Shades of Grey
Chapter Twenty-One: Hermione's Struggle
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."
- Charlotte Bronte
Meanwhile, in a dark and desolate room that held very little life, a young woman listened as her entire world crumbled around her.
She knew it was Draco—knew it was him from the very moment she heard dull murmurs waft through the creaky floorboards beneath her. Hermione's broken and emaciated body ached and yearned for the young man struggling one floor below, and as Hermione attempted to fight her way into a sitting position, her fingers clawed at the rotting wood beneath her. Their muffled conversation only came to Hermione in waves, so at first she was only able to make out certain words, such as "Blood Traitor", "weak", and "father". The conversation was too choppy for Hermione to make any sense out of, but she still found herself hoping and praying that Bellatrix would go easy on Draco. He was, after all, her nephew.
Then again, she'd murdered her cousin and niece with no difficulty at all.
It was as this thought plagued her mind that Hermione heard the blood-curdling shriek. It tore directly through her system; it ate her up from the inside out. It was the anguished cry of someone who had completely lost touch with life—of someone who was just barely dangling on the edge of consciousness. The sound was raw and gruesome; it caused something in Hermione's chest to ache and burn, and at once she knew the sound would forever remain embedded into her memory. Because it was more than hearing someone being tortured—it was knowing that the victim was Draco. Her Draco.
"No." The word was whispered; she croaked it out rather subconsciously, allowing her fingernails to dig into the floor beneath her. Her bones ached and her muscles trembled from the malnourishment she was suffering from, but that didn't stop Hermione from trying to force herself into a sitting position. And then came the cries, rising in volume and urgency in tandem with his own.
"No. No. NO!" Hermione screamed, though she sorely doubt she was heard over the inhumane cries of torture and agony drifting up from below. It pierced her heart, the way he cried out, and before Hermione could even control what she was doing, she was heaving her body towards the door, using the rusty doorknob to lift herself up. Somewhere, deep down, she knew it was useless to try and escape—if there had been a way for her to leave this room on her own, she would have busted out hours ago. As it was, fear and exhaustion had warped her common sense, and so Hermione beat on the door with trembling fists, weakened by a lack of food and water. She cried out until her throat was raw and hoarse, trembling against the doorframe and begging for the release she knew would never come.
"No! Don't! No, no, no! Take me! Take me instead!"
It was desperate, but it was all she had.
She pounded on that door until the world grew silent around her, and predictably, no one came. Not even to make her shut up, which convinced Hermione that her outburst had gone unheard. Not entirely sure whether that was for the best or not, she allowed herself to sink down onto the floor, sagging against the doorframe and crumpling in on herself. She permitted herself time to cry, folding in and tucking herself into a tight ball as the tears tore through her dainty frame. Her forehead rested against her knees, and she inhaled between choked gasps for air. Her nose was stuffed and her eyes stung as she cried, clutching desperately at the fabric of her trousers and praying to Godric that Draco was okay. That he was still alive.
Please, Merlin, please, she chanted to herself, shivering from head to toe. Let him live.
Half an hour passed. There was no sound from below; the house had grown eerily silent, and Hermione slowly but surely gathered the shattered remnants of her person. There would be hell to pay—she was sure of it.
Forty-five minutes and Hermione finally had her resolve. She remembered the nail that was tucked securely in the pocket of her trousers. She knew that it was a feeble weapon, at best, but that if she could catch someone off guard, then she'd have the element of surprise on her side. It was a flimsy chance at escape, but it was all she had. And, very much in the spirit of Hermione Granger and all of her sensibilities, she spent quite some time coming up with the most efficient manner in which she planned to carry out her attack. She could simply crouch behind the door, on the alert and ready to attack whenever someone came to collect her—but soon enough she scratched that idea out. If someone entered the room and registered that she wasn't there, it would give them a bit of headway, and Hermione feared her attack wouldn't come across as such a surprise. Then she started thinking about waiting to attack until she'd hit the main floor of the Manor; that idea, too, was shot down. If she waited until they were out in the open with other Witches and Wizards lurking around, then it was probable she'd be caught and taken down within a matter of five to ten seconds.
It was tedious, planning her escape, but finally Hermione came to a conclusion. It would be best, she decided, if she were to feign a state of unconsciousness until she was collected…then she could spring and attack anyone who dared try to confront her. So Hermione crawled to the center of the room and collapsed on the hard floor, allowing her eyes to flutter shut and focusing on playing the role of a convincing victim.
