I'm so sorry about the wait! T-T I have NOT abandoned this story. I'm in the middle of trying to wrap up my other WIP (the education of a lady) and that one has taken a bit of precedence over this fic since it is about halfway over, and I'd like to finish it as soon as possible so I can devote my full attention to this one. It's been a long road and a long year, and in between school and work, my writing schedule is all over the place. That being said, I am still actively working on this whenever I have the opportunity, so hopefully updates will not take as long as this one did. Thank you so much for sticking around if you're still here, and I hope you enjoy. 3

Hermione could tell right away from entering the kitchen that Ron was in a sour mood. She muttered her good morning, however, and continued on in. Harry smiled as he swallowed what looked like a dry mouthful of toast. Draco, who had come down before her, nodded and patted the empty seat beside him in invitation.

As she sat a plate of food appeared in front of her. She picked up a fork and knife, suddenly famished.

"Have I missed anything?" she asked, spearing some eggs with her fork.

"Not much at all," Draco said. "It's been quiet."

She glanced at Harry and Ron, still feeling that slight tension in the air, worried that there had been an argument before her arrival. Despite Ron's disgruntled air, Harry appeared at ease, and she allowed herself to relax slightly.

"Has anyone checked on our friends outside?" she asked.

"They're all there," Harry replied, picking up his cup. "As usual."

"You'd think they weren't bored out of their minds, from how little they move all day," Draco said.

"For all we know, they're experts at sleeping while standing," Hermione suggested half-seriously.

She had expected Ron to laugh at that. He usually loved it when she made attempts at humor, but he said nothing, merely spooning more porridge into his mouth and giving the barest of nods.

She gave Harry a look, as if to say what's up with him?

Harry caught it and gave the faintest shrug in response.

She looked at Ron more closely and saw a glint of gold around his neck, mostly hidden by the collar of his shirt.

"Are you wearing the locket?" she asked.

"Thought we lost it earlier," Harry said, looking chagrined. "Nearly panicked. We looked for it for ages and found it under our bunk. Thought it'd be best to wear it, so it doesn't happen again."

"Oh," she said, frowning. "Alright."

"We'll all have to take turns," Ron spoke up at last. He shifted in his chair uneasily. "I'd rather not wear this for very long."

"Naturally," Harry said. "We'll set up a schedule or something."

Hermione nodded her approval.

"What if it speaks again?" Draco asked suddenly. "While we're wearing it, that is."

Ron looked down at his chest, where the heavy pendant lay under his clothing against his skin. "I sure as hell hope it doesn't."

"I don't see it having any reason to unless we try to destroy it again," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Let's hope you're right," Ron said.

Having no set plan for the day, the group split up after breakfast. Ron went back to sleep. Harry went for a walk around the neglected garden. Draco had also been tempted by the thought of a nap but had to forego his idea when halfway up the stairs Hermione took his hand and all but dragged him into the library, not replying when he'd asked what had happened.

By the urgency of her actions, he'd thought maybe she'd had a breakthrough, or that something was wrong with their current brew of Polyjuice—or maybe she'd decided now was the chance to slip out and go see her parents, but all those possibilities were thrown out the window when the library doors closed behind them. He nearly stumbled over himself as she led him into the nearest alcove in between the bookcases, pushed him up against them, and pressed her lips to his.

He melted.

She was grinning when they broke for air, mischief dancing in her eyes—a rare sight to behold, and delightfully alluring.

"Good morning to you, too," he said, his hands falling around her waist. He couldn't restrain his smile.

They had shared his bed the previous night. Although Tonk's visit had rattled them, it hadn't stopped them from messing around a bit more before falling asleep. Hermione had been too sore to go another round so they had opted to sleep instead, and awoke to find themselves most comfortably entwined.

She was kissing him again now, her body pressing firmly against his. Her warmth was so inviting, he could have stayed that way for days. His heart pounded. She was wearing a skirt again—his hands roamed over her backside, cupping her there, his fingers dancing at the hem of her skirt, a silent inquiry.

In response, she pulled him deeper into the library and into a wedge between two bookcases that would hide them well if anyone came in by chance.

Draco wasted no time in pinning her against the wall, this time, his teeth scraping gently at her throat. She moaned, shivering, and pushed her hands against his back underneath his jumper, bringing him closer. He pushed her skirt up, nudged her thighs apart more widely.

Her knickers were already soaked. Draco bit his lip and groaned, tracing the pad of his pointer finger along her seam through the damp fabric, gently applying pressure, molding it to her flesh.

