Chapter 22: Sharing Pain

Hermione said nothing. What was there to say when the person you loved told you that they hated you? It wasn't even simply disliking something about your personality, not something you could change, but you. And "hate"…not the softer words of dislike, or annoyed by, or any of that.

In the faint light that filtered through the heavy clouds, and accompanied by the orange flamed in the fire, Draco spun his tale.

"I had no idea where I was, but in some strange land with some strange people and no way to get home. There was a man named Bukkex, and he and his wife Xokos were kind enough to take me into their home for a couple days. But when I expressed a desire for my own world, they told me of a creature, a cozzelt, which could or at least may be able to take me home. So on my third day there, I left for the sea, where they said I could find such a creature. I got there three or four days later, I don't know which. Time was confused there, for me.

"I was by the edge of the sea and I met a man who took me to a woman, named Kessen. It was she that gave me this knife"—there was a clatter and Hermione tilted her head to look at the dagger by her foot; it was very pretty, engraved all up the blade with some design she could not make out, and seemingly as delicate as anything could be—"and told me to go to a small island you could see from the edge of the dock. Having no choice, I swam to it and spent the night there on the sand.

"Sometime the next morning, I got up and went down into the water. I think it took me almost an hour to find the cozzelt's den. As soon as I got down there, my bubblehead charm popped, and I almost drowned, but it was the thought of you that kept me going. It was because I was thinking of you that I made it onto the rocks of the cave alive. There the cozzelt found me, and told me to follow her.

"The cave was filled with compulsion magic, and I wanted to turn back, to run back to the safety of the little island above us, back to Kessen, back to the kindness of Bukkex. But instead I thought of you, and kept going. Have you ever felt compulsion magic? It's a truly awful form of magic, and the only way to get through it is to think of one single thing that will get you to keep going. If Kessen had stuck in my mind as you did, or Bukkex, there is no doubt I would have turned back then and there to go back to them.

"But I didn't. I thought of you." Draco paused here and drew in a ragged breath. Hermione's knees went from stiff to water, and she knelt in front of the fire and picked up the dagger on the floor beside her to examine it more closely. The engravings she had seen up the blade were ivy, and it was a pretty knife…

Draco continued. "After that the cozzelt put me in a little room, about as big as a closet here in Hogwarts. For the next three days I wasn't allowed food or water (neither of which I'd had earlier that day either), and the worst condition yet: I wasn't allowed to sleep. That room drove me mad, and I could always hear water dripping somewhere. On the first day, I was fine, if a bit bored. By the second day, I was talking to myself—about my mother, and…other things. On the third day, I know I would not have made it if I didn't have Kessen's knife. I began cutting myself on my arm, and the pain kept me awake.

"I wouldn't have even lasted to the third day if I hadn't been thinking of you the whole time. It was like a mantra inside my head, 'Hermione, Hermione, Hermione' always, over and over, and over. It never stopped. You were the only reason I stayed put in that room, the only reason I willingly went without food or water or sleep for three days.

"And when the three days was up, the cozzelt put me to the hardest task yet. I blindfolded myself, and for hours—I don't know how many hours, but it was crueler than anything could have been at the time—I had food and water paraded in front of me, just out of reach, and certainly out of sight. It was probably just magic so that I smelled the food, heard the water sloshing in a jug, but after over three days of not eating, the only thing that kept me from breaking and yelling out that I wanted the food—thereby ending the test—was the thought of you.

"And so, now, here with you, I can't help but hate you. It was for you that I went through all of this…misery, and pain, and…" his voice broke, and he stopped, drawing deep breaths. Tears chased each other down her cheeks, and Hermione tried not to look back at Draco. "And I can't help it. I don't know what to do about it."

Hermione nodded. She heard the couch bend under his weight, and his careful steps as he walked around the table to kneel at her side. Draco's hand reached out for her shoulder and her breath hissed out at the contact as she moved away a bit. Draco frowned and edged closer, this time wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close to him. She sat stiffly in his grip.

