered. Then the darkness took him under and both women were lost to the abyss.
Hermione raced along the riverbank, lungs pumping furiously, determined to make it back to the tunnel before Tom bled out or suffocated. She'd given him her word and intended to keep it, propelled by the knowledge more than just their lives were at stake. If the Dollmaker fled London he'd take new girls. His future victims depended on her, as did Ariana, Lavender, and every single resident of Wonderland. Turning back wasn't an option, was never an option, so she continued her chase, committed to seeing this nightmare through to the end.
The wharfs stood abandoned, factories closed and gas lights extinguished, the rolling tide and pale moonlight her only companions in the desolate dreamscape. Her steps slowed as the path ended, the London Docks standing just ahead, a faded sign and parted gate inviting her forward.
She slipped inside with bated breath, gun heavy in her hand. Despite the shadowed terrain she required only a sweeping glance to find him at the water's edge, a dark silhouette staring intently at the glimmering depths.
"How predictable," she muttered, causing him to glance sideways with a jolt. "Don't look so surprised. Criminals always return to the scene of the crime." The slats creaked loudly beneath her feet. "So this is where she was found."
His spine drew rigid, moonlight reflected across his narrow gaze. "Albus told you."
"He didn't have to. She jumped from Tower Bridge, I just had to follow the current downstream." Waves lapped over the dock, soaking her torn hem.
"Clever girl," he muttered, turning to face her fully. "I take it Tom has taken his last breath?"
Her fingers tightened around the revolver. "He isn't going to die."
"We all must go eventually, my dear. There's no denying the hand of fate."
"Is that what you call driving a sixteen-year-old girl to suicide?"
His jaw clenched, throat bobbing beneath his collar. "I wasn't the reason—"
"Of course you were, and deep down you've always known it. It's the torch burning inside you, the catalyst igniting your hatred for Dumbledore and your obsession with Tom. Anything to distract from the mind-numbing guilt, the crippling shame."
His breath came quicker, eyes murderous as she stopped with barely two meters between them.
"And don't bother telling me I'm a child too ignorant to understand the ways of the world. I've seen things you couldn't begin to comprehend, I've fought battles you'd shudder at the mere description of, and I survived it all without losing any part of myself." The dark water surged, tide driven by her words. "You're withered and broken by denial, stitched together by lies and delusion. But you're coming apart at the seams, Grindelwald. All your poison and bullshite is spilling out and tonight it's going to drown you for good."
He strode forward, bloodlust transforming his features into a demonic mask until she leveled the revolver, halting him in his tracks. He rocked in place, staring at the weapon before grinning widely. "If you're going to wield an empty gun at least—"
She shifted her aim two centimeters to the left and pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the chamber in a puff of smoke and sparks, whizzing past his head. She arched her brow, returning the barrel to his chest as he staggered. "You were saying?"
His palms raised in surrender while his voice shone with appreciation. "My, my," he murmured. "You certainly were reborn from the flames." He lifted his chin, bestowing her with a quick and thorough appraisal. "To get back up to the shining world from there, my guide and I went into that hidden tunnel—"
"Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears, where we came forth and once more saw the stars," she concluded.
He blinked twice, hands dropping. "You know Inferno."
"It's Dante. Of course I know it."
His low laughter carried on the breeze. "If you weren't so dead-set on killing me we could have formed a brilliant partnership."
"Dante ascended to Virgil's spiritual level and surpassed him. Which explains your penchant for turning partners into dolls. God forbid anyone surmounts your genius." His jaw ticked, intrigue fading as she leveled the gun at his black heart. "You were never my guide through fire and brimstone," she divulged. "I am the flames, the inescapable hand of fate, and I'm here to drag you to the pits of hell where you belong."
He tilted his head, seemingly indifferent to the venomous declaration. "Before pulling the trigger, will you tell me? How you learned it was draíocht."
Her eyes narrowed. "You already know."
"You truly saw her?" He whispered, edging closer. "I've spent half my life trying to summon her voice, her image. I speak to her every night but I've never received a response."
"Because she has nothing to say to you," she replied calmly, relishing his gutted expression. "You're the reason she's dead, the plague of Wonderland, a blight on humanity." His lips pressed thin, urging her on. "Too pathetic to even haunt—"
He emitted a feral growl and charged, catching her wrist and jerking it sideways as she screamed and pulled the trigger, the final bullet cracking through the night, lodging in a rotten beam.
She released the weapon with a hiss, glaring murderously as he took aim at her chest and pulled the trigger half a dozen times, finally abandoning the effort with a roar. The gun hit the water with a heavy splash, sinking to the bottom of the river as he surged for her neck, driving her backward in a choking vice. She stumbled over uneven slats until he pinned her flat to the brick, blinking through a haze of tears and grinning slowly.
