They picked a date: Friday, February 19th. One week away. One week until Sirius returned. She was supposed to be done with Lucius, afterwards. Put the wizard with the waterfall of silver hair and sparking fingertips far, far out of her mind.

Until the prophecy ruined it.

Ruined her.

She couldn't decide if it was for better or worse.

Wednesday, after a tiresome day at the Ministry, Hermione stepped out into Lucius's back parlor. A minute later, he appeared in the writhing emerald flames, a grin stretched over his pale face. "You have it?" she whispered, excitement bubbling inside her chest.

"I do." Lucius inclined his head towards the hallway, and they took off down the corridor. Hermione couldn't help her quick pace, and when Lucius chuckled and bid her not to leave an old man behind, she forced herself to slow, cheeks burning.

Inside the study, Hermione's eyes fell immediately on the genie lamp. It was a simple thing—worn bronze and a narrow, curved spout. But as soon as her fingers touched the cool metal, she felt the buzz of magic emanating from the lamp. "I suppose this means a trip to Hogwarts," she murmured, turning to find Lucius watching her carefully from the doorway.

"I assume you have a plan."

She nodded, sighing as she set the lamp back on the desk. The plan was quite straightforward: write to McGonagall, claiming she wished to speak with Ginny in person about her upcoming wedding, and then to discuss a potential position as an assistant professor at the school. Before departing, she would collect Harry's map and invisibility cloak, using both to infiltrate the castle and find her target. Her research indicated that the temperament of the ghost would be of little importance, assuming she captured them in the lamp before being discovered. She would decide which ghost upon arrival. Hermione tried not to dwell on her target—her victim—and what their own fate might be.

"I wish you could come with me," she said softly.

Lucius strode forward until Hermione had to crane her neck to look up at him. They were too close. She could smell him—fire whiskey and cologne and ink. Hermione stepped back, but her hips only met the hard edge of the desk. "I have no doubts that you can carry out this task without the help of a magic-less Death Eater."

"Former," she chided softly, earning a low chuckle rumbling from that too-close chest.

"Former," he agreed. "You'll go on Friday after work, before we meet in the atrium?" She nodded; while loathe to rush things, Hermione wasn't sure how long the lamp might contain the ghost. She'd be capturing it, experimenting, and then performing the ritual for Sirius all on Friday evening. With the looming weekend, the Ministry would be nearly deserted. It was a good a time as any they would find, even if it was ludicrously soon. All these weeks, all those hours researching, Hermione had longed to finally get to this point. Now that it was impending, the worry and fear had sunk deep.

"I need you to do something for me, Hermione," Lucius said quietly, drawing her attention back.

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

"You are aware of my…restrictions," he said, gesturing down. Hermione's gaze slid down the front of his robes, landing on the hint of copper shining above his leather boot. "Not only does the anklet diminish my magic and prevent me from leaving London or the Manor, other than during pre-determined assignments, but it wards off certain areas of the Ministry. Ones that they would be remiss to let a dark wizard wander about."

"The Department of Mysterious," she said. Her words sounded hollow. Hoarse. How could I be so bloody stupid? "What—" She clamped her mouth shut. Swallowed. "What are we going to?" she asked bluntly, turning away from him. Hermione moved behind the desk chair, facing the window. The manor's back grounds were a mess of slush and mud on the unusually warm day, the early evening sun casting leering shadows from the tree line. "I can't believe you only care to mention this now."

"Care?" His voice was tinged with amusement, as if the whole thing was bloody funny. "My dear, were you not the one keeping secrets from me, until you drank too much champagne and took me home to your dead boyfriend's bed?"

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, hugging her ribs, biting her tongue to keep from correcting him. There was no taking! And Sirius isn't—wasn't—my boyfriend. "So why didn't you?" she asked sharply, glancing back at the sound of footsteps. He stood behind her now, perched on lip of the desk. "If you knew you couldn't partake in the ritual, why did you string me along this far?"

He tilted his head to one side, loose hair cascading down over one shoulder. He observed her like a man before a painting, searching, contemplating. "Because I knew that if I asked too soon, you would turn your back on me."

"Ask me what?"

"To recover my monitoring papers, so we can amend the restrictions," he said simply, as if he was asking her to grab milk at the shops.

She turned to him fully, arms dropping to her side in her disbelief. "Those belong to the DMLE."

His mouth quirked into a half smirk. "I remember you having two very important friends in that department."

"Had," she muttered, twisting back to the window. A breath of wind swept across the barren trees, sending their spindly branches quivering. "I can't just—I can't just break into the Auror's Office and steal Ministry property."

"But breaking in to the Death Room, performing a dark, and might I add dangerous, ritual on one of their most secretive artifacts is okay with Gryffindor's Princess?" She heard his footsteps again, padding towards her until his presence itched in her peripheral.

"Don't call me that," she growled, refusing to look his way.

She didn't get a choice, when his hand came out, fingers weaving into her hair and digging hard against the base of her skull. He forced her to turn, to look, to look at him and all the silvery fire in his eyes. His touch wasn't gentle, or kind. But it sent a flutter in her stomach all the same. "You needn't fear it," he murmured, his breath warm over her cheek.

