"Hold still, you big baby." Hermione chastised Draco, dabbing at the blood still flowing from his nostrils with one of the pilfered bandages.

"I have an idea," he ground out, his voice sounding nasal. "Why don't I kick you in the face and see how you feel, hmm?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And that's after I try to hack your leg off with a rusty saw."

"Drama queen," she muttered under her breath.

"Bitch."

She gave him a particularly harsh jab to his abused face while cleaning the crusted matter from his cheek, watching him wince in anguish. "Oops. Sorry."

He shoved her hand away. "Yeah, you're sorry all right. Sorry her foot didn't make it through to the backside of my head."

Throwing the dirty linen on the floor, she stood, hands on hips. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"Prickly, whiney, overly dramatic, sullen…" She placed her palm over her heart. "Oh, my God… you're starting to act like Snape!"

"I stand by what I said before: bitch."

"Unimaginative, sneaky, selfish—" Her tirade was cut short when he fisted her shirt and brought her face to eye-level with him.

"I'm prickly when know-it-alls stick their wands where they're not wanted." He tugged her closer. "I'm whiney at this moment because I'm in excruciating pain, not that you care." Wrapping more of her shirt material around his fingers, he caused her to kneel before him where he sat in the chair. "I think being chased by otherworldly psychopaths is not an overly dramatic situation, and you'd be sullen too, if you were stuck here with the likes of you!"

"Draco I—"

"As for unimaginative," he snarled, paying no attention to her wide-eyed expression. "Why should I let you see how creative I can be when all you do is mock me hatefully?" He snorted, his lip curling in that familiar Malfoy sneer. "Of course I'm sneaky; I'm a Slytherin, remember? It goes hand in hand with being selfish, and—"

Soft lips were suddenly pressed against his in a chaste kiss, effectively shutting him up.

Well. That was unexpected. He could tell she hadn't had much experience kissing anyone, which made him wonder if she was still a virgin, but it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation. Her lips were supple, though a bit worn where she would constantly chew on them. Even though they'd been on the run most of the night, her skin still tasted sweet, like crisp apples. He didn't dare deepen her tentative exploration, curious as to where she would go on her own, idly wondering if she found the flavour of his blood to her liking.

After a moment, she drew back, her cheeks visibly flushed even in the low light that crept in from the outside. "Say something," she whispered, twisting her fingers in nervousness.

He cleared his throat and frowned, pursing his lips. "I think we need to talk after this is all said and done."

She turned her heated face away. "I'm sorry… I-I shouldn't have done that."

"Were you just trying to keep my mouth busy so I wouldn't complain, or did you have other reasons?" he asked with a smirk.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she stood and made her way over to where she'd laid their packs, digging around in hers and ignoring his question. "We have to get a fire going."

His eyebrows rose into his hairline. "I said no, Granger!" He tried shifting the chair away from her, but he couldn't get the damn wheels to move. Looking down, he realised there were metal bars embedded in the rubber on the wheel rim, effectively stopping the chair from going anywhere.

"Malfoy," she said impatiently, "we have to cauterise that wound before it becomes infected." She looked at their surroundings. "And in this place, that'll happen in no time."

"It's barbaric!" he protested, trying to unlock the wheels.

"We're in a barbaric place! Drastic measures are called for."

Finally unlocking one side, he spun in a circle in a vain attempt to escape her intentions. "Leave off!" He paused, then panted his next words. "I'm not letting you brand me, like Voldemort did!"

She had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm not doing this to keep you bound to me," she murmured. "I only want to help."

He wiped his face with his hand. "Look … I know you're only doing what you think is best." His voice was quieter now, placating. "But this is my life, my body, not yours."

"I won't let you die," she ground out. She proceeded to gather the odd pieces of wood that lay scattered about, breaking them into manageable portions and placing them in a pile near his chair.

"That's not your decision to make." He watched her go through the motions of starting a fire, the tears lingering in her eyes as she tried, and failed, to light the first few matches.

