I would like to acknowledge that the inspiration for the enspelled golden laurel-leafed headband Draco gave to Hermione came from ThebeMoon's wonderful fic, 'The Gloriana Set'; it's my favourite Dramione 8th Year story.


Chapter 61

Friday 21 March 2003: PM

"Potter, I can't give you the exact specifics of our soul-bonded magic – because I'm only going off what Lucius told me, alright? Plus what we've already experienced, the past few weeks," Draco accesses his fast-dwindling supply of patience and control as he strides agitatedly around the Departure Floos. "It's a rare form of old magic that is poorly documented and researched."

Remember he's trying to come at this from every angle – he's just as desperate as I am to retrieve Hermione and Pansy, safe and sound. Don't snap at him… well, unless he sodding asks me again how our magical cores first mated. I am not detailing our metaphysical sexual experiences unless I absolutely have to, Draco vows.

"But you are saying that you can share magic – that you can 'gift' each other your powers, right?" Harry presses, ignoring Draco's frustrated groan. "As well as communicating telepathically?".

"In theory, yes – as I have already told you three fucking times, Potter! Sorry, sorry – I'm bloody terrified... Alright."

Draco swallows and tries for a modicum of calm. "Lucius said that with practice, we will be able to utilize each other's sorcery, and differing abilities... until they come naturally, to both of us; and that the merging of our magical cores becomes more than the sum of its parts... that her strengths will ameliorate my weaknesses, and vice versa."

"Can you track her? If you focus hard enough, can you trace her location? We need an address, Malfoy."

"Look, I tried that when Flint knocked her out – it didn't work then, I just knew she was in terrible danger– "

"But your bond has developed more since, right?"

"I think so – I don't know for sure – what if I'm wrong?! What if it doesn't work, what do we do then? I can't believe I just let her walk away – straight into the arms of a monster– oh fuck, what have I done?" Draco doesn't realize he is copying Potter's signature move of pulling frustratedly at his hair until Harry slaps at his hands.

"Cut it out – it's not helpful, and I don't have the time or energy to spare to talk you down from a full-blown meltdown, you twit. Settle down and concentrate. Can you feel Hermione's… energy signature, for want of a better term?" Harry prompts, his usually genial face drawn and grave.

"Yeah, yeah– OK. Just give me a minute, I'll home in on that." Draco closes his eyes and exhales deeply, gripping the mantlepiece of the nearest Floo to ground himself. He sends out his magic, envisioning his powers as a light-infused hawk, searching for his mate.

Hermione... sweetheart, please answer me... please, ma petite... Tell me where you are, we're coming... please, darling...

His telepathic plea zooms and wheels about, growing increasingly desperate as the seconds tick by without response. Draco feels his gorge rising as his terror returns threefold. No– no– no– I can't- I won't abandon hope– Hermione's strong, and so smart–

Draco, I'm OK– we're OK– well, we will be. It's Cormac – Cormac McLaggen, he's got us in a basement or dungeon somewhere, Pansy's still Petrified, and he drugged me with another potion– but I'm fighting it, Draco. Will you help me, please? I need to use your magic, he's inhibited mine, the sleazy shit!

The sound of his beloved's voice in his head makes Draco's knees fold; he is dimly aware of Potter propping him against the wall and saying something urgent-sounding. Draco ignores him as he frantically replies to Hermione.

McLaggen?! Is he alone, are there others? Yes, yes, of course– I'm ready to tap into our soul-bond magic whenever you are– keep him talking, if you can, OK?

No, just McLaggen, and he hasn't mentioned anyone else bar Flint. I'm on it– Cormac's always been a dreadful braggart, he won't be able to resist boasting about how clever he's been (Draco can practically see Hermione rolling her eyes in disgust as she confidently predicts McLaggen's vainglorious behaviour). He's already claimed this modified roofie potion won't knock me out this time– but it will keep me 'docile', apparently. I'm going to exterminate him, Draco. Wretched cockroach!

Alright – good. You've got this, Granger. Lucius said that in order to consciously manifest our unified magical cores, we must 'open ourselves wholly' to each other: he advised recalling and focusing on the joyousness of our joining, all of it – mental, spiritual, physical. Does that make sense? Hermione?

Yes, of course. Wait – I'm going to distract this fool – just give me a moment, Draco...

"Malfoy? DRACO! What's happening?" Harry's voice breaks through properly as Hermione briefly suspends their extrasensory communication.

"It's Cormac McLaggen – the sick fuck has them in a basement somewhere, he's drugged Hermione, we're going to try a soul-bonded magical transfer – she's stalling him, hoping to get a clue to their location– "

"Cormac?! Gods, I always knew he was a sleaze– but this– fuck! Is Hermione alright? And Pansy– how is she– has he– " a wild-eyed Harry breaks off, covering his quivering lips with his hand.

