A/N: This was one of my absolute FAVORITE chapters to write and I have been looking forward to its existence for nearly a year, so I am so thrilled it is finally here and complete and in your hands!

I hope you enjoy it!

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There's not time for escape.

With them the Death Eaters bring an anti-apparition charm, cast the second they appear, and they know someone there said Voldemort.

(There's no hope of the trio getting away.)

Panicking and trying to strategize more quickly than ever before, Hermione reaches for the Peruvian Darkness Power in her pocket, and in the cover of the muffliato she'd cast twenty minutes prior orders, "Don't make a sound. Neither of you can occlude—it's not safe for Lyra if you're captured."

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but Ron clamps a hand over it.

She shakes her head at Harry. "You have to let them take me. If you try to be the hero and they find out about my daughter, if you compromise her safety trying to save me—I will never forgive you."

He stops moving, then, and she tosses the invisibility cloak over the both of them, just in time for the darkness to dissipate.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" an unfamiliar voice calls out, just as another whispers the disarming curse and Hermione feels her wand fly out of her hand.

Then another set of hands are on her wrists, and she has to quell the age-old panic that always returns when another's sweaty skin touches hers; tries to stay calm even as her hands are roughly tugged behind her back, tightly bound with coarse rope.

(As she feels control over her body and her life slip out of her hands.)

It takes everything in her to keep from jerking her face to where the boys are while she internally pleads with them to do as she says.

(This is the only way they all make it.)

"What's your name, girl?"

"Penelope Clearwater," she says, carefully modulating her voice, trying to show just the right amount of fear—the way a half-blood would, scared of the situation but knowing they're not the target.

Not claiming to be a pure-blood, which surely they'd know, but a half-blood—beneath their suspicion.

"Blood status?"

"Half-blood."

"Hm. What's a half-blood doing using the Dark Lord's name in Godric's Hollow in the middle of the night for, then?"

She swallows heavily, trying to look sorrowful. "I was—I had to stop in the area, so while I was here I was paying my respects. To the Dark Lord's t-temporary fall—and celebrating his recent return to power. I'm sorry I forgot about the taboo, I—I got caught up in my emotions and sought to address Him by name. I know it was a mistake."

"Did I hear her right, Stan?"

"Sure did, Scabior, sir. Pay 'er respects, she says."

"Interesting." Scabior analyzes her face, and she tries not to flinch as she feels the unnamed third Death Eater's breath on the back of her neck.

"So, Penelope," he stretches out the name, enunciating each syllable as he steps closer and closer. "What makes a half-blood so devoted to our side she's paying respects tonight? Don't you have a muggle parent—shouldn't you be on that idiotic side, with Dumbledore's ghost and every other bleedin' hero wannabe in Britain?"

This much, she can answer; had dark moments once upon a time that give her the exact rationale. "I-I do have a muggle father. My mother died in childbirth, so I was only ever raised by m-muggles. And they were horrible, and abusive; the parents made being at home hell, and the muggle children in school were awful bullies who treated me like a monster for being different. All of them are horrible. I'm glad to be rid of them; once I found out I was a witch I never looked back."

A story based in facts, she's always found, is one that will be best believed, and so she weaves Riddle's own origin with her own experiences.

In her darkest moments, years ago, they were thoughts she'd had; between her uncle and parents traumatizing her so thoroughly, and the gruesome treatment she'd suffered during primary school at the hands of her peers…

(If she'd let it fester, it would've been all too easy to turn against the muggle world. To let the hate consume her, rather than the love for the fact that it's as much her identity as theirs.)

Scabior had initially seemed skeptical, but as she speaks he seems to believe her more and more; Stan, too, is nodding along with understanding, as though her story is not an uncommon one.

"Hm. Well, usually my friend Fenrir would take care of someone like you, but seeing as he was killed by that mutt bastard last year, and you're one of us, just this once I'll—"

He's going to let her go, she can see it in his eyes; there's a price, something he wants, some condition, but he's not going to kill her.

But he pauses midsentence, and she hears Stan suck in a breath, and it's like a switch flips as the atmosphere abruptly changes.

She's confused, for a moment, clueless as to what could've caused such drastic tension around her.

And then hair begins falling onto her shoulders—

(Brown curls. The blonde updo she'd carefully constructed slipping back to her natural state.)