Beyond curious as to her reasoning, he questioned, "Why does it matter if I live or die?"

"Because I have a duty, same as you, to protect the Wizarding world," she answered quietly with a sniff. She rubbed the stray tears from her eyes with her filthy sleeve, leaving a black smudge across her cheek and nose.

"Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?" Retrieving a scrap of paper from her pocket, she tore it in half, placed it underneath the wood, and lit a match. Her eyes widened when it caught fire, bringing the kindling to life, and she gently blew on the heated material to keep it going.

"No, it's not." He shifted in the seat, growing increasingly uncomfortable at the strength of the fire. "Why does the fact of whether I live or die affect your duty to protect the Wizarding world?"

"You're as much a part of our world as anyone else." The admission was whispered as she yanked off the cord to the Muggle iron and set it on the flames. "Hence the protecting of you."

"That's the lamest excuse I've heard in ages."

"Well, it's the only one I'm prepared to give you," she replied forcefully. "You'll need to take off your jeans."

"What?" he thundered, gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white.

"Unless you want the cotton seared to your skin, you'll have to take off your jeans," she pointed out, oblivious to his discomfort. "Don't worry; you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"Sod off, Granger!"

"Fine, have it your way."

Burnt flesh versus cotton fibres embedded in said burnt flesh, only to be extracted at a later date. She had a point and he knew she wouldn't give up, harping on the subject like a Hippogriff gnawing on a meaty bone, never stopping until it was devoured. Unbuttoning the first rivet, he tried not to let her see how badly his hands shook, while he continued down until he reached the last one.

"I'll need your help getting them off," he muttered, trying to shove the waistband down past his hips.

Thankfully, she said nothing to this, only nodding and standing to do as he'd asked. Taking hold of the fabric, she urged him to move. "Can you lift your bum?"

Hefting his torso up, he balanced his weight on the arms of the wheelchair while she pulled his jeans down to where he could sit and not impede her work. She then gently peeled back the material that clung to his wound, cringing when she heard him whimper. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be; just get on with it!" he half-said, half-growled through gritted teeth. "Talk to me so I'm distracted.

"Okay..." She chewed on the side of her lower lip. "Tell me about your 'situation' that Snape mentioned." She searched through her pack for something to wrap her hand in, seeking to remove the now glowing, cherry-red iron from the fire.

"That's not what I had in mind!" His brow was covered in perspiration even though it was dreadfully cold. "And my lack of funds is none of your damn business."

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. "Fine. You're broke until the Ministry lets you go," she surmised.

"How the hell did you know?" He stared at her, narrowing his eyes.

Seeing that he was good and distracted by his irritation with her, she quickly stripped the trousers from his abused skin, treating them like a stubborn plaster. The denim now hung on his knees and he breathed in sharp bursts to bear the pain. Hermione debated whether to sear the wound now or let him calm himself, but she ultimately decided on the former when his eyes rolled.

With his head tipped back, she grabbed the iron and quickly pressed the hot plate to his jagged flesh, his torturous screams of agony echoing down the long corridors.

"This looks safe enough," Harry told Luna, peering inside the smallish cave.

She stooped to examine his finding. "Hello?" she called, her voice floating into the inky darkness.

"Is something in there?"

Withdrawing, Luna shook her head. "There could've been. This area is heavily populated with black bears, bobcats, and lacewing cockle hooters."

"Cockle hooters?" he queried, wondering just what kind of animal they were.

Smiling, she nodded. "They're nocturnal." Stepping inside the entrance, she made herself comfortable on the bed of dried grass and leaves. "They search all night long for owl hearts, which is their favourite meal, never coming back to their lair until they've had at least five."

Sitting beside her, he scooted close to keep warm. "Why five?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm guessing it has to do with their five stomachs." She shrugged and laid her head down on Harry's shoulder, yawning. "You should try and sleep for a bit, before they come back."

"The lacewing cockle hooters?" he asked hopefully.

"No, the spirits."