Draco tilted his head and laid it on her own. "It's not all the time. Only sometimes, when I think about the…the pain and misery of what happened. Not right now," he whispered, shifting his knees out from under him so that she was sitting in his lap, with her head pressed reassuringly under his chin.

Kessen's dagger in the firelight looked almost as comforting as Draco's loving grip around her, however temporary it may be. She didn't know what she was doing, but she wanted to share his pain, even if only a little. The sharp edge carefully separated the skin of her upper arm, and blood swelled around the line even as her breath shuddered in.

"I am sorry," Draco whispered to her. They were both staring at the cut and watching the blood spill down her arm. She could feel his hot tears falling into her head and she drew a second line below the first. The knife was so sharp that she hardly seemed to feel the pain. Either that or the pain was just so reassuring that she embraced it and saw it not as pain but as a friend's welcome hand above you when you're drowning.

Hermione hesitated about a third cut, and the point of the dagger made a valley against her skin as she thought. Any more pressure, and it would cut, and then her blood would run into the redness from the other two cuts…. Draco's hand came and wrapped around hers, pulling the blade away and dropping it onto the hearth in front of the fire.

She did not remember the actions, but her arms were around his neck and she was crying as they kissed, carefully at first, but then becoming heedless of the usual grace that infused such an action and kissing each other as a sharing of their pain. Their tears mingled together, and fell on their clothing with mutual loss. Draco's teeth nipped her lip, both painful and sensual, and her nails dug into his back, scratching all the way down as he bit at her neck. It was almost a contest to see who could cause the other more pain…almost….


Ginny slumped to the floor outside Orlando's room. She had turned the knob, but, finding it unlocked, had suddenly been too scared of his reaction to open it. What if he hated her? What if he didn't forgive her? She knew such things were impossible from him, but couldn't help that they went around and around in her head. "Gryffindor my ass," she muttered. "I'm not even brave enough to open a door and apologize."

She sat there, stewing in her misery until there was a creak and the door opened. The dark hall was infused with light and the redhead blinked at the sudden onslaught. A shadow briefly blocked out most of it, and then went back. Ginny struggled to her feet and turned to the open door. Orlando was already back in his quarters, but he had left the door open for her.

Ashamed that he was the one who had opened the door and not she, Ginny stepped meekly into the room and shut the door behind her. The noise was soft but seemed magnified in the room, and she was suddenly much too aware of how messy her hair was, her clothes unkempt and dirty from searching the castle, her face a bright red with embarrassment.

It was Orlando who spoke first, calmly commandeering the situation. "Tea?" he asked, indicating a cup on the table. Warily, Ginny skulked over and sat on a cushion across the table from him. "Did you find them?" he asked, genuinely curious.

His kindness was driving Ginny mad. It would've been easier to deal with him if he'd been cold, or even just overly formal. But instead he acted as if it hadn't happened, somehow managing, at the same time, to acknowledge that she owed him an apology. "No," Ginny breathed out sadly. Orlando looked like he was about to say something, but in his hesitance gave her a minute to apologize. She took it. "I'm sorry about this morning," she muttered.

Orlando grinned at her. "It's all right. I know you're grumpy in the mornings. By the way, I think I may have found them. Did you check the room of requirement?"

Ginny felt unimaginably stupid. "No," she said, smiling at Orlando brilliantly. "I don't know how I could have missed it, but I did! Should we go?"

"I'd say wait until tomorrow, but if you want to go you can," he told her indulgently. Her smile waned at the use of the singular. "I can't go with you, Gin. It'd look suspicious if people saw us together."

Ginny frowned. "I hate that, but okay. Not tonight then. Tonight I'm with you, she said softly, and was rewarded with an adoring grin. She returned the smile and scooted over to where Orlando sat in his armchair and leaned against his leg.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" he questioned, running his fingers through her bright hair.

"For being you," she replied, reaching over his legs for his free hand.

