It felt like fire thrumming through her veins.
The wicked Fermented Fiendfyre, the crackling blaze behind them that cast them both in a golden glow, the smouldering glances and tentative touches between them.
Hermione wondered belatedly if that was why Draco was so cold all the time. He had to keep it all locked up; the grief, the yearning, the desire. The cruelty, the hate, the infinite rage. It crystallized within him into shards of ice. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if he let it out. He would unravel.
There was no room for mistakes in a war, especially not in the high stakes game he played. He balanced precariously on a precipice.
He performed exquisitely in every role demanded of him, donning the mask and becoming the archetype.
Spy. Saboteur. General. High Reeve.
She didn't know which facet of him was real. They all felt very real to her. He was a liquid form that took on the shape of whichever vessel he poured himself in.
He was liquid and molten before her, tentative touches that left searing trails on her skin.
Hermione pulled back first, gasping as if surfacing from a dive. It felt as if air had left the room. Her chest heaved as her heart pounded, and her lungs worked in tandem.
Blood rushed through her veins and warmed her face. A matching flush adorned Draco's face.
His eyelids were lowered and his lips were parted tantalizingly. She wanted to fall back in and lose herself but she knew it would be the beginning of the end.
For her.
For the Insurgency.
For the tentative detente between them, born of quiet reprieves in the cliffside cottage.
Hermione had to hold herself back. She wanted to throw herself into his embrace; wanted to luxuriate in it and forget who she was, who he was. She wanted to forget about the war that encircled them both like a snarling dog, forget about the violence and suffering. Life had been cold and empty for so long.
He chased away her sadness like shadows melting before the rising sun. It was addictive and it tormented her, because it could never be.
Draco seemed to realize the same as he stared back at her. There was a tinge of regret in his expression.
Did he regret kissing her? Or did he regret that a kiss was all they could allow between each other?
"I- … I'm sorry. We need to go," Hermione whispered. Her voice was hoarse from disuse and alcohol. Her limbs trembled as she pulled herself up onto unsteady legs and kneeled down to pack her rucksack. She avoided looking at Draco.
She couldn't bear seeing his face.
He rose silently and helped her pack, not speaking a word.
The air between them had felt so electrified just moments before. Magic and a deeper something seemed to thrum and hover between them but was now extinguished. In its place, a building tension creeped in.
Rucksack packed (and cursed Fermented Fiendfyre bottle corked and tucked away), Hermione followed Draco out of the cottage and into the moonlit night. He offered out his arm wordlessly, and Hermione grasped it.
They disappeared with a pop and materialized in the entry hall of the Malfoy estate.
The walk to Narcissa's bedroom was tense. Hermione tried not to think about what had transpired between them in the cottage, and what that meant for them moving forward.
Narcissa would be wake soon. The healing sessions would, undoubtedly, transform into focusing on her care. Draco would likely be absent from them with the exception of an occasional imbued blood transfusion.
It meant her time with him was coming to a close. She had no further reason to be alone with him so often and so privately.
The realization settled into her stomach like bitter, acrid acid. She wanted to mourn the loss but there was a certain voice in her that stopped her.
Did you forget he's the High Reeve? it whispered to her. Did you forget you're to betray him soon? Is it not enough that you've been tasked with his death, but you need to make the twist of the knife even crueller by drawing his attention and affection first?
Hermione swallowed heavily.
They were at the double doors of Narcissa's bedroom already. Draco pushed it open and Conjured the velvet chaise lounge and she followed him in. He shed his outer cloak and robes, then pulled off the black long sleeved shirt he wore. He sat back, shirtless, and avoided looking at her.
Hermione began preparing her supplies, Conjured and laid out her tools. The wretched alcohol had worn off by now and reality seemed even colder by comparison, without liquid courage in her veins.
Her hands were steady but her breathing was laboured. Each breath seemed to rattle out of her lungs.
This was the beginning of the end.
With one final flick of her wand, she arranged everything in its place and took her seat next to Draco. She had harvested a minute amount of blood from Narcissa, and painted the runic template on Draco's chest with her blood. Putting down her wand and picking up the goblin wrought silver knife, she started cutting into him.
