Reign Down

by DoctorD

Dark AU Occasionally, things do not always go as planned. After the war, the wizarding world is not run by the Light, it's run by power and blood. Hermione's concept of peace and equality has always been relative, even if it's granted under Voldemort's regime. Yet, his carefully crafted utopia cannot be held without sacrifice. It's time for Hermione to prove her worth.

13. Chapter 13

Hermione departed after that, unwilling to dwell on the rawness she'd left behind in that receiving room. Her hasty excuse of needing to attend to her general duties before assembling her team had been readily accepted by Narcissa and Rita had only given her a subdued wave as she'd scurried toward the door.

Later, when the pressure of success and saving a people she no longer knew if she believed in had lessened, she could think about Rita's words and the value of Muggle-bred integrity.

Despite the nature of the manor she found her quarters easily enough and taking the steps two at a time it wasn't long before she was shuffling down the guest hallway, lured by the odd beat of Luna's magic against her skin.

"Hermione," Luna's voice floated over, unencumbered due to the open door. "Your magic is buzzing."

Hermione shook her head, not bothering to answer as she slipped past the threshold and kicked off her shoes. Immediately thereafter, she moved to the bed, ignoring Luna's position at the elegant writing desk-and the heated tug at her magic core from the egg in its enclosure- with her various quills and floating ink-pots. She knew her companion turned seneschal often worked on her accounts-and other important pure-blood aspects of budding house ownership-whenever Hermione separated from her. There was little need to ask about the management and progress, Luna would more or less tell her whatever needed to be told without prompting.

"Gringotts," Luna said, and Hermione could feel her gaze upon her backside as she knelt on her knees and began to rummage beneath the bed, "We should pencil in some time."

"Whatever for?" Hermione grunted, knowing that the goblins were no fan of hers. It was only the fact that she'd been punished directly after the war that kept them begrudgingly handling her accounts—while taking a few knuts off the side for something penned in as 'dragon compensation'. "What do the goblins want?"

"Your galleons," Luna chirped, pleased by the question.

"They have those already."

"More of them, they'd like more of them."

"Always," Hermione grumbled as she slipped a hand underneath the bed with belly flat on the ground as she clawed for the object she knew had to be under there.

"They also need to speak with you. House things."

Hermione spared a glance over her shoulder just as her fingertips collided with something solid, "House things?"

"Registering. Rings. You know."

"I don't know," Hermione drawled.

"You will know." Luna answered, though she didn't supply anything else.

"Luna…" Hermione said, distracted as she began to pull the object from under the bed and sit up from her undignified squirming.

"Later," Luna answered happily, "I want the pixies to feed tonight. Distractions would be counter-productive."

Instead of feeding into the weirdness of the statement Hermione took stock of her retrieved treasure. There, on bended knees, she could feel the heavy weight of the box upon her lap. For a brief moment, she only stared, drawn into twisted memories by the representation of what was held within. Screaming, so much screaming. Pain. So much pain. Yet the phantom churning in her gut, associated feelings she'd come to expect, never came. Instead, her heartbeat quickened as she stroked along the runes she'd crudely carved into the silver surface to keep it locked.

Concerning. That was concerning.

A question danced on the tip of her tongue, held back only by fear of the answer.

"Have you ever been on a raid, Luna?"

She held her breath while Luna made a curious sound behind her.

"I don't think so."

Her dreamy reply wasn't very satisfying.

"You don't think so?" Hermione said, incredulous.

"All the Death Eaters have, at some point."

Hermione bit her bottom lip, "Aren't you…?"

"I am a prize. The only daughter of a pure-blood house fallen from grace," Luna said, and while her words were damaging her tone was casual. Nearly positive.

"So, you suspect that others then-"

"Draco, definitely."

Of course, that wasn't surprising.

"I need to speak to him."

"Of course," Luna said.

"This has to be successful." Hermione whispered, box in hand as she stood.

"Of course," Luna repeated.

"If he has experience, if he can help me save them-anyone-then he'll have the best knowledge on who to take."

This time, Luna did not respond, but Hermione could feel a shift in the room and knew that her companion had left her seat to approach her tense and hunched back.

"How can you be so calm?" Hermione asked, and while she wasn't a bundle of nerves-not anymore-she still felt a mild sense of trepidation in the pit of her belly. They were meant to kill tonight, meant to rend meat from bone in the name of their Lord. They would swarm the den of their enemies and remember that they'd once been allies.

"I'm not worried," Luna lightly touched the arm that hosted Hermione's mark, an arm currently covered by the jumper she wore, "You will save as many as you can and do what must be done to anyone else."

Hermione swallowed thickly, "I wonder, in the face of this challenge, if I'll be able to."

There were a lot of unknown factors. How many still dwelled within the Tonks residence? How much hope would she shatter for the Light upon her rampage? How many lives could be exchanged just so she could feel alive. It was all so incredibly selfish, to damn their future for a moment in the present.

"The future The Boy would have brought never came," Luna theorized, "the future that may have been foggy and stagnant. You will protect the one we will build now."

"And what is this one? If that one would have brought no change and this one brings too much change-"

"Mmm… it feels like power and effort. Like security and reform."

"Like death and pain." Hermione muttered.

"There will always be pain," Luna answered simply, "but death is a gift by the masters."

Bestowed upon the lowly people by their elevated god.

They stood in silence. Luna behind her, with her arm in her grip and Hermione with the solace she found in her silver box of hoarded treasures. There was no point in further discussion. She had made her decision the moment she step foot back into Malfoy Manor and subjugated Umbridge before a hungry crowd of the elite and proper. She had already engaged on a journey of self-discovery, and though she felt brittle someone would always be around to fill in her cracks. She had to push forward for the now. For the family she'd yet cemented and the world she didn't quite want to burn.

And the magic, oh Godrick, the magic.

Hermione turned to hand the box to Luna, "Make sure Bellatrix receives this. I'm going to find Draco."

Luna took the box from her grip, treating it gingerly, "Of course."

"You'll come with me tonight, won't you?"

Luna smiled, her dreamy gaze filled with warm adoration-

"Of course."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Salt and Circle was an interesting locale. At first glance it was just another pub, some shady location tucked away in the corner of Knockturn Alley near the various brothels and one of the stained-but dormant-execution squares. For the most part it was a relatively deserted space, suspiciously sparse in decoration or volume. Once upon a time, she might have envisioned their commandeered corner flush with witches and wizards of a more dubious nature, but now only a hag or two skittered by with nervous energy. Perhaps, during those first few years of strife and rebellion, they had used the space to slaughter and maim among their peers. Already she could feel the odd stirring of resting magic-once raised through the despair and pain of the unfortunate-but it was so thin that she could barely focus on it beyond the stench of piss and firewhisky.

"Don't look so sour," Draco murmured, his voice a tickle in her ear and entirely unwelcome as they stalked toward the unassuming building, "This place is much more active during the day."

Hermione huffed, "I'm more concerned about the sanitation, than I am the popularity."

"It's plenty sanitary, on the inside." Draco hastily said, "And the shops are clean and legal."

"As opposed to dirty and illegal." Hermione quirked a brow.

"Cheeky," Draco scoffed. "Keep up that undignified attitude and you'll find yourself hard-pressed for allies."

Hermione twisted her face into a grimace of discomfort, "I only need a handful of junior Death Eaters. I have you, after all."

Draco gave her a scathing look, some cross between exasperated and amused, "Thanks for volunteering me."

"Naturally, Heir Malfoy. I appreciate the assistance."

The usage of his title seemed to be enough to appease him and all too soon he was grinning from ear to ear. "You're learning, Lady Granger."

In her defense, she didn't much have a choice, but wizarding etiquette was the least of her worries.

"Our Lord has revived a great deal of our ritualistic and traditional sanctions. This is a space for those who wish for His esteem and understand the need for culture. It isn't the only place I frequent, but I find it's the most enjoyable." Draco said, his gaze upon the black smudged wood of the door they now stood before. "Wizards and witches of our age come here to drink, but also to comb for those with power. They want to appeal to those who may get them closer to his circle of elite. This is a court, filled with the licentious. Within this pit, there is only one king, only one queen."

Draco turned to her, his hands suddenly upon her shoulders and his gaze unwavering, "Please understand, Hermione. This is often a hellstorm of politics and bottom feeders nipping at our heels for any type of scraps they can find. They would build their legacy on our backs, if they thought they could manage it. For you, it is especially treacherous."

Hermione nodded with solemn agreement, fingers twitching for the weight of her wand.

"But, there is certain information they aren't privy, if they lack the means to grasp it. I will help, in any way I can, as one of your pure-blood sponsors." He searched her face for a reaction, "You do remember what Mother taught you, yes?"

"Of course," She said. Her understanding of sponsorship, while rudimentary, was still strong enough to hold up to those who would question her pure-blood validity. She knew that, without a doubt, the Malfoys were her sponsors, her family of higher status set to educate her on properness and provide the necessary political backing to crack the wall of gentryhood secrecy.

"Good," Draco's shoulders relaxed, "Then I will guide you as much as I can in this manner, as is appropriate. But, this is your raid and it is your job to seek those who may bring you glory. It can be difficult to find… trustworthy comrades and in return they will expect elevation-"

"Elevation?" Hermione blinked, her spine stiff, "As in, house elevation?"

"Nothing so serious, not yet. Though, it is not unheard of to vassal a comrade or two to your household after sufficient proof of proficiency."

Hermione bobbed her head, knowing that Goyle belonged to Draco in this manner.

"But you will only have one Companion, for a time, as dictated by the strength of your house. A vassal is different, more autonomous but supportive, protective. It can still be a tough decision…"

Draco's voice tapered off, probably because he realized he was giving her a crash-course in culture outside of a shady pub.

"Just… talk to me if things get weird."

Hermione gave him a wry smile, "Naturally, Heir Malfoy."

He twisted his lips in a Slytherin worthy scowl but shook his head soon after, "Mum would kill me if anything happened to you, politically or otherwise. I don't even want to think about what my aunt would do."

