She stared at him in disbelief.
Draco met her eyes. Shamelessly, boldly. Possessively.
His eyes flickered and she saw in him a whisper of the madness and desperation she had seen in Narcissa's eyes, in Bellatrix's eyes.
Hermione's heart sank.
"One thing about the Malfoys … is that they are driven. Possessive. Ruthless."
Her breath was too shallow, coming in small bursts, as she tried to grapple with reality. It felt like the walls were shifting closer, boxing them in.
They were at the end of the line. There were mere days left until the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.
His public executions had splashed across the pages of the Daily Prophet for days now. The High Reeve, walking slowly across the great courtyard of Hogwarts. A dozen prisoners were made to kneel; they wore black hoods over their heads, but their ears could pick up every quiet footfall of the High Reeve.
The cameras had flashed with each kill, a lightbulb illuminating the scene briefly. But each flash had been wiped out in turn by the vivid explosion of green light.
At the end, a dozen bodies lay crumpled on the ground.
"Magnificent!" Rita had exclaimed eagerly. "But dear reader, the best is being saved for last."
Draco returned to her each night, spent and shaking with exhaustion. His clothes reeked of Dark Magic, bitter and pungent, but it was no match for the hollowness in his eyes.
Hermione would be offered up as sacrifice — the last of the Golden Trio. There was no escaping this fate. Not with the wards tuned to Voldemort.
The night would never end, and the sun would never rise again for her.
"Draco," she forced the words out. It felt like she could barely breathe.
Her teeth were chattering.
Everything was so, so cold.
There was no warmth left in her life.
His silver gaze never left her face.
"There is no after, for me. I am going to die in this house. That is my fate. You— you don't need to," Hermione urged. "You can survive this and live on. You have to."
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, before his expression became stony again.
"And you think Voldemort would let me live, do you," Draco said loftily.
His reply was not a question, but a statement. With all the casualness and ease in the world, he broke her heart in two.
Hermione could feel herself growing pale.
She pressed forward, trying again.
"Remember who you're doing this for," she said. Her chest was so tight it was a marvel she could even get the words out.
"You're doing this for your mother. You swore you would always take care of her; you promised your father that."
His jaw twitched. He was quiet for a moment, before speaking in a low tone.
"And if my priorities have changed?" Draco asked. "My mother is not a hapless victim in her own fate, in her own home. She is as responsible for her current situation as my father. They reap what they sow. She doesn't need saving, and she doesn't want it."
There was a sharpness in his voice and in his eyes, that softened when he gazed into Hermione's desperate face.
He pressed a hand to her cheek, and his eyes searched hers.
"You don't deserve any of this. You deserve so much better than what I can give you," Draco murmured. "You came into my life, filled with such hope and optimism. You chained yourself to me. I may have sworn an Unbreakable Vow to you and your little ragtag insurgents, but you chained yourself to me, in the end. You always had. I can't drag you down with me."
Hermione shook her head.
"No. Draco, no. You can't do this, you— what are you going to do?" she demanded hoarsely.
He simply watched her. His expression had become hard. He could've been carved from stone, from marble.
In his expression, she saw the truth. He didn't care. He was going to kill himself, and it didn't matter.
That had been his new plan, ever since Voldemort had overtaken the wards. It might've even been his old plan reworked, with the middle steps removed.
"Whatever you're thinking, whatever you're planning … it's suicide. You can't— you can't defeat him. Not with the Dark Mark on your arm. No matter how capable, how skilled," she whispered.
His thumb skirted across her cheek. His eyes were molten silver as they met hers. It had always been her favourite; to see the emotion glittering there, like water so clear and pure that every refracted ray of light was visible in its shimmering depths.
"Let the good that comes out of my death give meaning to my wasted life."
Hermione wanted to scream. The unfairness of it all was suffocating.
She wrenched his hand from her face and stared down at him. Her heart was pounding again, loud enough that she could hear it in her ears.
The overwhelming, deadening cold of the manor was forgotten, save for a small chill that ran through her spine. She could almost feel the magic in the air. It emanated from her, cloaked them both until the skin on her arms prickled.
