The ringing in Hermione's ears is hollower than a distant hum—weightless, lingering in the cavity of her ear and drawing her mind to inevitable ruin—and it's all due to Aberfield's unsettling and positively harrowing confession.

But beyond that buzzing in her mind, Hermione is able to hear someone yell, "You're out of your fucking mind!"

And that pulls her right out of her daze. Her hearing resets, the faint buzzing sound dissipates into nothingness, and she returns to reality, though she wishes she could be anywhere else.

It's true—what one of her friends said. Aberfield is out of his mind. He's a raging lunatic. Madder than Voldemort, zanier than Scabior, nuttier than Bellatrix herself. And that's not an easy thing. That consists of vengeance bubbling in someone for years, defining all of their actions in intricate, detailed steps—plans concocted since the genesis of whatever stirred his vengeance.

Aberfield has that same beam of insanity in his irises, filling them to their brims without a trace of mercy. He looks psychotically unhinged—a moment away from self-destruction. Consumed by a shadow more dark and twisted than his own heart.

"This is all because you didn't receive the mark?" Pansy asks, curling the corner of her lip in utter disgust.

"Precisely." Aberfield's crazed eyes dart between everyone present, rotating in his head in an accelerated speed. "It should've been me. I should've at least been amongyou. I should've been there."

Adrian scoffs, his eyes rolling with an incredulous tang. "Listen to yourself! Do you understand how crazy that sounds? Fixating on this little thing almost three years after the fact? You're pathetic."

"Do you want to know what's really pathetic?" Aberfield scowls, lifting his free hand and pointing it at Kingsley. "That your so-called fearsome Minister of Magic could not smell even a hint of insurrection, even as it bubbled under his leadership. Shows just how important you all were to him." He starts to cackle, his index finger tauntingly shaking left and right. "I have to admit that the lack of due diligence was absolutely astounding."

Daphne parts her lips in bafflement. "So... Kingsley was just—"

"A pawn," Aberfield spits in the Minister's direction. "An obtuse pawn. Nothing more."

Catching his eyes with hers, Hermione purses her lips to keep from letting a tear leave her tired eyes. Kingsley returns the glance, apologizing vehemently with his troubled stare, but it's too hard for Hermione to look at, to accept, to be alright with. One day, she'd get there, though it's not her apology to forgive, really. It's theirs—the Slytherins.

But for now, looking at Kingsley, all that Hermione feels is disappointment. In him and partly in herself—for perhaps, if she'd been more vocal and forthcoming about everything, then he would've seen the light—or, the darkness—sooner.

"And you psychos just went along with it?" Adrian implores, pointing at the group of complicit parents across the room, all of whom stand idly in front of the shelf against the wall.

Mr. Nott replies, "Sitting in the manor for months after our program ended with minimal communication about the progress of the new program was torturous but worth it if it meant recruiting more people to rebuild the world we could've had with the Dark Lord."

"You're sick," Theo whispers under his breath.

"But where are the rest of you?" Blaise asks, eyeing the crowd deeper. "Where is my mother?"

"And my family?" Draco asks, continuing the line of questioning. "Why is it just you five?"

Aberfield sneers, like even the thought of Mrs. Zabini or the Malfoys is more abhorrent than allowing the Slytherins to actually be happy. "All too weak to continue with the initiative. You must be so proud of them. Seems like other things were more important than what they all dedicated their lives to, but alas, it just shows that they were not as capable as I always thought." Menacingly rocking his wand between his thumb and index fingers, Aberfield adds, "Perhaps they're dead at this point."

Hermione feels Draco's grip on her hand tighten like he's trying to keep that anger at bay. But the fire surging from his fingers is all too palpable. Hermione feels the electricity of his throbbing heartbeat through the palm of his hand against her skin, and she squeezes back to pacify his heart yet remind him that the one beating in his chest is just as valid as the one tattooed on his forearm.

"And you," Hermione starts, addressing Mr. Montague with confusion in her eyes, "what are you doing here? Do you have any idea what this man did to your son?"

Mr. Montague smirks, releasing cold shivers up Hermione's spine. "Oh, I've heard all the details. That my pathetic, little shit-for-brains son abdicated from the program when things became difficult. That he started falling for a muggle, of all the people on this earth. That he tragically overdosed and died in his little, rundown loft." He snarls and lifts his nostrils is repugnance. "That is not the boy I raised. He turned into a pitiable basket case."

"Don't you dare talk about him that way," Adrian murmurs under his breath, though Hermione knows he would scream those words if he could. Shout them from the highest mountain like a battle cry, a profession of his undying loyalty to his friend.

Mr. Montague glances at his feet, laughing at the ground. "Graham is dead." He casts his eyes back up, staring right at Adrian as he compounds his statement: "No need to defend him while he rots in his grave."

