Autumn had come and with it, a harvest festival. Servants toiled beneath a still-brutal sun, pruning the hedges, shaping the flower beds, erecting canvas marquees over long trestle tables already piled high with food. Snatches of conversation slipped through the open window but Hermione could scarcely hear it over the chattering of her handmaidens as they tugged at her hair and brushed gold shimmer over her temples.

She could not stand her reflection. Too thin, pallid skin, pinched mouth—corpse-like in every way but her eyes; her eyes gleamed, bright and youthful and ardent. It was her eyes that she hated the most.

Grief should have left them dead and sunken, showing the soul within to be a withered husk alike with her empty womb, but she found she had no more space for suffering, not when there was something, finally, bisecting the monotony. Draco.

Every time with him was like the first. Door opened, wordlessly, armour shed, nightgown discarded, tangled limbs, panting breaths, kisses on every part of the body but the lips; they were always left wanting. Quickly, quickly, quiet, quiet, lest they be heard. Once the pleasured quivering faded, he would gather his armour and leave.

Glance back, only once, from the doorway. Every time.

She always considered calling after him. Begging him to stay, laying her head on his chest, his breaths lulling her to sleep, saving her from her thoughts for just a little while longer. But she had already asked too much.

So he left, and she slept, fitfully, her dreams filled with a curly-haired boy who was never to be and Bellatrix's cawing laughter echoing in her ears.

A bright sting in her shoulder brought her back to the room and her reflection in the vanity. Her hair was swept into an elegant updo, a glittering silver tiara placed upon the curls. Regal. She'd never felt like Lady Hermione before.

A spot of blood appeared on the neckline of her silver dress like a ruby brooch, seeping. She touched her fingers to it and was surprised when they came away wet and red. So fragile, her skin a tender apricot, splitting, easy access to the soft flesh.

The room was silent—the sort of heavy quiet you could reach into and squeeze, wringing out the dread. A soft plink drew her eyes to a gleaming silver pin, the sharp point stained crimson. Her handmaiden trembled in the looking glass, wide eyes and shuddering lips, hands pressed over her heart, clutching a gossamer cape as though protecting her modesty. Hermione fingered the bauble at the end of the pin, her thumb running over ridged metal scales and a wide, hissing mouth.

The feel of it made something black and vicious rasp against her jagged edges, throwing up sparks. Acidic fire in her throat, curling in her mouth, clamped teeth, fist clenched tightly around the needle edge. Hot, damp pain in her hand; more blood, beading in her fist then rolling, drops on her satin slippers.

"Give me the cape."

Her handmaiden hastened to obey, draping the fabric over her shoulders before stepping back, fingers pressed against her lips.

Hermione pulled her own strings—plucked herself like a marionette—prying her fingers apart and affixing the pin at her collarbone. The cape flowed down her back like liquid starlight.

She almost longed for the relentless prattling of her handmaidens. When they were like this, silent and terrified and recoiling, they looked so young. She walked past them, through them, a phantom on incorporeal legs. No feeling. Numb from the neck down, but she could never manage to anaesthetise her churning mind.

There was only one person who could do that and he was on the other side of the door, ready to escort her to the festival. She breathed in, out, but couldn't feel her lungs inflating. Quite blissful, to be insensate, though she wished she knew how to control it, so she might benumb herself in the moments when she needed it most.

It wasn't Draco waiting in the corridor but Lord Voldemort. Her stomach lurched, the torpor peeling away in strips, exposing every bone, nerve, and sinew to his incisive gaze; sweeping over her gown, the tiara, the pin and the red blossoming beneath.

"You've had an accident." His palm drifted over the stain and it disappeared instantly, as did the small wound. "There. All better."

She forced herself not to shy away from his touch, but something must have shown in her face for his fingers ran a frosty trail from her shoulder to her wrist, seizing it in a vice-like grip. She bit her tongue against a pained yelp; the bones in her healing hand screamed, tendrils of fire racing up her arm. She wished she were numb.

"We can't have my precious wife injuring herself, can we? Although…" Trying to rip her hand free only made him hold her tighter. Cool air hit her skin as he wrenched up her sleeve, exposing pale skin and the short, pinkish scar. "... young Draco has already sought to prevent that, I see."

Her pulse was frenzied and galloping, wild horses loosed on the rolling fields of her stomach. He knows. He knows, oh, gods above, he knows. Sweat prickled along her backbone, silver fabric clinging. Bile in her throat, bitter and sour; she might be sick. Once the initial, terrifying pang subsided, she was left shaky and uneasy, making herself meet his eyes without trembling.

"I cut myself in the garden."

It was a feeble lie. He smiled, slow and predatory, his thumb scraping against her skin, rolling down her sleeve.

"Of course you did, little dove."

Walking through the castle on his arm, muscles wound so tightly they might snap, was torment like no other. Where is Draco? She travelled along the red thread in her breast, hand over hand, feeling her way through the dark, but there was no end. She could not feel him.

Come to me, she wanted to whisper, but daren't, not with Lord Voldemort's talons rubbing against the outer confines of her mind. She imagined him catching the thought and batting it between his paws while it squealed and writhed.

