She's antsy, the way she always is, lately.

It's both better and worse, away from home; on the one hand, being away from the house is soothing, a change; on the other, she works so hard to keep it together around her brother and Sofia that she can't help but fall apart the second she's away from them and can actually let herself feel.

Cedric meets her at Grimmauld Place, because these days neither she nor Harry is allowed to go anywhere alone.

The beauty of the Fidelius and Grimmauld being in a muggle neighborhood is that they don't have to disguise themselves, though as soldiers they can't help but be on guard.

They chat aimlessly as they walk up the street; they could apparate, but—it's nice, being able to stroll instead of hurry, for once.

(To not have to be constantly on edge, watching everyone around them look over their shoulder.)

"How's sixth year treating you? Prefect duties going okay?" Cedric smiles knowingly. "You gunning for Head Girl?"

"Oh god, no," she bursts out laughing, chest feeling light for the first moment all of break. "I have far too much on my plate already, and besides that, I've broken far too many rules. No one in their right mind would put me in charge."

Scoffing, Cedric makes a face. "Not that Dumbledore's exactly in his right mind."

"Truer words have never been spoken." Her throat feels tight, anger flooding her at the thought of the man who's enabled so much suffering. She clears her throat in an attempt to distract herself. "How's Theo doing?"

Cedric's own expression grows troubled, hand instinctively going to the woven bracelet at his wrist his soul mate had given him as a graduation gift nearly two years prior. "He's been better. His family's mostly safe, and he is too, as long as my…allegiances, aren't discovered. But he's said—" he swallows heavily. "Even if the worst happens, me doing this work is more important. Which I hate, but—makes me love him even more. And he's right. I love him more than the whole world, but—I couldn't let the world burn even if it meant his life."

"I—I'm so sorry." Hermione grips his shoulder gently, sorrow visible on her face. "I hate that you're having to deal with this. But you're incredibly brave to do it anyway, I—I think we'd all like to think we could make the same sacrifice, but the truth is I'd never be strong enough. Even if it meant the world."

He frowns with grim understanding. "I don't think that's true. That's—part of why I wanted to get coffee, actually."

"Sorry?"

He looks around them, casting a muffliato just in case. "I…Theo's a Death Eater, Hermione."

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, unsure of whether he wants a response, or to vent, or what.

Cedric gives her a meaningful look. "He's been marked since the start of school."

"Oh—okay?"

They enter the café, and he puts on a smile as they order from the barista, but when they sit down he looks entirely exasperated with her. "Hermione, we've sparred together hundreds of times. I watched you duel nearly every day of seventh year, and spent plenty of time at Order meetings since then."

She rubs at her temples, unseeing. "Yes, Ced, we've been good friends for ages, but I'm afraid I'm missing your point."

"You've been wearing long sleeves since July." He grimaces when her eyes go wide, glancing at her left forearm. "Which, a penchant for baggy sweatshirts and sweaters is nothing new for you, but—you've always rolled up the sleeves. Always. You're far too practical to keep them rolled down for fighting, or any time you're reading or writing and they might get in the way; I'd almost never seen them not rolled up. On top of the secret boyfriend we all knew about, how stressed you've been all year. I've seen the kind of pain I'm in, in your eyes—I've only seen it in George's and Neville's. Those of us who love Slytherins at the center of it all."

Gripping tightly at her wand out of habit, out of nerves, she grasps for words. "I—what are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," he says gently, frowning slightly. "I hate that times are so dark that it's your first thought, but—I understand why. I just wanted to tell you that—I see you. And you're not alone. I know how it weighs on you, when the person you love is in hell, when you're fighting on the other side, knowing it might kill them. If you ever need to—talk about it, or just—be with someone who understands."

Hermione swallows heavily. She debates denying it, lashing out, but—it's not likely she'll convince Cedric, anyone.

(He's always been a bit too perceptive, a bit too good at psychoanalyzing everyone around him to fall for it.)

The barista's making rounds wiping down tables, smiles as she passes by them; then, her eyes go big at the sight of Hermione's wand in hand.