"Draco?" Hermione whispered. He'd passed out after screaming himself hoarse, before she'd removed the iron plate from his skin. "Draco?" she said again, a little more forcefully. "Wake up."

A moan was all she got. Narrowing her eyes, she raised her hand and slapped him across the cheek. "Draco!" she yelled.

"Gods damn it, woman!" he roared at her, sitting bolt upright. "Haven't I been abused enough?"

She had the unmitigated gall to laugh at him. "I think you like it."

Excruciating pain enveloped his entire right thigh, causing him to study her handiwork. "I have impressions of holes branded onto my leg, Granger!"

Lifting the offending item from the floor, she showed him the now cooled iron. "It couldn't be helped." There were several sets of small punctures on the metal, which had made his skin take on the appearance of a Muggle golf-ball.

"Help me get my jeans back on, I'm freezing my bollocks off," he demanded, lifting himself up as he'd done earlier.

"Maybe you should let it breathe," she started to suggest, but wisely changed her mind when she took in his glare. "Or maybe not."

"I'd say not."

"Pushy prat."

"It's because of you that I am reduced to this. Need I remind you?" he hissed at her, pointing to his thigh.

"You're never going to let me hear the end of this, are you?" She slowly pulled his jeans to their previous position, and let them hang loosely around his hips, for him to finish the rest.

"Never," he assured her, buttoning the last of the rivets. "When we get back, I'll send you a message every day, saying how gruesome I look because you decided to take out your frustrations on me while I was incapacitated."

"That is so not how—"

"My, do I hear sheep bleating again?" he taunted with a smirk. "Baa, baa."

"Bastard!"

"Ah, no," he replied. "For all that my parents were, they were at least married before I came along." He crossed his arms. "Try again."

Instead of rising to his bait, she gave him a bright smile, shook her head, and left him sitting in the middle of the hallway they were in, while she retrieved their packs, and walked around the corner and out of sight.

"Granger?" he called, wondering where she'd gone, and starting to get irritated when he heard nothing. "Granger, answer me!"

For more than a few minutes, he listened intently for signs of her return, but after hearing nothing more than the wind howl through broken glass, he figured she'd really gone ahead without waiting on him. Biting his lip, he pushed himself out of the chair and bore weight on his injured limb, surprised when the pain was substantially less than he expected. She'd done her job quite well.

She also let out a scream at that moment, her voice originating from far away, that raised the hairs on his neck. "Damn it!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

Hobbling along, he followed the sounds of her cries towards what he could see was a wide open area with thick horizontal stripes painted on the walls, a wooden desk facing the dark corridor he was currently walking down. As he made his way into the hall, he passed steel doors that laid flush with the walls, a knob with a bolt lock on each. Was she in one of these chambers?

"Hermione?"

"Draco!" she cried, further down the hallway.

"Keep talking so I can find you." He hopped quickly as she babbled nonsense about Crookshanks and his need to eat the stuffing out of her sofa cushions. "There you are."

She was huddled in a corner at the very back of the area, her hands shielding her face and head. He reached out to take a hand, but paused when he saw that they were covered in scratches. Bending low, he gently touched her crown of frizzy curls so as not to startle her.

"What happened?"

Burrowing further into herself, she sobbed, "I-I don't know."

"Come on, let's get you up and out of here." He took her left hand and pulled, gasping when she came into full view. "My God, what happened?" he asked again.

She was covered in claw marks, as if a wild beast had attacked her. Her face had long gashes on her forehead, cheeks, and chin, thin rivulets of blood marring her complexion. Her clothes had fared no better; several rips were evident on the bodice, one wide enough to give him a glimpse of her bra.

He cupped her jaw and forced her to look at him, demanding to know. "What happened, Hermione?"

"It came out of nowhere." She sobbed, hiccupping to catch her breath. "I-I was trying to find a better place for us to s-stay when this-this ithing/I showed up and started mauling me."

Without thinking, he pulled her into a firm embrace and kissed the top of her head. "It's okay. We'll just have to be more careful."