Draco. Lord Voldemort's hand on her lower back was cold as ice. Draco. The ballroom loomed, frightening in its majesty. Draco. Sunset through stained glass, fat rubies, amethysts, and sapphires on her dress in honeycomb spirals, then outside, the sun so bright she shaded her eyes.

Her gaze found him through the glare. She forced herself to keep walking, to ignore the shaking in her legs and the sudden urge to collapse into tears. Alive—he was alive. Golden light glowed in his hair and played on the green threads of his cloak. His armour was different; not the full plate she was used to, but slim and elegant, made for special occasions. He was bent low in conversation to his mother—the emerald-garbed witch who had saved them both—and a courtly man who must have been his father. He didn't seem to be injured, though his expression was hard and intent.

The tautness of her muscles unwound, leaving her floating, tethered to the earth only by Lord Voldemort's arm threaded through hers. To run to Draco, fling her arms around his neck, would be folly—her mind knew this, but her heart pined for his touch.

His father jabbed the butt of his cane into Draco's foot; he looked up. Their eyes met.

Met as blades do, violently, though nonetheless beautiful with every flashing thrust and parry. Her heart gave a painful thud. Don't react. A prayer to herself and to him. Don't react. Look away, look away.

She cast her eyes down. Carpets had been laid over the grass, long trails of red winding through the trestle tables to stop at the edges of fountains, faintly damp, tousled, dozens of feet kicking up the edges and leaving them curled like old parchment. Draco's eyes were a brand, scorching her exposed face and throat. She readjusted her tiara and realised her fingers were trembling.

Don't look. The feel of Lord Voldemort's arm through her sleeve left her damp-skinned and rickety; a house on stilts, ravenous water eating at the supports. Smile, vacantly, and nod, she told herself. Vacant, vacancy; ready for occupation, a space needing filling.

But I'm still here.

Her cheeks ached. She wanted to go back to the cottage by the lake.


It was somehow worse when Lord Voldemort released her arm and left her adrift in the crowd; a ship lost at sea, surging waves left and right, caught in an undertow, eddying, whirling, capsising. A hand grasped her shoulder.

Draco, no. Sickness swooped through her gut and seized her heart in a fierce, squeezing grip. Someone would see, he mustn't—she whirled to face him and was met instead with the long, severe countenance of her father.

"Hermione."

She blinked. Magic roared to the surface so quickly she saw stars, but the tea did its work and she was left swaying, ill, a rabid heat fizzling beneath her skin.

"I do not wish to speak to you." She pressed a hand to her forehead and found it burning hot.

"You will listen to me." His grip on her shoulder tightened. "The Order of the Phoenix grows bolder, venturing farther from the forest with every passing day. We need the Dark Lord's forces to keep them at bay and he will only provide those forces if you provide him with an heir."

"Are you suggesting I hasten on?" Her eyebrows rose.

"It has been almost a year."

The magic migrated to her throat, burning, choking her. She heaved air through her nose. "Remove your hand from me, Father."

"You are behaving like a child. Elevate your efforts, girl, or—" His words ended in a strangled yelp, the hand on her shoulder abruptly lifting, flying to his throat. Red splotches appeared in the hollows of his cheeks.

"Good evening, Granger," said a voice like velvet. Narcissa Malfoy clasped her hands genteelly but there was no mistaking the steel in her gaze nor the power drifting from her like mist. "I believe you were about to threaten Her Ladyship, though I clearly must have misheard you."

Her father's face had turned puce. A low whine rose from the depths of his throat, his lips flapping around the sound, spluttering, fingers scratching at his windpipe as though to open it up. He stared beseechingly at Hermione through bulging eyes.

Saliva pooled in her mouth; she was seized by an overwhelming urge to spit in his face, but the commotion had attracted onlookers. She swallowed thickly and turned her back on him.

"That's enough," she said, keeping her voice soft enough for Narcissa's ears alone.

Her father sank to the floor in a heaving, wheezing pile. Narcissa smiled beatifically, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress; a woman finished with a chore and ready to proceed to the next.

"Very well. The night draws close, ladies and gentlemen. Shall we proceed inside?"

In the whispering and rustling that followed, Narcissa turned to her, unsmiling. Be careful, she seemed to say in the pursing of her lips. Do not hurt my son. She briefly squeezed Hermione's hand before melting into the crowd.

Hermione let herself be swept up, carried on a wave of damask and floral perfume and deposited like a moraine in the centre of the ballroom. The limelights had been lit outside, casting distorted, kaleidoscopic patterns through the stained glass, marble columns glinting, glossy dance floor polished to such a high shine she could see her reflection. There was still blood on her shoes.

A string quartet burst to life in the corner of the room—every note was a serrated blade across her nerves, fraying her to the bone. Too much sound, colour, light. A headache bloomed behind her eyes, pulsing under her scalp at every point the tiara poked and prodded.

She needed to find a quiet corner to collect herself but had no sooner stepped off the dance floor when she was caught around the waist and spun into a waltz.

