All throughout the estate, Hermione glimpsed the evidence of party preparation. Various decorations had been erected in the halls, and from her bedroom window overlooking the handsome formal garden, she could see a long table with seating for dozens. A veranda had been erected: magically-grown hydrangeas hung heavy and fragrant across the top, and a twinkling string of bulbs dangled merrily underneath.
Golden afternoon sun streamed through the blooms but would soon depart. The veranda and garden would be lit by the strung lights instead, their soft bulbs attracting passing fireflies and tiny fluttering moths.
Hermione turned from the window. The beauty of the scene couldn't pierce through the hollowness that had overtaken her.
With only a day until the party — a day until she might be whisked away forever — her passage through the halls was hardly noticed. Mippet held her hand every step of the way across sparkling marble, elves dashing madly around them and weaving in and out of their path, until Hermione found herself upon Narcissa's bedroom once more.
Narcissa was seated at a marble table when Hermione entered. Her gaze flickered up at the intrusion, lips pursing slightly, but her eyes returned once more to the stack of parchments before her. Hermione glanced down at the papers as she approached; she could make out a seating arrangement.
With a flick of her wand and a lazy hand wave, Narcissa had drawn out a seat for Hermione and Summoned her healing supplies. Vials of potions and larger cork-stoppered glass flasks zoomed through the air to group neatly together on a clear space on the tabletop. Narcissa had returned at once to her own work, leaving Hermione to edge awkwardly to the table.
As she sat down, Hermione chanced a peek at Narcissa. Exhaustion lined her features, and her eyes were red-rimmed, dark half-moon shadows like bruises underneath. She looked as if she hadn't slept since the last time Hermione had seen her.
Truthfully, Hermione had barely slept since then either. She wordlessly Conjured up a flask of Pepper-Up potion and doled out a dose for Narcissa, then slid it across the table.
Narcissa glanced at it sharply. Her piercing gaze slid to Hermione's face, and Hermione suddenly froze. Too late, she remembered the danger. She tried to tug at her Occlumency walls, to build them up rapidly, but—
"Do not insult me with your mediocre attempt, Miss Granger," Narcissa said softly. "If I wanted to peruse your thoughts, every sordid detail of your life would already be on display — mine for the taking."
Her words were quiet, carrying no threat or malice. Narcissa stated facts only.
Hermione winced, but Narcissa had already turned her gaze back to her seating arrangement. Her elegant hand reached out to pluck the Pepper-Up potion, and she downed it without complaint or thanks.
They both worked silently after that: Narcissa with her party planning, while Hermione silently cast diagnostics and observed them. If Narcissa was bothered by the colourful charms floating in the air, she made no mention of it.
Without any patient notes to read through or add to, Hermione found herself finished with the diagnostics before long. She busied herself with preparing the remaining potions to give to Narcissa and lined them up on the table: healing brews, pain relief, sleeping aids, and a mixture of mild stimulants to aid with exhaustion.
When everything had been arranged, Hermione sat back uncertainly. She did not dare interrupt Narcissa in her work, but still — she needed to speak to her. A glance towards the window told her that the sun had nearly set; the glittering string of lights hanging below the veranda would've been lit by now.
Trepidation and unease stirred in her chest and Hermione was forcefully reminded of every assault, every mission. The same anxiety. The same nausea in her stomach, bile in her throat, and a heavy hammering in her chest.
How strange that her heart always reminded her, so desperately, so insistently, of the undeniable fact that she was alive, in the moments where she was most likely to perish.
Narcissa let out a sigh and the trance was broken.
Hermione started; her gaze had been fixed upon a distance in the horizon, and the sky had already darkened. She was certain that the string of lights were now lit.
She turned back towards the scene before her, and found that Narcissa had set aside her work. She reached for the potions and Hermione noticed a tremor of exhaustion in her arm as she did so. Each one was downed quickly and efficiently, accompanied with a purse of her lips or a grimace.
When a dozen empty glass vials were arranged neatly on the table, Narcissa sat back and fixed Hermione with her piercing dark eyes.
"Shouldn't you be off, Miss Granger?"
Her heart hammered faster, so strongly that she thought Narcissa might hear it.
"N-no, I erm— … I wanted to talk to you. About the party tomorrow," Hermione replied quickly.
Narcissa was silent.