She stiffened in his arms, and he belatedly wondered if it was because he was holding her or for the kiss, but he soon realised it was for another reason altogether. "Move, now!" she whispered gruffly.

Turning, he saw what must have attacked her. It could only be described as male because of something abstract about its upper body physique, but that was where the similarities ended. He was wrapped from neck to thigh in a loose straitjacket, the arm straps swinging to and fro, leaving his claw-like hands free. A pair of soiled and torn gray trousers covered his bottom half, but it was his head that sent real fear through Draco.

Encasing its head was a cubical metal cage, the bars near his mouth ripped wide open. Inside, a monstrous face with razor-sharp teeth and stringy black hair, glared hungrily at them. His eyes were white, like dying coals, burning the couple with hatred as he advanced on them.

"Run while I distract him," Draco commanded, pushing her to the side. There was no other way to get past the ghoul who had them backed into a corner.

"No!" She shook her head. "I won't leave you here!"

"Oh, you're not leaving me here, Granger." He laughed mirthlessly. "I plan on following you."

She hesitated, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I-I can't leave—"

"Don't wait for me!" he shouted, causing her to jump and run like a rabbit.

The creature made a move to follow her, but Draco yelled and waved his hands in the air. "Over here, you piece of shit!"

The thing sized Draco up and licked its lips. It then smiled at the blond and turned to pursue the woman it had attacked earlier, cackling madly all the way down the hall.

"Fuck!"

The wizard ran after it, trailing the insane ghost as best he could, for the spectre would evaporate once instance and appear closer or further way in the next. He hoped he reached Hermione before something truly dreadful happened.

"Harry."

"Mmmh."

"Harry, wake up."

"Whatsit, Luna," he muttered groggily.

"This isn't a lacewing cockle hooter cave," she whispered, holding his hand tightly.

"It's not?" He scratched his head with his free hand. "What is it, then?"

She nodded in the direction of the entrance. "It's a woolybooger cave."

"What the bloody—"

A menacing snarl was all it took for him to know what a woolybooger had in mind, regardless of what it was. "What does it like to eat, Luna?" he asked, his voice pitched high.

"Would you be terribly upset if I said humans?"

"Yes, horribly upset."

"Oh. Well then, I suppose you'll have to forgive me."

Grabbing his hand, Luna rushed towards the entrance at full speed, knocking over the lumbering giant that stunk to high heaven. She didn't stop, nor did she let Harry falter, even when the crashing in the underbrush faded away.

"Granger!" Draco yelled through cupped hands, scanning the shadows for her slight form. "Show yourself!"

Nothing.

He gingerly traversed a set of stairs, mindful of his leg, until he reached a landing that allowed him to head in three different directions. Which one should he take though?

"Granger?" he called again, hoping that she would answer. "Hermi—" He abruptly strangled his shout when he saw a curvaceous woman strolling his way, completely naked, and… holding a rather wicked-looking knife.

When she came fully into view, he could see multiple slashes on her own body, especially around the breasts and face. There were longer slices on her arms and legs, but not as many, as though the cuts were placed methodically. Her eyes looked like they were drowning in blood, as almost red enough to match the colour of her limp hair. The pout of her lips was abnormally large and Draco wondered if she'd had something done to them before death.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, slowly stalking him.

Gulping, Draco nodded in acknowledgement, backing away. "Sure, I'm sorry, too… for what happened to you."

She followed his retreat. "I'm sorry," she said once more. In the blink of an eye, she embedded the blade in the right side of his chest.

Hermione could hear Draco calling out to her, but she dared not answer. If she did, she would certainly be found by… by… it.

Managing to evade the phantom thus far, she crouched low under some wooden doors that had been propped up against the wall, covering her mouth to keep from crying in fright. She could hear its snuffles, like those of a wolf scenting its prey, and was finding it hard to imagine what kind of 'human' that person had been in life.

When Draco's calls ceased, so did the snuffling menace. Tears welled in her eyes as she battled with herself on whether to poke her head out or stay where she was hidden. Needing to know Draco's whereabouts eventually pushed her to crawl out of relative safety minutes later.

