tw: blood, gory imagery, and violence
The Lovers Curse.
It has often been said that love conquers all. That it is the strongest, purest, most thoughtful human emotion to exist within our complex framework. That the very particles which formulate what it means to be a human being compel us to love one another as much as we love ourselves. That the warmth which flows from the heart to the rest of the body is what drives humanity forward on the path of justice, light, truth, and harmony.
Thus, love ought to be destroyed.
To wreak dismal suffering on two people in love is to curse their outlook on the emotion itself. It is to make them believe that it simply does not exist. It is to leave them in a world so barren, so bleak, and so lonely, that they no longer see the purpose of loving one another anymore.
This curse expedites that process.
It is a curious malediction. Remarkable. Prodigious in an otherwise unimaginative world. It requires the caliber and skill of two wizards. Dexterity and precision are key to the meticulous undertaking of this curse.
The wizards who perform this curse must be bound to the spell in the process of unbinding the lovers. To do this, blood must be drawn and spread across the tips of each respective wizard's wand as a sure means of dedication to the profound magic. Once this is complete, the curse can be executed by saying the following charm:
Numquam Amate.
At that time, the hearts of the lovers will obey. Physically and spiritually, their hearts will cease to find love in one another, replaced with an emotion far more influential and persuasive: hatred.
Preferred victims: lovers. In any shape or form.
Note: the Torment Curse is not a necessary component, as the hearts of the victims will be anatomically and permanently altered to adhere to the magic.
However, it does not hurt to fossilize the remolding.
Something about those last three words—fossilize the remolding—sends shivers up Hermione's spine.
Because what do those words mean, exactly? They're specific—chosen purposefully. Semantics matter. Hermione has always believed that to be the case.
Fossilize. It implies a sense of preservation. Gradual, systematic maintenance of both the subject itself and the process by which is becomes fossilized.
Remolding. It implies a transfiguration of something. Another slow metamorphoses. An adaptation one must undergo in order to mold perfectly into a puzzle. A puzzle that, insinuated by Castello, is a world without love. Slide those fragments together—join indentation and junctures of the jigsaw pieces—and you create an idyllic picture of human misery.
Hermione ruminates on the way Katie and Dean snuck glimpses at one another in potions class. How the corners of Katie's lips lifted in an instinctual smile every time Dean glanced her way. How the dimples on Dean's cheeks would dip when Katie bit the inside of her cheek and teasingly swayed her torso and shoulders like a schoolgirl.
Sick. Gods, it makes her sick. How can two people be so damn happy when the world almost ended just a few months ago? When what brought them together was something so sinister and destructive that it should've actually killed them?
Hermione can't wrap her mind around it—doesn't wish to, anyhow. She'd prefer to bypass that step and instead just wrap her hands around their necks and wring them fucking dry of everything in them—blood, cells, emotions, their soul. Goodnight and goodbye—rest in fucking peace, Katie Bell and Dean Thomas.
No, no. She's not going to kill them. Just paint their hearts and souls black. Or perhaps a dark grey—a step before blackness and total darkness. She'll torture them with the notion that maybe one day they can find each other again. But in reality, they'll never have the strength to fall in love a second time. They'll constantly chase that sliver of hope and come up empty handed every fucking time because Hermione—Ophelia—she's the most meticulous witch to ever exist. She's a warrior with her wand and a cunning goddess with her ingenious mind. She'll make it so.
And she knows that Malfoy will follow suit. He's done so thus far—wrapped around her little finger like a fucking twine.
She does, however, wonder how thin that twine is. Considers what will happen if it ever unexpectedly snaps.
Hermione tacitly shuts the book and conceals it below her bottom pillow. Resting the back of her head on her satin, ruby pillowcase, she breathes in and out slowly and stares at the ceiling. Weaves her fingers together, rests her hands on her stomach, and channels that void state of being that she's come to enjoy experiencing.
Her eyelids don't move, and even as the corners of her eyes begin to water, Hermione forces them to remain wide open. Her vision blurs, her lids tingle with anticipation, and even her toes curl at the pressure of it all.
She finally blinks. Once. Quietly scoffs in response to her own weakness.