"I will defend him with everything in me," Adrian says with the grace of a trailblazing stallion, paving the way for justice in a field of corruption. "It's more than you've ever done for him. And all his life, that is all he wanted from you. If anyone here is weak—" he jabs his finger at Mr. Montague again— "it's you."

"Where have you even been?" Theo interjects, shaking his head in disbelief—puzzlement. "You weren't... we didn't see you when we watched Graham's..." His sentence trails off, losing itself in the cold air around then—the air that appears to be suffocating them rather than supplementing them.

"The program didn't last long for me. Once I suspected what Quincy's real motives were, my mind was made up." Mr. Montague meets Aberfield's eyes from across the room, and he smiles diabolically, like he's reliving the glorious moment of fruition. "We met privately, and an unspoken understanding was formed. I knew his motives—he knew I was devoted. There was nothing more to say. My dismissal back home was expedited. Gave me time to prepare properly for the revolution in private."

Hermione closes her eyes and shakes her head, still confused and desperate to tie up loose ends. "But how did the others not grow suspicious of your whereabouts when you left?"

Aberfield clears his throat, redirecting the attention back to him. "All it takes is a little white lie, such as the following: 'Mr. Montague has been awarded special leniency for a medical condition and will resume the rest of the program in the comfort of his home, where the best Healers will tend to his needs and ensure a speedy recovery.' A simple, unquestionable lie is all it takes, Ms. Granger, to get what you want, especially when certain people do not pay attention."

"Eventually, lies catch up to you," Hermione says, her eyes beating against Aberfield's like waves against rocks.

Aberfield snorts—bobs his head from side to side with a promise of more leverage. "You know that better than anyone, don't you? You forget that these—" Aberfield dips his available hand into the pocket of his pants, pulls out several tiny vials with little blue beams of light pulsing against the glass, and holds the bunch of them proudly in the air— "memories exist. Not only did you lie about your strictly professional relationship with the Slytherins—"

"Stop," Hermione whispers, shaking her head in a display of fretfulness and anxiety.

"But you have also engaged in various illicit activities," Aberfield finishes, delight coating his voice at the end of his sentence.

"What I have done does not compare to the crimes you have committed," Hermione retorts, dumbstruck at Aberfield's hallucination of the world and what constitutes as corrupt. "In my eyes, and perhaps in many other's too, insurrection is far more repulsive and dangerous than experimenting with drugs once or twice."

The laugh that leaves Aberfield's mouth is chilling. "Your morals are backwards, Ms. Granger."

"Unbelievable," she whispers under her breath, feeling Draco's hands enfold hers in comfort yet again.

"And what was even better than watching you break the law was watching everyone squirm and cry and suffer under the effects of the Draught of Peace," Aberfield continues, inhaling deeply. "Watching each one of you cry about the pain felt riveting. Like sweet retribution for acquiring what should've always been mine."

Unsettled by the profession of Aberfield's motives, Theo shifts the weight in his feet, and his voice carries over Hermione's shoulders like a sharp bolt of lightning. "You know, maybe you didn't receive the mark because you weren't fucking strong enough," he taunts, his teeth grating together with each syllable. "Perhaps you just didn't have what it took."

That strikes a nerve. Aberfield's malicious smile disappears, and in the speed of light, he's returned to his state of total fury. "And you all did?" he bellows, his cheeks filling with a dangerously rouge hue. "I am far stronger than all of you! And I am far more devoted to this cause!"

"Clearly!" Adrian roars. "None of us want this. None of us ever really wanted it!"

"Do you know how terrifying it was to be in his presence?" Blaise adds, pain all to tangible in his voice. "We all held our breath every time we were around him. With you—I mean, you just made us want to blow our fucking brains out!"

"You don't believe that I am strong enough to match the power and might of my Lord?" Aberfield hisses, followed by a demonic curl of his lips.

Hermione watches in fear as he slowly redirects the aim of his wand from Kingsley to the group of parents. The crowd of them squirms. It's not entirely obvious—it's only recognizable in the uneasiness of their feet, each one of them stepping a few inches to the side, as if that will help them escape whatever combustion of rage Aberfield plans to explode into.

Then suddenly—

"Crucio!"

Mr. Montague hits the ground like an axed-down tree. Sputtering and shaking and seizing, his body folds and writhes against the indigo floor under the merciless wand of Aberfield, posed to prove that he is just as strong—perhaps just as insane—as Voldemort once was. That he too can rule with fear.

Saliva foams at the corners of Mr. Montague's mouth, but underneath the torture, Hermione notices that he's smiling—laughing. The mix of his cry and cackle throws Hermione's mind into everlasting orbit, and she exhales a terrified breath for the man on the floor, because he's so fucking brainwashed, so crazy, so out of his mind, that each contortion actually appears to bring him more joy than anything else in the whole world could.