Making her way as silently as she could, Hermione stuck to the shadows while navigating a path to where she last heard Malfoy. She anticipated that something would trail her, but she didn't expect to run into something head on.

"Wahhhh!"

"Dear Merlin," she breathed.

Standing before her was a man of enormous size, more than twenty-one stone if she had to guess, clothed in only a soiled diaper and bib, looking like a caricature of an overgrown baby. He soon showed his true disposition when he hefted a sharp axe and brought it down to land inches from where she stood.

Backing away slowly, she acted the way she had when she first met Grawp, Hagrid's brother. "Nice man-baby…" Another step back. "Mustn't play with sharp things."

She almost missed the other entity due to its size, but the man-child fiercely gripped the diminutive woman's hand protectively, whining as it tried to free the embedded hatchet. The crone's height didn't even reach the hips of the massive giant beside her. It disturbed Hermione greatly to see the hag pat and stroke the man's hand in a soothing manner, as if to say that his actions were justified.

"Want dolly!" the man cried, pointing at Hermione, his wails reverberating off the windows and walls.

The miniature female turned to look at the frazzled witch, smiling malevolently. "Mamma will get you your dolly, Harold."

Mamma? That dwarf was this giant's mother? Hermione's jaw dropped in shock then promptly closed when the woman lifted the same axe her son had previously used, and chucked it directly at her. It missed her by an inch.

Sprinting as fast as she could, Hermione ran towards the main set of stairs, halting at the top to see Draco lying on the landing, his right side covered in blood.

"I… think we… can stop… now." Harry panted hard.

"Oh!" She came to an immediate standstill, causing him to nearly plough her over.

"Give a bloke some warning, will you?"

"Sorry," she said under her breath. "Normally I would, but woolyboogers are abnormally fast, though they have the intellect of slugs."

Bending over from the stitch in his side, Harry braced his hands on his knees. "I gathered that."

She stared off in the distance. "We're back where we started from," she stated dejectedly.

"That's bad, isn't it?"

"It's not great."

Laying a hand on her shoulder, he squeezed it gently. "Call me crazy, Luna—"

"Crazy Luna," she replied, smirking somewhat.

He tugged on one of her braids. "Brat," he teased good-naturedly. "What I was going to say was, what if Hermione and Draco were inside The Ridges? Maybe we're supposed to get them out."

"That's the better option, I'd say."

"Than what?" he asked, frowning in confusion.

"Than that." She pointed at the dark figure moving towards them.

"No, no, no!" Hermione sobbed, holding Malfoy's head in her lap. She didn't dare remove the knife implanted in his chest for fear of causing further bleeding. "Draco?" she whispered, lightly tapping his cheeks.

"Told… you to… leave off…" he said between groans.

"Draco!"

"Not… burning m'chest," he slurred, trying to turn away from her.

She stopped his movements. "No, Draco, it's Hermione. I'm not going to burn your chest this time."

He flopped back to his original position. "Slag stabbed… me."

"Who?"

"Tits McCutlery."

Her snort of laughter caused him to smile lopsidedly. "I need to get our packs," she said quietly. "Do you think you'll be okay while I—"

"No!" he spat out, reaching up to clench a fist in her hair. "Don't go."

"Draco, we're lost without our stuff."

"He'll… hurt you." He let go of her locks, too weak to hold on.

Bending low, she pressed a kiss on his forehead. "No. I'll hide." She stroked the damp strands from his brow. "I promise I won't get hurt."

"Promise…" he murmured before succumbing to unconsciousness.

Tenderly lifting his head off her lap, Hermione made him as comfortable as she could in the shelter of an unused patient room, laying him on a mattress that she found on a set of old box springs. She kissed his cheek and slipped out of the room, praying to anyone that listened for her to make it there in one piece, and for Draco to remain alive.

"Are you the next guilty soul to swing from the Devil's noose?" the hooded wraith asked in an unearthly tone that held several layered voices, some male, and some female.