"Hermione said Pansy's still Petrified, but she's OK. They're OK," Draco repeats, willing the statement to continue to hold true. Harry appears ready to cast up his accounts onto Draco's shoes, such is his stark distress.

"Buck up– and don't interrupt me again, we're about to try to deliberately merge our cores," Draco apprises Harry. "Unless I ask you to intervene, do not distract me, do you understand? This is crucial, Potter."

"Got it," Harry nods vigorously, hope creeping into his tense expression. "I'll send another Patronus advising it's McLaggen, and ensure you're not disturbed. Do your best, Malfoy."

Biting back his automatic retort that he always does his best, Draco merely tips his chin in acknowledgement. He sits down, cross-legged against the brick wall, closing his eyes and channelling all his energies into a meditative state of readiness.

This is going to work. Our soul bond is infinitely stronger and more powerful than anyone realizes. My Hermione is coming back to me: victorious, and unharmed. I have faith in her… I have faith in us.

Shutting his eyes and jettisoning all distractions from his mind, Draco repeats the last sentence as a mantra.

I have faith in us. Always.


Cormac McLaggen nonchalantly dangles the grotesque silver Death Eater mask from the fingertips of his right hand as he smirks down at Hermione. He's still wearing the traditional tuxedo he'd donned for the Gala; it emphasizes his classic good looks.

The cruel, corrupt expression on his face warps whatever superficial charm his appearance initially represents, as he leers at the two captive witches on the large brass bed. Rotten to his very bones, Hermione decides, disguising her instinctive sneer as a sob.

"Ah, babe – I've waited a very, very long time for this," he hums, lecherously inching the digits of his other hand up Hermione's left leg, stopping at her knee. Somehow, she controls her disgusted flinch, aware that she needs to psychically contact Draco and connect with his magical core; her own is still blunted by the revolting roofie potion Cormac recently forced down her throat.

"I'm torn, pet: should I take my time with you... savour every hot moment, explore every inch of that sexy little body – or should I just brutally fuck you the first time to take the edge off? Decisions, decisions," he taunts, chuckling evilly.

"The good news is – well, for me, anyway – no one will disturb us... we've worked long and hard to ensure our playroom is secure."

"Is that– is that what you m-meant, when you said my elf c-can't interfere?" Hermione increases her scared sniffles as Cormac nods emphatically.

"Yep – Marcus spent an age on the wards… as well as barring uninvited wizards, he reckons if any non-humans attempt to Apparate straight in, he's honed the spellwork to cut them in half," Cormac snickers. "Actually, I wouldn't mind seeing that for myself… nah, maybe later. After you and I enjoy some quality time together, sweet cheeks."

Each of his sexist 'endearments' is somehow more offensive than the last, Hermione acidly observes, as Cormac lasciviously joggles his blond brows. Ugh… such a shame he didn't die of Doxy egg poisoning. No matter – he's going to bitterly regret the day he and his sicko mate decided to target me – and my friend.

"Cormac – y-you weren't truly upset by what happened at the Slug Club all those years ago, were you? I was just young, and silly… scared of your powerful… m-manliness, that's all," Hermione simpers, aiming to keep the bastard talking. "If I'd known you were so… dominating… so… clever… " she trails off, feigning confusion and regret, feebly twitching her hands against the black satin counterpane.

"You always did underestimate me, didn't you? Everyone did – stupid arseholes, always running blindly after Potter – Saint Fucking Potter, Hero of the Wizarding World – and for what? For having a daft scar on his head and his bitch mother sacrificing herself? Big fucking deal," Cormac warms to his bitter rant, strutting over to a shelf and carefully placing the silver mask in the centre.

Hermione manages not to visibly startle as Draco's tense voice suddenly resounds in her head.

Her beloved wizard is holding onto his vaunted composure by the barest of margins, judging by the underlying strain in his psychic tones. Hermione's heart alternately leaps and aches as she hastens to assure Draco of her welfare. Fortunately, Cormac continues to bleat on about his hatred for all things Potter and Golden Trio; she tracks him with her eyes while harnessing her telepathy.

Her fury is swelling with Cormac's every whingeing word and aggrandized gesture. Think you can drug me – chase me – abduct and hurt Pansy – threaten us with rape and forced breeding – you are seriously going to regret ever messing with me and mine, you moronic, sleazy scumbag.

She is jolted out of her savage pledge when Draco urgently replies. The relief and love in his voice gladdens her heart immeasurably.

" – and that dipshit Weasley, taking my rightful position as Keeper – I know someone meddled with my tryout, as if that ginger nutsack could best me– " Cormac is still raving, unaware of the Confundus Charm Hermione sent his way at a critical moment that day.

"No one bothered to present me with an Order of Merlin, did they?! Oh no, never mind the fact I fought just as fiercely in the Battle of Hogwarts – and what do I have to show for it? Fuck all, that's what. Marcus was right, what's the point in playing the hero when you don't get the girls, or the fame and fortune? You gotta make your own luck, babe – and I did, believe you me…" McLaggen fulminates.