Aberfield joins the scene, grinning and laughing as his eyes dart between the gang and the parents. He tightens the grip around his wand, coercing the spell to breed even harsher results. The cry that emits from Mr. Montague's throat denotes that increase of the pain, and he continues to flail and cry, then laugh, then wail, then cackle, and it's like a never-ending cycle of insanity.

Daphne's had enough. "Stop!" she yells, but Blaise holds her back. "Stop! Stop it!"

"You still think I am not powerful?" Aberfield yells. "Explain this, then! Explain their looks!"

Hermione sees the expressions of the parents. She notices the uneasiness in their stances. They are frightened, or, at least, nervous that they'll be next. Tense at the unpredictability of the man before them.

After what feels like hours of watching Mr. Montague wither away into madness, Aberfield jerks his wand away and sets him free. He catches his breath, and with Mr. Nott's assistance, he rises to his feet, shakes off the lapels of his jacket, and grins victoriously at the children.

"Do not question whether I am strong or not," Aberfield taunts, taking a step towards them, "because I guarantee that I am strong than you all think. Just like my Lord."

"You're not thatstrong. You just both govern with fear," Hermione speaks up. "You, know, you're right—you're just like him. A horrible man with twisted morals and a perverted outlook on the world, willing to hurt the people around you to prove some diabolical point—tie up unfinished business in the form of a sick vendetta." She takes one step forward, much to Draco's fear as he tightens the grip on her hand. "And you both harbor so much shame about who you are. Why?"

Plainly, Aberfield responds, "Nobody wants a mudblood."

"So, you try to join the people that swore to torment your kind and then—what—your identity is simply erased? You're no longer a muggleborn?"

"I was never meant to be one," Aberfield insists, raisins his hand and curling his fingers into a fist to curb his fury. "Never. I shouldn't have been born from those people. I should have been someone totally different. But instead, I was egregiously abandoned. Thrown out like a freak of nature."

"You're ashamed of who you are because it's what compelled your family to throw you away," Hermione says, her voice softening in a cruel realization.

Aberfield's nostrils flare. "Precisely."

Hermione's mind reels, and she has to close her eyes to catch her breath. "But why create these programs?"

"To put up a front while I did my recruiting."

"And why the Nulliwinkle? Why the trackers? Why recruit them like this—"

"Who would suspect a recruitment inside the Ministry itself?" Aberfield jeers. "I was never a Death Eater—there was no record of my alignment with Voldemort. It became a way to carry out my plans. And the Nulliwinkle, the trackers—all to watch you suffer for what should've been mine. Even the thoughtof your skin peeling off was satisfying enough, but being able to watch it manifest and simmer and unfold—that was fulfilling beyond words."

"You're insane," Draco growls, "literally fucking insane."

"I have my reasons," Aberfield responds, straightening his back and turning his attention back to a befuddled Hermione. "I should've known employing you was going to be my downfall. I thought perhaps you'd retain that docile personality I saw at your previous post and let me do my bidding in peace. And then, a small part of me believed that you might agree with me one day—that the people before you did not deserve to be forgiven. That if they weren't going to fight for me, then they were going to burn. We were supposed to come together. You were supposed to follow in my footsteps, Ms. Granger. Avenge yourself under my secret pretext."

She wants to laugh her arse off at the idiocy of Aberfield's comment, but Hermione holds her snicker in. Instead says, "I'm absolutely nothing like you."

"No, you're not." Aberfield's eyebrows jut up and then settle back down. "You're gullible and weak."

"You know nothing about Hermione," Harry suddenly interjects. "Her heart is pure and untainted, unlike yours. She fought through the harassment and emerged stronger—fiercer in every aspect. You, on the other hand, turned out sad and pathetic."

"Choice words from the Chosen One," Aberfield taunts with a snarl. "It should've been you that died that day—"

"Hey!" Adrian warns, stepping forward and pointing his finger at Aberfield. "Watch... your fucking... mouth."

Harry reaches forward—grabs Adrian's arm and tugs him back. "It's alright, Adrian—"

"So help me, if you threaten him like that again—"

"What is it with you Gryffindors and falling for your fucking tormentors?" Aberfield scowls, frenziedly shaking his wand in their direction and causing the group to take one collective step backwards, like a well-rounded unit.

"It's called forgiveness," Hermione answers, creasing her eyebrows. "Reconciliation. Redemption. Qualities that you will never possess if you continue living out this sick vendetta of yours."

Aberfield laughs at the idea of it. "You think I want any of those things? They made people weak—"

"They make people strong," Hermione fights back, unrelenting and unremitting in her defense.

"That's rich, coming from a mudblood," Mr. Pucey comments, rolling his tongue around his mouth in a lackadaisical attitude.

Glaring at his father with daggers in his eyes, Adrian says, "Don't you dare talk to her like that—"

"Shut up, boy," Mr. Pucey orders, stepping forward menacingly and shaking his head in disapproval. He snarls at his son, eyeing him up and down and grimacing at the sight of Adrian's hand settled through Harry's. "You are just as fragile and pathetic as all of them. I thought I could pass everything I had onto you, but you're weak. Just like your mother."

