A/N: Wahoo! Another chapter and fairly soon after the last one! Thanks to my vacation, I was able to throw myself into this next chapter and get it up and running. Hope you guys like it. A big thanks to my readers, reviewers, and followers. Let me know what you think of the chapter. I worked hard on it and am sort of proud of it.

Enjoy!


Chapter 31: Burning the Midnight Oil

It's coming up on five in the morning. Nott and Potter left through the fireplace a while ago for "work." She and Isabella are in the tearoom, the little girl asleep on the sofa. Malfoy is there, too. He sits across from her at the table. Just the other day, she had breakfast here with Soo-jin, Nott, and Potter. Everything was so complicated then. Sensory overload. Now, Hermione feels like she's drowning in everyone else's complications along with her own. It's been one thing after another since she arrived here, and she's almost on the verge of a break down.

And that terrifies her. Her training can only take her so far. Her training tells her to kill anyone who wants to thrust their issues on her, and that's not an option right now. Kill Malfoy and maybe the kid, too? Then what?

Each and every problem life chucked at her, she was able to handle. She was able to walk away a stronger and wiser person. With her forearm exposed and Malfoy muttering profanities to himself while waving his stick at the irritated markings on her skin, Hermione accepts she's can't walk or kill her way out of this one. She's stuck. It was risky and foolish to strike that deal with Nott. HYDRA's fast. It's practical they'd have agents stationed in England, waiting for her to make another blip on their radar. On top of that, they can access all computer-based cameras. Hermione can't see herself going out again and succeeding. She'll die. Probably from the business end of an arrow, complimentary of Clint Barton.

"Now why did Soo-jin curse you again?" asks Malfoy. "Theo didn't say."

Hermione shrugs, seeing no reason explaining Soo-jin to him.

Malfoy casts a spell, further inflaming the marks. She hisses and knocks back another swig of the drink which tastes strongly of Pincer. Malfoy kindly confiscated the bottle from Nott's wine cellar which apparently has more than just earthy reds to accolade last night's roasted lamb the guests didn't eat because they were inconveniently murdered.

The exhausted, angry blond man has been tinkering on her curse for an hour with the help of the book Snape found for her in Nott's library. Some spells do absolutely nothing while others enflame the sigils and etch deeper into the tissue. It fucking hurts, and she's starting to bleed. At the sight of blood, Malfoy sets down his wand and slams the book shut.

"I'm making it worse."

"I don't care how it looks. Keep going—"

"It's making the curse stronger." He massages his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. "You need a Curse-Breaker, and who's to say that will work? Binding spells like these often have a failsafe in them. Simply removing it could trigger an onset of problems upon your person. For instance, a quick death…if you're lucky. Your entire body slowly rotting away, starting with your arm."

"What about cutting off—"

He cuts her off with a disapproving frown. "Forgive me, but do they not teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in the States? Do they teach…anything? I almost want to diagnose you with a learning disability, though I peg you far from uneducated. The curse isn't in your arm. It's all over you. The spell's brand had to be put somewhere. Cutting off a limb wouldn't get rid of it but force the runes to appear somewhere else."

She pays his comments no mind, sniffing the rim of the bottle and taking another drink. It's as close to being buzzed as she'll ever get given the high alcohol percentage.

"If you're going to drink all that, you need to eat something."

He's terribly astute and obnoxiously stable-minded for someone who just found out his best friend died. He's certainly one of those people who busy themselves after a tragedy. Not wanting to deal with the big things, they'll drown themselves in more tangible projects. Before going off with Potter, Nott offhandedly told Malfoy that Soo-jin's "a full raging nutter" and cursed her. After that, Malfoy poured himself a very large brandy from Nott's private stash found in the desk, and then promptly downed the whole glass in one gulp. He then levitated Isabella and told Hermione to follow them into the tearoom because he was going to break the curse.

He couldn't remove her curse, therefore, feeding her sounds simpler.