"Gods, you're so wet," he murmured into the skin of her warm throat. "Absolutely delicious."

His finger pushed around the fabric and traced her cleft directly, parting her folds to rub at her clit. Hermione moaned.

"That's it," he said encouragingly, "let me hear that you like it."

"I do—" she broke off with another moan. "I want more."

"My witch commands, and I obey," he said, grinning. She blushed.

"Tell me," he said gently, cupping her cheek in his palm as his other hand pleasured her slowly. He could feel her knees buckling, pushed himself more firmly against her so she wouldn't fall. "Tell me what you want. Do you want my fingers inside you, sweetheart? Or would you rather have something else?"

"I…"

She buckled again when he added more pressure, stifling a little gasp by biting her lip. His cock twitched.

Her hands were at the front of his trousers, working on setting him free. Draco took her chin, tilted it up, making her pause.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

His fingers dragged along her clit. She shivered again, her lips parting.

"I want you to fuck me here," she said. "Not with your hands but with your penis. Is that clear enough?"

Surprised, he let out a laugh. She was grinning, a flush spreading across her face.

He traced a firm circle over her clit—she bit her lip, her nails digging into his back.

"Perfectly so."

"Did you think I'd be some sort of prude?" she asked, raising a brow. "I know everyone else does. I may not have much experience, but I've got needs."

"I didn't know what I thought you'd be," he said honestly. "You shock me at every turn, and I love it."

He leaned in, kissed her, his tongue sliding into her mouth as his fingers continued their attentions to her lower body. She was holding onto him tightly, her thighs quivering, senseless little moans rising from her throat.

When they finally broke apart, Draco stilled his hand and cupped her cheek.

"Last night was wonderful."

She smiled, almost shy under the intensity of his gaze. "It was."

Her hands had slid down his front and fumbling slightly, opened the front of his pants and helped him free himself of his boxers.

"Can I just say how hot it is that you want to do this here?" he asked, pausing for a moment. "I seem to recall you saying to Weasley once that libraries deserve the utmost respect."

She gave him a look and withdrew her hands.

"We're being quiet. Is that not respectful?" She took a moment to remove her knickers.

Fuck. He stared at her bare skin. His cock throbbed.

"Merlin help me," he muttered, swallowing thickly. "You will be the death of me, Hermione Granger."

Now, she faltered, and glanced toward the door, as if she expected Kreacher, or Potter and Weasley to burst through.

"Should we just go up to the bedroom? I'd lock it, but they'd get suspicious if they tried it and couldn't get in."

Draco nuzzled at her jaw with his nose. "They already know we're together. I don't think they'd be all that surprised to find us...necking."

She gave a soft laugh. "You say that now...Ron nearly lost his head when I went to the Yule Ball with Viktor."

"It's up to you. I'll do what you want."

She deliberated for less than a second.

"Here."

"Then here it will be."

There was a fireplace at the back of this dingy library with a thick but faded rug before it. Draco took Hermione by the hand, led her to it, helped her down, and when she sat, he straddled her lap and kissed his way up her chest to her throat, to her lips. His other hand stroked her thighs, encouraging them to move further apart, and they did. His fingers found her slick warmth again and continued rubbing her so that she writhed slowly underneath him. His mouth explored hers.

"I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about doing this to you in a library," he said, when they broke apart, his voice deep with want. "I have several times, in fact."

She was beet-red.

"What did you think of?" she asked, slightly out of breath.

"Not very nice things," he admitted. "I wasn't gentle in those fantasies. I didn't want to make love. I wanted to have you."

He pressed himself against her a little roughly.

"You hated me, though," she said, and through her frown he could see he had not scared off the desire in her eyes.

"I did," he agreed. "So you can imagine my conflict when those thoughts persisted. I wanted you for a long time and refused to acknowledge it…I wanted you for the wrong reasons."

"And what are they now?" she asked, her legs shaking and parting wider as he slowed his stroking to a crawl.

Rather than answer, he swooped down to capture her lips, enveloping her in a kiss that wiped her mind of all thought. His free hand caressed the back of her head, almost lifting her slightly with the force of his kiss.

Her hand was around his length, stroking him. Her thumb focused on exploring the head of his cock slowly. He would go mad if this continued. He kissed her hungrily, his tongue moving against hers, and when they broke apart, a thread of saliva connected their mouths.

Her eyes were dazed, heavy-lidded with desire. He took himself in his hand, guided himself into her slowly.

"If it hurts, say so," he reminded her.

She nodded, but there was a glint in her eye.

"Maybe I don't always want it sweet and gentle."

God above.