"And the same goes to you," he said, slipping over the edge of the chair and wrapping his arms around her. Ginny turned her head to look at him and he kissed her. It was their third kiss, and the first that he had initiated. She could feel herself go giddy at his touch and tried to get even closer to him. About to deepen the kiss, she was almost surprised when he pulled away from her.

She closed her eyes on the pain, and simply let the dregs of her ecstasy wash over her. Orlando opened his mouth to apologize, but she reached up and put a finger over his mouth to quiet him. "I know," Ginny told him. "I know." He nodded to her and dropped his head onto her shoulder, and she knew he was just as sad as she was to end it so.

Orlando's breath tickled against her neck, and he whispered, "I'm sorry." Ginny held him tight but did not respond. He already knew she agreed with the sentiments.


Draco woke up the next morning feeling almost as if he had a hangover. Hermione's warm body was beside him, and he was embarrassed, shocked, and worried that both of them were topless. In the dim light, he could see where he'd bitten her the night before, all of them outlined in red marks or faint bruises. He could see where he'd been holding her hips much too tight and had left black and blue fingerprints on her. With a smirk, he thought that he probably looked just as bad as she.

Looking upon his arms, he saw that he was right: the arm that he hadn't cut had long red welts on it. They'd both been very careful of the cuts from Kessen's blade. That had been something else altogether, and each of them had treated that arm tenderly while heedless of everything else. Draco looked at his arm and knew his back was much, much worse. She'd given him his fair share of bites too, so it turned out about equal in the end.

Hermione shivered as he let cool air into the blankets with his upright position. He edged out of bed carefully to try and let her sleep, but it was too late. She opened her eyes and watched him get out of bed, simply looking at his upper half calculatingly and without any regret or hint of guilt.

The brunette sat up to follow him out of bed before realizing she was completely unclothed from the waist up. Draco smirked and didn't turn away as he pulled pants on over his boxers and then reached for his shirt. Hermione swallowed her embarrassment (obviously he'd already seen it all last night) and got out of bed after him, looking over at him disdainfully, but he seemed to see faint amusement in her glance. He turned back to his shirt to see why she was amused: her nails had shredded it almost completely last night.

Draco tossed the useless shirt away and simply pulled his robe on. Hermione gave her injuries the same calculating look she'd given his, and ran a finger over his fingerprint-bruises on her hips before pulling on her—untorn—shirt. Neither of them said anything. Nothing was needed to be said. It was a sharing of the misery each of them had suffered, and an exacting of revenge (of sorts) for the misery, and a blissful release from everything.

Hermione looked up from buttoning her robe and gave Draco the same smirk he'd been giving her as she re-clothed herself. He felt a confused rush of both love and hate for her at this, and she saw his face change. Her own face was calmly accepting of this, having seen both emotions. It was this, this simple confusion of feelings that he could not help, that made him feel guilty. This stood out in stark contrast to the lack of guilt he felt for having mangled her body so much the night before. But that was different.

He would have to forgive her for the pain that he had gone through in her name. What happened last night was a start, at least. After all, she had her own healing to do, too. Draco could only imagine what it must have been like to walk around school without your partner in crime to lean on and almost all of the student body trying to get at you.

The two of them walked down the stairs in silence, and instead of aiming curses and hexes at the couple, most of the studentsdrew away anxiously, whispering among friends. Well, Draco thought, I think we do look rather formidable today. She looks alert, and…older, somehow. As if she's transcended above all of this already but won't scruple to hurt someone if they threaten that transcendence. You can see my teeth marks all over her neck. And me…well, he caught a reflection of himself in a window. I look grim. Scary. My face is still gaunt, and my eyes… Draco didn't want to think about what he'd seen in his eyes in passing the window. A deep sort of bloodlust, a willingness to do battle that he'd never seen in himself before. Overlaying that, a calm impassive look possessed him, and his lips were twitched up in a smirk that frightened him. The smirk itself seemed to agree with Hermione's "no scruples" transcendence.

