TRIGGER WARNING: Draco snaps in this chapter(not non-con, I just am warning you there's a fight). There is violence. References to past non-con. Death.
Counting the Stars
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace - Florence & the Machine, Restless - BIBI, Calm Before the Storm - Nobuo Uematsu, To Zanarkand - Nobuo Uematsu, Davy Jones - Hans Zimmer, and Aqua - Moises Nieto
O
October 2002
Hermione stepped off of the ferry and onto French soil.
The terminal was in Cherbourg, a place that Hermione had never been to before. She felt exhausted and nervous. She'd slept on the seat of the table booth she'd chosen for almost the entire trip.
What if the Dark Lord had taken France in the year since she'd been at Wicklow? What if there was a Trace on her that had stopped working while she was in the protection of the magic valley, and then somehow kicked back into action the moment she left it?
Of course, that didn't make any sense. She'd been in Cillian's flat for three months. If there had been a Trace on her, she would have been found.
She almost wished she had.
Hermione glanced around the terminal. The other patrons of the ferry streamed out around her, the majority of them trailing suitcases along behind them, or holding the handles of luggage in their hands. They were all smiling, talking, and laughing. Like normal people. Normal people who hadn't been imprisoned like she had. She felt like she didn't belong in the real world anymore, or like if anyone knew who she was and where she'd been, then they wouldn't want her.
She felt small.
Walking forward through the large building, Hermione searched her brain for an idea of what to do next. Given that she had euros, a hotel was in order. Perhaps a cheap motel. If she stuck to Muggle areas, that would be safest.
The temperature outside was mild as she walked through the doors and out onto the street. She looked to the left and the right.
What now?
She didn't speak French but since there were so many people around, she realized that the only way she was going to be able to figure out a motel was by asking around. She wandered this way and that, trying to get someone who spoke enough English to direct her. When she finally found someone, she felt wary.
Not all wizards avoided Muggle areas, but all wizards were untrustworthy right now.
Luckily for her - and her journey had mostly been driven by sheer luck - the woman who helped her was just a Muggle. She spoke enough English to direct her to a hotel. Hermione thanked her and began walking.
By the time she got settled in her small, tidy room, she was able to relax. The moment she did, the depression that settled over her body sent her straight to bed.
She had paid for two nights with the Muggle money because that was most of what was left in Cillian's wallet that wasn't a card. She couldn't use his credit card, even though she knew it was probably loaded. If anyone had discovered his body within the last day, the Muggle authorities could find her and detain her. If that happened, then she'd be stuck in a cell, waiting for the Dark Lord to come and pluck her out.
While she was living with Cillian, it had been so easy to give in to her grief and let him use her. It had been so much simpler to take all of her pain - all of her despair and her loss - and start placing it into neat boxes in her mind with lids and latches. She didn't know if she was doing it with her magic, with Occlumency, or just because she desperately needed reprieve.
She just wanted to feel nothing.
Hermione napped for hours. The nap was punctuated by random bouts of waking up from nightmares and crying herself back to sleep. Sometimes, she dreamed of Cillian's bloody face and unseeing eyes. Sometimes, she dreamed of Luna slipping silently into the water. And sometimes, she dreamed of clouds made of dragonflame.
By the time she woke, it took her an entire hour to get up to use the loo because she was so forlorn.
What was she supposed to do now? There was nowhere to go. No one to run to. She had no friends left. They were all gone. She was a used-up trollop who had been turned into naught but a toy for a Muggle, all because she'd given up. She knew that she was Hermione Granger and she wasn't supposed to give up, but her friends were dead.
She couldn't be strong all the time.
Unable to afford room service, she went down to the lobby. There was a chain fast food restaurant across the street that she remembered from her childhood to be inexpensive. At the very least, a hamburger wouldn't cost too much and she would be able to save some of the leftover money for one meal tomorrow.
It was looking like she might have to get used to having an empty stomach again.
She debated eating in the restaurant since it was late and not many people were around, but she was still worried about a Trace. A hotel room wouldn't be any safer, but something about being surrounded by four walls and a roof made her feel more secure. Besides, she wanted to take Cillian's clothing off for a moment to wash it in the bathtub. There wasn't any blood on the fabric, but she felt like they were soiled.
She felt like she was soiled.
Taking her burger outside with her, she prepared to cross the street.
Crack.
There was someone standing underneath the streetlight beside her. He wore all black and he looked like he was waiting for someone. He was looking right at her.
A flash of red hair.
Hermione's heart leapt up into her throat. She nearly dropped her food to the ground.
Was it - ?
Bill Weasley stepped forward, looking almost exactly the same as the last day she'd laid eyes on him at Shell Cottage. The scar was still there, dark and pink where it bisected his face. His hair was much longer and the beard he'd never seemed able to grow had come in.
"Hermione?" he whispered.
Hermione could only nod. It wasn't Ron, but it was someone.
"It's really you?" His eyes went wide and he crossed the small distance to her with speed, his arms shooting out to crush her against his body. "Merlin's bloody beard, it's really you!"
Even though she was over the moon to see Bill, to see a friend, she went rigid in the circle of his embrace. All she could feel was Cillian's arms. Cillian's body holding her tight, not letting her get away. She squeezed her eyes shut and finally dropped her burger. Her heart couldn't stop racing.
"Oh - your food," he said, letting her go to hold her by the shoulders and look down. "Ah, Hell. We'll get you another. We'll get you whatever you want. Come here."