"Fear what?"

"Your own power. This magic," he said, fingers curling harder against her scalp as he pressed her closer. "You radiate it. I feel it coming off of you, every second that I see you. In your wake, I miss it. Miss you, Hermione." Lucius tilted his face down. "You can have anything you want." She couldn't breathe. He was doing it for her, hot against her cheek, her mouth, the tingling shell of her ear. And just when his grip tightened, and she released a pleading whimper—to be released, or for more, she wasn't sure—his nose brushed the corner of her lips. Taunting. Teasing. His other hand found her shoulder, before it was quickly skimming a flaming track downwards, settling on her waist. His grip there was just as bruising.

"Lucius," she whispered, eyelids fluttering shut as his nose prodded the seam of her lips.

"Take what you want," he murmured, as the hand at her waist slid further up until he cradled her head with two large, unyielding hands. His body pressed into hers, hard and warm.

She wanted him. She wanted him more than air. But it was her body screaming that message, not her head. Her mind was plagued by thoughts of Sirius, the man she sought so desperately, despite the wizard right in front of her. The guilt that had been building since New Year's was eating at her insides, digesting her desire and spitting out acid. Hermione could feel it climbing in her throat, filling it, rendering her unable to speak—to say yes, to say no. Her hand came to his chest, above his heart. It beat beneath her palm, frenzied and abjectly crude, like a creature living inside him. The creature lived inside her too. She ought to starve it. Starve them both. But how could she, completely, when its cry was so desperate?

She pressed up. Closed the distance between them. Their lips met, bewilderingly soft for all the pressure in her head, her throat, her stomach. It was only an instant, before first her hand slid away, then her lips, then her body, backing into the jut of the window sill. Lucius's hands lowered slowly to his sides, fingers clawed, like he was still clinging to her hair. "I will get your monitoring papers," she said softly, sadly. "But that's all I can do for you."

He nodded. His composure was back, pieces snapped perfectly into a pale mask. Lips just slightly upturned in a emotion she couldn't quite place. "Of course," he said calmly, the stiffness only discernible in the tension of his jaw. "You will go tomorrow?"

"During work hours, I suppose."

"Good. More possible impediments, but also more chaos to slip quietly into. You will have to find Proudfoot's office. He keeps all files pertaining to monitoring charms in the grey cabinet to the left of the door. Wait for him to leave, or send him away, then get inside."

Hermione swallowed nervously. While a kind man, Proudfoot could be a severe threat when provoked. It didn't help that Hermione knew who she was stealing from, and what he might do if she were caught. "The files aren't guarded?"

"No, fortunately," Lucius said, leaning back against his desk. It was as if their kiss—his words against her skin—had never happened. "Once you find my name, you must retrieve both folders pertaining to my case. Two of them. Do you understand?"

"Why are there two?"

"There are components to amending the charm held in both files. I was shown the papers when my altered sentencing was first enacted. Don't bother rifling through the folders until you come immediately back here, and we will perform the necessary adjustments to allow me into the Death Room."

Hermione pursed her lips, displeased at his peremptory tone. She supposed he was just nervous about retrieving the folders, even if he hid it well behind his controlled mask. "Any more requests while I'm there?" she asked, somewhat hotly. "Paperweight from Harry's desk?" She crossed her arms and raised one brow in challenge.

Lucius chuckled, and she was pleased to see the warmth return to his expression. "Paperweight from Potter—now that would do nicely on the Knockturn Market." He stepped away from the desk and took hold of her elbows, his touch startlingly gentle after his earlier, crushing grip in her curls "Tell me again, my dear—how many files will you borrow?"

"Steal," she grumbled. "Two."

"That's my witch," Lucius murmured, before he pressed a featherlight kiss on her hair.

The DMLE was, as always, in a state of chaos. Aurors hurried to and from assignments. Captives were dragged in for questioning. Memos zipped about like flocks of seagulls swarming a beach picnic. Like Lucius said, it worked to her advantage; no one was watching the Unspeakable loitering by the women's toilets. Hermione had been watching Proudfoot's office for the past twenty minutes, staring at his vague shape behind the frosted glass and waiting for him to depart for the cafeteria. She remembered, from a past conversation with Harry, that the aurors usually took their lunch at one o'clock sharp.

She glanced at her watch. The little hands ticked over. At the sound of a door unlatching, she glanced up. Proudfoot's auburn head poked out, then the man strode off towards the lift without a look back.

The meters across the corridor felt like a quidditch pitch. Witches and wizards were all streaming out of their offices, the hallway filled with chatter. A memo whizzed past her head, and Hermione nearly jumped out of her heels.

Calm down, Hermione, she scolded herself, curling her fingernails into her palms. She waited for a gaggle of wizards to pass, took a shaky breath, then pushed on towards the office. As her hand closed around the handle, she breathed out a sigh of relief. Unlocked.

Hermione stepped inside, immediately shutting the door and leaning against it. Her shoulders sagged as her heartbeat drummed inside her chest. Sweat slid down her neck, catching in the wool collar of her jumper.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, yanking her wand from her skirt pocket. How am I supposed to perform the ritual tomorrow, when I can't even break into an office without coming to the verge of a panic attack?