Indeed, they would make a frightening sight for the school. Draco wouldn't admit it, but he was a little scared too.

Outside the doors of the Great Hall, they reached for each other's hand together, and when they clasped them, their gazes met. In the new silence they had found with one another, they walked into the hall and went to the Slytherin table, where they seated themselves between Crabbe and Goyle and across from Pansy and Blaise. Together, they reached for the plate of toast and their hands shared its weight as they brought it closer to them. They both ate three pieces of toast, and if the toppings were different, by now it was clear that they were more attuned to one another than they ever had been before.

Throughout the day, they continued to be completely in sync with one another. Draco began to wonder how long it would last. If he looked to her, it was almost certain she was looking right back at him, and if she wasn't already looking at him when he looked to her, she would look up a second later to meet his eyes with a smirk identical to his own. They reached for things at the same time, and their footsteps echoed in the halls as one. It was scary. It was exciting.

And they both became used to it very quickly.

After Hermione had Ancient Runes, the two of them met up in the library, where they studied for a while. They spoke very little to each other the whole day until they were safe within the Room of Requirement that night.

"Did you notice…?" Draco began.

"Yes," Hermione replied. She had noticed how attuned they'd been together. "Why?"

"Last night?" Draco asked, unsure. "Or maybe just being back together." He stared into the leaping flames of the fire and remembered her blood trailing down her arm, just as beautiful as his. He had cried for her, with her. But his Hermione—beloved, wonderful, hated—had shown no hesitation until the third cut, and so he had stopped her. He reached forward and picked up Kessen's dagger, which was warm because of the fire but not unbearably so. Hermione's blood still covered the edge of it.

"Last night," she agreed with his thoughts quietly.

"What…" did we do?

"I don't know either," she responded. "But I know…we're thinking almost the same thoughts. I know what you're going to ask while you're asking it, and…"

"Know what I'm going to say before I say it. Yes," he breathed. How long? He wondered. She didn't need to speak. They both knew that neither of them could answer that question.

"It's not so much that I can read your thoughts," she began.

"Or hear them," he added. "More that…"

"More that I know you're thinking what I'm thinking." Hermione finished for them. They sat in silence, and she moved closer to him on the carpet and leaned her head on his shoulder. He knew then how much it hurt her for him to be gone for so long, how the school had hated her, how her hair had been burnt off when she thought she was safe, how Ginny had cut it and Hermione's misery at that. But in her thoughts he picked out her excitement at finding his dagger (now under her pillow in their bed), her relief at not needing to constantly be on guard because of it.

Draco brought up his own memories of that time, and she flinched but bore them. Him, nearly drowning and only thinking of her as he kept trying for the surface. His hunger and thirst and weariness in the stone cell. The crazy drip, drip of water in the background and the splot of his tears. Kessen's knife on his skin in nine cuts. And as he had drawn something good out of her memories, she brought to the surface Bukkex, who was strange but not unkind, and his wildly-furnished house. Xokos smiling at him and reminding him achingly of Hermione. She picked out Kessen, giving him the blade and the unexpected gift of empathy for his cause.

And she paled at his memory of the constant Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, that was embedded deep within everything. She knew it to be the beat of his heart, each breath, the counterpoint to the dripping of water, a drowning man's last thoughts, his dreams, the only thing keeping him going.

He had almost expected her to cry, but what she did instead brought his heart to swell for her with love and not a bit of hate—for the moment. Hermione simply took his hand and squeezed it tight. She offered no words of comfort—any would have been inadequate—nor did she try to apologize for what had happened—there was nothing she could do about it. She simply sat there and squeezed his hand in understanding.

They both stared into the fire, remembering, and sharing their pain. After a while, the moment changed. Draco shifted and put his arms around her. In a question they both already knew the answer to, his hands rested on her hips, quietly on the bruises he had left. There would be more after tonight, they both knew. As one, they accepted it, and were grateful to it, for in the midst of their love and hatred and pain and ecstasy, they forgot everything else, and it was good to get away from the world for a time. It felt good to share another kind of pain.