He hugged her again, tighter this time. It took all of her strength not to break down in his arms. She was terrified - terrified that he would look at her and know she was different - but she was just so tired of being sad. She wanted to be happy to see him. She wanted to be happy that someone had survived.
She threw her arms around his waist and fell apart, sobbing into his chest as the walls around her heart shattered. Even though she was frightened and overwhelmed with grief, she felt like she could breathe again.
She hoped he could see how filthy she was now.
"How did you -"
He cut her off. "You think Fleur and I aren't watching every magical core signature that comes from the islands?"
Hermione pulled back far enough to look up into his eyes. She needed confirmation. Answers.
"Does he have Ireland?" she asked.
Bill nodded, looking sad. "He's got Great Britain, Ireland, and Greece. He's working on stamping out the rest of the Irish wizard rebellions, and we've heard rumors that he's headed for Lithuania next."
Hermione held her breath for a moment and then stepped out of his hold. "And here?"
"He hasn't cast his eye on France yet. We don't know why he's bouncing around so much," Bill said, and then he cast a couple of surreptitious glances around. "Will you come with me?"
Hermione looked across the street, at her hotel. She hadn't left anything in the room because she didn't have anything but Cillian's wallet. She looked at Bill again.
"How can I trust that it's you?" she said softly.
"Ron soiled the bed until he was thirteen," Bill said automatically, grinning. "That do it for you?"
The one secret that Ron had never told anyone but her.
Hermione felt a strange feeling come over her. Her eyes pricked with tears and her heart filled with warmth. "It'll do. Where do you live?"
"Paris," he said. "With Fleur. Tinworth was overrun, so it wasn't safe, even with the wards. We came here to join her father."
Hermione swallowed, hard. "And what about everyone else? How did you escape the castle?"
"Portkeys. Fleur and I tried to hold them off in the courtyard, but got separated from everyone else. Then Mum found us and told us to give in and go. So we did." He averted his eyes. "We feel guilty about that."
Hermione shook her head. "We all had to run. And everyone else?"
Bill was the one to swallow, his pulse jumping in his throat. "Mum told us we would all meet at the Burrow in one week's time, but she never came. No one did."
Hermione felt the devastation so viscerally that her knees went weak. She'd always feared that Ron was dead, but now, knowing for certain that there was no chance of seeing him again? It was like Bill had ripped the last shred of hope she had left out from underneath her.
Bill held out his hand. "Let's go home, yeah?"
Reorienting herself so that she didn't fall into a depressive stupor, she forced a smile onto her face.
"Yeah."
She took his hand and they DisApparated.
O
Hermione woke as though she were coming out of a coma.
She felt confused and heavy. It was as though someone had weighed all of her limbs down with sand. For a moment, she had thought that her dream was real. She'd thought she was back in Cherbourg, embracing Bill Weasley under a streetlight in the middle of the night.
She lifted her head, eyes searching for the clock in the dark. It was on the wall -
Draco was there. He was standing beside her bed.
Before she could stop them, before she could even stop to see if she felt ice in her mind, the memories of what she'd done before she fell asleep crossed her mind. They flashed one right after the other, disjointed but coherent. She really, really hoped he couldn't see those.
He held out a glass of water. Their fingers brushed. Hermione's stomach flipped.
"You were screaming," he whispered. "Again."
She sat up, painfully aware that all she wore was her camisole. She'd removed her pyjama trousers, brassiere, and boots before she'd closed her eyes. She hoped he hadn't cast a charm to see in the dark the way he did when he went to see Calypso.
As she sipped the water, her gaze fell to the silver and black rings he wore on his fingers. Aside from those, all he wore was his trackies. His hair was completely falling forward, into his eyes. She noticed that it was shorter than his chin, the ends of his fringe just lightly dusting his cheekbones while the rest was cut close to the scalp.
He looked rather handsome.
Oh, Merlin, she told herself. Now is not the time.
She handed the water glass back. "Thank you."
He held it, tapping his forefinger against the rim.
"Is there something else you need?" Hermione asked, struggling to keep her voice from wavering.
"No," he said, voice husky. "Is there something you need?"
Hermione held his gaze and spoke through clenched teeth. "No."
The glass, which was still half-full of water, was placed gently onto her bedside table. She felt like the clink of it against the wood was rather loud.
Why did it feel like the room was so stuffy?
"Can you get out now?" she said, her voice rising in pitch.
He pulled a face. "The fuck are you on about? I just came in to give you water."
"And I'm supposed to just know that?" she snapped, pulling the coverlet up higher to shield her chest. She felt embarrassed and irritated. Even though it felt hot in the room, her breasts said the air was cool.
"Yes," he said, stressing the word. "I have never given you a reason to think otherwise, Granger. I've been in your room tens of thousands of times and haven't tried anything yet."
Hermione's brow furrowed and she spat vitriol. "You're the one who said you didn't want to stop that night. How am I supposed to know you don't feel the same way tonight?"
She regretted that. She shouldn't have said that.
The mild irritation on his face intensified to rage. "Are you being serious? Are you referencing the answer that I gave you in response to your question that you asked while your hand was wrapped around my -"
Hermione felt all of the blood rushing to her cheeks, so she cut him off. "Why did you let it go that far, then? Why didn't you say you wanted to stop?"
"On a good day, I'd say it was coerced."
"I wasn't in the right frame of mind!" she cried, still holding the coverlet to her chest. "I'd just killed a man!"
"Neither of us was in the right frame of mind."
"So then you lied. You did want me to stop. That makes you a liar." Hermione gritted her teeth. Just as I've already thought.
