Notes: Thank you so much for sharing your support. It's always heartening to find out you all are interested in what I'm writing even when I'm straying from the beaten path.

Chapter Warnings: References to torture and sexual assault.

2. Potions I Have Drunk of Siren Tears

~*~ Before ~*~

The sky is a deep azure blue, like the wings of a luminous butterfly or the delicate brushstrokes on her mother's favorite china. It's the blue of summer afternoons, of childhood. Hermione remembers blowing dandelions with her mother in the yard, watching the fluffy seeds soar into the sky and sail upwards with her wishes.

Her lips curve into a smile, so deep and true her face aches. She turns to watch Harry, his raven hair disheveled as usual, his luminous emerald eyes fixed on her even as he turns a page in his textbook.

"You're supposed to be reading," she chides, resisting the eye roll that threatens to overtake her.

"So are you," he murmurs in return.

She sighs, lets her eyes greedily roam his face for a long moment before she turns back to her essay. Ron is absent, likely with Lavender again. She used to mind. Now she finds she merely misses the warmth of his company, the jealousy faded with time.

It's rare to find a moment alone with Harry, to savor the new depths of their friendship. Or whatever it is they're skirting around. Neither of them has said anything. But Hermione knows something shifted between them. She's caught him watching her from beneath sooty lashes and the hunger in his eyes sent butterflies bursting through her stomach and heat to places she doesn't fully understand.

Even now she feels the weight of his stare. It's a warmth more searing than the rays of the crystalline sun. She hopes he'll still be looking when she lifts her head.

His lip is caught between his teeth as he gazes unapologetically. Hermione's stomach flips and she flashes him what she hopes is a coy smile, but is perhaps simply too much teeth and a bare hint of lips. He doesn't mind; he only shifts closer, the spring breeze ruffling his haphazard curls.

Hermione's breath catches.

Harry notices.

He draws a line with his index finger down her cheek, emerald eyes tracing its path.

"What are we doing?"

He pauses, his finger hovering just above her jaw. Her skin crackles with the electricity of a summer storm. "Whatever we want."

She wishes that were true. But Voldemort is gaining power and Harry and Dumbledore still haven't found any Horcruxes. It isn't wise to start something with Harry. Not when both of them will be throwing their lives into harm's way the first chance they get.

But she doesn't stop him when he cups her cheek and holds her gaze, his breath growing steadily warmer against her skin.

His lips are like cold lemonade in the heat of summer, refreshing and smooth. She wants to devour all of him, to let him sooth her into oblivion.

Hermione does neither. But she lets her eyes fall closed, lets the intoxicating glide of his lips hypnotize her into something like peace. When he pulls away, she feels as if she's losing a piece of herself and it makes her want to pull him back. To drown again in his cool touch.

He lets out a low chuckle that she feels all the way through her hypersensitive nerve endings. "And why haven't we been doing this already?"

They both know the answer to that.

Hermione sighs and pulls away, ignoring the sharp tang of loss on her tongue. "Because we know better."

"Volde—"

"Don't," she cuts him off, her voice shrill. She glances around the courtyard, but no one noticed her outburst. "Just don't."

Harry sighs and turns away from her. "Fine. Have it your way."

Now it's her turn to sigh. "You know I would if I thought…"

"That we have a chance?" He divines, correct as always. Unlike Ron, Harry seems to read her mind with ease. It's both a benefit and a curse depending on the conversation. "We do. The only one not giving us a chance is you."

She knows he's right. But her caution isn't unwarranted and she won't change her mind just because her body craves him.

She flops onto her back and stares up at the azure sky, wishes she was still naïve enough to believe in the magic of dandelions.

"Finish your reading, Harry."

The weight of his stare is heavy, but eventually he shifts his focus and she can breathe again. She closes her eyes and tries to feel the heat of the sun burning through every facet of her body, cleansing her, absolving her.

~*~ Now ~*~

The sun is gone when she wakes. The dream—or was it a memory?—already only a foggy impression. All she can recall is a sky so blue it made her chest swell with hope.

She blinks, turns the image over in her mind. She'd forgotten there was a sky, let alone that it was such a brilliant blue. What else has she forgotten? She shifts on the cold ground. The better question is what else has she remembered?

