Be advised: this chapter has a trigger warning. To avoid spoilers, I've put it at the end of this chapter. Please check below if need be.
Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XLVII
February 23rd, 1999
The portkey's magic is unrefined and haphazard, yanking them through too violently to plant their feet. She hits cold stone fast and hard.
"Fucking hell," spits Pansy from somewhere off to the side. Hermione gathers up her limbs, clutching at the rib she might've bruised and trying to hold her wand steady.
The hallway is dark.
"Lumos."
Light unfolds across marble walls and arched ceilings, portraits in obsidian frames lining the expanse.
Oh god, she thinks, breath catching painfully in her chest. Not here.
"Why are we at the Manor?" Pansy asks under her breath, adding to the light with her own wand. She must've spent time here as a child.
"I don't know."
They get to their feet at the same time, almost instinctively standing back to back and turning in a circle. The corridor is empty. Empty save a small, dark trail of what looks like blood, glinting in their wand light.
Hermione glances over her shoulder at Pansy. She's bleeding where she hit her head upon arrival — a slow trickle down from her temple.
"This isn't yours, is it?" Hermione gestures to the trail.
It's the sort of obvious question Pansy might've snarked at not so long ago, but now the shake of her head is sober.
"Let's go."
They follow the blood. Slow, careful, deathly silent steps. Neither of them make a sound, but Pansy's movements are so dexterous — so like a cat — that Hermione wonders how many times she's had to do this.
When they reach the end of the corridor, it proves hard to turn the corner. Hermione knows next to nothing about the layout of Malfoy Manor, but every step could be a step closer to the dining room. To that expanse of floor she's not sure she could handle seeing again. Bile rises up in her throat, and she nearly stumbles before Pansy grabs hold of her — a sharp grip on her elbow.
"Steady on, Granger."
"I'm fine," she breathes, but she can feel the way the color's drained out of her face.
Pansy takes her word for it either way. They move on. Past several more corridors and a winding staircase, not grand enough to be the entrance hall but still incredibly lavish.
All the shutters have been closed, blocking out the daylight. The gleam of their wands will reveal them long before they reach anyone.
Hermione tries to settle her stomach by running through her best hexes in her head. Silently rolling the shapes of them across her tongue. She tells herself she'll cast at the slightest movement, the faintest sound — no hesitation.
The trail of blood begins to taper off as it rounds another corner. She and Pansy exchange a look. Her grip tightens on her wand, rib throbbing with each breath.
And they turn the corner, flanking one another, wands out.
"Well that took ages," says a voice.
Her eyes have to adjust. There's light in this room, bright from the fire at the hearth.
But the moment she can properly take it in, she's swallowing back a gag, joints locking in place. Somehow she knew it would be the dining room.
And yet it's not that. It's several things at once.
It's Dawlish, leaning casually against the mantle, surrounded by fellow corrupt Aurors — other Crusaders, as he calls them.
It's Narcissa Malfoy, bound to the chair beside him, too close to the fire, expression wan and hair disheveled, sweat dripping down the sides of her face.
It's Theo, undoubtedly the source of the blood, lying on his side on the floor, nowhere near conscious.
It's Draco, standing stiff on his own two feet, held in place by immobilizing charms and dressed head to toe in black — traditional Death Eater robes.
His eyes find her fast. The only movement he can make. And where she thought she'd see fire — fury and frustration — she sees a stone wall.
And perhaps that's worse.
Pansy finds her words first. "What is this?"
Dawlish turns from the hearth, facing them fully. "Did we get it wrong?" he asks, tone intentionally light. "These two, wasn't it?" He gestures from Theo to Pansy. "Him for you." Now he points at Draco, then at Hermione. "And him for you." A humorless smile cracks his face. "Or perhaps it's the other way around."
Hermione bites down on the white hot rage she feels lash at the back of her throat — directs the tip of her wand at Dawlish instead.
When her voice comes at last, she can only be grateful it's not ragged. "Whatever this is, it's over."
"Soon," agrees Dawlish, unfazed.
"Release them," she demands. It's difficult to hide the way her wrist is shaking. Something is wrong about this. "All of them. Now."
Dawlish assesses them for a moment, eyes swooping back and forth between herself and Pansy like a lazy pendulum.
His Aurors are arranged strangely. Not in convenient positions to put up a good defense. Sort of clustered together — no perimeter, no vantage points. The only ones even remotely spread out have their wands trained on Draco, keeping him motionless.
Hermione doesn't dare let her eyes flit to him again. She'll lose all focus.
"Now," she snaps into the silence.
"Do as she says," orders Dawlish, relaxing back against the mantle once more.
What?
Pansy's already looking at her when she glances sideways. The same expression passes between them.
This can't be right.
But sure enough, an Auror begins casting severing charms on Narcissa Malfoy's bonds. Two others take an arm of Theo's each, dragging him forward despite Pansy's sharp intake of breath. They leave him at her feet, and Pansy drops to his side instantly.
Hermione doesn't blame her. But now she's alone on the offensive.
"Finite," another Auror calls loudly, and Draco's posture slackens, immobilizing charm falling away.