He pushed into her, still taking pains to be gentle and giving her time to adjust—past partners of his had always needed that, and he'd learned not to rush in like a brute. Still, she gave a quiet gasp, and he stopped at once, fearing he had hurt her, but she gave a nod to signal she was okay, that he could continue, and he did so, gauging her reactions with every careful push that took him deeper inside. She let out a soft grunt, but was smiling, feeling him throb inside her. Her hands clutched his hips. He'd bent his head to burrow into her shoulder, his teeth digging gently into her flesh. They stayed still for a moment, just breathing and feeling each other.

"You feel amazing," he whispered, not knowing why he was whispering. His hand cupped her breast through her jumper, rubbed over her nipple.

"So do you," she said, equally quiet. "But please, move."

He chuckled, gave a slow thrust. She was so wet, so warm…he wanted to stay inside her forever.

Her her nails pressed deep into his skin. He lowered himself so he could take her mouth. She moaned as he rushed back in.

Another thrust. He could feel her slickness on his thighs. He wanted to lick it all up, not let a single drop go to waste.

"Go faster," she said, her eyes almost pleading.

"So you don't always want gentle?" he asked. Another thrust, driven deep. She moaned. He felt her clenching around him and shivered with pleasure.

"Tell me, darling. I want to know."

Another thrust. Another. Another. He was slowly gaining speed. The wet slap of him against her was intoxicating.

"Everyone thinks I'm so delicate," she admitted, her eyes closed.

Thrust.

"I'm not."

Thrust.

"I know you aren't," he said gruffly, his head bent and pressed into her shoulder.

"They think I'm a goody-two shoes just because I like books and do well academically," she said. "They think they know me based on just that. They don't know what I've done."

Draco grabbed her waist, gave a sharper thrust. She moaned.

"But I do," he said. "I know that side of you. I saw it in you from the start. I knew you were dangerous…and I liked that."

Her eyes had fallen shut in pleasure, but as he spoke she opened them and stared at him curiously.

"In more ways than one," he panted, his hand running down her waist to her knee, and hooked it around his hip. Now he relented and while still watching her carefully, gauging her expressions in case he hurt her, he began to move at the pace that matched his desire.

She responded at once to his rougher, faster pace, letting out a sweet exclamation and holding him more tightly. The way her body jiggled and moved as he moved inside her was breathtaking. He felt her clench around him again and grit his teeth—tried to think of anything that would help him last longer, because this picture underneath him now was just about all he needed to reach release. But he was slipping. His hand was on her breast, teasing her nipple, pulling it gently, and the tormented pleasure in her expression was sweeter than any candy he'd ever had.

"Anyone who thinks you're delicate is a fool," he said, his voice quiet. He rolled his hips, sent her toes curling. His hands spanned over her skin, settled on her hips, grabbing purchase as he began to pound. "And I'm the lucky bastard who got to find out just what you're capable of more than once. And each time I couldn't believe how hot I found it."

She grinned, but it fled quickly as her mouth formed an 'o' at his thrusting. She was restless underneath him, writhing, her hips bucking into his, her hands clutching his arms, his back, his hair.

"Yes," she hissed. "Just like that!"

Within seconds she came, her face red and her hands digging into his flesh and muscle. Draco followed her soon after, when her form was limp and spent under his but her arms had looped around his neck, he buried himself deep and let go, devouring her mouth as he came. He pulled out, feeling their combined fluids slide around on their skin. He sat beside her, stroked her arm, her abdomen, her thigh.

"How was that?" he asked.

She sat up slowly.

"I loved it," she said, her smile radiant. "Thank you for not holding back."

"As long as it's what you want," he said, brushing a damp tendril of hair from her cheek.

"It is."

He smiled back, let his fingers trail down to her throat, traced farther down along her clavicle.

She shifted closer, then plucked up her courage, pushed him into a sitting position more favorable for climbing into his lap, looped her arms around his neck.

"I could do that again," she said with a coy smile.

"I could, too." His hands were on her bottom, squeezing, savoring. "Just give me a minute."

He bent his neck, his arms supporting her back now, leaning her backwards a little until he could capture her nipple in his mouth. His hand massaged her other breast.

"I want to take my time."

Harry had gone down to the kitchen for a snack. There he encountered Ron, looking slightly ornery and rumpled from his nap. He'd just straightened from looking around on the countertop.

"You seen the radio?"

"Yeah, I think Hermione moved it over there," Harry said, pointing to the counter where the small radio sat.

"I thought I asked her not to move it," Ron muttered, frowning. "I'm the only one that uses it, why's she going around touching it?"