"I'm not a liar!" he yelled, his hands in fists.
Hermione couldn't think clearly, for her anger. It was the dead of night, and all she could do was fight with him. He looked attractive and that made her want to have it out. And he was a liar.
She clutched the blanket tight and glared at him. The moonlight illuminated his face. He looked livid and more than a little offended.
"So, you're telling me that if we were both in the right frame of mind, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself," she said, her mind full of very clear images of the night in reference. "Is that what I'm hearing?"
He scowled. "Granger -"
"No, if that's all you want me for, then just take what you need and go." She pulled the coverlet aside, anger and defiance fueling her actions. She felt the rush of air against her body as she did so, felt his gaze upon her chest like a beacon.
What the fuck was she on about?
Why did she keep doing this to him? To herself?
He wasn't Cillian.
Draco sighed and passed a hand across his face. "I'm knackered, Granger. Can we at least wait until the sun comes up to start bickering?"
Even though she was being ridiculous, getting angry this late, she had valid reason to be. He hadn't let her ask any of her questions. He didn't care whether she trusted him or not, otherwise he would have let her ask them.
So if he didn't care if she trusted him or not, and he wouldn't have been able to stop himself even if it weren't right after a murder, then what else did she have to believe in about him?
"Why didn't you protect me?" she asked, looking him directly in the eye as she snatched the blanket back onto her body.
"From who?" He took a step closer to the bed. "From Carrow?"
"From myself."
It escaped her lips before she could stop it. But it was already out there. Now that it was, she wanted to know the answer. She needed to know.
He stared at her, looking almost as terrified as he'd looked in the courtyard when his parents had called him over to Voldemort's side. It was like he wanted to look away, but everytime he did, his eyes were drawn back and pinned to her.
"I tried," he said.
Crack.
O
The rest of May passed as sluggishly as quicksand.
It oozed out of the universe and down into the black hole that was Lord Voldemort's impending summons. Every day that passed by felt like weeks, waiting for the summons only to have it never show up. Hermione went to sleep relieved and woke up in fear day in and day out.
When would he finish deciding their fate?
Draco avoided her after the night he brought her the water.
She supposed it was just as well, given the fact that she couldn't seem to talk to him without starting an argument. She knew she was being cruel, but she couldn't seem to look at him without feeling like he was throttling her. It was frustrating, and it made her angry.
Any time they passed in the corridors, he didn't look at her. He kept his gaze turned resolutely forward, his hand in his pocket. Sometimes, he clenched the fist of the hand that hung at his side.
In the potions lab, he didn't even greet her. She didn't try to greet him. They worked in silence and he continued to bottle his potions. She didn't know why he was still going to Buckingham every three days to deliver the potion, or why the Dark Lord wasn't telling him to stay or to bring Hermione with him so he could execute them both. She had no intention of asking.
If he wasn't going to speak to her? Then she wasn't going to speak to him. Now that she was eating like normal again, the next cold war had begun.
The strangest aspect to the rest of the month was Lucius.
After the strange conversation they'd had in his study, he'd been acting very differently towards her. He no longer swatted at her with his cane or glared at her. There were no more cruel remarks or snide glances.
He gave her a nod. Every. Single. Time.
The most bizarre thing that he did the entire month was on the 15th.
Hermione had been in the library past the time he'd told her to be, having dozed off in the chair while reading. Instead of waking her with a sharp tongue, he woke her with a gentle hand on the shoulder. When she opened her eyes, he spoke to her.
"Best be off to bed, then. It's rather late."
There were many times that month that Hermione wondered to herself.
Is he trying to make amends?
On the evening of the 29th of May, Hermione was tired. She'd spent the entire day in utter boredom. She was beginning to believe that the Dark Lord had already made his decision to let them off without warning, and that Draco just wasn't telling her because he was a royal arsehole. She felt too bored to read, too bored to sit in the tea room, and too bored to forage outside.
By the time she went to Narcissa's room to give her the dosage, she was so bored that she almost missed the fact that her eyes were closed.
Wait.
Narcissa's eyes had never been closed before. They'd been open only to blink for the entire time that Hermione had been at the Manor. The curse and its subsequent magical coma kept her mind in a constant state of confuddled limbo. And since her chest was still moving up and down, that meant she was asleep.
Hermione rushed to her side, her hands clutching the potion bottle. She didn't know what to do. Did this mean that Narcissa was taking a turn for the better or the worse? Was she sleeping because she'd come out of her coma and passed out from sheer exhaustion?
Oh, what do I do? Should I tell Draco? He hasn't spoken to me in weeks. What if Narcissa's condition has worsened?
She bit her lip, searching for a solution.
It came to her.
Lucius.
He hadn't been kind to her, but at least he'd spoken more than zero words to her this month. And if this was an emergency, he would be the first person who would want to know.
She turned and fled, throwing caution to the wind and yelling Lucius' name just like she had the night that Draco had Apparated into her room wounded.
"Lucius!" she cried, running towards the stairs. "Lucius, come quickly! Lucius!"
Crack.
As she came to the foot of the stairs, she found herself face-to-face with Draco. His hair was disheveled and his chest was heaving as though he'd run. With wild eyes, he looked her over.
Behind him, jogging out of the library without his cane, came Lucius. He looked perturbed.
"What is it?" Lucius said, walking over. "What's happened?"
Heart nearly tearing itself out of her throat with fear, she didn't waste any time. She let her gaze slide past the panting Draco, to move to his father.