All she had to do now was wait. Wait and hope that someone would come by to check on her.
It had been approximately an hour since the screams from downstairs had finally died away, and Hermione was growing rather impatient. Where was Bellatrix? Greyback? More importantly, where was Draco? Hermione was nearly trembling with the urge to find out; to tear apart this house and fight her way to her partner…to the Wizard who had grown to mean so much to her in the short time they'd been working together. In all her life, Hermione could only think of two men who came close to rivalling the love and need for protection she felt now for Draco, and that was Harry and Ron (though she loved them both in a way so drastically different than she thought of Draco). And it was this love—this need to protect the very man her heart yearned for—that motivated Hermione to keep on with her original plan; to try and take down whatever resistance she might meet along the way.
Because she had to get out of here; she had to.
She wasn't aware—not exactly—just how long it had been since Draco's torture, but she heard the telltale stomping of a pair of feet inching closer and closer to her prison. Someone was on their way, then; someone was coming to…to what? To collect her? Kill her? Make sure she hadn't escaped? Hermione Granger was utterly clueless—a rarity for the young woman, to be sure—and yet she kept her fingers tightly coiled around her weapon all the while. The nail might have been small, but as the pad of her thumb brushed against its short point, she realized that it could make a proper weapon…again, if she was given the element of surprise she so desperately required.
She was expecting Greyback, really; maybe even Bellatrix, depending on the manic woman's mood. However, when the door was thrust open and a tall man with light blond hair stepped inside, scowling all the while, Hermione recognized him for who he was: Thorfinn Rowle. She, Harry, and Ron had run into him and one of his goons months and months ago when they'd been searching for the Deathly Hallows; he'd appeared shortly after the fiasco at Bill and Fleur's wedding…she'd had to Obliviate him and his comrade both before easing out of the shop with both of the boys. She peered at him through her eyelashes, hoping that he couldn't tell that she was, in fact, very much awake. Every muscle in Hermione's body went stiff and rigid as he moved closer, one step after another, and allowed her fingers to squeeze lightly around the nail she held in her hand.
Any minute now, then. This was the moment of truth.
Hermione resisted the impulse to wince when he lifted his foot and kicked one of her thighs, biting on her tongue to keep from whimpering out in pain. Her legs were already weak from bruising and malnourishment; the pain felt amplified, almost.
Of course…it was nothing compared to the torture Draco had just endured. She wasn't even going to kid herself about that.
"Get up, Mudblood," He growled, clearly discontent with the fact that Hermione had failed to rise upon his presence.
Scum, she thought to herself. Absolute scum.
When Hermione stayed put, Rowle let out an irritated grunt and crouched down, reaching over to grab her by the scruff of her neck. He shook her, yanking painfully on the back of her collar and more or less asphyxiating her in the process. Hermione bit back the instinct to choke and gasp in response, keeping her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"I said get up," He spat, and Hermione decided that now was as good a time as any to react. Her fingers flexed around the cool metal of the nail, and at once her eyes flew open. Shock registered on Rowle's filthy face, and while the element of surprise was still on her side, Hermione lunged forward and stabbed at the nearest hunk of flesh she could find…which just so happened to be Thorfinn Rowle's cheek. Hermione was aghast as she felt the nail puncture his skin with relative ease; she hadn't thought it was all that sharp, but she supposed the momentum in which she'd lunged at the Death Eater had a great deal to do with it. The filthy nail was now plunged into Rowle's cheek, the back half dangling off the side of his face. Blood had spurted out the moment the weapon made contact with his skin, and there was now a steady trail of scarlet winding down the side of his face.
Hermione had to struggle not to dry heave then and there. It was a ghastly sight; it truly was.
And then came Rowle's screams, which was—perhaps—the most sickening aspect of it all. His lips twitched upon impact and his eyes practically rolled into the back of his head. He was nearly convulsing with pain, clawing at the side of his face and struggling to get the nail out. He was having a bit of difficulty, which made Hermione assume that it was stuck.
Good, she thought to herself.
