A/N: ****TW mentions of self-harm/suicide
also friendly reminder draco is aged up a year [for the sake of the prologue/them getting their soul mate abilities the same season] so plz don't yell at me when this mentions that he's now 17
Draco's home life has always been a bit hellish, but this is—an entirely other kind of horror show.
Voldemort and merlin knows how many Death Eaters are around at any given harder; the Dark Lord had commandeered the master suite, of course, but Draco's yet to know of the man even sleeping.
He's been crucio'd, hexed, beaten, and cursed more times than he can count, but that part he'd expected.
(His mother's alive, though, and Hermione's safe, and that's—really all that matters.)
There are bright spots, some days, but they're bittersweet. Sometimes Pansy's over with her father, which is a light in the darkness, but Draco feels guilty for being grateful for her presence—knows she's better off anywhere but here, where her occasional public affiliation with other houses has earned her more than one round of torture.
Every waking moment is spent walking on eggshells, never knowing what pain might be next—which in all honesty wouldn't be much of a difference from living with Lucius, but now the stakes are higher, with so many more potential perpetrators around every corner.
Sometimes he's ordered to join older Death Eaters on missions, all of which are awful and gruesome and occur solely to cause damage and continue to sow fear and discord. He's not the only new recruit, by far, though many of the others come from bloodlines who have yet to "prove their allegiance" and are thus expected to execute more of the chaos.
(He learned early on to block it all out—dissociate like he always has on the other end of his father's wand, unfeeling and numb to keep from falling apart.)
It all blurs together, the days nothing and everything all at once as he watches the war's gears churn. He can't differentiate each from the next; it's the same people, same masks, same harm caused and feeling his soul darken, every day so similar it feels like a routine.
Until one day—something different.
"The Dark Lord wants you in the dining room," Fenir Greyback snarls from the doorway of the library—one of the members Draco is most wary of, and perhaps the only one currently in worse favor than the Malfoys.
Draco gets to his feet immediately, though he keeps his back to the wall and the volatile man within his sights. "What for?"
"Like I give a fuck."
(in actuality, the werewolf probably doesn't know, is angry at the reminder of how little respect he's shown, especially coming from a seventeen year old.)
They're silent the rest of the walk to where Voldemort presides, seated in a modified armchair at the head of the table, Nagini curled around the seat's back.
Draco eyes the snake in question—he'd noted early on that the megalomaniac keeps her oddly close, and has been slowly attempting to endear himself to the creature, as much as such a thing is possible.
Voldemort lifts his gaze to Draco's own, the entire room silent. "You've just come of age, Malfoy, correct?"
Confused, Draco hurries to nod. "Yes, my Lord."
"I've decided upon the task that will serve as your penance for your father's failure at the Ministry last spring." His lips curve upward, distorting the slits of his nostrils, red eyes standing out against the pallor of his skin. "I find myself growing tired of Albus Dumbledore's existence. So end it."
If Draco didn't have years of experience hiding his emotions, he wouldn't be able to restrain expressing the shock he feels.
(As much as he hates Dumbledore, to attempt his assassination is one of the boldest actions Voldemort has ever taken—one that will unequivocally rock the wizarding world.)
It'll also force every neutral party to fix a side—and without the champion of the light at the helm, many will defer to Voldemort to avoid conflict and threat.
(It's genius, really—the perfect way to ensure his currently swelling numbers don't slow.)
"I—I'm to kill Dumbledore, sir?" Draco repeats, clarifying, trying not to show how bone deep the statement is shaking him. "Are there any—parameters, or specific expectations regarding how I go about it?"
(He'd like to ask how the hell he's supposed to accomplish such a thing, what help will be provided—but he knows better than to expect any.)
It's a good thing his Occlumency shields are up, as always, as he processes what this means, Voldemort's asking him to kill the strongest and most capable wizard currently alive. Something Voldemort himself has never been able to do—he can't possibly expect a teenage boy to succeed at such a thing.
(He wants Draco dead, then.)
Draco steels himself, blinking and maintaining his unaffected demeanor like his life hasn't just been declared forfeit by the greatest dark wizard in history.
