A/N: I just want to give a big thanks so you guys! I'm so grateful for the feedback I've been given in regards to this story. I'm so grateful for your patience. I know how badly a lot of you are itching for the Winter Witch dynamic to fully come into the story

About last chapter, yes, I know it had a humorous vibe during the Ginny's memorial scene which is what I wanted to go for given my Hermione doesn't know Ginny and doesn't feel obliged to mourn her like everyone else. What she can do is react to the Weasleys and their home.

In this chapter, it's not humorous at all. I'm throwing out a WARNING right now. It's really sad and may upset some of you. The silver-lining is that we get to see what Nat is up to.

Apologies for the errors!

R&R, and enjoy!


Chapter 35: The Date of Birth

Natasha doesn't sleep. About four in the morning, with her shoulder throbbing and a dull ache coiling at the small of her back, she gets up from the couch, stumbling and biting back a curse when the arch of her foot presses against a handful of forgotten Legos. In the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face and pats it try, the rings under her eyes more pronounced. Grimacing, she gingerly lifts the bandage taped over her wounded shoulder just enough to peek at how the skin's fairing. It's closed over, finally. But the internal damage will take time to heal.

Loosening her her sling, she awkwardly changes out of her pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She tightens the sling and heads out the screen door. Missouri summer nights are hot. The fertile, humid night air attacks her, causing her hair to curl at her hairline. The earth is soft and giving beneath her boots as she heads towards the barn.

Victoria's heavy. Full. Any day now and maybe today, she'll birth that calf, and with any luck, it'll live. The heifer is young, and a neighbor's bull got loose a while back. Charged two miles across grassy lands and mounted the poor girl.

Rubbing Victoria's swollen side, Natasha whispers to her, "Hey, you. How was your night?"

The cow groans, uncomfortable. Slowly, she gets into a standing position, her udders full and teats puffy red.

"Yeah, me, too." With her good arm, she grabs the clean bucket. Clint isn't a dairy farmer, and Victoria is their only cow. They don't have or need one of those teat cups, so Natasha milks the girl with one hand, jets of milk spraying into the bucket.

Without the use of her other hand, it takes until dawn for Natasha to finish. She brings the bucket into the house and skims off the cream, pouring it into a clean jar and sealing it before placing it inside the fridge. By that point, Natasha can't bear to do much more. Laura's awake by this point, a full bowl of fresh, chicken shit-spattered eggs on her hip. She sets down her load by the sink and fires up the coffee machine and smiling sympathetically.

"I'll use this in a batch of waffles," she says, gesturing to the bucket. "Thanks for milking her."

Natasha sits down at the island, knocking back a couple of Lortabs with her mug of coffee. "It's the least I can do."

"I'm sure it was more than what you're supposed to be doing," chides Laura.

The other woman comes up to her, removing the hair elastic from Natasha's locks. She finger-combs them before redoing her French braid. Natasha resists the urge to knock the woman's hands away from her. To flinch away from her caring, gentle hands. Milas used to do this for her. Her hands were gentle, too. It was like she was playing with her hair instead of shaping it into something practical for the day. The tickling sensation would feel nice on her head and…

Anger. Hatred. Rage. They boil inside Natasha. Her teeth clench together. The minute, the second she's able to use her arm again, she's out of here. The longer her gunshot wound keeps her, the colder the trail to Milas is.

"Hey, do you want to take Lila to ballet later?" asks Laura.

Natasha swallows thickly, nodding. "Yeah, okay."

Her eyes lift, watching the sun's slow and steady rise over the horizon through the open screen door. Clint's land is far from confining. Open spaces and a wonderland of adventure compared to the orphanage and the Red Room of her childhood. And, yet, she's trapped. Anchored down by betrayal. The physical evidence keeping her from moving forward. From revenge.

Milas isn't in Russia.

She was in London.

She never went back to Russia.

Why?

Why wouldn't she go back to Mother?


