Glinting red eyes were all that Hermione could make out in the darkness.
It seemed as if the world around her had blurred and tunnelled, until her entire field of vision was tessellations of Voldemort's eyes.
A thousand crimson eyes shone in the pitch black of the Great Hall.
Watching her.
Although he had stopped with his Legilimency, the pain and aftershocks lingered. She could hardly think through the splitting headache that seemed to pierce her temples, compact her skull, claw and slash and dig deeply into every nerve.
The only sound in the room was the eerily magnified drip of liquid onto stone floor — reverberating through the massive, empty hall.
Her body sagged bonelessly against the python still wrapped tightly around her. Hermione could no longer hold herself up; she was hardly aware that everything had gone dark. It was only with the realization that she could no longer see Voldemort's glowing red eyes, that Hermione discovered she had faded and closed her own.
The stench of decay and putrefaction was rolling off Voldemort in waves, coating the her tongue thickly. Rushing into her lungs. Tainting her body. A paranoid, neurotic part of her imagined the decay as tiny dark particles piercing the alveoli of her lungs, infecting each cell. Breaching the cell membrane, withering the cell and turning it black as tar, the infection spreading rapidly outwards. Faster and faster.
Voldemort was quiet for a long time before he finally spoke.
"Ensure that you do not fail me, High Reeve," Voldemort whispered malevolently. His voice seemed to come from far away, cutting through the bleary dizziness within her mind. "You know the consequences if you do," he trailed off.
The snake twisted around Hermione gave an echoing hiss of its own and tightened around her again, as if reminding her of the price. She gave a quiet sob, trembling against it.
Please please please, she prayed.
"Your wish is my command, My Lord," Draco said in a low, deferential tone. His voice was cool and composed, betraying nothing.
"You may go. Ensure that the Mudblood is well cared for," Voldemort replied lazily.
At Voldemort's dismissal, the python coiled around Hermione loosened abruptly, sending her crashing roughly to the floor. She gave a whimper of pain but stayed perfectly still, not daring to attempt an escape.
There was the clink of armour and then a few seconds later, Draco was hauling and dragging her roughly out of the hall. Hermione jerked her eyes open and nearly threw up from the disorientation.
The entire world was spinning around her, its axis at the very centre of her vision. But entire splotches were gone. There was no strange darkness there, like she had previously thought — there was just nothing. A complete absence of light.
A void.
Her hand scrabbled up and clung desperately to Draco's gauntleted hand, allowing him to yank her roughly from the Great Hall. His hand gripped her firmly enough that she could feel the tremors reverberating through his arm. Whether from nerves or the after-effect of torture, Hermione didn't know.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched blearily as Narcissa's form was levitated out of the hall with them. She couldn't tell what condition she was in.
Draco pulled them along silently, trembling minutely the entire time, until they were outside the twisted gates.
He Apparated and Hermione's world instantly exploded in blinding pain until she could feel nothing at all anymore.
When she awoke, Hermione found herself upon the marble floor of the entry hall. The intricate ceiling above seemed to be shifting forward and back, moving slightly. A rustle to her side and she jerked her head — Draco was crouched over her. His expression was knit together in concern, eyes glittering with emotion.
She thought back to a different time.
Under the waning moon and cover of darkness, a swirl of deadly ravens with blood and flesh on their beaks.
In the seaside cottage, blood pouring out of her side. A knife torn through her organs until her lungs had been flooded with fire, where every breath felt like drowning.
When his face had hovered over hers, pale and twisted with panic.
The second he noticed her watching him, the emotion disappeared. Something seemed to shutter in his visage until she was staring at eyes as smoothly blank as an expanse of frozen lake.
Hermione couldn't tell if it was Occlumency or the distance that had grown between them.
"What happened?" Hermione croaked. Her throat felt rough and raspy; she didn't know how long the interrogation had lasted. How long she had been screaming.
"You passed out from the pain," he replied in a low tone. "I didn't realize he would be … interrogating you for an extended period of time."
His expression tightened as regret flashed across his face.
"I assumed he would be torturing me and me alone," he muttered. His eyes left Hermione to trail elsewhere. She followed his gaze and found the unconscious form of Narcissa, some distance away.
A vial of potion was brought to her lips and a hand under her neck, angling her head forward.
"Pain relief potion," Draco replied in response to her quizzical expression. Hermione opened her mouth and allowed him to pour it into her mouth, before he gently lowered her back to the floor.