She thought of Lucius, his touch, his words, his kiss.

Take what you want.

She could do that, couldn't she? She had kissed him, had pulled away. Gotten that second of release, before her wits came rearing back.

Hermione cast a quick Notice-Me-Not charm on the frosted glass door, hoping it would deter anyone who wished to pay Proudfoot a visit. With the spell settled, her gaze slid to the wall beside the door. Just like Lucius said, there was a tall, metal cabinet, the top littered with boxes. She stepped over to it, fingers trailing down the silver handles, before pulling out her wand again.

"Accio Lucius Malfoy files," she whispered.

The third drawer from the bottom rattled, then grew still. Smiling, Hermione crouched down and yanked open the drawer. She thumbed quickly through the folders, until her finger caught on the little printed letters. Malfoy, Lucius. She widened the manila folder to find two files within.

Hinges creaked behind her. "Proudfoot, there's something wrong—"

Hermione grabbed at the files, her fingers catching only one of the two as she flew to her feet, hid the file behind her back, and shut the drawer with her hips.

Ron's head slowly turned towards her, his mouth gaping. "…with your office."

Hermione swallowed. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her jumper must have been stained with sweat, but she didn't dare look down. "Oh, hello Ron," she said pleasantly, plastering on a small smile.

He still wore the dumbfounded look on his freckled face. His lips mashed shut. Opened again. "'Mione. What…what are you doing in here?"

"You think there's something wrong with Proudfoot's office?" she asked, frowning innocently.

Ron blinked, then twisted back towards the door. "Yeah, couldn't find the door for ten bloody minutes." With his head turned, Hermione shoved up the back of her jumper, slid the folder inside, and tugged the hem into place just as Ron was turning back towards her. "But then, maybe that's just me being a git," he said, offering a crooked smile.

Can't argue with that. She stared back at him, realizing he still expected an explanation. The silence was hot, stuffy. Stretched thin. He wouldn't wait long before getting suspicious. Stepping forward, Hermione joined him by the threshold. "I was, er…well, it's going to sound silly."

"Yeah?"

Hermione pressed her lips together and rolled onto the balls of her feet. "I was hoping to snag the Junior Aurors schedule from Proudfoot," she admitted, her gaze flitting away in an attempt to look sheepish.

Ron's throat gave a dry swallow. When she looked back up through her lashes, she found his cheeks bright pink. "Why'd you want that?" he mumbled.

"I thought, maybe, if I knew when you were in London, I could…oh, I don't know…surprise you." She stepped closer, closing the gap between them. Ron's body stiffened, but he didn't back away. Taking it as a good sign, Hermione wet her lips and reached for his hand. It was clammy against her own. "I thought we could get dinner."

Ron was fixated on her lips, before he blinked and met her eyes again. "We could eat at home."

"What, with Lavender to come waltzing in?" Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes.

"She said you confronted her at the Valentine's party."

Hermione squeezed his hand. It kept her from spitting out something she'd regret. Me? Confront that cow! Of course Lavender spun it that way. Though since Ron hadn't mentioned their actual altercation, she assumed Lavender had kept the truth—what she remembered of it, anyway—to herself. "I miss you, Ron," she murmured. "I'm stick of being angry with each other."

He squeezed back. "Miss you too." His head bent lower, and she could feel his breath on her forehead. It smelled of Lavender's cheap perfume and morning sweat—nothing like Lucius. Just as his other hand came up to ghost over her jaw, he stilled. Pulled away, out of her grasp. "I…I can't," he said hoarsely, pulling back to meet her eyes. "But if you want to have dinner, we can after work."

"Tonight?" she asked softly, wiping her palm inconspicuously on her skirt.

"Lav's going out with girlfriends, then I'm off to France for the next few days."

Hermione fought the urge to frown. The idea of supping with Ron had her skin crawling—even being this close, touching him, made her gut churn. And she was supposed to see Lucius after work, to show him the files.

Two files. Fuck. Lucius was very specific that they'd need both. She'd have to figure out a way back to Proudfoot's office later today to retrieve the second, or even on Friday if she had to.

"I…that sounds nice," Hermione agreed, flashing Ron a smile.

"Meet me in the atrium after work?"

"Sure."

Ron grinned and widened the door, gesturing for her to exit first. Hermione kept her shoulders straight as he followed her out, praying that the file wasn't noticeable under her cable knit jumper. She made it two steps into the deserted hallway before hearing a lock click behind her. Whirling around, Hermione saw Ron tucking his wand away. "What's that you're doing?"

"Proudfoot asked me to lock up," he told her. "He's leaving directly from lunch for Paris. Won't be back until Monday." Ron strode back towards her, a cheeky smile on his face. "No pesky Alohomora's going to get you inside. Guess you'll just have to wait to snatch my schedule." He chuckled and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Hermione hardly heard herself wish him goodbye. She watched his red hair retreat down the hallway, watched him throw a grin over his shoulder before rounding the corner. Alone again, she threw the stupid, locked door a scathing scowl.

Fuck.