Draco hesitantly unbuttoned the top of her shirt and looked at his work from the other night. He looked up, a last question, the last reassurance before he brought back the physical pain that was easier to deal with than the emotional scarring they both had. Hermione leaned to him and kissed him carefully. He took of his shirt and they both smirked at the thought of her shredding it like the other night.

And it was done. She had agreed to it, and as she leaned over, she began it. He was almost certain she would be the one to stop it too, slowly bending until her bare torso was up against his, and his teeth would nip at her shoulder one last time. Yes, that was how it would end. But for right now…this was just the beginning. It was different from the carelessness of the other night…they each searched for new spots to bring pain and destruction to. They did not bite or press or scratch at bruises already there, but found new places and brought a new world of pain to each other.

It was agony. A blissful agony of forgetfulness. A different sharing of pain.


"Are you coming with me tonight?" Hermione asked Draco. She was sure he already knew the question, but wanted to voice it anyway.

"To where?" It seemed that though he knew her question, he did not know the specifics. Voldemort, Hermione thought, and opened her mouth to say. But Draco nodded and spoke before she could, "I'll come."

"We should get up," Hermione said, but her body language expressed no desire to do so. In a bit, they thought together. Hermione, his heart beat, and she felt his hatred roll off of him so much that she flinched.

"I'm sorry," he verbalized. She didn't answer—she already knew how sorry he was.

"Have you looked at…?"

"No," Draco answered. "You probably look worse though." He had hated her last night, and loved her, and he had taken it out on her body so hard that she had yelped in pain. More than once.

Hermione nodded in agreement and they climbed out of bed slowly, feeling the pains and embracing them. She nearly laughed to find herself still in her skirt—she'd been too tired to change her clothing at all before going to bed. Draco was in the same predicament, with his jeans still on.

Out of bed, they examined one another. As predicted, Hermione looked worse, covered in bruises all over the front of her body (mostly on her neck and shoulders), though her back wasn't so bad. He had once again left finger marks on her hips, almost exact echoes of the first set. Draco's back was a sea of red welts from Hermione's nails, and she had even gotten some on his arm and chest. His shoulders were bruised from her teeth.

Silently, they found their shirts (and bra, in Hermione's case) and put them on. The couple found themselves doubting if they would ever have any nights like the two they just had again. "Probably not unless there's something really traumatic again," Hermione answered out loud to their mutual, unvoiced question.

Classes were droll, and Draco and Hermione ached for each other with a pain that had very little to do with their physical injuries. They found that even across the school, they could still think with one another. It was strange, this mental awareness of the other, and they both wondered—both with longing and concern that it would—if it would fade away with time.

That night, in the Room of Requirement, they readied themselves to face Lord Voldemort. In fact, this took little preparation, and so they ended up playing wizard's chess until they had to leave. They played four rounds, and Hermione won the third game, but lost the other three. She complained that it was hard to win when the other person knew what moves you were going to make, and Draco indulgently did not point out that she knew just as much about his moves as he knew about hers.

Ready?

Let's go.

"Okay," Hermione whispered. Draco put his cloak over both of them and they left their room. The halls of the castle were eerily quiet, and they met no one on their way down to the Entrance Hall. Hermione frowned, and Draco's thoughts agreed that it was creepy. Maybe Dumbledore had wanted to make sure she got to this meeting and had kept the hallways clear for them.

Doubtful.

Once they were out of Hogwarts grounds and on their way to Hogsmeade, Hermoine stepped out of the cloak, and they struck up a conversation. "My mum…" Draco began, then paused to think. "I used to see my mum covered with bruises and think that father was abusive. I always worried about bringing it up with them because I thought he might start beating me too. It was almost always after he'd been gone on work with the Ministry."

But I think I understand now.

"But I think I understand now," Draco said aloud. He didn't need to, she had thought ittoo. "I never even realized they may be hurting each other…"

As a release. This time he did not say it out loud, and their hands found each other in the dark.

