Chapter Two
Hermione leaned against a wall, feeling irritable.
No, that was inaccurate. Irritable happened when she was late for work or misplaced her favorite quill or lost her page in a book. And irritable was just as easily remedied: a cuppa, a new quill, re-finding her page. But just hours ago, she had been called away from her honeymoon and assembled into a room with a table, a large, ripped lampshade, no chairs, and eight other people, exceeding the room's total capacity by five and a lampshade.
A situation such as this warranted more than mere irritability.
A situation such as this warranted anger.
Hermione grinned sourly. That seemed to fit better.
If all that wasn't bad enough, six of the seven other people in the room were chatting animatedly, complete with hand gestures and fierce grins. Tavish McDonale, senior Auror and leader of their group, MT Eight, was the exception. He leaned against the wall opposite from her, arms folded and head down. He was either deep in thought or sleep.
Hermione reckoned it was thought, but wouldn't have blamed him in the least if it were the latter. She would give her right foot to be able to go to sleep right now, and would even be willing to part with the whole leg if it could be in a bed with her new husband.
She stretched her left hand, glanced at her unadorned third finger, and frowned. Giving the ring back to Draco had not been an impulsive decision. A ring, after all, was information. Information that greatly increased her chances of being taken hostage. A ring meant that someone cared for her, possibly enough to pay a large sum for her safe return. And if not for her sake, then for the sake of the jewel itself.
But placing it into his open palm had felt unquestionably wrong, as if she had severed some sort of bond with him. The thought was ludicrous, of course. Their marriage hadn't been a blood ceremony so the ring was no more than a symbol of their commitment and love. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she had made a mistake in giving it up. Like she had given up a piece of herself as well.
"Long night, Hermione?"
She grimaced and turned around to face the speaker – a Magical Law Enforcement officer named Mitchell Pajora. Mitchell was an exceptional agent. He had a gift for reciting MLE protocol down to the article number and an arsenal of wicked hexes, the second of which had preserved Hermione's well-being more than once. He often accompanied her, Ron, and Harry into the field and, though he was friendly and easy to work with, his unfailing optimism tended to grate if the hour was too early.
Four a.m. was unquestionably that hour, but Hermione forced a smile anyway. "You have no idea," she deadpanned.
Mitchell smiled and patted her back. "It'll only get longer," he continued. "Looks like it's a real hit this time."
"The Carrows?"
He tapped his nose and nodded. Hermione frowned and crossed her arms. Draco's suspicion, and her own, had been correct. His warning seemed even direr because of it. "Strange that they resurfaced now."
Mitchell shrugged. "They've been on the run for a while, and they aren't the brightest. Maybe their resources are running low."
Hermione shrugged right along with him and lapsed back into silence. Everyone except for the most hopeful Aurors – and Mitchell, of course – had dismissed the possibility of ever locating the Carrows. The siblings had escaped after the Battle of Hogwarts. No one had even noticed they were gone until the guilty were rounded up, and by then it was too late.
That was why the matter was so urgent, she supposed. For going on five years, the case had remained open without a single peep. But tonight, the wards on the Carrows's childhood home had been activated. McDonale had dispatched two junior MLE officers to the house and summoned them all here because of it. As soon as they received confirmation of a breach, they would be off.
"Hope you didn't have any big plans for tomorrow," Mitchell prompted. Hermione shot him a long-suffering look and was about to reply when a wisp of silver shot through the wall to her left.
"Movement confirmed," said an anonymous, faint voice. The silvery light floated to the middle of the room and hovered above the torn lampshade. "Portkey deployment in ten… nine… eight…"
"Alright team, hands on the Portkey!" McDonale shouted. "Hold position when we land and move on my signal!"
"Three… Two… One…"
Hermione gasped as she was jerked across space and time. The alley they arrived in was as cramped as the room they had just left, though considerably dimmer and more odorous. The soft scuttling of fleeing cockroaches sent a disgusted shiver crawling over her skin, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out as one traveled over her shoe. Mitchell was not so composed and hissed in disgust. McDonale shot him a stern look and gestured for them to follow.
Hermione dropped the lampshade, which looked completely at home amongst the alley's other detritus, and did as she was ordered. McDonale stopped them at the entrance to the alley and gestured across the street toward their target.
The two-story house was small, rundown, and looked somehow dingier in the pre-dawn light. The roof had collapsed in some places and was missing entirely in others. The grey siding was peeling off like a thick scab and a persistent creeper vine had forced its way in through a window. A row of thick hedges provided cover going in, but would severely restrict their visibility.
McDonale's face hardened. Then he shook his head and gestured with his wand again, splitting the group into two. He directed Hermione, Mitchell, an Obliviator she had never met, and an Auror name Flitch toward the back of the house; his team would take the front.