Then tries again.
Blinks.
Tries again.
Blinks.
And then it's morning.
Hermione doesn't know if she slept at all.
She assumes that tonight will be a similar night of restlessness, but that the difference will manifest in her intended state of action rather than inertia.
Katie follows the instructions in the letter she finds on her nightstand to a tee:
Katie, meet me in the forest an hour before midnight. With love, Dean.
It sounds like him. The handwriting is identical, practically flawless. And the Forbidden Forest had turned into a lovely meeting spot for the two of them—one where they could be together without worrying about what others thought.
Everyone knew about the moment Dean stepped in front of that curse directed at Katie and absorbed its torment during the Battle of Hogwarts. But nobody knew that a relationship blossomed out of it.
Nobody knew just how in love with Dean Katie fell, and how in love with Katie Dean fell.
And so, Katie blindly and excitedly obeys the directions in the letter. Because her heart compels her to. Because she adores spending alone time with Dean. Because although she knows no one would actually care or judge them, she savors moments when it's just the two of them. Alone, private, surreptitious. It's exhilarating and electrifying—it makes their relationship stronger and their bond tighter.
Leaves and sticks crunch below her shoes as she sneaks through the trees and down the same foresty path as usual. There's a quiet spot down by the lake where they usually convene and stare at Hogwarts' magnificent silhouette, and Katie knows for certain that he's waiting there for her.
The watch on her wrist reads just two minutes before their designated meeting time. It's quiet enough in the forest that she can hear the faint clicks of the hands in her watch tick over and over. It guides her very steps as she inches closer to their meeting spot.
For a brief moment, Katie hears a tree rustle. Catches a crisp snatch of sound against the ground, like leaves cracking. She spins her head behind her but sees nothing in the gloomy night, and so she continues walking through the woods without thinking much of it.
The Black Lake starts to seep through the spaces between the trees, and Katie sighs in delight to see it grow larger and larger the closer she gets.
And then, across a patch of trees to her right, she sees someone running her way. Tall, built, and stunningly dark, the figure dodges trees and hanging branches with hastened steps.
Katie can practically feel her heart burst with joy when she realizes that it's Dean.
He's fifty feet away or so, then forty, thirty, twenty, ten, and the closer Dean gets to her, the more joy that floods her heart, makes it beat like the steady bass of the world's most beautiful song, makes her eyes water up with happiness and makes her fingers tingle with the thought of being with him soon, so soon, in just a moment, because he's right there, a few arms lengths away—
And then he's down. Face first in the dirt. And the echo of a sharp collision rings in Katie's ears. She gasps, watching in horror as ropes coil around Dean's stagnant body, and then suddenly she feels a sharp sensation strike her back.
Her eyes close on command, her brain shuts off, and she collapses onto the ground before she can even make sense of what is happening.
Hermione's wand is red hot with the remnants of the stunning spell—the spell that just hit Katie right in the back.
She emerges from behind the bark of a tree like a thief in the night, stalking carefully through the forest and reaching the two bodies that lay unconscious before her.
She snickers at the fact that they so blindly believed the letters to be from one another. Hermione had seen the notes on Katie's nightstand, and from then it was too simple. Her plan to draw them out and then perform the Lover's Curse on them became so elementary, so obvious, so fucking picture perfect that she started believing that the gods always had this plan for her. How could they fabricate something so perfect, anyhow?
His black shoes appear in front of her, just a few feet beyond where Katie's head lays. Kicking Dean's foot with his own, Hermione's accomplice snickers and spins his wand through his long fingers.
"Brilliant little thing, aren't you, Ophelia?"
Hermione inhales the way Draco says that name. It's so enticing, so sweet, so malicious. The intonation of his voice floods her brain like a rush of dopamine; she swears that she's high on those six words alone.
Now, she plans to chase that high. Hold it in the palm of her hands and squeeze it so tightly that it oscillates into her skin—becomes a part of her forever.
"Tie them to those trees."
Her index finger points down towards the Black Lake.
Draco hesitates, staring blankly at Hermione. Like he's still processing the severity of her command. Like he's deciding whether or not it's worth pursuing.