Hermione had a few ideas based on a couple of choice spells she'd been learning but decided to leave some surprise to the mystery of her… professor.

"I'm counting on you. I have plans," Hermione said. Plans that depended on the successful extraction of a couple of Weasley's and one Andromeda Tonks if they were present.

"I don't do anything for free," Draco replied, surprisingly playful.

"I don't suspect any Slytherin has," Hermione said. Still, she took Draco's offered arm and allowed him to open the door with a series of complex off rhythm knocks, right as she whispered, "But, you may want to consider it, Heir Malfoy, the power I may wield and who it will be pointed at."

The upturn of his lips, in broad smile, and the glimmer that shifted through his eyes was all the evidence she needed to know what he would do.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The outside did not match the inside. There was nothing about the downtrodden building that would have prepared her for the floating lanterns, intimate tables, and cushioned seating arranged in a manner that reminded her rather painfully of Hogwarts and its common rooms. As if Draco had built the place himself he strutted forward, her position on his arm gaining him a great bit of attention from some of the idling patrons.

"Goyle," Draco called and immediately to their left the larger male stood from his place at an empty table, his chair pushed back with a sudden scraping that seemed clumsy and graceless. Still, he carefully tucked it in with all the care of someone who knew they had too much power in just their fists.

"Hello Draco," Gregory answered, his voice a soft hum before he turned black eyes to Hermione. "Lady Granger."

It was odd to see him address her with any semblance of respect. It was odder still when he moved to her unprotected side and seemed to puff up, brutish but protective.

"Thank you, Goyle." Draco answered cordially, and Hermione said nothing, knowing this posturing was perhaps necessary when faced with unknown elements. "Let's have a drink. The usual table?"

Greg nodded fiercely, and as a unit they moved through a surprisingly thick crowd of cloaked individuals. Once or twice someone seemed to stare directly at her, unbelieving or scowling but their trip toward one of the various alcoves in the space went unbothered.

"Wow," Hermione mumbled, hoping her voice was covered by the soft trill of music being played nearby.

"Welcome to my corner, Lady Granger." Draco stopped them before the space and, using a combination of well-practiced motions and the position of her captured arm he twirled her body away from his own until she was placed before one of the high backed cushioned chairs.

There weren't a lot of those, she'd noticed. In fact, Draco's captured space looked extremely well… furnished, in comparison to some of the other areas. There was a green circular carpet at her feet with a splash of silver at the center-silver coaxed into the shape of something decidedly peacock with two embroiled wands set to cross at the center of its chest- a small tea table set off to the side, and a couch opposite the two fluffy arm chairs, one of which she didn't hesitate to occupy. Between the space was a simplistic fat and squat cauldron which must have been spelled to keep the butterbeer and various other liquor bottles, perfectly chilled.

"Within this pub, you can sort of unofficially claim the alcoves. You furnish them however you like," Draco began pleasantly, his speech only interrupted as he reached behind the cauldron to retrieve three glasses from the holder attached at the back, "The influential take their desired spaces," He paused briefly to quirk a brow in her direction, "The more you boast to have, the bigger the area you tend to claim. Yet, I'm not a fan of excess. This is an intimate and appropriate size for a proper court."

He handed her a glass, which she took with wide and curious eyes, "And the others?"

"The others?" Draco asked, before he spared a glance over his shoulder to some of the nervously shifting patrons-either standing or seated at normal looking tables, "Ah, well, they aren't the king are they?"

The comment, initially, went right over her head. It was only when Greg smiled broadly, that something clicked into place.

"So, you weren't being metaphorical earlier? About the king and queen bit?"

"Oh. No. Of course not." He scowled.

She lifted her glass in quiet surrender and in hope that she could get some of that firewhisky Draco seemed intent on pouring, "They all bow before you, then?"

"Some of them. The others don't matter much, to me. Our peers are the ones He's scouting for, so we must contain and control them. I make my alliances here. My rivals. I build my future. When I am Lord, my family will count on me… It's better to learn how to rule now, rather than later, don't you think?"

"And would you share your court?"

Draco was quiet for a moment, his expression carefully controlled as he lifted the bottle toward her glass and began to pour. Only once he was done did he hand the bottle to Greg-who poured his own-and answer her question.

"For His Chosen and the glory of our estate? Yes. Yes, I would. So long as you don't misuse them."

He sat in the chair beside her, one leg crossed over the other in courteous fashion as Greg sat heavily across from them-with a soft omph and smile.

"I have few knights. I don't desire some sprawling kingdom. You'll need to find your own, eventually-and no, Granger, Luna doesn't count. She isn't your knight, she's your trusted advisor, your confidant, your family, your-."

Whatever else he'd intended to say was swallowed by a cheerful cry of-"Draco!"

It should have been inhumanely possible, and maybe also a crime, for someone to look as regally handsome as Blaise Zabini did. Furthermore, the rolling curl of his voice and the smooth operation of his swagger was all the more pronounced among the rabble and envious. He parted the idle crowds with barely any effort. In fact, they seemed to hastily move out of his way, giving Hermione the impression that one did not block the path of Draco's select. Not here anyway.

Draco stood from his seat in a flourish of robes, but his expression was settled-a sort of lopsided smile of gentle awareness that Hermione had never seen on his face before. He was quick to embrace the other man, giving him a hug so fierce Hermione was surprised that neither of them seemed uncomfortable with the open display of affection. In fact, Zabini was quick to return it, practically crushing the smaller man with the strength of his embrace.

For a moment, no matter how brief, they were both preoccupied and Hermione spared a glance to Greg who had also risen upon Blaise approach, who now held another glass within his once unoccupied fist-one Hermione presumed would soon be taken by the newest arrival. There was a brightening of his gaze, a sort of sparkling familiarity that she hadn't seen upon another person's face in… in years. One that she might not have even recognized if not for the joyous bark of Zabini's name Greg released soon after.

So, it was no surprise that Hermione felt slightly… alien there, a figure dabbling in voyeurism. This felt like a private moment, some bond of friendship reignited by men of strife after an unknown tenure apart. There's something special in the way Draco curled his fist against Zabini's back, gathering the material in a bunch. Something… secretive in the odd glimmer of Zabini's eyes that match so well with his wide and genuine smile. Even here, in a near literal pit of what must have been the desperate and greedy, their emotions were so brilliant. She wouldn't have thought them capable… no, she wouldn't have thought any Slytherin capable of such vibrancy.

Yet, that was but another misconception of her Gryffindor upbringing.

For weren't Slytherin's selfish, inconsiderate, and unfeeling? Weren't the idle touches Narcissa gave her, and the strange possessive clutch of Bellatrix just affirmations over their desire to control her? Only Luna touched her with any sort of genuine want for affection, right? Had she always done that? Or was she just as touch starved as Hermione herself?

She swallowed and pushed the thought aside. She needed to focus, Zabini and Draco had parted some time ago, with Zabini delivering a particularly hard smack to Draco's back. After greeting Greg with a firm but friendly hand clasp he finally turned all his attention upon her.

"So, the letters were true? He picked you?"

Hermione might have found offense at the words if the brown of Zabini's gaze hadn't been so dilated and his smile so fervent.

"Very true," Draco said, hands upon his hips.

"Makes sense," Zabini replied, a cocoa colored hand now set to rub lightly at the stubble that covered his still youthful face, "she was bloody brilliant, right?"

"Are you asking me that like you weren't there? Right next to me? In school?"

Zabini gave Draco a withering look, "I didn't go out of my way to bump into their group. Constantly. For the thrill of it."

Hermione held back a bark of laughter at the look of indignation that soured Draco's expression. The way his eyes bulged and his neck muscles twitched as red swept over his cheeks was a clear indication to his anger. Or embarrassment. Or both.

"You spend some time in the jungles of Nosara and come back cheeky?"

"I was being truthful, not cheeky. I came back with a soothed demeanor, I think you're mistaking it for something else."

Hermione shook her head then as Draco raised a hand in a weak sort of dismissive wave. It was clear he didn't find much humor in the statement or the one that had come before it.

"So, it's public then? His proclamation?" Hermione's interjection was enough to gain the attention of all three men and for a moment an uncomfortable sort of silence settled around them, but soon enough Greg-surprisingly-answered the question.

"Only those with the Mark were aware… a-are aware." Greg said, though his tone was unsure, "We knew about it ahead of time. The Lord's research. But we didn't know who it would be until afterwards."

"Those who were at the revel would know, of course." Draco added, "And those who were closest to them."

"I found out from the post," Zabini groused, "but not from anything public. The official proclamation will be done a bit later. Closer to winter solstice, I think. Do you have it?"

"The schedule?" Draco asked, "I do."

"And?" Zabini hissed.

"You can read over all of that later," Draco snorted.

"Fine." Zabini spat, but Hermione could tell it was all in good fun. There wasn't any real aggression in the haughty way he held his body or the way his grin turned sly. "Then what are we here for, exactly, if not to discuss that?"

Draco inclined his head toward the open space beside Greg and Zabini took it with little flourish. "Other things that you may be unaware of, that are a tad more important at this time."

Hermione took a moment to look between the pair, while silence fell over them like a comforting blanket. Only the idle march of the people beyond their circle reminded her that they were not alone and invisible, that if they wished for her to break the quiet they would need more than just ambiance to cover the things she'd say. "Ward us."

Immediately Draco moved, his empty free hand now occupied with the comforting weight of his wand. One soft mumble later and Hermione could feel the chilling pull and drop of magic, Draco's magic, sweep over them and envelope the immediate space. It was only then that Hermione hunched over, hands grasped tightly between one another, her glass forgotten on the nearby table.

"Maybe we should talk about that schedule first," She mumbled, her stomach a cluster of nerves, her gaze somewhat narrowed, "I'm rather curious about whatever that's about."

Draco gave off a snort, far from proper, and shook his head, "No. Later."

As if the management of her life wasn't immediately important. Yet, she wasn't sure how much she could… or should say-

"Blaise is my companion, Hermione." As if sensing her discomfort Draco was quick to explain, "You asked for my opinion, to borrow some insight? You're looking at the best, in terms of advise."

