Author's Note: This fiction is going through some beta work right now. You may notice some previous chapters, and this one, experiencing changes in the near future. I've simply posted this for the time being to give you guys a little something to hold you off while that happens. I'm working on writing 35,000 words this month, which I expect to expand to closer to 45,000-50,000, so you'll be seeing a lot more soon. Promise 3

The Red Chamber had earned its namesake that day. As Hermione scrubbed the victim's burnt entrails from the corner, she wondered who they had been and what they did to deserve such a fate. Was it someone she knew? Had they suffered long?

With blood slick on her hands and matted in her hair, she only hoped it had been spilled postmortem.

"I have never used a—vot did you call this thing?"

"A mop," Hermione repeated, for the third time that afternoon. "M-O-P."

"Mop," Viktor echoed. "M-O-P. And Muggles do this all the time?"

" No , Muggles definitely don't do this all the time."

For hours, they had been working on opposite ends of the room, scrubbing every inch of the chamber as the building's caretakers would. Viktor was meticulous, obsessing over the crevices and divots in the stone, often calling Hermione over to check his work. She praised him, deciding it was better not to tell him that nobody would notice the trivial imperfections.

"How are you feeling, by the vay?"

"What d'you—oh, right. I'm fine."

Her earlier agony had already slipped into the locked compartments of her mind, joining the other moments she was better forgetting.

"It is wrong, vot they did to you, Herm-own-ninny. That is vy I Vouch for you, you know. Because they are cruel, and you are good."

Hermione stifled a scoff.

Like a disease, cruelty had a way of spreading. Those immune to it often paid the price with their own mortality, and the more time Hermione spent with herself, the more she believed she was not one of the immune. Viktor, she feared, was.

The sickness would take her, and the darkness would leave him for dead.

"Viktor, what you did today—"

"I know you do not approve of it, but the ritual is done. There's no need to talk about it now."

He leaned against his mop, staring at her the way he so often did, the way that made her wish she saw him like he saw her. All the Earth was in Viktor Krum's eyes, but there had been galaxies in Ronald's.

"This Ministry, it does evil, evil things, and votever I can do to help you stop them, I vill do. Even if it ends death."

"Viktor—"

"I mean it. If there is any hope left, it is vith you. If there is anything I can do—"

"No," she said quickly. "There's—there's nothing. You've done enough."

He shook his head. "You are the same as your friend Harry Potter, you know."

Suddenly, washing away the dirt and the blood was all too interesting.

For months, she and Viktor had waltzed around the truth. The omissions, the frustration, the wordless questions, the tears, and the subtle squeezes of her hand. Hermione was stuck between two worlds and Viktor was where they overlapped: a friend in the grey, a friend where she had been so alone.

But the dance was over.

"Is that so?" she finally asked.

"You both try to do everything by yourselves," he explained, "ven you have friends that vont to help."

Help.

She was beginning to fear the mere concept of it. Help ended in bloodshed. Help ended in shattered promises and lifeless eyes and blazing hellfire. Help was extortion. Help was murder.

Viktor Krum didn't deserve to be help. He was too good for the world.

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, was too entrenched in it.

The mop squelched as she came to a sudden halt. "Do you really want to help?"

"Help you ? Herm-own-ninny, you know the answer to that."

"And you know what I would say in return," she whispered. "Viktor, what you want from me—"

"The gift I gave you today is not a curse. All I vont from you is a promise that you'll use it. The vorld needs you to use it."

"And if it kills you?"

"Then I die doing vot is right."

Blisters and callouses punctuated the end of Hermione's miserable workday. After six dragging hours in the Red Chamber, a morning rifling through memories and lies, and the new weight of Viktor's bond with her, she wanted nothing more than to sink into her small, sad bed.

Unfortunately, the Atrium was too packed to Apparate.

"They really should put in more fireplaces," muttered Viktor. "Always stuffed together like Grindylows in a tiny tank."

"I usually leave late so I guess I never see it so busy . . . Is it like this every day?"