"Gladly," she supplies. She's not proud when it comes to eating. The vodka can only do so much and a cigarette or five could stave off hunger for another hour, but Malfoy hasn't offered any to her like Nott had.

He snaps his fingers, and Lilo appears, the poor elf. His regular rest hours keep getting interrupted. Ten minutes later, an overflowing English fry-up is served on a platter along with black coffee and orange juice. Hermione wastes no time in scraping a hearty serving of everything (except the hockey pucks that is black pudding) onto her plate before tucking in, shoveling sausage and buttery, crispy toast into her mouth.

Malfoy stares at her, his red, glassy eyes narrowed. His nose is starting to turn red. Like he's about to start crying. Fed her, he did. Now what? Eat? Lilo prepared enough for both of them, but if he's not distracting himself by eating in a timely fashion, then whatever. More for her.

He chuckles damply. "You have quite the appetite."

He wants to simply talk then to keep busy, she sees. All right. She'll do him this favor, so she's not bothered by his waterworks.

"I'm hungry pretty much all the time."

"You're not diabetic," he concludes, as she guzzles her glass of orange juice. "Hypoglycemic, possibly."

"Mm. Sure." She shrugs, setting down the glass and stabbing her second sausage with her fork.

He dips his chin. "And how was it that your face befell an arrow? Why were you and Theo in Muggle London?"

"How was it you were so prompt in showing up for a home visit at such an hour?" Her lips form into a smirk. With her free hand, she reaches over and touches the hickey on his neck. "You must've been awake already."

His cheeks color. He clearly distracts himself in other ways, too.

"I was entertaining a late-night visitor. You need not shame me for it."

"You were asking hard questions. I had to deviate."

His hand forms into a fist. "Was it to do Blaise's killer?"

She sets down her fork. "Another hard question."

"Do you know who did it?"

She shakes her head. "Mr. Malfoy, even if I did, what would it solve if I told you now? What would you do with that information?"

He opens his mouth and then shuts it. He leans back in his chair, bringing a finger to his lips and stares into space.

"Would you try to kill this person?"

Malfoy snaps his head towards her, aghast. His eyes drift to his hand that's still clenched. Hermione surmises he's imagining the deeds he could commit with it. The vengeance he could have if he allowed himself to seek it. So unlike Nott. He was more than ready to kill the unknown person who murdered his friends. He's killed before and knows he can do it again.

Hermione can read minds, and even if she couldn't, it's obvious Malfoy's never taken a life. He's a doctor or healer or whatever this place calls medicine folk. He's likely taken a vow to never purposely invoke physical harm to anyone if he could help it.

A whimper comes from the sofa which soon turns into sobs. Isabella sits up, looking around and spotting Malfoy. She flies off the sofa, screaming like a banshee, and launches herself at him. He gathers her into his arms, holding her tight while she screams words that consists of "mummy" and "daddy". It really is too bad. If she grows up crazy, it won't be a wonder, that's for sure.

"Tell Theo when he gets back, I took Isabella over to my house!" yells Malfoy over the screaming. "Unless…you'd like to come over? I have…books!"

"Books?!"

"Yes." He looks pointedly at her forearm. "Many on curses! Some on Binding Spells, I reckon!"

"More than Nott's collection?!"

"I have three estates, so yes!" He nudges his chin in the direction of the book on the table. "But bring that one for good measure!"

Hermione grabs the book and follows him to the office fireplace. This time around, she's more prepared for the journey, and she absolutely does not fall on all fours, hacking up a lung this time.

Even though she wants to.

Malfoy's office is nice like Nott's. Unnecessarily big and rather archaic in design. There's a Pensieve out in the open instead of hidden behind a trick bookshelf. In fact, there are no books at all. Just glass cabinets stocked full of vials and jars.

"Open up the cabinet right there if you would." He points before adjusting Isabella in his arms. "Take out the ice-blue one and uncap it."

Hermione does so cautiously, teetering when catching a potent whiff that can only be described as chamomile, fermented kava root, and freshly spilt, warm blood. It's sickening, her head feels foggy, and her limbs grow heavy. Her stomach churns, and she almost gags.

