AN: Hi! I have this story cross-posted to AO3 (you can find me there under the same username, hellvwng). I am able to respond and engage much more easily and freely there and I LOVE chatting with readers and discussing with them, so please read and comment over there if you'd like! Thank you to everyone that has commented already: I read each and every review and I'm eternally humbled that people are enjoying my story. mwahhh
The secret that Shell Cottage was hiding was state-sanctioned violence.
Hermione had long suspected that the Insurgency was using more than just Veritaserum and Legilimency to procure intelligence. She figured prisoners were being roughed up a bit, maybe threatened.
She had no idea that they were being routinely tortured in a below ground prison at Shell Cottage.
Bill, true to his word, had come for her, to make good on her end of the bargain. He had approached Hermione at dinner the day after her meeting with Moody, casually inquiring if she could brew him some Wolfsbane Potion.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," he announced loudly to any eavesdroppers. "I'm just finding myself more on edge than usual during the full moon; could you spare a few vials?"
"Of course, why don't I come with you to Shell Cottage and show you how to brew it?" Hermione suggested helpfully. She plastered a superficial smile on her face. Bill returned hers with an equally insincere one of his own.
They left Grimmauld Place without a second glance from any onlookers, and Apparated to Shell Cottage. In the dreary fog of the night, the cottage looked ethereal and ghostly. It seemed far away and out of reach, the glowing windows beaming a gentle siren call to her.
Without further preamble, Bill jerked his head and led Hermione around the yard to a set of cellar doors tucked into the back of the cottage. A complex ward had been etched into the wood to seal the entire complex shut, and hidden carefully.
It was only through careful examination and precisely cast Curse Reveal spells that the ward appeared. Bill showed her how to break apart the wards without blowing herself up.
"All the stored energy has been directed to flow outwards only," he remarked nonchalantly. "A precaution in case the Death Eaters think they can trigger the whole thing to collapse inward and kill our prisoners."
"Charming," Hermione offered feebly. In truth, she did not relish having to go through this complex step each time she returned. Her palms were slightly sweaty at the idea that one wrong flick of her wand would have her exploded like a meaty popcorn kernel.
Once the wards had been successfully disabled and no one had been turned into meaty popcorn, they made their way down a set of stone steps and down a corridor.
Unassuming in its outer appearance, the below ground portion of Shell Cottage had been magically enlarged, enchanted and reinforced into a military prison. Heavy stone tiles made up the floor and walls, and torches every few feet along held eternally burning flames to offer light. Hermione snuck glances around as she followed Bill; it was a magi-engineering feat.
The complexity and planning behind it somewhat unnerved Hermione. It looked like Moody and the other authority figures of the Insurgency had ambitious plans for the trajectory of the war.
Turning down another corridor and opening a heavy steel door that sectored off a portion of the prison, Bill gestured for Hermione to enter. She made her way in anxiously and found herself in a block of cells, one of which was occupied. The heavy steel door shut with a ringing thud as Bill closed it behind them.
Gabrielle Delacour sat behind the iron-wrought bars of a prison cell, completely at ease on a comfortable arm chair she had apparently Conjured. She rose quickly and her face spread into a dimpled smile of genuine delight at seeing Hermione.
"'Ermione! Eet 'az been far too long!" she exclaimed happily. She made her way out of the cell and embraced Hermione warmly, wrapping her arms around her neck and pulling her in close. The sweet scent of jasmine and apricot wafted over Hermione. She withdrew with a flourish and planted a chaste kiss on Hermione's cheek.
Hermione responded somewhat stiffly, giving Gabrielle a perfunctory hug in return. She was distracted by the other occupant of the cell, and couldn't help but stare.
Gabrielle looked around in surprise, before realizing what Hermione was fixated on.
"Oh! Zat," said Gabrielle dismissively, with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. Her nails were painted a light pink, with shiny white tips. A French manicure.
She withdrew from Hermione and beckoned her into the cell. Hermione followed her in slowly, and stood next to her.
They stared down at a crumpled male form, brutally beaten. Hermione couldn't tell much about the man; his injuries were too extensive, and he laid partially on his side. Skimming her eyes over him, she saw that he had multiple contusions on his face, and seemed to be leaking blood onto the stone floor from his crotch.
His chest rose and fell awkwardly under his thin bloodstained shirt. A broken rib, Hermione registered faintly.
Gabrielle was staring down at the man with an expression of contempt. Hermione met her eye questioningly, and Gabrielle gave a light shrug.
"'E was quite stubborn but … I am sure you will be able to convince 'im, 'Ermione." Gabrielle shot her a knowing smile, before nodding her head at Bill. "I will go see what Fleur eez up to, perhaps 'elp 'er with dinner - farewell!"