She eyes him up and down—becomes impatient.
"What exactly are you waiting for?"
He takes a slow step towards her, leaves cracking beneath the sole of his shoes in a chilling sound.
"I thought you said that the ritual requires both of us to work together."
"And are we performing the ritual right now?" she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her wand against her bicep.
Draco scoffs. Curves his lips in a sinister smile and responds, "Everything is a ritual, if you think about it." He takes another step, and Hermione has half a mind to kick his brains out of his head for ignoring her demand. "There's a purpose and an end goal to everything. Procedures that need to be carried out in order to reach that very end goal." Another step. "Ever heard of something called 'teamwork'? I'd have thought you of all people would be familiar with that concept, seeing as you, Potter, and Weaselfuck were practically inseparable. So—" another step forward— "where's your sense of teamwork?"
Insolent, motherfucking, sorry git—
"Fine," Hermione relents, bending her knees and wrapping her hands around Katie's ankles. "Grab her arms."
They transport Katie's body several dozen feet down the forest and towards the Black Lake, and when they find a large enough tree to tie her to, they get to work. Conjure ropes from their wands and secure her body to the bark. Katie's head hangs limp, her chin glued to her chest, and her hair falls against the sides of her pale face like unkempt tendrils.
The same happens to Dean, only he's bound to a tree directly opposite of Katie by several feet. His head hangs down the same way, and his eyelids cover the usually gentle, copper tint to his irises—irises that have always been soft and kind, but recently they're filled with too much kindness, and Hermione desires nothing more than to drain them of their fluids.
"Now what?"
Malfoy's impatience is just outstanding. He can't wait just one moment—can't let Hermione admire the process of it all—before he has to force his fucking cock and opinions down her throat? Can't he just... fucking... trust her... and be patient?
"I mean, I could be patient. But shoving my—"
"Careful what you say, Malfoy," Hermione spits, jerking her head over her shoulder to glare at him.
Draco scoffs. "I was going to say shoving my opinions down your throat might do us some good. Offer a different perspective on things." He approaches her—towers over and looks down at her with enjoyment in his eyes. "Let's not forget that you're the one with the explicit thoughts here."
She glowers at him, eyes blazing like wildfires. Her jaw clenches, and she thinks, for a moment, if her teeth continue to press down against one another this hard, that they'll fracture and crack under the pressure.
So, Hermione loosens her jaw. Takes a deep breath and inhales. Accidentally breathes in Malfoy's enchanting scent. Hints of tobacco seep through an overwhelming vanilla undertone, and she has to exhale quietly in order to sustain herself, focus, actively ignore the sensual flavor of the atmosphere between them.
"Castello's book says that we have bind ourselves to the spell in order to unbind the others."
"Bind ourselves?" Draco asks, tilting an eyebrow and curving his lips in an intrigued grin.
Hermione huffs indignantly. "To the spell. We have to commit ourselves to this spell."
Draco's fingers are suddenly dancing on her neck—faintly. Just the tips. And then the pad of his middle finger slides down her delicate skin and pauses at her collarbone.
"Shame," Draco mutters, wrapping his fingers around her throat and palming her pulse. "Castello should have been a little more creative."
"It is creative," Hermione responds. "It involves our own blood."
Draco raises his eyebrows. "Blood," he scoffs. "If you think that's creative, then you're definitely not as dark as you can be."
That sticks with her. That confession, that absurd statement, that revelation.
But she's only just begun. Is Malfoy already pushing her buttons? Already connivingly tempting her to push beyond the boundaries of her mind? Hermione is creative, yes, but she's practical with her endeavors. Castello lays it out for her—why deviate?
"Yes, well, until then, we follow the book. You're the one who handed it to me in the first place."
He smiles. "So, we need blood?"
Hermione rolls her eyes and nods. "Yes, we need blood. Like I said, it's going to bind us to the magic. Make it more accurate. And we need to spread it around the tips of our wands and use them while performing the curse. It's very methodical, and we have to be diligent about it—"
In a moment, Draco takes his wand, spins it through his fingers several times, and in a burst of white vapor, the wand transfigures into a sharp, silver blade. Hermione doesn't even have time to gasp before Draco takes her hand, flips it in his so that her palm faces the sky, and firmly yet delicately slices her palm right open. One smooth, painless cut, defined only by a light sting when the cold blade first meets her skin.