"On my signal," he mouthed. With another gesture, the two teams scurried out of the alley. Hermione's team kept to the far side of the hedges. Once they passed the two side windows, they dropped into a crouch, traversed the short space between the hedge and the back door, and pressed themselves against the outside wall to wait.
She took only two breaths before her wand vibrated in her hand. That was the signal. She exchanged looks with the rest of her team, reaching Mitchell's eyes last. He nodded once and placed his hand on the doorknob. She tensed as he turned it slowly, easing the door open. Though the house was old and in disrepair, the hinges did not make a sound.
That detail struck a chord deep within her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Oiled hinges in an abandoned house? That was wrong.
She reached out to grab for Mitchell's arm, but his foot had already crossed the threshold. Then, he screamed. He turned and tried to push her back, but it was too late. The air seemed to compress as a wall of grey smoke billowed toward them with all the speed and force of a locomotive. It surrounded them all and, with a great, thundering roar, sucked them into the house. The thrill of fear Hermione felt as her feet lost contact with the floor lasted less than half a second. She didn't even have time to scream before she collided with something massive. The air rushed out of her and she fell to the floor with a painful thud.
Unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to raise her wand even an inch, Hermione could only watch as Flitch rocketed over her. A bright green beam of light collided with his chest mid-flight, killing him instantly. The smoke drove his corpse forward still and he hit the wall with a sick, dull sound. He landed in a heap right beside her, his dark eyes wide with surprise but dim with death.
Everything slowed. Hermione could hear the blood pounding through her body as she took in the Auror's death. His dark hair, his dead eyes, his terrified expression, the blood slowly oozing from the corner of his open lips, propelled by gravity in lieu of a heartbeat… She should have protected him. She should have moved faster, grabbed Mitchell sooner, done something, anything. But she hadn't, and Flitch had died because of it. For a moment, Hermione felt as unforgiveable as the curse that had killed him.
Another beam of bright green light shot mere inches above her, blasting the plaster and drywall into powder, coating her with fine, white dust.
Just like that, the infinity of Flitch's death ended. Panic set in as her breath returned with a rib-cracking whoosh. She rolled to the left, bounded to her feet, and immediately felt herself yanked into a corner and covered with something warm and large.
Mitchell.
He yelled something into her ear but she couldn't understand him – the air was thick with shouted spells and cries of pain and the smoke's deafening roar. She shoved away from him, trusting her momentum to break his grasp. It worked too well. She crashed to the floor, nearly losing her wind again as Mitchell landed atop her. He grabbed her shoulders and rolled her out of the way, toward the wall he had pressed her against originally, swearing violently as a large chunk of ceiling collapsed where their heads had been.
The roar in her ears became a high-pitched whistle and Hermione panicked.
"Let me go, Mitchell, let me go!" She drove an elbow into his gut and felt his grip loosen. She pivoted in his arms and then froze as she saw what was coming toward them.
A whirlwind the same thick grey as the smoke. It barreled through the doorframe, rattling the walls, cracking them from floor to ceiling and showering them with chunks of concrete and plaster. Mitchell swore and pulled her tightly against him, shielding her face and head with his chest. It was upon them now, hurling broken glass and jagged splinters of wood like shrapnel, embedding deeply wherever they landed, including her thigh.
Hermione screamed and convulsed in pain, clutching at her leg, and Mitchell swore again. Then, the whirlwind was gone, and the smoke with it. The thundering, whining roar had dissipated and in its place were the cries of the injured, the shout of a curse, a low, maniacal laugh, and a slamming door. Mitchell dragged her to her feet and began to haul her toward the rear exit, but she broke away from him, ignoring his outraged bellow. She took off through the cramped hallways as fast as her leg would allow, lunging over the bodies of her injured, unconscious, or possibly dead teammates.
She blew the front door off its hinges with a curse and rushed down the steps. She had just made it to the lawn when a car exploded. She gasped and pivoted, shielding herself from the wind and heat. An insane cackle ripped through the sound of screams and the air was again filled with a mighty whoosh and the smell of burning lumber.
Hermione turned around in time to see Alecto set the second story of a nearby house on fire. The terrified people within screamed and tried to flee but Amycus held them at bay with a barrage of hexes.
A boiling rage settled deep within Hermione's chest and her face contorted with anger. She leveled her wand at Amycus but just as she was about to cast, the Field Healer stepped into her line of sight. She snarled and cursed.
"Move, you idiot! MOVE!"
But the Healer didn't hear her. His hex rebounded off Amycus's shield and, in a single burst of bright white light, Hermione saw and heard no more.
She had never known such fear. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in short, frantic gasps. She was sure each one was her last. The Carrows could be anywhere and the terror of reaching out, of feeling a torn cloak beneath her fingertips or a wandtip to her temple, petrified her. For a full minute, she did nothing but wait to die.