Images. Fleeting sensations that might merely be fragments of a dream. Cool lips on hers. A gentle hand upon her scalp. Water dripping from her lips.

She swallows. Her throat is less parched than usual, the sandpaper scrape nearly bearable. A frown tugs at her bloodied lips. She reaches a hand up to finger the sores she knows litter her scalp, but she finds none. She tugs gently on one of the dirty locks she knows she's pulled before, when the pain was too great and she needed control, to take some ownership of her suffering. There's no pain at all; no sign she's ever ripped her hair away in bloody chunks.

Her hand falls back to her side, mind frantically searching for an explanation. Then she remembers hair the color of sunlight and eyes as deep as winter storms.

Draco.

He healed her. And then he left her.

She pinches her eyes shut and tries to remember everything. The gentle warmth of his hands upon her battered skin. The cool drip of the water down her chin. The feeling that maybe she isn't so terribly alone.

The crushing defeat of his footsteps on the stairs.

Draco told her he wasn't her friend. She believes him. She knows he stood and watched as that awful woman made her body collapse until it was more nothing than before. She knows friends don't let other friends scream until their throats are raw and bleeding.

But that moment of hope is branded into her. It makes falling back down into the depths of despair she burrowed into until she no longer needed to fear the pain impossible. It forced a corner of her mind awake, forced her back into her shattered body and now she can't escape.

She longs to rip her hair again, but the memory of his touch against her scalp stays her clawed hands. She can't undo what he has fixed.

She thinks about him instead. Wonders how she knew him. Who he was to her. Were they friends? She knows they weren't. Friendly acquaintances then? But even that seems wrong, his betrayal still too much for such a relationship.

She swallows greedily, relishing the smooth slide of her throat. It won't last. Before long the thirst will return and she will feel the rasp of every breath against her ravaged skin. Like bark sliding against raw flesh. She ignores the memory of it, the promise of pain.

She slides down the wall until she's splayed on the ground and the darkness almost seems like a woven blanket.

He will come back.

She doesn't know for certain, but the gentle stroke of his hand across her skin and the tremble of his fingers as he cupped her jaw and lifted the water goblet promise he will.

Perhaps she shouldn't want him to.

But she does.

So she stares into the abyss and feels the darkness crawl beneath her skin, stealing away the last vestiges of his warmth. But each drip of the water in the distance brings her one breath closer to his return.

Astoria Greengrass smiles at him from across the ballroom.

It should make him happy, or at the very least vaguely pleased, considering her delicate cheekbones and cupid bow lips. But he feels nothing.

Draco hasn't felt anything since he forced his feet to march up the dungeon stairs. He can't get Hermione Granger out of his head. He can't erase the suffering he witnessed, the utter decay of her mind and body.

And yet he's supposed to smile—smirk really—and dance with each of the eligible young ladies who send coy smiles his way and promise a future of pureblood supremacy. He manages the smirk, but it is all broken edges and confusion. They can't tell the difference. Draco is sure that makes it so much worse.

When he was pulled from Hogwarts halfway through his seventh year, he was grateful. School was such a pretense; a façade that hid the truth of his life. The flirtations he maintained were tiring, required by his family and his pride, but nothing like what he wanted. Perhaps there had been a time when young women throwing themselves upon him had been enjoyable, something that amused him. But after the night in the Astronomy Tower, after he helped kill his headmaster, it all lost its luster.

Or perhaps it hadn't been that particular death, but the myriad that followed. The lessons in torture from his deranged aunt. The cold sneers and disappointment from his father, free at last. Lucius Malfoy could not accept his son had needed Severus Snape to finish his mission.

At first, returning to Hogwarts was a relief, but then Draco realized he no longer fit. He wasn't the arrogant boy with swagger in his every step and disdain dripping from his tongue. He was something colder, deadlier. Deader.

Astoria catches his eye again and this time he can't even pretend to smirk. Her smile falls and her bare shoulders hunch inward, her entire frame deflating. He feels a pang of remorse for the slight, but she doesn't want him anyway. Not the real him that's all contradictions and doubt and cowardice.