When Hermione comes to, she's on the floor. Her limbs are uncooperative and cold. Her vision is slanted, and even blinking becomes difficult. She wiggles her toes and fingers, getting her blood flowing. Her heart rhythm is sluggish, and once her vision clears, she sees how pale and gray tinted her skin is. There's a foul smell oozing from her person and clothes. Like she lost control of her bowels and bladder.

Snape comes into her vision, sitting on one of the library chairs.

"What did you do?"

There's a glass of water on the table beside him. Focusing his wand on it, the glass levitates towards her. A splitting headache hits her. Her mouth is dry. She's dehydrated, and the chilled glass is so tempting, she can barely conjure enough distrust to not guzzle it immediately.

"I promise it is only water," he says.

Good enough for now. She takes the glass and swallows gulp after gulp. Even when the glass should be empty, water still rushes forward into her mouth. When she's had her fill, she uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

"Draught of Living Death," he explains. "You needed not to suffer consciousness while I performed a series of spells on you. Look at your arm."

Hermione lifts the sleeve of her dress and sees the brand. Half of it is gone. Snape flicks his wand, and the other half reappears.

"No—"

"It's a charm," he explains. "I don't know how long it will fool Soo-jin. Hopefully long enough. She still has some power over you, but resisting won't be as unpleasant."

She rubs her hand over the mark, nodding. She looks around, trying and failing to gauge a time for how long she was out.

"How long was I out?" she asks.

"Five hours."

She rolls unattractively on all fours before clamoring up to a standing position. "I need to—" Her tongue feels heavy, and she wonders if this is what being drunk feels like. Snape cleans the mess she made on the floor and from her dress with a swish of his wand.

"You should lay down." Snape's tone is almost gentle. "I'll send an elf with a tea tray and dinner."

"Dinner." She nods. "Food. I'm…" She's remembers her date with Draco, and then she shakes her head. Her brand still isn't fully gone. She stills needs to play her game. "No, that's all right. I just need a hot shower and maybe some orange juice and some of those digestive biscuits." As they climb the stairs, she says, "I want to thank you, but I think pushing you down these stairs feels more appealing. I messed myself because of you."

"You are rebounding well. Typically, one who drinks of the draught remains in a mock-lifeless state for much longer. You would need to recover at a hospital, but I'm trained to deal with the potion's repercussions. Quite honestly, I was expecting having to stay over and watch over your corpse until morning. Very curious I didn't have to."

"Five hours," she says. "Harry. He would've come looking for me—"

"Oh, yes." Snape rolls his eyes. "Potter did throw a right fit when he found you on the floor with me throwing spells upon your prone, lifeless self. Young Mr. Nott was able to calm him somewhat before they were both summoned to an emergency at work."

Perfect. It'll make sneaking out to the patio Floo much easier.

At her door, Snape turned to her. "You'll continue to brew in your own time, but starting tomorrow, I'll be teaching you memory spells and perhaps…Legimens when I find those memory spells satisfactory."

"And what about Occlumancy?"

He frowns.

"I know that's what it's called now. I need to learn how to do it. Soo-jin will take my memories. I've already been at one meeting. That's all she needs to know that Potter doesn't trust her. I know you don't trust me, but what is worse is that neither does Soo-jin. And she doesn't trust you. She knows it was you who found the book and gave it to me. She forced it out of me. This." She waves her arm. "Will only buy us so little time. When she finds out you broke through half the brand, she'll try to kill you."

"You needn't worry about me—"

"Then try to worry about me and about what Soo-jin can do if she ever is so inclined to peer inside my head. I'm fucking lucky she hasn't yet. Right now, we're being fueled off her arrogance that Potter cares about her and Nott still loves her. Teach me Occlumency. Please."

That her door where he considers her, eyes narrowed. "On the off chance I indulge your childish begging, I'll kindly tell you now that it won't be pleasant."

"You already invaded me once. I know what to expect."

His smirk is anything but amused. He taps his wand underneath her chin. "Your arrogance won't fuel you either, dear child."

He leaves her at that, and while in the shower, scrubbing off her stink, she wonders how truly worse it could be. And, really, she has no idea.


