A/N: As always, apologies for the delay, and I won't go as far as to say this chapter was worth the wait. Yet, I hope it's enjoyable all the same.
Thank you, readers, reviewers, and followers.
R&R!
Chapter 33: The Dance
The iron of the gate burns Hermione's skin. It hurts, and yet she closes her palm wrought metal. Sizzling flesh hits her nose, and her other hand waves over the lock.
Alohomora.
She now has words to go along with her will, and it makes her endeavors easier. A simple spell because the gate itself is a needless redundancy. Hand smarting, she can feel the thick layers of magic while going down the stone steps into Nott's dungeon. It's like wading through a swamp, the wards are so thick. They had to be to hide him. Wasting away in Draco Malfoy's dungeon hadn't worked out after all.
Today is the funeral, and Daddy's a way, and Mama's with him to provide comfort. Both are playing parts, and they've left Hermione alone for the first time in five days. There are no lessons today. Both Snape and Remus are at the funeral, as well. Snape. He has been atrocious during lessons. Hovering close over her shoulder. Breathing down her neck. Nitpicking her stirring skills for Christ's sake. His overnight shift into unprofessionalism has to do with Blaise. Harry told her Blaise Zabini was a student in Snape's house at Hogwarts. The man watched him grow.
The house is overly quiet, and Hermione's going to take advantage. The elves can't stop her. She'll kill them if they get in her way. Hermione may not be able to hurt Soo-jin, but she can hurt those elves, damn the consequences.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in the back of her throat, and she promptly swallows. Guilt. It's so inconvenient.
There are three dungeon cells below the estate, and they are far from the stairs and gate. An unlit torch catches her eye, and she conjures a flame.
"Incendio," she whispers to the torch.
Words. So handy.
She creeps down the long, dank corridor. The cliché dripping of water and the smell of earth, stone, and dampness assault her. Humming catches her ears. Her target is entertaining himself. She sees the cells ahead and picks up her pace. Her steps echo, but she doesn't care. It's not like Teddy Tonks can run.
As far as storybook dungeon cells, this one is nothing like that. Per request of Potter, Tonks has been given comfort with everything save sunlight and social contact. Bringing the torch close to the cell, Hermione sees he's got a thickly cushioned cot, blankets, a stand holding a ceramic bowl and a pitcher of never-ending fresh water, a toilet, blankets, and a plush rug.
At the sight of her, his hum doesn't even falter. In fact, his hum turns into a song. He sings Closing Time.
"What happens if you don't return with my head?" she asks over his perfect pitch.
He goes on like he hasn't heard her, and she steps closer to the cell. A lava-like heat radiates from the bars, and she steps back. Through the bars, Hermione sees burned letters on the slack, open hands of Tonks. There are also some on his exposed forearms.
MUDBLOOD
She looks at her own raw skin where she touched the gate. Faint lettering has begun to blister, and she's reminded what Soo-jin told her. She shouldn't wander. Parts of the house will try to kill her.
Tonks finishes his song, and she asks again, "What happens if you don't return with my head?"
His laugh is tired as it is oily. "Failure wasn't an option." His head lolls to the side. "I'm sure they think I'm dead. I was brittle hope in bringing you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. You are you, and I am me. If that woman hadn't shown up, yes, I would've succeeded in killing you perhaps, but those two men weren't far behind."
She senses lucidity in him. A man. Of course, not the man that Potter knew, but a man with thought.
"Those two men," she says. "Harry Potter is one of them. You know him."
He presses his lips together, making a crude sound, his eyes rolling. "Barely. He was a child the last I saw him. He's nothing like that now. Might as well be a stranger to me. I'm a stranger to him."
"He doesn't think so. It's why you're still alive."
"Compassion. Kindness. He was that way as a boy, but so many people are that way, and so many people aren't…" His voice trails off. He shrugs. "He's nothing special to me now. None of them are. I know I loved my wife and daughter, but it's like these memories belong to someone else. That man was someone else." He touches his chest. "I am not that man. It was a mistake to even show up at Andy's, but I needed a wand. It bloody hell wasn't worth the family reunion, though."
"They love you." She guesses, anyway. She just wants him to keep talking. She needs to know if he's worth keeping around and wishes she could free him. Work out a deal that he could take her in alive, but she clearly can't touch his prison. Even standing so close to the bars make her nerves swell. That and the wards make it seem like her limbs are thick and heavy and falling asleep.