The Polyjuice wearing off, then. Just when she'd been so close.

The rope on her wrists is pulled tighter; Scabior nods toward her assailant and then she winces as a knee to her spine forces her to the ground, knees brutally hitting the stone of the grave before her.

"Why, then, does such an innocent half-blood who serves our Lord feel the need to Polyjuice herself? Doesn't seem like something someone truly on our side would do." Closer, closer, till his wand is pressing against her throat, beginning to break the skin. "Who are you?"

"I—I've told you, my name is—"

"I don't think so, you little bitch," Scabior hisses. "Stan, switch with Rowle so he can help me decide what to do with the filthy liar."

Hermione is jostled as the hands holding her bound wrists change, her captor stepping closer to the Death Eater in charge.

He takes a long look at her before sucking in a deep breath. "That's Potter's mudblood."

Scabior's head jerks to his companion. "No fucking way."

"I'd stake my life on it—ripped the pictures off the front page of the Prophet when she and the bastard himself were on the front page."

"Isn't that interesting."

Hermione attempts to jerk out of Stan's hold, but then there's a hand on each of her arms—

And then she's spinning as the ground is gone from beneath her.

/

She's never been there, before; has never even seen it.

And yet she knows where she is immediately.

The wrought iron gate, peacock feathers scattered on the cobblestones—Hermione has been hearing about this place regularly, in thorough detail, since she was ten years old.

So she's on guard immediately as they drag her inside; has her magic and her mind braced, because if she doesn't act quickly things are about to go very, very badly.

Even so, as she's dragged through the entryway there's a part of her taking in every detail, memorizing each step, trying to learn everything possible about the place where her soul mate has grown up.

(It's dismal, which seems unavoidable given it's served as Voldemort's headquarters for three years, now; but despite the pervading darkness, she can see Narcissa's small touches—photos of Draco laughing at every age along the foyer that very nearly derail her focus entirely.)

It's eerily quiet for such high vaulted ceilings she's heard a million times are prone to echoing; she can't hear anything but the laughter of her captors, feet heavily slamming on the marble floors.

They're in the open sitting room, and she has a split second to spot the fire burning in the fireplace before she's thrown to the ground, collapsing forward onto her knees with her arms still bound behind her back.

"What's this?"

Hermione's gaze shoots upward and she feels her heart race as she meets Narcissa's eyes.

The older woman's attention flits down her body for just the briefest of moments, and Hermione knows what she's asking; she slowly moves her eyes from one side to the other in lieu of shaking her head.

(No, they don't know—Lyra is safe.)

"This is Potter's muggle—she was alone, but we figured she can tell us where he is. The Order's secrets. All kinds of useful information underneath this infernal mess of hair."

Lucius steps forward, brows drawn together. "You're certain it's her? If the Dark Lord is called and discovers we're mistaken, it's all of our necks on the line."

"Well, there's an easy way to figure it out," Bellatrix says, waving away his concern with greedy excitement in her eyes. "Draco spent six years in school with the pest, surely he can tell us if it's really her or not. You, go fetch him."

Stan hurries away to do so, and Hermione feels terror flood her body. Her soul mate is brilliant, and strong, and careful, she knows he is.

But he'll throw every caution in the world to the wind the moment he sees her in danger—and she won't let his life be the price for her freedom.

(She would burn heaven and drench hell first.)

There's a gentle probe in her mind, and she's careful to maintain a stoic expression as she carefully lets down her mental wall just enough for Narcissa to slip inside.

I'm so sorry for what's about to come, Narcissa's voice whispers. I will do whatever I can to get the two of you out of here. I have a plan in motion. But your pain…I am so sorry, dear girl, but I'm not strong enough to prevent it.

It's okay, Hermione replies. I knew what I was getting into when I made the choices I have. Lyra is safe, and happy, and loved. I regret nothing.

Lyra. Even mentally, the wistful sigh is audible. I love her already. I so hope I survive this war long enough to meet her. Narcissa takes a long breath she passes off as a tired sigh, but Hermione can see the light and sorrow swirling behind her eyes. I'm so sorry you're having to make the same sacrifices…so many of us have fought so hard hoping you would never have to.

Before Hermione can reply, footsteps enter the room—

And then there's nothing else but him.