" Da . I haven't been able to Apparate out of here in months . . . Vouldn't dare after that man accidentally splinched Vilbrook . . ." He pushed a strand of hair from her face. "You seem tired, you know. You should rest ven you get home."

She leaned away from him—a subtle reminder that she was not his to touch. "Yeah, I'm erm—I'm just going to make a cuppa and then probably get straight to bed, you know. It's been a long—ouch! Excuse you! "

She whipped around to scold the person that had bumped into her, but instead, she was silenced by her stuttering heart. Arvell Boot was weaving through the bustling crowd, gesticulating wildly as he shouted at the man flanking him. Alas, it wasn't this that gave her clammy hands and anxious gooseflesh. It was the conversation that cut through the buzz of the Atrium. It was the alarm in Arvell's voice, the urgency in his stride, and most of all, it was the sudden reminder of her morning memo.

"They went this morning !" Arvell exclaimed. "It's what? Seven now?"

"Nearly," the man replied, gruffly. "'Scuse me, ma'am, 'scuse me . . . Boot, slow down, for Merlin's sake ! We can't do anything til Butcher and Wipp are back, anyway!"

"Back from where?"

"Raid in Knockturn Alley. They left about—Good God, man! Watch where you're going!"

" Focus , Orlin! When did they leave?"

"Er, sorry—yeah, they er—they left about an hour ago."

"Well, when they get back, I want them potioned up and out the bloody door. And you're going with them. The Malfoys are dangerous, dangerous people, Orlin. Dangerous people, indeed . . ."

The din of the Atrium swallowed his words.

"Herm-own-ninny? Are you all right?"

"Yeah—I er—I forgot I have something to do before I go. I'll er—I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"Yes . . . all right," Viktor said, suspiciously. "Tomorrow, then."

His hand brushed hers in their parting, but she ignored it, instead turning around to ford through the teeming Ministry workers.

Viktor had been right to describe it as a tiny tank of Grindylows.

Every step she took was a step into somebody else. Feet, elbows, hands, knees: Sometimes hers, sometimes theirs. It was bad enough to be bumped into no matter where she went, but her reputation made it even worse.

They eyed her, they pointed at her, some even raised their voice upon saying her name—a challenge for her to round on them and defend herself, a challenge she had no time to accept.

"Hermione Granger! Tell me: What do Krum's bollocks taste like?"

"Like freedom, apparently!"

She just needed enough space to Apparate—enough space to breathe .

Enough space to not stomp on strangers' feet.

"Ow! Watch it!"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

The woman spluttered as she fell into the chaos that was the eighth level of the building, but Hermione had forgotten her as quickly as she came. Ignoring the shouts and the cries of those she shouldered violently to get there, Hermione trudged towards the spot beside the fountain—the single, empty spot.

The floor was flooded there.

It was the result of a thoughtless hex the squib caretakers were never able to fix. A hex that had given her precisely what she needed.

She broke away from the crowd, nearly slipping on the wet marble, but she had never been more grateful for a near-fall.

Once she was composed, she had only three words on her mind.

Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

Fog caressed the grounds of Malfoy Manor. It snaked through the hedges and clouded the footpaths. It embraced the lamenting peacocks and kissed the wilting roses. The manor was in mourning, so the fog swept the lonely place up into its arms, offering solace only an old friend could bring.

The manor wanted no other.

Slightly ajar, the hand-carved doors groaned in protest, warning away trespassers and whispering their tragic story. Their song was a solemn symphony, conducted by the wretched weight of grief and Hermione's hammering heart. The stench of Dark Magic danced with the gardenias where she lingered, and somewhere, among the melancholy of it all, there was the faint glimmer of hope.

Hidden behind her shame, it called to her.

The war heroine steeled her nerves and cut through the gardens, her wand trained on the soft light that poured into the safety of darkness. The bones of the manor howled and creaked in the wind, offering their final word of caution, trying to conceal the hope within, trying to push her away.

But Hermione didn't listen.

Instead, she crept towards the stuttering doors, moving under the noisy cloak of the angry hinges and the haunting gusts. Her Disillusionment Charm wavered, and while this should have stopped her, the smell of blood only pulled her closer.