Then, it was as if a switch flicked on. Sight and hearing returned with a jolt that brought Hermione to her knees. McDonale brushed past her with astonishing speed and grabbed the shaken Healer by the arm, demanding an explanation. Hermione heard him stutter and stammer but none of it mattered. The Carrows had escaped again.
By the grace of the gods, Flitch had been the only casualty that day. The rest of the morning was spent treating their injuries (once the Healer had calmed down enough to enunciate the spells), repairing the damage the Carrows had caused, and resetting the house's wards. The Obliviator worked with the witnesses. By nightfall, each and every one had a very detailed opinion of the most recent, action-packed cinema thriller, complete with vivid explosions and a dangerous foot chase.
Protocol was very simple after that. They would return to the Ministry for a debriefing and quietly endure the disappointment of their respective departments. A mission failed after one day, especially a mission which had been so long without any action, was a disgrace. They would probably never get a chance like that again and MT Eight had been the team to mess it up.
Then, an owl swooped low overhead and dropped a scrap of parchment at McDonale's feet. He picked it up and his expression went from tense to furious. He shoved it into Hermione's hands. She felt the blood drain from her face as she read it.
"Do svidaniya." Russian, of course. Literally, until we meet again. But it meant so much more than that.
Chase us, it said. Play our game.
They exchanged a hard look, and McDonale's eyes hardened with resolve. MT Eight was touted as the best the Ministry had to offer. None of them – from Auror to Obliviator – was accustomed to failure. Though a scrap of poorly-written Russian was little to go on, it was better than nothing at all, and certainly better than facing their superiors with bad news.
McDonale called a Ministry crew to retrieve Flitch's body and used the Carrows's Floo to deliver a quick report to his superior. Then, they Portkeyed to Russia to begin their search.
In her second month there, Hermione discovered she was pregnant. And with that discovery came a terror fiercer and more intense than she had ever felt.
Hermione was not a natural fighter. She was persistent, however, and all the time she spent in the field had honed her offensive and defensive spell-casting until she was formidable in her own right. While confident, she was never overconfident and if she took damage in the field, well, what of it? Others had taken worse and she was tough. A little blood, a little pain… It wouldn't be enough to stop her from doing what she had to do. At times, it even helped her. A reminder of her own humanity and the concurrent flood of adrenaline made her better, sharper, though she would have never sought it out intentionally.
But now? A scrape threatened infection. A fall meant a miscarriage. A Cruciatus… The very thought made her hurt in a way she couldn't describe. How could she do her job with a baby to protect? How could she give her all to a mission when the risks were so great? The thought of losing her child, Draco's child, was one she could not abide.
But the Carrows had seen her face. They knew her name. While they were free, her child would never be safe. She would always be looking for the wand in the night, questioning every friend, chaperoning every trip. Her child would never know freedom, she would never know peace, and Draco, after all he had been through, would never know a life without shadows.
She couldn't live like that. Wouldn't. And that meant that she could not return to Wiltshire. If she was going to confront the Carrows, it would be on her terms. If she was going to protect her family, staying with MT Eight gave her the best chance for success.
The first step was telling McDonale.
He paled. His lips compressed into a thin line and, though Hermione had seen him under pressure before, she had never seen him frightened. He was silent for a long time.
"What do you want to do?" he finally asked.
"I… I want to stay."
"And the infant?"
She held her head stiffly, determined to ignore the implications of her choice even though she said it aloud. "I'll carry it to term and deliver it to the father as soon as it's safe."
McDonale frowned and steepled his fingers. Then he nodded. "Very well. But you'll be the one to tell the team. I'll call a meeting. Nine o'clock tonight. Be ready."
She wasn't. How could she be? These people trusted her with their lives, gave their all each and every time so that they might win a little faster, survive a little longer. She was letting them down. She was no longer "Hermione Granger, War Hero." She was "Hermione Granger, Pregnant Woman." She was a liability. Vulnerable. And her teammates would take it upon themselves to make sure she was protected, even at their own expense. That's just how they were.
She swallowed her fear and, when nine p.m. struck, she stood before them and explained her situation, giving them a say in whether or not she continued with the mission. She outlined the precautions she would take – the protective spells, the disguises – but was realistic about her fieldwork. As her term progressed, she would not be as competent and, though it killed her to say it, protecting the child inside her was her first priority. It had to be. She couldn't be sorry for it.
There was a moment of heavy silence as Hermione retook her seat. Then, one by one, the gathered spoke. The words settled over her without meaning. She was too lost in her own thoughts to pay much attention.
What would it be like to return to Wiltshire permanently with the news of her baby? Would Draco be pleased or upset to be made a father so quickly after being made a husband? And if she didn't return for good, how would she be able to give up her child without staying behind herself? And would Draco accept it? A child was an enormous responsibility. A lifetime of dedication. Was he ready for it? Or would he – could he – deny his own child?