It's a horrible moment, and the circumstances are deadly, but laying eyes on her soul mate for the first time in months and months, all she can do is drink in the sight of him.

It's a lifetime of careful control that allows him to hide his reaction from everyone around them when he spots her—the only tangible evidence of it all the way his pupils dilate when he spots her, the tension of his muscles as he takes in the scene before him.

His left hand twitches, the one that usually reaches for her own, or presses against the small of her back.

(It kills her not to be able to run to him—not to be able to touch him, make the darkness all around them disappear.)

"Draco," Bellatrix says. "We think this is Potter's mudblood. Do you recognize her? Is it her?"

He takes the question as an opportunity to take a step closer to his soul mate; to stare even harder, unapologetically.

His face scrunches up, the way it does whenever he's deep in thought, and Hermione wants to scream because she knows what he's doing—knows he's contemplating lying, saying she's someone else, prepared to face the repercussions later if it means she won't be harmed now.

But he comes to the same conclusion she already has—that while knowing her identity might mean they'll torture her, believing her to be no one of consequence would mean her immediate death. "Yes. That's her."

"You're sure?" his father demands; he raises his wand as he does so, and Hermione has to tamp down on the flare of anger that erupts as she watches Draco oh so slightly flinch at the motion.

"Yes, Father. It's definitely her."

It's horrible and yet almost comical, the fact that he's being asked to weigh in as expert on the matter, with Lucius so clueless as to the reality.

(So clueless that the woman before him is the human his son knows better than any other, could recognize even if his senses didn't work.)

(That of everyone in the entire world, he is precisely the most qualified to answer the question.)

"I'll summon the Dark Lord," Lucius announces. "Bella, if you'd like to go ahead and get started."

"It would be my pleasure," she promises in a gleeful whisper.

There's a split second as she reaches for her wand and her knife, and Hermione can see Draco already on the verge of killing her and dooming them all.

So she summons all of her vestiges of strength, channels everything she has into casting a wandless, nonverbal body bind.

Draco glares at her as soon as it hits him, betrayal and frustration in his eyes as he stands frozen with his arms at his sides.

(But this is for the best—this is necessary.)

"Tell me your name," Bellatrix orders, wand raised.

Hermione glowers, silently, refusing to give her the satisfaction when she'll torture her anyway. She steels herself in the split second before the word leaves Bellatrix's lips, and then—

"Crucio."

It's electric, the pain that zings through every nerve of her body, the curse Bellatrix is clearly an expert with.

(All of which Hermione had already known; she'd met Alice and Frank a year or two ago.)

"Let's try again; tell me your name," Bellatrix repeats.

But Hermione doesn't break; she's been through worse her entire life.

(It would take much more than this for her to crack.)

The curse hits her again; longer, this time, growing more intense each second.

Perhaps it would be harder to handle if she hadn't just gone through labor weeks upon weeks earlier; if she didn't know a pain just as harrowing, now.

Perhaps she would let herself scream if she didn't know Draco would hear, if she didn't know he would witness any distress she displays.

It goes on and on; Bellatrix repeats the question time after time, and while Hermione can't help whimpers of pain that eventually escape her, she doesn't let out a word, despite the agony.

(Her silence, her suffering—they're the price for the safety of the two people who matter most.)

After a few minutes, Bellatrix stops casting; steps closer, a blood curling smile on her face. "Well, then. Let's try something different." She drops down to Hermione's side, pressing a knee into her heaving chest.

She's held back the whimpers, the cries, but she can't control the physiological reaction the pain has already caused.

"Let's make sure," Bellatrix hisses, as she pulls a polished silver blade from within her cloak, "you never forget the scum you are."

She reaches for Hermione's right arm, and even as she braces for continued torture Hermione thanks the sheer dumb luck that's kept her captor from reaching for the arm that bears her soul mate's Dark Mark. Taking a deep breath, she mentally prepares for what's to come—mentally prepares to hold back her own reaction, try to do whatever she can to keep Draco from knowing how much pain she's truly in.

The metal presses to her skin—still, taunting, for just a moment.

And then Bellatrix begins to carve in earnest, and all there is, is—agony.

Part of it is familiar; memories creep in of a darker time, of hopelessness and desolation and needing to feel pain to feel alive, to release the sadness and pain that was consuming her, to feel like her hurt was real.

