A/N: So this might be the longest break between chapters yet and the next one isn't actually finished at the moment, but I'm breaking one of my own rules to post this now because I can't stand the gap either. Happy 2017!

Heads up that the this and the next chapter both get a little psychological and dark.

Trigger warnings: Dissociation, mild injury description

Hermione did not spring back into action or suddenly return to reality with the clicking sound of Snape shutting the door. It was Narcissa that did that, grabbing Hermione's elbow with a trembling hand and tugging her towards the stairs. From very far away, Hermione could hear Narcissa's sputtering, a verbal personification of fear that Hermione had yet to process. She stumbled along dumbly as Narcissa pulled her up the stairs, gingerly pushing open the door and scurrying through the musty sitting room and out the front door.

Despite being outside, the air didn't feel fresh or cleansing.

Narcissa seemed like she was about to burst into tears, either of relief or terror or both. Her grip on Hermione didn't waver despite the fact that it no doubt irritated the fresh burns on her hands.

Hermione watched all this from somewhere deep in her body where she lay utterly trapped. She wanted to tell Narcissa to let go. To stop frantically searching the street for threats and just let Hermione take care of it. Narcissa was hurt, after all. It was Hermione's job to do all this. If she could just climb out of this deep chasm and retake control of her limbs, she would tell Narcissa to stop and she would promise it would be okay. And take them away. Somewhere safe…

"This way." Narcissa pulled Hermione down the street, past more crippling houses and then into a narrow alleyway where the last of the dim grey light was swallowed by shadow. Hermione vaguely registered the smell of urine but Narcissa seemed utterly oblivious to it all as she spun around. Her eyes were impossibly wide and Hermione wondered if she would cry.

Narcissa's hands came up to cup Hermione's jaw. Hermione flinched at the sudden contact, the cold sweat on Narcissa's skin shocking her nerves, but Narcissa held firm.

"I'm sorry," she choked. Her lip trembled and Hermione remarked that she had never seen Narcissa in a state like this, not even when they'd nearly lost their lives fleeing the manor. "I thought it would be safe—he was supposed to be at the school, as headmaster—I'm sorry, please I'm so sorry—a-are you alright? Please, I am so sorry if you w-were harmed, somehow. I didn't know, I give you my word, I didn't know he would be there. Is—is there anywhere you would like to go now? I believe I know somewhere—another wood, but I understand if you—if you would not—"

Hermione's brain had only room for one thought. And at the moment she was too fixated on the fact that Narcissa was stuttering to even begin to comprehend what she actually said. Hermione wished she could talk. She needed to tell Narcissa that it was okay, it was all Hermione's fault anyway, and that she would find some way out of it.

But she couldn't. Hermione's body remained out of her control, frozen in Narcissa's grip. Hermione wasn't sure whether she wanted to pull away in fear or lean closer in safety.

Somehow, she jerked her head in an approximation of a nod. They needed to get away. Narcissa had a place in mind. That was better than being here. Hermione could think that much.

Narcissa echoed Hermione's nod as though repeating it herself would help her understand. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes... I'll take you. Alright. Hold tight."

Hermione didn't think she could move the muscles in her hands, but it proved unnecessary as Narcissa crushed her fingers in a trembling grip. Hermione stared blankly as Narcissa seemed to draw strength from the act. She fingered her wand in her other hand, took a steadying breath, twisted, and then Hermione was dragged into the void of apparition.

When it spat her back out again, Hermione lost her balance and collapsed onto the ground. Damp grass broke her fall and Hermione stayed there, letting the cool moisture seep through her clothes and ease the sudden bout of nausea. Her body felt wrong, and it wasn't because of the apparating. Everything felt too heavy, too difficult; lights were too bright, sounds didn't make sense...

Hermione closed her eyes.

When she felt Narcissa kneel beside her, she didn't open them. Hands crept across her brow, brushed her arm, and she frowned.

"Are you alright?" Narcissa's voice was impossibly quiet and yet it felt like a blow to the inside of Hermione's skull. She wished she had an answer to the question. There was no physical injury, but it felt like her mind was being swallowed into nothingness.

There had been times, of course, when Hermione had been afraid. Fear wasn't even a strong enough word to describe some of the emotions she'd experienced while being chased by a werewolf or feeling a Death Eater's wand probe her throat. The poison of terror was no stranger to Hermione. Yet while they had been both enemies and comrades, they had never been unequals.

This was not the case now. This was unlike any fear Hermione had ever known; an entirely different kind of beast which stood immovable in her gut and roared over any feeble attempt to challenge it. It had metastasized through her blood, planted itself deep into her tissues and tainted every cell in her body.

