Chapter warning: sexual content, discussion of sexual violence.
The sunlight woke Hermione up the next morning; they had reached Grimmauld Place so late it was already pitch-black outside, and she hadn't thought to close the curtains. Her head thudded, annoyingly hungover; everything vaguely hurt. She blinked her crusty, sore eyes and remembered all the tears, and the concrete Harry had shoved her into to escape Dolohov's curse.
Groaning, she sat up, feeling around the bedsheets for her wand and bangle.
I'll hold you together, Draco had sent back after she had fallen asleep. With my own hands.
In the glare of daylight, Hermione reflected this seemed rather bold and optimistic for her usually wretchedly unhappy Draco. Maybe he was right, and the Vow they had tied themselves to was making them stronger, somehow. But Hermione thought it far more likely that this was a previously despairing man's hope. He had seen the truth in the Death Eater corpse she had sent back to Voldemort: it was possible to stand up to the Dark Lord.
You're the only one who can, she sent back, smiling slightly – more a curse than anything, but it seemed like something he might like to hear. She slid the bangle back over her wrist and left the room.
Harry wasn't in his room, nor the drawing room or kitchen. "Harry?" she called out, heading up to the third floor.
Sirius' bedroom door was open – she pushed it open further and saw Harry in the chaotic mess. It hadn't bothered her last night to step through the carnage Mundungus had left behind trying to sell anything in Grimmauld Place that wasn't glued to the floor, but seeing Harry amongst Sirius' disrespected belongings, she wished she had tidied it up so he wouldn't have had to see it.
"What's up?" she asked. He dug into his pocket and handed her a document. Dear Padfoot, thank you for Harry's birthday present, Lily Potter's voice exclaimed from sixteen years ago. She looked up at him, the familiar sensation of her heart breaking.
"Oh, Harry," she said. He handed her what looked like a photo; it took a moment to understand what was being shown, but eventually she placed the small toddler zooming in and out of the frame on a toy broomstick. A baby photo of Harry that hadn't been published in Dark history books, or lost to time – just a photo of a beloved man's godson, before Voldemort. It was a precious thing.
"I've been looking for the rest of the letter," he said.
"Mundungus didn't make it easy, did he?" she said, staring around the room. "I'm sorry Harry, I should have cleaned this up."
"What? It's not your fault, Hermione," Harry said, a slight incredulity on his voice. His gaze flattened out. "I wondered if it might have been someone else," he said.
She turned from the Page 3 girls Sirius had stuck to his wall. "Who else would steal from you, Harry?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No, I mean, searching for information on the Order."
She frowned. "You think Snape got in here? I don't know…" Even if she hadn't heard it from Snape through Draco, the curses downstairs were terrible enough for people they weren't targeted towards. "He was in the Order. Did he need to steal information from it?" she asked.
"What about information on Dumbledore?" Harry asked, jabbing at the letter still in her hand; and now Hermione understood what was driving his poor segue. "Why is this secret about Dumbledore missing?"
She smiled at Harry sympathetically. "Harry – it's a decades old letter," she said quietly. "Stuff gets lost."
"And my mum talks about knowing Bathilda," Harry continued, taking the letter back from her and staring at it intently. "It's Bathilda Bagshot, the author of –"
"A History of Magic," she finished for him.
"She knew my parents, and she knew Dumbledore," Harry said. "Muriel said so at the wedding. I think she might have information we need."
But Hermione read the papers. Bathilda was elderly, and was either willingly or being deceived into acting as Rita Skeeter's star source for her horrible post-humous biography of Professor Dumbledore.
"What information could she have, Harry?" she asked. "That isn't about to be twisted into some Rita Skeeter drivel?"
Harry looked away, staring at a softly squeaking mousehole. "Muriel said Dumbledore's sister was a squib. That they locked her up."
They were both thinking of cupboards and spare rooms, barred and chained, she could tell. "I – I can see why that's upsetting, Harry –" she said, but he cut her off, insistent that he just wanted to know the truth.
But how much truth was there left to find in this world? Dumbledore was dead; his sister and parents too. Bathilda was so infirm or twisted she was taking part in a lurid character assassination.
"You can't think Rita's got anything worthwhile to say, nor anyone who has anything to say to her," she said, remembering envelopes of burning pus, a gleeful Pansy Parkinson, and a high-as-a-kite Draco Malfoy, staring at her in the Room of Requirement as he slid in and out of reality while Hermione recounted how she blackmailed that disgusting gutter journalist. "Christ, Harry, after all the bullshit she wrote about us. I think she's taking advantage of a confused elderly witch," she concluded.
