The twinkling stars above, and the headless corpse clutched in her arms like a lover, were the only witnesses to what had truly transpired.
Hermione wept. Sobs wracked her body, tears flowed freely.
She had no difficulty summoning the hysteria and mania, the authentic touches to deliver the performance of a lifetime. By the time the party-goers had stumbled upon her, their wands alit in the inky night and shining upon her like floodlights, she was certain she must've looked like a madwoman.
The first that spilled onto the scene were the Death Eaters she had been spying on; Draco led the group. His face was one of utter shock and devastation.
"What happened?" he demanded hoarsely. He had crouched next to her, his lit wand scanning the scene.
The light flooded them both. She couldn't see the faces of the figures around her, but she knew they were there. She could only see Draco in front of her: face drained of blood, eyes piercing.
Blood had soaked into his dress robes, smeared onto his shoes.
Hermione clutched at the corpse, clinging to it tight, as if it were the only thing holding her together.
"There— there was a man," she croaked out, inventing wildly. "Someone from— from the Resistance, the Insurgency, they broke in and, and they dragged me from my room."
Murmurs around her; the crowd was stunned, shocked by the revelation.
Hermione gestured at her throat. She was sure there was bruising there, dark and mottled already. Speaking was becoming increasing painful.
"They thought I had— that I had sold Harry out, that I must've, because why else was I spared," she babbled on. "The man was, he was dragging me out, he was going to kill me— he was choking me, and then, and then someone walked in on it, someone from the party was t-trying to st-stop it—"
Hermione broke off, sobbing.
"It's my fault! He— he was trying to save me— and the attacker, oh gods, the attacker had a knife, they were fighting and grappling— and his head, oh god— the knife, a single swipe— and his head, his head j-just slid off—"
She broke apart then, letting the tears overtake her.
The Death Eaters were muttering all around her.
Draco stood up and slowly made his way over to the severed head. He nudged it with his foot until it rolled over and the face was visible.
"Fucking Rowle," he swore under his breath.
He looked up.
They had been joined by a few others from the party. Lucius and Narcissa, looking equally as devastated and shocked as Draco, had arrived. Bellatrix trailed behind them, face alight with malice.
"Where did the attacker go?" Draco demanded.
Hermione pulled a bloody arm from around the corpse and pointed it shakily, wildly, at a direction away from them. Towards the outer bounds of the estate.
"That way."
Draco swore again, and surveyed the scene. A muscle was twitching in his jaw.
"Take her inside, get her cleaned up and out of the way," he ordered to Narcissa.
She looked ghostly, illuminated by wand light. Her face was as white as her silk dress, but she nodded without protest.
Narcissa strode swiftly over to Hermione and began to haul her up onto her feet. Her dress was smeared crimson as the blood instantly seeped into the crushed silk.
Hermione allowed herself to be led away from the body. Her feet were unsteady and she tottered as she walked; it was only the support of Narcissa next to her, tall and thin, that prevented her from collapsing.
From a ways behind, she could hear Draco barking orders at the other Death Eaters to split up and search the grounds. The shouts grew quieter as they drew further away, until Hermione couldn't hear anything at all.
When they reached the estate, it was evident that Hermione's screams had carried. House elves clustered around the entrance, wringing their hands with anxiety.
"Mistress, what has happened? Oh, Miss Hermione! What has h—"
"Leave," Narcissa hissed at them. Instantly, they shrank back, as if stung.
Narcissa's grip upon her arm was painful. Hermione couldn't tell if Narcissa was preventing her escape, or punishing her for the mess she had plunged them all into.
Before long, they had finished the entirely silent walk to her bedroom. The blood upon her clothing, upon her arms and neck and face had dried. It felt scratchy and tight across her skin, as if the dead man was still grasping at her.
Narcissa dragged her into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind them, shoving Hermione in roughly.
Hermione stumbled forwards and fell, and instantly, Narcissa was upon her. She strode forward in two long steps and kicked Hermione onto her back, crouching down to grip Hermione by the throat with a single elegant hand.