To that Zabini quirked a brow, his posture straightened and his expression took on a far more serious note. Even Draco looked somewhat solemn, but ready to talk of more dangerous tasks, things beyond pure-blood pedigree and fancy revels.

She sighed, but she spoke, "The Dark Lord has given me a task, a raid to be clear. I need a party and since I am not in the habit of doing such things I've asked Draco to assist with its creation."

Zabini gave off a sharp whistle with quirked brow, "A raid?"

"To prove herself," Draco shifted his gaze from Zabini to Greg before it landed back upon her, "We found stragglers. Some of the Inner Circle think Granger's the cause-"

Her voice was sharp and vicious, a snarl of- "I. Am. Not."

"And I believe you," Draco said, nostrils flared, "But The Dark Lord is thorough in all that He does. This isn't just some task to display your loyalty. It'll be…"

His voice trailed off as he swallowed harshly, and though his mouth was parted and his tongue moved no words came. He seemed, for a fleeting moment, trapped in memory with rapidly moving gaze and bobbing adam's apple. It wasn't until Zabini, whose stern expression never changed, reached across the table to place a hand upon his twitching knee, that Draco seemed to return to himself.

"It must be done." He croaked, as if afraid to revisit his unfinished line of thought and no matter how badly Hermione yearned to hear the statement, she didn't dare interrupt as he continued to speak. "And you will do it. The others are irrelevant. You will do this for Him."

"Don't scare the poor girl," Zabini whispered, his hand still almost possessively upon Draco's knee, an act that hadn't escaped her, "Just tell me about the operation."

She wondered at the ease in which Zabini addressed Draco. She wondered how he managed to make the blonde boy relax, almost against his will, into the rich leathers of his taken chair. She wondered at how Greg, who must have thought he wouldn't be noticed, reached across to place his hand idly upon Zabini's shoulder…

She wondered at their ability and comfort and touch.

But instead of voicing her thoughts, of giving into the idle twist of envy that curled in her belly and the ask that died on the tip of her tongue she spoke of other, less savory but far more important things, "How long has it been since you've set foot in London?"

Zabini made an odd sound, like the click of a tongue against the back of teeth, "Around three or so hours, most of it spent sleeping off the exhaustion of the journey."

"Are you still exhausted, then? From your… journey?"

"No," Zabini's tone was firm, his gaze resolute.

"My ascension from peasant to Lady was not the only thing you missed." If Hermione's sudden change of subject and the odd wisp of her tone bothered her company, they made no outward indication, "The Order is active, leaderless or otherwise, we can't be sure."

Zabini blinked once, twice, "Impossible."

"It's possible," Greg said, head bobbing, "We saw him. He said so, with his own mouth. No Imperius or anything."

"Saw who?" Zabini said.

"Did you check anything in what I sent you?" Draco whispered harshly, even though the ward kept their voices well and truly smothered beyond their immediate circle, "What do I bother sending you anything for, if you don't even want to read it?"

"Settle down," Zabini hissed.

"Weasley," Hermione interrupted, her gaze upon the grip that Zabini still held on Draco's knee, on the way his fingers curled slightly inward, applying pressure as Draco's pupils seemed to dilate in warning.

"Weasley?" Zabini repeated, "Ronald Weasley?"

The name made Hermione jerk, as if she'd been slapped by memories far too powerful and pungent, repulsive, treasonous. Anger swaddled upward, looking and eager to devour guilt-but there was none to be found, only… an odd sense of displacement at hearing that name. The Red One.

She lowered her head into the safety of her open palms and shook it, "No… no," she mumbled, "William. William Weasley."

For a moment, the circle was quiet, Zabini thoughtful with tilted head, Greg with a distant and distracted gaze, and Draco who shifted in his seat enough that Zabini's hand fell off his person.

"Alright," Zabini leaned back. "William Weasley, then."

"He attacked," Here Hermione paused, "No, he begged the Minister for help. He managed to get into the Ministry. That's what caused the initial red flag. He was brought before Him. He needed help. The Order…"

She wasn't sure if she needed to say more, wasn't sure if she could fathom her former allies doing something as low-brow as child snatching and yet-

"He gave them up then?"

"For a price," Hermione said, flicking her gaze from Zabini back to Draco, "William said his child was taken. He wants them back. He paid with his secrets, I presume, and the location of their last hideout."

Zabini hummed softly, curious no doubt, "He believes they may still be there?"

"I'm not sure how fast they could have moved or how long it took for William to make his initial contact. We can't even be sure of the circumstances surrounding his child's disappearance."

"So, we could end up walking into an abandoned former hide-out, if they are aware of William's dissertation and subsequent surrender, leaving our efforts fruitless and our raid a failure."

"Or a trap," Greg added.

Zabini nodded, "Yes, or a trap."

"Where is your sense of adventure?" Draco snorted.

"Do I look like a Gryffindor to you?" Zabini snapped, but all too soon his focus was back to Hermione, perhaps because of Draco's comment, "And what of you? Is it your sense of adventure pushing you forward?"

Hermione rather thought it was her lack of a choice pushing her forward, and she smiled somewhat wryly at the idea that it might have been her… courage or sense of adventure shoving her into immediate peril. "Things have changed a bit for me."

Slowly, Hermione leaned back, fingertips hooked with one another, her gaze somewhat shiny-lost in the swirl of idle thoughts, twisting and strange, "That place… that place where I sat, and wept, and dreamed, and slept. You know of it? Is it… was it Azkaban? Not that it truly matters. Yet, that place… well, it left me a bit odd, a bit drained. I'm sure you can understand? It's not really a want for adventure that drives me. I'm all adventured out."

She licked her lips, "And I don't want to waste our time on a fruitless venture either."

But she did want to feel alive.

She shifted a bit, aware of the idle quickened thump of her heart as the idea of… of something… of wild abandon beside Bellatrix sped her pulse. "But He has commanded and so I shall push forward, and I intend to bring Him something, wizard flesh or otherwise."

Zabini laughed somewhat, nostrils flared at her reveal, "Then we must succeed."

Draco shared with her a strange expression, one of curious interest and she returned it, not entirely aware of the shadows that danced along her gaze or the hunger that dwelled there.

He broke it with a shudder, leaving her feeling slightly confused, amused, and oddly satisfied.

"Small team then," Draco muttered, "Zabini, Goyle, myself-"

"Lovegood," Hermione interjected.

Draco nodded, not the least bit surprised, "And you. That's five. Plus my aunt, making that a total team of six."

Draco only paused in thought to look back at her and to extend his hand, palm up- "I am giving you the usage of my circle and myself, my knights and I, their lord. We swear to assist you and your own. In return, when called, you shall answer this lord and heed his request."

Her skin prickled with the chill of Draco's magic and as she lifted her hand to accept she could feel it slide across her flesh, testing, teasing, and eliminating any sense of warmth that might have radiated from Draco's own palm. Her own magic rose, sweeping away the idle scent of pine needles and the sense of metal and scales. It came unbidden, called by phrases-not known to her mentally, and yet still so familiar, as if it had been bred in her awakened blood.

So, she whispered, "If you are a lord and king, what does that make me?"

Draco whispered back, his grip tight, his smile wild, "A noble, waiting to become a true lady and perhaps, eventually, a queen."

She licked her lips then, unaware of the curious canter to her tone, "What if I too, wanted to be a lord? A lord that could change into a god?"

Draco's gaze widened only a fraction as their power continued a dance of will and test. He opened his mouth to speak but Hermione, with a flash of teeth in maddened smile, interrupted-

"I accept."

And the magic sung as it snapped tightly around them.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The rest of the evening thereafter was filled with Zabini's gentle laughter, Greg's wide and eager smile, and a confused but content Draco's flickering gaze between them. She found herself at ease among them, these grown-up snakes, as she expressed particular tactics and a need for caution that they absorbed and reflected with all the experience of practiced politicians. Even Greg was somewhat surprising in his proficiency, something she hadn't noticed during their tenure as schoolyard enemies. He was not as empty headed as she'd assumed.

Good.

There was only one hiccup during their idle talk of strategy, when Zabini had lifted a hand to brush across the back of her hand as they'd huddled over various maps quickly procured by a Ministry House-Elf assigned to aid the Malfoy family with serious inquiries. His hand had been jerked back and taken from her flesh with a fierceness she hadn't yet witnessed in Draco, whose face was twisted up in mild alarm instead of the fear or anger she might have expected.

Not that she'd thought Draco possessive of her person, she was claimed and powerfully so by a very frightening being. If anything, she might have thought his redirection of Zabini as one meant to save his skin if he'd become a tad too friendly and Bellatrix heard of it.

Instead, what slipped past his lips in a whisper was- "She isn't aware. She doesn't know-"

To which Zabini hissed out, in startled anger, "You nearly gave me a heart attack, you idiot bloke-"

Which soon devolved into a match of fiercely uttered phrases that left Hermione's ears ringing and red.

"Stop." She said, red quill held against her lips as she chewed on the tip, a bad habit but difficult to break. She needed to fidget when she thought theories and stratagem, least her mind wander and escape from her careful grasp, pulled by darker whispers and a desire for wildness. "What's all this?"

They both sat there, Draco with both of Zabini's wrists captured between his own, but they weren't very forthcoming with information.

So Greg spoke for them, "In… Slytherin, we… touch."

He paused to cast a look at the two men, who stared at him as if he'd given away some grand secret. His only response was a snort and to relax his shoulders, apparently seeing nothing too impressive from his friends that would stop him.

"We don't get a lot of it. Touch. Never got much at home, myself. And, you know, in Hogwarts… when we are sorted there's a certain level of… uh…"

"Coldness? Insensitivity? Unfeelingness?"

Greg held up a hand to stop Hermione's amused tirade, "Ah, something like that. Our futures are usually planned for us and all that. We are trained in properness, you know, don't slurp at the table sort of stuff. It's a difficult environment to uh make friends in."