She strode off for the toilet, locked herself inside, and leaned against the marble countertop. The girl in the mirror was a mess of sweat stains and dishevelment. Maybe Lucius was wrong. Maybe they only needed the one file. She breathed slowly through her mouth, then turned on her heel and locked herself into one of the wooden stalls. With shaking hands, she withdrew the file from beneath her jumper to examine it.

The papers documented Lucius's monitoring charm, and she saw that it was currently set to a radius around London, and another around the manor. Most of the floors at the Ministry were off-limits. The neatly typed instructions explained that the charm could be amended, and that either the radius could be changed using the supplied UK and Ministry of Magic maps, or the radius could be centered around another person—an Auror. That way, the subject would be beholden to stay in a vicinity controlled by a person, rather than a place, and they could move beyond a single radius as the Auror also changed his or her location. The Auror could also set additional locations where the subject was limited to, which would remain regardless of where the Auror was located. This method also appeared to override the Ministry restrictions, according to the instructions.

As Hermione flipped through, she found no map and cursed under her breath. That's what the other file must have had, she thought, biting her lip. She scanned the papers once more, before deciding; she would connect the monitoring charm to herself, instead of expanding Lucius's access to the Ministry. The papers said there would be a two-mile radius around the caster in which the subject could move about, other than the additional permanent location set.

Clutching her wand, Hermione read over the incantation and instructions to re-assign the charm before setting the paper on the tank of the porcelain toilet. "Mutare locum!" she called out. A blue light emanated from the tip of her wand. With her breath held in her chest, Hermione began moving her wand in a circular motion. A small, bright azure ring emerged from her wand tip, then an outline of the United Kingdom glowed into existence behind it. The city and town names wavered in curled, dark blue script. The ring hovered above London, where she was currently standing. She glanced down, looking at the paper's instructions.

To add a permanent location to the charm outside of the caster's vicinity, touch the location on the map and draw a ring using a smooth, circular motion. Cement the charm with a "Finite." To reset the charm to a geographical-bound status, recite the incantation "Finem tabula."

Tongue between her teeth, Hermione added another blue ring to Derbyshire, where she knew Malfoy Manor was located.

"Finite," she whispered, and the projection fell away.

There, she thought smugly, tucking her wand back into her skirt. Now, Lucius could either be at his home or within two miles from herself. Once the ritual was complete, she would revert the charm back to its original state, slip the folder back into Proudfoot's office, and no one—not Proudfoot, not Lucius—would be none the wiser.

Dinner with Ron was tolerable, to her surprise. Though that may have had more to do with the wine the Leaky Cauldron bartender was liberally supplying. She had squirmed, at first, upon hearing Ron's suggestion that they go somewhere so public. Not wanting to argue, or risk his suspicion regarding her intentions, she had consented to the familiar pub.

The reporters she had not consented to. They attempted to hide themselves in the shadowed corners, or behind the windows facing Muggle London, but Hermione knew their fast-moving quills and hungry eyes all to well. It didn't help that Ron had chosen seats at the bar, rather than a private booth. Potter's Best Friend and Gryffindor's Princess, out for a romantic evening.

She prayed Lavender would miss tomorrow's Prophet.

At least he let her go off to bed with only a one-armed hug and the promise that she had a wonderful time catching up. As she stripped off her work clothes, and set the file gingerly down on her dresser, Hermione considered Ron's reasoning for the evening. They could have gone anywhere—cheap takeout, Muggle London, hell, they could have apparated to Edinburgh for a pint. But instead, Ron had wanted their faces in the paper. Wanted people to think they were still together, or maybe even getting back together. She wasn't sure how up-to-date Wizarding society was on their love life.

She would chalk it all up to some grand plan, but she didn't think Ron had it in him. No, this was probably just Ron wanting more attention. She knew he enjoyed the public eye, enjoyed the title of the Brave War Hero who helped Harry vanquish You Know Who. And now, he wanted to drag her back into the spotlight. Like a fucking prop.

She would be more upset, if it wasn't so laughable.

Sighing, Hermione glanced at her watch. Quarter to midnight. It was probably too late to visit Lucius, even though she had previously promised to go to him with the two files. "He can bloody well wait until tomorrow," Hermione muttered. She would have to go to the manor right after work to collect the genie lamp, before going to Hogwarts. She'd let him know about the monitoring charm then.

Hermione stepped over to her nightstand and plucked out the note she'd received from the Headmistress earlier that day, after writing to her on Wednesday evening.

Hermione,

It will be wonderful to see you – I daresay Miss Weasley is sending Gryffindor Tower into a tizzy with all her wedding talk. The June ceremony can't arrive soon enough. Come through my floo any time after work.

Regards,

Minerva

She smiled as she tucked the note back away. June. She and Sirius could attend the summer wedding together. This winter would be just a distant memory.

At least one part of the plan had gone as expected, with her access to the castle secured. Now, she just had a few more loose ends before tomorrow. Hermione pulled on a nightgown, then eased slowly out of her bedroom. The house was starkly quiet, Ron likely already asleep after their night of hearty food and wine. Still, she padded lightly down the hallway until she reached Harry's room, not wanting to call Kreacher's unwavering eyes.