So wrapped up in the frightening sight before her, she nearly missed her window of opportunity. She might have been weak and frail from days of being locked up in a desolate, abandoned room, but she still had strength enough to pick herself up and dive for the door, which Rowle had conveniently left open. She scrambled for an exit, making her way through the brightly-lit hall and blinking back tears as she staggered through the house. The light was bright; far too bright…but she would manage. Freedom was close—so bloody close she could taste it—and Hermione practically bound down the steps two at a time, her head snapping back and forth as she searched for any reinforcement charging after her.
None came. She should have seen it as a stroke of good luck, but…she didn't. It only filled her with fear. Rowle's screams had been obscenely loud; surely someone would have heard his cries of despair and run for help immediately.
Where is everyone? She thought to herself, terrified.
Soon enough, she received her answer. Hermione had miraculously made it down to the main floor of the estate she was holed up in when she felt a strong pair of arms wrap around her waist. She cried out in alarm, thrashing against the hands wrapped around her body. She struggled against whomever it was that had finally caught her, but it was of no use. She was weak, and they were easily two times stronger than her. On a good day. Nevertheless, Hermione kicked and thrashed as best she could; just because she'd been caught did not mean she was going down without a fight. She was Hermione Granger, and she'd fight for freedom even if it killed her.
However, due to the combination of her captor's strength and her own weakness, fighting was useless. She was soon enough dragged to what she could only assume was a parlor before being deposited on the ground as though she were no more than a hefty bit of rubbish.
Then again, that's probably exactly what she was to them.
Her bones were weak and frail, but still Hermione tried to heave herself into a sitting position. Maybe if she dashed out of the room quickly enough, no one would notice she was gone until it was too late…maybe…
Or maybe she had completely lost her mind. Starvation and exhaustion could do that to a person.
Despite all of her planning, despite her resolution to escape now that she'd been tossed carelessly to the ground, deep in her heart she knew it wasn't going to happen. As if to prove her point, a dark shadow hovered over her, and Hermione bit back tears of pain and blinked away the haze clouding her mind, glancing up—with terror—at the frazzled figure of one Bellatrix Lestrange.
To say she looked irritated might as well have been the understatement of the entire bloody year.
"Think you could run away, did you, Mudblood?" Bellatrix spat, her voice raw as the manic elder woman channeled fury and rage into her words. Hermione glared at her in response, her chin set and her trembling fingers digging into the wooden floor beneath her. She said nothing; responding would only feed into Bellatrix's sick and twisted need for punishment. For revenge on Hermione for daring to live and breathe; Mudblood that she was and all.
"Do I need to give you another reminder of where you stand in this war, girlie?" Bellatrix asked, and then there was the glimmer of metal. Hermione froze instinctively—she would have recognized the blade in her hand anywhere. It was the same one she'd used to carve the word "Mudblood" into Hermione's flesh so many months ago. The scar on her arm seemed to burn, as though close contact with the weapon that had created it was enough to have her skin crawling.
Bellatrix seemed to sense Hermione's terror, for her lips cracked into a crooked, manic grin…and she laughed. The sound was shrill and deranged; it sparked fear into Hermione's heart.
"Ah, the Mudblood remembers," Bellatrix continued, an edge of childish glee to her voice. It was…disturbing, really, and when Hermione yet again kept quiet, Bellatrix yanked up the sleeve of Hermione's shirt, allowing the tip of her blade to glide across the word engraved into the younger woman's flesh. Hermione resisted the impulse to whimper and squeeze her eyes shut. She would not let her fear shut her down; she refused to become Bellatrix's plaything for the second time in her life.
"Maybe I should reinforce the message bit, hmm, girlie?" She asked, though Hermione knew it wasn't a real question. Not really. In the end, Bellatrix would do what she wanted.
Now that was a thought to terrify Hermione to pieces.
It was as Bellatrix was pressing the sharpened point of the blade into the supple flesh of her forearm that she heard someone clear their throat. It came from the same direction Hermione had arrived from, which caused her to assume that her original captor was still lurking among them.
Fantastic.
"Bellatrix, need I remind you that the Mudblood still plays a crucial role in our plans?" It was a man who answered, though the voice was nearly foreign to Hermione. Nearly. She could have sworn she'd heard it once before, though couldn't quite place her finger on when or where that might have been. He was out of her line of vision, however, so it was quite difficult for Hermione to place a face with her attacker.
She glanced at Bellatrix. Make that one of her attackers, then.