"It's to be done by the end of this school year—I don't care how you do it. I don't want to hear about it until it's done. And I don't want excuses."
"Of course, my Lord." Draco bows his head in deference. "I will not disappoint you."
Voldemort says nothing else, stroking Nagini and clearly waiting for him to leave the room, so he diligently makes his way back to the library.
He braces his arms on the edge of the table for a moment, trying to figure out how he can possibly figure out the right way to handle his predicament.
(and how to prepare Hermione for his death.)
/
Hermione doesn't tell them all—doesn't know how she would even go about it to begin with, and beyond that it would compromise the situation.
(So she just—shoves down the ache in her chest, pretends nothing has changed.)
She just—takes to wearing long sleeves, with a glamour beneath them just in case that she applies to her skin first thing every morning.
One afternoon, she spends hours in the wizarding library archives, trying to learn as much as she can about Voldemort's rise to power and whatever information there is about Death Eater practices and history.
She has to choke back tears when she comes across mentions of an initiation rite—
(wonders how Draco will ever be able to be whole again.)
They hear word through Blaise, whose family is powerful enough to be left alone despite their neutrality; he sees both Draco and Pansy at several formal sacred twenty-eight events—parties only the most pure of the purebloods are invited to, so they're not able to truly talk, of course.
He tells Ginny they don't look well—both have lost weight, bags beneath their eyes dark.
(But they're alive—the reminder is the only solace Hermione can find.)
She tries to find distractions; reads a busload of books, watches Winky do a fashion show of all the new clothes she's made for herself over the last couple months, spends hours watching ridiculous muggle sci-fi television with Harry and Sofia.
Harry's on edge too, as Luna works on her article; knowing as soon as it's released there will be a target on her back, pseudonym or no.
She's taking every precaution—using Polyjuice when she goes to Little Hangling and the orphanage, only going through Ministry files when no one else is around and under the Invisibility cloak, telling no one outside their immediate circle what she's planning or that she'll be the one to write it.
(But Harry's still certain Riddle will manage to figure it out regardless once it's published—will come after his soul mate with a vengeance more deadly than cyanide.)
The dads, Tonks, and the Weasleys try to cheer them up, of course, remind them things might not be as dire as they're imagining.
(But it's hard to believe—hard to care about anything else, when your soulmate's the one on the line.)
McGonagall checks in under the guise of Order business and asking for any new information from Draco, but Hermione knows it's really so the older woman can see that she's okay, can try to remind her that war will end eventually—that what Draco's doing may very well be what allows them to win.
(She keeps telling Hermione to reach out if she needs anything, to try and relax—it's futile.)
Harry's been watching her, Hermione knows—is unsure of when he'll confront her about whatever it is he's worried about.
It all comes to a head when they're watching a movie one night; Sofia squeezes Hermione's wrist during a jump scare and she instinctively goes stony and pulls backward at the proximity of her little sister's hand to the pseudo Dark Mark.
A moment later, Harry's grabbing her hand and tugging her along, pulling her into his room.
"Harry, what—"
"Don't," he makes a face before narrowing his gaze at her. "You've been wearing nothing but long sleeves for weeks now, and just now, when Sofia…" he rubs a hand over his jaw. "Are you—" closes his eyes, deep breath, reopens. "Have you been cutting?" He looks at her forearm meaningfully.
Hermione's heart wrenches. "No, Harry, I—" she swallows heavily, gripping his hands with her own. "I promise."
Harry nods slowly, looking pale. "Okay. I just ask because—I know you're dealing with a lot right now, on top of everything you've already been through, and I—I have before." He can't meet her eyes as he offers the admission. "But—not for a while, and definitely not now. I—it just—helped, when everything felt like too much, like it might be easier to just—"
"It's okay," Hermione promises in a whisper, shaky hands squeezing his. "I understand. I hate that—that you felt like that was your only option, but—I'm just glad you're still here. And I could never judge you for whatever you had to do to get through."
Harry gives her an anxious, tight smile of thanks.