Still Harry did not look at her; she handed him back the photo of himself as a baby.
"Shall we go get some breakfast?" she suggested gently. "And then we can start looking through Regulus' things?"
Harry jerked his head in a sort of agreement. Hermione lead them out of Sirius' old bedroom, downstairs to the kitchen.
"What does the British Army have to offer today?" Harry asked, wiping some dust off the kitchen sink with his hand.
"Well, for two people who haven't eaten in a day, a breakfast of champions, I'm sure…" Hermione replied, casting around in her beaded bag for the dehydrated food she had bought from some avid hiking salesman. "'Dehydrated scrambled egg'," she read aloud, grimacing at Harry. "I wonder how bad this is going to taste?"
But after fighting with the gas hob and tipping the contents into a pan that Harry had scrubbed clean, it was actually not too bad.
"Reckon Ron will arrive today?" Harry asked, as they stood with the pan by the drawing room window, staring down at the police cordon tape at the end of the road they had fought Dolohov and Rowle on.
"Mr Weasley said they were being watched, right?" she replied, digging a spoon into the egg. "I wouldn't be surprised if it takes him a few days."
"Well. I guess we've got enough to be getting on with here," Harry commented, tapping his fork against his lips. "Ron said half the horcrux books are in a foreign language?" Hermione laughed at the look of trepidation on his face.
"Yes, there's Welsh and Old English and Ancient Greek. And Runes, but I already studied those," she finished. "I'm not learning all of them. You and Ron can pick between Old English and Ancient Greek."
"Damn. I always wanted to learn Welsh," Harry said, his flat tone making her laugh, eggs spilling over her spoon.
"Regulus Arcturus Black," Harry read aloud as they found Sirius' younger brother's bedroom.
"Promising start," she said, unlocking the door and opening it.
It was Slytherin, pureblood madness – dusty, greens and silvers, and a collage of news clippings about Voldemort.
Is this what his room looks like? Hermione couldn't help thinking about Draco. It was so grim. She felt a new appreciation for the muggle glamour models Sirius had pasted all over the walls of his room.
Harry was drawn to the photos, looking intently.
"He played Seeker," he said suddenly.
She frowned. "Sirius never mentioned it?" she asked. Harry shook his head.
"He hated his family," he said, tapping the photo of the 1976 Slytherin Quidditch Team as he walked past it.
They started rummaging through the room, though it appeared this room had been ransacked for ancient wizard heirlooms to hawk too. After almost an hour of hunting, Hermione turned to Harry.
"Harry," she said tentatively. "I think we might need to consider asking Mundungus if he sold it."
Harry slid a snake ornament off Regulus' dresser in response, watching it shatter on the floor.
"It's a big, heavy locket, right?" she said. "Probably has emeralds. I bet he thought he'd get good…good money…"
Her voice left her as the glimmer of an old, foreboding memory returned. Harry finally looked up at her.
"What?" Harry asked.
"There – there was a locket," Hermione whispered, the horrible truth dawning on her more and more each second. "Remember? In the drawing room, in '95. That…that huge, heavy necklace, none of us could open…"
She saw the pulse jump in Harry's neck as he remembered too. Then he clapped his hands together.
"We have to ask Kreacher," he said bracingly. "It's our only chance. He stole loads of stuff back we were throwing out, remember? Hopefully Slytherin's ruddy locket made the cut." Harry walked quickly towards the door; Hermione followed him into the basement kitchen, where he yanked open a particular cupboard at the end of the long, enclosed room. There was no locket there.
He slammed the cupboard door shut. "Kreacher!" he called; with a loud crack the poor house-elf appeared, bound as it was by slave magic.
"Master," Kreacher said, voice dripping with hatred. "And the mudblood, in my mistress' house, what would –"
"I forbid you to call anyone a 'mudblood'," Harry said.
The magic binding house-elves was truly sick; Hermione thought she knew this, better than most wizards. But watching Harry order Kreacher around now, when she was magically bent to Draco's will, made her realise she hadn't fully empathised with the elves' plight. Watching Kreacher's enforced grovelling and obedience now felt ten times worse.
But her introspection was interrupted – as Harry asked about the locket, Kreacher flew into a fit like she had never seen him before, screaming that he had stolen it from them, and Mundungus had taken it from him in turn. Hope sparked in her chest that perhaps the locket was not completely fallen into the ether.
"Why did you call it Master Regulus' locket?" Harry demanded, grabbing Kreacher by the shoulder. "Tell me everything you know about that locket and what Regulus had to do with it!"