"I'll do it myself then. I'll erase my own memories of you. If you won't save yourself, if you won't even bother, then I'll do it for you," Hermione hissed.
There was no threat in her words — her voice was laced with iron conviction. It was a promise.
Draco's eyes flashed with rage. Something dark and deadly lurked just below the surface.
He started to rise, but it was too sudden a movement. His breath hitched and he fell back to the bed, chest and entire body spasming with a coughing fit. His face was white as he pressed his lips together, jaw clenched with pain.
The moment broke.
Instantly, Hermione was at his side once more. She grappled for another dose of pain relief and anti-convulsant, and hastily pressed it to his lips. Draco accepted it but stared up at her distrustfully all the while, his entire body tense. He couldn't relax.
His eyes never left her face.
In them, she could see a flicker of uncertainty and panic.
There was a faint sheen of sweat upon his clammy skin. His chest raised and fell a minuscule amount as he panted to catch his breath, trying to breathe shallowly to avoid another coughing fit.
Staring down at him, Hermione could feel nothing but heartbreak.
The rage and anger ebbed away, absorbed seamlessly by the frigid room.
All that was left was tenderness in her heart.
Hermione pressed her trembling fingers to Draco's brow, gently wiping away the sweat. She brushed back his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, letting her hair fall like a curtain, that hid them both from view.
It felt like a reprieve.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered.
Her breath was warm, in the tiny space.
It felt like the only human thing in the room because surely, she wasn't human anymore. There was nothing human in how she felt.
She closed her eyes.
She could feel how tightly Draco held himself. He couldn't relax, not until—
"Promise me, Granger. Promise that you won't wipe your own memories," Draco said in a low tone. His voice was rough.
Hermione nodded once.
"I promise."
She felt him slowly, finally, begin to relax under her. The tension melted out of his body, melted between them.
He could breathe again.
They didn't speak of it.
The end, that loomed ever closer.
But she could see it in his face every night.
She could feel it in his touch. How his hands brushed across her stomach, her chest, her entire body, trying to memorize it. How his grip upon her was nearly painful at times, as if he couldn't let her go.
If he held on, maybe she would never be taken from him.
Hermione willed herself not to cry.
She made herself stay with him in the present, in the moment. As his lips captured hers and his eyes stared into hers; so adoringly that she felt her breath catch each time.
There wasn't enough time.
There never would be.
She forced herself to stay awake long after Draco had fallen into an exhausted sleep. She held him in her arms; pressed gentle kisses to his face.
Brushed away the lines of stress on his forehead.
She tried to stretch out each moment, to savour it on her tongue.
Every second with him was the sweetest, was heaven on earth.
Every second with him was equally bitter and torturous.
Every second with him was dust in the wind; their remaining time was dwindling, and their days were truly numbered.
Everything was more beautiful because they were doomed.
Draco leaves in the morning on her final day before the Anniversary. He presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her in his embrace and for a moment, Hermione wants to beg.
Don't leave me. Take me away. Take me with you.
She stays silent.
The embrace lasts a long time before he finally, reluctantly, tears himself away.
Her fingers twitch to reach out to him, to grab him and never let go, but she curls her hands into fists to fight back the urge.
"Be safe, Draco," Hermione whispers. She gives him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
His own lips twitch in response, and he gives her a slow nod. Something flickers across his expression for a moment; something like pain and vulnerability. He looks young again, younger than he has in a long time.
There's longing in his eyes. He looks at her as if he might never see her again; there's a wildness there, and impulsivity. He wants to grab her and run.
To hell with Voldemort's wards.
To hell with the Dark Mark.
They could run away forever, together. It didn't matter. Anything was possible.
Hermione's breath catches in her throat as she stares up at him. She can almost see every future of theirs in his silver eyes. A cottage in the countryside, a brownstone in the city. The two of them together, always.
Her hands reach for his sleeve and then—
It flickers. The emotion shutters in his quicksilver eyes.
It's gone.
He doesn't indulge in it.
Instead, Draco straightens his shoulders and leaves. He casts one last desperate look at her, as if memorizing her.
And then she's alone once more.
Hermione whittles the day away.