She throws her arms around him, trembling with the painful newfound knowledge between them. "I love you, Harry."
"Love you too," he promises in a whisper; exhales, like telling her is a weight off his chest, but one he's unsure of how to proceed without.
After a moment, he pulls back to look at her. "Mia, what is it then? Is it—" he clenches his jaw, "are you hiding—bruises? Is someone hurting you?" Harry's fists clench, and he closes his eyes. "I love my dads, and Aunt Andy and Tonks and Percy, but if one of them is—I promise I'll believe you." His pained expression makes it clear just how much it's killing him to acknowledge the possibility—but he's willing to, for her.
(Because he knows; as much as he would never think them capable of hurting anyone, he knows better—knows a monster doesn't show that side of themselves to anyone else.)
Hermione blinks back tears, then, overwhelmed with love for her brother—his never-ending faith in her, his loyalty however painful the price. "No—god, no, Harry, they haven't done anything of the sort. No one is hurting me. But—thank you."
(She doesn't have the words to convey what it means to her, after so many years of darkness and family being vehicles of her own suffering; to know that Harry went through so much before finding this family, but if they harmed her he'd turn away in an instant—)
"Then what…" Harry takes a deep breath, trying to read the look behind her eyes. "Talk to me, Mia."
She takes a deep breath before rolling up her sleeve, not meeting his gaze as she turns it to show him where the image of the Dark Mark is burned into her skin.
Harry gasps, fingers gentle as he reaches for her arm. "Oh, Mia. And god, Draco…"
"Yeah," she says, jaw clenched. "So, that's been fun."
"Damn. You just cannot catch a break."
She lets out a brief laugh, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "You're telling me."
/
It's nearing the summer's end when Dumbledore pulls Harry aside after an Order meeting; Hermione follows with narrowed eyes, not trusting the man alone with her brother for a moment.
His hand is injured—corrupted beyond anything Hermione's ever seen, and she'd found herself spending the entire meeting running through the various curses and poisons that could possibly cause such decisive damage.
(She remains clueless—makes a mental note to broach the topic with Sirius and Remus, whose knowledge of dark magic is much more extensive than her own.)
"I trust you're excited for the new term to begin," the old man says, eyes crinkling in a smile that has all the markers of being genuine, though something about it makes both teenagers distrustful.
(Hermione has to bite back an acerbic remark about whether or not they'll be faced with mortal danger on school grounds this term; as much as she hates Dumbledore, she can't risk so directly alienating him.)
(The distaste of a man in power is too powerful to risk—his wrath and humiliation the strongest weapon in the world.)
"Of course, Professor," Harry says quickly, likely knowing given time to think about it further Hermione will cave and give him a piece of her mind.
And it's—funny, how for so many years Harry had so desperately anticipated the school year starting; even in muggle schooling, the school day providing a welcome reprieve from the hellscape of the Dursleys' home. He still does to some extent, of course; likes learning more magic, and being around friends, and being in the first place he ever felt safe.
But it's not his saving grace anymore; even as he's excited to return he's saddened by the prospect of leaving home, and his parents, being so perpetually surrounded by love and affection and safety.
"I was hoping I might ask a favor of you, Harry," Dumbledore tells him, inflecting his tone to make the prospect seem intriguing. "I once again find myself one teacher short. I have a wonderful individual in mind, one who retired some years ago but I believe may be enticed to return. Your presence would be incredibly helpful in doing so."
At this, Hermione can't stop herself, moving her body slightly in front of Harry's protectively. "You want to use Harry for his fame? Like he's not even a person?"
"Mia—"
"No, Harry, I'm glad she cares so deeply for you. There is nothing so powerful as love." Dumbledore's eyes twinkle, as though saying this negates the fact that he wants to wave Harry around like a trophy. "I can appreciate your concern, Miss Granger. But in this particular scenario, it is Harry's lineage more than his publicity that will be helpful—Horace has always been one to show partiality, and Lily Evans was one of his favorite pupils of all time. I think the sight of you might remind him why he loved teaching so much for so many years, and of all of the aspects he misses."