And the fear itself was nothing compared to how this paralysis made Hermione feel.

She was a Gryffindor, the noisy Muggle-born with a cloud of frizzy hair, the one whose incessant chatter drove everyone mad and whose passionate charity left no one untouched. This was not her; not the wounded creature lying in the dirt, eyes wide, too shaken to speak. She was supposed to be better than this, and yet she was not.

The self-loathing which bloomed somewhere near her stomach began to seep through her veins, and Hermione focused on it, let it be her mooring in the empty fog through which she drifted. She twitched, shifted, and slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position. If she was truly as terrible as she believed, then she did not deserve to lie about on the floor. Her leg cramped and she revelled in it, pushing herself to her feet and feeling a tiny leap of satisfaction when the discomfort intensified.

Narcissa stood, back to Hermione, a few metres away. She seemed to be executing the protective wards. Or trying to, at least. Hermione could see the way she struggled to hold her wand in her burned hands, trying to avoid aggravating the blistered skin.

Hermione took slow, steady steps towards the other woman, and it felt as though the universe were pushing her backwards, making her fight for each stride.

"Here, I'll do it."

Narcissa jumped at the noise and her wand slipped from her loose grip. When she whirled around and saw Hermione standing there, she did the last thing Hermione anticipated: she pulled her into a hug.

"You scared me," she gasped. "I thought you had fallen unconscious."

"I'm fine," Hermione mumbled into Narcissa's shoulder. Blonde hairs tickled her nose. Hermione didn't move them. After a moment, she settled deeper in to the embrace and felt Narcissa's grip tighten around her sides. The pressure helped to push the pieces of herself back together, gently sliding her soul, her mind, her heart back to their approximate positions.

They held there a moment, sharing heartbeats and adrenaline. It seemed to Hermione that they had been doing this a lot, this post-traumatic scrambling for one another, but before it had been because the other was the only possible source of safety. Now, they felt a very specific need. Hermione did not find comfort in Narcissa's arms because they belonged to another warm human body, but because they were Narcissa's.

Slowly, tenderly, Narcissa pulled away and her hands drifted from Hermione's sides to her temples, brushing the mussed hair from her eyes. Gentle tingles bloomed across the skin there, but Hermione pulled Narcissa's hands down by the wrist.

"Let me fix your hands," she murmured, pulling Narcissa to sit on a large boulder. Damp moss felt cold even through the denim covering Hermione's thighs. Trying to focus on the present and be gentle on the burns, Hermione placed Narcissa's hands palms-up on her leg. The fingers struggled to unfurl and Hermione sensed Narcissa's breathing turn shallow at the pain.

Hermione's lethargic brain laboured to remember the necessary incantations. She reached for the bag on her hip and slowly began to dig through for the burn paste she knew they had stolen.

"Where are we?" she asked as her fingers probed through jars and bottles. If she didn't make conversation, tie her mind down to the present, she feared she may drift away forever.

"Ireland." Hermione's eyebrows rose a fraction as she extracted a jar from the bag. Narcissa went on, "I came here once. As a child. There's a property nearby…"

Hermione unscrewed the lid and wrinkled her nose at the strong citrussy odour.

"No-one has been here in many years. And as we're on a different island, I believe we should be relatively safer."

Hermione nodded.

Neither woman spoke as Hermione scooped some of the bright paste onto her fingers and gently massaged it into the burnt flesh of Narcissa's palm. Hermione could hear Narcissa force her breathing to remain steady as the potion went to work, seeping into her skin and easing the pain. The repetitive motions of Hermione's fingers were hypnotising and soothing… round and around…

When she had finished, Hermione replaced the jar in her bag and dragged her hand across the rock to wipe off the sticky excess.

"Thank you," Narcissa whispered and Hermione nodded.

Everything in the forest looked so green. Moss, leaves, grasses. An impossibly rich shade of emerald with accents of warm bark. The homogeneity of it all felt safe; nothing was overly complicated or unexpected. Just trees and dirt and green.

Hermione's eyelids grew heavier. Perhaps sleep was actually a good idea, especially when her mind was so blissfully empty. Rambling thoughts would not keep her awake tonight—all anxiety had been thoroughly wrung out and replaced with indifference.

But to sleep, she needed a bed.

Hermione opened the bag again and slowly brought out their shelter, piece by piece, until it sat in a heap on the ground. Without words, they began to assemble their adopted home.

As they were in the process of securing the fabric panels of the tent, Narcissa said, "I believe I have a theory about—about the owl. If you would like to hear it."