Draco frowned and released Zabini's wrists. "It's more than just that."

"I get the gist," Hermione said with a motion for Greg to continue.

"It's just that, we're starved. Heck, I was starved, you know? For… touch? We hold each other. Hands or what not. H-h-hugs." Greg swallowed nervously, "This doesn't mean anything, Granger. I'm still strong you know. I can help on the raid."

The sudden sense of insecurity from the massive lunker who used to shoulder his way through Hogwarts halls was startling and yet welcomed. More humanity. More… something, something other than her initial perceptions.

"I know," Hermione replied, "So you and…."

Zabini cleared his throat, "It's a habit. I'm used to… touching. It's affection that means everything to us and the bond, it's sometimes all we have in Slytherin, but… not like-"

Draco cleared his throat, as if prepared to finish the statement, but seemed at a loss for words. Again, Greg picked up the slack-

"It's scary, you know? When you don't have any control and the outside just doesn't understand. Sometimes, curling up next to your best mate can be grounding. Knowing you aren't alone. It means nothing. It means everything."

It was platonic. It wasn't.

Hermione understood. She understood lonely nights where she'd wanted more friends, closer friends, to hold her while she read. She understood wanting to touch The Boy when only fear had been within her heart and grief on her mind, to maybe hold the Red One's hand without it meaning… kissing and futures she didn't want to plan.

She reached out and touched Draco then, found his magic humming beneath his skin… she gripped his wrist and leaned back. "It'll take some getting used to. Touchy Slytherins, who would have thought of such a thing?"

There was a collective release of breath as Draco went back to explaining what he believed would be the best point of attack on the Tonks' household while Hermione ignored the way Greg animatedly agreed while holding onto the edge of her robes with his large hand and Zabini adjusted Draco's ideals with just his fingertips spread over a knee.

Touchy Slytherins indeed.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

She could see her breath frosted on the wind. The temperature was chilly, the crisp bite of a fleeting autumn, and for a brief moment she wished she'd worn more clothing beyond the dark tight robes and leathers beneath them—standard for active ventures, Zabini had said. It was meant to be a simple ensemble for a simple procedure, short black robe of dragon scale and leather-more a jacket than anything else-with a vest that felt odd and unyielding, perhaps magic resistant to a fault. Or, force resistant. Or none of these, maybe just flexible. She should have investigated in the wardrobe a bit more, but nerves had had Luna's careful explanations of pants and shoes and robes go into one ear and out the other. All that she could focus on was the rapid beat of her heart and the various scenarios that flittered through her mentality, like bad-end movies.

She released another shaky breath, watched it puff from her person in a small cloud and then refocused her vision upon the space she'd soon claim as her own personal haven for destruction.

There was something nasty about waiting out there, crouched as she was with the damp musk of dew on grass clinging to her covered knees. Here, in the tall unkempt greens that made up a neglected landscape, in the early hours of morning, she could see more than just the odd and slouched home before her behind it's shimmer of once protective magic.

Now that Bill had revealed it, of course, the shimmer was merely for show. There was no healthy thump of a well-exercised ward or the security once provided by the Fidelius Charm. There was only a heavy sense of struggle, displayed easily in the way the gutter hung slightly off the building and how the windows-closed and no doubt sealed-flickered dancing shadows through closed and tattered curtains with barely functioning light. This home, much like the figures that surely still dwelled within, was barely functional. Hopeless. Vulnerable.

She licked her lips and shook herself before she tossed an idle glance beyond her shoulder. Magic hummed around her, tiny pin-pricks that licked at her senses-distracting. She pushed the buzz of her collective to the back of her mind and wondered, beyond herself, who else might have felt them out there sitting like wolves and starving for blood? It was only the thick wall of dying magic before her that kept her from properly sensing the layout of those within the home, but the flickering brilliance within told another story.

Someone, was in there.

She pondered on who but it was only a brief assessment, if this was a trap she considered the bulk of The Order's remains would dwell within. If it wasn't…

A voice then, soft and dreamy-

Immediately she drew her gaze down to the wriggling patronus against her thigh, the hare that belonged to her currently hidden companion.

'Go.'

And then it was gone.

She went, lowering herself onto the ground, as planned, to drag her body forward-closer to the home in question. Due to the horrid nature of the land around the house, and the spacious hills that separated the Tonks' property from various other muggle residences, she found herself a tad lucky with the amount of cover her darkly dressed body held. There would be no hiding her identity, not from the wizards or witches within anyway, and no masks beyond ceremonial purposes in His new order. So, she could only hope that she wasn't spotted before she managed to come upon the initial buzz of their first ward.

Would they have shot her first? Or welcomed her with a teary-eyed embrace?

It didn't matter.

With a long exhale, she slipped her fingertips along the damp earth, only to pause before a crawling wavering heat. They had one… no, two wards in question. One behind the other, to make up for the lack a single proper and strong ward alone. They both felt weary and rushed, tinged with something other that might have kept curious neighbors and exploring Muggle children away.

But it would not keep them away.

She felt more than saw a shift of movement behind her. She was no trained ward breaker, despite her elevated studies. That was what they were for, but her silent signal-her stop among the grasses-was enough to alert them to the presence of something beyond her current position and, in the span of a few hurried breaths, nerves Hermione figured, the buzzing itching warmth of magic twisted… and fell.

In the same moment one light turned on within the house.

Go, go, go, go! Her mind screamed, and with little preamble she was up on her feet and closing the scant distance that separated her from the house itself. Beyond her vision heat crawled over her senses, the summoning of an anti-apparition field, and she knew that there would be no turning back now. Not when there were muffled curious tones, tired but concerned, coming beyond the walls and the once still curtains were beginning to twitch from curious fingers.

She was out of time for further introspection.

She shuffled along the side of the house, her group close behind her, moving swiftly no longer as concerned about being seen and yet she still… she still…

"Alohomora," Luna whispered, her sudden presence upon the porch of the home like a glaring red alarm in the backdrop of Hermione's mind. The fact that her dreamy companion had just, almost literally, waltzed out into the open with little to no care at all was a concern they'd immediately discuss after the bulk of this was over-if any of them survived it.

As it was, it moved Hermione's timetable up quite a bit and she was quick to twist around the corner of the house to stand at the ready with wand in hand.

Yet, as the door opened it revealed only darkness and the flickering lights of a foyer past redemption. Tables had been overturned, couches torn apart to create makeshift bedding, and once cheerful pastel wallpaper was now stained in odd colors and peeling rapidly off water warped walls. Her mind only had time to process the state of the space before the sound of a breaking window near the back of the home jarred her senses and she stepped into action, whispering rapidly under her breath the well-versed detection spell she'd spoken into her lonely flat on multiple, paranoid, occasions.

The tip of her wand lit up red, a glaring issue, reactive to the magic that slumbered within the house and the various bodies shuffling about now. She could hear feet coming, no doubt to check on the distraction on the back of the house and the-

A scream.

At the same time, Luna and Hermione both stepped over the threshold. Hermione crouched, tense and ready for action while Luna, serene and standing tall, hopped right over into the room, right before the entire home seemed to change before them. It stretched-enhanced no doubt by whatever magic had infused the space-and twisted, becoming larger. Suddenly the living area was more than just a destroyed receiving space. It had become a torn apart cavern. The carpeting had been ripped up, the wood beneath peeled back to reveal red splashed dirt in intricate symbols. The wallpaper was cracked and carved into, stained black in some sections with the blowback of what Hermione could only assume had been powerful spellwork.

It looked… it looked…

"What a quaint ritual chamber," Luna said, forgoing any sense of urgency or the need to whisper.

Hermione hissed, "Luna!"

"The naga is too exhausted to hear," Luna replied, though her canter was off, like a breathy sigh. "and the hatchlings are weak and poisoned. This way."

Luna stepped forward, wand held casually in her grip, her gaze sharp and her expression almost bored. It was a major difference from her earlier, almost lackluster behavior, and yet still didn't carry the amount of seriousness that Hermione felt was appropriate for a breaking and entering scenario. Still, she did follow, only jerking to the side when the hiss of the floorboards closest to the symbols in the earth seemed to bubble and spit.

"Mind your step," Luna drawled.

Hermione replied with anxious silence.

The room, with its ominous air and near suffocating smell of otherness, was empty save for the ruined furniture and flickering light overhead. Whatever must have been there, whatever love or companionship that had occupied the space, was long gone. Only the echo of rapidly moving bodies and shouts seemed left behind-though such noise filtered in from the lone hallway before them, a hallway that was soon filled with one frazzled wizard…

Who only had the chance to look up with a gasp before a blast of green slammed into his person and he fell, no longer a part of their world.

The smoking tip of Luna's wand was a harsh contrast against the slight wry smile that crossed her lips. "He came from the stairs."

Hermione swallowed harshly and with a cautious peek around the corner she saw the spiraling staircase and heard various crashes beyond them. She pushed the sight of Luna's cursework from her mind, especially when the other woman walked past her with only an idle motion for her to continue onward, or upward in this case. How could she? How could she have…

"Go. Hermione." Luna said, right before her body slipped back into the darkness of the long hallway.

With pale knuckles, she took to the stairs, placing one foot before the other while her senses stretched out-hypersensitive, overactive, overwhelming. The magic of those within the home twisted around her, nearly physical in force and sight. With each step, she swore she could see little tendrils of magic, crying out to be used, asking and begging to be freed. Something was horribly wrong here, something that went beyond just The Order staking out there. Something that had to do with the state of the receiving room. Something that rubbed against her flesh and drove her onward, tiny whispers, tiny flickers of light that seemed to seep into her very being to push her to action. Her heart felt heavy, her limbs almost numb as that sinking sense of… emptiness spread from her chest, waiting to envelope her.

She didn't want to feel that way, she didn't want to… but it was better than fear, wasn't it? Better than the eagerness that clogged her throat and threatened to spill out from her. This was not her first mission, not even her first battle and yet she felt…

"Granger?"