"It's Narcissa," Hermione said, breathing heavily. "She's closed her eyes and - and that's a sign of change in - in a magical coma."
Draco and Lucius exchanged alarmed glances and then with a simultaneous crack, they were both gone. She could hear their voices, frantic and concerned, wafting faintly down the stairs.
Hermione, still catching her breath, leaned against the round end of the banister. She felt worried. She hoped Narcissa was all right. If anything, Hermione wanted the chance to thank her for the help she'd given with the sanctuary for all those years that Seamus said the survivors had been there. She had wondered for so long, too, why the sanctuary fell and whether or not Blaise had been telling the truth when he'd said, "She got caught."
As the door to Narcissa's room closed, Hermione found herself holding a hand to her cheek and frowning.
Why had Draco Apparated to her when she'd called Lucius' name?
She went to bed that night with more questions, and still no answers.
O
Hermione was happy.
Well, as happy as she could be.
Bill and Fleur were the only people she had left in this world, and being with them was as good as it could possibly be. So, she was happy.
Fleur's father, Maurice Delaceur, owned a wizarding version of a thrift shop in a wizarding alley in Paris. It sold all sorts of magical knick-knacks, such as cursed treasure chests, robes that had been grown out of ivy, bottled pixie dust, rare potions ingredients, and Scandinavian rune stones that were to be used for all sorts of ancient magic.
Maurice was a kind, portly old man and he was all-too-happy to welcome the famous Hermione Granger into his home.
"After all," he'd said, "A heroine's heart remains a heroine's heart, when in Britain or in France."
Fleur was ecstatic to see Hermione, pulling her into a sweet embrace when she saw her. Hermione felt a bit guilty, remembering the way she used to think of Fleur when she was younger, and she'd hugged her back with the silent vow to treat her better in the future. She was just as kind as her father, if not more so.
Bill helped with Maurice's shop, but he also had his own treasure trove of magical artifacts in the family room of the small, cramped two bedroom flat.
He had three very important items: a magical radio that picked up the wizarding radio stations in Great Britain, an artifact that kept a disillusionment ward up around the flat above the shop, and something that looked like a tabletop mirror. He called it a Detector. It looked a lot like Dumbledore's Foe-glass, only it showed small specks of light that looked like sparkles.
The first night, he explained it to her.
"It's how I knew to come to Cherbourg," he said. "It tracks magical core signatures. I can use my wand to change the town or city that it's checking. The little specks are white if the citizen has been here since before the war; they turn red if a new person enters the borders. Then, I go check it out and if it's an enemy, I take them out. I was doing my nightly routine of checking all the coastal towns, and then I saw the red. We haven't had a red speck in weeks."
"Take them out?!" Hermione cried, alarmed. Flashes of Cillian went by her mind's eyes and she had to hurry and lock them away before they overwhelmed her with panic again.
He gave her a look. "I obliviate them, Hermione. I don't kill them."
"Oh," she said, heaving a sigh of relief. " So how does it know all that? The specks and the areas?"
"Don't ask me," he said with a shrug. "It's Japanese. It just works."
After that, they'd cast a special charm to put curtains up around the couch, giving her the privacy of feeling like she would have a room. Hermione didn't mind. She was just pleased to finally be sleeping on a couch in a flat that did not have Cillian O'Connell in it.
The first night, she slept with nightmares. Fleur had sat with her, pillowing her curly-haired head in her lap to sing her to sleep in French.
The second night, it happened again.
Again on the third.
By the time the first month had ended, Hermione loved Fleur like an older sister and wept herself to sleep against her abdomen every night.
Six months in, Hermione finally stopped crying. The nightmares ceased. The pain was in its box.
Voldemort wasn't here, so she was safe.
O
Hermione spent the 29th in an anxious mood.
The air in the Manor was gloomier than normal, made worse by the random bouts of rain that they were having that week. Without House Elves, the entire mansion felt empty and cold. Hermione hadn't realized that it had at least had a buzz to it before they'd been taken to Buckingham.
Draco was nowhere to be found. He wasn't in the potions lab in the morning, and he wasn't in the gym. She didn't see him in the library or either of the two sitting rooms. She looked everywhere for him, not knowing what she wanted to say.
Remembering how tough it had been to make her parents forget her, she just wanted to make sure he was okay.
Lucius was in Narcissa's room all day. He sat at her bedside, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He didn't seem interested in moving in the morning, and not even when Hermione came to give the evening dose. Judging by the way he was clutching Narcissa's left hand in both of his, he was a lot more concerned than Hermione was.
And she was extremely concerned.
Narcissa looked like a normal, sleeping woman. Her hair was still in the perfect plait that Lucius always kept it in. Her flesh was rosy and not pale. Her eyes moved beneath her eyelids, a positive sign.
She went around to the other side of the bed, her gaze flitting over Narcissa's chest. Thankfully, it was still moving up and down with breath. That lifted her spirits a little.
"Lucius?" she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.
He didn't take his eyes off of Narcissa's face. He looked beleaguered. Pale. His eyes had deep red circles under them, like he hadn't slept in weeks. His silver hair was limp around his shoulders.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" he replied in his typical clipped drawl.
"If a patient is in a magical coma for an extended period of time, it is completely normal for them to fall into a deep sleep when they come out of the coma," she said. There was a light flickering in his eyes at her words. "She may yet awaken."
Lucius finally looked at Hermione. "Is that in your expert Healing opinion?"
"Not expert," she said with a grimace. "But it's in every Healing book I've ever read that contained information on magical comas."
