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WARNINGS: mild canon violence

11. Our Minutes Hasten to Their End

"Reducto!"

Draco drops to his knees and the tree behind him explodes. He hisses under his breath and rolls. His wand is tangled in the mossy loam, so he stretches out his hand instead. "Diffindo!"

He hears a branch crash to the ground and knows he's missed his target yet again. An unfamiliar spell sizzles past his ear, just missing giving him a significant haircut. He grinds his teeth, the hollow screech of it ricocheting through his skull like nails on a blackboard. Now he's bloody annoyed.

Draco rips his wand from the mud and hisses, "Sectumsemptra!"

"Fuck!"

A satisfied smirk crosses his lips. Serves the bloody bastard right.

He's gloating right up until the point when he goes flying. The wind is knocked out of him as he crashes to the ground. A wand at his jugular soon follows.

But Draco isn't satisfied with quiet surrender today. He kicks upward, using his flexibility to land a blow to his opponent's head. The boy on top of him swears fluidly, but the wand doesn't budge from his neck. Draco growls and feints forward, his captor retreats hair.

It's all the opening he needs. Draco's fist slams into delicate flesh. He hears the other boy's nose crack. A moment later they're both bathed in blood. Draco ignores the slick mess and yanks the wand away from his neck. He pries the wood from between the other boy's fingers and buries it into his opponent's ribs.

"I win," he hisses in grim satisfaction.

Tom groans from beneath him and blinks. The swelling from his nose is rapidly spreading, he entire face edging toward hues of mottled purple and dull red beneath the scarlet sheen of blood.

"Sweet Salazar, Malfoy." He tentatively feels the bridge of his nose and grimaces. "Save some of it for the bloody battlefield."

Draco knows he's right, but he doesn't bloody care. He and Tom may be doing things to each other in the dark of the night that would make even the most experienced of his classmates blush, but he still wants to tear the other boy limb from limb more often than not.

He can't bring himself to regret their arrangement. No feelings. No strings. No judgment. But he chafes under its terms. He is no one's lap dog, least of all Tom Riddle's.

No matter how he feels or how much his pride boils his blood, he knows even that isn't true. He has a far worse master and he is so much less than a dog. But through Tom he sees freedom. Better the devil who takes him to bed than the devil who holds the power to annihilate him and everyone he has ever cared for. Even if both devils are two sides of the same coin.

The irony of using Tom Riddle to escape the Dark Lord isn't lost on him. He supposes the universe occasionally does provide the opportunity for poetic justice. Although Tom's name and the notion of justice fit together in a sentence as well as pumpkin juice and Polyjuice potion.

"Malfoy!"

Draco blinks down at Tom. He still has the stolen wand jammed cruelly into Tom's ribs and the crimson flow from the other boy's nose hasn't abated. Tom glares balefully up at him. "Draco, give my bloody wand back and fix my nose before I—"

Draco doesn't let him finish. He uses his own wand to repair Tom's nose—a skill perfected during years of Quidditch—and unceremoniously drops the other wand on Tom's chest. He slowly sits up, shoving Draco to the side with an annoyed grunt. Draco doesn't begrudge him the animosity. Tom is doused in blood and his ribs likely hurt like a bludger knocked him from the sky.

For once, Tom doesn't look invincible. His edges are softer, more human. His eyes are bright, the luminous azure of the sea lapping against white sand on tropical afternoons. Although the line of his nose has been restored, its perfection seems diminished.

Draco's chest aches and he quickly waves his wand, vanishing the blood.

Tom looks at him from beneath sooty lashes for a long moment before murmuring, "thanks."

Draco simply nods. The hot thrill of victory has faded, leaving him exhausted and confused. He stumbles to his feet and walks a few paces until he finds a tree they haven't blasted. Then he lowers himself to the ground and leans against the pale white bark.

Tom tracks his movements, but doesn't comment. He only leans back against the muddy earth. Draco thinks such copious filth is too undignified for any version of the Dark Lord. He looks away. He doesn't need further proof of how baffling and perilously unpredictable Tom can be.

He doesn't allow himself to wonder about such things. So he catalogues what Tom does and files it away, saves it for a time when he will be brave enough to piece together this terrifying puzzle.

Tom is twirling his wand—McNair's wand—between his fingers as he stares up at the clear sky. Draco can't see anything but a million shades of blue above the forest canopy, but Tom stares as if the sky holds every answer he seeks.

"I think we can make Hermione's plan work," Tom says, after distant birds and humming insects have lulled Draco into false sense of serenity.

He frowns and searches Tom's face, but the perfect planes and sculpted features are as unreadable as marble. "Finding the right potions will be difficult, especially since it will have to last for several hours, maybe even a day."