She crested the top of the stairs, coming face to face with a nearby wizard. Again, she was faced with the terror of a long hallway-not a proper space for battle, to narrow, not even space to twist and maneuver-yet she knew her expression only displayed mild surprise and that numbness that clung to her chest.

She'd hold it close for now. Hope it kept her steady. Grounded. Logical.

"Is that you…? Mr. Diggle?" Memories shifted briefly before her eyes, of a stern-faced gentlemen, an escort to a family she'd never heard of again.

She kept her wand ready at her thigh, her mouth parted as she inhaled sharply. His expression was strained, his clothing torn. His overrun beard needed as much combing as his wild unchecked hair, but it was his gaze that held her attention, that wild disbelief that colored his eyes as he searched for words, or a scream to betray them.

"It's been so long," Hermione whispered, trying to keep the conversation low, knowing that one blurted word could bring footsteps thundering down upon them. "I've been so lost."

Because, she was not above omitting portions of the truth to secure her position for the future.

Instead of the cry for help that she expected the Order member blinked rapidly before he blurted out, "What are you doing here? The noise? I…"

There was a mighty thump from below them and another sound, muffled-someone had thrown up a silence charm.

"I was forced to come here, told about this place by the keeper… have you seen him? He helped me get here."

Diggle narrowed his eyes, suspicion making his face sterner, "He helped you… get here?"

Did the Order think their secrecy charm so strong that it would hide them forever? Or, were they not aware of Bill's betrayal? Of his dissertation?

"Bill, he… I've been running," Could he see her in the darkness? With his dilated pupils and the rapid fluttering of his lids? Did he see her new clothing? Her form that had filled out from a proper diet and Bellatrix's unwanted attention? She hoped the shifting shadows hid her well enough, where only her tired face and wild locks were visible. Where her lies could not be picked apart and the numbness could make them more believable. "I'm so tired."

So so tired.

She licked her lips, "W-where are the others? What's happening? Where is Bill?"

Diggle took a step forward, gaze narrowed, his hand still held on his wand, "I haven't heard much of Bill, not since three days before now."

Hermione made her eyes look impossibly large, "Is he hurt?"

There was another sound nearby, and Diggle shifted his gaze to his back, to the endless stretching of the hall beyond them, "He's supposed to be bringing more…"

"More?" Hermione whispered, one foot sliding forward, to take her away from the immediate top of the stairwell.

His head whipped back around to face her, but if he noticed her movement he said nothing on it, "It doesn't matter child."

Now that she was closer she could smell the stench of whiskey and see the stains that dotted the lapel of his once brilliant coat. "What's going on?"

Diggle muttered under his breath, his words sharp and easy to hear with their environment muffled, "Bill? Weasley? He was the Secret Keeper? They told me it was the girl… but how?"

Hermione crept closer, "The girl?"

Diggle looked from her to the floor then back to her, before he lifted his wand.

She was out of time.

"Something isn't right. This can't be right. You can't be right. They told us you were dead. You were all dead!"

She couldn't stop her face as her lips twisted downward, as they pulled away to display teeth in a sneer of irritation and disbelief, "They? Who?"

While she had sat, and rotted away in a cell crafted by horror and madness The Order had thought her dead, had abandoned her to fate. And for what? So that they could grow crazed within the confines of twisted walls and bad magic?

But there was no more time for questions. No more information to be gained other than a few mumbled phrases. Dedalus Diggle had lifted his wand, a hex on the tip of his tongue just as Hermione brought up her own, a standard shield already set to slip into place. The bright sparkling light of his spell was magnificent, and when it smashed into the wriggling surface of her wordless Protego it splintered off, racing along the walls like a hungry live thing, leaving more rot and edged black in its wake.

She had no idea what that could have been and had no desire to find out.

"Augh!" His scream was vicious, filled with the conviction of his summoned power and despite his state of dress or appearance his magic was still intact. With wand shoved forward another wordless incantation ripped from the tip of his wand, but upon its collision with Hermione's shield it too rocketed off to scorch the walls.

It was then that Diggle drew closer while his wand fired off several hexes, all of them beating upon the shield Hermione held up before her with furrowed brow and lip pulled between her teeth. Not because it was difficult to face the onslaught, oh no, she was an experienced witch, a survivor of things that went beyond the battering magic that tried to topple her, but because… because…

For six long years, she'd slumbered, some shifting large thing within her, and only briefly for short periods of time had it ever wakened, fueled by the needs that curled within her belly but were often fleeting. For six long years, she hadn't been a part of any real battle-one being a battle for her sanity within the prison with the other being a battle for her elevation, short and sweet and not nearly enough. Yet here she was, fighting for stability, while below her cracked and popped flashing colors and shifting bodies, things she could not hear but could glimpse from the corner of her eye.

Were they having fun, she wondered, hunting down those who opposed his reign? Were they curious, filled with thumping veins and the howl of blood as her careful blanket of numbness began to melt and warp, held prisoner by hunger, and a growing… a growing…

Was it rage that made her crack her own shield and shove toward the small man, who had come close enough that she could see her own intention to maim in the reflection of his gaze?

Or was it the excitement of action that made her hands connect with his person, forcing them both to tumble toward the ground as she wrestled for his wand hand, barely avoiding his free hand as it swung up to slug her against the side of her face.

She could have pleaded with him, could have told him that she was alive and afraid and trapped by the Dark Lord Himself. She could have asked him to take her. Could have told him her secrets. Could have asked where the others were and if there was someone, anyone, out there that could keep her away from the darkness that crawled and nipped at her sensibilities.

But she was already collared, trapped, and conditioned by a newfound greed, by her thorn encased freedom that bit into her flesh and held her bound and breathless. It was there, in the back of her mind, her voice, her haunting laughter, her corrupted beauty.

She struggled and fought and moved because she could no longer sit still. She pinned Diggle with the best of her ability while taking the weakening swings of his arm against her shoulder and side of face because... because the pain was fuel, a reminder that there was more than desperation and the stench of alcohol on parted lips. That she could scarcely live without it, the need to be hurt.

The need to hurt.

Only her heavy breathing injected the voice she began to silence as the hand that wasn't holding Diggle's wand hand down against the matted carpet began to press and wrap around his throat. She was lucky, incredibly so, that the other man was small in comparison to most. She could feel his muscles flexing, his back straining, and his life, his very essence, crying out to be free. She held the power there, the power to snuff it, the power to fan it.

She tightened her grip, used her weight to pin his much weaker form to the ground, straddled him like she had been straddled so very long ago, and hoped… hoped her eyes did not reflect that wild thing that pounded so strongly within her chest.

Because she was His Chosen, the burning Mark on her arm said as much, howled as much as magic sparked and twitched about her, ready to be used. But her body demanded a more… Muggle method, demanded the sensation of flesh giving way beneath her physical power-a power she would not have thought to use so many years ago. It was much slower than a killing curse, this amateur strangulation, but satisfaction as she conquered her attacker shifted through her body as wicked elation.

Then the sound of creaking steps made her blood run cold.

She gasped, startled, brought from perverse thoughts and action and quickly shifted to crawl off her… victim.

He rolled over with wide red veined eyes, gasping and wheezing as spittle and bubbles ran down from his lips. Hermione backed up, rump on the ground as her back hit the wall, her breath coming rapidly, her hands flexing-she couldn't shake off the sensation of holding him down, of feeling his struggle, of knowing she would have won.

So, while Diggle was on the ground attempting to collect himself she struggled to her feet and ran, moving blindly down a hall that was coming to life with flashing light-Diggles hastily wheezed out spells that meant little in his current state.

But she paid it no mind and ignored the idea that she had left one of her enemies at her back alive… and possibly very pissed. Instead she focused on the harsh murmur of voices as she neared the end of the hall, of the howling thoughts of dissatisfaction that yelled at her sloppy departure, and the screech of Diggle as whomever made it up the stairs finally… made it up the stairs.

They would clean up her mess, she presumed.

While she ran into another one.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Hermione had never expected to see Mundungus Fletcher again.

She had also never expected to see him manhandling a screaming toddler.

She almost hadn't recognized him, with his back turned toward her direction and his haggard appearance, but the twisting lights of the hallway, no more functional than those in the rest of the home, had gleamed menacingly across the slick sweat shine of his bald head. It was more than enough to stir up memories of a somewhat shady-and barely trustworthy-figure. Of a man whose reputation behooved him as little more than a notorious peddler and a suspected drunkard. Hunched over the child as he was, with his hand firmly encircled around her dainty wrist and his lips pulled back so sharply she caught sight of his browning teeth, she had to wonder how and when he had returned to The Order. She'd been certain-or as certain as anyone whose memories had been damaged by despair and lockets-that he had deserted them long ago, afraid to die.

But not afraid to hide with those who seemed best at being hidden.

She swallowed a gasp, body incredibly tense and still even as sounds came in, garbled but somewhat closer, from down the hall. She reacted with a speed that depicted automation and subconscious experience, as her brain whirled on idle thoughts and haunting questions-

How was he here?

Why was he here?

Why was he gripping that child so harshly?

And, why were her cheeks slightly damp, glistening with long shed tears while her lips were screwed up in extreme discomfort?

As the familiar sensation of something flowing over her body-a simple but swiftly done disillusionment charm-broke over her skull and slid down her flesh with a recognizable chill, she came to realize that the man was breathing heavily, his grip more than just firm but impossibly tight on the child. Hermione was just lucky that he hadn't turned to face her before she'd managed to hide herself. With his attention captured by the jerking and struggling girl and his bugged-out eyes focused more or less through the child, instead of… at her.

Maybe she should have shot him with something, but the risk of clipping the child was too great, a child who held a fiery resemblance to a certain Weasley and a beautiful French-woman. She would not risk harming her, no matter the casual dismissal of her importance her Lord might have advocated for. She was… concerned. Not entirely for the child. Not entirely. But for the purpose. She was concerned about the desperation that made Fletcher grunt and wheeze. About the wild flicker of his gaze as he moved it about his person, only to toss it in her direction after the child gave a defeated wail.