Kreacher curled into himself, desperate not to answer but magically forced to. "Master Sirius ran away, and good riddance, he was a bad boy…but Master Regulus had proper pride. He joined the Dark Lord when he was sixteen, to bring honour to all wizards."
Like a certain someone, Hermione thought. She wondered what Voldemort had tasked Regulus with.
"…and one day, Master Regulus came to see Kreacher. Master Regulus had always liked Kreacher. And he said…he said the Dark Lord required an elf."
"An elf?" Harry repeated, looking at Hermione. She didn't understand either.
"Yes," Kreacher said, shaking. "It was an honour, Master Regulus said, and he said to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered…and then c-come back home."
Kreacher started crying, and Hermione felt a sick wave of dread at what was coming next, what possible use Voldemort would have for a house-elf…
"Kreacher went to the Dark Lord, to a cave by the sea, to a lake inside it –"
Harry's fingers jerked on Kreacher's shoulder; did he recognise this location?
"W-we went on a boat, to an island in the lake…there was a basin filled with potion, on the island, and the Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it…and it burned, and Kreacher saw terrible things…"
She was torn between looking at poor Kreacher and Harry, who looked so rigid with anger.
"Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to s-save him, he cried for his Mistress, but the Dark Lord only laughed…and he put the locket in the empty basin, and he refilled it. And then the Dark Lord sailed away."
She would never, as long as she lived, understand Voldemort's cruelty…to what end, for what purpose did it serve to torture one poor house-elf where no one else could see?
"Kreacher needed water, and he crawled to the lake edge…but when he drank from it, all the dead in the lake rose up, and they dragged Kreacher in…"
Hermione felt like she was about to throw up. Was this what Harry had faced with Dumbledore? It was a Dark magic hell beyond anything she could have imagined.
"How did you get away?" Harry whispered.
Kreacher finally looked up, opening his big, watery eyes.
"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he said.
Harry's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I know – but how did you escape the Inferi?" he asked. But Kreacher only repeated that he returned to Master Regulus, and Hermione suddenly understood.
"Harry – Kreacher Disapparated," she said.
Harry looked at her, shaking his head. "You couldn't Apparate in the cave," he said.
"You couldn't," she whispered, voice brittle, understanding Voldemort's stupid, bigoted mistake. "I bet Voldemort didn't even consider blocking elven magic. He thinks house-elves and their magic are beneath him."
"The house-elf's highest law is his Master's," Kreacher confirmed. "Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home."
"But then, you did follow Regulus' orders, Kreacher," she said gently; but the elf only looked more pained at her words, shaking his head and rocking back and forth again.
"What did Regulus say when you got back?" Harry asked.
Kreacher took a rasping breath. "Master Regulus was worried. Very worried. He told Kreacher to stay hidden, to not leave the house. And then…one night, he visited Kreacher. He was strange, he was disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell. And he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave."
Hermione felt something catch in her heart.
"And he made you drink the potion again?" Harry asked, disgust in his voice – he had already judged Regulus. But tears fell from Kreacher's huge eyes and he shook his head. Her hands flew to her mouth, trying to contain the bittersweetness that swarmed her as she understood Kreacher.
Kreacher explained it to Harry, Regulus' sacrifice. "He ordered Kreacher to – to leave. Without him. To go home – and never tell Mistress about it – but to destroy the locket. And – and Master Regulus – he was dragged under the water –"
"Kreacher!" she whispered, falling to her knees beside him, tears blurring her vision. But Kreacher threw himself back like she did with Ron.
"The mudblood touched Kreacher, oh what would Mistress say? He will not allow it –"
Harry yelled at him but he was too late; the magical bind on the poor elf already had him whacking his head against the floor to punish himself –
She quickly turned to the side, vomit rising in her throat, uncontrolled, over the tiles of the basement kitchen and her hands. Harry was a man on a mission though; he continued to question Kreacher.
"Did you destroy it?" he asked urgently.
"Nothing worked!" Kreacher said, hysteria building in his poor broken voice. "Kreacher tried everything, but nothing made any mark on it…Kreacher tried, and failed, and punished himself, and tried again, and punished himself again! And Mistress went mad with grief, and Kreacher could not tell her where Master Regulus was, because Master forbade it!"
Her head spun with the nausea and pain; Kreacher's story had felt like swallowing a mouthful of broken glass. But Harry was determined to find the information he sought.
"I don't understand," he said. "Voldemort tried to kill you, and Regulus died trying to defeat him…but you still betrayed Sirius to Voldemort?"
She shook her head. "Harry – I don't think he told Kreacher," she said, voice hoarse from vomiting. "And house-elves are used to such abuse." If only Sirius had known, that his little brother had defied Voldemort so completely. Tears welled up in her eyes; she covered her face with her hands. "Regulus wanted to protect his family," she finished thickly, trying to stop crying. It was a familiar, heart-breaking story.