She sets it on the table, and he pats Isabella's back. "All right, love, you've lost a lot of fluid. You need to have a drink." He grabs the vial, puts the exposed rim up to her face, and she miraculously doesn't throw up. In fact, her crying stops, and her body grows slack. She doesn't fall asleep, though her eyelids droop. She shivers and snuggles deeper into Malfoy. Whimpers fall lazily out of her mouth, and that's it. She's calm, awake, and almost silent.

He doesn't force the vial down her mouth, even asking Hermione to return it to its place. He snaps his finger, and an elf appears. A girl elf, given the soiled and frayed pink pillowcase she's wearing and tattered pink bow securing her very few hair strands atop of her football-shaped head.

"Pumpkin juice in a baby bottle," he orders.

The elf returns, and Malfoy holds Isabella like she's an infant and plunges the nipple of the bottle into her mouth. Hermione looks away, feeling uncomfortable, awkwardly nestles the book of Bulgarian babble to her chest. "Your library. Where is it?"

He snaps his finger again, the third time in the space of an hour to summon an elf. He doesn't call out its name and gives very basic and demanding instructions without so much as a thank you. Hermione's reminded of how Soo-jin introduced her to Lilo. Like he's a dear friend to her. Soo-jin may be a terrorist, but she's not above showing respect for "the help" unlike Theo and definitely unlike Malfoy.

The elf returns, and Hermione decides she's going to be nice to it…or her. At this point, it's doubtful Lilo will warm up to her anytime soon. Her breakfast platter was ice cold, and the sausage was undercooked. The orange juice was sickeningly sweet, she could feel the grit of added sugar on her tongue. The eggs shined salmonella bright, and the bacon was overly cooked and brittle. She still scarfed it down like she hadn't a meal in days, swallowing that little elf's distaste for her bite-by-bite.

At some point in time, if Malfoy really wants to help her out by giving her access to his libraries, she may need to rely on this elf for things. Hermione crouches down and offers her hand.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself a second ago. You were quick. I'm…Hermione."

Malfoy makes a confused and unattractive sound. "What are you doing?"

The elf gapes at her hand and then shoots a nervous look at Malfoy. "Does Master need Mipsy for anything more?"

"Mipsy," says Hermione, taking back her hand slowly. "I really like that name. It suits you perfectly."

A rose hue colors her sunken cheeks. "Master's friend is most kind."

"You can call me Hermione—"

"Miss 17, Mipsy. You will call her that—"

"She can call me Hermione," she says to Malfoy and then looks to the elf again, "but if you insist on being formal, then Miss Hermione will do. I would like to see the library. Could you take me there?"

Her head bobs up and down. "Would Miss Hermione like a cup of tea when we get there?"

"I would love a cup of tea, Mipsy. Thank you."

Tears welled up in the elf's eyes, and her chin trembled. "Mipsy will also provide a plate of fresh biscuits. Does Miss Hermione like chocolate?" She ducks her head shyly. "Young Master says I make the best chocolate biscuits."

"Miss Hermione loves chocolate and if your master would be obliged, I would love to have a companion while I'm in the library. He's far too busy with Isabella right now. Mr. Malfoy?" She throws a sheepish but coy smile at him. Her eyes widen, and she chews on her bottom lip. "Would you oblige having Mipsy help me?"

He obliges because he's too easy, and Hermione knows, despite only being around her for all of three or so hours, he wants to have sex with her. Like desperately. Even if she couldn't read his mind, it's only obvious.

Mipsy guides her out of the office, and they walk forever. The estate is gigantic. Bigger than Nott's and eerie has hell. The elf quietly warns her to be as silent as possible through the corridors as to not wake the portraits. They're not silenced like the ones at Nott's. They snore, grunt, and even scratch their bellies as they sleep.