Draco turns on his heel and leaves the room. He knows he'll hear about this later. From his mother. From his father. Perhaps even from the Dark Lord himself. At the moment, Draco doesn't care.

He stomps up the stairs and barrels into his room, dropping heavily into the ornate armchair chair positioned before his equally lavish oaken desk. He stares at the books on the wall in front of him, breath coming in uneven gasps.

Unbidden, the memory of Hermione Granger in the library at Hogwarts cuts into him, sharp as a dagger. Her head bowed over a book, her hand absently tangling in her unruly cinnamon curls as she devoured the text in front of her.

He'd hated her then. Hated that she, a Mudblood, outpaced him in every subject but potions. Now he knows she outperformed him even in that; Severus was simply too much of an ass to let her know.

And now she's nothing but a quivering mass of bones and flesh in the dungeon below his home. The younger Draco would be pleased to see her brought so low. The younger Draco was an incompetent git.

Draco sighs and rakes his hands through his silken hair. What gel had been holding it in in place gives way and the strands fall to cover his face. He wishes he could hide behind this curtain forever.

Instead, he plucks a book from the shelf in front of him. Then another and another until he has a stack six high. He doesn't look at the titles; doesn't bother to check the age or binding. Refuses to acknowledge what he's about to do.

The sounds of the party still drift from the ballroom as he makes his way down the main stair and into the more secluded portion of the Manor. No Death Eaters stand guard at the top of the dungeon stair and he doesn't know whether to sigh in relief or laugh.

The party is private; Death Eater families and their guests only. There will be no rescue attempts. Hermione Granger is in more danger from the party guests than anyone else and the only barrier, a guard, has been removed. Draco tries not to think about what that means.

His footfalls echo as he makes his way down into the darkness, but he doesn't worry. No one is listening. When he's close to her cell, he whispers, "lumos."

She is sprawled across the ground, her cheek pressed into the cold stone by the far wall. He studies her for a long moment, taking in the unnatural angles of her broken body, before he reaches a hand through the bars and jostles her leg.

She snaps upright with a pained gasp. He just resists the urge to flinch back from her. She blinks against the light before her focus sharpens on his face.

"Draco."

So she remembers him. He won't think about how that makes him feel.

"I brought you something." He slips the books through the bars followed by a long taper and a small piece of flint.

Granger stares at the books like she's never seen anything like them before. He has the horrible thought that perhaps she no longer knows how to read. Her gaze shifts to the candle and flint and she snatches them up, holding them tightly against her chest, expression greedy and desperate. He realizes she's been in total darkness for months, the only exception the presence of her tormentors.

On impulse he slips his quill from his robes and places it beside the books. He doesn't know if she can still write, but it's charmed not to need ink and he's overwhelmed by the urge to give her anything he can. He doesn't care that her blood is vile; that she is inherently lesser. No one, not even an animal, deserves this.

Still clinging to the taper and flint, she crawls closer to the books.

"I remembered that you like to read."

Granger looks up at him, her head tilting sideways, her eyes suddenly distant. He realizes she's trying to remember. Her face shatters a fraction when her focus returns to him. With a twist of his gut, he knows she can't remember.

He prods one of the books forward, his arm nearly entirely in her cell. "Just try one."

She hesitantly places the precious taper aside and reaches for the book he offered. He can see now it is a Quidditch strategy book he used to pour over as a child. Not exactly the best choice for Granger, but that hardly seems to matter.

She cracks the book open upside down and dread pools in his stomach. She truly can no longer read. But then she frowns and flips the text, her eyes trailing back and forth. He lets out a sigh and she peers up at him.

"What?"

He can hardly say he was terrified she couldn't read. He shakes his head, loose strands of hair falling in his eyes. He absently pushes the hair away. "I wasn't sure you would enjoy it."

"What is…" she frowns and pauses, mouthing a word to herself before saying, "Quidditch?"

It's less of a punch in the gut than the thought of her illiteracy, but it hurts nonetheless. "A game. Played on broomsticks. With a ball and a golden—"

"Snitch," she finishes.

Draco's breath catches and he nods vigorously. "You remember?"

"No." She frowns, hand reaching up to tug at her hair. But then her hand freezes and drops quickly to her side as her eyes dart to meet his. "No. I can't remember. But when you said golden, I just knew the word. I don't recall what it is."