She sits in the window seat and watches the sun span across the sky. Her eyes close and for a long time, she simply feels the sensation of warmth on her skin. The days were growing shorter, and every ray of sun is dripping in honeyed tones.
Soon, the leaves would fall, the earth would slumber under a blanket of pure white. The landscape would grow empty and blank, the trees bare.
She wonders if they might bury her on the Malfoy Estate.
When spring came, would flowers bloom upon her grave?
Would Draco visit her?
The tight sensation of tears pricked in her nose.
Hermione opened her eyes again to stare longingly outside. She took in every detail of the grounds, of the trees, of the perfectly clear blue sky.
In the distance, she saw the hedge maze.
Rowle's blood would fertilize the soil. The grass would grow lush and vibrant, feeding off his remains.
She watched the calm scene, feeling nothing but emptiness, until the light grew blinding and gold, then weakened.
In the late afternoon, there was a quiet knock at her door.
Hermione turned and watched in mute surprise as a house elf entered. She recognized it: a small, wrinkled female form, wearing the usual array of linens and tablecloths instead of clothing. She had never drawn Hermione's attention before, but she held it now.
Her hands were wrapped in bandages.
Red was seeping through the cloth.
"Miss Hermione is to— is to attend to Miss Narcissa, before the dinner, and then you is to go to dinner together," the elf whimpered. Her bandaged hands were clutched tightly to her chest, and Hermione watched in horror as blood smeared across the front of her makeshift linen toga.
"What's wrong with your hands? What's happened to them?" Hermione whispered, rising instantly from her seat. She walked unsteadily to the elf, who shrank back.
"Miss Bella was— was displeased," she whispered. "The Anniversary is to be held here and the estate is not looking to— not looking to her standards, not grand enough."
Hermione reached out trembling fingers, but the elf scurried further away.
"'Tis no matter," she squeaked — her hands shook again, and smeared blood across her front. "You must comes with me, please!"
She could do nothing but nod faintly.
Hermione followed the elf across the house, trailing behind her.
She hadn't left her room in days.
All around her, she could see the change in the manor.
The walls looked darker, more drab. Spiderweb cracks spread throughout them — as if the foundation beneath the home had shifted. The gleaming candelabras and sconces upon the walls, which had once lit up every room and hall with blinding light, were somehow muted.
They could not keep the darkness at bay.
There was a thicker darkness at play now.
It cloaked the home. It stalked them through the halls.
Hermione could feel eyes upon her as she walked but every time she turned and peeked around, there was nothing there.
It was the darkness itself that observed her and tracked her.
It wanted to swallow her whole.
For the first time in memory, Hermione felt relief at seeing the double doors of Narcissa's bedroom. The house elf that had accompanied her departed at once, her bloody bandaged hands clutched to her chest.
As Hermione closed the distance to Narcissa's bedroom, however, she realized the door was slightly ajar.
It was open a crack, and voices floated out from behind it.
Hermione stopped in her tracks, uncertain.
She inched nearer, ears pricked for any noise, until the voices were audible.
She could never resist a secret.
Hermione pressed her back against the wall. From this angle, she could peer through the crack and see into the room. It was dimly lit, but the hallway outside was extinguished of light.
Lucius stood some distance away, his back to the door. He faced Narcissa.
"Do you think you're punishing me — do you think avoiding me, fleeing from me, would ever work? You swore a vow to me, Narcissa. You swore you would always be MINE."
His last words came out in a snarl, and Hermione had to clap her hand to her mouth.
There was a flash of silver-blonde, and he had pressed Narcissa into the wall. His arms formed a cage above her, pining her against the wall.
She was staring up at him. Her eyes were alight with malice, and her long, silver-blonde hair seemed to shimmer.
Hermione pressed closer to the door, trying to hear.
"Do you not see the state of our lives, Lucius? Was this the future you dreamed for your son? I wanted," Narcissa hissed, voice growing deadly, "I wanted to escape with him. You refused, and look at us now. Look at this farce of a life we live."
In an instant, his hand was around her throat. He shook her roughly and for a moment, Hermione felt genuine fear for Narcissa. Her hair had fallen across her face. She stared back at Lucius with a vicious glint in her eye.