Harry swallows heavily. "He taught my mum? She was—good at defense?"
The old man chuckles. "To some extent, of course, but you misunderstand me, Harry—Horace is a potions professor. Professor Snape has agreed to abdicate the position in favor of taking over Defense."
Harry and Hermione's jaws both drop; in the Order and Draco's godfather or not, Snape is someone person they deeply distrust, and the prospect of him teaching such a critical subject right now, when they can't afford any gaps in defense knowledge—
"In any case," Dumbledore carries on, ignoring their surprise, "it is possible that the fame and spectacle surrounding you will be what draws him in, Harry, and if that is the case I'm afraid I must ask you to still do your best to convince him to return. I ask you this not as a student, but as a member of the Order; Horace possesses information that is perhaps imperative in order for us to defeat Voldemort."
Harry swallows, scratching at his hair futilely. "I—yeah, I understand. I'll come."
"I'm coming with you," Hermione declares, expression daring Dumbledore to contradict her.
But he doesn't, he just nods, looking amused, and holds out both arms. "Very well, then. If you'd both hold on to me, I will apparate us there now."
The sensation is jolting—a tug behind the navel, the feeling of being out of control not unlike a muggle roller coaster, and then they're there.
Hermione has to close her eyes for a beat, nauseous as her brain tries to reconcile the movement and change in location. They're at the gates of an opulent property, Harry looking equally sick beside her, and Dumbledore looking at ease despite the grim set of the home before them.
It goes quickly, after that; Dumbledore making Slughorn reveal himself, Slughorn immediately protesting the idea of returning to Hogwarts, delight at the sight of Harry followed by microaggressive backhanded compliments towards all muggleborns on behalf of Lily.
His warmth towards Harry extends to Hermione when Harry introduces her as his best friend, and after that it doesn't take much to talk him into accepting the position.
(But even as they leave, successful, something about it feels off to Hermione—the gleam in Dumbledore's eye, his unwillingness to disclose what Horace knows that's so important.)
(Hermione can't shake the feeling there's something explosive at stake.)
/
"Get up, Mi!"
Hermione groans into her pillow at the sound of her brother's voice. "No, I'm sleeping."
Harry crawls in beside her, pushing his shoulder up against her own. "You're gonna want to once I tell you what today is."
"Don't care. Now shhh."
The bed shifts under another weight, and then Sofia's on her other side. Their newest sibling is as little of a morning person as Hermione, so she curls into the older girl's side and closes her own eyes as though to go back to sleep.
Harry rolls his eyes at the both of them, having been up for several hours already. "Fine. I guess I'll keep your Hogwarts letter, then."
The words send an adrenaline rush through her veins, and she surges upward. "Harry James! You could've led with that."
"I told you you'd want—"
She sends him a glare and he wisely doesn't finish the sentence, instead helping her and a grumpy Sofia to their feet and racing to the kitchen.
Remus raises an eyebrow at them as he sips his coffee, Tonks pausing her chatter beside him to wave good morning to everyone.
Hermione rubs at tired eyes as she sits down, beaming at Harry when he sets a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of her. "You made breakfast?"
Harry shrugs bashfully. "I like cooking for you guys. It's relaxing, makes me feel—in control." He chews on a piece of fruit before adding, "And you do so much to take care of me all the time, it's nice to return the favor a bit every once in a while."
He moves to grab the envelopes, placing hers next to her plate.
(Something in her chest grows so, so happy at the sight of the familiar Hogwarts seal that's always been a beacon of hope.)
(has always meant safety was coming soon, that home and love were near.)
"You waited to open yours?" she checks, and Harry rolls his eyes.
"Of course. I'm not trying to get hexed by you today."
They begin tearing into the paper, Hermione's eyes racing down to the textbook list. Her brow furrows. "The book Slughorn's assigned is awfully old—not to disrespect his experience, of course, but from what I've read it's quite a bit outdated. Snape's looks good, though—maybe he'll actually be a good defense teacher."
Tonks snorts, clearly doubtful, but Harry remains silent—oddly out of character for him. Hermione turns to find him frozen, eyes bugging out of his head. "What's wrong? Did they not put you in the right NEWT courses?"