(She's not there, anymore—thank god, those feelings aren't returning.)

But this is worse; this is that but so deep she can't figure out how many layers Bellatrix is going through to leave whatever marks she is.

And it's not just the sting of the knife—there's a burning sensation that she thinks she's hallucinating at first, but as Bellatrix continues her work the feeling grows stronger and stronger, spreading as the pain does.

(It's not just a regular blade, then; poisoned, or cursed.)

She holds back for as long as she can, teeth clenched so tight with pain it hurts her jaw. Still, it's only bearable so long, as both the knife and the curse creep into her flesh. Eventually the excruciating pain is too much to bear—she lets her eyes flit to Draco briefly in apology, hopes she'd body bound him with little view of the agony clear on her face, and then when she can't stop it anymore lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

I'm sorry, she wishes she could tell him—sorry it's come to this, sorry it's happening where he can see, sorry they never stood a chance at happiness.

"Oh, she can speak, can she?" Bellatrix trills. "Keep singing, little bird. We love to hear your voice."

Once the first cry escapes her lips, she can't keep the rest from following; incessant shrieking breaking out from her chest, her entire body convulsing even as Draco's aunt holds her arm still to slice her way through.

The older woman digs especially deep, holding the tip of the blade. "Where is Harry Potter?"

"I don't know!" Hermione sobs, every muscles in her body twitching and shaking. "We split up, b-before. I haven't s-seen him in months! Please! I promise!"

"We'll see about that," Lucius hisses. "The Dark Lord can see into your mind—we'll know whether you're lying or not."

The sliver of Hermione that's still capable of rational thought takes half a second to wonder why they're not having Narcissa use legilimency on her, now.

And then it hits her—they have no idea. That Narcissa is a legilmens, that she can occlude, the true strength of the power she possesses; none of it.

(It's the only way she's survived this far without being found out, logically.)

Bellatrix repeats the question once more, and Hermione repeats her lies convincingly.

At last the pain relents, and she's just laying on the floor, gasping, feeling herself grow lightheaded as blood trickles down her arm and onto the hardwood of the drawing room.

There's a moment of peace—just a moment, while Bellatrix and Lucius discuss amongst themselves.

(Where Narcissa leans down to wipe up the blood to keep it from staining, as an excuse to crouch down to where she can squeeze Hermione's shoulder with apology, and solidarity, and love.)

(Where she can quickly approach the doors of her mind and whisper desperate apologies, try to alleviate pain, promise even now she's working toward Hermione's escape.)

(It's okay, Hermione replies; and she means it, despite the hurt every nerve ending is incessantly reminding her of.)

She echoes Lily's words back to Draco's mother: we can withstand anything when it comes to protecting our children.

Then the front door swings open, slamming into the wall.

(Everything changes.)

Everyone in the room goes still, Bellatrix and Lucius both nervous and thrilled, desperate for approval.

In the recesses of her mind, Hermione undoes the body-bind on Draco; while Bellatrix and Lucius were none the wiser, Voldemort is far too perceptive and would notice in an instant.

Would wonder why—it would be the beginning of the end.

(If this isn't it already.)

"My Lord," Lucius greets, sweeping into a bow. "Thank you for honoring us with your presence."

"Where is the girl?" Voldemort demands without acknowledging him.

Bellatrix hurries forward, gesturing to her handiwork. "Just here, my Lord. I've already started so she would be worn down for you, but she is…unusually stubborn."

"Most animals are." Red eyes flash as he peers down at Hermione. "Well done, Bella."

The woman in question preens, and Lucius blusters beside her, hurriedly attempting to curry favor. "I assisted, my Lord. And it was Draco who identified her."

"So you're not completely useless, then."

He steps closer to Hermione, then, meeting her gaze with a chilling smile. "Miss Granger, we meet at last. I've heard so many tales of your escapades and person over the last few years."

"And I-I've heard you're a narcissistic sociopath who commits murder indiscriminately and is attempting to incite a genocide because you can't handle the fact that no one loved you as a child." Her chest is still heaving from pain, but she doesn't hold back. "It's okay, Tom, we all have our daddy issues. Most of us just don't start a hate group and become mass murderers because of it."