Much of the house, from what Hermione can see, isn't in use. They walk through an open drawing room where the furniture is covered by white sheets and the drawn curtains are thick, heavy, and black. The walls are bare. There's also a ballroom, empty and lifeless, and like the drawing room, no portraits. All the doors they pass are shut, and some corridors are chilly while others are stifling hot.

They arrive to the library, and Hermione stays at the entrance for a minute to take it all in. Half the size of an American football stadium is what greets her. Mipsy snaps her fingers, and the area is bathed in light coming from several candlelit, crystal chandeliers. Head tilted back and mouth open, she enters the library and sets her book on the table that is comically to small and unpolished for such a regal setting.

The library itself is as many stories as the estate and built in an oval shape. There are three rolling ladders for each level of shelves. There are four levels. Hermione feels incredibly small and strangely enough, put out by how many books there are because how many of them is she going to have to go through to get rid of the curse? And Malfoy says he has three estates.

"What kind of books does Miss Hermione need?" asks Mipsy.

"Um…right." She clears her throat. "I need books on curse-breaking. Getting rid of Binding Spells. That sort of thing."

Mipsy points to the fourth level of shelves and then opens her tiny palms and makes a tugging gesture. Several books come flying from the shelves and land neatly on the table.

"Right. Wonderful," says Hermione, sitting down at the table.

Mipsy curtseys, bowing her head low. "Mipsy will bring you a cup of tea and plate of iced, chocolate biscuits."

"I would actually love a cup of hot, black coffee if you don't mind."

She shakes her head, her ears flapping. "Mipsy doesn't mind at all, Miss Hermione. Mipsy will also bring a platter of fruit."

The elf disappears with a soft pop, and Hermione gets to work. By the time Mipsy returns, Hermione's already eliminated three books and two of them she can't open without her fingertips blistering.

"Mipsy, why can't I open these books?" she asks, pointing to the two culprits.

Her mouth shapes into an o and her eyes nearly bug out of her head. "Ooooh. Master has never brought home a Mud-Muggle before. Not once, Miss Hermione. Master should've warned Miss Hermione or not taken her here at all. The estate doesn't like filth, and many of the books have been spelled to burn the likes of Miss Hermione. Mipsy will go get Master, and maybe—"

"No, no. That's all right. I understand." At this moment right now, Hermione doesn't want Malfoy knowing she's Muggleborn. He might not be so eager in helping her break Soo-jin's curse. "Those books are all in French, anyway. Are there any in Bulgarian? Something similar to my own book."

"Oh," she looks to the side, troubled. "Master's summoning Mipsy."

Hermione's left alone with the racist books and Mipsy's offerings. She pokes at the one of the offending books to get it further away from her before eyeing the platter of goodies. Cautiously, she taps the porcelain kettle in case that's judging her heritage, too, before pouring herself a cup of coffee.

Once the platter is only crumbs from the cookies and juice from the strawberries and apple slices, she gets back to work. She goes through the remaining books she can touch and then climbs the rolling ladders to the fourth level. She peeks passed the wooden railing and down the corridor. From here, she sees a hallway with seven doors, all of them closed except for a set of double ones. That one is at the end of the hallway and only slightly ajar.

Hermione half expects a set of twin girls to appear and demand she play with them.

She hasn't seen The Shining. She hasn't seen many films, but everyone knows that scene.

Smiling to herself about how fucking terrifying the house is, she skims spines, touching them and muttering ow every three or four books. Finally coming across one with a useful title and doesn't burn her, flips it open, nearly dropping it at the sound of a blood-curdling scream coming from a child. Hermione grips the ladder and places the book back, staring down the hallway at the open double doors. That's where it came from and having become very familiar with Isabella's sounds, the scream didn't come from her.

"Daddy, no! Wake up! Please wake up!"

Hermione climbs over the railing and runs down the hallway, barreling through the door into an unused, dusty bedroom. The canopy bed, furniture, and vanity all draped in white cloth. Through the dark, she sees a bit of light shining beneath what could be a closet or en suite bathroom door. She twists the handle, the door creaking and startling the boy she met at Madam Malkin's. He's on his knees, hovering over his lifeless father.