He blinks, not hearing her.
"Harry?" Hermione shakes his shoulder and he zones back in to find the rest of the table staring at him.
"Sorry. Everything is fine, I—sorry. I'm just so surprised. I hadn't even considered…" He smiles tentatively. "I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain."
Tonks cheers, but Remus and Hermione groan in tandem.
Hermione pushes past her apprehension and smiles at Harry, squeezing his arm. "Congratulations, Harry, you'll be absolutely brilliant. McGonagall couldn't have chosen better."
"Someone get me firewhiskey, I can't do this sober, " Remus moans, laying his face on the table. "Maybe some muggle ear plugs too. He's going to be insufferable."
"Who's going to be insufferable, love?" Sirius asks while making his way into the kitchen in a robe.
Tonks bursts out laughing at the dread on her best friend's face. "You, you Labrador." She rests her hand on the baby bump as she grins at Harry. "Go on then, tell him."
Hermione motions for Sofia to cover her ears as she does the same, and Remus casts a silencing spell about his person, knowing if he doesn't his heightened senses will be beyond overwhelmed.
Harry holds up the badge to his father silently, expression timid.
(still so, so desperate for someone to be proud of him, so sure they won't be.)
Sirius's lips begin to tremble as he takes in the sight of the badge, and he bounds forward to practically tackle Harry in a hug. "My boy is Quidditch Captain! Gryffindor Quidditch Captain!"
He's practically screaming it, even as he ruffles Harry's hair, then begins singing loudly and off-key as he dances around the kitchen and puts a plate together—then stops midway through to run across the house and announce the development to Andy and Ted.
"He's going to be like this for ages," Hermione groans.
Remus nods in agreement before getting to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Harry asks him.
His father rolls his eyes at the door Sirius had left through. "To send Minerva a Howler."
/
They're in Diagon the next day, and the atmosphere is—unlike anything Harry and Hermione have ever experienced.
The usual noise of the street's bustle is subdued, many merely nodding to friends they pass rather than stopping to talk. It lacks the usual life and color—no bright sale posters, no rowdy children racing around, no vendors attempting to catch the attention of passerby.
(Their favorite ice cream cart is empty and desolate, looking long abandoned.)
The brick of buildings and glass of storefronts are decorated only with Ministry propaganda, anti-Voldemort countermeasures to take, ways to evade Dementors, werewolves, and inferi alike. A few aurors are on patrol, though it's clear it's more for the civilians to feel safe than to actually keep them safe.
The one bright spot is the joke shop; it's—phenomenal, of course.
Fred and George's inventions are truly incredible, and Ron has been helping with organization and tactical advertising that makes everyone want to buy even the things they'll never have need of.
Their ads and signage are ridiculous, and risky enough that Hermione's sure Daphne and Oliver are a bit terrified for their well-being, but the burst of happiness they bring is unparalleled. The entire space is jam packed with witches and wizards of all ages, and here there's—conversation, and smiles, and laughter.
"This is amazing, you two," Hermione praises as she inspects the newest version of their schoolbag with built in defense spells and mechanisms.
"We do our best," Fred winks. "Come see the best part."
He leads them to the counter where Ron and the witch under their employ are working the register, weaving around the line that nearly wraps around the store.
"As promised." George gestures behind Ron, to an enormous gold plaque hanging high on the wall, bearing the image of a scarlet stag and doe crossing at the shoulders, looking out over the space protectively.
Beneath the sculptures, raised lettering reads,
"I am especially glad of the divine gift of laughter; it has made the world human and lovable, despite all its pain and wrong."
In honor of James and Lily Potter,
whose laughter and love live on
"W.E.B. Du Bois," Remus whispers, a wistful smile on his face as he rubs his husband's back soothingly. "Lily would find that incredibly appropriate."
Sirius nods, pressing a hand to his mouth like he's choking back tears. "It's perfect," he says gruffly. "Exactly what they deserve."
Harry gives a bittersweet smile—grateful for the tribute, the permanent depiction of what Sirius has told him to be their patronuses, their souls.