"You left it on the table, and she was trying to be nice," Harry said. "I don't think she did it to annoy you."

"Well I don't go touching her things, do I."

He had grabbed the radio and sat at the table, began fiddling with the knobs. Loud static noise suddenly filled the kitchen, briefly interrupted by flashes of music as Ron toggled from station to station.

Harry blinked, slightly startled, as a cup of tea appeared before him on the table. A platter of biscuits joined it. He took them gratefully and tucked in.

A cup of tea had also appeared beside Ron. He caught Harry watching him.

"Maybe the news reports can help us," he said dully, shrugging. "Seeing as we don't get the Prophet here, and Ginny and Pansy can't send it to us either."

"That's a good idea," Harry said. "Didn't think of it before."

Distantly, they heard a clash of thunder.

"Glad I took that walk earlier," Harry said. "Helped clear my head. You should've gone, too."

"I'd rather be on a broom right now," Ron said, slurping his tea, his other hand still turning the knob on the radio. "I miss Quidditch."

Harry sighed. "You and me both."

"If someone walked in and asked for volunteers for somebody to be a target practice for some beaters, I'd jump up and be out the door before they could blink."

Harry laughed, and they lapsed into an easy silence. Ron finally settled on a channel after a few minutes and turned up the volume. It was only the daily weather report, but the newcaster promised news at the top of every hour, so they kept it on and listened to the drone of voices as the day turned to twilight.

The next morning, as they all sat around the dining table for breakfast, Ron swiftly took the locket from around his neck and held it out to the middle of the table.

"Next up," he said.

Harry took it immediately.

"A week at a time," he said, looking around the table as he fastened it around his neck. They all nodded in agreement; even as he nodded, Ron had a look on his face like he wanted to add something, but stayed silent.

The ugly pendant disappeared behind the collar of Harry's worn blue shirt, and they all forgot about it and began to eat.

The days passed slowly for the fugitives. With no current plan set, and no concrete clue as to where to begin the search for the next Horcrux to help them, they found themselves stagnating for a week or two. Harry and Hermione had stolen down to Diagon Alley in heavy disguise to get the few ingredients she needed that were crucial to the final stage of developing the Polyjuice. They had been tense and paranoid the entire time. They luckily had not come close to any Dementors or Aurors patrolling around, but Hermione had taken to looking over her shoulder so much that Harry had to squeeze her hand every time he caught it, so that she might not look suspicious. They had moved quickly, Apparating into the area and immediately going into the store, gathering what they needed, and rushing through the checkout process so quickly that it wasn't until they got back later that Hermione realized they had overpaid, and not given the cashier the chance to give them their change. From there, they took a quick trip into Flourish and Blott's, and then it was straight back to Grimmauld Place, taking care to Apparate inside the ward so as to not encounter the ever-present Death Eaters that still loomed outside, staring at the house. It had gone so quickly they'd barely had time to process how grim and grey the area had become. There had still been plenty of people around, and there was still music playing, and people talking everywhere, but it no longer felt jolly. It felt...forced. As if everyone knew something was wrong and was deciding to ignore it. Like eating lunch alone in a room with an advancing boggart creeping in your peripheral and your dread rising all the while.

Ron had the radio on day and night, listening keenly as the others went about their doings. He went from station to station, sometimes writing things down, or turning the volume up if he thought something of interest was being said. As consistently as he listened to the news, however, nothing of note ever really seemed to be reported. The newscasters always sounded upbeat. Normal. Again, like nothing was wrong, and it rattled them, because surely things couldn't be as great as they were made out to be. Minor incidents and such were talked about, but as Tonks had said, their incident at the Ministry had not been mentioned once, as if everyone had agreed to pretend it hadn't happened at all.

Sometimes they all listened together, but usually it was Ron stationed there by himself, seated on a couch or the dining table, leaning towards the radio that now always sat beside him.

He had managed to glean from these reports that Hogsmeade and Knockturn Alley were also stocked aplenty with Dementors and undercover Aurors. They heard about the new curfews in those areas and the random checkpoints scattered about the area where people claiming to work for the Ministry would confirm the identities of those travelling and their belongings. Reports of missing persons were very, very brief-but no matter how quickly they were read over, it always struck them how long those lists of names were.

The new Minister of Magic Pius Thicknesse, who had succeeded Rufus Scrimgeour, had given a long speech on the troubling times that had left them on edge, as it had rather sounded like a warning for everyone to comply if they wanted peace to return.