In her adult life, Hermione has been asked out on many dates. Many, she has accepted because her job required her to. This time is no different. She needs something from this man and knows she can get it. Tossing the powder into the patio Floo and stepping into the hearth, she arrives at Malfoy Manor. It's not Draco's office she's stepped into but the library. At the table where she studied just a week ago, there's an ivory tablecloth, cream placemats, and candles. Flower petals of pink, yellow, and purple are scattered over the tablecloth. Charmed violins play Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty waltz in the corner.

"Did you know he was a Muggle-Born?"

Hermione jerks her head around and sees Draco leaning against the mantle, poised and immaculate. There are two wine glasses in his hand and an open bottle perched on the wood of the mantle beside him. Expertly, he feels both glasses before offering her one.

"Elvin mulberry," he says. "Eighteen-ninety-two."

Accepting the glass, Hermione says, "Who was a Muggle-Born?"

"Tchaikovsky, of course."

She smirks at him over the rim of her glass. "Of course." She takes a sip of the wine, licking her lips afterwards. Not bad.

Once draining his own glass, Draco sets it down on the mantel alongside the bottle and offers his hand. "The dinner is yet ready. Care for a dance?"

He's sporting this Prince Charming act really well. There's not a hair out of place on his head. His clothes are pressed, and his jawline is smooth. Freshly shaven, and she bet she could get him to find the benefits of a five o' clock shadow. She doesn't even mind his cologne, though a little too musky and posh for her taste

This man is a type who'd grace the cover of one of those ridiculous, trashy novels near the check-out lane at the local grocery store. She imagines her back curved, her torso flush against his, her neck and sternum exposed to his hungry gaze. Oozing a dominant, yet gentlemanly guise.

She can't picture him twisting her arm behind her back and nearly dry-fucking her against his childhood bedroom door.

Her mind reaches out to his, and she doesn't have to probe very far to see what he likes and what he wants. And more specifically, what he wants to do to her. It's disappointing. He wants to treat her like all the others. She's fascinating to him but hardly special. There have been plenty of women he's been unable to get out of his head after meeting them. And in similar fashion, he's trying to woo her with the expensively ancient wine and the music. These women have different interests, thus, he brings them to different parts of his home in strengthening his chances to get lucky: the gardens, the owlery, his office, his lab, the ballroom, the artifact room, the drawing room, the pool, the wine cellar, and now the library.

Hermione drains her glass and then sets it down next to his before taking his offered hand and interlacing their fingers. His hands are pleasant. Warm and not sweaty. Pale and not overly soft. There's a scar or two on the digits, and they are long. They're not thickly muscled like Brock's or Steve's. Draco's fingers are lean and artful. She can see them donned in gloves holding a scalpel or bare on patient's shoulder, comforting. His smooth voice telling him or her there's hope, and there's no reason to worry.

"No, thank you," she says softly.

She's going to approach this plan of hers from a different angle. She's been foolish to think he had a 'love at first sight' thing for her when really, he's like any other male. He just wants to tie her to his bed, dominate her a few, passion-filled nights, and then move on because she's not his late wife and never will be. Her eyes aren't ocean blue, and her lips aren't as full. Her brown hair is wild like a lion's mane an not sleekly flowing like a chocolate waterfall. A flavor of the month is all Hermione is to him right now.

Going over to one of the chairs at the table, she grips the back of it and softening her right arm and lengthening it over her head. Her eyes close. Sleeping Beauty switches to a lesser known segment from The Enchantress and she paints a smile of nostalgia on her lips. "I danced ballet. The music reminds me of being back in class."

"You were a ballerina." The heat deepens in his eyes, and a spark of interest flashes over his features. Undoubtedly fantasizing about her flexibility. Men are such simple and predictable things, aren't they?

Hermione opens her eyes, keeping her lashes low, and she nods. A blatant lie. Stepping away from the chair, she twirls a perfect double pirouette, landing it gracefully. She could do a triple. Hell, even a quad, but she doesn't want to come off pretentious, nor does she want to show off too much. If he wants to see more of her tricks, he's going to have to earn it.