That's it, keep rambling, you mouthy dickhead.

Hermione quickly responds to Draco, while Cormac swaggers back to the bed and begins undressing. He's still yammering, clearly enamoured with the sound of his own voice.

He's such a jabbering cretin. Hermione applies herself to figuring out exactly where they are.

"Will we… will we live here with you, Cormac? You… you'll look after us, won't you? Please? I promise… to do whatever you want," Hermione whimpers, squeezing some more tears from her reddened eyes.

"Well… we'll see, won't we? Perhaps if you're good girls – if you do exactly as I say – and obey Marcus, when he's released, of course – you'll be allowed upstairs every now and then, huh? I suppose we'll have to rethink the living arrangement once my sons are born, I won't have them living in a cellar," Cormac disdainfully asserts.

"Oh… we're in your house…? I should have known… it's so tastefully decorated," Hermione murmurs; she keeps the facetious nuance to herself. She chews the inside of her cheeks as she registers Pansy's exaggerated eye roll. Excellent: she'll fight with me, when the time comes.

"It's my home now, I suppose you could say," McLaggen puffs up with overt pride, his baby blue eyes gleaming. "But we've got plenty of time to play house, babe – I need to get my end away before my balls explode. Let me take off the rest of this monkey suit and we'll get down to business," he licks his lips in a truly revolting fashion, before yanking the white tuxedo shirt over his curly head.

Closing her eyes, Hermione tugs at the transcendental thread linking her to Draco.

It's time, Draco – I'm ready. I love you so much, mon chéri. We're going to win.

I know you are. You're an absolute superstar, Hermione. You couldn't love me more than I love you, though– it's simply impossible. I'm ready. Keep your breathing as steady as you can, and open yourself to me, ma chérie. I'm all yours.

Let's do this.


Harry has just sent off his second Patronus stag to Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes when Gilmont and Faulkner reappear, leading Blaise, Theo, and the rest of their party (except Ron) into the Atrium. He hurries to intercept them before they intrude upon Draco's critical reverie.

"Malfoy's connecting his magical core to Hermione's– long story– they're soul-bonded– she's going to remotely channel his magic because Cormac drugged her again," Harry imparts in a low voice.

"McLaggen?!" asks Theo, bewilderment turning to cold fury.

"That wanker?!" Ginny growls, her slender hands tightening on her black yew wood wand.

"Fucking sleazeball!" Blaise loudly rumbles, repeating the phrase under his breath as Harry frowns at him.

"Who is this filthy plŭkh… rat, now?" Viktor demands. "I know him not."

"Cormac's smile has always been unkind," Luna remarks softly. "Soul-bonded… that's really lovely, though I wish we'd discovered this under different circumstances." Her sweet face is pinched with sorrow and concern.

"Listen, I need to know – do any of you have any idea of where Cormac might have taken them? A holiday spot… anything he might have mentioned, that has some meaning to him?" Harry imperatively addresses the group.

A slight pause, before everyone seems to excitedly chatter at once. Bloody hell, they sound like monkeys at the zoo.

"Guys – please!" Harry throws an anxious glance in Malfoy's direction, relieved that the discordant hubbub doesn't appear to have registered with the meditating wizard. "One at a time, alright?" he requests, in a quieter tone.

"I always thought he was a grandstanding dickhead, never paid him much attention," Blaise admits, frustration tightening his wide shoulders.

"I avoided him like the plague – he was forever backing unsuspecting witches into corners at school – I thought he was just a pest, I wish I'd realized he was a rapist," Ginny spits.

"Wasn't he the fool who ate four dozen Doxy eggs for a bet?" Theo wonders. "Sorry, Harry – I rarely ever spoke to him."

Viktor worriedly demands, "But ve must learn of the place he takes Herm-own-ninny and Miss Pansy!".

"Auror Potter, we've secured the ballroom; so far, no one is kicking up much of a stink about not being able to leave. Faulkner suggested the Ministry spring for extra barrels of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey, and the band has agreed to keep playing, so most folks are still merrily drinking, or boogieing on the dancefloor," Gilmont states.

The rest of the gang falls into a fraught silence, swapping concerned glances.

"It's a tad obvious: but have you checked his uncle Tiberius's secret hunting lodge?" Luna pipes up, shrugging gracefully as seven pairs of eyes turn to her in amazement. "You know, the one in Suffolk? He used to invite Cormac there to stalk red deer – well, to shoot them, 'stalking' is a ridiculous euphemism, really– "

"Luna– do you happen to know exactly where in Suffolk this lodge is situated?" Harry fervently queries. "And how do you know of it? Forgive my abruptness, please – every second counts in this crisis."