I think it helps more with the pain. It was unclear who began this thought.

You can become oblivious with snogging…

But only with the pain can you forget…

They trekked up the hill, talking both silently and aloud to one another. It was strange to be able to do that, but fun too. It opened up worlds of possibilities for them. Could they block one another? Was it possible to think with each other at long distances? Would it fade or grow stronger or be indifferent to time?

When they reached the meeting point, there was already someone waiting for them. Hermionedrew her dark cloak tighter and pulled her hood down—she hated wearing the mask, so she usually went without it. Everyone had seen her face already anyway. She made sure that Draco was properly invisible, and without a word to their companion, gripped the portkey she/he held out.

Hermione blinked at her surroundings. It seemed that Lord Voldemort did not like to hit the same place twice. She currently stood on a wide platform in the middle of a small island. Hatred splashed over her as it reminded Draco of his recent travels, and she felt him violently quash it. She wanted to reach for his hand—or was it that he wanted to reach for hers?—but they both knew that it would look weird with the invisibility cloak. Either part of her hand would disappear along with his or his would appear because there was no way to keep the cloak over his hand while holding hers.

Her father looked up at them from his throne and she felt him tentatively reach for them with his mind. It was almost like legilimency, but not quite, because instead of invading her mind for its memories, he merely brushed up against her, as if to be sure she was there.

Hermione walked forward, confused, and flinched before she realized that it wasn't her own thoughts being rifled through. It was Draco's. "Father!" she snap. Voldemort looked up at her attentively, but showed no sign of remorse for going through Draco's memories. "If you wanted to be sure that he was here, or that he was one of us, you should have just said so. I have no problems showing you his Dark Mark or even answering a spoken question," she growled, irritated as she took her seat. Draco hesitantly positioned himself behind and to the side of her.

It was odd. Hermione could feel the alert tautness of his body reverberating in hers, and it took some effort to not stand up and have her own body echo his completely. As it was, her back was ramrod straight against the back of her chair.

"You are still angry about the dragons, then," Voldemort surmised. "I truly am sorry that you are. I would have told you, but I wanted your reaction to be just as surprised as all the other students. And I didn't want to risk sending a letter like that into that castle. I have no doubt that they check the mail coming and going," he said casually.

"I almost died," she hissed, and did not know whether it was her thought or Draco's. "Bad timing for you, but me and Draco were the first ones to see the dragons, and we sent the third person with us to warn the teachers. The dragons didn't manage to get anywhere near the castle, but my back is scarred for life, and some of my chest!" To prove it, Hermione unbuttoned the top of her shirt and pulled it to the side so that he could see the scar of the spike that went through her shoulder blade.

"There's four on my back! And another right here," she pointed to where the spike had gone through her lung and come out her chest. "If you had warned me, the dragons may have gotten closer to the castle. As it was, they hardly made it past the lake," she snarled. "So your plan failed and I got mauled. What a great idea not to tell me!" she taunted sarcastically.

I didn't know we had so much rage about this, she and Draco thought together.

And it was because of their brief moment of thought that Hermione didn't see the warnings until it was too late. The Dark Lord's hand left a stinging mark on her cheek, and she heard Draco gasp with her pain. She, however, did not, and just met Voldemort's eyes coldly. "More pain, father?"

"Your impudence will achieve nothing. It cannot be changed, and I did what I thought was best for us all," he said shortly and turned away.

Draco's touch was cool on the heat of her cheek, and she forced herself to not lean into his hand. She felt his love, and his sadness at her being hurt, and it reassured her even more than his touch. Hermione sat regally in her throne and ignored the throbbing handprint on her cheek. Her straightness pulled Draco's body into accord too, and he stood stiffly behind her.

A smirk was upon Draco's lips, the smirk that she could not have upon her own. Hermione had won. Voldemort had gotten fed up with her and shown his anger; therefore, she won by default. But she kept her face impassive so that the Dark Lord would not think her arrogant, and allowed herself the pleasure through Draco.