And then her hand feels warm and wet, and she lowers her eyes to watch as her crimson blood flows down her fingers and through the gaps between them.
Hermione exhales a shaky breath. Widens her eyes and opens her mouth. Relishes in the warmth that spreads across her skin like roots below the earth.
She looks up at Draco, who's already gliding the knife across his palm. Once he's conjured enough of his own blood, he twists the wand through his fingers again and reshapes it into his wand. He guides it through the blood on his hand—colors it scarlet and lets it trickle from the end onto the leaves.
"Your turn, mudblood."
She huffs in indignance. Dips the end of her wand into her blood and coats it red.
"I thought I had your expressed permission to call you whatever I wanted."
"You do."
"Just not your favorite name."
"Only when the time is right. But you've already taken it upon yourself to say it tonight."
"And you liked it."
Yes.
Hermione digresses. "Why don't we save this chat for another moment? Perhaps one when we're not about to curse our peers."
Smirking, Draco relents with a leaden yet arrogant sigh. "So, now what?"
Hermione looks past Draco's shoulders at Dean, then over her own shoulder at Katie. When her eyes find Draco's, she tilts her head to the side and pushes her tongue up against the roof of her mouth.
"Wake them up. And be creative about it, since that's oh-so important to you."
Draco beams as he saunters towards Dean.
Hermione assumes he'll conjure some fantastical charm to stir him from his sleep. She suspects that it'll be slow and sensual—a show for her.
Instead, Draco cocks his arm and then swings it full force across Dean's face.
And that impact—the sound, the sight, the reverberation—wakes him right up.
Dean's feet skid backwards against the bark of the tree as he shakes his head and adjusts his eyesight. He spits to the side, groaning and coughing in pain.
And then he looks up. Grits his teeth when he sees Draco in front of him.
"Morning, lovebird," Draco mocks, turning around and storming towards Katie.
"Don't touch her!" Dean shouts as Draco passes by Hermione.
Draco reaches Katie, lifts her chin with the side of his index finger, and whistles in her face. He grips her jaw with his index finger and thumb and rocks her head back and forth, continuing to whistle and coax her out of her unconscious state.
She finally opens her eyes, groggily. Almost screams when she sees Draco. But his hand is faster than her vocal cords, and he slams it over her mouth the second it falls open.
"Shhh," he whispers, slowly shaking his head left and right. "Not a smart idea."
"Malfoy," Hermione mutters, but it's more like a tepid command. A whistle.
Draco paces backwards and meets Hermione at her side, staring deviously at Katie the entire time. She weeps quietly but strongly, tears cascading down her cheeks and showering the earth like a rainstorm.
"Katie?" Dean calls out. "Katie—Katie, are you okay?"
"Dean—" Katie weeps a little louder, the words lodging in her throat.
"What are you doing?" Dean growls, struggling beneath the coarse ropes. "Hermione... what are you doing?"
"H-Hermione?" Katie chokes.
Hermione straightens her back and darts her eyes between the two of them, her glares as vicious as a ravenous lion.
"It's Ophelia, actually."
Dean furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "W-what?"
Hermione turns to Draco and sighs with her shoulders. She weaves her wand through her fingers, raising her eyebrows and batting her eyes in the seductive process.
"Shall we begin?" she asks.
Draco nods once in consent and turns to face Katie. Hermione presses her back against Draco's and stares Dean down from several feet away. He's sweating, shaking, gritting his teeth, huffing puffs of smoke from his nose in anger.
But he'll never be as angry as Ophelia, never reach that level of fury.
"The spell is numquam amate," Hermione whispers, just loud enough for Draco to hear over both of their shoulders.
He lifts his wand and aims it at Katie.
Hermione lifts her and aims it at Dean.
And then her left hand suddenly finds a home in Draco's right hand. He slowly wraps his palm around her hand and squeezes just enough for her skin to explode in tiny sensations—little fireworks and infernos that represent the storm within her that Draco is so effortlessly pulling out.