"I'm confident that between the two of us, we can manage." Tom tilts his head and Draco is arrested by azure flames. "I was thinking more about how to kill you."

An ominous chill slides down Draco's spine. Tom is not talking about ending his life, but those words hold power regardless of their intention. He pretends his hands don't tremble as he asks, "and what have you decided?"

"It would be a good time to take advantage of your friends in the Order of the Phoenix."

Draco's gaze jerks in frantic circles, searching the shadows. But they are alone. Of course, they are alone. Tom's very existence is the greatest secret he keeps.

"How do you know about that?" He doesn't bother to deny it. There's no advantage in lying to Tom.

"Despite what you may think, Malfoy, you're not terribly subtle. The rest of the Death Eaters are simply moronic. Except perhaps Severus Snape. I'm pretty sure he knows what you are up to." Tom sounds bored out of his mind as he breaks Draco's sense of security into shards of fear.

He latches onto something he can understand, something that isn't the plummeting floor of his gut. "What do you mean Snape knows?"

Tom is back to staring at the sky. "Before… well, before I became corporeal, I could wander the Manor freely with no risk of being observed. I watched him watching you. He noticed the coin you kept in your boot. He knew what it meant because he has a matching one."

The ground keeps hurtling further away from Draco. "Snape is a spy? For the Order?"

"That is what the evidence suggests," Tom replies, as if they are talking about the weather, not the very foundation of Draco's beliefs, of the family he thought he knew. "You're lucky the… other me is so arrogant and deluded. He believes he can penetrate anyone's mind, that he is above reproach in his skill. He does not realize he cannot fully enter your mind or Severus Snape's. He's a narrow-minded idiot grasping at whatever power he can find, no matter how manufactured it may be."

Tom pauses and their eyes lock. Tom's expression makes Draco queasy, his heart skipping beats in time with the erratic chirps of hidden crickets. "True power is not given by others. It is not earned. It is taken. It is wielded because you are stronger, cleverer, bloodier. The masses bow in awe, not fear. Because no one else can save them. Because their lives are in your hands and they will fall to their knees in gratitude because of it."

Draco's mouth opens and closes. His lips are too numb, too coated in paralyzing terror to speak. Tom smiles and it is the most horrifying thing he has ever seen.

"He is nothing but a scared ghost of a man, tangled in a web of his own insanity. I am so much more."

That is what Draco fears beyond all else. Beyond even discovery by the Dark Lord. He fears what Tom will become, what he will build upon the shoulders of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. Upon the skeletons of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Tom blinks twice and shakes his head. The unsettling gleam leaves his eyes. "But I digress. I'm thinking it would be best if you arranged for the Order to kill you in one of the skirmishes. It would be perfectly plausible considering your less than stellar combat history."

Draco knows he has no one but himself to blame for that particular truth. He ignores the nausea still clawing at his gut, still insisting he run as far as possible from the dark boy across from him. "I can probably do that."

Tom eyes him with a distinctly different gleam behind his dark eyes. "I don't suppose Potter will be very enthusiastic, but you can be rather persuasive. I've at least given you a proper education."

The heat rising on Draco's skin rivals a July afternoon. He doesn't even ask how Tom knows about Potter. He knows the other boy hasn't been in his head, but Tom's apparently pried open every secret Malfoy Manor hides.

The churn of emotion in Draco's gut makes him reckless. He takes a cruel satisfaction in watching Tom's azure eyes shutter when he says, "you really ought to know Hermione Granger is the love of Harry Potter's life."

The copse of trees shudders, as if moving in perfect synchrony with the hitch in Tom's breath. The temperature drops until the crisp tang of autumn bites at Draco's skin. He does not dare breathe.

"What did you just say?"

"Your precious Hermione Granger belongs to bloody Harry Potter, Riddle." He has no idea how he manages the biting words. Perhaps his time as a Death Eater has improved his ability to operate through sheer terror.

The chill descends into winter before abruptly lifting. A wry smile traces Tom's inviting lips. "Tell me something I didn't know, Malfoy. But that's all just semantics now since you omitted one very important fact: Hermione Granger doesn't remember who the fuck Harry Potter is beyond the most primitive of impressions."

Draco deflates against the tree. Tom is annoyingly correct. From what he can discern, Granger is at once completely herself while at the same time being entirely different, as if she is molded from the same clay, but sculpted into a foreign shape. He knows what to expect from her even less than Tom.

He's not quite sure why he lashed out, why he sought to find even the smallest chink in Tom's implacable armor. The dark boy may be a wild card, but he is also the only hope Draco has for a clean break from the Dark Lord. And the lethal aura that clings to Tom like mist upon the hills makes Draco's breath catch more often than it slides terror beneath his skin. He cannot claim innocence here. He knows what Tom is and still he protects him.