"I beg to differ," Harry countered. He took Luna's hand and shoved her behind him. "We have business to be about. Let us pass."

Wicked, maniacal laughter filled the cemetery. "Foolish mortals." The figure floated closer. "Tribute must be given."

"What's the toll?" Luna asked over Harry's shoulder.

"Your soul."

Hermione thanked the powers-that-be profusely for letting her make it to the ward where they'd dropped their bags without being accosted. When she slung Draco's pack over her shoulder, she noticed for the first time that it was exceptionally heavy. The knowledge-hungry Gryffindor, and woman, that she was wanted to know why. But not there. No, not in that area.

Quickly, she made her way back to Draco who was still dozing quietly, and thanked the powers once more for keeping him safe. Making sure he was sound asleep, she settled beside him and unbuckled his knapsack, shocked to see a Pensieve within. That bastard!

She pulled it out, its shimmering waters twinkling in the moonlight shining through the dirty glass of the windows, and dug around in his bag for… Ah ha! Retrieving the pouch, she extracted the phials, reading each one. Looking over at Draco, she chose the one labelled, Bargain, and poured it into the bowl. Dipping her head forward, she entered the mystery person's memory.

It was a rainy night in Diagon Alley, and people were bustling about under their umbrellas to stay dry—all except a lone figure who strode away from the crowds toward Knockturn Alley. Hermione knew she needed to follow that person, , the memory compelling her to move in his direction though she had no clue as to who it was.

She watched as the scrawny man paused before a door that must've led to an underground chamber, gasping when he turned and she beheld Snape's emaciated face. In all the years that she'd known the professor, never once did he remotely resemble the person standing before her now.

Looking to the left and right, Snape discerned that it was safe to descend the steps to the door, and closed it quickly after he'd entered. Fast on his heels, Hermione followed him down a spiral staircase to another door, observing that the Potions master moved much like he was in a trance, his movements very deliberate.

He knocked one time on the door and a voice from within told him to enter. He opened the door and stood as if awaiting instructions, his hands clutching a leather cylinder like a lifeline.

"Mister Severus Snape," a male voice cooed from the deepest shadows, "I never thought to see you requesting my services."

It seemed as if the trance was broken and Snape became more himself. "I gave it much consideration, believe me." He held out the cylinder.

Emerging from the darkness, an exceedingly handsome, sandy-blond man, dressed impeccably in a cobalt-blue suit with a scarlet dress shirt appeared, snatched the container, and vanished it.

He then held out one hand in introduction. In the other, he carried a walking staff much like Lucius Malfoy's, except, where the infamous snake head would have resided, there was an upturned dragon's claw, clutching a fist-sized crimson orb. "I'm Nicodemus Floohart," he said with a grin. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

Floohart! Hermione's mind whirled. The American Minister who wanted… But wait. The American Minister wasn't named Floohart, it was… Dear Merlin! She now remembered it was Alexander Thornbush who was the Minister in America, not that-that…

"So, Mister Snape," drawled Floohart. "What is it you desire?"

"Specifically or generally?" Severus asked evasively.

Floohart waggled a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah, Severus." He came forward and stood toe-to-toe with the Potions master. "I am in no way to be trifled with." He cocked his head and smiled at him as if he were his oldest friend. "You summoned me for a wish; I am here to grant it—end of story." He reached out and straightened Snape's robes. "Let's not bandy about the bush, shall we?"

Hermione's mouth was slack. No one ever spoke to the imposing wizard this way, especially a stranger. Creeping closer, she perked up her ears to listen in on a once in a lifetime event.

"Specifically, I want to know the location of each and every Horcrux, barring the one residing within Potter," Snape said in a deceptively calm voice, "as well as how to destroy them." He crossed his arms defensively. "Generally, I want this war to be over."

Caressing the sphere on the tip of his cane, Floohart nodded. "It's a tall order, but doable."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Doable?"