Lucius eyed her for a moment and then his lips twitched upward.
A semblance of a smile.
"Thank you, Miss Granger. You may go."
Hermione looked down at the potion. "Should I - ?"
"No, that will be all," he said.
As Hermione headed quickly for the door, her slippers shuffling on the carpet, she heard him clear his throat. She paused in the open doorway.
"Please leave the potion on the dresser," he said. Then, she heard him whisper, "Just in case."
Hermione watched over her shoulder as he lifted Narcissa's hand to his lips and held it there. He closed his eyes. Shock registered in Hermione's body as she watched a tear tracking silent and steady down the slight wrinkles in his face.
It's really not that shocking, though, Hermione thought with sadness. He may have been cruel to me, but I don't think it's debatable that he loves his wife.
I hope Narcissa won't stop fighting.
Hermione set the potion on the edge of the dresser, and then left the room.
As she entered the corridor, she felt a lump in her throat. She hugged her arms around her waist, hung her head, and headed for her bedroom. Even though her experiences with Narcissa were limited, she was worried for her. Her waist-length curls fell forward as she trudged along. In a funk, she didn't bother to push them back.
She looked up, and then did a double take.
Draco was standing in front of her bedroom door.
His arms were crossed over his chest and he was leaning against the door with his back. He wore a black shirt with a high collar and black trousers, and his hair wasn't slicked back. His fringe fell into his face like it had when he'd been in her room, like he didn't have the energy to push it back. His eyes, which were normally bright and alive with fire, looked dead and hard as flint.
He was waiting for her.
"Don't give him hope," he spat out, sounding bitter. "Don't give him any hope, you selfish little witch."
"Excuse me?" The lump in Hermione's throat was getting bigger, fanned by her anger and indignation.
He sneered at her, pushing himself away from the door with his foot. "I told you my mother was going to die. Why would she suddenly wake up after weeks of no improvement? My father knows nothing about Healing, and you taking advantage of him for whatever little mind games you're playing with me makes you a lot less Gryffindor than you think you are. Brave? Chivalrous? My arse. My fucking arse."
Hermione stared at him during his tirade, her jaw agape. She couldn't believe the things that were coming out of his mouth.
"Mind games?!" she cried, uncrossing her arms so she could put her hands on her hips. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"The mind games you play on me," he hissed, taking a quick step toward her. "The mind games you've been playing on me. Telling me I'm a liar, provoking me. Breaking me down for no reason other than to be spiteful."
She didn't back away. She just glared up at him, raising her chin to maintain eye contact.
"What reason would I have to be spiteful?"
"To me? Every. To my father? Every." He looked like he wanted to take the dagger he'd given her that had mysteriously disappeared after Carrow's death, and plunge it into her face.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. Did he know about Lucius's encounters with Hermione since she'd arrived? Did he know about the beating? Did he know about the way that Lucius had tossed her about the library the night of the battle anniversary?
Did he care?
"What do you know?" she asked in a strained tone.
"What do I -? What do you mean, what do I know?" He looked confused for a moment, and then his ire returned. "What I know is that you're not as honorable as you pretend to be. I wouldn't put it past you to lie to my father. To get his hopes up about my mother as some sort of sick way of getting back at me for what you perceive to be my manipulation."
Hermione studied him for a moment. She couldn't figure out if he was grieving early, or if he truly hated her. All this time she'd spent despising him, and now seeing him despise her back, she was surprised.
She hadn't realized he didn't hate her before.
"That's not true," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. If he was grieving, she knew better than anyone that things said in the heat of the pain were not words you could take into account.
Even if they hit you right in the heart.
"I've seen it in your head. You don't care about my mother." He loomed over her, giving her a wrathful look up and down her body. "Tch. You just want to know about your precious sanctuary. You want to know if she betrayed you, or got caught."
Hermione's eyes widened and astonishment blew her anger into a storm. "You knew about the sanctuary? And you never said anything?!"
"Of course I knew," he snarled. "How do you think I knew to come looking for you? And I know that's all you've had on your mind since the beginning. You just want your answers. It's always about answers with you, innit? Answers on tests, answers in books, answers from me. You don't care about my mother. You don't give a damn."
Hermione's mind reeled. Everything he was saying was so hateful, so hurtful, but only one thing was sticking out to her.
"The sanctuary fell in 2002," she said. "If it fell in 2002, then why did you wait until January to find me?"
"I didn't," he said. "I've been looking for you since it fell. You were the only one to make it out, but no one saw you for a year-and-a-half. Finding you in Paris was by chance during the take-over."
Hermione wanted to sit down. Okay, so that meant that Draco knew she was at Wicklow, which made sense because of Narcissa being the Order member who helped deliver survivors. Then, she was in Rosslare for three months, hiding in a flat that she was never allowed out of. Finally, in Paris in a warded flat with Bill, Fleur, and Maurice.
"I took you in. It's my right to do with you as I wish."
Cillian's box was coming open.
Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath as panic rose within her. Draco was so powerful of a wizard that he could read her thoughts without even looking in her eyes. He was so powerful that he could Apparate across the water, even if he did get Splinched.
Yet he somehow wasn't powerful enough to find her when she was inside a Muggle flat in Ireland? In a town on the banks of the river that led straight to the sanctuary?
She felt sick to her stomach.
"For someone who's been so adamant about wanting to protect me for all this time," she said, feeling Cillian's hands on her body, "you did a horrendous job."
"What?" he said, tone dark.