"What did you do?" she hissed, so quietly it was nearly a whisper. "What have you done?"
The hand around her throat was applying steady pressure and Hermione gasped out her answer.
"He— he stumbled onto me alone, he was going to— to expose all of us," Hermione wheezed. "It was the best I could do."
Narcissa grip around her throat relaxed and she withdrew her hand. She stared down at Hermione with piercing, dark eyes. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly; Narcissa was breathing hard as her eyebrows furrowed. She seemed to be in deep thought.
Hermione stared at her, at a loss.
"What's going to happen?" she finally whispered.
Narcissa's mouth was a thin line.
She did not answer, but rose and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
They had to call him.
There was no other choice. Not when a transgression so terrible had occurred on his doorstep, at the home of his general.
So blatant. So brazen.
In front of so many.
When Voldemort stole into the estate, it felt like the End Times had arrived.
Hermione could swear the walls of the estate, the very ground beneath the handsome manor shook. She shrank back and pressed herself into a corner, scared of the great and terrible wrath he must inflict.
Scared that the ground itself would crack open, that he would rain hell down upon them.
Bellatrix had burst into her room. She had nearly fallen in her haste to reach Hermione. Her face was frightened, her eyes round and wild. She had hissed violent threats and half-sentences. At some point, the words had become near incomprehensible; she was gibbering to herself more than Hermione. Then, she escorted Hermione to greet the Dark Lord: half shoving, half yanking her by the hair.
She didn't know where they were going. They had walked past the entry hall already by the time Hermione realized that she wasn't being dragged back to Hogwarts.
No, they were moving towards a sector of the estate she had been in once before.
The signs were everywhere.
She had been here once before; she had only stumbled down this path by mistake, but once was more than enough to remember it all with crystal clarity.
Voldemort had corrupted the ley lines of the estate. He had reached deep down into the earth and tainted the ancient magic below, until the ancestral magic that rose up and thrummed through the corridor was like poisonous waste.
Generations of Malfoy magic had been snuffed out by Voldemort's maleficence.
The temperature had dropped in this portion of the manor. Hermione could see her own breath in the air, small puffs and pants of steam. She was shivering; the coldness bit at her with sharp teeth, and she could feel her own chattering.
She whimpered with fright, but Bellatrix gave no notice. She dragged Hermione down the hallway and through a door, that opened into a large drawing room.
The room was entirely bare. There were no creature comforts or opulence here; everything had been torn away and stripped down, even the carpets and wood floors.
In the middle of the room stood a heavy iron cage.
The Malfoys stood clustered around it. Draco stood stiffly in the middle, his parents on either side and a little ways behind him. He had changed into his body armour; he looked very much Voldemort's general once more.
Voldemort himself stood opposite, and turned towards the door at their arrival.
"My Lord," gasped Bellatrix, chest heaving. She stooped and bowed so low that her wild hair grazed the stone floor, before rising again.
"My Lord, I— I have brought her, the Mudblood. She claims she was attacked by—"
"You mean to tell me," Voldemort interrupted her softly. His voice was smooth as silk, especially dangerous. Hermione could hear the rage simmering beneath the surface.
He began to circle the Malfoys. His steps were slow and measured.
"You mean to tell me … that the ancestral home of my general, wherein dozens of my faithful servants dined tonight … the splendor, the security … could not ward out a single intruder?" he hissed.
Without warning, he slashed his wand.
"Crucio!"
His voice was high, the fury and curse sharp on his tongue.
Draco and Lucius pitched forward and fell onto their hands and knees. Lucius gave an anguished cry, begging for mercy, but Draco stayed mostly silent as the curse worked through him, save for a loud groan.
Hermione watched on in horror. Her own body mirrored the trembling and shaking of Draco. As she watched, she noticed that Narcissa was quivering too.
Eventually, Voldemort released the curse.