Clearing his throat, Sirius smiles at the twins. "This is—the best Marauder legacy I could imagine." He winks at Harry. "Except for you, of course."
Harry blushes but rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Dad."
They do another lap of the store, amassing several baskets full of merchandise; the twins attempt to offer it free, as a return on Sirius's investment, but he waves their protests away and hands over the galleons anyway.
"We'll hit Flourish and Blotts next, yeah?" Remus checks with them as they ready to step outside, his hand intertwined with Sirius's.
Harry nods with approval, and Hermione's just opening her mouth to agree when she catches a glimpse of white blond through the glass storefront.
"I—have to do something. Grab the books I need, please?" She holds out a hand and Harry instinctively passes her the invisibility cloak he'd shrunk and stuffed into his pocket.
And then she's walking away before he or the parents can respond, expression incredulous at the significance of her of all people missing out on the bookstore.
She sneaks behind an rack of merchandise empty of patrons to pull on the cloak, and then she's hurrying outside, rushing to catch up with him just as he nears the Diagon/Knockturn border.
She resists the impulse to make her presence known by reaching to stroke his hair, or grasp his hand, knowing to do so would incite a visible reaction from him. Instead, when he pauses to reach for something within his robes, she whispers, "Romeo, it's me."
He's so, so good at not reacting—she'd think he hadn't heard her if she didn't hear the relaxed breath he lets out, the way he wets his lips like he wants to say—everything.
She follows him through the street; so, so careful to make sure no one bumps into her, no invisible encounters go unexplained.
He makes his way to Borgin and Burke's, and she casts a notice-me-not over herself, just in case, hypervigilant as they step into the small space.
From what she can tell, it's a glorified pawn shop, filled with only the most horrible of artifacts in its inventory.
(Draco's acting so clandestine because he's on a mission for Voldemort, then.)
The look of distaste he wears as he takes in the wares is a carbon copy of his father's, which has the shop keeper hurrying to appease him. Draco pretends to glance around without taking notice of anything in particular, but Hermione can track his attention—the way the things he's actually looking at are the ones with dangerous magic.
(A hand of glory, a cursed lockbox, a necklace.)
His gaze catches on the cabinet in the corner of the shop—to the untrained eye an ordinary bit of wood, but what Hermione knows to be a Vanishing cabinet.
(A memory tugs at her mind, of Pansy cackling after the twins shoved Marcus Flint into one once—she knows Draco's remembering it too.)
Draco sniffs pretentiously before waving at the shop keeper. "Put the dragon hide cauldron, the necklace, and the Cerberus whistle on the Malfoy account."
(Sandwiching the necklace between two meaningless objects, making them all seem a casual impulse buy—her soul mate is clever and cautious.)
(She can only hope it's enough.)
He heads to the exit without waiting for confirmation, as though to remind the man of the gravity of the Malfoy name.
Outside, he ducks down a back alley, weaving behind buildings until they arrive at a dead end; he casts protective enchantments, before letting out a deep sigh, icy expression melting as his guard comes down.
Hermione tugs the cloak off hastily, not even bothering to shove it in her bag as she moves to hug him.
"Hi," she whispers against his neck.
Draco lets out a breathless laugh. "Hi, baby."
They're quiet for a beat, arms around each other so tightly that it almost hurts—but they don't mind the pain, because pain means it's real.
"You're okay? And your mother?"
"As much as we can be." Draco rubs at his temple. "It's hell, but—term starts soon."
(A reality that fills him with both relief and dread; so close to escaping living hell but terrified to leave his mother behind.)
"Things will be better for her when I'm not there, though. She's excited to meet you someday, by the way. Made me give her all the details as soon as we got off the Hogwarts express."
She hums, giving a small smile at the thought.
"I have to give you intel, before anything else," he says softly, though his voice is raspy. "I've been tasked with killing Dumbledore. I'm going to 'accidentally' muck it up, of course, but the Dark Lord doesn't actually believe I'll succeed regardless—it's my father's punishment, my death sentence." He snorts, expression bitter. "I'm afraid Voldemort has a warped perception of my father's affection for me."