Bellatrix jutted her lower lip out in response to the man's statement; from Hermione's angle, it almost looked as though she was pouting. Bellatrix glanced over, her eyes following someone (or something) that Hermione couldn't quite see. There was something about the way Bellatrix studied her subject—with irritation and almost disdain—that intrigued Hermione. Bellatrix was the one running the show here, after all; why did she seem so put out by another person's opinion?
Unless…unless there was someone who was her equal. If not her equal, then her advisor at the very least. It made sense, the more and more Hermione thought on it. Bellatrix was a rash and bloodthirsty individual; composed of loyalty to her deceased Dark Lord and vengeance, it really didn't make much sense for her to have come this far entirely on her own. Hermione sincerely doubted she would have been able to plan such a well-crafted surprise attack; she didn't think Bellatrix would have waited so long to enact her revenge. No, no—the closer Hermione looked at the situation, the more positive she was that Bellatrix was being assisted.
But by who?
The answer came into view in the form of a tall, lanky man whom Hermione had never seen before. He had dark brown hair (nearly black) that reached just above his shoulders; he looked as though he hadn't been well groomed in quite some time, if the slickness of his hair and the stubble lining his face was anything to go by. He had beady eyes that seemed to bore into Hermione's very person, making her fidget uncomfortably from her perch on the floor. He appeared to be studying her, and while Hermione knew that this was the man whose voice she faintly recognized, she could say with absolute certainty that she'd never seen him before.
So why did she get the suspicion that she knew him from somewhere? Why was his voice so familiar to her?
"What's your point? The girl deserves to be punished!" Bellatrix responded, snapping Hermione out of her thoughts. The man seemed to agree with this statement, yet there was a certain hesitation in the way he responded…as if he wasn't sure just how to go about punishing their victim.
"I agree that the Mudblood deserves to be put in her place," The man began, and Hermione gnashed her teeth together in irritation. "All I'm suggesting is that we're practical with how we go about it. As long as we hold her and Draco as hostages, we hold the reins. We're in charge. We have the power."
Bellatrix's eyes seemed to sparkle at the mention of power, and Hermione wondered how one person could be so full of indecency and evil. There wasn't a shred of humanity left in Bellatrix Lestrange; Hermione was willing to bet every last Galleon in Gringotts that she was right.
But still, the blade rested against Hermione's arm; clearly, Bellatrix was still struggling to decide whether or not she would take the advice given to her or choose to ignore in favor of spilling all of Hermione's blood on the floor. The former Gryffindor swallowed noisily at the thought.
"Bellatrix…" The man pressed, and all at once, the reality of the situation slammed against Hermione like a load of bricks. She recognized his voice, yes, and now she knew where her remembrance came from. He was the same man she'd seen talking to Fenrir Greyback in Borgin and Burkes; back when she and Draco had used the Vanishing Cabinet to travel for clues. Her eyes widened and her lips parted immediately, and for the first time, Hermione really soaked in his presence.
She didn't know just who he was, exactly, but now that she had a vivid memory to place with his face, comprehension dawned on her features. This was no ordinary man, then—at the very least, he was Bellatrix's second-in-command. Perhaps even her equal, depending on how their relationship with one another worked.
The thought of Bellatrix working alongside someone else in a struggle for power and dominance did nothing to ease Hermione's already jumbled nerves. On the contrary, it made her more anxious than ever.
Bellatrix alone was bad enough, but having someone feed her ideas? That was disastrous.
"I know you," She breathed, thinking no one would hear her. The man's eyes shot over in her direction, and he appraised Hermione for a few moments with a grotesque amount of scrutiny and disdain. The corners of his lips twitched, as though he was fighting the urge to smirk or smile, and Hermione found the sight horrifying. It reminded her of something out of one of those scary Muggle films her cousins had made her watch when she was a little girl.
"Not yet, Mudblood, but you will," was his response. Aloof. Secretive. And then he lifted his wand and aimed it at Hermione's head. She barely had time to register what he was doing before he mumbled out a stunning spell, and Hermione was out cold.
It was the sound of metal scraping against concrete that finally woke her up. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton and her throat was dry and scratchy. She felt a dull ache ringing in her ears and rattling her head as she forced her bleary eyes to open, and at once Hermione recognized that she was surrounded in darkness. There was the faint smell of mold lingering nearby, and as her vision adjusted to the dim lighting she realized she'd been placed in another room. A darker room; one that seemed to stretch for endless miles. She was more or less blind in here (wherever "here" was), and shivered involuntarily. That's when she felt the dead weight on her arms.