"Achievable, possible, feasible, attainable… within my capabilities," Floohart iterated with an icy glare. "Are those words in your vocabulary?"

"Quite," was Snape's short answer.

"And my payment?" Floohart asked, licking his lips.

At this, Snape seemed to pale even more. "What is it you wish?"

Floohart shrugged. "Nothing much."

"In your words, Nicodemus, let's not bandy about the bush. What is it you want?"

Maniacal laughter filled the room and Floohart cupped Snape's cheek. "I like you, old boy." He gave the dark wizard a hearty slap. "My kind of scum."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, but you are, Severus," Floohart purred, nuzzling the other man's neck. "Before this is over, you will be worse than the faeces on Judas' ass. Once a traitor, always a traitor."

Purely by habit, Hermione covered her mouth when she gasped at the man's language. She'd earlier detected no perceivable accent or dialect that could be attributed to any region in the world. He was aggravatingly neutral. She was shocked further when the handsome man pulled Severus in for a deep and lingering kiss.

When he pulled away, there was blood on both men's lips, with Nicodemus giving the Potions master a feral smile. "Deal."

Deal? What kind of deal? She didn't hear any kind of terms or payment exchanged! This was unconscionable, this was—

"How the Devil works, Miss Granger."

She startled so badly she nearly fell over. Within Snape's memory, this Nicodemus Floohart was speaking directly to her. Impossible! She was just—

"Imaging things? I assure you that you are not." Floohart languidly strolled to where she stood, his tongue lapping up the fluid on his lower lip. "You have… possibilities," he drawled, looking her up and down.

"How can this be happening?" she asked. "This is a memory."

Casting a glance over to a rigidly still Snape, he smiled wanly. "I can do as I wish."

"But this is—"

"If you say impossible, young lady, I will draw and quarter you." He patted her cheek affectionately. "Then I'll put you back together and do it again."

She couldn't help herself, she shook so badly. "What did he agree to?" she whispered.

Circling behind her, Floohart pressed himself against her, binding her between his staff and body, while grabbing her chin with his free hand and directing her gaze to her former professor. "See him there, just now?"

She nodded.

"I will give him a book." He ran his tongue around the grooves in the shell of her ear. "In five year's time, I will send a missive that he cannot ignore, demanding that he send his best to me with that book." Her silent crying made him smirk against her cheek. "From those best, the book will choose one and complete my Dark Zodiac, opening thei Bocca del Inferno,/i and releasing me from this wretched existence in Limbo."

"Which one of us?"

"I thought about Potter, but he's much too tainted. That upstart, Riddle, soured him and I don't need anyone competing with me for a throne that is already mine." One of his fingernails elongated and began dotting her chin with marks. "Lovegood is too pure. There's nothing more I hate than a goody-two-shoes."

Able to pry her jaw open, she ground out, "You can't have Draco!"

Floohart moved his hand away from her chin, twisted it in her long hair, and pulled viciously. "But I already do, my foolhardy maiden." Again, her sobs were like music to him. "You can't stop it now."

"What happens if your little plan falls through?" she managed to grit out.

The force holding her in place became heavy, a great weight crushing the life out of her. "Should that happen, and I'm not saying that it will, the last five years would be undone and you would all be back at square one, still dealing with that overblown imp, Voldemort."

Struggling was useless against someone, or something, like him, but her mind worked feverishly to find an alternate solution. "A trade?" she posed.

The pressure was eased as Floohart released her, and walked around until he faced her. "Explain."

Rubbing her sore throat, she rasped, "Which member of the Zodiac are you missing?"

"The Torn Prince," he supplied. "Apt, don't you think? Draco is the Prince of Slytherin, is he not?"

She nodded and coughed. "Could you make due with a Princess?"

"Let me think on it." Floohart strode from one end of the room to the other, pausing to flick Severus' hooked nose and laugh at his own maliciousness. Finally, he returned to stand before her. "I believe we have a deal, Miss Granger."

Closing her eyes, Hermione was thrust from the Pensieve, back into the horrible nightmare that awaited her.