Luna shrugs; the movement lightly rattles her dangling silver belled earrings as she answers, "Cormac once told me at a Halloween party that it was just outside the village of Ampton in West Suffolk, about five miles north of Bury St Edmunds. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, Harry.'

"Oh, people often confide in me at gatherings, usually for want of their preferred company paying them any attention. I don't ask for confessions, but I hear them, nevertheless. Father says that if you don't take up much conversational space, people rush in to fill it," Luna reveals.

You bloody legend, Luna Lovegood! Harry busses her on both cheeks, barely able to stop himself from dancing for joy as she squeaks in surprise.

"Luna – you're a national treasure – don't you dare let anyone ever tell you otherwise, you hear me?". Harry releases her after a quick, affectionate hug.

"Gilmont – I need you to immediately head to the Records Room to unearth everything you can about Tiberius McLaggen's last will and testament: even if Cormac claimed the hunting lodge's exact whereabouts was a secret, Tiberius would have had to have listed it somewhere in the document, or risk losing the entail on a technicality," Harry orders. "Faulkner, I want you with me, in case we have to strike at a moment's notice."

Gus clamps shut her mouth, clearly displeased by the specialized directive. "But sir– if we do mount a raid, I want to be equally involved– "

"You're better at rapidly processing vital information – I'm not playing favourites. The clock's ticking, Gus," Harry curtly reminds. "Second one of the other Aurors from the ballroom as back-up, on your way through."

"I'll go with her," Blaise announces, already moving to Gilmont's side. "Time is of the essence, yeah? I've had basic defensive training, never fear," he says, in reply to Harry's sceptical expression.

"Alright – just go, go! Once Malfoy's finished, we'll Apparate to Ampton village and proceed from there," Harry barks. He is thankful that Gus doesn't waste any more time protesting; she settles for bestowing him a fulminating look and tearing off to the elevator bank, not bothering to check whether Zabini is keeping pace.

I'm not certain what's going on there – but Gilmont can more than take care of herself. Harry dismisses the issue for the time being.

Pivoting, he checks on Draco. Still looks like he's deeply involved in their peculiar magic transfer, Harry assesses. Merlin's beard… I hope he knows what he's about – the fate of our witches could very well rest upon it. Hermione and Pansy, I mean, he corrects himself, refusing to dwell on his reflexive use of the pronoun 'our'. I'll be lucky if Pansy ever speaks to me again, considering how badly I reacted to Ron's inflammatory disclosure. I admit I was shocked… but I never meant to imply I judged Pansy – I was angry that Ron was so purposefully insensitive and nasty.

His stomach flips as his mind ruthlessly runs through the gamut of worst-case scenarios again.

Please, let them be OK… please… Harry silently begs the universe.

Please give me the chance to apologize… and to hold Pansy in my arms again…

They have to be OK.


We have to fully open up to each other… I must concentrate on the rapture of our merging – 'mental, spiritual, physical'; and remember all the joy that being with Draco brings me. Got it.

Hermione spares a final glance at Cormac: he has paused his undressing process, standing naked from the waist up, beside the bed… apparently entranced by his own reflection in the supremely tacky overhead 'bordello' mirror.

Is he…? He's actually primping his golden curls while he riffs on and on about his perceived grievances of oversight and unappreciation. 'To Cormac, love Cormac' – hell's bells, what a malignant narcissist, Hermione scorns.

The fear she felt when she'd first spotted Cormac holding a knife to Pansy's throat has been replaced with a much stronger set of emotions… Rage. Vengeance. Bloodlust. You will reap what you sow, Cormac McLaggen. You picked the wrong witches to attempt to victimize, you evil arsehat.

Slowing her breaths, Hermione thinks back to that first night… I was drugged, helpless, hiding in a tree with mysterious assailants dogging my steps. Dragging my limp, disoriented body to the townhouse… placing my trust in a man who (as a boy and youth) had insulted and denigrated me for years.

I did… I did trust Draco. Even then… did my soul recognize its counterpoint in another? There's always been something deep, powerful, and untamed, between us.

Waking up in his bed the next morning… sick, frightened, and confused. Draco being startlingly kind, putting me at ease… cooking me breakfast the Muggle way. His determination to stay involved with the roofie drama… his stubborn, resolute protectiveness. Constantly giving me his clothes to wear.

The guided Legilimency… his sexual proposition. Our spectacular, incendiary first kiss. Our first night together… all the other glorious nights, the not-date dates, the kisses, hugs, candid conversations, and cuddles. Learning each other's bodies… our wildly magnificent sexual compatibility. Draco arranging for Macdolas to be my bodyguard and helpmate.

Flint's attack… Draco's fierce, feral response… the way he essentially moved me in with him without ever actually asking me to live with him! His every touch and word revealing his intense, unswerving devotion and concern.