He can read her mind—knows exactly when she plans on saying the spell.
They utter the incantation in perfect unison:
"Numquam amate."
The first thing Hermione notices is the temperature of her wand. It boils beneath her grip, growing hotter than a freshly baked meal. But her skin responds invitingly to the heat—it sizzles and keens in delight.
She tries to spot the spell transfer from her wand to Dean, but there's no visible line, no trajectory, no confirmation that he's even succumbing to the dark magic. Not until the blood on the tip of her wand illuminates and glows like the eyes of an alpha werewolf, red and bright and terrifyingly striking.
Maintaining eye contact with Dean, she awaits any sort of sign that the spell is working. Time creeps slowly around them as the spell manifests it's magic, but after that seemingly endless moment passes, she feels her wand jolt in her hand and then pressurize against her skin.
And she hears the holy sound of Dean choking out a scream dipped in utter agony, followed by a shrill cry from Katie behind her.
Hermione can feel it in her wand. It bends and crooks in her grip—wavers its durability for a split second. Contracts. Pulses... beats. In a steady rhythm. Dun-dun. Dun-dun. Dun-dun. Like a heart.
Like a heart.
Hermione intently stares at Dean's chest. It's taut against his shirt, and she can see his pecs fall up and down in heavy breaths. But if she looks closely—squints her eyes and really studies the movements in his chest—she can also see him recoil into himself right in the spot above his heart. And she can feel the pulsing of her wand speed up and frantically spasm, and as her wand does so, Dean's chest also lurches and contorts. His movements are jagged and sharp, shoulders thrashing and chest distorting in all sorts of directions.
And then he lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Gags after a moment due to his inability to muster up enough strength to pull oxygen into his lungs. Retches and chokes and spurts out blood.
It falls in a pool at his feet. Splatters on some leaves and stains the earth. Dean gasps for air but then coughs up more blood, repeating the process of spewing it onto the earth. It stains the sides of his mouth and runs down his chin.
Hermione can hear Katie spurt and scream in the same way, and it is music to her ears. But she keeps her eyes locked on Dean—Dean, who's now bleeding from not just his mouth, but also his nose, eyes, and ears. There's blood spilling out of every cavity on him as Hermione's wand continues to beat and contort. It's like she's controlling his heart, physically squeezing the love right out of it.
Physically and spiritually, their hearts will cease to find love in one another.
Hermione almost laughs. Doesn't, but almost does. Instead, she sighs melodiously as she realizes exactly what is happening within Dean's chest.
She's remolding him. Literally reconstructing the shape of his heart. Configuring it to fit that puzzle.
But then, Dean speaks.
"K-Katie!"
Katie cries and screams, unable to process any words.
"Katie, listen t-to me—"
Oh, gods, would you shut up?
"I love you, o-okay?" he stammers, spitting out more and more blood. "I needed you t-to hear that once in c-case I c-can't ever t-tell you it again."
Shut up, shut up, how is he still talking about love? How has he not drowned in this spell yet?
"Shut up," Hermione whispers in seething rage.
"I love you," he croaks, succumbing to his throbbing heart and screaming once again. But then he forces another one confession of adoration, this time much louder and stronger: "I love you!"
"Malfoy. Drown him."
Draco turns his head over his shoulder—meets Hermione's eyes in his peripheral.
She repeats her order: "He's talking too much. Drown him until he shuts up."
"What about Bell?"
"Leave her to me."
It doesn't take him much convincing. Almost immediately, Draco drops his wand, spins around, and stomps towards Dean. He loosens the ropes around him, grabs him by the collar of his shirt, yanks him up and out of the cords, and drags him towards the water. Dean's too weak to fight back—can barely utter a scream as Draco pulls him down into the lake.
Meanwhile, Hermione approaches Katie Bell, whose head is suspended like she's right back to her initial state of unconsciousness. There's blood seeping from every aperture of her body—her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes are stained with this scarlet color that sends Hermione's brain into a delightful frenzy.
She chortles. Grabs a chunk of hair from the back of Katie's head and yanks it back so that Katie is looking right at her.