"They love a dead man. Teddy Tonks is dead. He couldn't survive the experiments, the torture, and then the inanity Prisoner 73180 seemed to tolerate."
"I understand," she offers, "needing to put away a former self to make way for a stronger person. Listen, I don't want to kill you—"
"You do, and you should. Johnny's gone by now probably, and there's no point to anything. I heard what you said. You called me rotten. You weren't wrong."
She considers him. "Do you have any hope to offer Potter, or are we wasting our time keeping you alive? He's talking about rehabilitating you. There's a facility called St. Mungo. Apparently, there might be people who can help…if you wanted that."
Her eyes travel to his lunch tray. Barely a few bites from his sandwich. His cheeks are sunken, and his wrist and collar bones defined. She attempts to reach out to his mind, but doing so makes the bars heat, and she gets blasted with uncomfortably hot air.
"You're trying to starve yourself," she can only assume. "It's a terrible way to go."
"Everything is shatter-proof, nor can I rip the bedding and tie a noose. I tried with the bars, but…"
"It's also a terrible way. Very slow," she finishes. Her tongue runs on the inside of her cheek, feeling out that little nodule. It's been there for about a year, and she can't use it now. The brand won't allow her, and it's never how she wanted to die, anyway. She'd much rather end things with more flourish. Blood and brains and knives and guns. Her trusty cyanide capsule never intrigued her. It was always for 'well, I'm going to die, anyway. I might as well do it without snitching,' kind of thing.
"I may have something for you," she says. Sticking a finger in her mouth, she uses her pointer finger and a bit of magic to slice the inside of her cheek. She quickly and carefully extracts the capsule and spits it out into her dry hand, bloody and ready to kill. She whispers a drying to charm to stop the dissolving process. Tonks leaps up from his cot to get a better look.
Blood trickles down from the corner of her mouth, down her neck. "Cyanide capsule. I can't use this anymore," she says, pocketing it.
He whispers reverently, "Give it to me."
Her brow arches. "I need information."
His eyes grow wide, and leaps off the cot, running to the bars and slamming against them. The contact irritates them, and his skin begins to burn.
"Give it to me!" he yells. He shoves his arm through the gaps, his skin blistering. "Give it to me, you bitch!"
"Were there more of us in The Fridge?" she asks.
"Johnny," he hisses.
"Anyone else?"
"Go to hell!"
"I will give it to you if you tell me everything I want to know. From your abduction to now. Understand?"
He spits in her face, and pain or not, she grabs his outreached, blistered arm and breaks it. The snap of bone echoes off the walls as does his scream of anguish. He instinctively shuffles further back, clutching his limb. After a few minutes, his pained yells fade into whimpers.
"I don't have much power," she tells him. "But I can draw this out. There are ways for us to make you stop starving yourself. Think about it. I'll be back when I can. I'll send Ripper to fix your arm.
Wiping her face and neck with her forearm, she returns to the main level and summons the elf, telling him to care to Tonks. She then goes to her room, changing her shirt, and swishing with water to clean out her mouth. Afterwards, she goes to the library and checks her cauldron, giving it figure-eight stir. She's not supposed to be brewing by herself, per Nott and Snape, but they're not here.
Sitting down at the table, she returns to her ever-growing stack of books about brands and runes and enslavement spells, many of them from Malfoy Manor's library. Three mornings ago, an owl pecking at her window woke her up, and tied to the foul's leg was a package of books, and a pair of lilywhite gloves.
Slipping on the aforementioned gloves, Hermione feels a cooling sensation wash over her hands, and she opens the third of the five books Malfoy sent her. Behind the cover is a light green envelope with dark green embroidery. Her name is on it, written so messily, only a true doctor could've written it.
Tearing open the envelope, she takes out a folded piece of parchment and begins to read.
Dear 17,
I ask for your forgiveness on what happened upon your last visit. I truly hope it won't be your last. These books are yours, and you needn't return them. I just hope you do read them and come to this letter. I invite you to come back to my home and make use of my library. I don't know when you'll get this letter, but I hope when you have, you have softened your thoughts towards me. I'd like to get to know you, 17, and I'd like for you to get to know me.
Yours,
Draco Malfoy.
P.S. I've been unable to stop thinking about since we first met at Madam Malkin's. I daresay, you've bewitched me.