"I ask that we all keep calm and collected in these unsafe times," they had heard him say during the live broadcast. "We at the Ministry care deeply about the safety and wellbeing of every magical person, and that's why we ask for each and every one of you to comply should we appear at your door, or approach you with our badge and a request for identification. There is an enemy out there and the Ministry is the shield that will protect you."

"What a load of rubbish," Ron said, disgusted.

"Shh," Hermione hissed.

"If you have nothing to hide then you have nothing to fear," Thicknesse had continued. Unconvincing as his words might have read on paper, his delivery of them was rousing, and to the unassuming (and uninformed) listener, sincere. "We will defeat this enemy and we will resume normality. Trust in us and our methods, and a glorious new age will meet us on the other end."

Applause rang out through the radio, distant and thunderous, like an approaching storm. In the relative silence of the kitchen, they all looked at each other warily, and Ron had reached out to switch off the device.

Hermione spent what time she could in Grimmauld Place's library. When she wasn't there, she and Draco would fuss over the Polyjuice brew.

She had scoured her copy of Hogwarts, a History and found a brief but unhelpful mention of Helga Hufflepuff's goblet. It had been in an illustration of Hufflepuff herself, and she stood patiently on the margins of the page dressed in 14th century garb, a welcoming smile on her face, her attribute in her left hand, a book in the other.

When she had shown it to Harry, he'd looked at it for all of two seconds before nodding and saying, "That's it. That's the one I saw. I'm sure of it."

"If Riddle did manage to steal it, where would he have it now?" Draco asked.

"Reckon we can pay a house call?" Ron asked.

"Be my guest, but I'm staying here."

"What if he entrusted it to someone?" Harry asked suddenly, sitting straighter. "It would have to be someone he really trusts."

"Wormtail?" Hermione suggested.

Draco made a face at the name. The aforementioned man had been to the Malfoy manor quite often over the past year or two, always at the Dark Lord's side but behind him, an indentured servant. Draco had never liked him and couldn't stand his nervous, watery eyes and constant twitching. When Wormtail's true name and identity had been disclosed to Draco he'd been surprised, but barely so. His past betrayals had seemed fitting, just judging by the look of him. Draco had remembered marveling at his enchanted, quicksilver hand. That he was so closely entwined in Potter's family history had intrigued him—he'd almost felt sorry for Potter back then, that the trembling flake of a man was the reason for most of Potter's misery.

Aunt Bella liked to tease him. Bully was the word for it, really. She was unhinged enough, but knew when to restrain herself—if she cared to, that was. She shared in Draco's dislike of Pettigrew, and constantly threw barbs at him when she was feeling petty, or liked to frighten him on a whim, delighting in his squeals and shrieks.

The Dark Lord never heard of it because Pettigrew never complained, knowing Bellatrix was in a higher rank, and that his complaints would render him as not only a coward, but a telltale, at that. Besides, whenever there was a problem in the ranks and the Dark Lord couldn't be arsed to deal with it (which was often), he'd send Bella in his stead.

Something was dawning on him…

"Aunt Bella," he said, and they all looked at him in confusion.

Then Hermione nodded.

"Right—Bellatrix."

"You've got my condolences for being related to her," Weasley said, shuddering.

Hermione was fiddling with the chain of the locket. It had been her turn to wear it that week, and it was just then that Draco noticed she appeared as though she had not been sleeping well, and made a mental note to himself to check in with her later, once they were alone.

He shook his head. "I could tell you stories…"

"Yeah, we can all go to group therapy when this is over," Weasley said with a grim smile. "What about her?"

"The dark Lord trusts her," Draco said. "More than anybody else. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he gave her the cup to hold on to."

"Of course," Hermione said. "I can't believe she wasn't the first person we thought of."

"Could it be in her house?" Weasley asked. "When was the last time you were there? Did you ever see a gold cup?"

Draco was shaking his head. "She'd never take his trust that lightly. She and her husband also don't have many valuables in their house. I bet she's got it in her Gringotts vault. That's the only thing that makes sense to me."

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. They stood in a brief silence under the sudden added weight of what they might have to do.

"Well—" Weasley said, shrugging. "We survived the Ministry. We can break into Gringotts too. All in a day's work, innit."

"We'll have to wait until the Polyjuice is done," Hermione said slowly. "But how are we supposed to get a sample of her? She's got lots of hair, so I suppose it might be easy to grab whatever she sheds…but we're going to have to get very close to her to do that…"

"What if we're wrong?" Potter asked. "What if we go through all that and manage to break in—what if she doesn't have it after all and we die in her vault, or get captured?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I can't exactly write to her and ask her for an itemized list of her vault contents."