Harry's room was just as he left it, not having picked up before he departed for France again. Hermione shook her head in disapproval as she picked through the mess of clothes, then made her way to the chest at the end of the bed. It was the same one he'd had in school, all worn leather and memories. Hermione smiled fondly as she pushed open the clasp, lifting the lid to reveal the sparse contents within.

Her fingers brushed over the shimmering material of the Invisibility Cloak, which she pulled into her lap. Beneath lay the Marauder's Map, the parchment yellowed and crinkled as ever. After drawing it towards her, Hermione made to close the lid when she paused, a sick feeling climbing into her throat. It was wrong to borrow from Harry…steal from him, especially items so close to his heart. Worse than her stunt at Proudfoot's office, or her sugar-sweet lies to Ron.

Hermione let the lid fall shut with a heavy thud. Sometimes wrongs were necessary. You just had to stomach them.

She felt Lucius's eyes on her the moment she stepped out of the fireplace. "Good Friday," he said shortly, watching as she brushed soot from her sleeves. Hermione readjusted the messenger bag slung over her shoulder, then took the time to watch him as well. His locks had been tied back into a sharp, low ponytail, his robes midnight blue and the undershirt crisp, snow-white. He looked elegant. Ravishing.

Damn my thoughts.

"Good Friday," she agreed warily, stepping across the room. He shifted, and she caught a glimpse of the bronze lamp wrapped behind his fingers.

Lucius peered down at her over his nose. "Are you still in need of this?" he asked, turning the genie lamp over in his hands. "I thought not, after you failed to visit or owl on Thursday."

"Everything's fine, Lucius," Hermione told him, her mouth curving into a small, soft smile. She reached for his wrists, drawing them towards her. "Just a little hiccup at the Ministry, and with Ron. I know, I know I should have written, but, I…" Her hands fell away, back to her sides. "I got back late, and I was drained after dinner."

His cold expression melted, just a tad. "What happened with Weasley?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"He just got in my way, and I couldn't get out of it without offering to go to dinner. And without getting my face in the bloody paper."

A smirk curved at his lips. She realized she had been missing it. "I haven't read today's yet. Are the photos worth clipping?"

"Ha," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Anyways, I'm ready to go to Hogwarts." She didn't feel ready, even if she had the monitoring taken care of, the map, the cloak, a silver dagger for the rune carvings, Sirius's leather jacketed for the mental apparition, and her journal on the ritual all hanging from the strap on her shoulder.

"What about the two files?"

"Taken care of. You'll be able to access the Death Room with me."

His gaze slid down to her bag. "What do you mean, taken care of?"

She shrugged and readjusted the weight digging into her shoulder. "Like I said, Lucius. You'll have no trouble accessing the room." Her forehead creased at his silence, his warmth turned cold once again. "That's what we needed."

His eyes turned sharply back to hers. "I needed both files."

"No, we needed to fix the monitoring charm. It's fixed. Now give me the lamp, Lucius, and I can get the ghost."

Lucius thrust the lamp into her hands before brushing past her. He paced the length of the parlor before spinning back, hair whipping at his neck. "You don't have the files," he stated, pinching the bridge of his nose. The other hand came to his hip, the epitome of restrained exasperation. She would giggle, if the manor's mood wasn't as taut as a rubber band. She could feel it in the cool air, could feel her magic tainting it. Maybe even his, whatever leaked out from that copper cuff. The scent was bitter, rotten.

Hermione clutched the lamp to her chest. "I have one file, okay? If you must know, Ron stumbled inside Proudfoot's office before I had a chance to collect both. And then I had to let him almost kiss me, before he locked up the office, took me to dinner, and got our romantic evening plastered on every magical newspaper in the United Kingdom!" she hissed, marching past him and into the blazing fireplace. The emerald flames writhed around her calves as she grabbed a pinch of floo powder off the mantle. "But I already amended the monitoring charm, so your second file doesn't even matter. Now please, Lucius, let me go capture the bloody ghost, come back here to get you, and we'll be finished with each other for good."

He nodded, just once, before she departed for Hogwarts in a whirl of green flame.

All things considered, the trip to Hogwarts was a success. Never mind the twenty minutes of tea with the Headmistress, before extracting herself to 'talk bouquets with Ginny.' Or Peeves, nearly catching sight of her before Hermione threw on the Harry's cloak and vanished in the middle of a corridor. Or Mrs. Norris, who had been determined to follow an invisible Hermione for three sets of stairs, before she finally cast a harmless jinx at the nosy cat.

Or when the Bloody Baron, the ghost most accessible according to the Marauder's Map, left behind a floor-to-ceiling splatter of ectoplasm once the rest of his body whizzed into her genie lamp. At least she would be experimenting on an evil wizard-turned-ghost. It was a small consolation.

When she returned to Malfoy Manor, the quivering genie lamp tucked safely into her bag, Lucius was already waiting for her. He'd added a matching, deep blue cloak, and a mild expression to match. "Ready?" she asked softly.

"To break into the Ministry and resurrect a dead man who hates me?" He joined her in the fireplace, so close his side pressed against hers. So I've been forgiven. "Absolutely."

She grinned as the fire swept them away.