Crinkling up the parchment, she contemplates throwing it her potion brew—it's fucked anyway. She gave it three figure-eight stirs instead of four, and it's too late to do the last one. About to drop it in the sludge, she hesitates and then opens it up again, rereading it just to be sure and then goes ahead and drops it into the cauldron. It bubbles up, foams over the rims and down the pewter curves before hardening, ruining it and the table. She pays the mess no mind, far too busy contemplating and scheming.
Nott and Potter claim they need Soo-jin alive and that may be true given Creevey's death, but all Hermione can see are the risks of keeping her alive. For over twenty years, she was kept on a leash, blindly and faithfully following orders. Hermione won't let that happen again. She may've gotten herself collared again, but the leash has yet to be tugged in the worst possible way. Only a matter of time before Soo-jin really jerks it, and Hermione must comply.
Hermione can't kill Soo-jin. Nott and Potter won't. But maybe…she can get someone else to do it for her. Someone who likes her. If she can play on that puppy crush, turning it into love and then into utter devotion, then maybe there's hope.
Draco Malfoy is her ticket to freedom.
A twinge hits her chest, but she ignores it. Justifying her actions to herself. Soo-jin killed Astoria Malfoy, both Hermione and Harry Potter are certain. If anything, Astoria's husband is getting his revenge. Two birds, one stone.
Hermione grabs her pen-transfigured quill and starts her reply on a fresh piece of parchment.
Mr. Malfoy,
I accept your apology, and I would very much like to visit your home again.
-17
P.S. Condolences on this day.
Out of her back pocket, she pulls out a tube of lightly tinted chap stick and smooths it over her lips, planting a smooch right beneath her P.S.
The mark isn't vibrant red, but a dull shade of fleshy pink.
Hermione grins at her work, imagining him rereading the parchment over and over again. Flipping the parchment over to see if there's more. He'll be wracking his brain and trying to read between the lines. The words allude to nothing, and the lip-print to everything.
Folding up the note—because it's far too short to be a letter—she goes to the owlery and whistles for an owl. A massive, tawny one swoops down, and she ties the parchment to her leg. Awkwardly, Hermione tells her to drop it at the Malfoy's. She's never done this before, sending a letter via owl. It's a new experience for her and the way the owl cocks his head and stares dully back at her, she wonders if she needed to even say the destination at all.
Or if the owl's just judging her.
"Be quick," she adds.
Nott, Potter, and Soo-jin return late in the evening. Hermione greets them in the sitting room, a Hogwarts, A History in her hands. She tears her eyes up from the pages and dully says to Potter, "I need a new cauldron," as if he hadn't just got back from putting the love of his life in the ground.
"What happened?" asks Soo-jin, removing her black cloak.
Hermione shrugs, lifting her book and continued where she left off.
"You're not supposed to be brewing without supervision," says Nott. "I'll get you a new one, but you have to show Severus the damage you did first, and I get to be there for what follows. Had a shit day. I could use some perking up."
Soo-jin takes his words as an opportunity. Her arms raise, and she rest her hands on his shoulders, kneading them. "It's been a bad week for you, sweetheart. Let's get you to bed. Sip on a potion, and I'll rub your back until you fall asleep."
He nods, gracefully and instinctively falling into the act of loving her touch and attention. They disappear up the staircase and once they're out of earshot, Hermione smirks while asking, "Would you like me to rub your back until you fall asleep?"
His red-rimmed eyes blink at her, like he's considering her offer and then shakes his head. "No, I'm all right."
She leans forward on her knees. "Are you sure?"
He shrugs.
"What'll help?"
He shrugs again.
"Do you want me to blow you?"
"Jesus, no. Can I just…I think I just want to sit for a while." He steals the seat opposite of her.
Hermione keeps the book open, setting it face down on coffee table. "Tell me what happened, Harry," she says softly, intentionally using his first name. "Why wasn't it you who married her?"
An ugly choking sound erupts from him. He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "We were married, Hermione."
"Oh."
Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he growls out, "I don't want to talk about it." He glares up at the grandfather clock before putting back on his glasses. "In about three minutes, Nott is going to get an owl saying he's needed at the Ministry. There's going to be another meeting. You're not coming this time."
"Why not?"
"Because." He stands up. "You met two of the Weasleys—"
"I wouldn't say I met them—"
"Well, they're all going to be there, and you're a new face. You matter enough to Soo-jin that they don't trust you. You're practically her puppet, and that makes you dangerous. If Soo-jin finds out you're attending these meetings, she can take your memories. You being there will change the dynamic of the meeting into justifying why you are actually there."