"The family that betrayed Sirius," Harry said, his voice straining. She looked up at him.
"Sirius hated Kreacher, Harry. He treated him like dirt. Don't give me that look, you know it's true. Sirius was brave and good…but he hated his family." Hermione couldn't breathe; the underestimation of Kreacher had undone two powerful wizards. "I've said all along wizards will pay for how they treat house-elves. Voldemort's paid…and so has Sirius."
She Vanished her upended breakfast, which was difficult with her hands shaking so much. Harry was silent for several moments, watching Kreacher.
"Kreacher…when you, uh, feel up to it – please sit up," he said. She smiled at Harry briefly before they both watched the elf, who took a long time to bring himself off the floor into a sitting position.
"Kreacher, I need to ask you to do something," Harry said, his trademark kindness in his voice and words. "Please find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket is. We, er, want to finish the important work Master Regulus started."
Kreacher blinked at Harry. "Find Mundungus Fletcher?" he repeated. Harry nodded.
Hermione and Kreacher both stood up, and Harry suddenly reached into his pocket, handing Kreacher the locket and Regulus' note to the Dark Lord.
"This belonged to Regulus –" Harry started, but Harry's kind gesture was beyond what Kreacher could bear, and the elf fell back to the floor, wracked with tears and hysteria.
"Comfort him!" she hissed at Harry; she wished she could pat the poor elf on the back but he would only hate it.
"I just tried to!" Harry hissed back.
"For God's sake, Harry, pat him on the back or something," she said, backing up to give them space. Eventually, Harry gingerly patted Kreacher on the back, and the elf eventually pulled himself off the floor, putting the note in the locket and placing it carefully in his cupboard before Disapparating.
"I feel like I've been awake for two weeks," Hermione said in the silence afterwards, "after hearing that." She looked at Harry. "Is that what it was like with Dumbledore? Is that where you went the night Snape killed him?"
Harry nodded. "That's…the sort of thing we've got to look forward to," he said. She walked over to him and hugged him.
"We can face it, Harry," she said, letting him go and squaring her shoulders. "How do you fight an Inferi?"
"Fire," Harry said hollowly.
Something to do, then. "I'm going to practice my fire hexes," she said.
Harry nodded. "Good idea. While we wait."
"How could Kreacher fight off a lake of Inferi, but not find Dung straight away?" Harry asked rhetorically after a lacklustre dinner of freeze-dried beef.
"Moody said Mundungus has a lot of hidey-holes," Hermione replied absently, not taking her eyes from the stanza she was translating in Galon ddrwg. "It might take days, or weeks."
"Ugh," Harry said, clearly frustrated.
"Could always get started on Ancient Greek in the mean time," she suggested.
"What have you found so far?" he asked, changing the subject very smoothly. She was going to have to learn all the requisite languages at this rate.
"Not a lot, except that Mr Brochfael had an unhealthy interest in his sister," Hermione said drily, watching with some distant satisfaction the disgust that curled up Harry's face.
"Why was that book ever in the school library?" Harry asked. "That's revolting."
"A good question," she agreed. Harry wandered off, muttering about a shower, while Hermione got lost in matching Welsh vocab to English and her working translation, waiting for her personal alarm to alert her that it was close to midnight.
It was an angry one, this time. Granger you fucking idiot, her bangle greeted her after several hours of focused interpretation and pouring through her English-Welsh dictionary. Hermione sighed. What had she done this time?
Hello to you too, Draco, she replied politely, letting him know she was there.
Why were you at that Weasley wedding? he asked quickly. When I'd already told you to leave?
She frowned. How did he know she was at Bill and Fleur's wedding? Sure, the Death Eaters had broken it up, but she and Harry Disapparated quickly.
Same way I do anything outside of your Vow, she etched back testily. Because I decided it was best for the mission not to leave before it ended.
You are SO full of shit, he wrote back. Do you have any idea what you've done?
As a matter of fact, Hermione did not.
No? she sent back, annoyed and bewildered. What are you talking about?
There was a beat of deliberate silence, she could tell. Then:
You haven't seen the Prophet, have you.
She felt a sinking, icy feeling slide through her chest.
No. What's happened, she replied, snipping replaced with a terse information request.
Another beat of silence, and then a series of long messages, rapidly flickering before her textbooks and Mr Brochfael's obsession with his sibling.
You got photographed at the wedding. What possessed you to let the veela glamour you. Or wear a dress like that.