But he wasn't looking at her, she was just another part of the scenario, standing in the open as she was and charmed as she had been. No, he was looking at the brief flashes of light that continued on down the hall behind her, flashes she couldn't see and yet she could almost smell and taste and expression of magic that roared behind her.

But as she spied upon him, a voyeur in the open, she watched with a creeping fascination as fear-a fear she had felt but a few moments prior-filled his gaze, darkening trembling eyes of brown into a murky crazed black.

Ah, so he was still a coward.

A trapped one.

"The bloody hell is going on down there?" He rumbled, voice strained as he dragged the writing little girl closer to his person and then, with a cruel jerk and a barked-"Stop!"- he began to pull her further down the hall, into the darkness.

Hermione followed him, nostrils flared, steps quiet… patient. Her mind whispered words to attack, that the time was proper, that he hadn't noticed her presence, couldn't feel it like how she was beginning to feel so much in the saturated groaning walls of the house that held them all. Yet, she did not lift her wand to his unprotected back. No, she was curious, to curious, to stop her silent stalk. This was important, he held information, purpose, that might do the Dark Lord some good… that was what she'd told herself.

But the reality of the moment was that there was something wickedly exciting about moving behind him, about watching his interactions with an inappropriate amount of disconnection. Gone was the rapid thunder of her heart, the fear of discovery, the nervousness of being caught. There was only now, this time of secrecy, this reveal of reasoning behind the raid. She could… sense that Fletcher was leading her somewhere, that the mystery would end soon enough and that she'd accomplish her task with more success than she had previously thought possible.

That was the… logical explanation for why she drew it out.

But within her belly churned something more, a desire… a want to hunt this wizard who had, so long ago, placed The Boy in unnecessary harm with his incompetence. It wasn't out of any need for vengeance, those needs had cooled and twisted into something other and yet…

She couldn't explain, couldn't fight, the pull.

Soon, soon… She would help the girl, whose cries had renewed, and in turn she would gain what could not be known or currently said from the wizard she followed. After all, if she harmed him now, the raid would not reap the benefits The Dark Lord would surely expect, right?

Right?

"To much shit goin' on, I told 'em I wanted nothing to do with it, nothing at all." The man garbled, his tone hurried, frenzied, as he continued to drag the girl along obvious to her displeasure.

The girl in turn could only expend energy to keep up, her gaze pained and fearful. It was clear that she knew little about the dangers that twisted on around her-or maybe, just maybe, she knew far too well that something sinister had been set into motion and she too wished little to do with it.

"And here I am, on babysittin' duty-stop-" Again he jerked the child, "While he's out with our glorious hero."

Hermione took a sharp breath, hearing strained, heart stalled. What was that? Their hero? Who?

"'N where the bloody hell is Weasley?" He complained, childish as he huffed before a large door with an elaborate seal carved into what was once delicate wood.

A seal in flaking red.

Hermione swallowed.

He shoved into the door without preamble, apparently able to open it without issue, while Hermione took care to memorize the pattern on the doorway as she crossed the threshold. It was something she had never seen before, not in any book she'd managed to procure in her school tenure, with its wriggled almost melting circular center and several slashed lines across the top and bottom.

Odd.

But odder still was the space she viewed, an incredible mundane and average room, and the figure who stood at its center with head tilted upward and a gaze that remained steady and forward. A gaze that looked right at her.

She held her breath, her own eyes wide, while her heart gave a painful lurch. For a moment, she felt… immobile. Trapped. Pinned behind a gaze that was painfully familiar and different. It stared forward, past the muttering Fletcher as he moved toward what looked like a nursery rocking chair and all but tossed the girl into it. It stayed on the threshold, on her and on the space that she hoped was still displayed beyond there. Could she see her? Could she know she was there? Spying upon them? There to snatch and take what the Dark Lord had claimed?

There to destroy and bring ruination to their piss-poor safety?

Then, with thin pressed lips, the woman turned the shifting brown of that startling invasive intellect away, settled them on Fletcher, and allowed them to narrow with unveiled disgust.

"We're being attacked," She said.

"No shit, Andromeda!" Fletcher all but screamed.

Andromeda Tonks looked little like what she'd been described as by The Boy. There was no soft light to her murky unfocused brown, or a hint of kindness in the ridged expression her face currently held. In that moment, as she stood with hunched shoulders in dreary torn dress, she looked more like Bellatrix, like a Black, than any description Hermione had ever heard. In fact, the comparison was startling, shaking. Andromeda cut a haunting figure of beauty, despite her ratted looks that screamed more or less prisoner than mistress of her home. Hermione blamed that on being on the run. But something else seemed at work here. Something that seemed to have infected every being she'd bumped into within the home.

Even the child, who was slouched in her chair with a well-deserved petulance, seemed off, as if something was around her, strangling her, giving her a look that went so far beyond her years. The look of someone who was currently being tormented, troubled, incredibly worried.

It had no place on the face of a child.

"Language, Mundungus," Andromeda said in a manner that reminded Hermione of Narcissa so acutely.

"Be quiet, woman," Fletcher replied, his gaze narrowed as he paced the space in the center of the room, the only room Hermione had seen that looked slightly put together, with its two small beds and scattered broken toys. At least the friendly and soft blues of the wallpaper didn't seem warped here and the carpets, though stained, weren't suspiciously torn asunder.

This was clearly a room where children were raised.

But the offness pulsed here too, caressing the ceiling with wandering tendrils of magic she couldn't yet see as it rubbed against her skin.

"Of course, we're being attacked, no thanks to him and his precious lot."

Andromeda gave off a soft sound, a sigh Hermione suspected, "We need to leave."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Fletcher just about roared, "The hallway is lit up like a Yuletide revel!"

He jerked, twitched as he began to rapidly stomp toward the doorway. Hermione was quick to move to the side, praying the disruption of space as she did so didn't seem to alarming and that in Fletcher current state he wouldn't catch the movement.

He didn't.

But Andromeda's eyes shifted just slightly, before they returned to her current company.

He closed the door with more care than Hermione thought him able to manage before he turned to lean against it, chest rising and falling, "I can't apparate either, because of him too no doubt!"

Hermione pressed against the wall, making sure to keep still as the conversation flowed around her.

Andromeda's lips twitched, but whatever she thought about saying died on her tongue. Instead she shook her head and moved to the girl, who looked up tiredly before holding out her arms to be held, "Did you even bother to help them? Mr. Diggle never returned."

"Probably ran if he knows what's good for 'em," Fletcher muttered, "and how could I? With the brat in the damn hallway?"

There was a lull in conversation, as Andromeda carefully tucked a strand of wayward hair behind the child's ear.

So Fletcher filled the space with more of his spat words, "All these wards and secrets for nothing! I've been in a land of horrors while others get to gallop across the countryside!"

His hands opened and closed, his brow furrowed in slight confusion, "And what for? A house that yells and taunts and screams-"

He paused in his erratic pacing, to cast his gaze around the room as if the very shadows were reaching toward him. He swallowed thickly, unaware that Andromeda wasn't paying him much mind before he continued his rant-

But Hermione continued to watch his movements, knew the patterns of desperation when she saw them. She'd seen such behavior before in trapped animals.

In prey.

And though Andromeda didn't outwardly express it, she was cautious, studious.

She was waiting for something too.

"And you? You seem awfully calm," Fletcher wheezed, "for a bird about to die."

"He's been training them, the ones you left downstairs-"

"I left them?!"

"-and it's possible," Andromeda interrupted, "they can deflect the invaders. Whose nature we have yet to learn."

"And who else could it possibly be? Death Eaters, every single one of 'em. You-Know-Who found us!"

"And how do you propose he did that? With the house the way it is?"

Fletcher coughed for a moment, swallowing words that were on the tip of his tongue.

"Mr. Diggle will return," Andromeda whispered, but she didn't seem to believe her own words, "then we'll gather the child and those we can find."

"Why?" Fletcher interrupted.

Andromeda floundered for but a moment, thrown off by the question, "Why? Why what?"

"Why take the kid?"

She scowled, "Mundungus?"

"She'd slow us down, doesn't even listen a lick-"

"She's our comrade's child, Mundungus! The Secret Keeper-"

"Who can't even keep a secret!"

Hermione held back a gasp, they thought the girl was the Secret Keeper?

"And how do you suspect Death Eaters would have managed to contact her? To get the secret from her?"

"She'll slow everyone down, and she isn't even our responsibility. Where the hell is Weasley? It's his whelp, it's his-"

"Mundungus!" Andromeda tried again, holding the child a bit closer, her expression one of disbelief and mild worry.

"She's always outside, I told 'em, I said don't let that kid wander around while we're doing shit. They never listened-"

"A child needs stimulus, none of that was being properly provided in this home."

"And you were always out there with her, right? So, when did it happen?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The room plunged back into silence, but this time it was… tense, uncomfortable. For a moment, only Fletcher's harsh breathing filled the space, the thumps and bumps beyond their room perhaps dampened due to a charm to help whomever used to sleep in this room remain asleep.

Fletcher took a step forward, "When did you allow the kid to give away our location?"

Hermione shivered as Andromeda tilted her head, her gaze of brown suddenly alive with the writhing forms of curious shadows. There was something so 'Bellatrix' about the way Andromeda brought her tongue past her lips to wet them before she whispered, almost in sing-song voice- "Excuse me, Mr. Fletcher, but what have you accused me of?"

There was a lick of something, something dark and heinous, something that curled over her skin with a sense of bitterness. Hermione held her breath, hoping her magic didn't react to that something in it that was familiar, wild and yet so tightly restrained it made Hermione's teeth ache. There was something in this room, some force, that was clawing to get out.

Or someone.

"Yer the only possible subject, Tonks," Fletcher spat, his hand now upon his wand as Andromeda rose to a stand in a slow and calculated manner. She placed herself before the whimpering child, who shied back behind her tall legs. "Figures, you aren't freaking out because you effin' planned all this."

"Preposterous," Andromeda replied, calm.