(As though his death would bother Lucius in the slightest.)
"The Order needs to be on guard, though, because if he doesn't think I'll succeed, he'll assign the task to another. Mother says it's Snape—and that he's agreed to help with my own efforts, but I still don't wholly trust him, and even if I did, Voldemort will just keep sending assassins until one is successful."
"Lovely," Hermione mutters.
(As much as she detests the old man, if Voldemort wants him gone it's a pretty good sign he's valuable to the cause.)
"There's more," Draco grimaces. "He's recruited Fenir Greyback—he's the preeminent werewolf alpha in Britain, and he's pretty much killed anyone who challenged him—even anyone who wasn't living the lifestyle he believes werewolves should."
Hermione frowns, mind working a million miles an hour. "He's the one that…god. Remus."
He nods darkly. "He is every children's story monster come to life. And he's proposed biting muggles to improve their numbers advantage; Voldemort's turned down the proposition, I think because he doesn't want to risk such a large population that could potentially turn against him. But still, the possibility is there. And they've already begun infiltrating the Ministry—both through their own anonymity, as well as the imperius curse."
"Good lord," Hermione moans, running her fingers through Draco's hair to distract herself from the sense of impending doom. "Anything else?"
"You need to be careful," he says, looking as worried as she's ever seen. "He's been trying to find out more about you—Snape and I have both downplayed it, but his other sources have tried to turn up all the information about you and exactly how helpful you've been in keeping Harry alive. He hasn't talked about it in front of me, but—he's planning something. You're in danger, Mia."
"Of course. God forbid we ever have a break." She rubs at her temples, before putting on a small smile and stroking Draco's cheek. "Hey, I'll be okay. We'll get through this. It's just a little bit longer, and then we'll be together every day, and we can—figure out what comes next."
"I know." Draco pulls her closer, inhaling the scent of her hair in an attempt to remind himself that she's here, and okay, and alive.
"You should go," she tells him softly, though her grip on his robes doesn't relent. "They'll be suspicious if you take much longer."
"I'll see you next week," Draco promises. He kisses her one more time—then leans to suck on her neck the way he knows riles her up.
"Draco now is not the time to tease me!" Hermione hisses, with half a mind to hex him and half a mind to hook up right there in the dark of the alley. "God, I hate you, you prick."
"You know I'll make up for it next week—it'll give me something to look forward to till I see you again." He grins, then—truly smiles for the first time in months.
(His expression is nearly bright enough to make the bags beneath his eyes and the too-sharp cheekbones beneath his skin disappear.)
(They're not alright, but it's all Hermione can do to hope they're almost through it-)
(to tell herself they'll all be some semblance of okay, in the end.)
/
The new recruit kneels at Voldemort's feet, the two of them alone in the drawing room after the Dark Lord had commanded everyone else to leave them.
"The Hogwarts Express leaves tomorrow." His voice is a near hiss as he strokes Nagini, eyeing the teenager before him. Enjoying the way his gaze makes him cower.
"Y-yes, my Lord." The boy tries to keep himself from trembling in Voldemort's presence, largely unsuccessful. "Am I—do you not want me to return to Hogwarts, or—"
"Silence." The word is said quietly, but the anger and power it carries— "Of course you will return, ingrate. Are you a fool? Not to do so would reveal your allegiance, and defeat the purpose of you being my spy."
The boy nods, stuttering apologies until Voldemort holds up a hand to silence him.
"You are to watch Potter's mudblood; who she's close to, what she values, what her weaknesses are. I want to know every single one of her vulnerabilities. Interrogate the other girls in her year, obliviate them afterwards."
"Yes, my Lord."
"I'll expect a thorough report by Christmas. I will not tolerate failure."
The student sucks in a deep breath, nodding profusely. "Of course, my Lord. I will not disappoint you."
A/N: chapter title from living by Dierks bentley
This feels a bit filler-y so sorry about that had a recent breakthrough in circa deathly hollows plotting and I am so so hype for things to come!
love y'all—take care of yourselves