"So I'm just supposed to…do nothing."
He chews his lips before saying, "You might want to consider a slow thaw towards Soo-jin. Form a less hostile relationship. Get her to talk."
She regards him carefully. "To do that would entail I want to listen to her motives. That I may even…agree with them."
"I doubt it will be troubling for you. Open up any of the history books, and I'm sure you won't find any trouble sympathizing."
Her brows arch. "What if those big bad books are too wretched and true, and I go native, Potter? After all, I am a Mudblood—"
"Oh, do shut up." he hisses. "I understand why these people…why Soo-jin is doing this. They're motive is strong, but this is far beyond standing up to The Man. Their crimes being affiliated by business, family, and even postal code. Those don't warrant a death sentence."
She picks up her book. This Hogwarts, A History is fascinating. It's her third time reading it, and she could do with a different edition for the next round. "Well, when you're all finished up with your meeting, you're welcome to continue your brooding here. You can tell me all about Ginny. And the meeting, of course," she says idly.
"I don't want to talk about her." He shoves his hands into his pocket. "But don't go to bed too early."
"You'll wake me up, anyway."
He leaves and a minute later, Nott comes busting down the staircase, hair mussed and lips pink and swollen. He's straightening his tie, Soo-jin on his heels.
"Your best friend was just buried today. You can't go—"
"I'm fine," he grumbles, shaking off her hand that grabbed shoulder. "Lay off, would you? They wouldn't have called if it wasn't important."
Further bickering continues towards Nott's office and soon, Soo-jin is stomping out there, pausing to stare at Hermione. Her eyes are red rimmed like she's been crying all goddamned day. Like Ginny's passing really affected her and maybe it did. In a malicious sort of way, Hermione's glad the woman died. It's hurting Soo-jin. Not only that, it's a prime product concerning the fruit of her messy works. It's not just the unsavory elite being murdered.
"I've had…a terrible day." Soo-jin sniffles, sitting down in the chair where Potter vacated. "I know you're angry with me about the mark, but let's forget about it for just a few minutes." With the side of her forearm, she wipes her face.
Hermione refrains from rolling her eyes, keeping them on her page. "I can't stop you."
"You know we haven't really talked about what happened to us after Sokovia—"
Closing her book with a thunk, she sighs, "You were sent to Norway and went to a magical school. Surprise, surprise. You were terrible at making friends. Poor you."
Soo-jin stuck out her chin defiantly. "It wasn't the Red Room, I'm sure, but it was its own special corner of hell. For me, anyway. You would've had it worse if things had been different. Only the teachers knew I was Half-Blood, but none of them bothered explaining that to my cohort…" Her voice trails off, and she looks away, eyes sharp and bitter.
Soo-jin's hands clench, and Hermione pats herself on the back for upsetting her. It's the little things.
The woman lets out a breath and changes the subject. "I want you to starting reading up on Memory Charms. How to perform them properly instead the strokes you've been giving people."
The images of Baron and Pierce coming to mind. Soo-jin doesn't need to know about them, and she can see where this conversation is going. The woman can't kill him, but maybe she can debilitate him some other way.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Soo-jin's features darken, her lips curling into a snarl. "Don't lie to me."
Her brand burns, and her tongue unleashes, "Okay, I have performed something like it," on its own accord. Her teeth clench after, and she shoots a look of loathing at the other woman.
"I saw what you did to those men in the Middle East. I know just about everything you're capable of. I probably no more about your abilities than you do. Never lie to me again."
The brand burns hotter than before, the sensation near-white and blinding. Soo-jin wasn't fucking around about this request.
Her expression soon softens, but her dark eyes remain resilient. "You'll understand someday. This," she gestures to Hermione's arm. "It won't be forever, and I think one day, we'll even be close friends. Maybe even best friends, and I'm sure you already have loads of books on your reading for your assignments, but I took the liberty of ordering you a set you can read in your free time—"
"Oh, joy."
"—They should be arriving tomorrow. You will read them, and I expect a report when I return from Norway. On that note, now that it's just us and this dreadful weekend is behind us." Her lips purse, eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that book? The Bulgarian one?"
"In the library," Hermione replies carefully.
"How did you find it?"
"I didn't."
"Who did?"
She sucks in her lips and bites to the point of pain, but it's nowhere near as painful as the flaming torture spreading up her arm, burrowing deep into her shoulder and spine. She starts twitching, and her eyes begin to roll back into her head.