The splitting pain in her head eased at once, but she found her limbs were growing strangely heavy. Everything seemed to be moving slower. Sound seemed to be distorted, as if she were underwater. The ticking of a clock somewhere echoed through the entry hall, empty space stretching between each tick.
Hermione let the waves come and overtake her — she was too tired to fight it anymore. The image of Draco grew blurry as her vision darkened, and then she was gone.
"Miss Hermione? Miss Hermione?"
A small, gentle hand was poking and prodding at her. Tugging her clothing, tugging at her duvet. Hermione tried to squirm away from the disturbance and shut her eyes tighter.
"Miss Hermione, please," the voice whimpered, nearing dog-whistle pitch.
Hermione blinked her eyes open and found the pinched, fearful face of Mippet staring back at her. A mere inch away.
Mippet had pushed her face into Hermione's until their noses were nearly touching. Her huge, tear-moistened eyes stared back at her.
"Mippet, what's wrong?" Hermione croaked, pushing herself up. She slowly pulled herself into a seated position, taking in her surroundings as she did so. She had been returned to her bedroom.
Hermione glanced down and paused in bewilderment.
Her clothing had been changed.
She had gone to bed in her pajamas and then …
The night's events came rushing back and she gave a shuddering gasp.
There wasn't enough air in the room. She wanted to throw the windows open, let in the streaming afternoon light. There was a foul stench that seemed to cling to the walls, that even changing her clothing and scrubbing her skin hadn't cleansed.
She would never forget it.
Not as long as she lived.
The stench of death had wriggled and crawled itself into her brain and now resided there as a permanent inhabitant. She felt as if she were cursed with the knowledge, forced to bear witness to it.
"Miss Hermione?" Mippet begged. "Miss Hermione, please Miss, please can you help?"
Hermione turned, nearly startled by the appearance of Mippet. She had forgotten the elf was there.
"I- help? How can I help?" Hermione stammered. "Help with what?"
"Miss Narcissa is- … she is ill again—," Mippet gave a shuddering gasp. "She is ill, like before, and the elveses are not sure of what to be doing! Master Draco is away again and, and—"
Mippet seemed to be at a loss for words and simply sobbed into her hands, squeaking and whimpering like a wounded animal.
Hermione could feel herself growing pale. She did not want to interact with Narcissa, much less heal her, but she could feel her resolve wavering when faced with an anguished house elf.
"Mippet, please stop crying. No, Mippet, it's okay, please stop crying," Hermione begged. She held up a placating hand and tried to rub Mippet's back, but the elf had launched herself forward to wrap her thin arms around Hermione's waist.
"Please! Please heal Miss Narcissa," Mippet wailed. Snot was dripping everywhere as Hermione tried desperately to pry Mippet off her. Tiny elf hands were deceptively strong; Mippet's grip was like iron.
"Okay! Mippet, it's okay, I'll heal Miss Narcissa, just please stop crying," Hermione babbled, flushing red with embarrassment.
At hearing the shouted confirmation, Mippet stopped wailing at once (but did not immediately stop weeping) and beamed up at Hermione. She could see tears rolling down Mippet's face still, as the elf bobbed her head and smiled anxiously.
"Just um- … let's both get tidied up so we can go see Miss Narcissa," Hermione hedged awkwardly.
Mippet blew her nose loudly on her tea towel toga, causing Hermione to wince, before nodding furiously once more.
"I will instruct the elves to prepare your work station for you, Miss Hermione," Mippet said eagerly. "And I will meets you at Miss Narcissa's bedroom!"
Hermione nodded gratefully as Mippet sped off. As soon as the elf had gone, Hermione let out a shuddering breath and sank bonelessly backwards. Her body hit the mattress with a soft thump and she stared blankly up at the ceiling.
The night's events had been terrifying and sickening, but they had accomplished one thing, at least: Voldemort had cleared the haze of heartbreak from Hermione's mind.
Because more important things were now at the forefront.
Her heartbeat quickened as she recalled the thousands of glowing red eyes, staring at her from the darkness. From an inescapable abyss.
Piercing through her.
Peering into her very soul.
Hermione worked steadily through the afternoon, and well into the evening. The elves had provided her with her wand ("Master Draco says to gives it to Miss Hermione if she is needing it for healing!") and supplied her with every tool, ingredient, book, or snack she could ever conceive of. It was twilight by the time she felt a break would be prudent. She eased herself back to collapse into the ornate armchair she had pulled up next to Narcissa's bedside, and stared unseeingly into the diagnostics that still winked above Narcissa.