She gave a flick of her head to shake the hair clear.
Their faces were an inch apart.
Her expression was bitterly triumphant when she gazed at Lucius.
"You've shackled me here, so be it. For as long as I live, and as long as you live, for the rest of our miserable lives … I will loathe you."
Despite the choking grip upon her throat, and the whispered tone, her words were audible even from the hall. The enunciation was crystal clear.
Hermione could hear the hatred. Her eyes widened.
Lucius froze.
"You will never escape me, Narcissa. Never. I will follow you until the ends of the earth. I will follow you into the grave. You are mine," he growled.
He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into the wall once more, with finality, but it didn't matter.
Narcissa had won.
She stared up at her husband with vivid hatred in her eyes, entirely silent. Her mouth was slashed in a sneer upon her face.
Lucius turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door wide open. She could hear his angry, booming steps all down the hall, until they finally faded in the distance.
When she was certain that he was gone and would not be returning, Hermione slid into the room like a silent spectre.
Narcissa was leaning against the wall. She had not moved from where her husband had left her. Hermione could see bruises beginning to bloom across her throat.
Tentatively, Hermione reached for her.
"Do not touch me, Miss Granger," Narcissa hissed in response. Hermione's hand stilled. She dropped it to her side at once and watched as Narcissa grappled along the wall for support, eventually raising herself.
She smoothed the crumples from her silk robes.
Hermione watched as she tried to put herself back together again.
The adrenaline was fading. Whatever rage and hatred she had channelled to reject her husband so staunchly was ebbing away, until Narcissa's face crumpled.
She looked on the verge of tears.
She took a shuddering breath and turned to sit down at her vanity.
Her wand was pulled out, and a few cosmetics were withdrawn from the drawers.
Narcissa began applying makeup with shaking hands, and Hermione found herself drawn to her like a moth to a light. She drew closer until she could see her own pale, haunted reflection.
Narcissa's dark eyes flickered up and their gazes met for a moment. A shiver ran through her.
Narcissa seemed to be scrutinizing her for a moment. Her lips were pursed.
She returned to her makeup, and finally spoke again.
"Not all love is gentle," Narcissa whispered. Her hand trembled as she brushed back her silvery-blonde hair.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her eyes met only her own, as if Hermione wasn't there.
"Sometimes it's gritty and possessive, sometimes it's not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth."
Narcissa's eyes flit back up to meet Hermione's. She felt her mouth going dry, suddenly.
Was her love for Draco careful or soft?
Was it gritty and possessive?
She swallowed heavily.
It felt like teeth.
Narcissa finished applying her makeup, and glanced at Hermione a final time in the mirror. With her hair pulled back and her face powdered, Hermione couldn't tell that anything had happened at all.
Emotion drained slowly out of Narcissa's eyes, until they were flat and dull, and Hermione recognized the telltale presence of Occlumency.
She rose from her vanity and disappeared into the darkness of the hall.
Hermione followed her, with cold dread in her heart.
Their destination was the formal dining room.
The room had been opulent, once. In the span of weeks, Voldemort's magic had tainted it nearly beyond recognition. Paint was flaking off the walls. Every piece of furniture seemed unsteady and aged. The room was drenched in darkness too heavy for candles to permeate.
The long table in the middle seated over a dozen cloaked figures. Lucius sat at the head, with Narcissa taking her place by his side. They did not look at one another, but an oppressive silence between them took the place of words.
Hermione seated herself tentatively on Narcissa's other side, whilst Bellatrix sat across from her sister. Her eyes tracked Narcissa and Hermione's movements eagerly and she twitched with barely restrained excitement. A silver knife was visible in her hand; Hermione watched with revulsion as Bellatrix stared at her and licked the edge of it.
A drop of blood appeared on her tongue, as the knife cut into it. She closed her eyes to savour the taste.
The second that Hermione had sat down, Bellatrix rose with a flourish.
"We gather here," she called out along the table, "to celebrate the Dark Lord! It is because of him, that we enter into a new age of pureblood supremacy, of magical might!"