Her wrists were bound with two thick metal shackles, and with each slight movement of her arms, the chains attached to them scraped against the cold floor beneath her. Clearly Bellatrix and the others hadn't felt comfortable placing her back into a room where she was free to roam on her own. So they'd done the next best thing; locked her in the dark like a bird in its cage. It was as she was contemplating how long she'd been here for that she felt something small and warm glide against the back of her hand. A strangled cry fled her lips and she jerked away, eyes wide as she struggled to search for something in the dark. It very well could have been nothing more than a rat, she thought (though that did not, by any means, comfort her in the slightest).
So when a squeaky, high-pitched voice answered with "Sorry, miss!" and lit a match, Hermione felt a surge of relief. So not a killer, a dead body, or even a rat, then, but rather…a House Elf. Wait.
A House Elf!
Large, bat-like ears were the first thing she saw, followed by the filthy rags traditionally worn by enslaved House Elves. Then she noticed the rather large nose as well as the eyes that took up half the Elf's face…at once, Hermione felt herself sag against the wall.
"Excuse me, could you tell me where I am?" Hermione managed, her voice dry and scratchy. It was difficult, but she managed to sound sincere as she spoke with the House Elf; she did not, in any way, wish for the creature to think she looked down on her with disdain. She was not the House Elf's superior, but rather her equal.
"Certainly, missus— this is the dungeon of Lestrange Estate, it is," The House Elf answered, sniffling as she held the match close to her face. Lestrange Estate, then…so she and Draco had been dragged all the way to Bellatrix's own manor for holding and questioning? That didn't seem quite right to Hermione; in fact, it seemed like a rather grand mistake. Wouldn't Bellatrix and the others have wanted to hide Draco and Hermione in an inconspicuous location? Somewhere where they didn't wish to be found? Hiding out in her own house seemed rather obvious…unless…
Unless Bellatrix was going for obvious. Unless she wanted to be discovered; maybe this was it, then. Maybe being discovered and confronted by the Order was exactly what Bellatrix had wanted all along. It would certainly give her an advantage, given that she was in the safety of her own home, and in turn she'd have an edge on Harry and the others.
Oh, Harry, Hermione thought, her nerves and anxiety all at once heightened. Please be careful; please, Harry.
"I see…" Hermione supplied finally, realizing she had yet to answer the Elf. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name; I'm Hermione…and you are?"
"Kinney," She replied after a beat of silence. "My name is Kinney, missus. I knows all about you, of course—you was friends with Dobby, you was!"
"You knew Dobby?" Hermione asked, perking up considerably. Kinney nodded, her large, watery eyes trailing over Hermione's face.
"Of course I knows of Dobby, missus!" Kinney breathed, a sort of eagerness spreading across her face. "We all knows of Dobby; he helped to save Mr. Harry Potter, he did! Dobby's a legend among House Elves now, he is!"
A small smile spread across Hermione's face at the mention of Dobby and what he'd done for Harry; it was true, he'd managed to save Harry's life on more than one occasion. Hermione was happy to hear that he was receiving at least a fraction of the recognition he deserved—at least in the House Elf community.
"Pardon me, Kinney," Hermione began again, swallowing in hopes of lubricating her throat. "But if you work for the Lestranges, why are you down here?"
Kinney gave Hermione a rather bashful sort of look and lifted her hands, revealing rolls of gauze bandaging and antiseptic clutched in her tiny grip. All at once, Hermione understood…Kinney had come to care for Hermione's injuries. And if Hermione knew Bellatrix at all, then she was willing to bet that the House Elf had done it without permission (not that Hermione believed Kinney needed permission to do anything, of course, but her thoughts on House Elf liberation was another matter entirely).
"Master and mistress would punish Kinney if they knew, missus," Kinney breathed, her eyes wide and fearful. "But Kinney has to protect Harry Potter's friend; Kinney has to!"
But something Kinney said struck Hermione as odd. Master and mistress. Meaning…
"Kinney, who is your master?" She asked slowly, the words dangling in the air around them.
"Mister Rodolphus Lestrange indeed!" Kinney asked, trembling as she uttered his name.