The silence was punctuated only by his hisses and groans of pain. Hermione wanted to reach out and soothe him but there was nothing to be done about it, not if they wanted the Ritual completed. Pain relief potions couldn't be used during the Ritual - they interacted with the magic of the blood.
Hermione stared down grimly as she worked. She wished she could be as cold and controlled as Draco normally was. Tamping down her emotions and trampling them, pretending they never existed. Pretending this didn't hurt her too.
When the last of the runes were cut in and the imbued blood wrenched out of him, she stared at the cursed silver bowl.
What had looked so tantalizing and delicious to her in the past, now looked grotesque and obscene.
Working carefully, she stitched Draco up magically as best she could. The flaps of skin refused to bridge themselves together no matter how hard she tried.
Hermione avoided looking at Draco in the eye. She was certain he was avoiding looking at her too.
Drowning the wounds in Essence of Dittany and packing them with gauze was all she could do. She wrapped the bandages securely around his chest, trying her best not to touch his bare skin directly.
Once Draco was bandaged and no longer in danger of bleeding out, Hermione rose and carried the silver bowl over to Narcissa. Working as if on auto-pilot, she made a tiny incision in Narcissa's arm again and began pouring the imbued blood back into her.
Draco eased himself off the sofa and joined her to watch. Hermione mustered her courage and finally peeked up at him through her lashes.
There was an indecipherable expression on his face. It was complex and conflicted and Hermione could only unravel a few threads of the bundle.
Hope, regret, guilt lay entwined upon his visage. Reverence, too.
As you sow, so you shall reap.
He had made devastating, gruelling self-sacrifices for his mother.
Hermione turned her gaze to watch the transformation take hold of Narcissa. Imbued blood surged through her, drenching every cell in her body. The magic pulsated through her being, turning anew everything that had been tainted by dark. Senescence itself seemed to withdraw in the wake of the pure, thrumming power that flooded.
She was no longer bound by the clutches of Dark Magic.
Narcissa looked younger, rejuvenated. A healthy flush across her high cheekbones, plump lips and luminous skin. She could've been Draco's older sister.
Bending down with one hand placed gently on Narcissa's chest to steady the woman, Hermione raised her wand and brought it to touch Narcissa's temple.
A whispered incantation to pull Narcissa from her magical sleep floated in the air.
Hermione stared on anxiously. She could feel Draco tense at her side, hardly daring to breathe, lest he disturb the tentative magic.
A few moments passed and then Narcissa stirred slightly. Her fingertips twitched and her eyes fluttered open, finally.
Dark eyes stared back at them both, dulled by her extended sleep. Narcissa's brow was wrinkled in confusion as she took in the sight of Hermione and Draco standing before her.
"N-Narcissa? I'm Hermione Granger. I'm here as your Healer. You suffered an … injury. Do you know where you are?"
Hermione bit her lip and watched as Narcissa turned her head to take in her room around her. Clarity seeped in slowly and Hermione watched as Narcissa grew cold and tense.
She turned back to Hermione and stared at her icily.
"I know where I am," she said. Her gaze met Draco's and she stared at him for a few moments. There was a deep, abject pain in her expression.
"You shouldn't have done this, Draco. This was a mistake," she whispered. Narcissa fell silent and looked away, refusing to meet their eye.
Hermione stilled. She could hear Draco's laboured breathing next to her. She turned her head to look at him and found all emotion gone from his face.
His expression had shuttered and he was once again unreachable. He was Occluding, Hermione realized. Draco was gone and in his place was, once again, Malfoy.
The High Reeve.
Hermione took a tentative step back and fumbled for her rucksack. She picked it up and cleared her throat.
"I'll um … I'll leave you two alone and give you some privacy. I'll be … I'll be in the entry hall when you're done, D-Draco," she whispered out.
The silence in the room was deafening. Draco stood tense and did not acknowledge her - she wasn't sure if he had even heard her. Narcissa was staring fixedly away and pointedly ignoring her.
Backing swiftly away, Hermione turned and shut the door on the frozen pair.
The route down to the entry hall was a blur. Of all the possible reactions she had hoped for, everything from fragile delight to tentative heartbreak, Hermione hadn't expected this.
Something unspoken and meaningful had passed between Narcissa and Draco, she was sure of it. The witch had awoken from magical coma spanning multiple months in length and had kept her wits about her. She was fully cognizant of the situation she was in and she … despised it.