"I bet you were a sight on that stage," he tells her.

He should've seen her below it.

The cold, comforting sound of cocking pistol echos through head. She's in her pink tights and black leotard. Her legs and feet in a sturdy fourth position. Her back is straight. Gun in hand. There's a target one hundred feet away.

"Stop dawdling. Pull the trigger," orders Madam B.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Again."

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Again!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Hermione fires until the gun clicks. She stares at the peppered target.

"Acceptable, though Natalia did better."

Hermione shrugs, shooting Draco a half-smile while scooting the chair out from the table. When it came to dancing, sure, she was great. Nat was better. Nat was always better. Even with those glorious breasts stretching her leotard and threatening her balance, her technique was sharp. It was only after the serum that Hermione became better.

He rushes to her side, taking the chair from her. "Let me."

She's about to sit when the hearth of the fireplace hisses, and green flames erupt revealing two women, one of them extremely heavy with child and the other one older. Hermione blinks at the two and recognizes the younger one from the meeting at Grimmauld Place. Dora, the wife of Remus Lupin. Dora, the daughter of Tonks. Dora is red-faced, her once blonde and pink beach waves are a dark, metallic brown currently. She seems to be in a soft blue dressing gown, almost sheer from sweat. Below her swollen belly is a deep red dampness streaming down the skirt and her legs.

The woman who isn't bleeding stops talking, her throat bobbing. "Please, nephew. She needs—"

Draco immediately takes out his wand, removing two chairs from the table and transfiguring them into the plushest looking mattress. He levitates the makeshift bed close to Dora who immediately sinks to her bloodied knees and falls to her side, letting out a cry of anguish.

"She's dead! I know it! I know!" she screams, her head jerking back and forth. Her hair darkens further.

The older woman, whose eyes are glassy and bloodshot, kneels beside her, wiping sodden strands of hair from her daughter's forehead. There's a quiver to her lips and a silent tear escaping down her cheek. "We don't know that, sweetheart."

"Just like the others."

"Mippy!" calls Draco. He removes his dinner jacket and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. The elf appears and is about to bow, and then freezes at the sight of the scene before her. Her already enormous eyes widen, and she begins to wring her tiny, skinny fingers nervously as her ears twitch. "Get my bag, now."

She doesn't even nod or say a thing. She disappears and reappears in three seconds, his leather satchel in hand. He takes it from her, opening the flap. "Hot water and towels." He looks to the older woman. Hermione believes her name to be Andy or something. Remus mentioned Dora was with Andy today. "Where's her husband?"

"A-At the Weasleys'," stammers the woman.

Mippy appears with Draco's second request, and Hermione is ill-placed, that's for damned sure. She watches Draco crack open a vial and douse his hands up to his elbows before hurriedly slipping on sleek, black gloves. He looks to Andy. "Help me get her on her back."

Gingerly, Dora's rolled onto her back. He lifts the soiled skirt of Dora's nightdress, his pointer and middle finger about to check her when Andy whispers thickly, "Her waters did not come away."

Draco pauses, but only for a second, before completely his examination. His eyes close, and Hermione feels wriggling at the front of her mind. She tries to block the prodding, but Draco is easily able to access her mind. He's not snooping for anything. He's asking for help. He's showing her what he needs from her and begging her to do it.

It shows his character. He'd rather ask this of her. Risk never being able to bed her rather than elongate the torture his cousin is experiencing. Hermione hands clench over the back of her chair, brow furrowed. There's a dull ache appearing behind her forehead. She's being bombarded with images, robotic memories that aren't her own. Careful instructions. And, really, the Floo looks appealing, but there's a bloodied, hysterical woman rather close to the entry point. Doesn't exactly make for a clean, unnoticed getaway, does it?

Please, please, please. Whatever it is you want, it's yours. Every book this bleedin' library. The ones in my office. They're yours. I just need your help. Mippy. Her hands aren't strong enough. I'll...pleasure you for hours. Days on end, even. I'll ravish your qui-

STOP! Fine! I'll help you!