Hermione moves to shove it away hastily, but the woman's already moving toward her. "Those props are so incredible! My favorite customer has one too, though I'm amazed by it every time. Are you two in the same acting troupe, then?"

Her eyebrows shoot upward. "I'm sorry—the same acting troupe as who, exactly?"

"Narcissa, of course! Is she alright? The dove was in with her son last week, though they both looked a bit ill—poor lamb could do to put on some weight, though I suppose if he's his mother's genetics it might just be the metabolism. She hadn't been in for ages, before that."

And Hermione knows she should feign nonchalance, should pretend it doesn't affect her in the slightest to keep Cedric in the dark, but—

(she can't help it—her body reacts without her own intent, at the mention of her soul mate's presence.)

"He—Draco was here last week?" she rasps, unable to stop herself as the words fall out of her mouth.

Far away, she hears Cedric such in a shocked breath as he puts it together, the desperation in the tension of her body, attention rapt on the barista as her fingers grip her mug so tightly her knuckles grow white.

"Mhm, that's the one—such an odd name. You do know them, then?"

Hermione nods, at a loss for words.

(He was here, and alive, and okay, just a week ago.)

(One more week and she'll see him with her own eyes.)

The barista eventually waves and heads away, and Hermione's helpless as she turns to Cedric, who's looking at her with wide eyes. "Fuck."

She giggles at the ridiculousness of it all, unable to do anything but laugh at her own situation. "Yeah." She rolls her eyes, lip curling. "All the stories make star-crossed lovers seem romantic—it's anything but."

"I—wow. Okay." He shakes his head, like he's assimilating the knowledge with his own memories. "I'm a good occlumens, by the way, so—you're safe. I wouldn't have approached you about it at all if I weren't."

"I know," Hermione promises with a half-hearted smile. "You're a good friend, Cedric. I have no doubt you'd never to anything that could endanger me so long as you can help it." Her lip twitches into a smirk. "That's why Harry loved the badges so much during the tournament, by the way—he had been whining about people cheering for him instead of you, so Draco made them to get them to stop. The two of them wouldn't stop laughing about it for ages."

"Of course." Cedric's expression is fond, and it's visible, the way he decides Draco is an ally—that his friends trust him, so he trusts him.

(It's that simple, his loyalty that strong.)

After a few moments of silence, Hermione searches for something more positive, to distract them from the hell of it all for just a moment. "Oh! Did you hear about Fleur and Bill's engagement?"

"Yes, I'm so thrilled for them," Cedric grins, delighted. "She—they've asked me to be a groomsman, actually, which I was surprised about and insisted Bill didn't have to, he already has so many brothers he probably wants to have part in it, but he insisted anyone who's family to Fleur is family to him, so I guess I'll be walking down the aisle with Ginny."

Hermione smiles at the thought. "That feels right."

/

They can't risk gathering on the train, anymore—the situation's grown too dire.

(There are too many eyes on too many of them.)

So it's just Harry, Ron, and Hermione in a train car, like it's first year again.

They've cast muffliato, and they're all sprawling around with throw blankets and tired eyes, and something about it is…significant.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to come back to Hogwarts next year." Harry's hesitant, as he says it, eyes cast downwar you're not serious right now." Hermione'ed as he waits for his sister to chastise him.

But she doesn't—isn't surprised at all, unfortunately. She leans her head on his shoulder, interlocking her fingers with his. "Okay."

"That's it?" He blinks at her, looking to Ron for confirmation it's not a dream. "You're not mad at me for missing out on my education?"

"Harry, you know better than anyone it's not the education I care about, it's—the fear of no longer having a place in this world. If Voldemort wins the war…this escape is lost to us all."

Harry nods slowly. "And you're—not mad that I'm abandoning you?"

At this both Hermione and Ron burst out laughing, turning to each other as though he's not there.

"What an adorable idiot we have," Hermione muses.

Ron shakes his head in agreement. "Honestly. It's be funny if he weren't completely serious."

"Sorry?"

Levelling him with a look, Ron crosses his arms. "Mate, you're not leaving us behind. We're coming with you."