"The decorations, they look very nice," Hermione began again. "And I—"
"You'll be in your room during the entire event," Narcissa replied coolly. "The guests will not see hide nor hair of you. I do not need another scene with Bellatrix, another violent outburst."
"Draco wants to get me out."
The words had tumbled out awkwardly; for all her practice and rumination in her bedroom, Hermione still couldn't think how to best convince Narcissa.
A coldly arched eyebrow was her only response.
"Draco wants to smuggle me out of the estate tomorrow, after the party," Hermione rushed out. "He thinks it'll get me away from here and keep me safe, I— Narcissa, please, I can't let him do this. Please help me. He can't whisk me away, it'll endanger him, and you. Your entire family."
To this, Narcissa gave a mirthless laugh.
"Do you really care about my son, Miss Granger?" she asked in a low voice. She leaned forward and pushed her stack of parchment out of the way, gripping the table.
Hermione found herself pinned to her chair; not by Legilimency or magic, but by the dark, dangerous expression on Narcissa's face.
"Every step of the way … every step of the way, you have been a thorn in my side. Your selfishness astounds me, truly. Are you not satisfied with being a blight upon my home, you must also doom my son?"
At Hermione's quiet sound of protest, Narcissa's voice grew even sharper and lower.
"Is it not enough to carve him up like a turkey, to seduce him and force him into subservience with an Unbreakable Vow — you must now have him perish to that Vow?"
Hermione froze.
"What is it that you think will happen, if you were to remain here? Can you promise me that Draco won't eventually die due to the terms of your Vow. Did he not swear to you that he would aid your silly little Insurgency to the best of his ability?" Narcissa demanded.
Her voice dripped sarcasm.
When Hermione could give no answer to this, Narcissa's lip curled up in a sneer, and she sat back in her plush velvet chair once more.
"You've placed a countdown timer on my son's head. If you weren't the favoured plaything of the Dark Lord, I would've snapped your little neck myself by now," Narcissa whispered loftily.
Her voice was hard as granite when she spoke again, and rang out with a command so forceful that Hermione could almost feel the magic behind the words.
"Leave. Do not ever ask me for a favour again."
When Draco came to her that night, Hermione felt only hollowness.
Emptiness.
The place where her heart would've been, should've been, felt like a void. Like it had fallen through her body and departed her, was no longer with her.
When he gathered her in his arms, all she could feel was an ache. Here he was in front of her, and then she would only know his absence.
A clock on the wall was ticking, ticking, ticking down.
"I'm only here for a little bit," Draco murmured apologetically. "Everything has been arranged with Severus, he'll be here to collect you tomorrow evening."
Hermione forced herself to nod, and Draco gave her a sad smile. The corners of his mouth tugged upward for a fraction of a second, half-heartedly, before they tightened into a grimace.
"You'll have your wand in Australia," he said quietly. He reached a hand out and gently tucked a curl behind her ear. His hand lingered on her face, as if he couldn't stop himself.
He was savouring their moments together.
"You'll be able to find your parents and be happy."
"I'm not going to be happy. I'm not ever going to be happy again, not without you," Hermione forced out. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, and gazed fiercely up at him. His face swam in her vision; her eyes were blurry with tears.
Draco gave a hollow laugh. His free hand reached up to cup her cheek. A stray tear was rolling down her face, and he brushed it away with a thumb.
"This is the best I can do, Hermione. This is me trying. This is us trying."
There was a lightness in his tone.
Hermione had known how the months had dragged on, and worn him down. She had seen how desperately he threw himself into his duties, to buy them time and keep her safe.
She knew he would do anything to keep her safe.
They were nearing the end. They were so close that Draco could almost taste sweet freedom on his tongue: release.
His watch over her would be over, because Hermione would be safe — and that was all that he had ever wanted.
She bit her lip so hard she could taste blood, and closed her eyes. She could feel bile rising as her stomach turned; could almost taste the sourness on her tongue.
There was a brush of lips across her forehead, and a whispered "I'm sorry" from Draco as he disentangled his hand from hers.
He quietly took his leave, and Hermione turned from the door so he wouldn't see her crying.
No matter how hard she cried, how desperately she prayed, how violently she screamed, time did not stop. It did not slow.
The morning sun stole across the room, so bright and obscene that Hermione felt nauseated.
She hadn't slept.
She had laid in bed, tossing and turning and getting up and pacing until the sun had crested and the estate had slowly awoken.
Through the echoing in the hallway outside, and the buzzing of activity upon the lawns and garden, she could tell that the party set-up was well underway.