The thought chilled her. Before she could think on it any longer, McDonale's authoritative voice brought her back to the meeting.
MT Eight had decided. Hermione was the only one who could cast the Locus Charm, a particularly tricky spell similar to the Trace. Her previous field experience showed that she was capable under pressure and her research skills were second to none. They needed her. Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
Months passed in Russia with nothing to show for their scouting. McDonale sent an owl a month to the Ministry requesting more funds, more resources, more people, more anything. They did not respond.
Being ignored in the field was completely unheard of and, at the beginning of month four, Mument and Claive (the Obliviator and Field Healer, respectively) threatened mutiny. Hermione didn't blame them. Whenever she thought of Gawain Robards, head of the Auror department, ignoring their missives, rage bubbled up inside her chest, bringing with it the taste of bile and the blistering desire for justice.
McDonale talked them down. "It's not fair," he grunted, "and it's not right. But little is. So shut it and get back to work."
It was not the most rousing speech, nor that convincing, if Hermione was being perfectly honest. But they were MT Eight. They were different. They were special. They were tough and they were resilient, but they were not impervious to wear.
Mitchell eroded first. By their sixth month in Russia, he was unrecognizable. His hair had grown, as had his beard, which came in thick and dark. He was leaner, his muscles more wiry than bulky. But the real change in him wasn't physical. The happy, optimistic man she knew had disappeared. In his place stood someone bitter, someone who had collided abruptly with a harsh reality and come out worse for it. A cynic.
His attitude was poisonous, spreading to their teammates whether they wanted it or not. Those with thicker skin could stand it in small doses. McDonale, Rutland (the other Auror), and Bruckley (Mitchell's MLE partner), for instance, tolerated him well enough. Those without – Mument and Claive – snapped easily. Fights were common, and it was always Hermione who broke them up. He was different with her, a shade kinder. Not like he used to be – not even close – but he was slower to sarcasm. She thought it might have been because they had a shared history. Maybe she was a reminder of the good that existed in the world.
He was certainly a reminder for her. So, when month nine hit and Hermione went into labor, it was Mitchell who Portkeyed with her to a small town in rural England. The delivery room was like a time capsule and the eleven hours they spent there were from the lives they could have had. It could have been Draco who held her hand during the birth. Draco who coached her breathing and told her to push, laughed when the infant wailed, and joyously shouted the sex of her baby, as well as a finger and toe count.
But it wasn't.
It was Mitchell who cradled her baby boy in his arms, and her heart ached as her son slept, utterly at peace in the arms of a proxy. It was Mitchell who stared at her with all the affection and tenderness in the world, whispered sweet things to her, hummed a lullaby when she was too tired to speak, and thanked her for trusting him when he thought she was sleeping.
It should have been Draco. He should have had the privilege of seeing his son come into the world. But Hermione had stolen the experience from him, deprived him of this small miracle. She wept for it, wept for him, but she could not resent Mitchell for stepping in. She had needed him there. Had needed someone. And there he was, like he had always been.
The next morning, he stayed for just long enough to make sure she was steady on her feet. The delivery room spell had long since broken. The sight of her infant had softened his pessimism, but the change was temporary. Already, she could see the coldness creeping back into his body. Her baby was just another happy memory he had to abandon and, like when resetting a poorly healed bone, a clean break was best. He Portkeyed away, leaving her alone with her son for the first time.
Only then did she fully comprehend the terrible mistake she had made. How was she going to do this? How was she going to abandon her child? How was it going to be physically possible to walk away from a being so innocent, so helpless, so beautiful? She gazed down at her child's sleeping face. He was nestled in a basket, covered by blankets and a heating charm. She ghosted her fingers over his soft cheeks. He twitched toward her touch. His tiny mouth puckered in search of a nipple.
Her tears came fast and strong. It was too late now. There was no going back, no changing her mind. She had made a decision. Committed herself to the team, to the capture or killing of the Carrows, and to the protection of her husband's and infant's life. She had to follow through, even if doing so destroyed her.
The ancestral wards of Malfoy Manor recognized her and let her through all the way to the front door. She took one last look at her son, memorizing everything she could. Then she knocked, turned, and ran. Tears streamed down her face but she saw past them to the privacy of a nearby copse. From there, she heard in horrific detail the depth of her husband's agony as he screamed for her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing her own screams. A lifetime later, when Draco came to and brought their child inside, there was no more holding back. A wail tore itself from her throat and rent the otherwise still night air, pitiful and heartbreaking, her love and grief manifested through sound.