"Alright." Hermione's hand slipped and she tried again to position the slim pole in an elastic loop.

"Are you familiar with the concept of inherited Anigmaus?"

Hermione frowned. "No."

"I'm not surprised. It isn't a concept taught at Hogwarts. There are some cases where, if a child has one or both Animagi parents, they inherit some exceptional magical abilities. I am not terribly familiar with the theory, but I believe that could be why our wards were affected." Narcissa pushed hair out of her eyes and stood from where she had been applying a sticking charm to the underside of the tent. "At Hogwarts, you were only taught the theory of Animagus magic. At some other schools, notably Durmstrang, students are not only taught the philosophy, but the practice. The Ministry banned it from Hogwarts curriculum decades ago after some... unsavoury incidents. The Bulgarian government doesn't require Animagus wizards to register, either."

Hermione felt mildly indignant to learn that her education had been censored in this way, but more so she felt like an idiot not to have figured it out herself. Krum had displayed rather extraordinary human transfiguration skills during the Second Task, after all. And their attacker had a distinctly Eastern-European accent…

"I think you're right."

Narcissa's lips quirked in what might have been half a smile and they got back to work.

It was strange: Their slapdash little tent and its mismatched interior did feel like home. Standing inside it made Hermione feel a few degrees safer and Narcissa seemed to be a good deal more relaxed. She was making tea again.

Hermione slipped outside the tent.

The cool, misty air made her shiver and her eyes kept fluttering shut, but she had to try.

Those weeks she had been rotting in that dungeon cell, Hermione's focal point had been a Patronus. If she could cast a Patronus and send it to the Order, they could find each other. They just had to know she was alive.

Then she had escaped and the opportunity had been there, but with Narcissa at her side it seemed too dangerous. Now, Hermione was pretty sure Narcissa wasn't going anywhere soon, and Hermione didn't want her too.

She had been free a week at least. She had been casting spells; today she had apparated and obliviated and duelled three men. There was no reason her magic shouldn't be able to produce a Patronus.

Hermione let her eyes shut, wriggled her fingers around her wand, and breathed. Her feet settled into the soft ground.

Magic. Hogwarts. Harry. Ron. Belonging. Pride.

Inhale. Exhale.

The smell of burning homework in the Gryffindor common room. The sweetness of pumpkin juice in the mornings.

Inhale. Exhale.

New spells. Old quills. Ink dribbling down parchment.

Hermione's arm slowly ascended until it was perpendicular to her torso.

Laughter. Friendship. Love.

Her eyes burned and her lips wrestled each other into a wretched smile.

"Expecto patronum." Magic slithered through her arm, grazing her flesh and teasing the bones in her wrist. Nothing emerged from the tip of her wand, not even the faintest mist.

Hermione swallowed, closed her eyes, pictured her otter soaring through the air. Waking up in the cosy familiarity of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley's holiday feasts. Stepping on one another's toes under an invisibility cloak too small to comfortably conceal three teenagers. Ron. Harry.

"Expecto patronum!"

She pushed; she crammed happiness into every crevice of her being and shoved magic through her fingertips.

And once again, the only sign she had attempted a spell at all was the echo of her incantation.

Hermione's arm faltered and fell back to her side. The warmth from the memories faded rapidly, leaving her hollow. It's okay, she told herself. Doesn't matter. Doesn't mean anything.

She'd had a feeling that it would take some time before she felt herself again after escaping. That was partly why she'd waited until now to attempt a Patronus—to save herself the inevitable disappointment of failure. But she was Hermione Granger and exceptional feats of magic were meant to be her forte.

Defeated, she turned and ducked back into the tent. Narcissa gave her a look which suggested she hadn't even noticed Hermione leave as she rearranged some pillows.

Pillows. How could Narcissa possibly muster the energy—or inclination—to fluff pillows right now? Hermione's inner monologue grumbled to itself as she slumped over to her customary space on the rug in front of the hearth. Narcissa seemed to understand her intent and passed her some cushions and the asymmetrical blanket.

Hermione assembled a nest for herself and coiled her body into a tight ball. As soon as her eyes closed, reality seemed to dissolve and she fell deeply asleep.

She dragged herself halfway into consciousness some time later, trembling and whimpering and desperate to hide from the images parading through her head, thrusting themselves before her mind's eye despite all her attempts to shield herself. When the hands first touched her, she flinched and sobbed, but then they drew her close, wrapped her in warmth and protection, and she stilled. It was strange that being held did not feel restrictive, but rather dimmed the nightmares a little as she drifted away once again.