Both rose unsteadily to their feet, murmured quiet apologies and their gratitude for the Dark Lord's mercy.
She wanted to hurl.
Voldemort turned to her next.
His eyes were red, they seemed to glint strangely and reflect light that did not exist. She had seen the same strange luminous quality in the horcruxes; in the gilded surface of the cup, the shimmering gems of the diadem, and the glittering jewel of the locket.
His malignant, twisted soul was otherworldly — perhaps Hell burned bright enough to emit its own light.
Hermione found herself frozen to the spot as she stared into Voldemort's eyes. She couldn't move, she couldn't escape.
He raised a wand.
She squeezed her eyes shut as panic overwhelmed her, tried to tug uselessly at the Occlumency deep within her.
The room was cold. So freezing cold. Her magic felt sluggish, like slush creeping through her veins. She pulled and pulled at it, frantically, but it did not, would not, come.
"My Lord."
Hermione's eyes snapped open of their own accord.
Narcissa had spoken. She had dared to interrupt him.
She bowed low and when she rose, her expression was one of respectful deference and longing.
"My Lord, please. Allow me to interrogate the Mudblood. She is hardly worth your time, she is filth," Narcissa murmured. She gazed at Voldemort and waited.
He paused for a moment before turning to face her fully.
"My, my. Narcissa … it has been a long time," he said softly. The rage had vanished, instantly. There was marked curiousity and intrigue in his tone — Narcissa had tempted him. "You were always … always the most talented at doling out pain … such cruelty, such talent as a Legilimens. A pity about your delicate health—"
He trailed off thoughtfully.
"It has been too long, My Lord. It is time that I return to my duties, return to the fray, as your loyal servant. I must make amends, I must prove myself after our failings tonight."
She dipped her head and waited.
Hermione could tell Narcissa was holding her breath.
Voldemort cocked his head to the side as he considered. He brought a thin hand up, pressed long fingers to his lipless mouth.
Then, finally:
"You may interrogate the Mudblood."
Narcissa whispered her thanks. Without waiting, she strode up to Hermione. Bellatrix backed away from them, her face twisted in barely contained anger and jealousy at Voldemort's favour of her younger sister.
Narcissa took no notice.
She had eyes only for her.
Hermione stared back in abject horror as Narcissa drew into her vision. Her expression was perfectly cold as she stared back.
"Crucio."
Hermione saw her mouth form the command. She hardly heard it, for she had already started screaming.
Pain.
Pain razed through her like wildfire. Every nerve had been lit; every muscle in her body was twisted, every neuron firing. Pain like she had never felt before was being injected into her veins and piercing through her brain.
She had experienced the Cruciatus before, but it hadn't been like this.
Her body couldn't keep up; either her lungs would give out, or her vocal cords would. Something would give, something would snap, and she would drown in her own blood.
Death would be a blessing.
Through the screaming, through the haze of agonized cries, she heard Narcissa call out something else too.
"Legilimens!"
Instantly, she felt the presence in her mind.
Narcissa had darted in like a fish through a stream. This time, it hadn't hurt. Narcissa wasn't sparing any time to cruelty, any time to pain — she didn't need to.
She was pure efficiency.
Hermione watched the events of the night flicker through her mind's eye like a movie being fast-forwarded, could feel Narcissa observing it all and taking it in.
All the while, she was screaming and shrieking in pain.
It was like she had become two: one part of her in pure agony, the other part detached and observing the events going on inside her own head.
The excruciating torture threatened to drag her awareness away but Hermione forced herself to focus and hold on, to stay present as Narcissa rifled through her memories.
Something was shifting and changing, Hermione realized with a start.
The memories were blurring.
It was as if the movie was glitching and faltering.
Hermione tried to tug at her recollection of the night, but it was no longer there.
When she pulled at it, as hard as she could, she found nothing recognizable.
Instead, she found herself in her room.
She had been sleeping when an intruder had burst in. Someone masked, in military fatigue, had dragged her out, kicking and screaming.