He hides his disappoint as best he can. Why does he care what she remembers? He shouldn't care.

"Well it's a game we played when we were in school together."

This distracts her from scanning the lines of text. "School?"

"Yes, we went to Hogwarts together."

He can see her mouth form Hogwarts silently. She scoots several inches closer. Close enough he can clearly see the purple bruises under her eyes and the bloody cracks at the edges of her mouth. He conjures another goblet of water and levitates it to rest in front of her.

Granger speaks only after downing the entire goblet. "What is Hogwarts?"

"School for witchcraft and wizardry. We attended from first through sixth year together. You left after that, but I attended part of my seventh year." It feels odd to explain it so simply. To not acknowledge the death that lies between their paths.

She gnaws her lip for a long moment and blood begins to drip down her chin. She doesn't notice. "Why can't I do magic like you can? If we went to school together."

"You can." Or, at least, he thinks she still can. "You just need a wand." He lifts his to show her, pointing the light away from them for a moment.

Her hand reaches forward, her fingers skeletal claws. "May I?"

Every instinct tells him not to, but he hands his wand to her through the bars. She merely turns it over, examining it from every angle, before holding it out for him. The pressure on his chest grows unbearable as he takes it from her trembling fingers.

How much of her is truly lost and how much is merely repressed? Draco finds he does not want to know the answer.

"They will take these if they find them."

He realizes she's talking about the contraband he's given her. He shifts his wand in his hand and indicates a stone near the bottom of the cell wall. "That brick should be loose."

She crawls slowly, painfully across the stones. When she gets to the wall her bloody fingernails scrape against the stone. For a moment nothing happens, but then it wiggles. She tries again with more force and the brick drops free revealing an opening in the wall. With a wonderous glance in his direction, she reaches into the hole. Her entire forearm disappears.

A smile cuts her ragged features like sunlight across the horizon. He forces himself not to look away. Allows himself the shadow of a smile in return.

His heart jolts as he realizes this is the first time his lips have naturally turned upward in months. He keeps his eyes on her as she carefully piles her books away, placing the taper, flint and quill atop the pile before sliding the stone into place.

"How did you know?"

It takes him a minute to realize she's asking about the loose brick. It takes longer than a minute for him to decide to respond.

"When I was younger, my father took it upon himself to prepare me for the life I would live. He felt a… hands on approach was best."

Draco pauses, unsure of how much to reveal. He shouldn't tell her anything, but all that once lay between them is long gone. She is nothing but a broken girl and he is nothing but an angry, confused boy.

"When I disappointed him, when I wasn't good enough to be the Malfoy heir, I was locked down here until I'd learned my lesson." He finds he doesn't mind holding her stare, that the shame he expected doesn't come. "Sometimes that was hours. Other times days. Once, when I was older, over a week. My mother didn't approve, but he didn't let that stop him. He thought I was an arrogant, spineless coward and he could not abide by that. No heir of his would be weak."

A bitter laugh pours from his lips. He shakes his head, finally breaking the connection with Granger. "Of course, he was right. I'm nothing but a coward."

She simply tilts her head at him, judgment absent from her gaze. He realizes she can't understand; not without knowing the truth of their history. He isn't about to explain it to her.

"What did you hide behind the brick?"

He's thankful for the innocuous question. "Mostly food, occasionally a book or toy. He made sure I was fed once a day, but the food was always stale and I missed the succulent meats and cakes to which I was accustomed." His lips snap shut as he hears his words.

But Granger merely smiles and shakes her head. "I am fed. I do not mind you talking about better food."

Draco's eyes narrow as he studies her sunken cheekbones. "How often?"

"I think every few days. I am not sure. It all blends together for me. I used to keep track of time, but after—" she cuts off abruptly and looks away.

Draco can imagine what she hasn't said. For a moment he can barely breathe. He reaches for her through the bars and finds her brood-crusted fingers in the space between them. He grips her hand, perhaps too tightly, but she does not pull away.

"I wish…" He can't finish the sentence. He wishes he could promise to free her, to save her. But he knows he won't. They are trapped here together, regardless of which side of the bars they sit.