"Fuck you," Adrian spits back, the rage in his voice grave.

Hermione knows it's to do with the mention of his mother. It's been something triggering for Adrian for as long as she can remember, and although she isn't aware of what actually happened, Hermione knows that Adrian loves his mother. Would do anything to tell her that he's alright, that he misses her, and that he would give anything to see her again.

But Adrian's father continues, pressing buttons and allowing his temper to run free.

"Ah, yes. You're mother. Couldn't handle everything we had with the Dark Lord. Had to run off like a scared little bitch—"

"You better shut up now while you're ahead of yourself—"

"Watching her squirm under the Cruciatus over and over again was like getting drunk on a perfectly aged rum. And when she ran off that night, I rejoiced. I didn't need a weak woman like that holding me back."

"You were sick for what you did to her—what you made me watch," Adrian seethes, his hand trembling in Harry's from the trauma of it all. "How could you do that to her?"

Mr. Pucey laughs. Eyes the group of Slytherins slowly, a threat growing on the horizons of his vexed eyes.

"I could do it to anyone I'd like," he hisses, promptly pulling his wand out of his pocket and aiming it at the group.

That simple move elicits everyone else to do the same. Parents' wands are turned against the children's, and the tension in the middle of the battleground blazes like the ghost of the spells Hermione knows will soar from the tips of their wands soon enough.

Adrian's father repeats himself, but this time, he's eyeing Hermione.

Her heart begins to beat—fast.

"Anyone... I'd... like."

That's when her heart stops. The look in his eyes is telling—decisive. She once saw it in Bellatrix's—this yearning for chaos and persecution.

And just as she did almost three years ago, on the cold floor of Malfoy Manor and beneath the crazed Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione fears for her life. Sees the traces of that curse manifest upon Mr. Pucey's lips before he even says it.

She closes her eyes.

Waits for the surge of pain.

Squeezes her eyes shut even tighter to brace the agony of the curse.

Prays for it to be over quickly.

"Crucio!"

She can hear the burst of magic surge from the tip of Mr. Pucey's wand.

But it never reaches her body.

And when she opens her eyes to understand why, Hermione looks down at her feet to see that the curse has centered itself on the writhing blonde before her—the dragon sworn to protect pure gold.

She screams with a different kind of pain.

"Draco!"

And then the room erupts. It erupts like a volcano spewing molten lava after years of lethargy. It becomes a breeding ground for chaos—a rumble in a dark, moonlit street.

With a cry that could break glass, Adrian lunges across the room and tackles his father, screaming profanities and hurling punch after punch against his face. He knocks the elm wand out of his father's hand, granting Draco's body releases from the Cruciatus, and it rolls across the floor against the traffic of the parents' feet, all of which are trekking towards the gang.

"You don't learn anything, you son of a bitch!" Adrian yells, overcoming his father's power by straddling him and beating his face over and over with his fist, already swollen and bloody from the repeated collisions. "You don't get to torture the people I love anymore! Do you understand me? Fuck you! Fuck you!"

In the midst of the yelling, and as her friends race into battle, Hermione drops to her knees and secures her hands on either side of Draco's head. He sputters in her arms, the aftereffects of the torture still pumping through him.

"Draco, you—whydid you do that? Whydid you jump in front of it?"

His cheek burns at the touch of Hermione's hand against it, but when he responds, she feels the cool kiss of sacrifice and love surge from his words through her body.

"I couldn't stand by and do nothing," he whispers. "Not again."

If only she could hold him here forever.

But there's violence rocking the room they're in, and with strength that the gods would be envious of, and despite the aftereffects of the gruesome torture, Draco slowly rises. Forces himself into a seated position.

Hermione settles her hand on his back for support as he removes his wand from his pocket, presses his lips against hers briefly, and then exhales in resolution.

They have to get up.

She wishes they could stay this way forever. Not fight anymore. Just live and breathe one another.

"I'll never look away again," Draco says, and he confirms exactly how she feels.

And then he's rising to his feet and stumbling once under the pressure in his brittle bones before rounding his fingers into a fist—summoning all the fortitude in the world to see him through this last push for freedom—and charging towards Aberfield, who is already engaged with Harry in a burst of colorful spells.

And she's in awe of his brilliant resilience, because not even one minute ago, Draco was seizing on the ground in abject pain, and he did so to protect her. Save her. Prove that maybe he loves her too.

Hermione's almost too shocked to stand up, but she finds the same strength that Draco just did and jumps to her feet. There are bursts of colors zipping past her and above her—reds and purples and blues and whites and greens—and she joins right in, directing her attention to Mr. Montague, whose sinister smile makes the hair on her skin stand erect.