And when the door closed, as the child she had carried and borne, who she had not named, nursed, or even held in her arms for fear of what it would do to her resolve, disappeared? Hermione cracked. She screamed and wept and, in her haste and pain and desire to exit her world in the fastest, most painful way possible, did the unthinkable.
She Disapparated to Russia.
International Apparation bordered on impossible and was only ever attempted by the insane. So it was nothing less than a miracle that she landed on the doorstep of the safe house. Less surprising was the extent of her injuries because of it. The skin of her left leg was almost completely missing and the stress had torn the newly formed skin of her healing vagina. Bleeding and nearly unconscious from the pain, it took too much strength to knock, so she lay there, still and silent.
Almost half an hour had ticked by before someone found her, nearly dead from blood loss and frostbite.
Nearly dead. Completely dead was too much to ask for. But it was fitting, wasn't it? She was a mother who had abandoned her child. What better torture was there than life?
Depression was a relentless foe. It sucked the color from Hermione's world, turned food to ash and water to sand, made sunlight dull and dingy and nighttime never-ending. It erected walls around her heart and isolated her from all feelings except for those she would have given anything not to feel. She tried and failed to claw her way up from its grey depths so often that she eventually stopped trying at all, choosing instead to battle through minute after unendurable minute, hoping against hope that everything would work out in the end, and turning into someone unrecognizable along the way.
She fell upon her work like a starved wolf upon a fresh carcass, tearing at it with a dangerous extremism that McDonale regularly reprimanded her for and not even Mitchell could impede. She would have been booted from the team if she wasn't so effective. It took them almost two years to scrounge up enough evidence to lead them to a small-time Dark artifacts dealer. Thanks to the Cruciatus curse and a few well-placed severing spells, it only took her a day to ascertain the general location of the Carrows's Russian bunker. And a few months later, her new 'cast first, question later' approach landed the Locus Charm on Alecto.
The team followed the Carrows into the land of the giants, where the air was heavy with the stench of decay, sweat, blood, and shit. The giants responded to the intrusion with the expected violence, urged on by the Carrows's destructive spells. Spiny feet a meter long stomped with all the force of a felled redwood. Solid wood clubs tipped with deadly metal spikes swung with impunity. One impaled Rutland. The Carrows Disapparated shortly after he was killed, and the only reason MT Eight stayed any longer was to recover his body.
It was a futile attempt. As soon as the giant realized what was on the end of his club, he bellowed a great laugh. He gripped the corpse's arm and, with intentional flair, tore it off, tossing it into the forest at his back. He repeated the process with the other three limbs and finally the head. By that time, Rutland's body was so mangled that it was hard to consider that he had ever once been human.
Seeing that violation, that utter disregard for taboo, drained the fight out of them. McDonale finally called for a retreat and they fell back, Apparating to the safe house. Despite her nausea and the sound and images that were forever burned into her brain, Hermione was grateful. They had been lucky to only have lost him.
The next night, they gathered around the kitchen table. Hermione unfolded the Locus Map which, when used in conjunction with the Locus Charm, located the marked to within a few meters of their actual position. Hermione tapped the map with her wand. To their combined dismay, the entire eastern half of the Amazon Rainforest lit up purple. McDonale shot Hermione an annoyed look.
"Why isn't it working?"
Flustered, Hermione tapped the paper again and muttered the incantation aloud for good measure. The eastern half remained lit. She shook her head and met McDonale's gaze. "I don't know what's wrong. It's never done this before."
He frowned, rubbed his temples, sat back against his chair, then swore. "Doesn't leave us much of a choice, does it?" Hermione shook her head no. Mitchell scoffed. McDonale leveled a withering look at him. "We leave tomorrow, eight o'clock. Be ready." Recognizing the dismissal, Hermione took her map and went to her shared room with Mitchell. He fell asleep almost at once but she stayed up long into the night, prodding at the map, trying to narrow their search field. She fell asleep hunched over it, the eastern half glowing stubbornly.
They left at eight a.m. on the dot and, after an entire day of travel, set up camp near the Atlantic boundary of the forest. For weeks they scouted, prowling deep into the jungle. They saw all manner of insect, primate, and quadruped; fantastic beasts, gloriously colored and amazingly adapted. Some were harmless, others were fierce, but no creature worried them as much as a large dead zone in the heart of the jungle.
From what they could tell, it was thirty acres in diameter and almost perfectly round. It was a strange landmark, alien, at once captivating and repellent. Hermione ventured into it but was too unnerved by the instantaneous change to stay more than a few moments. With one step, vegetation turned from green to brown. The soundtrack of jungle noises faded then disappeared entirely. The silence was deeply unsettling. There was also a feeling, a thickening of the air, a sharpening of instincts. The dead zone screamed of foreboding and brought to mind adjectives like 'grave peril,' 'unspeakable evil,' and 'imminent death.' She took care to avoid it if possible and wondered if this, perhaps, attributed to the malfunction of her map.