She waits days. Waits while Bella returns and tortures her into a quivering heap once more. Waits while a faceless man with a mask of silver bones uses her until blood drips down her thighs.

Then she curls inward until she forgets the pain, the violations. Until her mind is so hazy she barely remembers the boy with cloudy eyes and unspoken promises.

But her hand finds the brick one day and remembers to pull it out. Then she strikes the flint against the cold stone and ignites the taper. She leans it against the bars of her cell and slowly pulls the books from the hidden nook. Their titles mean nothing to her. The last book doesn't even have a title. She flips through it and the pages are blank.

Why would the sunlight boy give her a blank book?

She tries to read the Quidditch book, but the words are all foreign to her and she doesn't understand the intricate illustrations of ovals and hoops printed inside. She reads a chapter about a Goblin revolution, but finds she has no taste for war or bloodshed.

She returns to the blank book, studying its pages until her eyes ache. But there is nothing hidden within them that she can discern. With an unsteady hand, she lifts the quill he left and brings it to a blank page.

Her letters are wobbly, childish as she spells out H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E.

She repeats the name under her breath, as she always does. A cross between a prayer and a plea.

The ink on the page disappears, the letters fading into the paper. She jolts, hisses as her sore body protests the sudden movement. But she keeps her focus on the page, watches with rapt interest as new letters form where hers faded.

Is your name Hermione?

Is it? She blinks a few times and decides that yes, her name is Hermione. She brings the quill to the page and scribbles down an affirmative.

My name is Tom.

A male name. She tries to picture him, but sees only the boy with hair the color of sunlight. He is the only man she knows now. She has the distinct impression that she once knew many more, but what has passed before is lost to her now. She refuses to pry at the blocks in her memory. She knows there is only more pain lurking beyond.

So she writes something else. Where are you Tom? I'm in a cell.

It takes longer for him to reply this time, as if she has surprised or upset him. I'm simply in the pages of this diary. I've been trapped here for years. Are you trapped in your cell?

Hermione—she supposes she should refer to herself by her name now that she remembers it belongs to her—frowns down at the page. What does he mean trapped in the diary? How can anyone be trapped in such a small space? For a moment she is reminded of childhood, of a story of a lamp and a desert. But it is gone the moment she begins to reach for it, the morass of her current misery rising up like a tidal wave to consume her. She turns away from all of it.

Yes, I'm being held prisoner in a cell in the dungeons. She harbors no illusion that he can help save her. He is trapped in an even smaller prison than hers.

What did you do?

It's a logical question, but it pains her. She knows she did nothing to deserve her fate. That is all she knows, but she feels its truth in her bones. Whatever is being done to her is not because of what she has done, but rather who she is. But like the impression from her childhood, Hermione knows better than to dig deeper, to try to understand more. Incalculable pain lies down that path and nothing else.

Her writing is angry and sharp as she replies, Nothing. I did nothing to warrant this.

I can help you escape if you help me.

Her heart stutters, clangs in her chest like a gong. For a moment she forgets to breathe. She has no reason to trust this stranger in a book, but she has no other path to freedom. The boy with clouds in his eyes brought the fight back into her blood with his compassion, but she knows he will not help. Cannot help. She saw the despair in her heart reflected in his cloudy eyes. She knows he wishes he could save them both. She also knows he will not save himself, let alone her.

So she writes back, Tell me what you need from me.

Blood. Just a few drops into my pages and then we can talk without the help of the diary. Then I can truly help you.

Her skin prickles, doubt crawling down her spine like spiders' legs. She may not remember anything about the magic school she attended, but she knows blood is serious. Blood is binding. Blood is more than she should be willing to give. Except she's willing to give anything. Everything has already been taken from her. She has nothing left to protect. But as much as despair has gnawed away at her, she has yet to make peace with finding death in this dark abyss. She is still afraid to die and has nothing left to lose, so she takes the flint and pulls it across her palm.

The cut is shallow, but messy. Hermione can't feel the pain of the wound. She knows she is bleeding, dark rivulets flowing steadily down onto the open pages of the diary, but there is no sting, no sense that she should staunch the flow. She watches the red change from vermillion to carmine to burnt sienna as the flame of the taper flickers. The pages of the diary absorb the liquid with a thirst Hermione feels echoed in her own throat. She wonders if her blood would sate her thirst, wonders what it would taste like against her lips.