"I was in Rosslare," she hissed.
"I know that," he said. "You stayed in the same place for three months."
She wanted to burst out into tears. Of course she was in the same place.
Cillian hadn't let her leave.
"How did you know I was there?"
"A Trace on your magical core," he said. "Combination of Dark magic, Legilimency, and my memories of you. I figured you were safe because you were in the same place, and the Trace was still activated. If you were dead, it would have deactivated."
I wasn't safe, she thought miserably. I wasn't safe at all.
She thought of Cillian. Of the Hell she had experienced behind those walls. She thought of him, and she wished Draco understood. The nights on the couch, the floor, bent over the table and the counter, on Cillian's bed. She wished he could understand.
He could have saved her.
He was looking at her, but she couldn't look into his eyes anymore. If he knew how filthy and used she truly was, then he would know why she had to be so strong that she hurt other people.
He would know what he could have stopped from happening.
"If you would have come for me back then?" she said, shoving past him for her door. She placed her hand on the knob and turned to glare up at him. His facial expression looked muddled, perplexed, and like he was trying to figure her out. "Then I wouldn't be who I am now."
She went inside her room and made sure to slam the door.
O
January 15th, 2004
It was cold in the flat.
Maurice's shop didn't make much money and even though they had a small fireplace, it wasn't enough to keep the Winter chill out. In the entire year and three months that Hermione had been here in Paris, she didn't think she'd ever felt so cold. She wore two sweaters and three pairs of socks, and still she was always freezing.
At least her heart was warm. She didn't panic about Cillian anymore. She had long since put him to rest in her mind.
After dinner, Maurice went to bed early. Fleur and Hermione stayed up braiding one another's hair, laughing and reminiscing about school times. Bill sat at his table, fiddling with his radio. It had broken the week before, so they hadn't had any new information.
Not that there was any new information. After the Dark Lord finally finished taking over Lithuania a couple of months before, he'd gone quiet. It was unfortunate, because they didn't know where he would head next.
"My galleon's on Italy," Bill said as he tinkered with the antenna. "Mm . . . Actually, I think I'm gonna put it on Africa."
Hermione and Fleur exchanged glances, Fleur on the floor between Hermione's legs with her back to the couch.
"Africa is a continent, Bill," Fleur said, giggling. "I don't think the Dark Lord can take over an entire continent."
"He took over Ireland!" Bill pointed out.
Fleur giggled again. "Ireland is not a continent, either."
"Aw, bless," Hermione said, laughing merrily as she plaited Fleur's long silver-blonde locks.
"My job was curse-breaking," Bill said, also chuckling. "It wasn't to learn the . . . Continents . . . Erm - countries . . . I . . . What?"
He went silent.
Hermione, still chuckling, looked over at him. "Did you fix it? The radio?"
"No," Bill said, his voice a whisper. "I did not."
The seriousness in his tone drew both Hermione and Fleur's full attention. Bill was hunched over the Detector, rubbing it with his sleeve in frantic motions.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, feeling dread creeping in on the edges of her confidence. They'd been safe here in France for over a year.
What if they weren't safe anymore?
"My Detector is going off," Bill said, raising his voice. It was tinged with panic and distraction. "It's completely - what - why is this . . . ? This is Paris. There's Muggles here. This is . . ."
"How many do you see?" Fleur asked, standing up with her braid half-done.
He stared at it for a second and then gave both Fleur and Hermione a helpless look.
"Hundreds."
The three of them were silent. The faint sound of the fire in the small fireplace could be heard, crackling. Hermione could also hear her heart beating as though it were on the outside of her chest, held between them in her hands.
She knew what to do.
"He's here," she whispered.
"Here?" Bill looked stunned. "He can't be here. There's Muggles."
"He doesn't care about Muggles," Hermione said. "He never has. He's taken over multiple countries, and no other Muggle country has ever retaliated."
"That's not possible," Bill said. "If he attacks Paris, the Muggles will know. He must have something - some sort of power or spell that keeps them oblivious."
"Or blocks the rest of the world out," Fleur said.
Hermione didn't doubt what Bill was saying. If anyone would know about curses that could keep Muggles from caring about an attack on the city, it would be him.
Still, they did not have time to debate this.
"We need to run," she said.
"Run?!" Bill jumped to his feet. "No, we - We have nowhere to go. We can't run. My ward will hold."
"You don't understand."
"If there's Death Eaters swarming the streets, we can't just waltz on out, Hermione!" Bill yelled, sounding anxious.
Hermione shook her head. "You don't understand. He doesn't have just Death Eaters. He has wyverns. They'll rip right through the wards and tear the buildings apart. Their flames alone will burn everything down around us. We need to run."
The door to Maurice's tiny bedroom creaked open. "What's going on?"
Hermione ignored Bill's desperate look. They couldn't afford to wait and find out what was happening.
She knew firsthand what it was like to wake up to Hellfire.
"The Dark Lord is here," she said. "We need to run. Gather your most important things and put them in a bag. Wear comfortable shoes."
"Hermione!" Bill cried.
"Bill," Fleur snapped. "Hermione has been on the run. She knows. We will follow her." She looked at Hermione, her facial expression severe. "What do we need in the bag?"
Hermione gave orders, telling everyone what to do, what to bring, and what to wear. Hermione used Bill's wand to cast an extension charm on three bags. Maurice put food and water bottles into one bag. Fleur put potions and charmed objects that they felt were important into the second one. Bill put clothing and their wizarding tent into the third bag. They all bundled up, because it was January and it was cold, and then they stood in the center of the room.