You're published in the paper under Potter. Undesirables Number One and Two.
Every Death Eater and Snatcher and piece of shit across Britain wants to teach you a lesson with their cock and hand you in for 5,000 galleons.
For the first time, she found what he sent down the bangle very hard to believe.
Draco, that's absurd, she sent back.
No, you know what's absurd? he replied. Listening to Yaxley and Travers describe how they're going to spit-roast the woman you love and then necromance her corpse for round two.
Hermione grimaced. She had felt bad enough when Mad-Eye casually mentioned Draco in an Order meeting. This sounded a lot more gruesome.
I'm sorry, Draco, she sent back feebly.
How am I supposed to protect you from every blood-mad rapist in Britain, he lamented.
This rankled a little bit. I can take care of myself, she responded. Hadn't she just sent Voldemort back two dead Death Eaters?
You never learned the difference between issuing violence and taking it, he wrote back nastily. And now the Dark Lord has directed the entire might of the Ministry at you.
The lecture was so long-winded, he was starting to remind of her Ron. Ok? she sent back, irritated. What are you looking for from me? She couldn't do anything about it now. And even if she had the chance to do things differently, she wouldn't have. It was the right call to stay at the wedding; her line into Voldemort's inner circle would have been immediately suspected if she had tried to move Harry and Ron earlier. And Hermione certainly didn't regret sending the Dark Lord her kind regards in the form of Dolohov and Rowle's bodies.
Goddammit Granger, the bangle flashed. Is a shred of self-preservation too much to ask?
Hermione thought she was plenty cautious; certainly more than Harry or Ron were sometimes. Apparently, she snipped back. Look, I'm sorry you had to listen to that fucked up rape stuff. But I don't think I did anything wrong.
He didn't respond, and she sighed, putting the bangle back on and packing her horcrux work up in case they had to suddenly leave Grimmauld Place in the middle of the night. It didn't warm against her wrist until she was trying to fall asleep, lighting up the dark bedroom.
You were wearing the pearls I got you.
She smiled at her bangle, its sentimental message lighting up the dark. And your bangle, she replied.
It was very pretty, he said. Very gratifying.
There was only the sound of her breathing in the dead quiet of the Black townhouse. Did I really look that good in this photo? she asked. One part self-absorbed curiosity; another part a mischievous desire to test if she could get under his skin all the way from London.
There's a look in your eyes, he wrote back, more wholesome than she was anticipating. Something's caught your attention, out of the frame.
It was an enchanted sunflower, she replied, recalling Luna and the petals falling past her hair.
I don't care what it was, Draco wrote back bluntly. All I know is that I need to obtain it or destroy it, to make you look at me.
The hitch in her breath was so loud in the silence. But I always look to you, she replied. I'm so desperate to have you that I can't help it.
His reply arrived quickly. Tell me. What are you desperate for?
Hermione smirked, shifting under the covers. I need your fingers, running across me, and inside me. And I need your mouth whispering in my ear, and bruising my neck.
She carried on, assuming he'd be rather preoccupied by this point to reply. When we first fought after the Vow, and you bit me, I almost came right there.
I tried to fight it but I just wanted you to swallow me whole.
I'm sure you knew, the way you said you wouldn't do it again if I was so offended. You knew.
And when you pushed me up against the classroom wall on Valentine's Day and fucked me –
I almost cried when you pulled out. I just needed your cock so badly.
She was so horny now, and it was so late, and they'd been apart for months, she was getting quite carried away. Every time you pull out it makes me crazier. That's what I'm most desperate for Draco.
Next time we meet you have to come inside me. I need to feel it. I'll beg if I have to.
The response was expectedly short and directive: Beg.
Hermione sighed, wishing he was in her bed. Please, Draco? Will you please come inside me when we meet again?
I'll do anything, cause I'll die if you pull out again. I need you so badly.
You can't claim me in the Vow and not take me completely, she continued, filthy thoughts veering uncomfortably close to the truth. You can't cut my heart out of my chest and leave a bleeding hole in your wake. So, please? Will you please make me yours?
She paused, dimly wondering through the arousal if she'd gone too far. Her heart constricted a little at the inference in his reply.
If I have to cut through everyone between us. If I have to kill a hundred people.
I bought you with my soul, Hermione. I have to have you.
Author's note: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Protean Charm in a fanfic, must be in want of a sexting scene.
Some of the referenced conversations come up in the draft I'm working on of this story from Draco's perspective, which I aim to publish at the end of this fic.
Also in Extremely Critical Research for this chapter I discovered Sirius died months before Katie Price's first Page 3 pic :( rest in peace Sirius you would've loved wanking off to Katie.