She paced in her room.
Her eyes darted to the clock.
With a jolt, she realized it was already noon.
Hours had gone by.
Hermione threw herself down onto the bed, and sat with her head in her hands. When her foot tapped too insistently at the carpeted floor, and she could feel her skin prickling and tingling, she jerked upright again.
She began searching her desk, her clothes. Looking for anything at all; searching for something that she wasn't sure even existed.
She tore the room apart looking for it.
She was a caged animal, destroying her enclosure, because she couldn't escape, didn't know how to.
In the end, Hermione sat on the floor and stared at her empty hands.
There was nothing.
She had nothing.
There was nothing that she could procure, that might whisk her away, that might stop Draco in his tracks, that might do something.
Hermione clutched her head in her hands again, closing her eyes and wracking her brain. She could feel panic and hysteria bubbling up within her; threatening to choke her into nothingness, to freeze her in her steps.
A snide voice drifted lazily through her mind.
"You are allowing your emotions to overwhelm you, and cloud your judgement. I expect that kind of idiotic behaviour from a troglodyte like Potter. Work on your Occlumency and strengthen your mental fortitude, and then focus on what is on hand. What is at stake."
Hermione choked. Her eyes snapped open and she gazed wildly around the room for a moment, terrified that Snape had come early to collect her.
She was alone.
The sleep deprivation and stress was blurring her sense of time and her grip upon reality. She was remembering whispered words from long ago.
Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to focus. Her breath came in short pants that did nothing to quell the staccato of her anxious heart; there wasn't enough air in the room, in her lungs.
She had nothing else at her disposal; no other options.
She tugged at the Occlumency. In her sleep deprived, anxious state, it didn't seem to want to come. Her emotions were everywhere; she was drowning in them, she was immersed in them. They were a liquid pouring out of her grasp, and she was the vessel only — they overflowed through her.
Please, Hermione thought desperately. Please. I need this.
She tried again. Eyes squeezed shut, face in her hands.
In the darkness, something seemed to bloom and catch.
Her emotions were all there. Huge and enormous and overwhelming, they loomed in her mind.
But slowly, they were becoming manageable; as if she had taken a few steps back from them.
As if she was no longer caught in the tides, but had reached the shore.
Hermione breathed in and out slowly, thinking hard.
There were no options for her, trapped in her room.
She would need to escape her room.
There could be opportunities at the party, somehow.
She had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
Hermione took another few slow breaths, in and out, in and out, before rising from her seated position to circle towards the window.
The vantage point was excellent: overlooking the garden below, it would allow her to observe the party without being seen directly. She settled down into the window seat and waited, willing for time to pass by faster.
Guests began to filter in by late afternoon and judging from their clothing, Narcissa had planned a formal event.
Witches and wizards drifted about, dressed in evening wear — slinky dresses for the women, and light dress robes for the men. Bellatrix wore a blood-red silk number that was cut so indecently that for the first time that day, Hermione was grateful to be hidden away in her room like an unfriendly cat during a housewarming party.
Hermione's gaze darted this way and that, searching for anything — she didn't know what, so she took in everything.
It was an event for high society, that much was certain. When Death Eaters became high society, Hermione wasn't sure; she suspected it must've been the day after the Battle of Hogwarts. Many milled about, dressed in formal robes and maskless, but they carried themselves in a certain way that betrayed their profession — as if they answered to no one.
Narcissa played the role of perfect host: all smiles, delighted laughter, a glass of bubbly champagne in her hand. Her white silk dress, decorated with blue flowers, matched Lucius's navy and white dress robes. Standing together, they looked supremely comfortable as they welcomed each guest.
No outsider would be able to tell that they were completely estranged in the privacy of their home, that Hermione hadn't seen Lucius with Narcissa since Christmas.
Draco and Daphne stood off to one side, the younger versions of the matriarch and patriarch. Guests approached and made small talk, many giving a respectful nod or half-bow to Draco. He conversed with them easily enough, but it was evident that he had no interest in the event: his facial expression was one of coldness and boredom. Daphne seemed entirely detached from the event and her husband, despite his hand on her lower back; she stood stiffly and sipped at champagne, conversing little.
Before long, the sun had set and coloured the sky lilac, and the garden party attendees were converging upon the singular long table. Glittering crystal goblets and plates of fine china had appeared, accompanied by napkins and cutlery. Chatter from the guests continued as they seated themselves according to place cards; the hosts sat on one end of the table, Lucius at the head.