Hermione later learned that she had been the only one to dare cross its threshold. While it was certainly creepy, it did not fill her with the same stomach-clenching dread that it did the others. She had stood toe to toe against Voldemort and come out victorious, after all. Whatever was in this wood – be it mythological, magical, or mundane – couldn't possibly be as bad as him. She did not share this opinion with the rest of her team, however, as they all seemed genuinely frightened of the place. Though she was in quite a different position: ten Voldemorts would not stop her from protecting her son. Whatever ailed this wood was no exception to that.
Almost four weeks exactly since they first made camp did MT Eight break it, heading out at dawn toward the Carrows's camp, which was situated just beyond the dead zone. Dense fog and lush humus quieted their exodus but their trek through the forest flora couldn't be completely silenced. Amycus spotted them at the very last moment. He yelled a warning to his sister and they took off through the vegetation, headed east. Straight into the dead zone. Many of her team hesitated, but Hermione drove past them, charging across the perfectly visible boundary between safety and peril.
All she could hear was the puff of her heavy breathing and the light rise and fall of her quick feet. The trees withered and blackened. They stood tall and thick as ever, but their foliage was no more than rot, oozing from the gnarled branches. Then the light disappeared, plunging her into darkness more similar to midnight than midday. She lit her wand, but the long shadows and choppy motion of her running did her little good.
A chill crept down her spine and raised the hairs on her neck. Hermione cursed her hubris and, in a rare moment of depression-free clarity, realized that she had been too hasty. No good could come from a place where no life existed.
As if in response to her thoughts, something moved in the trees a few meters behind her. It screeched, a loud and inhuman sound. It was followed by a very human cry of pain that stopped too abruptly to be natural.
Her gut clenched in terror as she realized several things at once. The first was that, though she could not see more than three feet in any direction, she was most definitely not alone. Second was that the Carrows no longer mattered. Her survival was priority now. Third was that she had somehow gone from the pursuer to the pursued. And finally was that, if she was caught, she would be killed. Painfully. A vivid mental picture of her son flashed before her mind's eye. Hermione gasped in a deep breath and put on a burst of speed, slicing through the rotten wood like a razor through flesh, desperate to avoid that final outcome.
Suddenly, a figure burst through the dripping thicket on her left. It was Amycus. She screamed as he barreled into her path; only her whip-quick dodge prevented her from tripping over him. He yelled, recovered from his stumble, and began running beside her. It was surreal, impossible, to be so close to the enemy, to have so easy a shot. For a moment, she descended into fantasy. Killing him would be so simple. To just stop running, stop chasing, and take aim through the thin veil of decomposing trees separating them. The words were there, as was the will. All she had to do was slow down…
The screech sounded again, high and echoing, like nails on a chalkboard. Talons ripped into the rotting wood close above her. With another dose of fear flooding her veins, the fantasy disappeared and stopping became impossible. Every breath was utilized to its fullest, every muscle extended to its greatest length and flexed with all the power she possessed. She cast hasty curses over her shoulder, never daring to slow, never turning around to look for fear of what she might see. She stumbled over a root, tore through the decayed foliage. Her skin dripped black, foul-smelling sludge and tears streamed from both eyes. Another screech, claws skittering down a tree just behind her to the right. She cast another curse, heard it connect and explode, felt the creature's roar of pain and anger, and pumped her legs harder, desperate for life, for an end to the darkness and chaos.
Just as abruptly as the darkness had begun, it ended. One step – one single step! – took her from Hell to Eden. Her relief was so potent that it swept her legs from under her. She careened into a tree. Something in her torso snapped, and she collapsed at its base with a cry of pain. Her chest heaved. Each breath felt like fire and she was reduced to shallow, inefficient gasps. Her entire body shook. She bit her lips to keep from screaming. The black rot coating her skin burned, stinging like a thousand frenzied bees. She turned her wand on herself, ignoring the grating of bone on bone, and washed the slime off with a powerful jet of water.
A pained howl to her left made her stiffen and cower against the tree. Meters away, Amycus danced and flailed, attempting to scrape off his own putrefaction. Hermione smiled grimly, tightened her grip on her wand, and knew it would never work: some people were simply not meant to be clean.
She raised her wand. Amycus saw. He roared, turned, and – in the very moment before he disappeared for good – Hermione managed the Locus Charm. Then he was gone and she was pulling at her hair in rage and anxiety. She had been so close – so close! If she had just turned ninety degrees, ninety measly degrees in the woods, she could have killed him.
Killed him, most likely died herself, and still only have finished half the job.