"He won't wake up. Why won't he wake up? He promised. He promised he wouldn't go to sleep forever like Mummy. He promised."

The adjoining room is an impressively sized walk-in closet, the wracks populated with ball gowns, lush cloaks, and garment bags. A hundred or more pairs of women's shoes line the crisp, cedar shelves. Pearls and lace and jewels sewn into them. In the middle of the closet is an antique Marie Antionette armoire.

Moving her eyes away from a cream-colored set of satiny pumps. She offers her hand, beckoning the boy to come closer to her. "We're going to find Mipsy and then go over to a friend's house, okay?"

Goddammit, what is she going to tell Nott?

And Jesus Christ, where's Isabella?

Obviously, the boy doesn't fling himself into her arms and soak her shirt in tears. He doesn't budge from his spot, so she crawls towards him and wraps her arms around him because maybe that's what adults—who haven't been conditioned to be inconvenienced by children—do for kids when they're distraught. They hold them. And rock them gently or something.

Patting Scorpius's back and staring down at Malfoy over his little shoulder, Hermione frown deepens. The dead man's flaxen hair begins to grow, curl, and darken into a rich shade of crimson. His lifeless gray eyes turn vacant green, and his sharp features soften. His body shortens and contorts into a female figure. The clothes are replaced with a black body suit, and blood drips from now full, reddish-pink, parted lips. Red hair, matted with fresh blood, fanned out beneath her tilted head.

Hermione's eyes squeeze shut. It's not possible. She's dreaming. She fell asleep at the table downstairs or at Nott's place. This isn't real. Natalia isn't really here. She's not really dead.

Nails digging into her own palm, she opens her eyes and Natalia's lifeless body morphs into another being. This one very much alive and mobile. Hermione's breath catches in her throat, and she forcibly moves Scorpius towards the closet door, shoving him out into the bedroom just when the Winter Soldier grabs her shoulder and slams her into the carpet. His metallic hand wraps around her neck, squeezing.

"You were supposed to kill me," he hisses. "You were supposed to set me free."

"Let go of her!"

The Soldier jerks his head up, distracted. He let's go of Hermione and starts towards Malfoy who's decidedly alive and well. More or less. The soldier's features shift into a hideous, creature-like man the closer he gets to him. A completely hairless scalp, two slits for nostrils, greenish-gray skin, and glowing red eyes.

"I still own you, young Draco. I always will," it says, the voice high-pitched and breathy.

Malfoy flourishes his wand and says something like 'ridiculous' to the thing, and the thing shifts again. This time into a near replica of Malfoy, only older looking and sporting longer hair.

"You're a disappointment." The man's tone is icy. His eyes narrowed in disgust. "Since your wife's death, you've thrown yourself at cheap, low-class women, and let your ambition waste away into nothing. Your mother is dying, and what have you to show for it aside from a string of broken-hearted social climbers. Need I remind you your mother is fighting for her li—."

Malfoy waves his wand more aggressively, and the figure launches backwards into the armoire, the door clicking shut.

As for Hermione.

Hermione…is still on the floor where the Soldier left her, her hand limp on her throat, and her brow furrowed. What. The fuck. Just. Happened?

She blinks, perturbed at the stinging wetness threatening to spill over. She swallows, and her throat kind of hurts. Not badly. Whatever that was, it wasn't the Soldier and sure as hell wasn't Natalia.

Malfoy's beside her, sitting on the floor and touching her face and wiping her tears away with his thumb. Everything about this is so…ridiculous. She begins to laugh hysterically, and he stares at her like she's gone mad, though the corner of his lip does quirk.

"Do you always react this way after encountering a boggart?"

"A boggart?" Her laughter increases because that's such a funny, made up word and so perfect for this funny, made-up world. "A boggart. And you said…you said ridiculous to get rid of it. Oh, my God. It's all so ridiculous! Everything is!"