The Death Eaters began arriving, stepping onto the beach and hiding their annoyance at the sand. They splayed out in a semicircle around the platform and its thrones and calmly waited for the meeting to begin.

"Where is Goyle?" Voldemort barked.

A man standing next to the blank space stiffened and spluttered, "I don't know, he said he'd be here, and—"

Voldemort cut him off. "You're late, Goyle," he told the man who was now approaching up the beach.

"I apologize, my Lord," the man said in embarrassment. Hermione saw him try and take his place as if nothing was wrong, but he knew what would come, and she pitied him for being late.

"Crucio," Voldemort said. The man fell down and writhed on the ground. Hermione forced herself to watch it, and Draco supplied her with a sneer fitting for the occasion. Goyle's scream arched to its pinnacle and fell abruptly into the wheezing, sniveling breath of a man in great pain that did not dare show it. He picked himself up with great dignity, all considering, and stood attentively, waiting.

Draco's sneer slipped off of her face and his to be replaced with a blank look. "Now, about that London raid. Malfoy," Voldemort barked, "Do we have the numbers and the location?"

Someone stepped forward and bowed low. "Yes, my lord," Narcissa said. "We have mapped out the upper part of London as you have said and have enough numbers to take the whole area."

"Upper London?" the Dark Lord sneered.

Hermione's respect for the woman rose as Narcissa did not falter. "Yes, my Lord. I have also mapped out the lower half of the city, but…" she drifted off, wisely. Voldemort did not like people to think, only to follow. But Draco's mother looked up at her Lord appealingly, and Hermione caught the glance she threw her way. It said, help me.

"Father?" Hermione said, taking up Narcissa's look. "Do we have enough numbers to take all of London at one go? It may be better for us to only take a part of London. I think…" she paused. It wouldn't be a good idea to push this.

But Voldemort seemed to be in a giving mood and waved her on. "I think that we shouldn't risk ourselves unnecessarily. If we can take all of upper London without much difficulty, then I think we should do that and make it quick. Go in, raid, get out. We don't want the Ministry to catch us, do we? Wouldn't it be best to keep it a short, fast raid with good results than to try and overdo it and get caught by the Ministry?

"How many live in upper London, Malfoy?" Hermione asked.

"Enough for each Death Eater to gain four slaves," Narcissa deadpanned.

"Thank you," said Hermione, some of her fears allayed by what she had said. Continue, she and Draco thought. "A single Death Eater can overtake four muggles easily. Or should be able to. And within minutes, too. If this was done in the middle of the night, when most muggles are asleep anyway, it should be unimaginably easy to do so, particularly if it's planned out who goes where…?"

Narcissa nodded, and they both turned to the Dark Lord for approval. He seemed to be thinking about it. Hermione's heartbeat was loud in her ears as she waited for his call.

"Yes, yes," he agreed eventually. "You can do this, Malfoy?" Narcissa nodded her head sharply, and then was dismissed back into the ranks. The meeting ended quickly from there, and Narcissa pulled aside the team that was helping her work on plans for the London raid. It would be soon, Hermione knew. Probably within the next month.

There were sharp cracks as people left the meeting. She stood from her seat, finally giving in to the uncomfortable feeling of standing stiffly while also sitting down tensely. Her body felt more comfortable when it mirrored Draco's position, and she sighed with relief as she put it that way.

Voldemort turned to her once everyone was gone. "You two are not coming on the London raid, but there is something I want you to do that night when you feel your Mark burn." He leaned close to her, and her mission echoed in her head for Draco to know too.

"You…" she swallowed thickly and tried to make words come out of her throat. "You want me to kill Dumbledore?"

Lord Voldemort smiled, and was still smiling when the portkey he shoved in her hands took her and Draco back to Hogsmeade.


What at once seemed as the impossible,
Now makes perfect sense.
We held hands to face the uncomfortable cold,
And lonely room.

—Mae, "Mistakes We Knew We Were Making"