Hermione spluttered into nervous laughter. Even Potter had to bite back a smile.

"I just want to make sure we're not walking into a scenario there's no getting out of," he said. "Gringotts security is beyond what the Ministry's got. You know that."

"Well, if it turns out she hasn't got the cup in her vault, we can nick anything else we might find useful."

Hermione gave him a disapproving look, but Draco shrugged.

"She's murdered and tortured people without a second thought, and your issue is stealing?" His tone was not unkind.

She sighed, held up her hands in surrender.

"Fair enough," Harry said. "We'll have to wait and see."

Hermione rubbed at her temples. A headache had been building, and she suddenly felt slightly irate, and unsure as to why.

"We've got to figure out a way to get close to her and get enough DNA to use in a Polyjuice. And we'll have to get some for you lot, too."

"We can ask Tonks," Harry said.

"But that'd give us away! Also, didn't she say she would be busy and couldn't come back?"

"I do know where she lives," Draco offered. "We can transform, head there and stake it out like we did for Umbridge. Find how we can get close. See if she's coming in or out." He looked pensive for a second. "She and her husband tend to not be home most of the time. That could work against us as much as it could hinder us."

Harry nodded. "Okay. We'll figure it out." He turned to Hermione. "How soon do you think we can start?"

"We've got a bit of Polyjuice left for last time," she said, looking upwards as she mentally calculated. "Enough for a couple hours, I think, but we'll have to be really careful."

"Then only two of us will go," Harry said.

"Why not all of us?" Ron asked. "If we're all going to have to be in there at some point then we should all be somewhat familiar with it."

"Look, if we're going to keep hidden and not actually go into any place yet, I think we'd be better off saving the last of the potion and just using charms to disguise ourselves," Hermione offered, trying to keep the bite from her tone. Draco was staring at her a little, as if he could sense her mood, but said nothing.

"Alright. Then we all go," Harry said. "Tonight. It'll be easier to hide that way."

"And stay until morning," Draco proposed. "To see whether she's home or not."

None of them liked the thought of camping out by Bellatrix's house for a whole night. It was plain on their faces. But Harry was looking at Hermione, gauging her opinion, and she looked back at him and nodded.

Draco saw the trust and respect embedded in that look.

It's worth a try, that look had said.

Hermione caught him staring and gave a small smile. She had left the locket out from beneath her collar, and it glinted dully in the light of the room. They were snapped out of it when Harry stood from his chair, dusting off his lap.

"There's a map in the library, right?" he asked, looking at Draco. "Show us where she lives. We need to be as familiar with the area as possible if we're going to pull this off."

Bellatrix Lestrange's estate was what Hermione had always imagined the Malfoy manor would look like.

The surrounding landscape was bleak and unfriendly, and there wasn't another residence around for miles, it seemed, which Hermione felt was intentional. She had never thought of Bellatrix Lestrange as a hugely social person, anyhow. A huge ornate gate ran around the length of the manor, twisted and sharp and thick enough to test probably even Hagrid's strength, and she had seen him pull a mature tree from the ground before.

She didn't imagine the Lestranges as constant hosts to visitors, and she couldn't for the life of her imagine what they might be like as neighbors, either. To her, the gate seemed more like a prison wall, as if the house itself were a prison and guests could only leave with approval. She imagined that only the Lestranges themselves and Voldemort, if he ever visited there, were the ones who could enter and exit easily. A place to contain things.

Pines stood tall as giants around the estate, caging it further.

It might have been a beautiful house once. Even from the distance they were at, she could see the weathered but still elegant detailing and faded facades on the architecture. The manor was grey in appearance, but she had a feeling that the grey was owing to poor maintenance and cleaning. The structure itself was smallish, and she figured it made sense—the Lestranges had no children and she figured they were not as wealthy as the Malfoys, but she got the feeling that the dwellers of this house cared more for power than fantastic wealth and appearances, judging by what she knew of them—which admittedly wasn't much.

Its dark and unfriendly appearance reminded her of illustrations she had come across in her picture books as a toddler, where the villainous witch's houses would be all black or grey and sharp angles, all surrounded by neglected and decaying greenery, perhaps topped by an ominously smoking chimney. She had learned later on about cliches, of course, and that witches were by no means properly represented by these tropes, but by then the influence of those illustrations had been ingrained in her mind although she recognized they were not accurate. Stereotypes were based in some kernel of truth, she'd supposed, and, well—it was rather hard to argue against this one. A witch certainly lived in that house and it looked like it had been lifted off the page of a children's book. As a foil, she pictured Umbridge's bright and neat little house. A horrible person still dwelled there, of course, but the exterior of her home was a good testament to the folly of judging a book by its cover.