Sharing meals and watching TV together, our laughter and squabbles… all of Draco's beautiful, thoughtful gifts. His rampant jealousy… his endless, unfeigned hunger for me. His acceptance of my imperfections and aggravating behaviours… his willingness to accept me, just as I am. Our silly, scared, obstinate determination to stick to our pretence of not being in a relationship.

Blaise's harebrained scheme of pushing Draco to escort Astoria Greengrass to the Gala, to force us into acknowledging our true feelings… our subsequent confessions, and our mutual commitment to a full, emotionally comprehensive relationship. Wallowing in domestic banality, and seriously discussing our future together… declaring our love. Making love… and spontaneously merging our magical cores.

A real, joyful tear slides down Hermione's stinging cheek as her profound feelings for Draco inundate her consciousness, activating their soul-bonded magic. Tingles of power radiate from her mind as her quintessence seeks out Draco's life force and sorcerous powers. The singular sensation of her intangible nucleus racing across supernatural boundaries to find her mate is breathtakingly wondrous.

She whispers into the void. Draco… please join with me, my one true love. My soul mate. Help me.

He responds in a flash, as pure light beams and zings along their mystic connection.

Hermione… all that I have is yours. Take what you need, my love. I believe in you.

The stupefying effect of the narcotic potion Cormac dosed her with snaps like a tattered rope. Her muzzled magic recovers, streaming through every cell in her body to fill Hermione with a stunning, all-encompassing power – unlike anything she's ever before experienced.

This is Draco's magic, woven through and underpinning my own: sustaining and fortifying my preternatural energy and skills. I feel utterly, infinitely amazing… like I could reshape the stars with a flick of my wrist, she grins to herself. Any lingering terror caused by Cormac's cruel treatment has burned to ashes, leaving behind an unwavering confidence in her upcoming retribution.

Taking great care to not alert McLaggen to her resurgent magical potency, Hermione reaches out to Draco, sending him an exultant transmission of reassurance and unfettered hope.

Draco, it worked! The blanketing effect of the roofie potion has entirely vanished– and my magic is stronger than I've ever known. We did it!

Hermione – I'm so incredibly proud of you! Stay connected with me, ma petite: use everything and anything you need to bring down McLaggen. Remember our training – and your strength.

I will. I love you, Draco.

I love you, Hermione. I'll see you soon.

Hermione draws a full breath, grounding herself back into her physical surroundings just as Cormac steps out of his trousers and underwear. He ostentatiously twirls his black jocks a few times, before pitching them to the floor. Cupping and roughly stroking his genitals, Cormac leers down at her, picking up his horrid dagger again.

"Hold nice and still for me, Golden Girl – this blade is razor sharp, just ask your little friend if you don't believe me," he sniggers. "I'll have you out of that dress in a jiffy… and then the fun really starts. Now, I encourage crying piteously – but if you are dumb enough to try to fight me off, I'll start cutting, got it?" he swishes the mean little knife in the air to emphasize his threat.

Staying perfectly still, Hermione pathetically sniffles, "Yes, Cormac."

"Call me 'Master'; you're my little bitch now, 'Mione – better get used to it," Cormac maliciously grins. He turns to Pansy.

"Same goes for you, Little Flower – your continued existence is totally dependent on how well you can follow orders," he sneers. "It's a shame you're so promiscuous… but you'll do as a back-up brood mare, I suppose. Watch and learn, sugar."

Summoning her reinvigorated magic, Hermione releases Pansy's Petrification with a swift, wandless 'Finite Incantatem', accompanied by an experimental telepathic message.

Pansy – I just lifted the Petrificus Totalus - don't move yet… let this prick believe we're still at his mercy for a little longer. My magic is back, and stronger than ever; when I make my move, back me up, please. Blink twice if you understand.

Blink, blink: Pansy wastes no time responding. Her stormy beryl eyes narrow fleetingly, before she simulates frozen submissiveness.

Cormac leans down, huffing crossly. "This ugly bit of gold tat wrapped around your head has to go– a gift from your alkie lord of the manor, I take it? Doesn't surprise me he has to pay for sex one way or another… wish I could be there when he realizes I've snatched you right beneath his pointy nose," he crows, flipping the dagger onto the bed, next to Hermione's right hip.

We'll see who's gloating in a moment, you dunderheaded turd. Hermione bides her time, waiting for McLaggen to grab for her laurel-leaf headband.

"I've seen better jewellery come out of Christmas crackers, honestly; I guess the Malfoy coffers aren't as full as they– FUCK!" Cormac bellows, as the tip of his right index finger is cleanly sliced off by the enchanted metalwork. Hermione revels in his agonized, uncomprehending scream.

Jack-knifing upward in one fluid motion, Hermione gathers the discarded dagger into her right hand as she headbutts Cormac with practised ferocity, collecting him directly in his forehead. The golden leaves morph into vicious barbs, embedding in his temples; Hermione reaches up to disengage the thin garland from her own head, without incurring a single scratch. She leaves the weaponized leaves stuck in Cormac's bloodied brow, for the time being.