As if sensing the shift between them, Tom crawls toward him. His sculpted features cut jagged lines through Draco's defenses. Tom's knowing smile is a dagger through his heart.

Draco's lips are parted, ready, when Tom reaches him. Tom's supple mouth captures the erratic pant of his breath and Draco goes boneless, spineless, liquid. He buries his hand in ebony hair and surges up against the other boy. Tom hums in satisfaction. The sound courses through Draco like an aphrodisiac.

He forgets to think. To doubt. To wonder. To be anything at all.

~*~Before~*~

The night is as black as coal beneath the earth. Hermione squints. She can hardly make out her hands in front of her. But her ears work just fine. The soft hum of the autumn night is a steady beat, punctuated by Harry's rapid pant a few steps behind.

She knows they are close. The distant tingle of wards grew stronger as they made their way silently across the forest. The crackling leaves make silencing spells upon their boots essential.

Harry and Hermione make no noise as they cut through the night. This is not their first foray into darkness. Not their first night requiring total silence. They have been stalking the Death Eater camp for a week now. It is small, nothing like the secure fortress Malfoy Manor has become.

But they are not fools. Not anymore. A dozen Death Eaters may be surmountable, but if a single silver mask discovers them, far more will descend. It only requires a brush of fingers across a tattoo, not even the crack of apparation.

So stealth is their only option. A strategic operation into the heart of the camp, into the makeshift cells housing the boy they spent over a month searching for.

Hermione saw the distinctive red of his hair, tarnished to dull auburn beneath the mud and darkened blood, the last time they scouted. She no longer feels a rush of anger when she thinks of him. Not now. Not after seeing what waits for them.

But her heart does not skip a beat, her pulse does not race. She will save him because he is her friend, because he matters to Harry more than nearly anyone, perhaps even Hermione. But she will not embrace him, will not forgive his stupidity. He has cost them too much. His jealousy has led to lost time, energy diverted from engineering Voldemort's demise to saving Ron. They have not found another Horcrux. They have not done anything but survive, searching and hoping. She knows they are running out of time. Not to save Ron, but to save themselves.

One day Voldemort will understand what they seek, what they know and it will be over. She fears that day is tomorrow.

She hates Ron a little more each day. It is not the emotion of a dear friend, but Hermione can't bring herself to care. She has been worn down to bare bones and raw soul. It will not take much to shatter her.

Harry inhales sharply and she freezes. A shadow moves in the inky black beyond them. The figure shifts and she sees the tell-tale glint of a silver mask. Hermione doesn't breathe as she waits, back plastered against Harry's heaving chest. The Death Eater continues into the distance, away from their hiding spot at the outskirts of the camp. They both tremble. Relief surges through her veins, potent enough to make her stumble. Harry catches her.

His lips press against her temple. She draws strength from the fleeting caress. She will do this, if only for him.

They slowly advance, the shadows becoming mottled and broken, their cover less secure by the second. Hermione forces her feet to move, her inhales and exhales as quiet as the night.

Her wand drops into her hand. Her knuckles are white. The wood bites into her calloused palm, but she does not notice. They are close now. Closer than they have ever dared to come. She can see the enchanted cage that holds Ron, imagines him shivering against its bars in the cold night. She almost wants to save him.

Harry's hand at her back draws her across the final distance. His luminous eyes flash in the night as he scans the horizon, but all is quiet. He drops to his knees and begins the incantation to unbind the cage. They know better than to try the lock. It is spelled to a key and then another complicated spell they've no hope of learning. Instead, they will penetrate the wards, just for a few moments, and apparate Ron to safety. By the time the Death Eaters hear the crack of their departure, it will be too late.

If all goes to plan.

Hermione's stomach churns. She knows such luck is too much to hope for. But Harry will not leave his best friend to the cruelty of the Death Eaters.

She hopes to Merlin and Godric and God that it's not a trap.

"Aveda Kedevra!"

The green light slams into the bars just above Harry's head. Hermione is twisting, her wand extended before she understands what has happened.

"Protego!"

A barrage of dark spells, the foulest of magic, ricochet off her spell. Silver masks are rising like waves at high tide. The clearing surrounding the cell is not empty at all. It never was. She curses her blind loyalty to Harry, her decision to ignore the dread that pooled in her gut as they approached the camp.

"I've got it," Harry hisses above the lethal cacophony.

He's in the cell a moment later, his arms around Ron. Both boys appear beside Hermione a heartbeat later.

But it is too late.