And yet absolutely livid.

Maybe it was the paranoia that clung to him like a secondary stench, but he pressed forward, his breathing erratic, his wand now raised, "Who did you tell?"

Silence, heavy, oppressive.

Fletcher broke it with a yell, "Who did you tell?!"

Magic rose in the air, crisp and sudden and without waiting for Andromeda to draw her wand Fletcher thrust out his own. His incantation was wordless, impressive to Hermione who thought him mostly incapable of most high levels of magic, but the spell he used was simple enough.

The severing charm, usually meant for objects, was utilized to slice across the witch's legs. As if he'd intended to aim for the child who screamed behind them. Luckily it had been too weak to properly slice through and it seemed that the most Andromeda lost was a bit of her dress and some flesh-if the blood coming quickly to the space right below her knees was any indication. This didn't make Fletcher any less inclined to attack her and another repetition of the spell was well on its way when Andromeda twisted about to push the child from her position and toward the wall.

Hermione's wall.

The child connecting with her person was the only thing that kept her from immediate action. The time to merely watch was long gone, and Hermione would not allow the witch to be torn asunder by this crazed 'reformed' criminal. She belonged to Narcissa, after all, and certainly to Bellatrix. It would have been a crime for her life to be snuffed by any other. Yet, with the child now groping about in shock and confusion that Hermione's own legs, hidden and yet now felt, it was quickly becoming a daunting task.

The other witch held her own though, with wand now in hand and the child out of Fletcher's way she was able to bring up a hasty if crude and rushed, shield that bounced a wayward spell of brown into a nearby desk, forcing it to splinter and crack in half. Injured as she was Andromeda still proved to be a fast and skilled witch, firing a string of blue toward the wizard that forced him to suddenly shove a sitting chair toward her to block it.

Unfortunately, he powered the chair with a spell to increase locomotion and it kept moving until it collided harshly with the witch in question.

"Yah filthy traitor," Fletcher yelled as he stomped forward, hoping to take advantage of the tripped Andromeda as she struggled to regain her balance with a narrowed gaze and a grotesque snarl. "Yer nothin' but a dark witch! I told 'em, I told 'em you'd get us in trouble. That staying here was a bleedin' horrid idea!"

Andromeda didn't rise to the bait, she was far too busy putting more space between herself and Fletcher, though he was rapidly devouring it as he stalked the length of the room in long strides.

"If you come from that family, you go bad no matter what." His smile was unkind as he effortlessly moved more furniture into her path. A bookshelf fell and toppled, one of the beds swung up and pushed forward with such speed that Andromeda had to dive out of the way, before she retaliated by levitating a toy chest and thrusting it toward his ducking person.

"You wretched little man," Andromeda hissed. "You're letting paranoia dictate your already awful judgement."

But Fletcher wasn't listening, "The Black's all worship You-Know-Who. They abandoned us here because of you! I bet you killed yer own husband."

Andromeda faltered, flinched as if visibly struck and Hermione quickly tried to untangle herself from the child that now clung to her as if she were a pillar in a raging storm. Her face was drawn, her flesh pale, and her eyes flickered with a possessive madness that Hermione knew all too well, but within those depths also raged the storm of incredible hurt and surprise.

She was distracted, either way.

Which allowed him to come upon her, with all the fury of a terrified force. He lunged across what little space separated them, caught her easily enough at her center and they both went down to the floor in a struggle. Andromeda screamed but was silenced quickly, the sound of a meaty slap ringing in Hermione's ears and bringing forth a surge of loathing so strong she hadn't known she'd stepped away from the wall-child attached to her leg like a serpent-with wand raised and charm shattered.

And then the door blew in, sending out wood and billowing dust into the space. Instinctively Hermione waved her wand, trying to clear the risen dust from her immediate area and protect her unexpected burden, but as the cloud began to clear the being that stumbled into the room was an unexpected sight.

Blood dripped from her person, covered the entire left side of her face from a gash hidden beyond pale yellow chopped hair that seemed far too short and certainly uncared for. Her arms hung limp at her side with hands holding onto a wand that looked ready to slip from her grasp. A familiar leather jacket held multiple holes in several places, giving insight to the rest of what her once unique ensemble currently looked like. Yet, it was all very appropriate for someone who had no doubt fought their way through various spells and Death Eaters.

"Mum?"

Fletcher twisted to look over his shoulder, an expression of surprise on his face, his large meaty hands wrapped tightly around Andromeda's throat as she wheezed and bucked beneath him. For a moment, they were all frozen like that, the three staring at each other, right before Fletcher's eyes skimmed across Hermione's own revealed person.

"What the bloody fu-"

Tonks screeched. Hermione had never heard such an inhuman sound before, such unleashed rage and unnatural hunger. It seemed incredibly mindless, monstrous, the way Tonks yelled her fury, the way her hair rapidly changed colors until it focused on black that was anything but normal or mundane. She lifted her wand, and for a split moment Hermione feared that flow of gathering power and the heady pulse it carried would be directed toward her.

But she was forgotten. It was Fletcher that held all her attention and it was Fletcher that scrambled to rise when Tonks swung her wand down in a moment like cleaving flesh. He wasn't fast enough and it slammed into him with such force and speed that he was lifted off Andromeda and slammed into the wall before her head. He collapsed on the ground clawing at his chest, his eyes full of tears as they rolled around his skull. He was dazed, she could tell, but the angry red boils that rose to his flesh and crawled over his neck and face was more pressing than trying to recover.

Andromeda began a slow but careful crawl away as Tonks moved forward like a demon possessed. Her expression was blank, concerningly so, and her head tilted, like a predator considering prey. In all her time around the carefree woman, she had never seen such… intensity before. Such careful and practiced rage. Whatever magic once lined the walls of the house, it seemed attracted to the moment, pulling in like sludge and pressing down. Hermione swallowed, knowing that the odd rhythmic thump against her skull was that offness, that otherworldliness, that must have been pressing down on the house occupants upon their arrival.

She expected to feel unnerved. Disgusted. Burdened. But with each breath a thrill hummed through her, as if she were a part of some raw magic that kept… influencing subtle actions. Heightening hidden truths.

The child clung tighter to her as Tonks growled, a low curious sound, from deep within her chest.

Right before she lifted her foot and swung it forward, intending to brutalize his ribs and break the angry boils that had sprung up there. He gave out a cry and dropped his wand to instead clutch at Tonks boot covered ankle. The sizzling fluid that was released from his boils seemed to do little to the dragon-hide there, but it certainly ate away at the flesh of his fingers and chest.

She pushed with little effort, blinking one good eye-as the other was closed, perhaps due to the blood that dribbled from her forehead-as she shoved him down off the wall fully onto the ground.

"Tonks," He wheezed, "You nutcase, Tonks!"

Whatever power his voice once had was saturated by pain and his ability to barely breath, "Get off me, get off me!"

Tonks sighed, though it seemed wistful and tired, as if some great dam had released within her, "No."

He bucked and writhed but something was broken, his body moved in a weird way, like a wriggling worm. Tonks paid it no mind and instead began to place even more of her weight upon his body, before she lifted her wand.

"Nymphadora." Andromeda whispered, tone raspy and already Hermione could see purple bruising beginning to form around her neck. Still, even though the witch had said her daughter's name, her gaze was upon Hermione, curious if not a bit amused at her existence and maybe the fact that the child still held onto her leg.

"Mum," Tonks replied, as her hair began to shift a bit pink before it slipped back into the usual black. Her shoulders were tense, probably due to the use of her name, not so much the interruption.

Since, of course, Fletcher had picked that time to scream.

"Ugh," Andromeda winced, "Silence him."

There was a soft whisper, and a snort, before Tonks flicked her wand, sending a red light into the male beneath her feet.

Right before he literally burst with a screech, rapidly swelling in size only to disintegrated into clumps of black soot once his reddened flesh split and his garbled voice faded.

"That is not what I meant," the older witch snarled.

Tonks wasn't sorry. When she turned around Hermione could see that plain as day in her exasperated expression as her wand fell from her grip and she swallowed thickly. Then she blinked and saw-

"Hermione?"

They made an interesting sight. Hermione, with her legs locked by a child. Andromeda, softly whispering as she sat up against the far wall and coaxed that child to her. And Tonks, who looked about ready to pass-out from what was no doubt magical exhaustion and from tampering with whatever otherness clung to the walls, with hair now an odd mix between pink, black, and white.

Then Diggle crossed the threshold and all-hell broke loose.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Before a spell was out of his mouth Hermione shoved the child away from her, into Andromeda's waiting grasp. The man had clearly taken a quick assessment of the room and had immediately come to the conclusion that Hermione, the evil woman that she was, had come into the space and brought forth doom and destruction. That wasn't entirely wrong, she figured. She felt like an ill-fated omen, knowing that maybe her very presence had brought down some horrible luck upon the Tonks family and one now deceased Mundungus Fletcher.

Tonks shouted something, but the sound of spellwork was loud and buzzing in Hermione's ears. Her blood was humming again, singing in tune to the thump of otherness in the house-now so thick she could practically taste it. She managed to push the child away just before she was hit with the force of Diggle's spell, something that lifted her with the power of its intention and slammed her back into the wall she had managed to get away from.

Pain blossomed in her back and against her front, but the slice of her flesh across her belly numbed quickly-a bad sign or the vest she wore at work. She slipped down as Andromeda moved further out the way, a motion she caught from the side of her eye, toward a wand-but whether she meant to help Hermione if she managed to get it, or assist Diggle, she couldn't be certain. Not that it mattered, Hermione still had her wand and the pain did nothing but fan the flames of her desire to survive.

And her eagerness to perform.

Her limbs responded when she told them to move and she dove forward, colliding with Diggle just as he had another spell on the tip of his lips. It went wayward, crashing further into the room and causing a small explosion that she hoped hadn't completely eradicated the people within. Once again, she found herself upon him, but he was quick, enraged and haggard from whatever force had managed to snatch him earlier, but let him go. He shoved and kicked with enough might to catch her unawares and it wasn't long before his fist connected with her chest and she was forced to give up her position.