Her words rang out loudly, crudely into the enormous room. They echoed and bounced off the walls and over-height ceiling, until it sounded like a dozen Bellatrixes were screaming.
Her comrades murmured their agreement.
Bellatrix's arm jerked out. She was waving her silver knife eagerly, gesturing wildly. Hermione shrank against Narcissa, terrified the knife would come her way.
During her speech, the elves had shuffled in with food. Elegant plates of roast quail, bowls of creamy soup, and platters of cheese and delectable bites were hurriedly deposited onto the table. Over a dozen elves marched in, carrying a decanter each, and poured a glass for each seated guest.
The elf pouring Bellatrix's glass was tiny and old. Hermione recognized it from earlier — her hands were in fresh bandages now. Even from across the table, Hermione could see the milky quality of her eyes.
She watched as the elf mis-judged the distance between the decanter and the glass. The two vessels met in mid-air and a crystal clear ding! trilled through the air as Bellatrix spoke.
Bellatrix paused.
Her eyes took in the house elf next to her, who had frozen in fear.
Instantly, her clawed hand had reached out. She grasped the house elf by the thin, wrinkly neck, and hurled her bodily into the wall. There was a horrifying crack that rang through the room as the elf's skull thumped into the wall. She slid silently down.
Blood began to pool under the elf's body. She lay completely still and did not move. Her neck was bent at an odd angle.
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to fight back the sob that was forming.
Bellatrix turned back to the table. She smiled sweetly at them all and continued her speech, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The other elves finished filling the wine glasses. A brave one darted out to carefully fill Bellatrix's glass, while the others quickly and carefully covered the dead elf with a white sheet, and then removed the body.
Hermione could only stare at the background commotion.
Bellatrix's words floated in and out of her conscious perception. There was a ringing in her ears that she couldn't seem to shake.
I am going to die.
I am going to die as easily as that elf.
Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them back hurriedly.
When she had silently regained her composure and was listening once more, Bellatrix was wrapping up her speech.
"— and we toast to the High Reeve! He is not here tonight, but it is through the Dark Lord's greatness, it is through Him, that the High Reeve exists! Draco was a snivelling child when the Dark Lord took him under his wing, when I tortured and Crucio'd him!"
Hermione felt Narcissa stiffen next to her.
Bellatrix smiled wildly at the table, locked gazes with her sister. It was like a wild dog baring its teeth. She slashed at the air with the knife to emphasize her point.
"A pampered, spoiled brat! Honed and sharpened into the finest executioner, the most loyal soldier!" Bellatrix screeched. Her voice had taken on a manic edge; high pitched and dangerous, it promised retribution for anyone that dared challenge her. "Is that not what you wanted, Cissa? Did you not tell me to care for him? Look at your son now! The High Reeve!"
Bellatrix threw back her head and offered a shrieking, triumphant cackle up to the heavens, and Hermione felt Narcissa begin to tremble next to her. She slid her eyes over to Narcissa's face while Bellatrix was distracted.
She was ghostly white.
Her face had drained of all colour. In its place was shock and pure horror.
Narcissa looked as if she was living in a nightmare. As if her world had crumbled apart around her. She stared pleadingly up at Bellatrix, as if begging her to retract her words, but Bellatrix did not look at her.
When Bellatrix's laughter had died down, but her voice was jubilant and ecstatic, she slammed the silver knife down. It landed a hair's breadth from Hermione's hand, and she squeezed her eyes shut with panic.
She tried to school her breathing as the Death Eaters around her cackled and raised their wine glasses.
"To the Dark Lord!" Bellatrix screeched. She jabbed her arm holding the wine glass into the air, and half of it went splashing onto her chest. She did not care — such was her pleasure over the Dark Lord.
"To the Dark Lord!" the table echoed.
"To the Dark Lord," Narcissa said, in a painfully hollow voice.
They began to eat. Hermione and Narcissa alone touched nothing on their plates.
It didn't matter to Bellatrix; her gaze did not flicker once to her sister or the captive.
She had already crooned her victory over Narcissa.
When the dinner was finished, when the Death Eaters and Bellatrix were laughing crudely and raucously about their favourite kills and all the ways they had defiled Mudbloods and blood traitors, Narcissa silently exited.