She felt that the closer she got to the Lestrange house, the more the ball of dread in her stomach would grow. Even now, at this distance, it was like a ball of lead within her, weighing her down as if hoping to prevent her from getting nearer.

Come closer, she could almost hear the house say in a seductive, croaking hiss. The two angled windows at the top floor of the house stared back at her like narrowed eyes. Don't you want to see what's inside?

There in that house lived the woman who had tortured Neville's parents into insanity. There lived the witch that had murdered Sirius Black, and were it not for Voldemort's sanction, she wouldn't have hesitated to kill Harry, too, when they'd come across her in the Ministry not that long ago. What other deeds had she committed that fouled the inside of that house?

A sharp wind was blowing. She'd layered for the occasion but was still shivering. She had tied her hair into a long braid to keep it from her face. Ron had a pair of binoculars they had found within the box of goods Fred and George had given them and was studying the house.

A large hill stood a short distance away from the house, almost obscuring it from view. More pines and scattered oak trees grew here, and the massive rocks in between had served as useful cover as they'd crept up that hill. They were all under a Disillusionment spell, except for Harry, who wore his father's Invisibility Cloak.

It didn't hurt to take advantage of the landscape's offerings, however. They'd huddled behind one boulder lodged against the thick trunk of a tree, just at the top of the hill, and from there they'd been watching the house for the past ten minutes.

"Reckon she's got wards past her property?" Harry asked.

"If there were, we wouldn't have been able to get this close," Draco said, staring at the house. "And if she were serious about it, not only would there be wards, but probably traps, too. Is she's got wards, they're most likely on the very perimeter of her property."

Hermione shuddered.

The house and all its windows stared back at them, a patient spider atop its iron web, waiting for them to venture forth before it sprang at them, its maw glistening and sharp.

I never want to step foot into that house, she decided then and there.

Draco sensed her apprehension. His hand was on her back, smoothing a circle there to ease her nerves. She took his free hand and clenched it tight.

'I could tell you stories,' he'd told them. She couldn't look away from the house.

That woman was his blood. If they went to see the Malfoy manor next, would that place look like this one? Would its atmosphere also elicit this reaction? She didn't know much about Lucius and Narcissa, aside from the scant interactions she'd had with them. She remembered them as very aloof. Lucius, when she had briefly come across him in the Ministry while she had been with Harry, Luna, Ron and Neville, had looked at them with nothing but cold contempt, and he had raised his wand at them with the full intention of harm or incapacitation.

A family like that…he'd really had no chance from the start. She squeezed his hand.

Draco was surveying the bleak landscape when there came a slight whirring sound from Weasley's binoculars as he tried to enhance his view to get a closer look.

"Can't see anything through the windows," Weasley muttered. The locket's chain gleamed around his neck. "Can't tell if there's anyone home or not." He lowered the binoculars and fiddled with its many knobs and adjustments. "Can't bloody tell how to work this thing, I don't know why they had to overcomplicate something so simple…" He smacked it with his hand, as if that might get it to work properly.

"More likely they're away," Draco said. "Rudolphus is probably working, and Aunt Bella would shock me if she wasn't with the Dark Lord—er—Voldemort right now."

"All the better," Potter said. "How close do you think we can get to it?"

"No farther than the gate, I'd say," Draco replied. "When we'd visit, we'd Apparate directly inside since the wards would recognize our blood signature. Anyone else would have to wait outside the gate. But do we really need to be getting that close?"

"Just wondering." Potter continued to stare at the house, as if still searching for a possible way in. "To get hair, though, we will have to get closer. You know that."

After a moment, he turned again to Draco.

"What places does she go to often that we could find her?"

Draco made a face, trying to think.

"I'm not sure…"

"How are you not sure?" Weasley asked, frowning. "She's your aunt and you don't have a clue where she likes to go?"

"I don't make it a habit of hanging around her unless I've got to," Draco snapped. "Despite the fact that we're related, I don't like her any more than you do."

"Yeah, well, we've all got a relative or two we can't stand, so think harder," Weasley replied.

"Ron," Hermione said, in her tone a warning. But Weasley's eyes were on Draco's hand resting on her back, and he didn't look pleased.

"I reckon Knockturn Alley isn't too much of a stretch for her to like to go to, is it?" Weasley continued, ignoring her. "Or does she hang around your place a lot, and that's why you're acting like you don't know?"