Was that…did that mean that the man she'd seen hovering above her in the parlor was Bellatrix's husband? Rodolphus Lestrange was alive? Hermione tried to process this information as best she could, but no matter which angle she looked at it from…it was hefty. Dealing with the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange's husband was alive and well out of Azkaban was too much for the young Witch to take on all at once. However, instead of focusing on Rodolphus Lestrange, Hermione swallowed her budding fear and watched as Kinney went about carefully bandaging the small cuts and scrapes that covered Hermione's body—starting with her fingers.
"Kinney," Hermione began suddenly, her voice soft and cautious. "You don't…you don't have to live a life like this, you know; Dobby wouldn't have wanted it for anyone. You can…you can come with us—Draco and me. We'll take you to Harry—to the Order—and you'll be safe. You won't have to live the life of a prisoner anymore; you can be free, Kinney, I promise."
Hermione's words seemed to evoke a rather strong reaction within the House Elf, for soon she was dropping the bandages and antiseptic in her hand, bashing one of her fists against her head and crying out in what Hermione could only describe as agony. Her eyes welled up with tears and spilled over, dropping onto her filthy clothes. The other hand was still tightly wrapped around the match, which was dying out. It flickered, and then they were enveloped in darkness once more.
"You are too kind, missus; Dobby always said Harry Potter and his friends were nice, he did!" Kinney sniffled somewhere in the darkness, and Hermione felt her heart ache for the poor creature who'd been so wrongly enslaved.
"But I can't go with you, I's can't!" Kinney continued, and there was a hiss as she lit a second match. The space around them was illuminated once more—dimly, but still visible—and Hermione blinked as her eyes adjusted to the scant amount of light. "This is where Kinney belongs, missus, this is. Please, missus, you gots to understand, you do…" Kinney trailed off, sniffling and rubbing at her large nose again. Hermione stared at the creature with pity and a fierce longing to save her; to protect her and all other House Elves who had endured such torment.
But Kinney, who had clearly decided she was done with the conversation at hand, bent down and picked up a tub of what Hermione could only guess was…butter? Kinney cradled it under one arm, and at once Hermione's brows furrowed together.
"Kinney, what is that?" Hermione asked pointedly, her gaze resting on the plastic container. Kinney blushed and reached over, setting the small tub in Hermione's lap.
"When theys brought you down here, Kinney was watching, she was," Kinney explained, shifting awkwardly from where she stood nearby. Master and mistress had the big werewolf bring you down to the dungeons, they did—" Fenrir; it could only have been Fenrir. "—and he's not so good with magic—Kinney witnessed it herself! He doesn't know how to cast lots of enchantments, no he doesn't, so Kinney watched as he shackled you up, missus, and Kinney was shocked when he didn't put magic on the handcuffs! None all, missus, no he didn't! Just regular handcuffs they are, missus! Regular!"
All at once, everything slammed into place. Bellatrix and Rodolphus had ordered Fenrir to carry Hermione down to the dungeon, and since the werewolf didn't have much experience with enchantments, he'd been unable to place a ward of sorts on the handcuffs Hermione found enclosed around her wrists. Which meant that…that they served as regular Muggle handcuffs; there was nothing extraordinary about them. Hermione glanced down at the tub of butter placed in her lap with a great deal of new meaning. She could use it to add a bit of lubrication to the metal shackles; her wrists were already relatively loose around them as it was, so really, it wouldn't have been all that difficult. And…it was all because of the House Elf standing before her.
Kinney had brought it down for her. Kinney was helping Hermione escape.
All at once, Hermione was filled with gratitude so sincere that she was afraid she might burst from an overflow of emotions. She had no idea what to say—no idea what to do—so she just smiled at the House Elf and thanked her. Kinney responded with a bashful smile, and Hermione tried once more to broach on the subject of freedom. This only seemed to upset Kinney, for the Elf made the same excuses and wrung her hands together, extinguishing the match and grabbing her things off the ground before making an excuse to leave. Hermione was a bit heartbroken by her reluctance, but determined to save and liberate Kinney nevertheless.
For now, though…she'd focused on freeing herself of these handcuffs. Hermione Granger had a Malfoy to find, and she wouldn't rest until she'd located him.
a/N: Hey guys! Much like last time, I've uploaded two chapters back to back; not really sure how I managed that! We're getting down to the final chapters now; only a few more left until we reach the conclusion! I've had a lot of fun so far and would really like to hear what all of you think, so please, leave your comments in the review section and-as always-have a great day!