Like a moth to flame, she peered through the crack of light. And like a moth to flame, she paid for it.

A pool of crimson shimmered under the flickering candles, and at its very core, lay Narcissa Malfoy.

Kneeling over her was her only son, sobbing violently and squeezing her lifeless hand between both of his own. His platinum locks were were streaked red, a stark contrast to hers, which were as garnet as the jewels studding the family portrait looming above.

Hermione, burdened by his anguish, waited in the doorway, her veins growing colder with each of his terrible wails. The constricted feeling of her Disillusionment Charm had diminished, but there was no recasting it then. It was draining magic—the type of magic she did not have the strength for.

All of her strength was with Draco.

He was rocking on his knees, cradling Narcissa's hand and murmuring words Hermione couldn't quite hear. She averted her guilty gaze, for the private moment was not hers to see. She was its creator, its purveyor, and now, she was its interruptor.

Suddenly, his cries stopped.

Confused, Hermione turned back to the scene, yet the sole Malfoy in sight was his departed matriarch.

"What're you doing here?"

Hermione gasped and pivoted, only to be met with the end of Malfoy's wand. His stormy eyes were red and wild—the eyes of a man willing to do anything, a eyes of a man with nothing to lose.

"I—I came because I—I—erm—"

"Did you have something to do with this?" he growled, his voice unhinged and dangerous and everything Hermione feared it would be. "DID YOU HAVE MY MOTHER KILLED?"

The doors slammed shut behind them.

"No! Of course not! I—I would never—"

"And why should I believe you? You show up here out of nowhere and two days later, we get raided? I wasn't born yesterday, Granger. This has you written all over it."

"I—I came to warn you!" she exclaimed. "I—I heard Boot talking in the Atrium and—and I—"

"And you what? You thought you'd come here and offer your condolences? They killed her, Granger. They broke into my home and they killed her right before my bloody eyes and now you're here. For what? A distraction? Are there Aurors surrounding the manor as we speak? Because you might as well just wave them in now. I'll kill each and every one of them and I'll do my time in Stafhelm with fucking pleasure."

Hermione clenched her jaw.

"You want them to pay, Draco? Is that it?" She pushed his wand away from her face, as calmly as she could manage. "Because we can make that happen. You just have to come with me and you have to come with me now . Before they get here."

"Give me one reason to trust you."

His eyes were pleading, searching hers for something to grasp onto, some semblance of friendship and support in the world the had done him so wrong. Hermione felt the words clawing in her throat, begging her to just confess what she had done.

Alas, there were other words. Words that much more important.

Harry's words.

"You trusted me before—and I helped you," she said, though her insides twisted and contorted with every syllable. "I can help you again."

Though he was still fisting his wand, something in his expression broke.

"Say I do trust you, Granger. How can I trust all your little friends? I'm sure I'm still on some sort of list."

"You're not on a list. And they need you. Not only do they gain nothing from harming you, but you have a skill set none of them have. That's why I came here. That's why they sent me. Because you have something they want."

"So? I'm sure at least one of them still has a problem with me. Two Ministry employees are dead in my bloody dining room. Someone turns me in, I go to prison. I'm not willing to take that risk."

"That won't happen," Hermione insisted. "I won't let it. And think about it, Malfoy. If they did that, you'd turn us all in and the Order would fall."

"And what about people like you? People working for the other side?"

"There aren't any. I'd know if there were. Look, we can do this until Aurors come and arrest us both, or we can go and get you to safety. Please , Malfoy, just listen to me."

He swallowed. His arguments were running thin.

"And what about my mother? I won't—I won't leave her here for them to find her. I—I won't go unless you can promise she'll have a proper burial . . . A traditional burial. Not some Muggle nonsense."

Hermione nodded.

"Of course. I—I have the perfect place. Truly, she'll be at home there, but we really have to go now—"

"I swear to God, Granger, if it's in the Weasleys' filthy yard—"

"It's not," she said, quickly. "It's—it's well-suited for her. She'll be safe. I promise."

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he glanced at his mother once more.

"Where?"

"Somewhere she'll be with family."