She senses Soo-jin lunging at her. Fingers dig into her cheeks, forcing her lips to pucker.
"Snape," she slurs.
Soo-jin lets go of her, shaking her head. "Damn him. I knew he would prove a problem."
Hermione slumps into her seat, sweating and exhausted. Her heart hammers inside her chest, and she wonders about something. The pain. It's paralyzing and deadly. Her lungs had ceased, and her heart slowed. She wonders if she could resist to the point of death, and if there's one thing Hermione had learned about herself since she discovered HYDRA's true nature concerning her, it's that she's not afraid to die. She only fears that she won't get her revenge first on HYDRA.
If Soo-jin barks an order and guides the leash, treating Hermione like an unhinged dog—much like HYDRA had in a lot of ways—then she'll have to believe that one day HYDRA will be taken down.
"Are you going to be okay?" asks Soo-jin.
"I need to go lay down." She stands on unsteady legs, slowly making her way to the staircase. She clutches the banister, her knees threatening to give.
"Please stop resisting," calls out Soo-jin.
"Go fuck yourself!" The lady in the portrait closest to her fans herself, scandalized and aghast at such language.
In her room, she sits down at her desk and opens her notebook and transfigured quill.
Harry, this is for your eyes only.
Pausing there, Hermione brings the parchment to her lips. "Fundamenta montium conturbata."
The words she wrote disappear as do the ones following.
I don't think I will make it out of this alive. If I really don't, I need you to do two things for me. The first one is getting a letter to Natalia Romanova. The second is that I need you to go to Crete and watch the sunset at Φροντιδα Hjem from the patio. Ask the old woman there to tell you the story of Myrsina.
Hermione hovers her pen-quill, and then does something she hasn't done in almost twenty-three years. She writes her name.
-Hermione
Ripping the parchment out of the booklet, she folds it up and sticks it under her pillow. She lays down, resting her head on it. Cat scampers from the bathroom and hops up onto the bed, coming closer to her face and giving her nose a lick.
"Harry doesn't think Cat is a good name for you, but I could be persuaded on Catalia." She scratches the feline's head, half smiling.
Pecking at window has her sluggishly falling out of bed and waywardly making her way towards it. It's the owl she sent to Malfoy. A tiny seed of hope plants in her chest because maybe when she dies, she can take Soo-jin with her.
Tearing open the blood-red, archaic wax seal, Hermione begins reading, a satisfied smirk forming on her lips. He wants to see her tomorrow night for dinner.
More like his slaves that are bound by blood-magic to obey, but that's neither here or nor there.
Discarding his letter, she starts another, sighing at how very stupidly long this is panning out to be. For God's sake, the man also lives in Wiltshire, and this place is supposedly fueling on magic. There's got to be a spell equivalent for text-messaging. She's heard the term 'fire-calling', but she's never seen it done, and she imagines that it looks insane, someone talking into flames…and then someone talking back.
Getting up from her desk, she marches downstairs to the library, taking ten minutes to search a book that might be of use. So help her, she's re-shelving the whole lot if it's the last thing she does. According to Potter, after Nott's mother died, his grandmother came to stay with the family and organized the books by color because she was clearly an unstable sociopath. Two-thirds of the books have black book covers and the rest are various shades of gray, brown, and maroon.
Flipping through the chapters of her chosen book, she pauses at what is called the Protean Charm and its various varieties. Reading through the passages, she climbs the stairs and returns to her room. Ripping two pages of parchment from her notebook, she puts them to her lips and whispers the incantation before writing a simple riddle for Malfoy to solve.
If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you can't have me. What am I?
Folding and creasing one into the shape of an envelope. The owl, still perched on windowsill, waits patiently. She watches the bird fly off and then not ten seconds later, she sees Potter swooping down in front of her on his broom, his knuckles white and fingers clenched.
"How was the secret meeting?" she asks.
"I almost did it again."
"Did what?"
"Killed."
"Who?" A week ago, Harry was so sure he couldn't manage to kill again, and now he's confessing jonesing for another.
He hangs his head, a tear sliding down his cheek. "Can I come in?"
Hermione considers him and then climbs onto the sill. "Let's go flying."
The broom lightly sways from her added weight, and Potter says, "I'm not taking you to London. Or letting you down anywhere near a phone or that has internet access. Remember what happened last time. Bloody Malfoy had bloody come and make you bloody beautiful again. It was awful. Blood everywhere!"
