/
/
The branding of his dark mark wasn't nearly as painful as Theo had expected. In fact, he could honestly say it hadn't hurt— at least not physically— at all.
The mark, as clear as black ink on stark white parchment, had taken to his arm quickly— so quickly in fact, Voldemort himself had remarked upon it with approval.
Theo had never seen his father more proud— and in that memory was the pain— the image of the vile, wretched pleasure of a powerful, selfish, soulless wizard, of a father who was only so by blood.
Theo could only guess his mark had taken so well because he was so steadfastly sure in his mission to do everything in his power to help the other side— the side of reason, truth— from the wrong side.
"I've done it," Theo said calmly, lifting his sleeve to reveal the skull and snake on his forearm.
Ted looked on, clearly pained. Andromeda's countenance withered. Vina nodded resolutely, unsurprised.
"You'll have to teach me now," continued Theo, addressing Andromeda. "I'll catch on quick— you'll see."
"He's right, Andromeda. He's going to need Occlumency, and soon," Ted sighed, then directed a stern gaze toward Theo. "Although I'm doubtful of how quickly you'll catch on. What you did was foolish and rash, Theo. I thought you were intelligent. I expected more from you."
Theo looked away, unable to bear Ted's disappointment. Since the night of his mother's unmasking, Theo had come not only to respect Ted Tonks, but to look up to him— to trust in him.
"He must get that from me," Vina added, a bit of unmasked pride in her voice. "Rashness."
"I think it's all his own, Vina," Andromeda added sternly.
"I'm not sorry."
"Oh, we know," responded Ted, his arms crossed against his chest. "I'm sorry."
Theo looked up, confused.
"The young always suffer most in war, Theo. I'm sorry you're going to witness that firsthand."
I already have, Theo thought, thinking of Draco and Hermione.
"Let's begin then," Andromeda said, her voice the tone of a professor.
"Right now?" Theo asked in surprise.
"Darkness waits for no one, Theo, and night is falling fast."
/
/
/
"Today's the day, Draco, I can feel it."
Draco rolled his eyes. Theo had said very much the same every day for the past three weeks, and every day he'd been wrong.
"You know, they say madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results," replied Draco, rolling up the sleeves of his very Muggle-like button down.
"Lucky thing we aren't doing the same thing over and over again. And who's this all-knowing they anyway? I don't trust them."
"You don't trust anyone."
"That's not true. I trust Granger well enough. And I trust you, even though I'm really going against my better judgment with that call."
Draco scoffed, but realized he couldn't fault his friend. Trustworthiness had never been one of his best qualities— one of his qualities at all, really. There hadn't really been anyone to trust in him.
A familiar pang of guilt swelled inside him, and he undid the top button of his shirt, as if that might help him free his guilt somehow. He knew he'd betrayed Hermione's trust when he'd sent his charmed communication coin and his platinum ring to Theo (knowing Theo would undoubtedly show them to Hermione)… and even though Draco could not seem to put words to it yet, or really understand his connection with the brown-haired Gryffindor, he knew he'd broken some unspoken agreement.
It had all been to try to keep her safe; any connection to him, however small (or incomprehensibly large, in this case) was an added danger.
Merlin knows Hermione has more than enough danger in her life, with bloody Potter always fucking up.
But Draco quickly realized that any attempt to sever their connection was futile, not merely because of the fact that he fought thoughts of Hermione from his mind nearly every waking moment, but because Voldemort and the Death Eaters had infiltrated any position with any power at the Ministry and the Prophet, with the goals of rounding up, minimizing, or better yet, eradicating the Mudbloods, Muggles, and lesser magical creatures.
And Hermione Jeanne Granger was no exception to this group; Muggle-born, defender of house-elves, and best friend of Voldemort's number-one enemy, Harry Potter, Draco had caught wind that her whereabouts were to be "monitored."
Draco knew what "monitored" really meant, so he'd put himself forward for the task, using a guise of a long-standing hatred of "Potter's filthy Mudblood," and a desire to "put her in her place."
He cringed at the memory; words spoken from his very lips. He'd had to utilize every ounce of his Occlumency training.
Theo, now one of Voldemort's newest Death Eaters (much to Draco's ire), had echoed Draco's sentiment, and Snape, now regarded as Voldemort's most trusted Death Eaters, had paired them up for the task.
As much as Draco wished Hermione was not a target whatsoever, part of him was glad to have a task to focus his efforts, an excuse to leave the Manor, which continued to be occupied by Death Eaters, but was now thankfully back under the control (or at least some control) of his mother— his mother who had survived because Dumbledore had died, his mother who knew something had changed in her only offspring, who didn't seem to look at him as much as she now seemed to look through him, as if she could see Hermione standing there in his thoughts.
Draco feared it was only a matter of time before his mother found out about his feelings for Hermione, however complicated they remained— his mother always found out— and he was happy to keep her from doing so as long as possible.