Hermione could have stayed beneath that tree forever, wallowing in her anger and frustration, but there was no time for self-pity. She dragged herself to her feet and staggered back toward their old campsite, giving the dead zone a wide berth. Hours later, she reunited with McDonale and Mitchell – the two remaining members of MT Eight other than herself. McDonale healed her as best he could (his novice prognosis was a broken rib) and pulled out the Locus Map. Hermione tapped it with her wand, illuminating the signals of Amycus and Alecto. They were in North America and heading east.
For six months, McDonale let them run, hoping that the Carrows would get comfortable enough to drop their guard. The reprieve allowed Hermione to heal and gave McDonale an opportunity to contact the Ministry again. As ever, there was no response. Hermione knew there never would be.
They restarted the chase when the Carrows procured a boat, probably hoping that the endlessness and unpredictability of open water would dissuade them from pursuit. It didn't. McDonale commandeered his own vessel and, for the first time since the start of the mission, Hermione felt like they had regained control.
Her confidence lasted about a day. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and that night, a hurricane struck. Swells tossed them twenty feet in the air and plunged them down another thirty. Cold saltwater drenched her from head to toe and it was all Hermione could do to hold onto her wand and the boat, occasionally muttering a spell that would bail some of the water and, gods willing, keep them afloat.
It worked, but only just. By the time the hurricane passed, it was nighttime. She crawled around the deck on her hands and knees, feeling for Mitchell or McDonale. The former she found. He was soaked through and shivering, but he was alive. McDonale was gone.
Fieldwork required an absence of emotion. It was important to remain logical, to keep a clear head and make the smartest decisions possible. For too long, Hermione had kept her emotions under lock and key, stuffed away in the deepest, darkest corner of her psyche. They were many and powerful, and the death of McDonale was the chink in the chain holding them back. Mitchell saw what was happening. Before they could burst out of her, he grabbed her and held her so tightly it was painful. He hit her with a Silencio and together, they rocked and wept, bitterly and in absolute silence.
What felt like hours later, Mitchell lifted the spell. Hermione was too drained to protest, too exhausted to stand or sit or even sleep.
"I'll take first watch," Mitchell whispered. Hermione just nodded and lay on the sodden deck, her mind whirring, albeit much more slowly than usual.
She wondered if the Carrows had survived the storm. The Locus Map had said they were nearby before the hurricane hit – no further than a few kilometers. Was their boat still floating, or had it capsized? Were the Carrows dead? Rotting at the bottom of the ocean? Being eaten by sharks?
Hermione savored a bitter smile. Years ago, their orders had been to take the Carrows alive if possible. But that possibility had slipped away with the years. She had dedicated what felt like a lifetime to their chase, lost that precious time with her son and husband. She had no interest in their capture, Ministry orders be damned. The Carrows had stolen too much from her to deserve to share her oxygen.
She could say with complete certainty that she wanted the Carrows dead, and that she wanted to be the one to cast the spells.
The boat rocked gently on the open water, lulling her into a sleep-like state. The Carrows could be right next to them or one thousand kilometers away. Using the Locus Map to determine which would give away her and Mitchell's position, which might or might not kill them depending on the location of the Carrows. And they would only know their location if they used the map… But the map…
She winced and tried not to think about it. Everything came down to luck, as it always had, no matter how hard she fought against it. Only dawn would answer them definitively, and that was hours away.
"Hermione!"
She opened her eyes and sat up. There was something different in Mitchell's tone, a strange mixture of excitement and anticipation that she had not heard in a very long time. She crawled toward him and put her hand on his thigh to let him know where she was. He helped her onto the seat beside him. He was shaking.
"Listen." It was less than a whisper, more like an exhale, but it could not have held any more eagerness. She held her breath.
Echoing over the water, faint but present, was the sound of voices. One male, one female.
Her hand tightened on his arm and the exhaustion sped out of her. She stood, completely steady on her feet, and gently tapped the hull of the boat. It moved forward slowly, cutting through the water with hardly a sound. Mitchell steered them toward the noise. Every so often, they stopped to wait for another muted conversation.
Suddenly, a loud curse rang out followed by a bright light. Both Hermione and Mitchell dropped to the floor, completely motionless. But the couple continued talking. Hermione released her breath: they had not been seen.
She lifted herself slowly. The wandlight outlined two figures; both short, broad, and hunched, raven-haired and wheezing. She cursed silently. That wasn't enough for a positive identification. She needed faces, names!
No sooner had she wished it did they comply. One lumpy figure shifted and wandlight fell onto a face Hermione knew well.
Alecto.
Perhaps the Fates were kind.
"Hurry, Amycus!" she said. "Seal the wound! I won't last long if you don't!"
A truer statement had never been uttered. Hermione stood tall, her whole being filled with purpose and hatred.
There was no duel, no shouts, no harrowing, narrow-margined victory. Just two rays of bright green light, one fired so soon after the other that they more closely resembled one beam of light than two. Alecto fell first. Amycus followed. Their bodies hit the deck with a satisfying thud.