Her arms encircle his waist, and she presses her cheek against his upper back. "An arrow to the face is hardly a deterrent."
He takes off at full speed, and a girlish shriek flies out of her.
"What was that?" laughs Potter.
"What was what?"
He snorts. "You know, I saw the way Malfoy looked at you, and he mentioned to Nott who mentioned to me you spent a few hours at his place before the two of us got back to the house. What did you two do?"
"Nothing interesting," she replies curtly. "I'm not his type if you're thinking anything sexy occurred."
"These uppity Brits can look passed blatant American audacity if the girl's pretty enough. Just don't say aluminum or herb."
"Have you forgotten I'm a native. I'm a Surrey soul like you."
"Then how do you pronounce aluminum and herb? While we're at it, what do you consider a biscuit?"
"I meant because I'm a Mudblood. That's why I'm not Malfoy's type."
He jerks his head over his shoulder. "Did he say that?"
"He didn't have to and getting into a relationship with one of you folk would be idiotic. Imagine if Soo-jin caught wind of me trying to romance Malfoy. He's got to be on her hitlist anyway given she already killed his wife. She'd be crossing him off sooner than expected, and it would be my fault."
"Well…" Harry sighs, his speed slowing. "He's not my favorite person. He's kind of dick. Maybe he's a little better than he was, and Astoria didn't deserve to die, but his kid is so fucking cute, damn it to hell. That bleedin' lisp of his kills me. Nothing like his dad. Not yet, anyway."
That pestering twinge of guilt hits her again, and she shovels it away into the unfeeling part of her mind she had to develop over time. On the bright side, she's got Potter believing there's nothing going on between she and Malfoy, and there never will be. Nott will be next.
The salty tang of the ocean hits her nose, and soon enough, Potter is descending towards the cliffside. "I probably crossed this way when I was seven."
"What?"
"I was smuggled in a cargo ship when I was kid. From London to what is now Sokovia."
Harry is quiet until they land on the cliffside. She can hear the waves crashing into the rocks below.
"Hermione—"
"17," she corrects, swinging her leg off the broom.
He faces her. "Back at Diagon Alley. When you were talking to Soo-jin about…the Red Room. You asked her if she had any idea what they did to you. What did they do to you?"
She squeezes his shoulder, grimacing. "You don't want to know that."
"Look, I've seen a lot of awful shit, all right. Both before and during the war, but the worst of it was when I became an Auror. The first case I got roped into was a sex-trafficking ring out of Dublin. I was still in training. Not even an intern. I was underqualified and only got sanctioned jurisdiction because of my goddamned name. I was barely nineteen. I hadn't even had sex yet. Ginny wanted to wait, Jesus. I wasn't ready for that, let me tell you."
Her lips quirk. "For the sex, the waiting, or the sex-trafficking?"
"All of it? Why couldn't my first case be something simple. Like smuggling tainted Pepper Up or something."
"You want to talk about Ginny now?"
He shakes his head. "I want you to tell me what was done to you."
"A lot was done to me, Potter, and not all of it in the Red Room." A breeze cut between them. She sits down, patting the ground, and he joins her. "As part of the graduation, all of us girls were sterilized. All of us that lived that long, anyway."
He glares out at the sea. "What's the matter with the world?"
"This one isn't that much better. Or so I've read in your history books."
"It's all fucked, sure."
"If it makes you feel better, I wanted it."
"But how many girls were there? Did they all want that done?"
Hermione thinks of Natalia, and her subtle glances at the few pregnant women they've come across. She thinks of Clint and his children, and how involved Nat is with them. She remembers one time while they were in bed together, and Nat caressed Hermione's naked belly.
"Do you ever wonder, Milas?"
"No," she tells Potter.
"Sometimes," she revealed to Natalia.
Potter rubs his palms over his jeans, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know how far you've gotten into potions yet, but there's all kinds. For just about everything. Since the War, there's been an influx of advancements. There's one that can even regrow bones. In half the time it used to. Used to take all night. And during the war, there were a lot of cases concerning women who had been cursed with infertility—"
Hermione leans forward, incredulous. "Are you saying uteruses can be healed—"
"And regrown if necessary." He bends his knees, frowning at them. "Ginny. She caught a curse at the Battle of Hogwarts and was able to go through the potion treatments. Isabella wouldn't be around if it wasn't for that."