"She does, actually," Draco said stiffly, his eyes cold. "But seeing as we're all wanted and she and my parents are notorious Death Eaters, I reckon it'd be a death sentence to waltz back into my home all for a few damn hairs."

Weasley said nothing, only glaring in return.

"He's got a point," Potter said. "We need to strike somewhere we'll have enough room to get away if we need to, and someplace with few people."

"That's going to be very difficult to come by," Hermione said.

Potter looked grim. "I know. And knowing the way things tend to go for us, I don't think we'll get either."

"She goes into Borgin and Burke's a lot," Draco said suddenly. "My mother mentioned that once. And if we did go to my home, there'd be no place to hide or take cover. She wouldn't linger outside, anyway—she always Apparates in past the wards, and ours stretch for a ways past our land."

"That shop is so small, though," Hermione said, looking anxious. "We wouldn't be able to sneeze without bumping into her there."

"We could wait outside," Potter suggested. "Cause a scene. Distract her, get the hair, and leave. Or worst comes to worst, we overwhelm her, take the hair, and Obliviate her after."

"She isn't easy to approach," Draco warned.

"Well, yeah," Weasley said, snorting. "I figured we'd just stroll up to her and ask for the time and then a lock of her hair. Bound to work, right?"

He then shot Draco a look as if to say, what, do you think we're stupid?

"I was just trying to warn you," Draco said, his voice flat. "She can be unpredictable."

"Yeah, well we've dealt with worse."

Hermione was scowling. "There's no need to be so rude, Ron, he's only trying to help. And Harry has dealt with worse. We've never faced Voldemort on our own, have we?"

Weasley shook his head and turned away.

"What's the matter with him?" Draco heard Hermione whispering to Potter.

"Dunno," Potter muttered, shrugging. "Don't worry. It'll pass."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Weasley snapped. "I can hear you-if I'm bothering you that much, I'll move."

He got up, grabbed his things, and planted himself behind another tree a few feet away.

"Ron," Hermione called. "We're sorry. We just wondered why you're so upset."

He scoffed. There was a pause.

"You wouldn't get it."

"We can try," Potter said. "Come back, Ron."

"No," Weasley said, suddenly sounding less angry and more tired. "I've got a headache. I need to cool off. Leave me alone."

Hermione and Potter exchanged worried looks, but Potter shrugged one shoulder, and Hermione looked at Weasley one last time before giving a minute shake of her head. Draco moved to let her sit between his legs, and wrapped his arms around her, covering her with his cloak. Her shivering lessened.

A few minutes passed before she spoke again.

"We should build a shelter. It's quite cold."

The wind had grown stronger, and the sky was darkening. Draco wished they could build a fire. But to do so was as good as taking off their disguises and marching right up to those gates and demanding to be arrested.

"What can we do?" Potter was asking.

"We already have the wards around us so they can't see or hear us," Hermione said, sounding pensive. "But I could add a heat retention charm...maybe we could try dragging that boulder a little closer so it could block the wind a bit..."

Potter had already risen, and it still gave Draco a jump in his stomach to see only Potter's head floating around and the rest of him invisible. But Potter was shrugging it off now, and he was raising his wand, pointing it to the boulder a few feet from them that Hermione had been looking at.

He rose to help him.

When it was all done, they did feel a good deal warmer than before-both from moving around and Hermione's idea. She had given her bag to Harry, who was arm-deep in it, fishing out cans of soup as Draco transfigured four large rocks into bowls. He took some pine needles next, turned them into spoons. Hermione made the cans hover in the air, and Harry hit each with a heating charm, raising it slowly until the soup in the cans bubbled and let out steam. Hermione rationed the soup carefully into the bowls, and stopped, looking back to Ron, who was leaning against his tree, pointedly looking away.

"Are you hungry, Ron? We've got a bowl for you."

There was a pause, and then he sighed.

"Yeah."

He made his way over, dropped down beside Harry, and accepted his bowl gratefully. He looked around at them a little sheepishly.

"Thanks...sorry I was a twat."

Harry clapped him on the arm, a silent gesture of forgiveness. Draco shrugged, and Hermione smiled, relieved that his mood had lifted. They ate their soup, each wishing for a campfire but not daring mention it, still watching the house now and then as they struck up conversation. Hermione tucked herself back into Draco's arms when they were done eating and he gladly warmed her again with his cloak. Ron finally figured out the binoculars and caught sight of a gnome digging underneath the gate and reappearing in the Lestrage's long-dead shrubbery. Nobody noticed that he had taken off the locket, and it now sat in his pocket, silent, but waiting.