"Why are you smiling?" His grip tightened as she exhaled a shuddering laugh. "What's so goddamn funny?" He demanded, too preoccupied with shaking her like a ragdoll to notice her hands dipping for his pockets.
Her lips moved soundlessly, prompting him to release her, eager for a response. She sucked down a hungry breath and held her bounty to the moonlight, eager to share. "This."
He gaped at the pale-blue liquid shimmering behind the glass, patting his empty vest in bewilderment. Before he came to his senses she pulled out the stopper and upended the bottle in his face.
He sputtered and gasped, staggering backward in a fit.
"I never planned on using the gun," she admitted, tossing the empty bottle aside. "You're not mine to kill." He shook his head, trying to dispel the drug like a mutt shaking water from its fur. "You belong to them," she continued, following his stumbling path. "And they've been waiting a very long time for you."
He growled and surged for her again but lacked the coordination to connect, falling sideways and rolling off the wharf. Water splashed the deck in a wide arc as he hit the surface, breaching its dark depths.
"The effects set in with near immediacy," she stated calmly, pacing to the edge of the dock and peering down. He thrashed and howled, eyes dazed as he met her glittering smile. "Enjoy the ride."
Gellert slapped at the waves, kicking in a desperate attempt to propel himself to the dock. But the closer he moved the further the structure drifted, sinking back on the horizon until it was a hundred kilometers away. He sputtered desperately and turned his focus on the endless stretch of river, its waters black as ink and cold as death, coating his skin and soaking his marrow.
"Help!" He cried, choking on salt as the fog thickened above, banishing the moonlight. "I'm drowning! Help me!"
Something brushed his ankle. He shouted anew and jerked the limb away only for the object to graze his other side. He gasped sharply, catching sight of a massive shadow gliding beneath the surface.
"God in heaven…" he whispered, treading wildly. "Do you see it?"
From his peripheral he watched the wretched girl pace the wharf at a leisurely stroll, her voice reaching him above the waves. "You must embark on the path of descent to find salvation."
He shook his head and balked, the dark mass rapidly rising towards the surface, water rippling as terror seeped from his every pore.
"To get to heaven one must first traverse through hell," she recited dutifully, lending no reaction when the glistening tentacle emerged from the inky depths, curling beneath the starless sky. "And you're about to tour all nine circles."
"Hermione—"
He glanced sideways, intent on begging her mercy, spouting whatever lie would provoke her bleeding heart, but instead was rendered silent at the sight she presented. Her body burned like an effigy, encased in black flame, hands folded primly at her back as her gaze shined with feral pleasure.
"Goodbye, Gellert."
A tentacle drew tight around his ankle and yanked him under, muffling his screams with the churning tide. The beast dragged him down, further and further from the moonlight, closer to the pits of hell. Its body was immense, slick flesh camouflaged by the inky sheen of their surroundings. But its wheel-sized eye stood in stark contrast, holding Gellert's horrified gaze while he thrashed like a man possessed, kicking and clawing until his struggles ceased abruptly.
The tentacle released him but he made no move to resurface, lungs burning as a single beam of moonlight cut through the shadowed abyss, illuminating a still figure in the water.
"Ari?" He muttered, bubbles escaping in a stream.
Pale hair encircled her like a halo, skirts dancing around her slender frame as her arms floated at her sides. His heart skipped painfully, his entire being burning for oxygen, for her, the universe centered on her face as it slowly tipped up, silvery tendrils parting to reveal an angelic countenance. She was stunning, more beautiful than any of the memories he'd clung to so relentlessly. Tears seeped from his eyes, lost to the murky depths as she tilted her head, lips parting softly. He emerged from his daze, swimming towards her with determination, propelled by longing and desire.
She continued to hover, watching his clumsy approach with a serene expression until, finally, he was upon her, reaching forward with a joyous laugh.
But before he could make contact something grabbed his ankle and halted his movement, drawing him back. He grunted and kicked, glancing down and screaming into the darkness. For it wasn't a tentacle cutting off his circulation but a hand, as withered and decayed as the corpse it belonged to. He stared upon the eyeless girl, aiming the heel of his boot at her skull. But his foot was seized by another hand, another mangled corpse emerging from the shadows. He glanced at Arianna, reaching for her desperately, but more hands continued to appear from the abyss, clinging to his calves, his knees, his thighs, dragging him down down down.
He sank like a stone, arms scrambling as Arianna hovered calmly above, watching the scene unfold through guileless eyes. He screamed her name, the final syllable taking the last of his breath as hands grabbed his arms, his chest, his neck, bloated bodies floating all around, skeletal faces pressing in until Ariana disappeared entirely.