Damn – Draco really is an exceedingly talented wizard. I must remember to lavishly praise him for this particular piece of ingenious cursework, later.

Adjusting her grip on the wicked little knife, Hermione drives her left knee straight into Cormac's shrivelled, unprotected groin with ruthless efficiency. The naked thug crumples like poor quality parchment, clutching his bruised testicles and emitting a high-pitched squeal of unadulterated pain.

Dropping to a crouch, Hermione jabs the tip of the dagger into Cormac's gulping throat, replicating his abuse of Pansy in the Atrium. Her blood is humming with a combination of near-overloaded magic and her fiery desire for revenge. Cormac momentarily ceases writhing, his cringing gaze reluctantly colliding with her triumphal one.

"You are so fucked, Cormac," Hermione hisses, peripherally aware of Pansy wobbling off the bed and stepping to McLaggen's other side. "I'm sorely tempted to sever your worthless throat and leave you to bleed out on the floor, you irredeemable scumbag."

"Do it!" Pansy snarls. "Give me the damned knife, Pollyanna – I'll carve him like a fucking pumpkin!" She delivers a brutal kick to his already-compromised bollocks with the pointed tip of her high heel, grunting in barbarous delight as Cormac openly sobs. The blood from the laurel leaf wounds flows steadily down his brow and cheeks in a freakishly grotesque pattern.

As for his severed fingertip – well, he's unlikely to exsanguinate because of it. Let him bleed. Hermione deliberately Accio's the amputated piece of flesh beneath the bed.

"P-Please– please don't– " Cormac weakly keens. "I wasn't– I wasn't really going to– "

"What?! You weren't going to repeatedly rape and forcibly impregnate us? Hold us captive in your scaly basement and inflict all manner of sexual depravities upon us? Drug and demean us and make us your breed slaves?!" Pansy's wild scream hinges on hysteria. "You're a foul, soulless monster– where's my wand– I'll Avada this bastard myself, I swear I will!".

Without taking her eyes off Cormac's squirming and crying form, Hermione soothes her friend. "I'm so sorry he hurt you, Pansy, and I know he deserves to suffer… and suffer he will, in the lonely bowels of Azkaban. He'll pay for his crimes, as will Flint. You're safe now, I promise."

Pansy's reaction is to coldly press the implanted headband deeper into Cormac's head, using the flat of her shoe. "You're lucky Hermione has a heart of gold – I'd kill you without a backward glance, fuckface. Look at you, cowering on the floor, pitifully shielding your micro penis… bee's dick, I should say."

Hermione pulls back the dagger slightly, lest the pressure Pansy is applying to Cormac's forehead accidentally impale him on the knife. If I end him, I want it to be on purpose.

"Pansy, I need to dismantle the maiming wards they've laid on the property: if I return your wand to you, will you swear not to use an Unforgivable on him? Scrap that – I'll Petrify him myself," Hermione settles.

"No! I want– I need to help, Hermione. Please," Pansy passionately entreats. "Please," she repeats, in a substantially more controlled manner.

"Are you sure?" Hermione murmurs, still a little dubious. Cormac continues to groan and feebly thrash between them.

"Yeah. I'm OK – I'll be OK," Pansy amends, lifting her foot from Cormac's bloodied face. She scrubs at her tear-marked cheeks and tries for a small, stiff smile of assurance. "Go on, pass me my wand and work your fancy magic… I want to get out of this shithole before sunrise," she grouses. "If Ikea hired the Marquis de Sade as a room designer, this would be the tragic result: 'Dunggeön Lite'."

At least she's recovered enough to be cracking jokes. Hermione chuckles softly as she replies, "Wait – you've darkened the doors of a Muggle Ikea? On purpose?".

"Once, and never again – the one-way maze of the entry/exit layout is a modern-day hellscape," Pansy decrees with a contemptuous sniff. "Wand me, please."

Hermione flicks Pansy's slim holly wood caduceus off the shelf Cormac placed it (next to the sinister Death Eater mask) and flies it into Pansy's waiting hand; she grips it with grim satisfaction.

"Thanks, Hermione. Do your thing– this shitbag isn't going anywhere." At Hermione's diffident look, Pansy exasperatedly asserts, "I promise not to kill him, OK? Look, I'm just going to bind the bastard."

Confidently chanting, "Incarcerous", Pansy engenders thick black chains to blast from the end of her wand, trussing McLaggen from his neck to his toes; he wails as Pansy adjusts the bindings to effectively hog-tie him into a sideways arch.

Satisfied that Cormac's menace has been thoroughly nullified, Hermione stands up, stepping back and moving to the centre of the stone-walled basement. Closing her eyes and regulating her breathing, she is about to start the process of identifying and disassembling the vicious wards that are protecting the space when anguished male screams emanate behind her.