A desperate flush to his cheek, Draco visibly relaxes, turning his attention to his cousin. He soaks a swab of cotton with potion, liberally covering the woman's lower stomach before handing the bottle to his aunt. "I'm going to have perform a cesarean. You do not want to feel it, Nymphadora."

It's only when Dora's mother is petting her head and cooing at her that she allows herself to sip from the bottle. By that point Hermione's pulling out the needed vials from Draco's bag. She sprinkles sage, lavender, and grated wormwood into the cauldron of boiling hot water. Taking the ladle, she stirs it before uncorking the vial containing the dehydrated bit of dragon liver and shaking the chunk of into the pot.

Stirring in a zig-zag fashion, she peers over the steaming cauldron and through the plumes, she watches Draco making an incision on Dora's abdomen, the lowest part before her pubis. At that, Hermione leaves the potion simmering and finds another set of black gloves in the bag. She puts them on and begins to pull at layers of skin, a thin layer of fat, then meaty muscle as Draco slices deeper and wider with each gentle, yet deliberate wave of his wand. Dora's barely bleeding. He knows exactly where to cut. Finally, he gets to the sac. Once that's split, there's a bulbous shape with fine, damp wisps of hair. Hermione holds the flaps of flesh as far apart as she can as Draco mutter a spell and the tiny head pops out. He pulls the child out to its shoulders where Hermione immediately takes over, supporting the little body while Draco pulls out a suction from his bag and jabs inside the baby's mouth, cleans it, and then each nostril like it's going to make a difference. He's on autopilot.

Hermione reminds herself she's been elbow deep in bodies, and yet, her insides quake. Not because she's disgusted but because this so intimate. It's so wrong for her to be here. The baby in her hands is still. Draco puts down the suction and takes over, pulling the baby out of Dora's womb. Rubbery and sort of stiff. He severs the umbilical cord using a slashing motion with his wand. Grabbing a soft, plush white towel, Hermione takes the stillborn baby girl and wraps her. Andy looks to her, yearning and questions in her eyes.

Hermione shakes her head no. Her throat oddly beginning to constrict. Her gaze falls to Dora who's grasping her mother's hand, pressing it close to her face as she weeps.

"I was going to name her after Ginny, Mum," she whispers. "And now I've lost them both."

"We'll try again," says Andy, voice strained.

Dora shakes her head. "No more. I can't do it, Mum. I can't."

Andy looks so relieved. "Do you want to at least hold her?"

Squeezing her eyes, Dora shakes her head no.

"At least look at her."

Letting out a very wet sigh, she opens her eyes, and Hermione leans forward to show her. She imagines tomorrow, they'll be wondering why she was there, especially Dora. Word will get to Harry. Hermione will have a great time explaining her way out of this one.

Andy finally takes the baby from Hermione, and Hermione decides there and then that the only thing worse than holding a screaming, crying baby is holding one that is stillborn. She thinks of Isabella and how she screeched at the top of her lungs and how awful it was to hear. Hermione could go for some of that right now, honestly.

Draco still needs her help, and it's fine. Busying her mind and hands is good right now. She grabs a towel and tears it into strips, taking tongs from his bag and dipping the pieces into the cauldron. From there, two large drops of dittany and a healthy stir with the ladle.

Draco takes the tongs from her and carefully lays a steaming, damp strip over Dora's gaping incision.

Hermione is on that floor with them for a very long time. In the next few years to come, she'll experience this again. And again. And again. Being part of births. Often enough, there will even come a time she won't hate it.


It's approaching eleven, and she should be back at Nott's. Instead, she's in Draco's bedroom on her knees, unlacing his shoes because he's half-drunk on the Elvin mulberry wine he finished since he half blames himself for the child not surviving.

"What happened wasn't your fault," she says. She thinks about Tonks in Nott's dungeon and HYDRA who sent him. It's their fault. His arrival caused Dora stress on her already at-risk pregnancy. Even from a different world, they've managed a body count.