Despite the seating arrangement and cultural norms dictating politeness, Bellatrix drew herself up and tapped loudly at her crystal goblet with a fork. The crowd quieted instantly.
"I am sure you all know why we're gathered here today on the autumnal equinox," she trilled out, face glowing with delight.
Bellatrix looked childish as she gazed around expectantly, as if she expected someone to answer her. When no one did, she continued eagerly.
"We celebrate the Dark Lord — his triumphs, his greatness. He guides us into a brighter dawn, a brighter age of wizarding might. Long live the Dark Lord!"
Her words were loud enough that they floated up to Hermione's window, and she nearly snorted at the sappy expression on Bellatrix's face.
Lucius held his goblet up, and the guests mimed him, Bellatrix nearly spilling hers in her haste to raise it.
"To the Dark Lord," Lucius drawled, boredom never leaving his tone.
"The Dark Lord!" Bellatrix cried in delight.
The rest of the guests echoed these sentiments, and drank to Voldemort's health. Once the hubbub had died down, appetizers and entrees began to appear on the plates: tiny succulent bites of colourful canapés, hors d'oeuvres, smoked meats and savouries.
Hermione watched with growing boredom as the meal progressed. She could only watch guests shovelling food into their gullets for so long; she needed something more. The conversation had grown quiet and mingled after the initial toast by Lucius, and she could no longer make any words out.
By now, the sky had grown deep navy, and stars were visible above. Still, the dinner continued; Hermione rested her chin on her palm and could feel her eyes beginning to droop.
At some point, she must've dozed off, because she gave a start at a noise from below. The long table had vanished, and guests were standing up and shuffling themselves around: smaller groups of chairs, tables and patio seats had appeared, clustered in semi-circles and groups.
Hermione watched with renewed interest as the guests seemed to drift off in gendered groups. The wives and socialites clustered together to snack on fruit and sip sparkling juices and seltzers, while a group of men she recognized to be Death Eaters shuffled further off, towards the hedges. They set up camp and Summoned themselves some chairs and a table. Somebody Conjured a box of cigars, and they were passed around with tumblers of dark liquor. Draco's white-blond head was visible from the window, and he looked to be in deep discussion with them.
She drew herself up.
This looked interesting.
The men were seated together and spoke in low tones; their faces weren't quite visible, but their bodies were languid and lazy.
Their guards were down.
Her legs were tingling with pins and needles as she stood, and she nearly fell down for her trouble, but it was enough.
The Death Eaters' guards were down. Most of them looked to be of varying levels of drunk; loose tongues, lowered inhibitions.
Hermione stood for a moment, thinking hard, before striding to the door. She pressed her ear against it; when she heard only silence in the hallway, she held her breath for a moment and then tried the handle.
It turned easily under her grasp.
She turned it fully, and then slowly opened it. When nothing happened, when Bellatrix did not leap in, Hermione closed it again.
Taking a deep breath, she called out for a house elf.
"Mippet!"
The elf appeared with a crack. Mippet was dressed in a crisp linen sheet, folded and tucked with pleats, and a small flower pinned to her chest. She stared nervously up at Hermione.
"Yes, Miss? Is Miss needing anything? I must gets back to the party," Mippet breathed. A bead of sweat was visible on her nose; Hermione had called her away from her host duties.
"Mippet, I think I need to go heal Miss Narcissa," Hermione lied easily. "Narcissa is fatigued so easily these days, and she's been on her feet since early this morning. I need to attend to her, immediately."
Mippet paused.
"Master— Master Draco is saying, that you is not to leave your room for today," Mippet implored. Her eyes were huge as she gazed up at Hermione.
"Master Draco wouldn't want Mistress Narcissa to get hurt, would he?" Hermione implored.
She could see the internal battle waging in Mippet. Her eyebrows scrunched with confusion, and she hesitated.
"If Miss Narcissa is alright, I'll come right back up to my room," Hermione said. She held her hand up, as if swearing an oath.
"I promise."
The lies flowed so easily, so smoothly, that it was no surprise when Mippet nodded with relief. She dug her tiny hand into the pocket of her linen dress, and withdrew Hermione's wand.
Hermione accepted it gratefully, and smiled hugely at Mippet.
"Thank you so much, Mippet," Hermione said.
Mippet gave her a nod, before Disapparating with a crack.