Swivelling, Hermione lifts her eyebrow as she witnesses Pansy mercilessly delivering a series of hard kicks to Cormac's swollen scrotum, using her stiletto heel as a spear. "That's for piercing my throat– " KICK! " – that's for groping my breast and twisting my nipple–" KICK! " – and that's for fucking ruining my gorgeous Valdrin Sahiti gown with bloodstains, you imbecilic philistine!" KICK!

Pansy defensively plants her hands on her hips as she notes Hermione's critical expression.

"What? I said I wouldn't kill him… the chains became entangled with my shoe, if anyone questions why his nuts are lightly punctured," she smirks.

"Are you done? I really do need to focus here, Pansy," Hermione gently chides.

"Yeah, yeah – do you need my wand back?"

"I don't think so… Pansy, my – our – magic feels so strong… it's crazy how powerful it is," Hermione confesses. "I need to take care how I use it, that's all. So please: don't savage him again unless he tries to escape, alright?".

Pansy nods. "OK. You have my word."

Relieved that Cormac will (probably) live to face trial for his myriad crimes, Hermione reapplies herself to breaking the dark spells surrounding the dungeon. She senses Draco at the other end of their soul-bond, steadily maintaining his own concentration as their magic continues to flow together and boost each other's powers.

She easily locates and dismantles each wicked curse and booby-trapped protection, breaking them apart like brittle twigs as her anger at their intended effects increases by the second. Had she tried to summon Macdolas for help (as she had in the Ministry after Flint's attack), the brave little elf would have been instantly decapitated. And if Draco and Harry had figured out their location before Hermione set to work – they would likely have been grievously maimed upon arrival, if not killed outright.

Hermione vanquishes the last of the evil defences and eagerly reaches out to her mind-linked mage.

Draco – we beat Cormac! He's chained up on the floor, bleeding and sobbing. I've just finished eliminating all the nasty spellwork Flint and McLaggen laid down to keep everyone but them from this dungeon; can you come to us now, please? Hermione urges.

Are you safe? What of Pansy? Did he hurt you? Draco's reaction is immediate.

We're OK, Malfoy… he hurt Pansy's breast earlier, I think, but she seems to be coping since I lifted her Petrification. She's guarding Cormac. Do you know where we've are?

Hold on, Granger – I'll ask Potter.A few moments tick by.

He reckons you're likely in McLaggen's uncle's secret hunting lodge in Suffolk – something about Luna knowing of it – he's sent Gilmont to figure out the exact address. If she's not back with the information in two minutes, I'll use the bond to come to you myself. I'm confident that will work. Draco's joy and relief upon hearing of their victory plainly transmits across their telepathy.

I can't wait to come home, Draco. I love you so much, do you know that? You've saved me, yet again. Hermione's eyes begin to fill as her adrenaline subsides.

You saved yourself, sweetheart. My clever, powerful, spectacular Hermione. I love you more. Stay safe, ma petite.

After blowing Draco an 'air kiss' across their metaphysical link, Hermione spins on her heel to tell Pansy what's happening. She interrupts the brunette witch vindictively whispering in Cormac's ear… probably muttering dark promises of vengeance, if McLaggen's terrified expression is any indicator of content.

Pansy nonchalantly rises to her feet. "He's whining that one of his testes burst when my heel unfortunately connected with it… I've offered to cut it off with his own dagger, but he declined," she drolly informs.

"Are we going to blow this popsicle stand, or what?" she quizzes.

"Draco said Harry is waiting on an address – but if they can't find it, Draco will use our soul-bonded magic to Apparate here," Hermione advises.

"Soul-bonded magic…? Aren't you a dark horse, Pollyanna! Kept that little snippet to yourselves, didn't you?" Pansy breathes in amazement. "I'm bloody glad you did, though – watching you decimate this unsuspecting arsehole was sensational."

She peers curiously at their mewling, blood-spattered captive. "Whose idea was it to enspell your golden headband? Never mind – this screams 'Lord Malfoy'. Nice work," she nods approvingly.

Hermione chances broaching a sensitive subject. "Pansy, when we go back… will you please see a Healer? With me? I think we both need to decompress… and talk to a professional counsellor," she hesitantly suggests. "Plus, that knife wound on your throat needs attention."

"No. It's a mere scratch – I'll sort it myself when I go home," Pansy's flat refusal isn't surprising, but it is disheartening. She drops her eyes back to Cormac, her face blank.

"I'm sorry– I'm so sorry I dragged you into this mess, Hermione– I never meant to endanger you, I was so fucking stupid, running away like I did! I just wanted to escape from the look on– " Pansy's mouth clamps closed in a stubborn, unhappy line.

"Oh, Pansy, none of this is your fault!" Hermione rushes to absolve her friend of guilt. "It's all on Cormac, and Marcus – not you. Listen, I know you're angry with Harry; but he never meant to hurt you, I'm positive of that. He was so angry with himself that he'd upset you. He was just shocked by Ron's idiotic, jealous interference," she consoles. "Please, just give Harry a chance to explain, and apologize, Pansy."