"Graham deserved better than you!" Hermione exclaims in anger, winding her arm back and then hurling a vicious spell his way.

Mr. Montague repels it with a fleeting white barrier, drawn from top to bottom in the air. "My son was weak," he snarls as Hermione's curse gets swallowed by the barrier.

"Your son needed help—"

"He needed to grow up!" Mr. Montague roars, casting a purple spell her way, but it's deflected by a skillful swish of Hermione's wand across her body. The wand absorbs the magic effortlessly.

"How cruel can you be?" Hermione returns in spite.

"I do not need a mudblood telling me how to raise my child—"

Unexpectedly, Mr. Montague is hit square in the chest with red sparks, and his body is flung into the air and against a shelf. He plunges to the ground like a pile of lead, hitting the tiles with a hollow boom.

Hermione turns her head over her should a moment later, witnessing the final moment of Blaise's wand sizzling with the crimson remnants of the spell, but before Hermione can verbally thank him, Blaise is quickly nodding and then reengaging in a fight with Rose, Daphne glued to his side in a similar combative stance.

In the midst of the turmoil, Hermione's eyes wander and locate Kingsley cowering on the floor. The original spell on him seems to have been destroyed in the skirmish, and so through the chaos, Hermione rushes towards him, ducking and avoiding stray curses in the process.

He's gasping when she reaches him, trying to catch his breath as she squats and places her hand on his shoulder. Glancing up at her with disappointment, Kingsley shakes his head and turns away, ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he croaks over the explosions. "I... I don't know how I didn't see—"

A spell ricochets off of the overturned desk near them, and Hermione sheathes Kingsley beneath her arms in a moment of impulsive protection. Blue lights stream overhead, and so she rapidly casts a protective charm over Kingsley's body. Levitates him to the closest corner of the room to let him recuperate in seclusion. He's far too weak to fight now, anyways.

She barely offers him a sideways glance when she dashes back into the middle of the battle.

Her attention is drawn to her right. Hermione watches as Theo casts a marvelous spell at Mr. Parkinson, sending him soaring across the room and against a patch of exposed wall. He flops onto the ground—tries to rise under the pressure of his quivering limbs, but Theo unrelentingly hits him again with a spell that stuns him—renders him unconscious.

Ms. Parkinson makes her move. Orange sparks leap from her wand against Pansy, but Theo's adept skills shine through as he leaps in front of Pansy's body and shields her with some sort of translucent blockade. It drops a moment later, and the woman cackles. Upon hearing that threatening laugh, Theo snakes his left arm behind him and around Pansy's waist. He extends his other hand forward.

"You don't come anywhere near her, you hear me?" Theo rasps, his wand aimed right at her.

"You pathetic boy," Ms. Parkinson slurs, taking a menacing step towards them. "You're all weak. Especially her." She gestures her wand towards Pansy and tilts her head to the side in a condescending manner. "She's always been weak. Look at her—cowering behind you right now as if she doesn't know how to defend herself."

"She's not cowering," Theo protests. "I would shield her from anything. There is a difference, you stupid bitch."

Ms. Parkinson scoffs in disagreement, meeting Pansy's eyes behind Theo's shoulder. "What did I always tell you, Pansy? Hm? What did we try so hard to instill in you? Don't show fucking weakness. You can't even stand up to your mother. Pitiful little girl—"

"Shut up!" Theo bellows, shooting red sparks from his wand with a quick flick of his wrist.

Ms. Parkinson deflects the spell and laughs, addressing Pansy yet again. "You need others to fight on your behalf, Pansy? You are a disgrace to our name. I should've known you'd never be able to live up to our expectations—"

"Stupefy!"

Ms. Parkinson is blown backwards; she collides with a bookcase and drops on her stomach to the floor, her stringy black hair covering her face.

Theo turns around to see the tip of Pansy's wand searing with the traces of the spell. There's an ember fire in her eyes and a slight tremble in her lips, but when she exhales, Hermione witnesses a small but victorious smile form on Pansy's pale lips.

Hermione hears more struggle to her left. Her eyes shift and follow that palpable sound, and she watches Adrian and his father roll on the ground, ignoring their wands and fighting physically. There's blood rushing from Adrian's bent nose, and there's a bruise the size of a snitch below Mr. Pucey's eye.

In a flash, Mr. Pucey gains the upper hand of the struggle, holding Adrian down by his throat and successively banging the back of his head against the floor, probably attempting to draw more blood and reduce him to a blackout.

Hermione is about to leap into action—cast Mr. Pucey so high in the air and then hard against a wall—when a bright, white light strikes him in the back. He falls off of Adrian and rolls over, bolts of lightning coursing across his body in a fit of electrocution. Sputtering on the ground, Mr. Pucey simultaneously begins to foam at the mouth, and his eyes rolls back into his head.