Indifferent to the noise, Mitchell sped their craft close and held his lit wand aloft. Hermione saw the Carrows' corpses in perfect clarity, their features unmistakable.
She lowered herself slowly onto the floor of the boat. Mitchell cast a Stasis Charm on the Carrows for Ministry documentation and joined her. He took her hand but she barely noticed, shutting her eyes and resting her head against a seat. Her wand hung limply in her hands.
"We did it," Mitchell said in quiet amazement. "We actually did it."
She released a breath, one that she felt like she had been holding for too long. For the first time in four years, there was no second step. No Locus to cast, no one to follow, no more monsters to fight. It was finished. And instead of relief, all she felt was hollow.
"We can stop," Mitchell continued. "Hermione… we can leave."
She shook her head and cleared her throat. "The Ministry…"
Mitchell barked a laugh. "Fuck the Ministry. We've wasted our fucking lives on the Ministry. I'm not giving them a second more of my time. Neither should you." Hermione turned to look at him, narrowed her eyes, and frowned. "They've forgotten about us, Hermione. Forgotten. We've sent owls, and for what? Never a reply. Never reinforcements. Never even a search party! They don't fucking care – probably never did. And they don't know what we went through. They wouldn't understand. But you? And me? We understand. We sacrificed. We deserve our freedom!" His voice was low and passionate where hers was uncertain.
"I didn't go through all of this just to leave a question where an answer should be."
"Then send another fucking owl, but don't go back. Hell, we can't go back! We're dead to them, dead to them all! Our families, our friends… They've all forgotten, they've all moved on, and it's mad for you to expect anyone to have waited. We have a clean slate now, Hermione. We're in the prime of our lives with no responsibility and no expectations. We can go anywhere, do anything! We can start a new life! Just us! Just us two!"
"Mitchell…"
His lips collided with hers in a passionate and painful kiss. His fingers tangled themselves in her hair and bruised her ribs as he pulled her onto him, crushing her body closer. And she clung to him, too, because in the dark, beneath an endlessly starry sky, Hermione knew he was right.
They were free. Free from obligation, from responsibility, even from their own pride. They could be anyone, do anything. Live quiet, anonymous lives and play at being happy and normal when what they had gone through made them anything but. For so long, their lives had been difficult. Impossible. And now, here was the chance for it to be easy. For once, everything could be easy.
"Stay with me," he whispered onto her lips. His hands cradled her face, held her steady, and forced her to look at him. Even in the absence of light, she could see his shining eyes. "Forget them. Forget all of them. Stay with me."
He reclaimed her lips, but now the contact felt terribly, terribly wrong. "I can't," she gasped and tore herself away from him.
"Hermione-"
"No. Mitchell, I…" Her mouth gaped but the words would not cross her lips. How could she explain the difference between being forgotten and actively forgetting? How could she describe the physical ache, the need that consumed her when she thought of seeing her son? "I can't," she repeated lamely, shaking her head.
Mitchell's expression closed off. He dropped his arms. "You'll be disappointed." His words were clipped and sharp. "They won't care. There's no place for you in that world anymore. You'll be alone."
She crawled over to the side of the boat and grabbed a buoy that had rolled beneath a seat. She tapped it once with her wand; it glowed a comforting blue. "I'll tell them we were separated," she said evenly. "You can leave, if you want. They'll never know."
"You'll regret this."
"Mitchell, you've been more than a friend to me. I… I don't think I would've made it if not for you. Thank you. For everything." She placed a chaste kiss on his brow and felt his shuddering inhale.
"Don't do this. Don't put yourself through this. They won't remember you. They've forgotten. You'll be nobody."
She smiled wistfully and cupped his cheek with her palm. "I'll take my chances."
"You'll miss me. You'll miss me, and you'll wish you had stayed. We could be happy together. We could be happy!" His voice shook.
She looked at him one last time, looked past him, through him, and saw who he was: the man who had sheltered her from falling debris and saved her life too many times to count; the teammate who had spoken for her, defended her when she little deserved it, and trusted her to do the right thing; the friend who held her hand as she gave birth.
"I love you, and I'll miss you. Far more than you'll ever know."
"Then don't! Please, don't. I'm not coming back. Never. So this is it. If you leave… If you leave now, you leave for good." He clutched at her hand and pressed it to his lips, begging her, pleading, reminding her of everything they had shared, tempting her with everything they could have.
She smiled – an expression at odds with her quiet tears – and shook her head, silencing him. "I wish you every happiness in the world, Mitchell. I won't ever forget you. And I hope, one day, we'll see each other again. One day." She kissed him once more, then stood and backed away. She felt stronger than she had in a very long while. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes.
Then, the Portkey took her home.