Their huddled bones blocked the moonlight, ink spreading, and then a hand reached for his face and took his sight entirely. Gellert screamed into the darkness, icy water filling his mouth, throat, and lungs, racing to every fingertip and toe until he was just another corpse sinking to its watery grave.
The ripples slowed, the final bubble surfacing with a soft pop. Hermione lifted her chin and inhaled the cool night air, waiting to make certain his ghost didn't emerge. The water finally settled and she gathered her skirts, racing across the wharf like it was on fire. Blood pounded in her ears, lungs working in frantic bursts, one simple thought playing through her mind on an endless loop.
Please be alive please be alive please be alive…
She rounded the gate and started down the riverbank, stumbling as a line of carriages appeared on the other side of the Thames. The sky began to lighten, dawn slowly breaking, reflecting off the golden Scotland Yard insignias on the compartment doors.
"Help!" She screamed, charging the handrail overlooking the water. "Over here!" Her arms waved wildly. "Help us!"
One of the drivers pulled on the reins, calling over his shoulder. "Sir!" He banged on the roof of the carriage. "There's someone—"
"Hermione?" An unseen voice called.
She gasped, watching a familiar face appear in one of the windows. "Harry!"
"Stay there!" He yelled, leaping from the compartment before it could fully stop. "We're coming!"
"No! Meet me at the Tunnel! Hurry!"
"Wait!"
She dashed off without a backward glance, the sky a pale violet by the time she reached the tunnel. Her steps faltered, a dark mass sprawled beneath the archway.
"Tom…" she breathed, shaking off her encroaching fear and racing forward, navigating around barrels and ducking under rope before dropping to her knees beside him.
"Tom!" His chest didn't move, a pool of blood surrounding him like a crime-scene outline, soaking her skirts. She touched his face, fingers trembling, his skin pale and cold as marble. She brought her other hand to his mouth, feeling for breath, then to his neck, tears overspilling her lashes as she searched for a pulse.
"No!" She cried, swallowing desperately and searching again. She held her breath and closed her eyes, concentrating…
There!
Her lids snapped wide, a sob bubbling forth as she discovered the faint, slow thrum beneath his jaw. "Tom!" She grasped his face in both hands and leaned down, exhaling with a shudder as his lips moved soundlessly. She turned her head sideways, hair spilling across his face as she listened to the weak murmur.
"Hermione…"
She nodded frantically, pulling back as his bruised lids parted. "I'm here," she whispered, cradling his head. "He's dead. We did it." She watched the impact of her words settle over him, clearing the fog long enough for the mirrors to flicker behind his eyes.
"Are you… cert—" He erupted into another coughing fit, blood seeping from the saturated binding.
"Hold on, I'll find a medic—"
"No," he murmured, grabbing her wrist when she tried pulling away, smearing blood across her forearm. "Stay."
She trembled uncontrollably, recognizing the dark acceptance in his gaze, knowing what it signified. "Please let me get help," she cried. I can't watch you die. I can't.
"I saw it," he muttered, complexion bloodless beneath the dusky pastel sky.
She shook hard, struggling to affect a soothing countenance. "Saw what?"
"The aurora."
Her heart rioted as his eyes lost focus. She lowered a hand to his face, sweeping it across his cheek. "Was it beautiful?"
"Yes," he whispered. She closed her eyes and leaned in, resting her forehead against his.
Footsteps echoed in the tunnel.
She jerked upright, pulse thrumming with hope. "Help!" She screamed into the darkness. "We're over here!"
"Hermione!"
She gasped, tears streaming. "Draco!"
"We're coming!"
"No!" She yelled, shaking her head as though he could see her. "Find a medic!"
"What's wrong?" His words echoed closer, more frantic.
"Tom's been shot! He needs help! Hurry!"
The pair of footsteps faltered. She held her breath, swaying with the force of her heartbeat.
"We'll be back!" He replied, voice receding. "Stay there!"
The weight of her relief nearly knocked her sideways. She slid her hands behind Tom's neck and lifted his head, setting it in her lap and sweeping the damp hair from his eyes.
"Help is coming," she stated, needing to hear the words aloud. "You have to keep fighting. Don't let go." His breath shuddered as the sun neared the horizon, water sparkling like a million tiny crystals. Her heart sped, eager to flee her vacant body. "I held on for you, now you have to hold on for me."
His Adam's apple bobbed slowly. "I knew… when I found you… in my wardrobe…"
She leaned closer with every word. "What did you know?" She whispered, certain the answer would break her apart.
His body seized, overtaken by a wet cough, red spilling past his lips.
"Tom!"
He gagged, red streaking his cheeks, his chin.
"No!" She gasped, tipping his head back to stretch his airway. Breath whistled from his throat, ending sharply as his eyes closed. "Tom?" She rolled him onto his back, clutching his face and watching his chest still. "Tom!"