"Hmm. Well, that's just…interesting, I guess," she says after a long pause.
"It's not for everyone," he supplies uncomfortably.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's not even the worst thing that happened to me."
"Well, I'm not ready to talk about anything just yet."
"Not even how you almost killed someone again?"
His face turns ashen, and his shoulders slump. "After Dennis, it's like a switch flipped inside and now—"
"It's almost too easy to do it again."
"Something like that," he mutters. He clenches and unclenches his fists. "Dean Thomas is a part of this. Remember him?"
She nods. "What about his partner? Do you think he's in league with him?"
He shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. I can't play it that he is or isn't, just yet. I barely managed to keep my skin on at the meeting while Thomas was there."
"How do you know he's a part of it?"
He shakes his head, chuckling bitterly. "A gut feeling, is all."
"A gut feeling isn't enough."
"He got treated like a Muggle-Born all his life but wasn't." His eyes meet hers. "Sound familiar?"
"Be certain, Harry, and don't treat him any different than you have been. If you're right, and he catches that you're onto him—"
"I know."
"You need to get better at lying."
"If it's any consolation, I've improved over the years." From his pocket, he takes out a radio much larger than from the enclose space it came from. He sets down on the ground and turns the dial, "Your Song" crooning from the speakers. Hermione's eyes close, and she sighs, thinking back to her parents. Them dancing in the kitchen late at night when she's supposed to be in bed. There are empty wine glasses on the table, and the radio's playing on the island. Her father dips her mother, and she giggles.
"My mum loved Elton John, I guess" offers Harry. "I wasn't even able to go through her things until after the war. She had his records. Had shirts with him on it. Concert ticket stubs."
The song ends, and another starts. Barbara Streisand pours out into the night air, singing about flowers and how she's not getting anymore. A man joins in. Harry sways as does Hermione for a second before standing and offering her hand to him. He grabs it, and they're facing each other, his hand on her waist.
"I'm not much of dancer," he tells her.
"Maybe I'll teach you one day." The song fades into another, this one about wild horses being unable to drag a man away from his love. His hand travels around her back, his entire arm now encircling her waist. Their foreheads touch, and it's so unbearably intimate, the need to kick Harry off the cliff nearly overwhelms her. She's also feeling like a traitor and, honestly, frightened. It hasn't been that long since she was this close to Steve. Hadn't she offered to teach him to dance at one time? Hadn't she been this close to him? Hadn't she betrayed him in the end.
Hermione's not sure she has enough room for Harry. Even though she needs him. It might just boil down to not wanting to make room for him.
"Harry," she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to hurt anymore people. Please don't let Soo-jin make me."
She makes herself vulnerable saying this. A soft, tender spot of underbelly for this man. But all he does is pull her even closer, into a tight embrace. Her head is on his shoulder, and his is on hers.
"We're going to figure it out," he says, referring to brand.
His breath is warm on her neck. It smells of cigarette smoke, coffee, and the slightest hint of whiskey.
"Promise me if you can't…that you'll kill me."
Her words break the moment, and he goes to step away. She keeps ahold of him, her fingers clawing into the fabric of his shirt. Her head lifts from him, and she stares directly into his eyes.
"You don't know how dangerous I can be, and she'll make it worse. Promise me."
"It won't come to that."
She stares at him, steady and doubting. "Snape will do it if you don't."
"I won't let him."
"I'll let him."
He glares at her. "If I don't get to bugger off, neither do you." He wrenches from her grip, stooping down to pick up the radio. He stuffs it back into his pocket and then goes to pick up the broom. "C'mon. Let's get you back."
When she's crawling back through her ajar window, Harry asks, "Will you come with me to Ginny's memorial tomorrow?"
She frowns at him. The woman gets a funeral and a memorial service. Jesus, these people really did love her, didn't they? "How would that be appropriate? I didn't know her."
He shrugs. "Her family. They don't know shit about American Quidditch players. Pretend you're a Chaser for the ANQT, and that you had drinks with her a few times when she visited the States."
"ANQT," she repeats.
"I'd like somebody to be there with me. Plus, Dean's going to be there. I'll need to be kept in check. Also, if you could get a read on him…"
She snorts and closes the window, waving him off. He yells, so she can hear through the glass, "I'll be here at half passed nine!"
After feeding her cat, she goes down to the library, finds a book on Quidditch—Quidditch Through the Ages— and brings it back to her room and starts reading.
To Be Continued...