She follows the trail of the spell over her shoulder to Harry's wand. He seems to have stepped away from fighting Aberfield, leaving Draco to the defenses while he valiantly interceded in the destruction of the only boy that he's ever truly revered.

Hermione nods at him with gratefulness.

But then—

"Sectumsempra!"

Harry is cast into the air and he crumbles to the ground, his chest rising and falling in an unhealthily quick pace. And when his trembling hand reaches up to touch his chest, and he removes it to inspect the damage a moment later, Hermione notices that his fingers are painted a deep, crimson red.

She shrieks in fear as her eyes follow the trajectory of the spell back to Mr. Nott.

"Hey!" Adrian croaks, flipping over onto his hands and knees and dragging himself across the floor to Harry. "No, no!"

Blood rapidly pools below Harry's trembling torso, and like watercolor on a canvas, his wounds splatter the tiles like a morbid landscape. As Adrian meets his side, he presses his timorous hand against his shirt to curb the bleeding, but the blood fluently seeps between Adrian's fingers. He panics as Harry squirms in pain. Tears as rageful as a tempestuous river course down his red cheeks, and he calls Harry's name over and over, begging someone—anyone—to help.

When Hermione raises her wand to blow Mr. Nott off of his feet, she sees that he's already being pursued by a vicious Pansy Parkinson, high on the thrill of assailing her own mother just moment ago. Quicker than the speed of light, she aims her wand at his head, casts a silent spell, and through a burst of white light, she sends him spiraling in the air. He falls onto the ground, paralyzed. A bone cracks on contact; Mr. Nott's leg bends into a crooked right angle.

And then Pansy is dropping to Harry's side across from Adrian, and she's receiving his head in her lap with quivering hands.

"Oh gods," she laments, running her hand across his hair. "Oh gods, Harry, Harry?"

He's in the middle of combat with Aberfield, but when Draco's eyes glance over and witness Harry bleeding out on the ground, he hurls several successive stupefies at Aberfield, and when one finally strikes him in the chest and sends him flying across the room, Draco breaks from his spot and sprints towards Harry.

Hermione takes his place, passing by him in a flash. There's just so much happening—so many places to look, so many people to help.

They seem to have the upper hand, but each struggle that she focuses on is a recipe for victory or defeat. Stress courses through her like a raging river as she watches Blaise and Daphne engage with Rose, who appears to have such fierce combatant skill that she is able to ward both of their spells off without problem, on one side of the room, and then she twists her head and watches Aberfield write on the floor in pain for a few moments before rising onto his hands and knees. He grips his wand tightly in his hand and trembles when he tries to straighten out his knees but tumbles back to the floor. His lip is bleeding bad, another cut trailing over his cheekbone. His shoulder looks dislocated, and when he attempts to stand again, his knee bends awkwardly; he stumbles to the ground—screams into the floor.

Just before she storms towards him, Hermione hears Draco's voice behind her:

"Vulnera sanentur. I've got you, Potter. It's okay, Adrian. Vulnera sanentur. Pansy—Pansy cover me."

Over her shoulder, Hermione watches in awe as Draco heals the wounds that sliced Harry's chest wide open. He's quick yet calculated, dragging his wand across Harry's chest as Pansy holds his head and Adrian holds his hand.

Adrian's lip quivers. "Draco—"

"I got him," Draco says, nodding. "I got him, Adrian."

She wishes she could watch this moment forever, but she gasps when a spell flies past her face—barely skims her body—and that draws her out of the picturesque scene. Redirects her attention back to Aberfield, who bangs his wand against the floor once and then lifts it once again.

"You ruined everything!" he wails, shooting another spell in her direction. She easily deflects the weak spell, sending it ricocheting off the back wall and then disintegrating into the side of the monstrous bookcase to the left.

"You were never going to get away with this!" she replies, pointing her wand at Aberfield.

He cackles so hard that a tear comes out of his eye, and then he sardonically slams his palm against the ground over and over, but it morphs into something angry and vengeful. Aberfield grits his teeth and screams again, his face turning a deep red color.

Suddenly, someone stumbles backwards against Hermione. She blunders over her feet, hitting the floor, and when she spins and rises, she sees Blaise rolling on the ground, his hand glued to his chest as he attempts to control his breathing. Daphne attempts to throw up a protective charm around him, but Rose somehow bypasses it with another set of red sparks that hit Blaise's legs. He cries out in pain, his wand slipping out of his hand.

Daphne tries another spell—it fails, rebounding and hitting the wall instead.

Rose hits Daphne with a stun. Sends her flying against the bookcase. She crumbles to the ground.

"Daph!" Blaise calls out, turning onto his stomach and crawling towards her.

Hermione rushes to Daphne's side as she sluggishly stumbles to her feet again. She looks exhausted beyond words, sweat trickling down her temples and through the loose pieces of golden hair on her face, but there's power in her footsteps as she tumbles back to Blaise, whimpering his name with every step.