"Where are you running off to?" Lord Voldemort's iron grip on her hand brought tears to her eyes. He squeezed until she choked on a gasp; she felt him smile against her cheek. "It must be nice to indulge in a little dancing after so long. When was your last ball, dove?" He pretended to hum in thoughtful contemplation. "Your presentation ceremony, it must have been."

Her skin was too tight, pinching at the seams—at any moment she would burst and spill out onto the marble floor—yet every brush of his hand on her waist had her shrivelling, growing smaller and smaller inside herself, a night flower curling away from sunlight.

The stares, cast from the corners of eyes, were glancing blows against her backbone—to look directly at her would be to make oneself complicit, and this was a court of the unknowing, cheeks turned the other way, reflective smiles, her crumbling image shining back at her from pearly teeth. Her own mother would not meet her gaze.

She was as Hermione remembered but older, marcescent, folds of fabric hanging from her like sagging, carmine flesh, a gold chain and heavy ruby pendant bowing her neck into a vulture-like curve. Hermione stared and stared over Lord Voldemort's shoulder but her mother's attention remained adamantly fixed on her crumpled hands. She used to have such beautiful, nimble hands, creating works of art with her fingers and a crochet hook, but Hermione doubted she could even wind wool, now. The joints looked too swollen.

If she would only look up, all would be forgiven. Look up. Look up, Mother. Please.

Silver silk fluttered around her ankles as they spun, dancing on a keening composition, higher and higher, ear-splitting. With every turn she snapped her head; her mother never left her sight for more than a blink.

Look up.

It would be better to have been left on the doorstep of an orphanage as an infant, swaddled in wool and cotton with a tear-stained note tucked beside her sleeping face, growing up with a tender, love-filled heart for parents woven from childish fantasy and storybook shimmer, than to witness her mother turning her back and walking away, joined soon thereafter by her splotchy-faced father, together, alone, the ballroom doors closing, a final death knell.

She sagged against Lord Voldemort as the waltz went on and on and on. She couldn't cry, not in front of him; her tears would taste like nectar on his forked tongue. Oh, but it burned, behind her eyes, in her nose, her throat, suffocating; she would drown, and there was no Draco to wrench her from the black and breathe life into her lungs.

Only, he was there, a fixed rock in a swollen river; he existed in the spaces between the violin notes. His eyes found hers and the space between them yawned, cavernous and insurmountable. He could feel it, too. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides; she hoped the ache to reach out had settled as deeply in his bones as it had in hers.

In another life, she might have been holding his hand, his arm around her, his breath on her cheek. Closing her eyes, she could picture it. Pale and flimsy, an apparition behind a veil; just the shape of them spinning slowly in a forest glade, clinging together in a silent dance.

She blinked and it was gone.

The song ended but Lord Voldemort kept her caged with hard hands around her shoulders as he manoeuvred them to the edge of the dance floor.

"Refrain from consuming any wine, my dear. I wish to sow an heir on you as soon as possible. If all else fails," He seized her jaw, his grip punishingly tight until she looked at him. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, shining behind his eyes. "I can always let Bella have at you."

He released her and performed a short, mocking bow, leaving her to right herself against a pillar.

Bellatrix was alive.

She clutched the fluting, breathing hard, blinking against the dark spots crowding at the edge of her vision.

How could she be alive? She'd murdered Lord Voldemort's unborn son and heir, and he was not a forgiving man. Perhaps he had lied—an idle threat to enforce Hermione's obedience, but he must have known there was something infinitely more precious to threaten than her life.

She looked for Draco in the roiling mass of dancing bodies. He rose above the crowd, immutable and steadfast, his pale hair gleaming. She took a step and so did he. Lord Voldemort was gone, for the moment. One touch, a brush of their fingers as they passed, would be enough. One touch, just to assure herself that he was there and waiting for her.

Narcissa caught his arm, her elegant face grey and drawn. Her lips moved, beads of sweat glittering under the limelights; Draco shook her off but she held fast, speaking quickly, eyes flitting with insect-like speed around the ballroom, calculating, cold, but oh, the love she held for him in that steely grip made Hermione's heart burn. She wore glinting silver rings inset with jade and emerald, digging into her fingers as Draco tried again to tug free.

They were beautiful, the most beautiful pieces of jewellery Hermione had ever seen. Only the rings and Hermione's knocking pulse existed; looking at Draco would break the resolve she had built layer by layer around her heart, drawing from Narcissa's strength. Be strong, she whispered, beginning to turn away, closing her eyes. Don't look, but how could she not? He was so close, she met his eyes, he reached for her but stopped, fingers curling, hand falling, the shadows returned, seeping at the edges, ink in milk, swirling until there was only his face, pale and sharp, the music faded away. She could see in his eyes a fracturing she felt in her chest, like stepping in a winter puddle, broken seams radiating outwards, the ice made more beautiful for the breaking.

His gaze flickered to the terrace doors, then to her, and Hermione allowed herself to nurse the hope blooming to life in her abdomen.

I will see you outside, my love.