February 7th

Many times over the course of the next day and night, Hermione found her thoughts drifting back to her coat still lying in the rubbish bin outside. She knew she had made the right decision in one second and then she would berate herself for a fool the next. Each time she started to climb out of bed to rush out the door to retrieve it, she forced herself to stop. Having a way for Lord Voldemort's most gifted tracker to find her whenever he wished was dangerous.

Draco Malfoy was still an unknown variable in her life at that point. He might make claims that he wasn't tracking her because he was ordered to do so, but that didn't mean he was telling the truth. They all had a thorough education in deception at the behest of their master. Telling a lie was second nature to his Death Eaters. There were times when they were forced to hide the truth from those too weak to understand that everything they did was for their best interest. Perhaps Malfoy was just utilizing his training.

It still bothered her immensely that Draco claimed he wasn't sure if he could trust her yet. She was the one on the run from the very master they had both pledged their lives to. If she was captured and returned to Hogsmeade and to her husband, she would be in serious trouble. Not just with Antonin either. The Dark Lord did not take kindly to those he suspected of trying to defect.

She would never forget the mission she was sent on years earlier with Thorfinn Rowle where they tracked down and brutally punished Amycus Carrow for his cowardice. In truth, she hadn't been too bothered by the task. Even though she was already cultivating a close relationship with his older sister, Hermione wanted Amycus dead. From the first day when she was dragged out of the broom cupboard, she longed for the moment she could stand over his prostrate and trembling form to deliver the same kind of justice he demanded. Terrified of what was going to happen to her next, she would never forget how he asked the Dark Lord for permission to cast the Cruciatus Curse on her until her body shut down.

Though she had to wait for the perfect moment, had to bide her time until she had the opportunity, when she and Thorfinn tracked him to a rundown cottage abandoned by Muggles years earlier, she was satisfied with the taste of his screams. Even if the Dark Lord had not given them permission to make an example out of their fugitive comrade, Hermione would've done as she wished. It would have been easy to beg forgiveness after the task was completed. Her master rarely punished her for her deeds, no matter how violent and grotesque.

"Crucio!"

The curse was cast with a coolness that surprised even Hermione. She showed no mercy. Not even when Thorfinn suggested it would be kinder to put the miserable git out of his misery with an Avada. Not even when Amycus begged her to stop, begged her to take his life between his shuddering sobs and gasps for breath. Not even when his ramblings and shrieks proved he had gone past the point of madness. Not even when the air became thick with the stench of his body releasing his fluids. Only when the carcass stopped flinching or moving at all did she lower her wand.

"Fuck, Princess. That was…"

"Exactly what he suggested be done to me when I was thrown at the Dark Lord's feet."

There was a great deal of respect and fear in Rowle's countenance when she cut off his statement. No doubt he was going to utter something about her unnecessary cruelty. It would hardly be the first time and certainly not the last. His was a counsel that she had come to appreciate over the years. Instead, the massive blond knew when to keep his mouth shut. If anyone alive knew the power of blood lust over a person's compunctions and morality, it was the wizard Hermione was half-convinced was descended from a line of Viking berserkers. What else could explain his single-mindedness in the heat of battle? Or his rage and fury?

Knowing that she might very well have as brutal a death as Amycus' awaiting her back in Hogsmeade, she knew that she needed to be vigilant where Draco Malfoy was concerned. He could be trying to lure her into a trap. Trying to force her into claiming out loud that her loyalties were no longer with the Dark Lord. She had no master beyond her own survival. There was no room for another when that one was so demanding.

Her gaze fell on the stack of parchment Draco handed her the night before. Or was it morning? She could hardly keep the days and hours straight. When one didn't have a schedule to keep, it was easy to forget the date. In her frustration with the pale-haired man and constant waffling on whether or not she should keep the coat that would allow him to visit her again, she'd forgotten about the offering. It was most unlike her to ignore the opportunity to catch up on the events going on in the world she was running from.

She'd known without looking at them that they were copies of the Daily Prophet and possibly even an edition or two from the paper the Resistance somehow managed to put out sporadically. All magical printing presses were supposedly under the control of the Death Eaters and the regime they represented, but occasionally, a rebel with a quill was able to get through their security. They were usually uncovered quickly, but not before significant damage was done. The biggest danger their government faced was an educated public.

Knowing that reading the newspapers was likely going to be the only thing that could calm her mind down, Hermione climbed out of bed, picked up the stack, and crawled back in under the covers before unfolding them. She couldn't remember when she last was able to steal a Daily Prophet. Months, at least. Whatever was inside the pages must have been important for Draco to leave them. He wasn't the kind of person to do something without thought or reason.

The first headline she read on the front page made her stomach twist into knots. A picture of the family that had been on her mind almost constantly for days stared back at her with an unnerving sereneness she knew wasn't reality. At least, not any longer. Taken months before she ever darkened their doorstep if the shorter length of Sarah's hair was any indication, the Jordan family's last family portrait had been lovely. It was a shame that there would be no more in the future.

Antonin somehow managed to discover they had given her a place to hide, a place to relax and almost feel normal again. Even though it was clearly a violation of the treaty the Dark Lord made with the witches and wizards of Wales, he'd gone straight to their home. She didn't need to read the accompanying articles to know what happened. Likely, they were all full of propaganda and lies anyway. Antonin probably demanded to know where she had gone and when they didn't answer, he became angry.

Little Posy was still in the Welsh equivalent of St. Mungo's. Hermione desperately hoped that it was as good as the original. She knew all too well how damaging her husband's spells could be, especially to small children. Sarah was dead. Lizzie was able to walk away with minor injuries. Lee was locked up in Azkaban. All blame for the incident was put squarely on Lee's shoulders. Of course it was. To admit that a Death Eater, one as powerful and influential as Antonin, was at fault could be a death sentence for the journalist who wrote it and the editor that dared to print it.

She flipped through the rest of the papers with a heavy heart. When she finally had the courage to read the articles, she couldn't bear the truth. Or even the version of the truth that was considered acceptable by the regime. It was all her fault. A good woman was dead and a family was ruined because of her decision to accept their kindness. How would she get past that?

Because she would need answers and she didn't have the first clue where to get them, Hermione rushed out the door of her room without even bothering to put on a heavier jumper or her shoes. She headed straight for the rubbish bin she'd thrown her coat in. Maybe it would take another week or so, but eventually Draco would seek her out again. She lifted the lid to the bin, careful not to let it clang loudly.

It was empty. Her coat was long gone. If there was another way to get Malfoy's attention, she didn't know what it was.