"You can't—"

"Harry James, I know you're not serious right now." Her eyes are burning as she stares him down. "You're fucking delusional if you think we're just going to go to school as if everything is normal while you're off hunting pieces of the antichrist's soul. We're in this fight just as deeply as you are."

"And honestly, bro," Ron says, the colloquialism earning a face from Hermione, "Without us there, Voldemort won't even have to kill you, you'll die all on your own."

Harry's jaw drops with offense. "That's not at all true!"

"Really?" Hermione cocks an eyebrow, unapologetic. "Where are you going to sleep? Can't exactly stay at the Leaky or any other hotel when you're on the run."

"Well, I—"

Ron cuts him off. "What are you going to eat? Do you have any sort of plan to get ahold of food, a way to cook it?"

"Have you put together any medical supplies to keep with you?"

"A way to transport it all?"

Harry's breathing quickens, anxiety ramping up at all the things he hadn't even begun to consider. "I—I suppose not, but…"

"Harry. Breathe." Hermione reaches for his hand, eyes softening. "We're not pelting you with questions to scare you or overwhelm you. We're asking them because they're all necessary things for you to stay alive long enough to succeed and actually beat him—and because they're things we've already made plans for."

"You—what?"

They both smile grimly, and Ron says, "Every time you've snuck off alone to mope and be emo about how you have to do all of this alone, we've been drawing up plans, making contingencies, figuring out the best ways to make it all happen. No offense, Harry, because you're great in a fight, but you're pretty horrible at being a person."

"Hence why you quite literally can't do this without us."

Harry opens and closes his mouth, before settling on a hesitant nod. "I—I know you'd be in this fight regardless. But being in my life has already made both of yours' so much harder; you've dealt with so much you wouldn't have otherwise. I—the last thing I want to do is put you in even more danger for my benefit."

"Good thing what you do and don't want doesn't matter where this is concerned." Hermione's expression is dead serious, lip twitching with amusement at the way her brother's face scrunches up with frustration. "Your safety aside, winning this war is—all that matters."

He sighs, scratching at his hair. "How did you even know what I was planning?"

"I mean, we've met you." Ron tilts his head knowingly. "I can be daft, but you're—the most predictable and annoyingly noble and self-sacrificing dumbass on the planet."

He and Hermione both eye their friend, gazes simultaneously exasperated and fond.

Harry pauses, considering, and whispers, "Thank you."

"Always," Hermione promises, Ron murmuring his agreement. "Family."

They're quite, for a while; thoughtful, resting, bracing themselves for the term to come.

"Not to take away Harry's status as the reigning morbidity champ," Ron mumbles, laying down across the seats as he stares at the ceiling. "But the truth is we probably won't all survive this. I'm—I know I haven't been through things in the same way you two have, but—I'm terrified of something happening to my parents. My brothers. Ginny. One of you." He winces, horror and heartbreak in his face when he meets Harry's eyes. "And you've just lost Luna, I—merlin, I'm so sorry, Harry."

Harry's expression twists with pain that Ron perceives as grief, but Hermione knows is the complicated chaos of guilt and sorrow the reminder of his friend's cluelessness as to Luna's survival.

"It's—not okay, but. I understand what you mean. Because the loss is so fresh and…reality feels very fragile right now."

Hermione hums, thoughtful; meanwhile, Harry sighs before continuing. "I—I wish I could disagree. But it's…the odds aren't in our favor. I wished for a family for so long, and now I have you both, and my dads, and everyone, and it's…I'm so scared of losing them. But it's not possible for us all to make it. And I'm…so worried about not measuring up, not being able to beat him"

"You both deserve so much better," Hermione whispers softly. "We all do. I—hate that this is our future. I want so much more for us than this half-life."

"Someday." Ron closes his eyes like he's dreaming it up, a future where they're safe, and happy, and every day isn't another yard of a hellish obstacle course they can never escape. "Someday, we'll be—really, actually good. Not just alive, but—living."

"What a concept," Harry murmurs, half asleep where he lays with his head in Hermione's lap. She strokes her fingers through his hair, dwelling on it all.