Just as she hoped, the atrium was deserted when they stepped out. Hermione banished the soot from both his loafers and her own, then straightened the hem of her floaty, lilac dress. It was silly, she knew, to dress up for the occasion, but she couldn't bear to have Sirius find her in the stuffy tweed she usually donned.

Hermione dipped a hand into her bag as Lucius scanned the chamber. "Wear this," she said, pulling out Harry's cloak. "In case anyone is still here."

He gave the garment a curious look, tentatively grasping the translucent fabric before shaking it out. "Draco told me about this. Potter gave it to you?" Hermione set her jaw, and he chuckled. "Don't fret, my dear," he murmured, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Potter will understand."

She prayed he was right, as they set off for the lifts.

Hermione didn't think she breathed until they were safely in the Death Room. The chamber's coldness seemed to swell around her, benches arching high towards the walls, dais standing proud and lonely at the center. Lucius swept off the cloak with a flourish, folding it neatly and handing it back. She thanked him, before carefully extracting everything from her bag. First the genie lamp came out, set down on a bench by the dais with a clink. Then the dagger, then her journal and the jacket. She blew out a breath and whispered, "Are you ready?"

Lucius was staring at the archway with a curious expression. Lips parted, eyes sharp and focused. Like it was beautiful. Like how he looked at her, sometimes. Hermione blushed and cleared her throat, and finally Lucius returned to her. "I think no one is ready, when they dive into the dark for the very first time." He strode towards her, footsteps echoing. He picked up the lamp, then her wand. With gentle fingers, he took hold of her hand and placed the slender wood inside them. "Let us bring forth the light."

She met his eyes. Tried to smile. "This is the easy part."

He chuckled and lifted the lamp. "I imagine most things are easy for a witch like you."

She blushed, but didn't try to hide it. Readjusting the grip on her wand, Hermione set her eyes on the lamp and whispered, "Alohomora."

An invisible cork popped free, the ghost's grey matter streaming out from the thin spout like steam from a kettle. Hermione stepped back, peering up as the Bloody Baron re-formed in the air, two feet off the ground between herself and Lucius. She had already immobilized him with the initial trapping spell, and his once-rich clothes hung loosely around his limp limbs. As the Baron's eyes stared back, she felt his rage, his fear, his confusion seeping into her. He could not move. Could not speak. Sickness clawed at her throat, roiling through her stomach. It was supposed to be easier, than experimenting on a House Elf. Bile climbed into her mouth. There was nothing easy about this, not when the ghost was facing her, helpless and frozen. Hermione let her wand clatter to the ground and fell to her knees.

Vaguely, she heard Lucius set the lamp down, then felt his warmth hovering before her. Fingers cradled the back of her head as the others picked up her wand and set it back inside her fingers. "You're almost there," Lucius soothed. He touched her chin, lifting her gaze. He was watery through it.

"I—I can't," she croaked.

"You must. This is the easy part, remember? The only one in danger is a murderous, long-dead ghost. Does he matter?" Lucius's fingers tightened, thumb pressing into her bottom lip. "Think of what you'll have when this is over."

Hermione blinked furiously as the tears streamed, hot and sticky, down her cheeks. She wrenched her gaze away from Lucius's face, back towards the Baron. The ghost stared back. "What if it doesn't work?"

Lucius dropped her chin and took hold of her arm, pulling her to her feet. "Then we will cross that bridge when we come to it."

She smiled, tasting salt. Lucius released her and moved to stand by her side. Not touching, but a comfort all the same. With her wand aloft, Hermione faced the Baron with her shoulders squared, her chin held high. "Facere corpus," she called out.

The spell began at the Baron's shoes; the translucent grey turning darker, darker until she saw the shade of brown, the gold of the buckle. It swept upward, rendering the man in color. His grey flesh turned sallow but alive. His thin lips burst rosy pink. And still he remained petrified, floating and weightless, just as she'd hoped.

"It worked," Hermione breathed out. She glanced at Lucius to find him beaming. She'd never seen such a look on his face, usually so cold, or smirking, or masked. Hermione crossed over to a low bench and sat down. The stone was cool through the thin cotton of her dress. Good, she thought, bunching up the hem to reveal one thigh. It'll help with the pain.

Her wand tip pressed beside the other, tiny rune. This one—and the next—would not be so small. She didn't dare look at Lucius as she began carving the symbol, not even as he hurried towards her when she whimpered in pain. "I'm fine," Hermione panted, as she withdrew her wand. The rune stared back at her, bright crimson, even with the stasis charm.

She carved the same rune into the Baron's wrist. Read the lines of Latin. Felt her rune burn hot, saw the glow through the fabric of her dress and on the ghost's exposed skin.

Hermione stumbled back, dropping the journal, feeling steady hands catch her by the elbows. She held her breath as a gold chain materialized between herself and the Baron.

"Merlin," Lucius whispered, brushing his thumbs over her skin.

Hermione grinned, all teeth and gritted pain. She turned around, so close to his chest she could feel the sputter of his heartbeat. "How's that for a soul?"

"Marvelous, my dear. Now send the Baron through, and we'll know for sure."