Between the three of them, Narcissa had taken the brunt of the damage. Hermione wasn't sure if it was due to the long-term trauma from Dark Magic that she had sustained during childbirth, or during her imprisonment in her own home when Voldemort had trapped her in a cage and tortured her. Or, if Voldemort had simply been more vicious in his assault on Narcissa — she was both the carrot and stick in his coercion and control over Draco.
She was the crucible that had forged the High Reeve.
It was his mother's torture and suffering that had carved away the spoiled, pampered little rich boy that she had known. What emerged was a shell of his former self.
Everything soft had been sliced away as Draco had been cut open. He had been sharpened by it; honed into a weapon, because the price of failure was too expensive to pay.
He couldn't risk his mother's life.
Hermione closed her eyes.
She could feel her heart sinking once more.
They were trapped in an impossible situation. She had spent so long in her fog of depression and grief, spent so long mourning the loss of her friends and herself, that she had forgotten about the guillotine that loomed above her.
The blade could come slicing down at any moment and she would never know. Not until it was too late.
She was no closer to finding a solution to getting Draco's Dark Mark off than she was a year ago.
She was no closer to figuring out how to defeat Bellatrix and take her horcrux, either.
Voldemort's defeat hinged upon the destruction of the remaining horcrux. The remaining horcrux couldn't be gained without killing Bellatrix. And even then, Draco couldn't duel Voldemort without his Dark Mark being removed.
Hermione nearly sobbed at the sheer impossibility of it all.
And, despite everything that had happened, despite the fact that he was now a married man, that she told him she never wanted to see him again — and there was a part of her that hated him, just a little bit — she couldn't deny that her feelings for him remained.
After all this time.
She gave a soft, sad chuckle.
She had always fought for hopeless causes.
It was tragic.
Narcissa had been stabilized and gained consciousness before daybreak, for a few moments. The inky skies outside were beginning to lighten, but had not yet reached the occupants within the room. Dim lamps flickered and cast strange shadows, cloaking Narcissa's face in partial shadow.
Hermione watched as her eyelids fluttered, before opening blearily. Her dark eyes, usually sharp with intelligence, were confused and slightly unfocused as she gazed at Hermione.
"Narcissa? Do you know where you are?" Hermione asked quietly. She drew her armchair closer to the bedside, until she was a mere few inches from Narcissa.
The older woman gazed around the room in confusion.
"We're in your home, the Malfoy Estate. You've suffered an injury, I'm your Healer," Hermione continued hesitantly.
"Wrong," Narcissa murmured to herself. She began to shake her head weakly, mournfully. "So wrong."
"We're in your home, Narcissa," Hermione repeated again quietly, but Narcissa did not seem to have heard her.
The words of reassurance did nothing.
Narcissa seemed to be growing alert but there was little recognition as she gazed feverishly at Hermione. She fumbled and grasped Hermione's hand, squeezing it sharply.
Her voice was full of anguish and regret when she spoke again.
"Things have gone … so terribly wrong," she whispered to Hermione. There were tears in her eyes as she stared up at her.
Hermione tensed and clenched her jaw. Her chest was constricting in sudden anxiety; she hadn't expected this. She had imagined that Narcissa would simply treat her as she always did; coldly, indifferently.
She tried to tamp down on the nerves and strange resentment she was feeling — Narcissa had, after all, also tortured her.
"What's wrong, Narcissa? What's gone wrong?" Hermione asked in her most professional, soothing tone. It would have been believable, if her voice hadn't wavered at the end.
"I hadn't expected this … I thought it would've saved him. I thought I had spared him the misery, it would've been necessary after you," Narcissa murmured. She grew quieter as she gazed at Hermione, her face twisted with grief and agony.
Cold seemed to be creeping up her spine, despite the warm summer night and rapidly rising sun. It seeped through her cardigan and jeans, chilling her skin until goosebumps pricked across her flesh.
The room was flooded with glowing pink light but Hermione felt as if everything before her was growing dimmer.
"Spared … who the misery? After I- … after what?" Hermione asked quietly.
Narcissa's hand was clammy as it gripped hers hard. Her eyes sought out Hermione's, and her eyebrows twitched together anxiously.
"I was trying to- … trying to protect him. My son. My only son — I thought this would distract him, spare him from the pain of your death," Narcissa whispered.
The manic light in her eyes seemed to dim. All the energy seemed to drain from Narcissa and a few seconds later, she had closed her eyes and fallen unconscious once more.
Hermione sat trembling and alone, bathed in the stark light of daybreak. Her hand was still clutched in Narcissa's desperate grip.