(In passing, considers that the position is so comfortable because for so long Harry'd never felt loved or cared for, and she'd never had anything in her control.)

She considers it—the idea that someday they'll be happy, truly living instead of just surviving day to day.

(She wishes she believed it.)

/

Draco's chest is tightening, and he's speed walking through the castle as fast as he possibly can, radiating stay away as much as is physically possible in the hopes that it'll keep everyone away from him long enough to make it to the room of requirement.

(He just has to make it there, and then he can fall apart.)

A few Slytherins he passes attempt to get his attention, but he turns a snarl so derisive onto them they immediately cower and run the opposite direction.

He's not breathing when he finally hurtles himself through the entrance to the room, just wishing for somewhere, anywhere to hide, for even just a moment—somewhere he can breakdown, let out the scream threatening to drown him out.

He collapses to his knees amidst a cluttered space, everything from books to bird cages to worn chairs and forgotten firewhiskey filling the room as it currently exists. He's hyperventilating, now, eyes burning with tears as he lets himself feel for the first time in a month—

(He's so incredibly screwed—he and his mother are both going to die, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.)

It's hilarious, actually; his father spent so many years trying to make their lives hell, and Voldemort has managed to do the same within a span of months.

(And Draco knows better than to hope Hermione won't be caught in the crossfire.)

The fact that they haven't been caught yet, even with all of their precautions; the fact that no one has realized their connection after all these years—

(He's not naïve enough to believe it'll last—not naïve enough to believe they'll both survive this.)

"Merlin. Fuck. How did we get here." His voice is raspy, even as he whispers out loud to himself—he dissolves into bitter, maniacal laughter, at the sheer horror and impossibility of it all.

And if he doesn't come up with a way to get them into Hogwarts, Voldemort will know—Draco's too clever, and Dumbledore too lax, for him to not somehow succeed. If he doesn't it'll be obvious it's intentional.

(And then more people will die just to punish him, because that's Tom Riddle's playbook.)

There's no winning, with this.

He has so much frustration, and hopelessness, and rage inside him, he picks up the object nearest to him, and just—chucks it. Takes a deep breath at the sound of something breaking, because at least there's something in his control, something he can break instead of helplessly watching someone else take it out of his hands.

It's—cathartic, so he keeps going, picking up anything and everything he can reach to chuck and break, a cacophony of sound and chaos around him.

A part of him is terrified, at how easy it is for him to lose control like this, to be swept up in rage, to destroy everything around him.

(Terrified that he'll become his father—that the same darkness lives inside him, that he, too, might be capable of the same kind of harm to everyone around him.)

He falls back to the floor amidst the damage, out of tears, and out of energy, and out of hope.

Which is how Hermione finds him, half an hour later.

"Draco?" she calls out as she enters the RoR, confusion clear in her voice as she takes in the unfamiliar configuration. "Harry couldn't find you anywhere else on the map, so I just asked the room for you and—oh, god. Draco."

He's just laying on the floor, when she spots him, chaotic wreckage all around, staring at the ceiling completely zoned out.

"Hi, my love," she whispers, laying down beside him, gently tugging his hand to her chest, where she softly traces along his skin. "I missed you."

He hums his agreement, but doesn't otherwise respond; doesn't acknowledge her presence except to lean over and press a kiss to her collarbone, before returning his attention to the ceiling.

"I won't ask if you're okay, because—I'm sure right now it's impossible for you to be." She's quiet for a beat, listening to the soothing sound of his breathing.

(Feeling for the pulse at his wrist—the reassurance that he's here, and alive.)

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Draco takes a deep breath, silent for another moment, before murmuring, "I'm going to become him."

"What do you—"

"I broke all of this." His voice is cold and detached, so hopeless he has to dissociate from it all to keep from drowning in it. "Just—I was upset, and I couldn't breathe or think and I just—snapped. I'm—Mia, what if I turn into him? If I—hurt you, or—"

"You could never." She doesn't even hesitate, even as she realizes what he means—the bone deep fear that he's going to become Lucius, a monster to everyone around him. "Babe, you—throwing old abandoned junk when your world is falling apart is not the same as abusing your family. You are—you are nothing like him."