She walked back to her bedroom, and Hermione had no choice but to follow behind like a shadow.
Her mind whirred at the implications of what she had seen. The exchange between Bellatrix and Narcissa, Narcissa's expression of horror—
Narcissa hadn't known.
She had never known the depths to which Bellatrix plummeted to train Draco.
She might've accepted it and understood it, even, if Bellatrix had done it to lessen the torture on Narcissa herself.
But Bellatrix had done it for fun.
The enjoyment was evident on her face and in her voice as she recounted the time; she relished in it. She had twisted Draco, forced him to the edge each time. Until he was near breakdown.
"A pain relief potion, for the migraine," Draco said quietly. "I had to take them myself after each training session with Bellatrix."
Draco had iron will, and could stomach nearly anything. But Bellatrix had left him curled up and incapacitated each and every time, to the point he turned to potions to relieve the excruciating torture.
It didn't matter to Bellatrix that he was family, that Draco was Narcissa's son.
He was another plaything for her to toy with.
Hermione's mind was made up by the time they returned to Narcissa's bedroom. Narcissa had crossed the threshold instantly and sat down upon her bed. Her entire body trembled as she sat and stared at her hands.
Hermione closed the door quietly behind her and drew closer.
Her heart was beating painfully.
She sat down next to Narcissa, who did not stir.
Hermione stared down at Narcissa's shaking hands, and then reached out suddenly to grasp them.
Narcissa stilled, and slowly turned to face her.
There was a haunted expression upon her face; Hermione had guessed correctly. Her entire world seemed to be crumbling.
The sister she had known since childhood, whom she had loved and valued over her own life, whom she couldn't choose over her own son … had died long ago.
Hermione searched Narcissa's eyes.
She swallowed heavily and licked at her dry lips.
"Narcissa. I need you to erase my memory of Draco," she told her in a low, urgent tone. Her voice did not waver; not in the slightest.
She couldn't hesitate now.
Not when the end was so near. Not when so much depended on this.
She stared into Narcissa's distraught face and let the desperation leak out.
Her throat was tight. Every fibre of her wanted to cling onto him; to never let him go.
But she loved him, and she would set him free.
"I need you to wipe my every memory of him. He's planning to do something tomorrow. He won't tell me what. He's resigned to his own death, because he will never choose himself over me. You need to erase him so completely from my mind, that he could never be endangered."
Hermione could feel her heart pounding heavily. Holding eye contact with Narcissa felt like a death wish; she could feel fear stirring in her stomach, rising through her chest, but she shoved it down.
For Draco.
She would do it for Draco.
Hermione shifted forward. Narcissa's hand twitched between hers, but she ignored it.
Narcissa's dark eyes searched Hermione's face. They flit from eye to eye, as if searching for dishonesty.
Hermione forced herself not to look away. It was terrifying. It was like staring into the blinding sun; every instinct begged her to look away, to get away from Narcissa, but this could be Draco's salvation.
"You need to choose your son, Narcissa. You need to choose him, you need to save him, because he will never, ever save himself," Hermione finished in a low tone.
Her eyes were burning.
Hermione swallowed.
Her love wasn't gritty or possessive. Her love was soft.
Narcissa held her gaze for a moment longer, before something fell apart.
Her face crumpled. It was like watching something collapse in slow-motion. The granite hardness, the stoicism and strength drained out of Narcissa. Tears flooded her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, until Hermione was watching Narcissa weep openly.
Narcissa closed her eyes. She shook her head like a small child, as if begging Hermione to stop; as if trying to deny the reality of her words.
Everything was falling apart around them.
They had reached the end.
Something squeezed tightly in Hermione's chest.
Slowly, she wrapped her arms around Narcissa. Narcissa held herself stiffly for a moment, before allowing Hermione's embrace. She wept, her shoulders shaking with the weight of revelation.
"I'm so sorry," Narcissa whispered.
Hermione stilled for a moment. Had she misjudged?
"Immobulus."
The curse caught her in the back and Hermione pitched forward into Narcissa's waiting arms.