"Hermione," he says, his tone is gentle and reproving, and it cracks her. Almost fucking breaks her wide open. Her breath catches in her chest, and her next bout of mirth comes out as choking. She clamps down her teeth, and her chest stutters. More wetness traitorously sneaks down her cheeks. Just a few droplets, but for God's sake, she just saw Natalia dead thirty seconds ago, and it was the worst thing. The absolutely worst thing she could possibly imagine. To make it even more awful, she changed into the Soldier, and he tried to kill her.

"S-Seventeen," she stutters. A shiver overtakes her, and she shudders.

"You're going into shock." He opens a wooden trunk behind him and pulls out a blanket, wrapping the scratchy, wool material around her. "Lay down for a minute. Focus on regulating your breathing."

Hermione lays down where Nat had been, and she closes her eyes, trying to erase the image from her brain.

Malfoy lifts her feet, putting them on his lap. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've never encountered a boggart before…or even heard of one," says Malfoy. "They're not unique to England. You would've had to come across one in the States or at least learned about them in school." Carefully, he adds, "You don't know much, do you, Hermione?"

"Don't call me that," she mumbles into the carpet.

He sighs and tells her again to focus on breathing. From the floor, she looks up at him. He's taking in their surroundings, his mouth pinched.

"This was your wife's closet, wasn't it?"

He ignores the question.

"Her shoes. They're very nice. She had good taste."

He drops his head, smirking to himself. Like he's remembering something.

"Daddy?" Scorpius pokes his head into the closet. "Is it gone?"

"For now. I'll have to get rid of the armoire, it looks like."

He pouts. "But it's Mummy's."

"I know."

The boy looks down at his slippers. "I wasn't supposed to come in here. I'm sorry."

Malfoy doesn't reprimand him or say anything at all for a minute or so. He's annoyed and trying to hide it from his cherubic kid how pissed off he is at him. But can young children be held accountable for their insatiably aggressive curiosity?

"How did that thing get in there?"

Again, Malfoy doesn't reply.

Scorpius goes around his father and kneels beside her, patting her head. "Are you going to be okay?"

Hermione shrugs.

He bends down and kisses her cheek, and she jerks away from his sticky, wet mouth.

"All better," he declares proudly.

"Yeah, kid. You broke the spell."

She sits up and scratches her forearm. If only, right?

The three of them return to the library where Hermione picks up her book. It's then Malfoy notices the burns on her fingertips. He grabs her hand and brings it closer to his eyes.

"You're a Mu…" He stops himself. Not like she cares all that much or at all. But if he did say it, he can kiss his practically non-existent chances of fucking her goodbye. "A Muggle-Born. If I would've known, I—"

"Wouldn't have been so eager in inviting me to tour your three estates," she interjects, yanking back her hand. "Where's Isabella? I should probably take her with me to Nott's."

"My house-elf is bathing her—"

"Mipsy. She's got a name. You could use it. Instead of," Hermione snaps her fingers inches from his nose. "And then treat her like she's a convenient part of your décor that can perform tricks for you."

She hugs the book to her chest, avoiding his face, realizing she's acting stupid. He saw her weak and vulnerable and crying, and she's embarrassed and disgusted with herself, so she's punishing him by pointing out his own flaws. Not so deep down, he's an entitled, racist asshole. He's also guilt-ridden by his late wife's death and his mother's illness, but she doesn't want to throw that in his face. That'd be cheap.

"I'm going to go," she says to the floor. "I'll tell Nott that Isabella's here. Bye."

He grabs her elbow. "I was going to say I would've warned you about the books, 17."

"You were about to call me a Mudblood."

Malfoy lets out a heavy sigh, and glances at Scorpius. "Please don't say that word around him. He's never heard it before, and I caught myself before I did say it. Scorpius, go to your room, go back to sleep, and I want you to forget you what you just heard, all right? 17 said a very bad word. It's not an adult bad word like the S word. It's a bad word for all ages, okay?"

The boy nods, eyes wide. "Okay," he says in a small voice.