He shakes his head in disagreement; doesn't argue back, but—so clearly thinks she's wrong.

"Draco." Her voice is soft—so gentle, quiet enough he might miss it. "You and I have both grown up in hell. We know monsters. And it's—I can so, so understand why you're so scared to become one. But you are not that. You are—heart, and soul, and love, and the one I'd trust to keep me safe more than anyone in this world."

Draco slides over just a bit; carefully pulls her into his arms, heart rate growing steady at the familiar scent of her hair. "I need you to promise me," he says, voice shaky, "That if I ever do become that—even the slightest bit. If I am—at all like him, if I even—look like I might, you'll get out. Promise me. No matter what I say or do, you'll leave." He swallows heavily, sucking in a deep breath. "No one can hurt you ever again. Especially not me. There would be—nothing worse in this world."

Hermione blinks back tears, overwhelmed with sorrow and love.

(Wondering what it's like for other people who don't have these memories, don't have to live with these fears.)

"Not that I will ever need to," she stresses, "But yes. I promise."

They sit up, eventually, and Draco surveys the room for the first time; really and truly takes in the sight of what's around him.

Lopsided stacks of books everywhere, dueling dummies, a set of weights, a nightstand, a silver crown, dilapidated pillows on an ancient futon, a tall dark cabinet that seems like obsidian—

(A memory tugs at him, from months ago in Borgin and Burkes—)

(And years before that, when Flint had been missing for days after picking a fight with the Weasleys, only to later reappear and tell them all he'd fallen into a—)

"Vanishing cabinet," he whispers, softly—so, so quiet.

Hermione picks her head up, covering a yawn as she blinks back the exhaustion. "Hm?"

"I…" he ponders, threads beginning to weave together—possibilities. The beginnings of a plan.

(Maybe they can survive this.)

"We're going to have to be so, so careful."

/

All of ASA is—understandably stressed.

(Families are beginning to choose sides.)

(Many have switched to standing beside the light, since Luna's article, which is a stroke of luck they'd never even dared to hope for, but—)

For those whose families are on the other side…

(Hell is forming around them.)

Harry and Hermione do their best to soothe everyone, remind them that in this one place, if nowhere else, they're safe and united.

(But no one's spirits are very bright.)

They're doing a bit of review and then work on shielding when the other party has already cast a curse; Hannah and Zacharias are giving each other a run for their money, fear visibly motivating them, while Justin and Parvati have such severe underlying anxiety they're struggling to focus long enough to even attempt to cast.

The only person who looks more stressed than they feel is Pansy, whose family has been publicly taking action in Voldemort's name, her break nearly as bad as Draco's; halfway through the meeting, she sits down to take a break and attempt to calm herself, but ends up falling asleep despite the cacophony of chaos all around.

(She's that drained—Hermione and Ginny lock eyes at the sight, pained by how visibly she's suffering.)

After doing rounds to check on everyone, Harry moves to grab a water bottle as the members begin to shuffle out of the chamber, humming when he feels Ella's familiar shape curl around his ankle. "Hey, you."

She hisses, making her way up to his shoulders, scales sliding along his cloak as she goes, but it's not her usual chatter—it's hurried, the parsletongue coming so quickly Harry barely has time to understand.

"Oh—oh, god. Guys," he calls, searching to make sure it's just Hermione, Ginny, Ron, and Blaise left, Pansy and Neville having gone off to work on a potions assignment, while Draco's spent the entire evening working on plans for the invasion of Hogwarts.

All of them immediately alert at the panic in his voice.

Hermione's instantly at his side, wand raised. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm fine. It's not me who—fuck, I—" he swallows, tugging at his hair in a frenzy. "Sit down. You should all sit down."

"What's going on?" Blaise asks, Ginny hypervigilant beside him.