Charged with the task of "monitoring" 'Potter's Filthy Mudblood', Draco and Theo, dressed as close to Muggle-like as they could manage, had spent nearly every waking hour of the past three weeks in the very Muggle neighborhood of Hampstead, stationed outside of the home Hermione shared with her very Muggle parents, attempting in vain to break her protection wards, to warn her, to tell her to run.
Thanks to Hermione's brilliant skill with charms, Draco and Theo hadn't spotted Hermione or her parents even once, and, other than the garden that managed to stay perfectly manicured and the lights that turned off every evening around ten, there were no outward signs that anyone occupied the house at all.
Draco knew he and Theo were not simply expected to "monitor" the house forever; he knew they were running out of time.
Time… Draco thought as he pictured the last time he'd seen Hermione, the last kiss they'd shared. There never seems to be enough of it.
"Ready?" Theo asked, breaking Draco's reverie.
Draco nodded, and they began as they always did, together.
"Finite incantatem, surgito, offero…"
/
The moment Hermione turned onto Christchurch Hill from Willow Road, the route she'd traveled her entire life— the one that ran from the library to her home—she knew her wards had been breached.
At least mum and dad are safe at work… I hope.
Hermione had devised a way for her parents to get to and from work (a mere kilometer of travel each way) four days per week, securing their dental office with the same protective wards she'd set in place at their home. For the unprotected path between the two places, she did her best with temporary transfiguration spells.
Since returning home from Hogwarts, she'd spent most of her days alone at the local library (all but abandoned during the summer months), under the careful influence of Polyjuice, studying the books Dumbledore had left her, knowing her time was long up.
It was clear to Hermione the Prophet and the Ministry had been infiltrated by Voldemort; nearly every headline was anti-Muggle, pureblood propaganda— in summary, alarming. She knew it was only a matter of time before they came for Muggle-borns— for her, for her parents.
She had devised a plan weeks ago, while still at Hogwarts— alter her parents' memories with new memories and identities and get them far, far away. Unfortunately, implementing the plan was proving to be next to impossible. She couldn't bring herself to say goodbye because in her heart she knew the goodbye may very well be a permanent one.
Hermione, the effects of the day's Polyjuice rapidly wearing off, approached her home slowly, steadily— her enchanted bottomless bag safely miniaturized with the books Dumbledore had left her, clothes, a tent, non-perishables, and anything else she felt she, Harry and Ron might need at a moment's notice. She did her best to calm her rapidly beating heart, to get her breath under control so she could focus— to ready herself for a fight.
She considered turning around and going straight to her parents' work, but couldn't bring herself to leave her home just yet. She wasn't ready to run.
Hermione headed toward the garden gate instead.
As she approached the iron gate, she wondered who had managed to disarm her wards, who might be waiting for her, and if perhaps she would recognize them from the battle at Hogwarts.
Not Greyback, she thought desperately, remembering his grotesque grasp on her neck, and his his hot, coppery breath upon her cheek. Anyone but Greyback.
Silently, Hermione cast a silencing charm on the gate before slowly pushing it open. For as long as she could remember, her mum had reminded her dad at least once every season to oil the gate's creaky metal hinges— a request her dad never seemed to "remember" to fulfill. The thought made her feel achingly homesick, nostalgic for a time— for a version of herself and her family— she knew she could never return.
The gate opened without a sound and she stepped through, into a thriving summer garden that was clearly more loved by her parents than its creaky metal gate.
This time of year, the English roses were in bloom, but their subtle scent was often overpowered by the climbing wisteria that framed the window of Hermione's bedroom upstairs. She paid neither flower any mind, however, creeping along the little stone path, past the simple wooden table and chairs she'd spent most of her summers before Hogwarts.
So far there was no sign of another person nor creature. She idly wondered where Crookshanks might've wandered.
Behind the cover of a cluster of towering lilacs, she crept toward toward the back door of the house, the one that led into the kitchen. She paused, knowing that if she took one more step, she'd be exposed to anyone who may be in the house looking out the back windows.
Hermione took a deep breath, her wand as steady as she could manage, and stepped beyond the security of the lilacs.
There, on the little wooden bench she and her mum had picked out at the garden center when she was five, where— before she'd known she was a witch— she had unwittingly transfigured a garden snake into a garden hose, there on the very same bench she'd read Hogwarts: A History for the first time, sat Draco Malfoy, appearing to Hermione as though he were a very welcome hallucination that somehow belonged to be there.
Their eyes met at once and she could't look away— she didn't want to look away.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come back, Granger."
/
End
/
A/N: I can't believe we've reached the end of this fic. I think part of me did not want to finish- it's been such a pleasure to write and to see people enjoying this fic. I know I say this a lot, but I'm so, so thankful for everyone who has read, liked, followed along, and/or reviewed. I have a lot of thoughts and ideas for a sequel, but I will not be posting any time soon. Again, THANK YOU!