She nodded and set her jaw, grin fading as she turned back to the Bloody Baron. With her wand, Hermione sent the ghost forward, the golden chain slipping noiselessly across the stone floor and snaking up the dais. Her magic pushed him through the tattered Veil, no time to pause or reconsider or mull over the consequences, should it fail. Hermione had spent weeks doubting the Retinacula ritual, doubting herself, doubting a future where this was all worth it.

She was done doubting.

The Baron passed through the tattered cloth. The whispers picked up, whirling around them. Lucius's hand came down on her shoulder, anchoring her as the chain finally stilled. She held her breath. Counted. Focused on the weight of his hand.

One one-thousand…

Two one-thousand…

Four minutes passed in taut silence. The cold of the chamber leeched through her clothes, her skin, her bones. And when she had counted to the fourth minute, Hermione raised her bound wrist and wrapped the other hand around the golden tether. She took a breath, then pulled.

The chain ricocheted to her, the force knocking her back into Lucius, sending them both tumbling onto the hard ground.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, detangling her limbs from his. But Lucius only chuckled, and helped her back to her feet.

"Look," he urged, turning her around.

Hermione's breath caught in her chest. The Baron was back, just as she'd left him. Petrified, floating, and a strange, watery color of long-deceased flesh made physical. But he was back. It worked. She passed first a living thing through the Veil, now a thing with a soul.

She could do it. Get Sirius. Get away from this winter and the shadow of the war.

Hermione whipped back to Lucius. He was smiling, smiling down at her with so much pride she wanted to cry. She wanted to kiss him, too. But even as her feet inched forward, and her hand came up to close over his own, she resisted The ritual wasn't finished, but this—the way he touched her, the way he made her feel—had to be. Sirius was almost back. The winter would fade, and so would her feelings towards the dark wizard before her.

So she turned away, and dropped his hand, and quietly cast the spells to unbind herself from the Baron, then to send him back into the lamp with a whoosh that left both their hair tangled around their cheeks.

"Are you sure about this?" Hermione asked, as she went to pick up first the silver dagger, then her journal.

Lucius strode towards her, rolling up his left sleeve as he walked. His Dark Mark stood out like a beacon against his pale, inner arm. The old Hermione would have averted her eyes. Now, she only raised her gaze to his own. A final question. He had marked himself before, for a cause. Are you sure you want to mark yourself for mine?

"For you, my dear?" Lucius murmured. His other hand extended, palm flat. She hesitated, then placed the dagger into it. "I am your servant."

She shivered at his words, heat pooling low in her stomach. Hermione held open the journal to the Retinacula ritual, then watched, wide-eyed, as Lucius brought the dagger to his flesh. He didn't flinch as he carved the rune into his skin. He just stood, quiet and still, watching the blood pool over the carving before she used her wand to put a healing stasis on the wound. Its angry, red mouth snarled from just below the crook of his elbow.

"Do you want yours with the others?" he asked quietly, gesturing with the bloodied blade to her leg.

Hermione nodded, then sank down onto the nearest bench. She held his gaze as she lifted her skirt, watching as he used the dagger on her flesh. It hurt more than with the wand—less contained, sharper, the visceral, cold metal biting into the softness of her inner thigh. As the pain bloomed, Hermione shut her eyes and bit her lip, tasting blood. The dagger paused. "Keep going," she insisted, catching his wrist.

He kept carving.

When it was done, and she muttered the spells to stabilize it, Hermione stared down at the third rune cut into her thigh. Lucius offered her a hand, and she was surprised to find they were both trembling. "Can you give me the jacket?" she asked softly.

Lucius brought it to her, and Hermione inhaled the familiar scent of Sirius. She ignored Lucius's burning gaze as she slipped it over her shoulders. It swam over her small frame, hitting mid-thigh, just above the third rune. "Now the incantation," she said, breathing deep to will the pain at bay.

Lucius kept a concerned eye on her between the chanted lines. When the final word left his lips, they both gasped. Hermione doubled over. Lucius dove with her, catching her even though she knew he felt the ancient magic's blow as well. His forearm glowed white, and he clutched at it, grimacing. The brightness dimmed, and she finally saw the golden chain between them. It dangled from his wrist to her own, curving across the short distance.

Hermione's eyes followed the tether until she met Lucius's gaze. "Give me four minutes, then pull me out. I—I don't know if I'll be able to come back without you using the tether."

"Four minutes," he echoed. He stepped closer, raising the bound hand to her cheek. His thumb brushed her skin, flaming, soothing. "Good luck, Hermione."

She broke away, before it got too hard to leave. Hermione picked up the dagger and slipped in into the jacket pocket, eyeing the journal before deciding against it—she had the ritual memorized by now.

Her footsteps echoed through the chamber. Their hollow drum drove her forward, even as the Veil's whispers whirled louder, faster. Beckoning her into the other side. Hermione paused right before the writhing, tattered fabric. She shut her eyes. Let the whispers rush past her like wind. Magic welled inside her veins, as if she were about to apparate.

Destination. She imagined the Hogwarts docks, the Black Lake's placid waters lapping at the rough wood.

Determination. She thought of Sirius, both the man she first met, made of tatters and bones, then the man from fifth year, all charm and grins and cigarette smoke. Finally, she pictured the man who first called her to the Veil, the one she met in the bright white of her enhanced dream.