Suddenly, Rose sets her foot against Blaise's back—bends over, wraps her hand under his shoulder, and spins him over onto his back. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt, lifts him off the ground, and points her wand right at his face.

"You want to be a Healer, huh?" she taunts, jabbing the wand into his skull.

Blaise recoils and shakes—tries to escape the fury of Rose's grip. He's able to fall back onto the floor, and as Daphne walks with Hermione, she somehow escapes her grip and flies towards Blaise.

"But see," Rose slurs, straightening her back and snarling at Blaise, "how can you ever be a Healer if you can't remember a thing?"

Rose points her wand at Blaise.

Daphne's a foot away.

Hermione calls out, "Wait, Daph!"

But she's already throwing herself in front of Blaise, holding her arm out in front of her in a desperate plea to stop.

"Don't—"

"—Obliviate—"

"—No!"

The spell hits Daphne. Sends her rolling off of Blaise and onto the ground beside him, unconscious, unaware, obliviated.

The ringing in Hermione's ears returns as she lets out a piercing cry.

Blaise bends his knee and kicks his foot into Rose's chest, sending her stumbling backwards and onto the ground. He pushes himself up and forward, straddling Rose, pinning her wrists to the ground, wailing, and screaming in pain. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin as his grip around Rose's wrists tightens. She strains her arms against his, fighting to aim her wand at him, but when Blaise knocks her wrists against the ground, her wand slips out of her fingers and rolls across the floor. Rose grunts in anger.

Hermione drops to her knees next to Daphne—calls out her name, shakes her limp, little body, and begs her to wake up. "Daph? Daphne?" But the blonde remains perfectly still, unaware of the chaos around her. Unaware of anything, really.

Through the buzzing in her hears, Hermione hears Rose call out for Aberfield. A crushed but desperate "Quincy!" escapes her lips, followed by several consecutive coughs as Blaise crushes her trachea below his forearm.

Alarm spreads through Hermione's body as she realizes this isn't over. As much as she wants to stay here to take care of Daphne, Hermione knows that there isn't time. Now when people are tending to Harry, Blaise is attacking Rose, and Aberfield—Aberfield is still awake, alive.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to Daphne, stroking her soft, blonde hair one last time before rising to her feet and turning to face Aberfield.

Quicker than lightning, Theo approaches Blaise from behind and drags him off of Rose, holding his arms back as he tries to fight his way out of his grip. She gasps for air, the purple in her face slowly dissipating, replaced with a more natural color.

But her freedom is short lived, because Adrian's standing now, and he has his wand pointed at Rose, and with some sort of strange but beautiful magic, he's encasing Rose in a white haze and lifting her in the air. Her body hangs limp, arms at the side, legs curved down, and head rolled back, but then Adrian carefully maneuvers her so that she faces the floor. Her brown hair falls across her face, coaxed by gravity, and it's like a scene out of a horror movie. It's an exorcist—a cleansing.

"Kill her!" Blaise wails as Theo wrenches him back. "Kill her, Adrian!"

With a flick of his wrist, Adrian casts the ultimate spell. Rose's body combusts into ashes, black sparks sputtering and crackling through the air as her only remains.

And then he drops onto his knees and crawls to Daphne—pulls her flaccid body into his arms, cradles her, and cries.

Aberfield shrieks, and Hermione turns to watch him still fight his way across the ground. He's unable to stand, and he pounds his fist against the floor like a useless child—a reflection of what's always been inside of him.

In that moment, as she watches him slither across the ground, Hermione inhales the feeling Draco instilled—nurtured—in her. She's missed that drive, that spirit, that fire within her, and it seems that every time Draco is around her, it becomes stronger. But here, she's alone, and yet it's still so palpable. It manifests in her fingers as she raises her wand and aims it at Aberfield.

Her lips shake.

"You wouldn't kill me," Aberfield seethes, glaring up at Hermione.

"You certainly deserve it," she bites back, angling her wand as she glowers into the eyes of pure evil. "You don't deserve to live. You don't deserve a redemption. You deserve to rot in Azkaban for the rest of your life."

Aberfield snarls. "Put me there," he spits. "I will never stop worshipping my Lord. Let me rot and starve and bleed, and my dying breaths will consist only of him regarding most highly."

Her hand shakes in anger. "How are you this delusional?"

"I'm stronger than you will ever be!" Aberfield howls.

Suddenly, a potent scent arrives at her side. He smells like power, like safety, like everything she's been missing and wanting and craving. Out of her peripheral, Hermione watches as Draco crouches in front of Aberfield and snarls at him. He towers over Aberfield, even with his knees bent. There's something valiant about his posture and telling about the look in his eyes.