The roll off left her exposed and wheezing for breath and he was quick to send another spell near her position, the kickback of which sent her flying further down the hall to land heavily upon her back.

In that split moment of clarity, of silence as her body ached and buzzed, she realized that she could very well die there out in the hall. Time seemed so very slow as her lips parted, as laughter bubbled up past her throat at the… potency of her introspection. He moved with purpose, his eyes determined, his face hard. She wondered if he had it in him, if the madness of the thumping house would drive him to kill her like it had driven Fletcher to violence, and she saw it, in the depths of his gaze, that maybe he would toy with her for a bit for his earlier humiliations before her death.

And maybe, just maybe, if she'd had the time she would have toyed with him too. Anything to keep feeling so alive, so in tune with the power that grew and twisted within her. With each breath, she felt more secure in the idea, in the thought. She felt that loathing in her belly, that rage she had grasped only moments prior, awaken the thing within her. For a moment, she didn't see Diggle, who lifted his wand in preparation. For a moment, she saw shifting colors, saw the inky sticky blackness that clung to the walls. Saw sick green pulsating threads of magic that traveled across them and the ceiling only to disappeared down the stairs. Saw Diggle, a brilliant black streaked being, illuminated as magic traveled from his chest toward his arm, but the green threads clung to him too, swollen and fat and feeding.

She wondered, if she'd had the time to look at herself, if they would have clung to her as well, if they would have fed off the magic that rose to her intention, at the memory of a dark and frightening hallway filled with glowing orbs, of a battle, of pain and blood, of a particular spell that would have ended her and a laugh that made her body sing and her mind splinter.

She was in a crouch by the time Diggle released his spell of blue, but her arm had already been in motion, a harsh swing downward-a perfect imitation, her mind meanwhile spinning images of a perfect recreation-that released a flame of purple, massive in its crescent shape and large enough to cover the entire breadth of the hallway. It devoured that tiny spark of blue, and passed through Diggle only to dissipate as it came out the other side.

He stumbled, gave a sharp gasp with wide eyes, before blood bubbled past parted lips in the form of a garbled: oh!

Then he fell to the ground.

A corpse.

She stood shakily, breathing harsh and erratic. She waited patiently for the guilt to hit, for the horror at what she'd seen, at what she'd done, but it didn't come. Something had changed within her. Something alarming. Her arm tingled, the words within her flesh felt just as alive as her thundering heart. Her flesh burned and prickled, sending tiny pinpricks of pain along her skin. She swallowed back a sudden moan, her unoccupied hand over her mouth to smother the sound as she gasped and stumbled back. Heat swam in her chest, twisted through her before it pooled low in her core, a heavy powerful throb, distracting and almost painful in its ache. Diggle laid still, his blood in a slight pool around him, and her knees felt weak, not from the trauma of it all but because it seemed so strangely beautiful. That was terrifying.

"Aw," A voice purred, a gentle rumble, "Was that you're first kill?"

She wanted to turn to look at the voice, but there was no need. She knew who it was, and could scarcely think past the desire that made her sway and the warmth of the body that was suddenly pressed against her back.

She croaked out a husky, "Bellatrix."

The woman looked otherworldly, her eyes dark, infused with a ravenousness that seemed out of place in their current setting. Her nostrils were flared, her fingertips hot against Hermione's skin as they traveled lightly down the length of her throat and down toward her arm, where her scar felt as if it were blazing, making her feel… crazed. Hermione couldn't help but gasp as Bellatrix murmured and traced the letters, as need turned her blood warm and made her dizzy. Bellatrix made a curious sound against her throat, but her attention was wandering, moving from the oddly acting scar and moving to her hips, to her belly, to the sliced and damaged vest bruising there-

Hermione could barely focus. The world was tinted in scorching reds, and her body continued to pulse with cries for attention. She couldn't push past the fog to find herself sickened at such a strong reaction, nor could she find the care to immediately question it. All she could focus on was Bellatrix hands as she examined her body and apparently found nothing immediate to be concerned about.

"I'm burning," Hermione gasped, thought herself cursed, "It's burning me."

Bellatrix growled lowly, a sound that would haunt her dreams, "The scar? It's only acting up a bit. It reacts to certain… things."

"Cursed," Hermione gasped out.

"Mhm," Bellatrix rumbled, "naughty things wake it up."

Hermione squirmed in Bellatrix grip, unaware that the sounds of battle had stopped beneath them and that the long hallway was deathly quiet before them, "It hurts…"

"Battle-lust," Bellatrix husked out, sending teeth to nip at her pulse, which made Hermione keen, "So exhilarating."

But lust had never impacted her so strongly before. Had never made her feel so out of control. She needed to get away, to think of anything other than Bellatrix touch, her teeth, her wandering hands.

Yet when she tried to pull away Bellatrix snarled, twisting Hermione around and pushing her harshly against the nearby wall. The blunt burst of pain only fueled the fire as Bellatrix grabbed her thighs with firm grip and sharp nails. She hissed but Bellatrix paid it no mind, instead she lifted Hermione up with incredible ease, using the wall to assist and forcing Hermione to wrap her legs around her hips.

Then she was everywhere, whispering crazed explanations in between harsh bites to Hermione's bottom lip, "It changes you. The torture curse. The magic."

Hermione snarled as she took her hands and wrapped them around Bellatrix back, wishing she had bare flesh to scratch and hurt as Bella bit her shoulder hard should to draw blood with an answering sound of aggression.

"Twists all your thoughts up, all your nerves." Bellatrix panted against her lips, "Now that you've tasted it, you'll need it."

To hurt and be hurt.

Hermione surged forward, lips set to crash into Bellatrix own, hands within her wild hair. She held her close, demanding, urging. She drew her teeth across Bellatrix bottom lip, clung to her tighter and bit. A shiver ravaged her spine at Bellatrix soft yelp of pain, at her surprise, at that one little sign of vulnerability that Hermione wanted to devour and pull tight around her body. It forced the other witch to open her mouth, to allow Hermione to press further, to slip her tongue out curiously along Bellatrix own which soon tentatively lifted in response. She gasped heavily, light-headed, inflamed, but their press of lips soon led to more. With each release for just the shortest of breath they rejoined, and Bellatrix pressed closer, as if she could become a part of her, as if they'd melt together from just one more joining of tongue and heat.

Her eyes slipped closed and she floated in the moment, in the intense domination that Bellatrix seemed unable to regain. In the way, her partner shivered and made soft sounds of frustration, tinged with obvious arousal. She felt bold, successful, a conqueror, releasing so much that she'd held within her in just their shared kiss.

But she wanted more. Her body ached, her core wet, her mind uncaring of where they were and what she'd done. Or maybe, it was because of what she'd done…

An odd sound and a gentle laugh broke through the fog though and all too soon Bellatrix was pulling back and away, breathless and flushed and perhaps a bit peeved that she hadn't had the upper hand.

Hermione swallowed a wild cackle, and instead settled for tugging sharply on Bellatrix hair, earning a sharp strained sound of pleasure.

"A-a-aunt Bella," Draco said, his posture ramrod straight, his face a wild cross between uncomfortable and terrified-probably of interrupting them, "The downstairs is secure."

As for his current company, Luna smiled broadly, if a bit wickedly, with flushed cheeks and her bottom lip between her teeth. There was something… tempting about her expression. As if she'd possibly enjoyed their raid about as much as Hermione's body was telling her she had.

How curious.

"There are three live members in the backroom, exhausted due to what I assume was Hermione's work" Draco continued, staring straight ahead, "They're incarcerated. I… It's the Tonks family and a child."

Hermione shook her head as Bellatrix nervously licked her lips, "They're mine."

"What?"

Hermione tugged slightly at Bellatrix hair, earning a glare and a sharp intake of breath, "We're going to take them."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, "You did well, pet." She continued to press her into the wall, to crowd her, "But the prisoners-"

"I want them!" Hermione yelled, possessive and maddened, "They're mine! Mine!"

Bellatrix chuckled and nuzzled the side of Hermione's throat and for a time, she felt the wild shifting of her thoughts recede at the sensation of pleasure. "Demanding…"

Draco swallowed and made a sound that Hermione couldn't quite describe, but Luna gave a nod and moved toward the back room, "Dragon. Shall we prepare the portkey back? With the prisoners?"

Draco scowled, his cheeks red, his gaze now upon Luna, "What did you call me? And what about-"

Luna gave a twirl in the desolated hallway, carefree, eerie, and somehow still in her element, "Take Hestia Jones and her sleeping friend. Her birth star is lovely, and the moon is in the right place."

Draco didn't comment on the latter phrase, "And the others?"

"I'm so very hungry. I should like to get an early breakfast. We should gather our friends quickly and then, perhaps, Mr. Goyle and Mr. Zabini will take care of the rest?"

Draco gave a slow nod as understanding shifted between them, right before they were swallowed by the darkness of the hallway.

Leaving Hermione and Bellatrix alone again.

With a reluctant sigh, Bellatrix lowered Hermione back to her feet, muttering about properness and chaste kissing. Hermione couldn't bring herself to unwrap her arms from around her neck, as she leaned forward and rubbed her darker skin against the lighter tones of Bellatrix cheek.

She sighed, her voice a purr of longing, "Merlin, I hate you."

Bellatrix only rumbled, pleased despite her words, "Send it. Do it. I know you know the spell, swot."

Hermione complained, "The Muggles…"

"None have lived near here for ages," Bellatrix whispered, heated words against Hermione's neck, "And its proper etiquette to leave one's mark."

Hermione wasn't so sure about that, but with heat churning her brain she allowed Bellatrix to grasp her arm, the arm that shared both scar and His claim, and lifted it to toward the ceiling. The incantation was whispered into her ear-tittered really-before Hermione repeated it and green light leapt from the tip of her wand to splash against the ceiling there, absorbed and no doubt redistributed properly outside the house.

She didn't have to look outside to know His Mark would claim the dawn tinged skies.