Hermione risks a glance, finding his expression a mask — tightly guarded. He shoots a look at Dawlish.
"Go on. Go to her," he says.
This is all wrong.
Draco doesn't put his back to them as he steps toward her, movements slow and careful. She hooks her finger in the fabric of his sleeve as soon as he's close enough — a movement so instinctive and desperate, she hopes Dawlish doesn't see.
"Are you hurt?" she asks him under her breath.
His voice is stiff. Without emotion. "No."
Hermione swallows the knot in her throat. Her wand arm is still trained on Dawlish, but now with Draco at her side it doesn't shake quite as much.
Dawlish hasn't moved. Hasn't given any order to attack. He's letting Narcissa Malfoy rub out her sore wrists and step away from the chair by the hearth.
At Hermione's feet, Pansy is murmuring softly to Theo, face buried in his neck. The extent of his injuries is unclear.
"Where are the others?" she forces out after a long while, cold suspicion sliding around in her gut.
"Downstairs," says Dawlish. "We'll have them sent up."
With a snap of his fingers, an Auror strides out a side door. Hermione momentarily jerks her wand in his direction, but he's gone too quickly. She shifts aim back to Dawlish.
"I wish you understood," he sighs.
"There's nothing to understand."
"How could you know if you never stop to listen?" Dawlish must expect there's a silencing charm on the tip of her tongue, but he continues none the less. "The lot of us," he says, gesturing around at his Aurors, "we were shamed after the fall of the Ministry. Even more so after the war. Endless accusations. 'Why didn't we stop it?' Why didn't we see it coming?'"
He takes a step forward, only pausing when Hermione brandishes her wand in warning.
"I have that answer now," he says. "Our lenience is our downfall. We failed once before to cut the head off the snake. Failed to do away with every semblance of the Dark Lord's following the first time he fell from power. Miss Granger...don't let us make the same mistake again. You have the power. Right now, you can decide."
"Decide?" she snaps. "Decide what? That my former classmates deserve a death sentence? That no one can change?"
"No one does," says Dawlish, taking another step forward.
"Stop moving."
He holds up his hands in surrender and goes still again, but he doesn't stop speaking. "Does it mean anything to you that you were their only character witness?" he asks. "Did you even stop to think why it was so easy to take them from the castle?"
Hermione's hand has begun to sweat around the base of her wand.
"No one noticed. A Glamour here, a Glamour there — no one stopped to give it a second look. We led them out right under their noses. Because no one cares, Miss Granger. Don't you see?" He sweeps his hands out, encompassing Draco, Theo and Pansy in one. "They aren't even worth it."
Hermione hisses out a breath through her teeth, eyes tightening. "We're done talking."
"No," he says casually. "We're not. I just want to be sure you understand first. I'd feel terribly guilty otherwise, you see."
Her heart rate spikes in her chest, eyes flitting around, seeking out threats. But she holds all the cards. She has the advantage. It doesn't make any sense.
"I need the Ministry — the whole of the Wizarding World, for that matter — to recognize the danger they pose. They have to see the cost of such blind forgiveness." Dawlish takes one more step. "This will prove that they aren't worth saving. That they're beyond our help. And I'm sorry, my dear Hermione Granger, but it's you — darling of the Wizarding World, champion of the downtrodden and the unworthy, our golden girl — it's you who'll tip the scales."
Her brows draw in tight, wand faltering, and in the same instant Dawlish tilts his gaze towards Draco.
"Do it."
She can only process the next few moments in pieces. The swish of Draco's black robes as he steps in front of her. The sweat on his brow — the only aspect of him that isn't stiff and emotionless. The black tip of his wand as he points it between her eyes.
"Crucio."
The world whites out and the agony floods in. She barely registers the crack of her skull against the marble floor as she falls. All she can comprehend is pain.
Her bones fracture — heal themselves, then fracture again. Her skin is peeled away, layer by layer. A fist squeezes her stomach, her lungs, her heart, until they burst. And she can't help but scream, even when each sound she makes feels like shards of glass slicing open her throat.
Though none one of it hurts quite so much as the sight of his face, angled over her — gazing down without feeling. She wishes to die, then and there, if only to never see his eyes like that again.
Time disintegrates. She has no idea how long he tortures her.
Later, she learns it was no more than twenty seconds.
The onslaught of pain cuts off with the sound of a heavy thud. Hermione gasps up at the ceiling, blurry to her eyes, her nerves crackling like she's been electrocuted.
It looks the same as it did before, she thinks, drunk with pain. It takes a good while to get her muscles to work enough to turn her head.
Pansy has knocked Draco clean off his feet, the two of them struggling — him to push her away and her to pin his wand arm down.
"—the fuck are you doing? What the fuck?" Pansy's screaming, and when she manages to kneel on his elbow, she lands an unforgiving punch with her free hand.
Hermione watches as though through a screen. Distant. Not all there. She can feel the drool slipping out the corner of her mouth.
Dawlish orders two of his Aurors to pull Pansy off of him, but Pansy's reflexes are sharp, and she stuns them both with Draco's wand in a millisecond. It's as this happens that Hermione feels the faintest tug at her arm, and it frees her momentarily from her daze.