"I don't want to talk about Potter– or Weasley," Pansy icily replies. "Leave it, please."

Multiple pops ring out in the underground prison, preventing Hermione from attempting any further persuasion. She barely has time to delicately rub Pansy's cold upper arm in a sympathetic gesture before they are surrounded by their 'crew' of witches and wizards.

Hermione's jubilant grin deepens as Draco hurtles toward her, bundling her into his strong arms. His embrace is fearsomely tight and all-encompassing; she isn't sure which of them is shaking more, as they tenaciously wrap around each other.

"My beautiful witch– ma petite lionne– my sweet, smart, savage Hermione– I love you so, I love you, I love you– " Draco smothers her hair, face and neck in dozens of trembling little kisses. Their noses bump as Hermione fervidly attempts to return each smooch.

"Oh, hell– sorry, Draco– let me kiss you back, mon chéri!" Hermione half-laughs, half-reproves, as Draco's campaign to rain kisses on every inch of her available skin shows no sign of abating. "I love you too, my sexy Slytherin wizard! Kiss my mouth, kiss me properly," she commands, in her bossiest tones.

Before Draco energetically complies, Hermione absently perceives Ginny and Luna descending on Pansy, hugging her carefully. Harry, Gilmont and Faulkner encircle Cormac's hog-tied form, though Harry's fierce expression briefly transforms to raw longing and regret as he stares at Pansy's down bent head. Blaise, Theo and Viktor swap scowls as they glance around the tricked-out torture chamber.

Draco's blazing kiss wipes all other thoughts from Hermione's overjoyed mind; she wholly succumbs to the bliss she always receives from his kiss… his touch… his love. As their caress amplifies and grows ever more passionate, Hermione is vaguely conscious of their friends gasping.

Their recently conjoined magic is determined to put on a show, it seems; firefly-like pinpricks of multicoloured light circulate about them, scattering to swirl playfully around their companions' heads. Draco reluctantly disconnects their lips to bat irritably at the mystic swarm.

"Malfoy – that's our magic you're swatting at!" Hermione giggles, euphoric at being reunited with him.

"It can piss off and give me five damned minutes to kiss my girl silly, can't it?" Draco grumbles. "And what are you lot rubbernecking at? Anyone would think you'd never seen a supernatural manifestation of pure love and power before."

"Come on, Hermione – let's get out of here, my warrior queen."

"Hold up, you two," Harry chimes in. "We need to take your statements – the sooner the better. Gilmont, Luna: can you please escort Miss Parkinson back to the Ministry, and make her comfortable in my office? I'll organize a Healer to meet you there.'

"Faulkner, I'll need you to return to the Gala and organize the release of the party-goers. Find Pritchard-Hawes and ask him to ready a cell at Azkaban– I'm not wasting time holding this prick in one of the DMLE's detention cells. We've enough evidence to imprison him for decades.'

"Viktor – would you please see Ginny back safely; and Blaise and Theo, you can go home, I'll notify you tomorrow if I require statements from you," Harry concludes.

Draco arrogantly corrects, "No deal, Potter – we're heading home. We're going to have a hot, cleansing bath together, and then we're going to go to bed. You can come by in the morning… late in the morning," he gruffly underscores.

"I want to go with Luna and Pansy," Blaise argues. "Theo, can you please collect Gelsy for me, when you pick up Wirey?"

"Shit – I forgot about Kreacher," Harry guiltily exclaims. "Nott, if you wouldn't mind sending him home for me too, please?"

"Bloody house elf party! Look, we'll send them back ourselves when we get home, alright? Or they can stay over, I really have no fucks left to give. Hermione's exhausted, and if I stay here any longer I'll kill that slimy worm on the floor myself," Draco snipes. "I'll thank you all properly tomorrow."

Hermione lays her tired head against Draco's heart. He's right – I've crashed all of a sudden. Too much excitement for one day, as Dad likes to say.

"Draco… maybe everyone can come back to the townhouse when they've finished at the Ministry," she sleepily cajoles. "Please? I want to make sure they're all OK… especially Pansy."

"Like I can deny you anything, Granger," Draco cavils, his glad smile belying his complaint.

He speaks authoritatively to the rest of the group. "Alright, you can drop in when you're done– but if we're still upstairs when you arrive, collect your elves and go: I won't be held responsible for my actions if you wake up my girlfriend. And be prepared for Macdolas to be guarding the Floo with extreme righteousness, once he learns of what's gone on tonight," he cautions.

"Thank you, Malfoy. See you soon, guys." Hermione pins a quiet smile on her face and waves goodbye to her friends.

Take me home, please, Draco.

With pleasure. Hold tight, Hermione… I have you, mon âme sœur.


French translation: mon âme sœur – my soulmate.