"You're nothing," Draco says calmly, "and not because you're a muggleborn, because that simply doesn't matter—never has, really—but because you deny the thing that makes you who you are. And if you can't try to embrace that identity—that exceptionality—then you are nothing. Andyou do not deserve to be the same as her—" he points over his shoulder to Hermione— "or anyone else like her. Do you understand me? You are lower than dirt. Sicker than the deadliest plague. You—" he inches close to Aberfield's face— "you're nothing."

Aberfield flares his nostrils. "Have you finished, little boy?"

Draco's fingers curl into a fist.

"I am more than you can comprehend," Aberfield continues, spitting blood from his mouth to the right. "I am the revolution, the future, the new world."

With a scoff, Draco rises and towers over Aberfield. "The revolution? You're in such deep denial, Aberfield," he says, shaking his head. "Perhaps this will help reset your mind—"

Draco jabs his foot against Aberfield's face, and when he flops onto the ground, Draco secures his foot against Aberfield's cheek—squishes his face beneath the sole of his shoe. Aberfield grunts aggressively, his throat rippling with a longing to be free. But Draco just increases the pressure—tilts his head to the left and snarls.

"Voldemort saw nothing in you," Draco seethes. "And now, the entire world will feel the same way."

With a brief glance down at Hermione, Draco slowly nods. She gazes back up at him, twirling her wand in her hand and letting a relieved smile cross her face. Relieved, considering the tangentially horrific circumstances.

Hermione purses her lips as Aberfield meets her eyes.

"Enjoy waking up on a cold, stone floor in Azkaban where you belong. Where you would've been, anyways."

Just before Aberfield opens his mouth for the last word, Hermione silences him with a spell. He falls quiet. Limp.

Unconscious... finally.

And then, there's only white noise. The blubbering of Blaise's lips as he cries before Daphne and Adrian, the mini squirms of Harry within Pansy's tight arms, and the soft breaths from all the Slytherins present. Hermione can't hear her own breathing, though. Knows that her chest is moving up and down and her heart is beating as it should, but the sounds she makes are too soft to perceive. Nothingness pervades her senses and renders her... exhausted.

When her eyes glance towards Kingsley in the corner, she sees that he's still shell-shocked and concealed behind the barrier that she set up earlier.

"Hermione," Kingsley calls out quietly, the hum of the barrier creating a muffled tone. With one swift motion, Hermione relinquishes the spell around him—sets him free.

But she can't bring herself to say anything. Not with all the damage that has been done. Not when they could've had that peace that they so desperately wanted months ago.

Instead of responding to Kingsley, Hermione collapses into Draco's arms in total exhaustion. Dips her head against his warm chest and then croaks a simple, small cry.

Draco catches her, guiding them both to the ground and setting her body between his legs. He kisses her temple—whispers affirmations against her skin—as Kingsley rises to his feet, scours the office, and sighs in distress.

"Minister," Blaise rasps, momentarily looking up from Daphne with soaking eyes, "you—you have to save her. P-please. You have to restore her memories. I can't... she can't—"

Kingsley exhales a painful sigh, dropping his head in shame.

"Mr. Zabini..." he starts, not knowing what to say, not knowing where to go with his sentence, because the end is something bleaker than an endless desert of disappointment. "I don't... I don't think I can—"

"Don't," Blaise begs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Don't say it, please."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes relentlessly studying the damage done to his office and the scene of injured, paralyzed, unconscious, and dead former Death Eaters. Kingsley lifts his hand to his chest and then exhales in sheer guilt. "I must... I must remove the wards. And... summon the Aurors to take them all to... Azkaban—"

He pauses—chokes on his own words as if the culpability inside of him won't let him finish. Won't let him take full accountability.

Not yet anyways. Hermione intends to make him face his wrongs.

Just not now.

Not when... Daphne is...

She can't say it.

It's written in Kingsley's eyes—he's traumatized, perhaps not by what happened here, but because it all happened under his watch.

"Forgive me," he whispers before rushing out the door to bring down the wards and summon the Aurors.

Moments later, in the thick silence that fills the room, Daphne stirs.

Blaise jumps up—everyone turns their attention to her.

Her weak eyes flutter open, and her soft, pale lips part in curiosity. She cranes her head to the left to stare at her surroundings, and the inquisition in the shimmer of her eyes makes it look like she's trying to solve a mystery.

But when Blaise reaches his hand out to lovingly stroke her cheek, Daphne recoils into Adrian's chest in fear, and then she quickly jumps from Adrian's embrace in fear of him, too.

"Daph," Blaise whispers, careful not to scare her as he inches a little closer. "You're okay, my love. You're okay."

Daphne's eyebrows bend in confusion as she regards Blaise.

Her voice is sweet as always, but the question she asks is more painful than a thousand knives to the heart:

"Who..."

No, Hermione thinks to herself, tears pricking her eyes and painting a cloud over her vision, please, not that question.

The gods don't hear Hermione's plea.

"Who... who are you?"