His expression darkens at her use of his given name, but overall he appears pleased by her rebuttal. "A fighter; very well, then," he smirks. "It's been a while since I've had such fun."

He takes stock of her, then, nods approvingly at the label Bellatrix has carved into her arm. "Cursed blade?" he checks.

"Of course, my Lord. The scar will remain for as long as you allow the filth to live."

Hermione bites down on the sorrow that fills her at the comment. She'd figured as much, but it still hurts; the idea of the slur used to erase the validity of her very existence on her own skin.

(And on Draco's of course, because that's how this has always worked.)

"I admit," Voldemort continues speaking to Hermione, expression intrigued. "I did not expect to see you this year. I expected you would be otherwise…occupied."

"Yeah, because of your…r-rat," she spits, not toning down her glare at all. "Whoever tampered with my property. Having s-students do your dirty work now, Riddle?"

"Ah, so you noticed? You really are as clever as they say you are. Shame—what a waste." His eyes narrow. "But it shouldn't have been traceable until it was gone—did it not work, then?"

Before she can say anything in response he's waving his wand, a shimmering diagnostic spell fluttering over her. "No, you definitely went through labor—apologies for not sending my congratulations. Though another baby mudblood in the world isn't much cause for celebration in my book."

Hermione can't stop herself—squeezes her eyes tight with anguish, biting the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood as he says it.

She can practically feel Draco's heart break from across the room as the understanding floods through him; as he processes the realization of exactly why things have been so off, why she's been acting so different, even distant. He's slowly fitting together every moment, every interaction since they've seen each other last, reliving it all through new eyes with a desolate understanding of just what he's missed.

A child—his soul mate had been pregnant, and given birth to their baby. He has a child.

(It's all she can do to keep from meeting his eyes, from taking the risk to beg him to forgive her for keeping it from him right here and now.)

She hears rather than sees his sudden intake of breath as the shock hits him; and no one could blame him—compared to what he's feeling a gasp of surprise is nothing.

And Voldemort doesn't appear suspicious; interprets it as the stunned reaction of a classmate and peer at a teen pregnancy. "Shocking, isn't it, Draco? I imagine Little Miss Perfect is the last one any of your classmates would have guessed for teen pregnancy. And out of wedlock, too."

He clicks his tongue like a disapproving teacher as he turns back to the diagnostic results. "Breastfeeding, are we? And yet still on the frontlines of the war…I'll give you credit, mudblood, I underestimated your tenacity. I thought it would be enough to stop you." Pushing back the sleeves of his robes, he raises his wand to her once more. "Anything you'd like to confess before we begin? Aren't you rather tired of the cruciatus?"

"You'd crucio me even if I told you everything you wanted to know," she whispers acidly. "You won't get anything out of me."

"We'll see," he promises in a hiss. "Crucio."

And it hurts differently than Bellatrix's casting had; it's a sharper, more pointed pain.

She can only hold off from screaming for ten minutes, this time; then it's all rushing from her throat in a rasp.

After what feels like hours, he pauses in his ministrations. Without warning, he whispers, "Legilimens."

She feels sharp claws attempt to tear into her mind instantly, more strength than she's ever been up against mentally behind them.

But unlike her skin, the walls of her mind are not so easy to destroy; they are adamas, celestial bronze, diamond—everything impenetrable, the product of a lifetime of secrecy and internal fortification. The last year of endless hours doing nothing but shielding has done nothing but strengthen them.

Voldemort continues attempting to barrage her with attacks, repeatedly trying to slam and slice and trick his way through her shields. And it's hard; it takes everything in her to fend him off, to hold up her mental fortress despite the incessant and aggressive offense being launched her way.

Even in her weakened state, though, she maintains it; her body may shake, and she may be dizzy and nauseous and faint from the pain, but her mind, her strongest shield, will stand against anything.

"An occlumens. How interesting."

He hums thoughtfully, but the wrath and disbelief in his eyes makes it clear he's surprised at the turn of events—enraged that the weakling before him is strong enough to withstand his invasion, one that next to no one ever has.

"Did Dumbledore train you—the better to protect his prized pupil?"