Harry opens and closes his mouth, searching for the right words. "Ella's been…doing some recon for us, while she and Pansy have been stuck at Voldemort's headquarters. She hangs out with Nagini a lot, so she's been—overhearing things, over break."

Hermione's eyes go wide with understanding, tension flooding her body. "Harry, what did she hear?"

"Apparently, Voldemort—killed his soul mate. When he was still in school—to avoid any vulnerability, any weakness. He's started looking into the three of ours, he—" he swallows heavily, wincing before saying, "he said it's for the best that he already had Luna taken care of. Ella heard him say the spy that has eyes on you is trying to find dirt on yours, Mia, to find a way to use them to sabotage you. Ron's too, but because they have all of his family he's not as worried about—having hostages."

Hermione goes white with fear, pressing clasped hands to her mouth. "Fuck. If—if the spy puts it together, if Draco's found out—they'll kill him. In a heartbeat."

"I know." Harry moves to rub her back gently, trying to calm her as though he's not panicking himself. "We'll just—have to be more careful. And now we know, so you two can take precautions, be on guard."

"How are we supposed to be on guard when this spy is a student? They could be—anyone, someone who's already graduated or a first year, everyone is fair game, and we're none the wiser. The fact that we haven't been found out this far is—pure luck. I—" her fists clench so hard the nails draw blood from her palms.

Harry gingerly tugs at her fingers, gently moving them so they're no longer digging into her skin. "Breathe, Mia. I'm sorry. It's horrible, but—we're going to figure this out, okay? We're here. Draco's okay for now."

She blinks, zoning back in with a shuddering intake of breath, biting her lip at the sight of her brother dabbing away at the blood dripping onto her pants. "Sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to snap. I know it's not your fault. I just…"

"It's your soul mate," he soothes, unbothered. "No one would react any differently. You're allowed to freak out when his life is on the line."

Their eyes meet, because he knows the fear running through her.

(of course he does, as it's consumed him for the last two months.)

Hermione tries to shake off the fear, to force herself into action to distract from the overwhelming terror. "Right. Okay. We can—we can get through this. We've been through hell before, we can get through this." She takes several deep breaths, the way Remus has spent the last year trying to teach them both to do, before turning to Ron. "Your soul mate—what can we do to keep them safe? You've—you've never talked about them much."

"Oh, right," he shrugs, looking mainly too stunned by the situation to be scared or register much of anything at all. "I mean, it's Susan—we're good friends, and all, and we plan on being together eventually, but she's really serious about her studies, so we're just staying friends till at least graduation."

Ginny makes a face, visibly bracing herself. "Ron, I promise I hate that I'm about to say this more than you do, but—do you two ever sneak off to shag?" The disgust at bringing up her brother's sex life is tangible, but she charges forward. "Anything that could be traceable or seen, we need to know so we can make sure the spy doesn't have a way to connect you two."

"On a list of questions I never thought my baby sister would ask me," Ron mutters with a shake of his head. "No, though, we don't—I mean, we're both ace, so. No worries there. We don't fuck around in broom closets like some people."

Hermione's entire face flushes. "That was one time, you swore you wouldn't mention it again!"

The younger Weasley cackles gleefully. "Oh, I'm so never letting you live that down."

"Do you really want to talk about strange liasons, because your brother is in the room and I would love nothing more than to watch you both squirm—"

"Priorities, please," Blaise insists, unfazed despite the way Ron's now scowling at him. "When is you two's next lesson with Dumbledore?"

Harry's expression is grim at the thought. "Tomorrow. It's an important one, apparently. And he's still bugging us about getting the memories from Slughorn, so if anyone comes up with some brilliant ideas, feel free to suggest them."

Nodding in agreement, Hermione rubs at her temples, distress lining her body. "Do you think it'll all ever stop getting worse? It would be nice if there were a world where life gets better, for once."

Beside her, Harry mumbles, "whole war to go before then."

A/N: chapter title from bloodshot by dove cameron

sorry for all the emo, my loves. It's a hard time for our faves. Have been doing lots of thorough plotting, so v excited for you to see the ~action~ currently in the making

take care of yourselves out there—more to come soon. all my love.