"All right," Hermione said. "Everyone hold hands. Bill, you'll have to Side-Along us all outside. Don't try to go too far, or we could all be Splinched."
"Why can't we bring our wands?" Maurice asked.
"Because they'll likely have a Ministry-grade Trace on magic performed," Hermione said. "Now that the Dark Lord is here, nowhere is safe. One wand is all we'll be able to have, and even that might be unsafe."
"But we have to have something," Bill said.
"Yes," Hermione said. "We have to -"
Skreeee!
Hermione nearly screamed with terror.
She knew that sound anywhere.
"Wyverns are outside," she hissed, her eyes wide. She held out her hands. "Grab hands."
"Where can we go?!" Bill said, taking Fleur's hand with his wand in it. He grabbed Hermione with the other hand. "If they're outside . . ."
Hermione didn't know. She didn't know everything. All she knew was that wyverns were killers, and they'd killed the last friends she had left. The burning of the sanctuary had scarred her.
But as she stood there, with all three sets of terrified eyes staring back at her, she realized something.
She was the only person in their little makeshift family that had any experience with wyverns. She was the only one who could help them.
Skreeeee! Another screech, and then there was a flash of light, followed by flickering orange in the window. They peered towards it.
The building beside theirs was on fire.
A winged beast on two powerful legs was clutching the shingled roof, its menacing, spiked face peering directly into their window. It pulled back its lips to snarl, revealing razor-sharp teeth.
"The wards," Bill said. "It can't see us, right?"
"It doesn't matter!" Hermione screamed. "Grab hands! We need to go -"
The wyvern exhaled suddenly, and flames engulfed the flat. Whether the object Bill had to keep the flat hidden worked or not was not known. In the next moment, everything was on fire and it was not cold anymore. The roof and the wall were engulfed. Smoke that was dark and thick began to fill the room.
Hermione's mind was blank.
Why is this happening again?
Why couldn't we just be happy?
The glass in the window shattered. Maurice, a frail old man, fell to the floor in horror. Fleur knelt beside him, coughing. Bill and Hermione were in shock.
It all happened within seconds.
The wyvern launched itself from the roof of the building next door and came crashing into the flat from the broken window. Its great girth slammed into Maurice and Fleur, cutting off their screams as the floor caved in from its weight.
Everyone went down.
Hermione heard screams, snarls, and the rush of air as the fire flared with the added oxygen from the shop below. The wyvern snarled and growled, its teeth and jaws snapping together as it tried to bite anything in its path. Fleur and Maurice's screams stopped instantly when they hit the shelves first. The wyvern fell atop the wood, destroying the shelves and everything on them. Bill landed on a large statuette and did not move again.
Just like that.
It was always so simple and anticlimactic.
But it hurt so badly.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for a death that she would much rather have.
And then she landed on a warm, scaly body.
Hermione's eyes snapped open. She was on the wyvern's underbelly. Its neck had curved and its head was now trying its best to come down and bite her. Without thinking, her body reacted.
She rolled off of the creature just as it opened its mouth to inhale. As it blew its fire above her, she flattened herself to the ground.
She could see the door.
The wyvern rolled over, its tail and wings splintering wood and destroying porcelain trinkets as it did so. Hermione scrambled forward until she was on her two feet again. She ran for the door, holding her shirt over her mouth to try to filter out some of the smoke.
She made it outside right as the wyvern blew its flames a third time.
Just like in Wicklow, everything was chaos.
But unlike in Wicklow, she didn't stop to let shock take over. Even though Paris was burning - even though she could hear the screams of Muggles and wizards alike - she ran as fast as she could down the street. She was headed for the river.
Anywhere to get away from the smoke and the skies that burned.
Bill, Fleur, and Maurice. Gone. As easily as though they were made of paper on a windy day. She couldn't think about it. She couldn't let it stop her. She wasn't going to watch them die, only to let herself be killed by the same wyverns who had taken everything from her.
She put them in a box and sealed it tight.
Hermione flew down into a side alley, the screeching of wyverns echoing in her ears like the song of her nightmares. She could hear them, their wings flapping and their flames blowing. Their unearthly shrieks.
There were no Hebrideans to save the day this time.
In the darkness of the alley, the smoke had not quite reached the center of it. She stopped for a second, her throat and chest burning. She fell into a coughing fit.
A growl.
Whirling around, she came face to face with two very tall, very muscular werewolves. They were covered head to toe in hair, with horrifying teeth and bright, angry yellow eyes. Their ears stuck straight up and they were so much taller than her that she felt like a small child. They wore shredded trousers and they stood on the pads of their feet. Spittle flew from their mouths as their snarling increased.
Werewolves?! She thought in horror as she backed away, back the way she'd come. The Dark Lord has werewolves?!
She took off.
Tears of fright filled her eyes as she ran. The smoke was so thick, much thicker in the cramped alley than it had been in Wicklow. She could hear the pounding of the werewolves coming after her. They were on all fours.
Fortune shone on her for a split second.
Reaching the end of the alleyway, she dashed out into the cobblestone street. This was still the wizarding section of town, so the witches and wizards that she saw around her were trying desperately to cast spells, hexes, and jinxes. They were fighting werewolves and wyverns at the same time, the wolves launching themselves from the ground and the wyverns dropping from above.
Everything burned.
Hermione flew.
She didn't look behind her. She didn't want to know. If they caught up to her, then she didn't want to know whether it was wyverns or werewolves. She just wanted to run.