When she only scowls defiantly in response, Voldemort sighs. "Narcissa, bring me a vial of veritaserum. It appears the fun ways will be of no use on this one." As Narcissa leaves the room, he glares down at Hermione. "Why won't you just give up? It's idiocy to carry on like this, child—you're only causing yourself more pain.

"You are…a fool," Hermione whispers through rapid breaths. "I…only ever agreed with Albus Dumbledore on… one thing. You know nothing of love. And it will…always be your downfall."

"She thinks she knows so much, does she," he replies with a cold laugh.

"I'm not the one who's…clueless," she pants. "You thought that having a child would make me weak—would make me give up, and walk away from the war. But you've given me the greatest motivation in the world to fight." She smiles, then, unable to hold back glee at how furious the truth makes him. "You should've known, Tom. You should have seen this coming. You've been defeated by a mother's love before."

He crucios her for using his given name once more; short spurts, giving her just enough time to feel the involuntary twitching of her limbs in between the shots of fire in her veins. Even once Narcissa has returned, hurriedly pressing the glass bottle into his non-dominant hand, he carries on with the torture.

It's only when her vision is starting to flash black and unconsciousness approaches that he relents. She lays there gasping in oxygen, and he levels the wand at her chest once more.

"Now, then," he says, not having broken a sweat. "Come here, Draco."

Draco steps forward immediately, expression confused. "My Lord?"

In a split second his entire body tenses, stock still; the yew wand is at his throat.

"Raise your sleeve."

Draco immediately rolls up his left sleeve, proffering the forearm emblazoned with the Dark Mark.

But Voldemort doesn't remove the wand pressing into his skin. "The other one."

He freezes as he realizes what's happening, and Hermione tries to rally any remaining strength to save him, but there's not enough—she can't force her trembling muscles to move.

Wand still pressed to Draco's throat, Voldemort flicks one finger and the sleeve is levitated upward; there, much more visible without the blood and puffy skin, the word MUDBLOOD is engraved in jagged font.

(The jig is up, then.)

(There's no way to comprehend it, as everything collapses around them all at once; the world they've so carefully protected for years falls apart in the space of a single moment.)

Lucius roars with anger at the revelation, Bellatrix pointing her own wand at her nephew beside him; both appearing angry enough to kill him themselves right then and there.

"Did you really think I believed you?" Voldemort hisses. "Three years of apathy and restraint, never detecting a single emotion from you, and you thought I wouldn't suspect something amiss? That I would believe the one time your careful mask breaks is because of mere surprise at a classmate's scandal?"

The blond doesn't bother defending himself, doesn't argue or make excuses.

(He's too busy trying to come up with a scenario where he, Hermione, and his mother all survive this.)

"I admit, I'm stunned you were able to hide it for this long. Especially with everything else my spy was able to deduce, for him not to have uncovered this…well, Smith and I will be having words."

Hermione's heart clenches with betrayal. "Z-Zacharias? He's the one who…"

Voldemort's snake eyes glimmer. "No one ever suspects the whiny tagalong, Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. And no one expects any of them to be anything but noble, despite all the evidence to the contrary." He narrows his gaze at Draco. "The Order hasn't sustained heavy losses in ages; I gleaned that we had a traitor in our midst. I never fathomed it would be you. Well done. I hope it was worth your life."

Hermione begins attempting to drag herself across the floor, desperately pulling her body weight even as she winces while her blood continues to splatter along the hardwood.

But before she can get there, or Voldemort can let the green light fly, or anyone else can begin to move, there's a deafening crack throughout the drawing room, and then Dobby is there, standing determinedly in front of Draco as though it's not the most dangerous thing he's ever done.

Lucius seethes, capable of speech for the first time since horror and rage had overtaken him at the reveal of Draco's bond with Hermione. "You little—"

"You will not harm Master Draco!"

He snaps his fingers and Voldemort's wand flies out of his hand, and then with one hand still on Draco he reaches a spindly limb for Hermione's outstretched hand.

"Shell Cottage," Hermione whispers, so only Dobby can hear.

A heartbeat and an earth-shattering crack, and they're all gone.

/

/

/

A/N: chapter title from miss americana & the heartbreak prince

Hi hello! I hope you are all doing well.

Next chapter should be up in the next two weeks or so (for real this time)

We are getting SO CLOSE to the end of this fic it's surreal. Thank you for your love, your support—and just for being here for the ride.

all my love