Her fingers twitched as she drew his arms back and lifted his chin, forcing a deep breath and expelling it into his mouth, waiting until his chest expanded before pulling back with a determined growl, beginning chest compressions. With the nature of his injuries she wasn't certain if she was doing more harm than good, only that she couldn't sit by and do nothing.
She pumped his sternum furiously, threatening to break his ribs. "Don't do this!" She yelled as his body rocked lifelessly, head lulling. "Wake up!" She gulped in more air before tipping his head and plugging his nose, repeating the process against his cold lips.
A siren wailed in the distance, powered by a wind-up crank, but her focus remained on keeping his blood moving, keeping his organs alive. "Tom!" She cried, pumping until her arms buckled at the elbows, body collapsing forward. "Don't you dare…" she sobbed into his chest. "Don't do this to me! Not now!"
Horses brayed along the riverbank, carriages drawing closer, sirens growing louder. She blinked through the watery haze while the sun breached the horizon, encasing Tower Bridge in a golden halo. Footsteps pounded the pavement, voices calling out, indistinguishable over the rapid thrum of her heart. She pushed up slowly, reaching for his face and turning it forward.
"I knew it, too," she whispered, stroking his lips. "I've always known."
The voices were upon them now, dozens of shouts overlapping as the sunrise illuminated everything in its path, stopping just short of the tunnel.
"Sadness cripples. Anger motivates."
She set her jaw, gaze hardening.
"No," she muttered around a trembling breath, "you most certainly do not get to do this." She tipped his head and fused their mouths together, forcing air into his lungs with furious resolve, outraged by his audacity. "You have to answer to me, Tom Riddle, and I don't give you permission to die." She stacked her palms atop his chest and laced her fingers tight, beginning another round of compressions.
"Where is she?" Someone shouted in the distance.
"—has to be nearby."
"— saw her running—"
"Mione!"
She remained deaf to their voices, arms locked and elbows aligned as she pushed with all her strength, movements quick and pristine.
"Your anger will take you places, Hermione."
The task consumed her mind, body, and soul, numbing the ache in her wrists and shoulders.
"You must learn to control it, but never eradicate it from your arsenal."
She counted each compression dutifully, palms slipping between the parting in his shirt, centered over his heart.
"Some things in life are so important they must be taken."
A faraway humming filled her ears, colorful lights dancing before her eyes.
"Do not compromise. Take it all."
His head continued to rock lifelessly, lips blue and skin translucent.
"I trust you."
Tears rained from her jaw in a constant downpour, words hissing free with every compression. "Wake— Up—" her heart thundered "Right—" his rib cracked "Bloody—" a desperate sob "Now!"
He came to life with a sputtering gasp, spine arching off the ground as though electrified. She cried out in sharp relief and abject shock, fingers trembling over his sluggish pulse as he erupted into a coughing fit, twisting and shuddering.
"Hermione!" Harry called from the riverbank.
She gripped Tom's shoulders and helped him onto his side, arms limp with exhaustion. "Here!" She shouted breathlessly. "We're over here!"
"This way!" Someone yelled. "Keep going!" Another called, footsteps coming quicker, closer.
Tom settled beneath her touch, lids narrowly parting to meet her watery gaze. "You broke…" a heavy wheeze "my rib."
"Yes," she swallowed thickly. "And I strongly considered breaking your neck for good measure."
His eyes flickered across her face, the corner of his mouth tugging higher as she placed her hand across his neck, skimming his Adam's apple, feeling it tremble beneath her fingertips.
"Mione!"
She gasped, turning to the mouth of the tunnel. "Harry!" She cried, watching the crowd draw near.
"Clear the patient!" A stranger at the front shouted, leather satchel in hand. She leaned back as he sank to his knees beside them and opened his case. "What happened?" He inquired sharply.
"He's been shot," she muttered, a dream-like fog overtaking her senses. "His lung—" her vision dimmed.
Harry grasped her arms and hauled her upright, taking close inspection of her blood-drenched front. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head and twisted away, more concerned with watching the medic work. "The bullet is still…" she trailed off, slumping into Harry's side.
"Mione?" He steadied her. "What's wrong? Were you—"
The rest of his words dropped like pebbles down a well, shadows rising as her limbs turned weightless, careening in familiar freefall. Harry's pinched expression remained centered in the opening above, turning smaller and smaller as gravity became fleeting.
"Thatta girl," a feminine voice rang off the walls of the tunnel. "No grand finale is complete without a dramatic swoon."
Hermione scowled, or tried to, reaching for Harry as she sped further and further away. "I'm not swoon—" She fainted before completing the thought, Lavender's contemplative hum guiding her descent.
"Hm. The medic's rather fit, isn't he?"
Hermione exhaled on her friend's echoing laugh, welcoming the all-consuming darkness for the first time in her life.