Deliberation. Hermione clutched the overlong sleeves of the leather jacket. She inhaled his scent like it was meant for breathing.

Then with a step, and a terrible twist of magic in her gut, Hermione fell forward into the Veil.

The brightness seeped through her closed eyelids. Hermione waited a long moment before opening them, just a crack. Then the sound of water lapping washed over her, and her eyes flew open. A dark shape in the distance was sat on the bright white ground. Legs disappearing off an invisible edge. Brown curls tumbling around broad shoulders.

It worked. She sobbed, before clamping a hand over her mouth. A flash of movement caught her eye, and she saw the golden chain move with her. Looking back, she saw it disappear into the white, endless void. Somewhere, across planes of reality and magic, Lucius stood at the other end.

Hermione set her eyes back on Sirius, striding forwards until she could bear it no longer and broke into a run. Her feet pounded without a sound. And when she finally reached him, close enough to touch, she finally tested her voice.

"Sirius?"

He glanced up, and a beautiful grin spread over his face. "Hello, kitten."

Her eyes welled up at the rich sound of his voice. Hermione dropped to her knees. "Sirius," she whispered again, reaching out to brush his cheek. It was warm and rough with stubble. "Sirius, we don't have much time. I'm getting you out."

He picked his legs up off the ledge, twisting to face her. "You figured it out? I knew you could do it, clever girl." His large hand found her own cheek. Her eyes stung fiercely, but she couldn't give in just yet. They'd have the rest of their lives to reunite, to touch, to make up for lost time.

Hermione reluctantly let go and dipped a hand into her pocket. When he saw the bloodied dagger, Sirius's brow creased. "I'm already tethered to the outside," she explained. Hermione drew up the hem of her skirt, exposing her inner thigh. Sirius breathed in sharply as he caught sight of the three runes, one larger and bloodier than the rest. "I need to do the same to you, then again to myself. Where should I…"

"My mother loved the idea of carving me up," Sirius said, deft fingers reaching for the buttons of his collared shirt. The fabric fell away to reveal a scattering of scars and tattoos. "So I'm sure she won't object to some more." He grinned wolfishly, and Hermione chuckled sadly through her watery tears.

"This may hurt," she said quietly, shifting closer.

"I'm not sure pain matters over here, love."

Still, Hermione cut in the rune as gently as possible in the blank space over his heart. Like with Lucius, Sirius didn't cry out. His lips remained in a hard line, and Hermione was the once left wincing. When it was over, Hermione dragged her gaze away from the raw, seeping wound; she would not be able to heal until they were back on Earth.

When it was her turn, Hermione gritted her teeth and added the fourth marking to her cut-up thigh. This one had to be put higher than the rest, and she noticed Sirius politely advert his eyes when she bunched her skirt up to her hip. Blood streamed down her thigh, down his chest. "Now the spell," she murmured, meeting Sirius's unwavering eyes.

"Now the spell," he agreed, helping her to stand.

They stood, hands clasped, as Hermione shut her eyes and recited the ritual's words. As the magic crashed through her, and the rune burned hot, Sirius gripped her fingers tighter until the blow ebbed away.

Her eyes opened. A new tether had formed, golden and flashing between them. "Oh, Sirius," she cried, unable to take her eyes away from the chain. "It worked, now we just have to wait a bit long—"

The words flew from her mouth as a sudden force ripped through her, like a hook curved through her belly. Hermione felt herself fly backwards, barely having time to grab hold of the new chain before she was hurtling through the air. Whispers like wind howled around her, growing louder and louder until the sound was deafening. Sirius was a blur in front of her, a haze of color in all the white. He managed to reach for her hand again, crushing her fingers in his own.

His touch was all she knew, before the bright white world fell away.

Something rough and hard slammed into her face. Groaning, Hermione lifted her head an inch, realizing she had landed on her belly. And her face—it was wet and hot and reeking of copper. The pain hit, first in her leg, then her nose. Likely broken. Hermione wiped the blood away from her face and rolled, whimpering, onto her side. She was on the dais, facing the Veil. Cheek against sticky stone. The archway was empty. Cloth fluttering. Whispers back to their usual, luring simmer.

Hermione looked down at her hands, cradled against her chest. One still clutched to the dagger, the tip dark red with drying blood. Both chains were gone. Does that mean it worked? Perhaps with living wizards, the Veil shredded the ritual's connection without need for the counter spell.

Sirius. Lucius. They must have had the wind knocked out of them too.

She smiled, imagining both their faces when they realized it worked. Sirius, grinning. Lucius, beaming with pride. Hermione giggled at the thought at she shoved herself into a half-sitting position. Her gaze broke away from the Veil, turning with her head towards the room's amphitheater.

The laughter died in her throat. The cold of fear washed over her, freezing her heart, her breath. Hermione's head turned slowly as she scanned the Death Room, waiting, praying to see Sirius and Lucius somewhere in all that stone. She looked around once, twice, even staggered to her feet to see the highest benches. Blood trickled down her thigh. Her chin.

"Sirius?" she whimpered. "Lucius?" Hermione waited for their answer.

She waited until her knees buckled, and the dagger clattered to the dais like a gunshot in the quiet.

She was alone.