Draco shakes his head and rubs his face. He stands, walking away from her to pace. Eventually, he says, "You have no idea how much you helped me tonight. I'm…so bloody grateful you were there and…how you just rose to the occasion. Anyone else, they would've run. And you're still here."

He turns to look at her. She's still on the floor. The carpet is fairly comfortable, and she's tired. Even listless. She should eat, but nothing sounds appetizing.

"Two troublesome events, and you're here. You're here, and you haven't made any move to run away. You faced a boggart here, and I asked you to peel apart my cousin's flesh, and I sliced her up and scooped out her dead child."

For a moment, Hermione worries he's sensing she's untrustworthy because she stayed when a normal person would've run. Written him off as unlucky or something and not worth the trouble. He should think this way. He's smart. There's even a dark cunning to him. She brushes his mind again and finds what she wanted at the beginning of the evening.

Respect swirling delicately with infatuation. Perfect building blocks for love.

In his memories, she sees herself from his perspective. She relives the night and sees him fall in 'like' with her in the space of an hour. Retreating from his mind, she allows herself a small sigh and is surprised to feel unrelieved.

Draco comes up to her, hand outreached. She takes it, not realizing then how much she truly is unworthy of his affection. Regardless, he'll teach her things about love. Treasures of wisdom she'll take with her when she's ready to be honest with someone.

Those days are not yet here, and that someone won't be Draco Malfoy. For now, she allows him to hold her hand and pulls on his arms with just enough strength to catch him off-guard. His knees buckle, and he's beside her, crumpled on the floor. Their hands are still joined, and she brings the back of his to her mouth, kissing it gently.

"I am sorry about your friend Blaise and what happened here tonight. You've lost so much, haven't you? It's not fair. Life has been unkind to you."

"And to you, I reckon," he whispers. His grey eyes pierce her brown ones. He takes his wand out of his pocket, clutching it. She senses him back inside her mind. "It's dark inside you. Harsh. When I went in you earlier, I didn't need to see anything. I could feel it. Heavy. Sticky."

Hermione's brow furrows, and she's unable to block him. She doesn't know how. She imagines a wall, much like the Berlin, but he hops over it with ease. Damn. Perhaps she needs to enforce landmines and wire fencing. Guards and snipers, too.

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she lets go of his hand. "Stop!"

He doesn't, so she tries to adjust by sending him to the Indian Ocean. She's on the Lemurian Star, leaning against the railing and listening to waves crash against the side of the ship. The temperature is cool. The scent heady of salt.

"Brings back memories," says Brock.

But when Hermione turns around to face him, she's in a narrow walkway staring at an ajar door.

"No!"

"Quiet, boy!"

The sound of fabric ripping.

Draco sees the rest. She tries to deviate him again. How did he get here? She hadn't even been thinking about this memory, and Dmitri is on top of her, her shirt rucked up, and a knife…

No! She won't let him see it.

There are screams and pain and blood. There's a gunshot and a slumped body.

She can't block him, but she can turn the tables. Her eyes fly open, and she delves into his. Reaching deep. Looking for something, and she finds one among the blurred images. Dark and in-depth. Coated in regret. He's here. In the house. Young and thin and frightened. There's him. The one they called Voldemort.

"Your arm, young Draco."

There's a pale hand on Draco's shoulder, squeezing. Comforting. It's Snape's. There's a fleeting expression of tenderness which crosses his face.

A wall made of reflective glass springs up from the floor, separating her from Voldemort, Draco, and Snape. Hermione can now only see herself in a bathroom. Her clothes fall away, leaving her in plain underwear and a sports bra. Her ved'ma scar shows as does her apple. Every mark her life of deep, treacherous hell has bestowed on her is visible. In the mirror, Draco appears behind her. She decks the glass, it falls in shards, and she retreats.

"You shouldn't have done that." She gets to her feet, glaring down at him. "You had no business looking."