When it's just them, Malfoy goes on to say that the derogative Mudblood is referred to as the M-word but most just say Muggle-Born. He's not sure how things are handled in the States, but here in England, that's what is said. That is what is said, and that is what is appropriate.

"The M-word?" Her brows raise, her mouth twisting into an incredulous smile. "Like the N-word, then."

His brow scrunches. "What's the N-word?"

"Never mind. I guess you wouldn't know, and I really don't want to explain it. It's an unsavory…Muggle term. We'll leave it at that."

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe. "You say you're always hungry. Would you like to stay and have another breakfast? We're nearly there."

"I'm tired," she replies truthfully. "We've both had a hell of a night and deserve a little rest."

Malfoy's eyes become unfocused, and she notices his Adam's apple quiver. "Blaise has two half-sisters in France. I should contact them. Theo's not going to have any time in making arrangements given the investigation. It'll fall on me, and I don't know about the Weasleys and their funeral traditions. I really don't look forward in dealing with them."

He's not going rest, she concludes. He'll keep busy, so she bids him goodnight and good morning.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she adds.

"I'll bring Isabella over in a bit, but Theo might want her to stay with me anyway."

She nods and then walks away from him, navigating through the house by memory and going through the office fireplace to get back to Nott's. His office shows no sign of life, and there's no sound coming from anywhere. He and Potter haven't come back yet which is good. Fine. The grandfather clock tells her it's nearly 6:30. Remus will be here soon for her lessons.

Rubbing her eyes, she drags her feet out of the office and towards the stairs, tripping over something solid. She looks down and sees Lilo dead at her feet. His body is rigid, mouth open as if he died mid-scream. Hermione covers her mouth, eyes darting around before quietly sets her book down on the floor. A portrait of a woman resembling Nott catches her attention. The woman silently screams at her to run. She points her finger down the hallway and motions for her to leave and to turn around and go back into the office.

Hermione does just that, only for the office doors to slam shut. She tries to open the door, but the handle won't budge. She looks over her shoulder and sees a man at the end of the hallway. He appears to be in his late fifties, early sixties with wiry limbs and a slight paunch. His watery blue eyes slide over her, resting on her face.

"It's you. I thought it'd be harder to find you," he says. His voice is hoarse. Faded. Overused. He raises his wand and rasps out a cackle.

Hermione doesn't have time to think. She rolls to the floor, and the spell the man shot at her, blows a splintering whole in the doors. He waves his wand again, and strong, unbreakable tethers sprout up from the floor, wrapping around her neck, wrists, and ankles. The man's entire body shakes in pleasurable mirth. His free hand points at his wand, and he dances down the hallway towards her. Even doing a twirl and kicking his heels together.

"I'm free!" he exclaims, laughing manically. When he gets to her, he pokes her forehead a few times with the tip of his wand. "God, does it feel good to have one of these again!"

"Who are you?" The tether tightens around her neck, and there goes her air supply.

"Forgive me." He touches his chest and bows mockingly. "Prisoner 73180. The Fridge sends its best, and HYDRA sends her regards."

How nice of them, she thinks.

"They said," he nods excitedly. "They said if I bring back your head, they'll never take another witch or wizard again, and they won't kill *Johnny. They think he's an Inhuman, but he's like us. He just got stuck that way as a kid, you know? Accidental magic. He needs to get back home, so he can be fixed. They'll let him go home if I kill you. He needs to go home."

His wand traces the skin above the tether and her neck. "I'll be quick. This won't hurt. The spell to kill you is fast. You'll already be gone from this life when I remove your pretty, little noggin." He touches her eyes, forcing them to close. "Keep them shut. It'll be easier for both of us."

Hermione will not be doing her murderer any favors. She snaps open her eyes. He then covers them with his hand.

"Relax. It will be okay. Everything will be okay from now on."

This...isn't how Hermione pictured herself going, but people like herself shouldn't be picky.

"Avada Kedavra!"

To be Continued...


*John Horton: a prisoner of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s prison called The Fridge. I've modified his character just a tiny bit for this chapter to better fit the situation.