Her hand is halfway to her mouth when a deep voice murmurs, "you can stop now. That's more than enough."

She freezes, blood still dripping from her fingers, and peers over her shoulder. A quick intake of breath escapes as she registers the young man crouching behind her. He is painfully handsome, dark hair curling against his collar, sapphire eyes flickering in the dancing light, bright as jewels. She blinks twice to make sure he's real.

His luminous eyes dart to her bleeding palm and she snaps her hand shut. God, what must he think of her? She casts about for piece of cloth to bind her hand, but finds nothing in the dingy cell save the tattered clothes on her body.

Hermione hides her hand behind her back as she twists to face him. He settles on the ground across from her. He is wearing a school uniform. She notes a serpent emblem on his sweater and outer robe, but it means nothing to her. She studies his face more closely. His features are framed by a strong jaw and highlighted by sharp cheekbones that are not quite as severe as Draco's but make this young man's face more contoured, more powerful. His ebony hair curls tantalizingly about his collar and falls across his brow, partially obscuring one eye. Her hand twitches with the urge to push the errant curl behind his ear.

She forgot such physical perfection existed. She feels oddly grateful that his handsome features still have an effect on her. Perhaps she has not lost everything yet. Her bloody hand clenches behind her back and she remembers hope is too dangerous.

"You must be Hermione."

His voice is soft, like velvet. She wants him to speak again, but he waits for her to respond. Her voice is raw and twisted as she mutters, "yes. And you're Tom."

He casts a glance at the diary on the ground behind her, not a drop of her blood remaining on its pages. His gaze swings back to her. "Yes. And I'm here to save you."

Her palm throbs dully where she holds it behind her back as she moves her free hand toward him. When she reaches his dark sweater, she expects to feel the rough scrape of wool against her fingers, but she feels nothing at all. Only air. She tries again. Still nothing.

Hermione frowns up at him and he offers her an apologetic smile. "I'm not quite as solid as you might expect."

His voice is still intoxicating, but her disappointment eats away at the effect until she feels only the sting of betrayal. Her chapped lips work several moments in silence before she can put the ash in her mouth into words. "You lied."

"No," Tom replies, sapphires eyes flashing like gems at the bottom of a sparkling pool. "But I didn't tell you whole truth either."

"Explain."

"Even in this… state, I can help you." He puts up an incorporeal hand before she can protest. "I may not be able to open this cage, but it doesn't constrain me."

In the blink of an eye, he's standing outside her cell, his features consumed by shadow. "I can travel unseen; I can determine the best time for you to make your move."

She frowns at him, letting the edges of her doubt line her features. Her hand has stopped throbbing. She brings it to her side and glances down. The blood has caked, leaving a rusty slash across her palm. She returns it to a fist, but keeps it in front of her.

"You can't bring me water. Or food. You can't stop…" She trails off, unwilling to tell this stranger what horrors her cell has witnessed.

Tom is back at her side in an instant, close enough to touch if he were more than light and air. "No," he murmurs softly, voice a soothing caress. "But you will not be alone."

An ache deep in her chest eases at his words, but she asks, "Why? Why help me? You don't know who I am. You don't know why I'm here. You don't even know where here is. What's in this for you? No one does anything without something in it for them."

It is the most she's spoken in weeks. Months. It hurts her throat and her voice is a hoarse rasp by the end, but she wants to know. Even the boy with sunlight hair had only helped her to ease his own guilt.

Tom stares at her, the silence heavy between them. When he finally speaks, his tone is sharp, his words no longer a caress. "You have given me freedom for the first time in decades. Your escape also holds the possibility of my escape from this… limbo. I would do anything to feel air in my lungs again. To be alive. So I will help you, because in doing so I will help myself."

She nods and collapses against the stones, her bloody palm finally splaying open. He is not here to save her. But at least he is willing to save himself. She closes her eyes and wishes he truly were her knight in shining armor. She keeps them closed even as she hears him speak again. But her mind trips over itself and she cannot comprehend what he says.