And then Hermione forces Katie's head to the side so that they can both watch Draco drown Dean.
Draco has the collar of Dean's shirt held tightly in his fist. He hovers over him, holding Dean's torso just above water and snarling at him. And he says something—speaks evil words into existence on this dreary night—and then before Hermione knows it, Draco forces his palm against Dean's chest and effectively shoves him under the water.
Hermione can see Dean's arms flail out of the water for the first few seconds. But his strength wanes, and soon all Dean can muster up enough energy to do is grab hold of Draco's wrist. The fluctuating ripples on the surface of the water confirm that he's still fighting to stay alive, but the effort seems wholly futile as Draco holds him below.
And then Draco yanks Dean back up and out of the water, and he gasps for air—begs for it—but nobody hears his prayer.
And a moment later, Draco shoves him right back down into the depths of the Black Lake.
Hermione's body stimulates itself—grows warm as she watches Draco effortlessly hold Dean down. The warmth spreads from the pit of her stomach to her chest, then up her neck and around her head. And it flows in the other direction too, colonizing her legs and toes as they flex in delight.
Because what Draco is doing to Dean—she remembers the vision of him doing it to her.
Hermione snickers.
"P-p-please," Katie whimpers, her voice soft and tremulous and barely audible. "S-stop."
Hermione rotates her head, followed by her whole body, to face Katie. She places her palms on either side of Katie's face—right upon the bark of the tree—and leans forward. With a conniving head tilt and a devilish raise of her eyebrows, Hermione giggles. Takes delight in the way Katie crumples her face and recoils in fear.
"Stop?" she asks sarcastically, followed by several little tuts. Her smile fades into a sharp frown, and her eyes glow with a malicious stare. "If you speak again, you're next. Don't assume I'll hesitate just because we're flatmates." The smile on Hermione's face returns, but it's microscopic and wicked. Villainous in every definable way. "In fact, I think it would make for a rather enjoyable dynamic. So—" Hermione juts her hand forward and around Katie's neck— "try not to speak. For your own sake."
Katie blubbers, then silences herself. The red on her cheeks spreads like a wildfire, claiming each inch of her skin with its fiery impulsivity. And perhaps it's also the blood stains that color her face so red, so dark, so mysteriously wretched.
But at least she's silent. At least she's learned what she shouldn't do.
Hermione calls out to him. "Malfoy?"
Still holding Dean's tired body under the water, Draco rotates his head and gazes at Hermione.
"I think he's learned his lesson."
Draco pouts but concedes. He lifts Dean by the collar of his shirt and holds him above the water. Dean gasps for air, heaving his chest and straining the veins in his neck as Draco tows him from the water and tosses him back on the shore. He's weak, deflated, debilitated by the excessive pressure inside and outside of his body. And so he doesn't struggle—can hardly fight back—when Draco nonchalantly kicks his foot against Dean's side. He flips like a fish out of water, and that's the extent of his reaction.
Hermione watches in awe. It's stimulating—watching Draco bruise Dean like that. Watching him exhibit complete disregard for human life.
Draco is gone—completely devoid of emotional attachment to his victims in any level, whereas Hermione feels this inexorable spark within her each time she hears a collision, a punch, a scream. It's as cacophonous and vivifying as the final note of an orchestra—the last pull of the strings, the final press of the keys, the terminal blow of the horns. A melody sweeter than most.
"One more time," Hermione says, extending her hand to Draco.
He gazes at it and smiles, wrapping her fingers through his and then aiming his wand at Dean. Hermione twists her back to face Katie, still trembling and crying and shaking her head in a plea. But she's silent—because she's learned her lesson and witnessed what happens when she doesn't listen—so the plea falls on not deaf ears, but rather uninterested ears.
The two recite the spell in unison, something wholly seductive conquering the intonation.
And the tips of the wands glow again—that bright, red color—but this time, when the spell colonizes their hearts and remolds them within their chests, Katie and Dean do not utter a sound. They succumb to the torture, their throats too worn out to cry in pain and their bodies almost unresponsive. Blood continues to seep from every aperture of their body, and their chests engage in that dance—twist and contort and reshape to match the newfound intention of the spell.