Hermione stared down at her wand, willing her nerves to settle.
Then, she began her journey down to the garden. No one stopped her, elf or human, and soon Hermione found herself approaching the garden. The glass doors that she had taken last time, when she had been out on the patio with Draco, were in full view of the garden. She veered off and wandered around the south wing, until she found a different exit that led her outdoors. From there, she edged around the garden, staying in the outskirts and ducking behind ornamental greenery and marble fountains, until she drew close to the group of Death Eaters.
She tucked herself behind a hedge, inching down on her hands and knees, and made herself as small as possible to eavesdrop. Their voices floated up lazily; some words were slurred, others were hiccuped.
"You ever get yourself a piece of that Mudblood, Malfoy?" one of the Death Eaters called out.
The voice was vaguely familiar. Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, thinking. Where had she heard it before?
There was raucous laughter at this; she could hear the noise of someone slapping their knee at the jibe.
Her eyes widened, suddenly.
The Fens.
The very same Death Eaters that had pursued her that night, that had taunted her about the safehouses, were feet away from her — drunk and sloppy, laughing about her.
She swallowed heavily, willing her heart to quieten.
When the laughter had died down, Draco's cold voice rang out.
"I keep the Mudblood safe and intact, as commanded by the Dark Lord. I have no other interest in disgusting filth like her," Draco drawled out coldly.
"Well anyone that's interested better get a swipe of her before the Anniversary," another voice cackled out. "Little bitch is being trussed up like a chicken, isn't she? Skin her alive, torture and execute her for all the other Mudblood filth to see!"
Cackles rang out.
"You think shit runs through her veins? Bet it does, can't wait to cut her open and see."
Hermione's blood ran cold and she froze.
This was what Voldemort had had planned for her, for the Anniversary.
"What an appallingly poor understanding of biology," Draco said in a bored tone. The Death Eater he had levied his snub at grumbled, but fell silent when another voice spoke.
"You seem well confident, Malfoy. I hear you're putting down rebellions in Europe still — the Dark Lord forgiving your soft hand there?" someone jeered.
Draco gave a snort. There was a pause, and a clink as he set down his glass; he had downed his tumbler.
"The rebellions are being dealt with. It seemed a few members of the Insurgency did manage to escape the bloodbath, and the Mudblood's public execution will send a message to them as well as draw them out," he replied coldly.
There was murmured excitement at this. She could hear whispers of the Death Eaters discussing what her death might look like; whether Voldemort might allow them to defile her corpse after.
Whether Voldemort might allow them to do it beforehand.
Hermione swallowed heavily, feeling suddenly faint with the overwhelming burden of knowledge.
This was why Draco had insisted on getting her out.
He knew what lay in store for her. He must've known for a while already, because he hadn't cared or fought harder to buy time for her to get the Mark off.
His own escape had never mattered to him, once he realized the fate that lay in store for Hermione.
But something else that he had said … that members of the Insurgency had escaped.
That they were rallying in Europe.
The words of the other Death Eater were jeering and mocking; they had sensed blood in the water. They were circling.
There was a chink in the High Reeve's armour.
Whatever resistance, whatever rebellion was being built up in Europe, was formidable enough that Draco seemed to be struggling to fully shut it down.
The conversation had taken another turn; now they were discussing sports, arguing over the Quidditch Cup this year.
Hermione shimmied backwards, slowly, carefully, until she was far enough that she was certain she couldn't be seen. Then, she rose to her feet and stumbled off wildly in the direction of the hedges.
Her heart was hammering with fear and desperate hope.
There were people out there and they were fighting. They had carried on fighting, they would rebel against Voldemort. She needed them to know— she needed them to know so much.
Blindly, she hurried onwards. Any direction; it didn't matter, as long as she was on the outer bounds of the estate, away from the party, far enough that nobody could witness what she was about to do. It was nearly pitch black in the garden, but she didn't dare light her wand for fear of detection.
When she had stumbled far enough, Hermione fell to her knees panting. She withdrew her wand.
The words felt foreign on her tongue, as if they were a language she had never spoken before. It had been so long.
"Expecto patronum!"
A puff of silver vapour appeared and slowly dissipated.
Hermione nearly dropped her wand. She nearly moaned with disappointment; she had always struggled with this one spell.
"Expecto patronum!"
Again: a murky cloud.