Gabrielle stepped delicately around the injured prisoner, taking care to step on his already broken fingers, and then glided her way out. Her heeled boots clicked elegantly on the stone tiles and Hermione watched as Gabrielle departed, luminous blonde hair swishing.
Hermione waited until Gabrielle was well and truly gone, before speaking.
"This is state-sanctioned violence, Bill. How can you allow this?" she asked quietly. A sense of horror had gripped Hermione. Torturing prisoners of war was both inhumane and illegal. They were supposed to be better than the Death Eaters, to embody and uphold certain morals. To stand for something. "Does Moody know about this?"
Bill's expression was unrelenting; he clearly had no such reservations. "Moody gave his authorization. Him and Shacklebolt have been quite lenient with espionage agents in foreign countries; it's a fair bit harder to connect a string of disappearances and executions with the Insurgency when those countries are sovereign or under Voldemort's control. He does those things by himself already."
Hermione stared at him, thunderstruck.
"Executions?" she asked hoarsely.
"They don't usually smuggle prisoners back into England," he replied calmly. "Gabrielle … I'm not sure how she does it exactly, I think she seduces them, but she's done an excellent job at procuring intelligence from high ranking government officials. She couldn't get this one to talk so she brought him back for you to fix up."
Bill's mouth was a grim slash on his face. He looked extremely tense as he spoke, obviously unapproving of Gabrielle's method.
Hermione stared down at the prisoner before them: a foreign dignitary, then.
"I- … I didn't know she was like this," she breathed. "When did this happen?"
He stared back at her.
"You had left France before it happened. Voldemort's takeover of the country was violent. Most of Gabrielle's classmates at Beauxbatons were rounded up and separated based on blood purity. Gabrielle escaped, purebloodeded enough even with the Veela heritage. Her boyfriend was killed in front of her by Death Eaters. Ever since then she's been- …"
Bill swallowed uncomfortably and broke off. Hermione didn't want to know; didn't want to think about Gabrielle, barely sixteen but ethereally and eternally beautiful, using her body as a tool.
Hermione felt sick at the thought of Gabrielle making her own sacrifices for the war, demands that should never have been placed on a child.
She looked back down at the bloodied prisoner in front of her.
Bill followed her gaze.
"This one's a high ranking minister of something or another in Belgium. Gabrielle met him at a bar, he tried to impress her by telling her that he's the one that the Death Eaters report to. She followed him back to his room, cut him up for intelligence, and then brought him here."
He aimed a savage kick at the ribs of the fallen man. It landed true, and Hermione heard a rattled gasp.
"Bill!" she hissed, grabbing sharply at his arm. Bill stared at her with an eyebrow raised.
Hermione let go of his arm to gesture at the prisoner, who was coughing up little spurts of blood.
"He- … he's not a Death Eater himself. We're no better than Voldemort if we torture civilians like this, what if this comes out once the war is over? It would ruin us," Hermione argued. "It completely destroys the trust that people have in us."
He stared back at her. His expression was hard and he looked unmoved by her plea.
"He's an accomplice to the regime, Hermione," Bill said coldly. Every ragged scar and line in his face seemed to be deepened by his expression of distaste. He directed his vicious gaze to the prisoner. "It doesn't matter if he's not a Death Eater by technicality. He's helping Voldemort remain in power. He's rooting out Belgian resistance fighters. He's sending aid to Voldemort from foreign soil, and making arrangements. He oils the war machine. What, do you need every kill to be branded by the Dark Mark? Is he an innocent in your eyes?"
Bill turned to stare disgustedly at Hermione and she felt herself grow pale. Deep down, she knew Bill was right. Their prisoner could've resisted the same way they did: overtly, furiously, courageously. Recklessly. He could've remained passive in the face of war, hidden away or fled, or picked any other role.
Instead, he rose up to warmly greet the Dark Lord and turn on his own countrymen. A Judas goat.
"Heal him up or interrogate him yourself, you have the medical means. Kill him, for all I care. Either way, we're disposing of him once we finish."
Bill shot a final, cruel look at the prisoner, before striding out of the cell. He made his way out of the cell block and pulled the heavy steel door behind him, leaving Hermione alone with the prisoner.
Hermione stared down apprehensively.
It didn't really matter what she did, then. The man in front of her was going to die regardless. By her hand.
By Bill's, or Gabrielle's. It didn't really matter.
And yet - it did.
She had the means to make his passing ever more gentle. She had medical magic and Legilimency. She had mercy.
Kneeling down quickly before she lost her nerve, Hermione whipped her wand out and pressed it against the man's temple. She needled her magic into his brain, going by feel and sensation alone. It was gruelling, exhausting work; the level of magic control had to be precise and perfect, without any sort of tactile feedback. Unlike casting a diagnostic charm and observing the results, what she was doing now was by feel and experience alone. It felt like fumbling her way blindly through the dark. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and Hermione could feel her shirt slowly becoming soaked with sweat. Once she was certain that her magic had reached the exact region necessary, she whispered a Severing Charm.