Suddenly, she smashed into the chest of a tall person. She looked up.
It was a Death Eater.
She shrieked and tried to turn and run the other direction.
Three werewolves were there.
There was another loud screech. Above them, a wyvern was moving across the roof of a building. Its violent eyes were blazing, fixated right on Hermione.
She let out a cry of frustration.
This was it. There was nowhere else to go. She was either going to die being torn apart by wolves, avadaed by a Death Eater in a mask, or burned alive by a wyvern.
She spun to face the Death Eater. At least she could take a stand against him.
With a wild howl, she leapt.
The Death Eater's body jolted, visibly shocked as she came for him with flailing arms and fists. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kicked her legs, trying to take him down. She wanted his wand. Maybe if she could get his wand, then she could -
Suddenly, one of the Death Eater's arms was around her waist, pinning her tight against him. In the same quick moment, his other hand shot out. She heard him hissing curses and jinxes, the voice coming out of his mask and sparks shooting out of the tip of his wand.
Hermione, confused and still in a state of panic and terror, twisted herself out of his grasp until her feet hit the ground.
The Death Eater grabbed her forearm and yanked her behind him with so much force that she stumbled. She watched from behind his back as he cast more curses and took the three werewolves out.
Above, the wyvern had opened its jaws to inhale.
The Death Eater spun to face her. He grabbed her shoulder. She felt a pull behind her navel.
The fiery alley swirled out of existence.
All was quiet.
Hermione's eyes snapped open to darkness. She smelled soot and ash, but from what she could see, they were in a quiet, moonlit area that held none of the horrors they'd just come from. Before her, the Death Eater stood like a dark sentinel, watching her.
"Who are you?" she cried, eyes wild as she looked up at him. "Why did you take me?!"
The Death Eater reached up to grip his mask with one hand. With the other, he pulled his hood off. As he was removing the mask, Hermione saw that he had tousled platinum blond hair.
The mask came off.
"Malfoy?"
He glared down at her, his eyes bright and fierce under the stars. "Granger."
Hermione didn't know what to think. She knew who this was - she remembered him and would probably never forget him. Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, the Pureblood wizard who had bullied her through all six years that she'd attended Hogwarts. The wizard she'd seen acting like a complete coward in the Room of Requirement in the Seventh Year, and then battling against her and her friends at the Battle of Hogwarts.
And he'd just rescued her.
He'd killed those werewolves and Apparated here.
"Where's the . . . The wyverns?" she asked, completely beside herself with puzzlement.
"The Dark Lord puts up a barrier on wizarding sections of town. The wyverns are there. The fire is there. But the Muggles remain oblivious as their cities burn," Draco said. His gaze scanned her body and landed on her leg. "You're hurt."
Hermione blinked and looked down. Her trousers were torn by the knee, likely from the fall from the flat. She hadn't even realized she was bleeding. Now that she looked at it, she could feel that it was throbbing with pain.
Pain.
Bill . . . Fleur . . . Maurice . . .
Her eyes filled with tears and she looked up at Draco, enraged.
"Why did you save me?" she said. "Why did you save me?!"
His eyes flashed and he lifted his chin.
"I need your help."
O
June 1st, 2004
Hermione woke with a violent start, gasping for air.
She felt like there was smoke in her room, like wyverns were clawing through the windows. Her heart pounded, desperate to beat its way out of her chest. Her limbs trembled and immediately, she looked to the right.
Draco was not there.
I wasn't screaming, she thought, relieved. I wasn't screaming.
She felt her heart sinking down as she remembered the horrors of that night. Hermione closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, struggling to control her anxious breathing. It felt like her lungs were spasming from the spilled grief.
Bill. Fleur. Maurice.
Luna. Seamus. Hannah.
Ron. Harry.
All of her friends were dead.
She put them all back into their boxes in her mind, gently closing the lids and sealing them shut tight.
"Draco! Draco, come now! Please, oh - !"
That screaming, that anguished screaming.
Was it . . . ?
Lucius.
And then he was hollering, and it was broken.
"DRACO! CALL A HEALER!"
Hermione's eyes widened and she threw her coverlet off.
She stumbled out of her room, tripping slightly right as she opened her bedroom door. She fell out into the hall, catching herself on the doorframe just as Draco's door appeared beside her room. He burst out from within, wearing naught but boxer pants and a black shirt. His hair was everywhere. His eyes had that same desperate look that was in them yesterday when Hermione had gone running through the Manor looking for his father. They sought her out, sweeping down her body.
"Dracoooo!" Lucius roared.
Draco's head snapped towards Narcissa's room. He looked at Hermione, the two of them exchanging wide-eyed glances.
It was the most open, raw expression of despair that she had ever seen on his face.
Hermione felt sick.
No.
It couldn't be.
They ran.
Draco skidded to a halt in the door. Hermione was forced to stop behind him, trying to see into the room.
Lucius was lying sprawled out over Narcissa, sobbing with keening wails that sounded like they were coming from the depths of his soul.
Draco let out a ragged breath and Hermione felt him leaning back slightly, into her.
"Hermione," he said, his voice breaking. "I can't - fucking - breathe."
Hermione didn't even think about it. She threw her arms around his waist. Because she knew this feeling. She knew it like the back of her hand, like the air she breathed. She knew this feeling like she knew the stars in the sky.
They sunk to the floor together, where she pressed her cheek against his back because nothing mattered. Not the fights or the hatred or anything.
Narcissa Malfoy was dead.
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