She was resentful of Draco.
Narcissa hadn't been delighted by the healing or her son's sacrifice. She had looked grave and horrified when she realized what he had done.
Hermione reached the entry hall and stood there awkwardly, uncertain. Then, tentatively: "M-Mippet?" she called out.
The tiny elf appeared with a pop, exploding forth from thin air. She bowed deeply until the tips of her ears touched the sparkling marble floors, and then beamed up at Hermione. She wore a fluffy white towel, tied in a toga this time.
Rummaging through her rucksack, Hermione caught hold of Narcissa's care sheets and playbook and brought it out with some difficulty. The parchment was slightly crinkled.
"Mistress Narcissa is awake now," she told the elf gently. Hermione handed over the parchment and Mippet accepted gratefully, delight obvious in her face.
"Oh we is missing the Mistress! The other elves will be overjoyed, we was very worried about Miss Narcissa and missing her very dearly," she squeaked. Mippet hugged the stack of parchment to her chest and gazed up at Hermione with a sense of awe.
Hermione was reminded uncomfortably of Dobby's bizarre infatuation with Harry.
"Err, yes. The instructions are written in there for caring for Narcissa and if anything happens, anything you're unsure about, you can just-"
Hermione broke off as she heard the distant echo of footsteps on the marble. She turned around around and saw Draco fast approaching. Giving Mippet a meaningful look, the elf understood immediately and bowed, then Disapparated with a pop.
It was just the two of them in the entry hall when Draco arrived shortly.
His mask was firmly back in place but even Occlumency couldn't hide the cold rage within him. Dark Magic seemed to billow from him in waves, suffocating and malevolent.
Hermione felt fear grip her, once again. The tender moments in the cliffside cottage had made her forget, temporarily, who he really was.
She felt blindsided as she stared up at his cold, beautiful face. Apprehension and anxiety gripped painfully on her heart and squeezed.
"Narcissa has refused further healing sessions so our partnership ends today," he sneered down at her. The rage was palpable in the air but it was diffuse.
He was furious but it wasn't directed at Hermione. The realization did nothing to ease her fear.
Draco stared down at her. His expression was hard and he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, for there was a slight hesitation before he spoke again.
"The Dark Lord will be secretly in Romania next week, hammering out a final agreement with the democratic government. If the Insurgency needed a decisive win, now is the time to chance it. If the Insurgency were to target multiple bases first, the response to an assault on Sussex would be - … delayed," he finished.
Hermione's eyes widened.
Sussex. They would be able to bring down Sussex and cripple Voldemort's future developments.
She stared up at Draco. She wanted so badly to … confess.
She wanted to tell him she didn't want their meetings to end. That she would worry about him if she didn't see him anymore. That she …
Hermione swallowed back her words and said nothing. Her hands trembled.
He held out a sealed scroll of parchment, which Hermione accepted with trembling hands. Then, his hand snaked out and grasped her wrist in a painful hold. His fingers tightened as Hermione gasped in shock and fear.
"Get out of my house, mudblood. I don't want to ever see you again. I'll have to kill you if I do," he sneered coldly. He let go of her.
His eyes glittered maliciously and Hermione recoiled as if he had reached out and struck her.
She Disapparated with a pop.
Appearing immediately on the doorstep of Snape's home in Spinner's End, she banged manically on the door. A fever tempo pounded out in her fists.
Every bang that reverberated through the shabby door matched the thumping in her chest. Fear, desperation, humiliation drove her in equal parts.
Snape opened the door a crack and scowled out at her. Despite the late hour, he was dressed in his typical robes.
Hermione pushed past him without a word as tears rolled down her face. She took in gasping breaths and flung herself onto the shabby couch. Her legs wouldn't support her any longer; they had given up.
Through teary sobs, she told Snape what had happened. About Narcissa's unexpected reaction, Draco's cold demeanour and threat to her life. She left out the drunken confession in the cottage - she was humiliated enough at being discarded by Draco. She didn't need Snape's sneering distaste looming over her too.
Her sobs subsided slowly and she stared down at the sealed scroll of parchment, clutched desperately in her hand. With trembling fingers, she held it out to Snape.