On the third try, a silver otter appeared, and she nearly sobbed with relief. It kicked and floated through the air, spinning merrily. The light it gave off, the beautiful silver glow in the darkness of the garden — being basked in it felt like redemption itself, like she was being saved from certain death.
"I— I need you to carry this, to any remaining Insurgency members out there: horcruxes are the key. Bellatrix is wearing one. Kill her, destroy th—"
"Well, well. Isn't this a treat?"
Hermione froze.
She could feel the cold metal of a blade upon her neck, and she dropped her wand in shock. Instantly, the bright, ethereal otter disappeared.
"I wouldn't move if I were you, you little Mudblood slut. Magical blade, innit? Enchanted to puncture throat muscle and bone like a hot knife through butter."
The low male voice was familiar; a Death Eater that had followed her through her nightmares, through the hedges.
Hermione closed her eyes as hot, bitter tears rolled down her face. Her chance was gone. She had been caught. She had plunged Draco and herself into incomparable danger.
"And to think I thought I'd never get a chance at you when you escaped from the Fens like the little mouse that you are," a voice whispered in her ear.
She was hauled up roughly by the throat and slammed up against a body; his hand was tightening around her throat, choking and squeezing her.
"I always knew there was something off about you," he hissed. "Tell me, why's a little Mudblood whore like you got a wand? Hmm? I knew Malfoy was lying, I knew he was fucking you, wasn't he?"
Every question was accompanied by a rough shake and an even harder squeeze of her throat.
Hermione coughed and spluttered. She dangled helplessly, inches above the ground, held bodily against her attacker. There were stars in her vision; as if the deep indigo of the sky above had spilled into the periphery, had eclipsed the outer edges of her vision with darkness. She could feel herself fading.
"I always knew Malfoy was a fucking cocksucker, uppity little fucks, the whole lot of them. Now we'll get to see him punished and killed like he deserves," the Death Eater hissed in her ear. "You're dead, he's dead, and we'll be stringing you both up f—"
His words had stirred something in her.
Not Draco, she thought desperately. Not Draco not Draco not Draco n—
With all the strength she could sum up, a moment from falling unconscious, Hermione jammed a bony elbow into the solar plexus of her attacker. Startled and thrown off balance, he dropped her. She surged forward a few precious inches before he grappled for her again, but it was enough distance.
Hermione slammed her head back and upward as hard as she could, and felt the crunch of bone reverberating through the back of her skull. It was accompanied by an enraged scream; she had broken his nose.
As the Death Eater's hands slipped from her neck and his grip on the knife was relinquished, and he stumbled backwards and fell, Hermione took in a huge gasp of air.
Head pounding, vision blurred, Hermione darted for the knife. Her assailant followed her and they tumbled to the ground as he straddled her, his hands wrapped once more around her windpipe.
He began to squeeze, but it didn't matter.
Hermione had grabbed the knife.
Without hesitation, borne of pure survival instinct and training alone, she yanked it upwards in an arc across his neck.
It truly was like a hot knife through butter.
Blood spurted hot and crude across her face, and his body went slack.
The Death Eater's head fell to the ground with a soft thump, and his body slowly slid and toppled over backwards.
Hermione lay panting for a moment, staring up at the sky. The stars had winked back into existence. The indigo night was mild and balmy; in the distance, she could hear laughter and music from the party.
She pulled herself up onto shaking hands and knees, massaging her throat. Blood splashed her face, her arms and chest. Hot and coppery, it was beginning to cool in the evening air. She could even feel it tangled in her curls.
Hermione licked her lips and tasted it there too.
Blindly, she crawled and looked for her wand. It had rolled a few feet away. With the blade of the knife still in her hand, she roughly dug a hole and buried her wand.
Then, she wiped the blade free of dirt, dipped it in blood once more.
With shaking hands, without truly thinking and almost numb to her core, Hermione crawled to the body.
It was warm still. Heavy and muscled under her hands, smelling faintly of sweat and something distinctly masculine, and heavily of blood — but she wasn't sure if that came from the body, or if it came from her.
She kneeled and dragged the headless body until it was half on her and positioned it perfectly.
Hermione took one last deep breath, and turned her head to the sky. The stars blinked merrily at her.
Then, she screamed.
A long, agonizing scream of pure horror; a fear that had transcended emotion. It crystallized into decibels.
It was a scream that pierced her very own ears, that sounded like a wounded, dying animal.
She screamed, again and again, and began to sob hysterically.