Draco stares at her abdomen where he knows her most hated scar is. "I assumed you had suffered abuse, and I was right. I apologize. My healing-training kicks in, and I can get ahead of myself-"

She sprints out of the bedroom and down the nearest stairwell, navigating herself back to the library. Throwing Floo powder into the fireplace, she steps inside, appearing not at Nott's but to a dark, unlit sitting room. Shelves of mahogany brimming with books catch her attention. Her hand glides over the spines, hovering over Guide to Advanced Occlumency vol. IV.

She's not asleep when Snape finds her at four o'clock in the morning. But she is laying down on his sofa, the book open and the oil lamp alight. He's in a comfy dark gray dressing down, slippers on his feet. One hand erected, wand in grasp. The other is on the belt of his robe.

"What in Merlin's name—"

She hops to her feet, staring at him, book tucked to her chest. "I'm not leaving until I can throw up a wall."

"This is highly inapp—"

"I'm not some silly schoolgirl student at fucking Hogwarts dropping in for tea," hisses Hermione. "I'm a woman who has done horrible things at the mercy of a woman who wants to do even worse. I have to block her. A simple man was able to get inside my head tonight, and I couldn't stop him. I'm vulnerable, and Soo-jin's ignorance will buy me so little time. She will search my memories at some point. She'll see that first meeting I went to."

"It's as dire now as it was yesterday afternoon. You can wait—"

"Blaise Zabini is dead! Or have you forgotten? Do you even care?"

Snape flinches.

"So is Astoria Greengrass and Daphne Greengrass. They were all your students, weren't they? Slytherins. How many more of them do you want to lose? How many more has there been that you've been writing off as accidents or unlucky bastards?"

His black eyes glitter menacingly, his thin lips curling. "Watch yourself, girl."

"What about Draco Malfoy and his son?" She somewhat relishes how he's unable to mask his floored expression. "I bet anything they're on someone's hit list." Hermione goes up to him. "The history books say you fooled Voldemort for years. Teach me everything I need to know, so I can do the same to Soo-jin."

He looks to her face and then to the book in her hands, eventually lowering his wand. "I take my coffee black. Grab a glass of water for yourself while you're in the kitchen. And I'll say this now, Hermione. You may regret being so insistent."


Resting against the wooden panels of the barn, hand on her throbbing shoulder, catching her breath. Blood soils her plaid shirt. She's strained it. Tore open the inner stitches. Laura is staring at her reprovingly as she gives a final tug. Victoria's calf slides out onto the clean bed of straw beneath it, unmoving. Sweat dribbling from her hairline, Laura wipes at it with her forearm, leaving residue on her face.

Victoria's on her side, stomach inflating and then deflating. With one final groan, Victoria lowers her head, and her lungs don't expand. Her eyelids don't close, and her tongue rolls out.

"I shouldn't have—" starts Natalia.

"You're right. You shouldn't have," cuts Laura. She exhales sharply, closing her eyes. "I meant because of your shoulder. Not because this is your fault. It's not, Natasha." She smooths the tuft on Victoria's head and then picks out the stray bits of hay. "Cooper's not going to understand. I'm going to have to get him a damned dog now."

"What should we do with her?"

Laura gets to her feet. "I'll fire up the tractor. Dig a hole deep enough, so their scent won't catch any wolves or stray dogs. I'm not sending her off to a render. You take some painkillers. For the love of God, rest. We'll get you to a hospital to get that shoulder looked at when I'm done."

Nat goes inside the house, popping a couple of pills, and then sitting uselessly on the couch. Cooper and Lila are watching Little Einsteins. She stares blankly at the screen, her fists clenching. This is Milas's fault. Nat couldn't pull out the calf because of her shoulder. Laura's strong, but Victoria's birth canal is narrower given her young age. Nat tried to be the hero and pull out the baby. If she'd been firing at one hundred percent, she could've done it in two or three jerks. Laura tired quickly like Nat figured she would. Clint's abroad, and it's just them.

Both feeling absolutely useless and like failures.

One day, Milas. I'm going to dig a hole. A shallow one and dump your maimed and mutilated body in it.

To be Continued...