His prefrontal cortex had been disconnected from the rest of his brain, neurons sliced cleanly apart. Magic sizzled in every neuron, sending impulses cascading along.
The beginnings of a tension headache gripped her, but she ignored it.
Grabbing the prisoner's jaw roughly, Hermione tilted his head up and peeled back an eyelid. He struggled weakly, but had been worn down by Bill and Gabrielle already.
"Legilimens!" she urged.
Hermione could feel herself pulled into the mind of the man before him. Flashes of memory and sensation swirled around her, and she took a moment to collect herself before speaking.
"What were you hiding from the Insurgency?" she asked calmly.
He tried to raise his arms to push her back, but Hermione's grip on his jaw held firm. Her Legilimency probed and pressed upon his mind.
His defences had been shattered by Hermione's surgical precision. Without his prefrontal cortex, he was unable to suppress the truth, or carry out any executive functions.
Lying was out of his grasp. He had no control over his own mind anymore.
Whispers swirled in response and Hermione chased after them. He replayed memories without his consent, unable to resist.
An assault planned in a few weeks time. Belgian troops to help supply Voldemort's army on the Eastern front, pushing from Poland and Romania to overtake Slovakia and Hungary. This would be a critical campaign; if successful, it meant Voldemort could push into Ukraine, Belarus and then Russia.
Hermione considered carefully, turning the information over in her brain. Reasoning the validity of the intelligence procured, weighing it against what she already knew to be true.
She Conjured a bit of parchment and a quill, and rapidly scribbled the details she had managed to pry out of the prisoner.
The pressure in her own head was building steadily, from the combined fatigue of Legilimency and her neurosurgical magic. Ignoring it, Hermione put aside the writing utensils and then directed her focus back to the prisoner.
"Anything else?" she asked promptly. He gave no response outwardly, but a few images flashed across his mind.
Hermione gripped his jaw and stared into his eyes. She latched onto them immediately.
It was a memory of Gabrielle from the prisoner's perspective. He was observing her from a distance at a night club, watching her admiringly. Hermione could see- no, feel his gaze linger on Gabrielle's long, toned legs. His eyes wandered up curiously to the curve of her thigh, just barely covered by a form fitting, sequinned black dress. Neon pink and blue lights pulsated to the bass of heavy club music, flashing upon Gabrielle and illuminating her from different angles. She was first lit by neon, consumed by darkness, and the cycle repeated over and over rapidly.
Gabrielle turned. She caught his eye. Hermione watched as Gabrielle scanned him from head to toe with a hungry expression on her face, and made her way over. She wore strappy, open-toed sandals that emphasized the sway of her hips as she moved. Once she was close enough, she bent down to whisper in his ear. Her platinum hair was a waterfall that hid them both from view, but Hermione alone could hear Gabrielle's whispers and feel the ghost of her lips brush on his ear.
The scene changed.
They were in an alcove near the washrooms, poorly lit and tucked away. He was pulling Gabrielle's hair back to leave open mouthed kisses on her neck, moaning in her ear. Hermione could feel Gabrielle hook a leg over the man's hip as he crashed into her, pushing her against the wall of the night club. The walls thumped heavily with bass music, and Hermione could smell Gabrielle. Jasmine and apricot.
"Let uz go … somewhere more private, I theenk?" Gabrielle whispered. The man pulled back to stare into Gabrielle's angelic face. Her eyelids were lowered with lust, and her lips were swollen from his kisses. Hermione could feel the man nod eagerly, excitedly.
The scene changed again.
He was naked and bound to his own hotel bed. Gabrielle, who had been rubbing against him sensually just moments before, was now standing above him.
Hermione could see the feral, Veela rage in her expression. There was something truly animal there; Gabrielle had shed her beautiful, human disguise. She was dressed only in her underwear, a matching black lace bra and panty set, and held her wand loosely in her hand.
"So … let's 'ave some fun then, yes?" Gabrielle whispered seductively, trailing her wand down to rest on his groin.
Hermione pulled herself out of the memory, shaking hard. She stared down in abject horror at the prisoner in her lap. Her tension headache pulsated to the beat of the ghostly music that no longer existed, squeezing her mind viciously.
Grabbing her wand with her trembling hand, Hermione steadied it as best she could. She aimed it at the base of his skull and whispered another Severing Charm.
The brain stem was severed completely from the spinal cord.
Hermione watched as the prisoner gave one last shaking exhale and went still.
Closing his eyes gently with her shaking hands, Hermione grabbed the parchment and stood. She stared down at the body.