Hermione shuddered. There was a sharp pain in her temple, and she tried to focus on the memories despite the onslaught of pain around her.
She was being yanked out bodily into the garden.
She was sobbing. She was crying.
She was sobbing in her memory, she was sobbing from the torture. She was screaming and wailing as the Cruciatus was burning through her nerves; the damage would set in any minute now.
The assailant was grabbing her roughly. Slamming her down onto the grass, squeezing her throat.
The pressure was building in her brain.
All of a sudden, he had been dragged off her by Rowle.
Rowle stood over her; between her and the assailant, the two grappling while Hermione screamed.
Rowle, being beheaded.
Rowle, his severed head in her lap.
She stared down at it in shock and incomprehension.
The pressure snapped and burst; the image in her mind was gone.
Hermione lay panting on the ground. The stone floor was cold under her cheek. The surroundings were dark; she couldn't see anymore.
Everything was so cold around her that it was suffocating. She knew it should feel like drowning, but the chill was almost a blessing — a balm against the fiery agony in her nerves.
She was trembling so hard that her head was occasionally hitting the floor.
"She's telling the truth," panted Narcissa's cold voice from somewhere above. She sounded as spent and exhausted as Hermione felt.
"The Mudblood's story holds?" Voldemort asked carefully. "Everything she said … is true?"
Hermione tried to remember the night.
Her throat was sore from screaming, sore from being choked by an attacker.
She stilled.
She tried to recall the gardens, their layout.
She couldn't.
It had been too dark, too confusing.
She had been dragged out bodily by a Resistance member.
She had no recollection of anything.
She was covered in Rowle's blood, because he had died to save her.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut hard, tried to remember, but it was like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
The memories were gone. Replaced so smoothly and seamlessly, that Hermione could only know of their absence by a lingering feeling of wrongness.
"Everything she said is true," Narcissa confirmed.
"How interesting," Voldemort murmured. "You have done well, Narcissa … it has been so long, I had forgotten your talent. You were always my favourite."
She heard a shuffling of fabric; Narcissa had bowed again, and then retreated to stand with her family once more.
"This changes things," Voldemort mused. He was silent for a few moments.
"Take the Mudblood away. Bellatrix, Narcissa — you may leave. Lucius, High Reeve — you are to stay. We have much to discuss," he hissed.
Hermione felt Bellatrix's thin hands yanking her up once more. Her over-long nails dug into Hermione's skin hard enough to draw blood, but she could hardly protest.
She was barely conscious as they dragged her out of the cursed reading room, barely conscious as Bellatrix kicked her back into her own bedroom and slapped her hard across the face for good measure.
"Filthy little Mudblood whore," she had spat. The voice came from faraway, had a dream-like quality to it.
Hermione trembled and shook from the aftermath of the Cruciatus, the Legilimency, but it did not matter.
She was alive.
And Draco had not sent her away, to never see her again.
When Hermione regained consciousness again, it was slow to come.
And when it did, it came in bursts.
There was an elf crouched over her, whimpering and sobbing. Mippet was crying as she wiped blood off Hermione's face, gently cleaned her arms and neck. She even washed Hermione's hair for her.
Hermione drifted.
When she awoke again, someone had placed her in bed.
Her bloodied clothes were gone; she was washed and clean, in a set of pajamas.
She blinked blearily up at the ceiling.
Her vision had mostly returned. The edges were murky still but she could see now, at least.
A rustle to her left, and she turned her head.
Draco stood over her, watching. It seemed he had just arrived; his mask was in his hand, his hair mussed.
His face was eerily blank.
As if he was in shock, processing.
He was silent for a few moments, and then he spoke.
"The Dark Lord — is displeased with the attempt on your life, the defiance of his power, by the Resistance. He has ordered the Manor to be shut down, the estate warded. Our wards have been overtaken by him. Nobody goes in or out without his knowledge."
His voice was hollow.