He accepted it with curiousity in his gaze, walking around to his writing desk. His black eyes glittered like perfectly cut onyxes as he unsealed the wax emblem and unrolled the parchment. It was spread before him, a massive diagram of some sort. Hermione watched carefully as Snape's eyes widened.
He stared hungrily at the parchment. His eyes flit across the scroll and devoured the information before he pulled back.
His gaze met Hermione's searching eyes.
"Draco … has given us the blueprints to Sussex. These maps show the layout of each floor of the building. Access and egress points. Corridors that would be a chokehold. Labs where the most sensitive information is developed and stored."
Hermione stared at him in shock.
"But …" she whispered, grasping desperately to pull together her disjointed thoughts.
"It would give him away then. They would know if there was a spy in their midst if the Insurgency attacked so precisely," she breathed. "He would be punished."
Snape stared at her. His expression was hard and there was an intense look of focus on his face, as if he were trying to divine her thoughts without using Legilimency.
"Miss Granger, do you know why Draco was punished so severely a few weeks ago?" he asked quite casually. Snape's eyes were calculating as he stared at her.
"He- … He said it was because he had failed the Dark Lord." Hermione hesitated at Snape's intensely dark expression. "He said he was responsible for not training the troops hard enough."
"A very curious thing it was," Snape drawled. He leaned in slightly, as if letting Hermione in on a lurid secret. "I have known the Dark Lord to be cruel and exacting, but his punishment of Draco was excessive even by his standards. That was, until, I realized the extent of our losses. A dozen Death Eaters strung up nastily by the Insurgency over the past few months. Gone unnoticed until now, as the sheer size of the Dark Army has ballooned in turn."
Hermione stared at him with puzzlement and waited. There was something else there, something that wasn't clicking. Not yet.
"Draco was punished severely for our losses, and yet … when Moody, Shacklebolt and I did our reviews of every single mission report from the past year … do you know what we found, Miss Granger?" he hissed coldly at her.
Snape rose quite suddenly and stalked over, around his desk, to stand directly before Hermione. He stared down at her with a most cruel, twisted expression.
Hermione froze. Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
"We found, Miss Granger, through every single mission report. All catalogued, all written carefully, all verified and double and even triple checked. We, the Insurgency, only managed to kill three Death Eaters. Yaxley. Gibbon. Mulciber."
Snape let the words hang in the air. Hermione's blood had run cold.
"The other nine bodies were found carefully torn apart with the Exitialis scalpere curse, a curse that only recently fell into our hands. And yet, their deaths had been carefully constructed in a way as to suggest it was the Insurgency's work. It was only through intense examination that I was able to re-construct the experimentation used on them; Dark Magic to keep them alive, obscured and hidden carefully. Days of torture. Bleeding out most painfully."
Snape's words hissed at her and there was a roaring, a ringing in her ears. A void of dread in her chest.
"Do you know why the perpetrator did this, Miss Granger?" he asked. It was a question with an answer she did not want to hear, but Hermione shook her head dutifully anyway. A distant ringing had started in her ears. She didn't want to know.
She had to know.
She needed to know.
"It looks like the perpetrator was attempting to remove the Dark Mark. To no longer be trackable, traceable by the Dark Lord. To be able to wield a weapon against Him, without their very own blood cursing them to death, festering into a septic waste in their veins. Killing them instantly."
The silence was roaring at her. Every nerve in Hermione's body seemed to scream and burn.
"Now why," Snape whispered and leaned in, until his breath was warm on her face. "Why would someone … torture Death Eaters … take them out most cruelly and slowly … and make it look as if it was the Insurgency that did it? Why would someone experiment directly on the Dark Mark, and pit two factions against each other?"
His breath ghosted across her face. The cruellest, coldest mockery of the drunken intimacy between her and Draco.
Hermione's tear filled eyes met Snape's as she trembled.
"He- … Draco's … Draco's ambidextrous," she confessed with a shaky breath. "He's … he's been planning, trying to get it off for years. He's been planning for years. He's working away on some kind of project in the Malfoy estate, the house elf let it slip."
She flung herself back onto the sofa as her heart raced painfully. Snape met her eye and stared at her with resignation and cruelty in his gaze.
They had come to the same painful conclusion.
Draco was making a bid to overthrow the Dark Lord and seize power for himself.
The High Reeve.
The next Dark Lord.