The circle of silver masks closes. Cruel, spindly fingers dig into Hermione's arms, ripping her away from Harry. She sees the moment he understands, his green eyes wide with horror, his mouth open in a useless "O". She hates him in that moment. Hates him for choosing the boy in his arms over her.

Her wand is ripped away and a foul-smelling hand comes across her mouth, cutting off any wandless attacks she might launch. She knows a dozen wandless, non-verbal spells, but none of them will free her. None of them will be enough.

She watches as Harry works through the panic, as he realizes the choice he has already made. His face is a symphony of guilt as he raises his wand. They disappear and Hermione is alone, surrounded by monsters who ache to tear her apart.

She feels the acrid breath of the man who holds her. His hand slips from her mouth to run down her body. He forces her robes apart and grabs at her flesh like she is a market stall, her body ripe produce for the taking.

"Alert the Dark Lord," a cool voice cuts through. She does not recognize the speaker, but the words are plain enough.

The wave of terror that courses through her is unlike any she has experienced before. This is the not adrenaline-fueled anticipation of the battlefield. This is not the simmering uncertainty of dark nights doubting the depths of Harry's commitment. This is not even the sharp tang of unadulterated fear that comes the instant before the Cruciatus Curse impacts. This is the bone-deep knowledge that her life is forfeit. She may not die today, but she is dead. Each breath is a countdown to her last. In is only a matter of hours, days, months, but certainly not years.

The hollowness in her chest threatens to swallow her whole before the Death Eaters can even begin their cruel work. She bites her lip until she tastes blood. How much of it will she shed for them? How much will it cost to keep the secrets within her head?

She sucks in a hollow breath. She is skilled at Occlumency, but not good enough. Her mind is nothing compared to Snape's. She knows. He has never failed to penetrate her thoughts. Spare moments in forgotten rooms at Grimmauld Place. Failures from another lifetime.

Harry can't afford her failure. No one can.

She remains utterly motionless, despite the overwhelming urge to flee. Her skin flushes with prickling heat. The Death Eaters shift around her, an excited tension rolling through their ranks. They know the value of their prisoner.

Hermione must act. Must do something before Voldemort arrives and she forfeits far more than her own life. Ron knew nothing—they made sure of it. To him the Horcrux was merely a cursed object they needed to destroy, not a fragment of Voldemort's soul. But Hermione knows everything. One foray into her mind could destroy everything.

There are two options her hazy mind can grasp. Two options and she is not ready to die.

She springs into action, a statue bursting to life. The stolen wand is bitter cold in her grip, its heartstring fighting her magic. She doesn't have the time to care. Her breath is a rattle in her chest as she presses the wand to her temple.

"Obliviate."

She has no set intention, no specific neurons or pathways that she targets. The spell hits like a toppling building. She is buried beneath the rubble. By the time she crawls out, the world is different. She is different.

Her hands are bound behind her back, her shoulders twisted at sharp unnatural angles. The pain is a curiosity. She does not remember pain this sharp. She frowns and stares up into the glinting masks that hide the faces of her captors. The masks are macabre, skulls brought to life in the vast black canvass of the night.

Someone yanks her hair and her head snaps back. She stares into the starry expanse of the night. She sees the jagged "W" of Cassiopeia flickering above her. She remembers learning the stars.

She does not remember coming here. She does not know why she is a prisoner. She thinks the world is stained with blood and pain and loss, but she can't explain why. Why is lost to her entirely, a wisp of smoke that disperses every time she reaches for it.

A crack echoes in the distance and a man appears. She shakes, surprise coating the acrid taste of fear upon her tongue. He appeared from nothing, from the very air itself. It is impossible.

But he walks toward her. The sounds of his footsteps crackle upon the autumn leaves. She swallows bile and terror and confusion, her shoulders hunching forward as much as her bonds allow.

"Ah, Miss Granger, I hear you have been a very naughty girl."

The face that leers down at her is no face at all. His nose is missing, as if he is more skeleton than man. His eyes are wrong too, serpentine and cold. And his skin is the pallor of death, the same hue as her Aunt Holly's corpse after the hospital monitors stopped beeping. Another thought swims through the empty recesses of her ruined mind, but it's gone before she can catch it.

She doesn't say anything. The not-man doesn't seem to mind. "Don't fret, my dear, I'll make quick work of you and your pathetic secrets."

She merely stares back. She is lost, but she will not succumb to the cold vines of terror rooting through her. She has no idea who she is, what she is doing here. But she knows she is not a coward. She will face this terror with open eyes.

His serpentine eyes flash red and his razor thin mouth twists into a blood-curdling grin.

"You and I are going to have so much fun, Miss Granger."