It's another minute or so of the torture, but it feels like forever to Hermione. Forever in her own personal heaven.
And then the magic reaches its peak. Katie and Dean both go very still, the only movement being the blood that slowly drips from their nose, ears, mouth, and eyes.
Eyes. It's a sight so alluring and beautiful to Hermione that she feels a rush of chills breeze across her skin.
Draco sighs. Let's go of Hermione's hand and turns to face her. Tucks a loose piece of her hair behind her ear and then lets his fingers linger at the back of her head a little longer.
Hermione shakes her head. "Don't get distracted."
He huffs with a smirk. "I'm just waiting for what's next."
She remembers how Castello's book mentioned that the Torment Curse is not required. That their hearts are already permanently altered. That the additional curse will only "fossilize the remolding."
The addiction she feels towards those words tows her mind to that spell. Entices her to mutter that one, simple word to solidify the effects.
"Go on, Ophelia."
Hermione glances back at Draco.
"It's just one little word. One little word that breeds plenty of damage."
It doesn't take long for her to agree with that statement and aim her wand at Katie, the spell already slipping through her mouth in a quiet whisper.
"Memento."
The scarlet light which Castello details in his book appears and slowly floats through the air, it's trajectory becoming as clear as day when it meets and seeps into Katie's head. And then Hermione shifts to the right and repeats the process with Dean, watching in stupor as that same light oscillates into his skin.
"Their memories," Draco notes. "Alter their memories, too."
"I know," she snaps, gripping her wand a little tighter. "One thing at a time."
Draco smirks. "My apologies. I am, after all, quite—"
"Impatient," Hermione interrupts, aiming her wand at Katie. "Yes. You'll have to work on that, won't you?"
Hermione's sardonic response is followed by a precise memory charm. She takes her time altering Katie's memories of the evening, removing hers and Draco's faces from the equation of it all. Now, the figures are faceless, and the voices unrecognizable.
But she leaves one thing, and it was inspired by Hannah's outburst in the Great Hall.
It's Ophelia.
That's what remains in Katie's memory of the night. In Dean's, too. Her name. Her identity. Her legacy. 'Ophelia' nestles and cements itself in the forefront of their brains, cradling the hippocampus and preparing itself for the episodic strikes in the future.
Hermione suddenly becomes aware of Draco's hands on her waist, and then his lips on the back of her ear.
He whispers her name: "Ophelia."
She cranes her neck to the left—leverages the bend of her neck to allow him more access to her skin. Considers smiling but then decides to prioritize her power—not let him privy to the reality that he's slowly usurping the upper hand from her. That his entirely sensual and alluring nature is like an addictive haze colonizing the air around her.
"You're extraordinary," he continues, softly dragging his lips down the back of her ear. "And this is only the beginning."
She sighs and closes her eyes. It's the way that his breath slithers down her neck in a steam of carnality. Hermione can feel her stomach twist and tighten, and she suddenly develops the urge to explore herself again, just like last time.
"For this... I can be patient." Draco's finger trails up and down her side as he continues to speak. "Can you be?"
She has to be. Gods, just control it. Control the wicked urges. Spread out the episodes. Take your time.
"I can hear you," he whispers. "I can hear you trying to resist it all."
"I'm not—"
"You ought to listen to yourself, Ophelia. Obey those dark desires. They'll make you stronger." He takes her chin and angles it down to where Dean lies completely still. "See what you did? Let those thoughts run free, and you'll be capable of even more."
Her strength wanes, and she has this sudden urge to spin around and throw herself against him in a passionate fury.
But then that would be it. Her power would dissipate. Their dynamic would shift. He would control her.
And that simply won't do.
"I have no intention of resisting these urges," she snaps, but it comes out rather delicate, the volume of her voice subsiding with the last word.
Draco chuckles lowly in her ear. "Good. Because immortalizing you is the only thing I care about. And you—"
Hermione almost dips her head back to rest on his shoulder—almost. But she resists. Holds tightly onto that last iota of power. Glances between Katie and Dean and solidifies the imagery in her mind.
"You're getting closer and closer to the stars every day."