She tilts her head the other way.
Theo is dragging himself towards her, pale and bloody, eyes half-lidded. He gathers her sleeve in his fist and pulls her limp body closer, voice in shreds, "G-Granger…Granger, he's — Draco, he's —"
The next grip that finds her isn't gentle, as Theo's was. The cold clamp of a hand on her ankle, yanking her back. She screams, her bones still freshly broken in her mind, and when her head lolls forward she finds Draco on all fours, dragging her to him with that same blank stare.
Pansy has his wand, busy warding off the next wave of Aurors. Their spells crackle through the room around them, rebounding off of walls. Draco hardly seems to notice.
"Draco! Listen to me!" Theo is shouting, loud and hoarse. "Hear my voice! Listen to me!"
He doesn't stop. Doesn't falter. Only lurches forward to seize her throat in a vise, those beautiful grey eyes empty. There's not a fragment of him left in them.
"Please…" she gasps out, clutching at his wrist with both hands, legs kicking out helplessly.
"Draco!" Theo shouts again. "Stop!"
White spots cloud her vision, the thin stream of oxygen dwindling as she sucks it down greedily — waning with each ounce of pressure he adds.
"He won't," says a calm voice, almost inaudible amidst the chaos. "He can't." Dawlish is looming over them, expression that of a man conducting an experiment. "He knows nothing of anything except what I want. The rest is a blank slate."
"Granger — Granger, it's the Imperius — it's not him, it's—"
"Quiet."
He's kicked Theo, from the sound of it — but Hermione can't pry her eyes away from the cold face above her, even as hard lines grow soft and lights grow dim.
"Please," she whispers again, raw and ragged. All the blood is trapped in her head.
"It's pointless," says Dawlish. "He won't stop. You of all people should know, Miss Granger. Aren't you the brightest witch of your age?" He huffs a laugh. "Only the incredibly strong-willed can resist the Imperius Curse. Immensely powerful wizards, like your friend Potter perhaps. Ones as weak as this don't stand a chance."
She has less than a minute to live. There's no air in her lungs — no strength in her veins.
"By the time your Order arrives, you'll be cold and stiff. Along with all the others. We will be gone, and do you know who they'll find standing in the middle of it all? Covered in your blood?"
Whatever Dawlish says next fades away, drowned out by the ringing in her ears. Tears pool in her eyes, washing out what little vision she has left until she can't see his face. But it isn't his face she'd be seeing. It hardly matters.
Theo's shouts seem faint and far away.
"Hear my voice! Come back! Open your eyes and look at her! Look at who she is — see her! That's Hermione! That's Hermione!"
Not long after, he fades away too, and then it's only the unforgiving pressure on her throat and the blurry outline above her. Mercifully, the pain starts to dissipate. She can feel very little now. Woozy and lightheaded, barely clinging to consciousness, her mind starts to drift.
Weak, she thinks. Such an ugly word. It's not the word she sees when she thinks of his face. His true face. His eyes. The ones she knows.
The war is in his face. Regret and pain and uncertainty in the set of his jaw. Imperfection is woven into the grey of his eyes and fear is in the lines of his brow. All of it she's seen and known. All of it and more.
But there is no weakness in his face. None whatsoever — she's almost certain of it.
And the last part of her alive wants to see it one more time, just to be sure.
She lifts a limp, bloodless hand from its grip on his wrist and lifts it blindly above her. Uses the last of her strength to blink away those tears so she can meet his gaze. Numb fingers find the cold, smooth plane of his cheek, resting there. Memorizing the way it fits against the curve of her palm.
She parts her dry lips, and there's no tone to her words. Only a whisper.
"You are not weak."
She knows it without a shadow of a doubt.
Her vision goes dark and her hand falls away. The cool of the marble against her back becomes a distant memory. But in the moment she's ready to let go — of air, of life, of everything — his stone grip on her throat vanishes.
"…Hermione?"
Give in, the darkness urges her. Let go.
"No. No — no, no, Hermione! No!"
She knows that voice.
Let go.
"No! No! Hermione, look at me! Look at me!"
She knows it.
"Please!"
Forever, she'll wonder if she really had the choice to take that breath. To suck the air down into her throat and chase away the dark. In the moment, it doesn't feel like a choice. It feels like he chooses for her.
And her lungs take to it like dry sand to water.
Her chest jerks and her eyes snap wide and she nearly collides with him in her effort to sit up. To chase air. To breathe.
The sound he makes is unlike him. Wounded and animal, completely uncontrolled. She doesn't have the chance to see his face. One moment it's buried against her heaving chest and the next it's turned away, his hand grappling for something — skimming desperately across the marble floor.
He finds her wand just as Dawlish puts together what's happened. His growl of frustration is cut short.
"Avada Kedavra."
It's only when Dawlish falls down lifeless in front of them — only as he's slowly lowering his arm, her wand clutched in his shaking fingers, that she recognizes the voice as Draco's.
TW: graphic depictions of torture and physical abuse