Her gaze lingered on the blood that pooled around his groin, and she felt bile rise in her throat.
Pushing her way shakily out of the prison cell before she vomited, Hermione strode rapidly out and slammed the steel door behind her. She made her way through the corridors, then climbed out from the cellar door.
Circling around to the front entrance of Shell Cottage, she paused for a second. Through the window, she could see Gabrielle, Fleur, and Bill. They were seated together at the small dinner table, laughing about something. Gabrielle threw her head back in a childish fit of giggles, waving her hands rapidly to emphasize the story she was regaling them with. Fleur gazed at her little sister with affection while Bill smiled into his food.
Hermione knocked on the door. She could see the conversation at the table stop at once, before Bill rose to answer her.
"Hermione," he greeted lightly. Their heated exchange in the prison cell below Shell Cottage had been forgotten easily. She liked that about Bill.
Hermione held out the parchment bit, and Bill accepted it wordlessly. He stared down for a second, seemingly impressed at her handiwork.
"I … took care of him for you," Hermione said cagily. Bill looked up in mild surprise, before nodding slowly.
"'Ermione! Pleez, come in for dinner! I 'ave made too much, we would love to 'ave you!" Fleur exclaimed from the table. She rose to begin setting a place for Hermione.
"No! No, it's really okay, I- I have a lot of work back at base," Hermione bit out quickly. She shot Fleur a tight smile before her gaze wandered to Gabrielle.
Gabrielle shot her a flirty wink and clicked her tongue saucily at Hermione.
Hermione's stomach dropped, before she caught herself and flashed Gabrielle a tight smile in return.
Then, backing away quickly from the door, she gave one last overly cheerful wave to them all before Apparating.
Her head was throbbing viciously when she appeared on the cliff. Without knowing it, without thinking about it, she had automatically Apparated to the cliffside cottage.
Staring up at it, Hermione moved towards it as if in a trance.
She didn't want to go back to Grimmauld Place, where her only refuge from the rest of the Insurgency was in her dreary dungeon. The infirmary was her territory but it had been plagued by the smell of the sick and dying for so long, barely disguised by Cleaning Spells and antiseptic.
The shared dormitory with the other girls was an awkward, frustrating affair. Sometimes she walked in on someone crying and didn't know what to do, because she had also went in with the intention of crying in private. Was it bad form to join a girl that was already crying?
Hermione entered the cottage and pulled the door closed behind her, as if in a dream. Everything had taken on a slightly unreal quality.
She had interrogated a prisoner and then executed him. She had committed state-sanctioned violence and murder. There was blood on her hands, literally and figuratively.
Hermione stared down impassively at the blood crusted underneath her nails, drying on her skin. She wondered how Gabrielle maintained such impeccable personal grooming while disfiguring and mutilating men.
She cast a quick Scourgify on her hands and under her nails before tossing her wand limply onto the coffee table. It fell with a clatter and rolled a few turns, before stilling.
She sat for a few minutes, hands empty and staring into nothing. She leaned back into the sofa, utterly spent. Her head pounded. She was exhausted and miserable.
War had crafted them all into different, terrible people. She had become cold and ruthless, and would do anything for the Insurgency. Gabrielle had been turned into a femme fatale, seducing men and weaponizing her body.
Hermione no longer recognized her, or herself.
The door was jerked open suddenly and she whipped her head around to gaze at Draco.
He stood in the doorway, in his usual black fatigue pants and long sleeve shirt. He wasn't wearing his Ukrainian Ironbelly body armour, but had a travelling cloak on instead. His hair was tousled roughly, and his expression tight with anxiety as he took her in. His eyes trailed over Hermione's entire form, lingering on her tired face.
The wards - oh shit, she had forgotten about them.
Whatever he saw assuaged his unease apparently, because he slowly entered and made his way over. He stopped a few feet from the sofa and stared at Hermione, seated there.
She stared back. She was so tired and exhausted, of the war and of being the Healer.
After today, she could also add interrogator and executioner to her title, she thought bitterly. They had backed her into a corner and she had let them. Was she really being manipulated, if she allowed it to happen without protest?
Could she really offer herself up, and then be mad when they took her up on her own offer?
Draco let out a quiet sigh and removed his travelling cloak, folding it under his arm. Gingerly, he sat down next to Hermione, just a few inches away.
Neither spoke.
Taking a chance, Hermione leaned over and rested her head on Draco's shoulder. His arm came up automatically to wrap around her much smaller form.
A few moments of silence, and then.
"Long day?" he asked quietly. His voice was hoarse.
Hermione felt the sharp sting of unshed tears in her nose. They collected, unionized, and a few rolled traitorously down her face.
"Long day," she whispered in confirmation. Her voice was shaky.