A/N: Back with another update-I didn't want to leave you hanging for too long what with that awful cliffie. Some fall out here and we will be meeting some new additions to the story we've only so far seen mentioned, then the action will pick up once more! I don't know if you guys saw, but I posted another dramione this past weekend, a dark voldy-wins au. I'm trying to decide whether to write for this story, that story, or my new tomione for nanowrimo this year. Thoughts? I can only choose one, so three wip's would be neglected during the challenge in November. Again, thanks for all the feedback! I love hearing from everyone and it's totally keeping the creative juices flowing. Happy reading!

Beta Love to: Carrington Shaw and RooOJoy

Inspiration: Once Upon A December and a big thanks to my pals in the FB group FanFiction for Potter Lovers for all the encouragement! (Ya'll keep me writing like a mad woman!)

Thanks for the follows/favorites/reviews: RunningQuill, LastBornSlytherin, , sleeplygirl, Mistress DragonFlame, Dehaev, I was BOTWP, crisisnotaverted, SlytherinQueen3571, purpleninjacow, Green Eyed Lana Lee, EStrunk, pgoodrichboggs, chibi-Clar, Gingercat55, daswhoiam, mega700201, valentinalondono3597, APeaceOfPie4Everybody011, LeanaM, AnnaOxford, Lindsey, SlytherinPrincessNurse1994 and the guests!


000

"This certainly presents a problem," Barrons remarked, stroking his chin. "Suppose we can go around?"

Thorfinn eyed the gorge speculatively, darting his eyes between the rushing river below and the tattered and ruined bridge, if it could even be considered such a thing, in front of them.

"Well?" Thorfinn said, looking at the Muggle guide. "Is there a way around it?"

It was slightly demoralizing that they had to resort to relying on the local Muggles for help, but they were hard-pressed for an alternative. South New World was largely underdeveloped, unlike its sister country in the north. Like it or not, they had no maps or knowledge of the land, so for the time being, the Muggles would need to be tolerated and used as resources.

The timid man conversed with his countrymen in a language completely foreign to Thorfinn. This also bothered him. It was not preferential for Muggles to have their own secret language magicfolk could not decipher, but wizards had yet to learn the local tongue.

In broken English mixed with a good bit of pantomiming, the guide explained that the gorge was a canal of sorts, and the pyramid of Tikal could only be found on the other side.

The Russian, as the men had come to call the intimidating dark-haired wizard to Thorfinn's left, swore. "If only you English had brought the brooms. I thought you English loved your brooms."

"Yes," Barrons said. "Why did your team not have the fortitude to pack brooms, Rowle?"

"Regrettably, I must take the blame for that." Thorfinn sighed. "I didn't see the need for brooms, not with our Muggle envoy. Side-Along Apparition seemed the best form of travel, at the time."

The Russian nodded. "Apparition would have worked."

"Barrons." He gestured to the Frenchman's map. "Be sure to include that on there."

"The deep trench." Barrons was already scratching away with his quill.

Thorfinn shook his head. "That this is a magical area."

The Russian looked up, surprised. "The locals know about it," he reminded them. "How can it be magical?"

"If we can't Apparate or Disapparate, then it's clearly magical." Thorfinn suppressed a flicker of irritation. As the only Englishman on Riddle's royal mission, he was of course the leader, but that didn't make his job any easier. The foreign wizards despised him, likely for his closeness to the court as well as the favor he held with the King. He had no doubts that if this mission went sour, everyone would be quick to place the blame on him. There was little to no trust with this team, especially with a mission that was doomed from the start.

His mother had been delighted to host King Riddle at Rowle Manor during Solstice season. Indeed, she'd even commented perhaps it wasn't just the Malfoy's and the Nott's who would be in the King's favor. She'd encouraged her younger son to get the King's ear, regale him with tales of his accomplishments. Thorfinn was, of course, no good at such things, but Lady Rowle seemed to make it up for the both of them. She'd spent the evening boasting about her son's attributes, to Thorfinn's chagrin. Of course, when King Riddle presented with his mission, Thorfinn's mother was only too pleased at the opportunity.

With so many senior Court members tied up with various things, it presented Thorfinn with the chance to rise above the other lower-level lords. Truly, it was unprecedented how quickly those in their high-seated positions had so thoroughly fallen from favor. Rumor had it, Zabini and Nott were being subjected to torture to unlock their Obliviation. Their fathers were on thin ice with the King. There was never a time when so many of the King's innermost circle were indisposed in some way. If navigated carefully, this could indeed be Thorfinn's in, but he was not sure he wanted the elevation as much as his mother wanted it for them. The higher one rose, the further one fell. What was more, he saw the mission for what it was—destined to fail.

How Thorfinn and his team were supposed to locate an artefact no one knew anything about—a myth, as far as he was concerned—was beyond him. If he was being honest with himself, a luxury he rarely afforded what with all the skilled Legilimens around him, he would think the King was getting rather soft in the head. He hadn't dared question the King on his entail, of course, but in the privacy of his own home, he wondered how the King had come to entertain such a notion. His only explanation was he knew the artefact was hidden there, a fact that didn't bring much comfort to Thorfinn. What, had the man dreamed it up? He was sure he didn't know, yet he was sent on a wild goose chase to find it.

"The fact that the Muggles were able to walk through this area tells us one thing," Thorfinn said, reaching for his wand and gripping it tightly. "The unknown magic that seems to render our Apparition ineffective is far more ancient than anyone here remembers. This was a land belonging to a lost race. A race that lived among magicfolk and Muggles alike."

The Russian and Barrons both nodded in agreement.

"So what is the solution, then?" Barrons arched a thick eyebrow questioningly.

"Simple charms seem to work well enough," Thorfinn said, calling on his magic and aiming it at a fraying bit of rope at the edge of the bridge. "We'll have to simply mend the bridge."

"That could take hours," the Russian complained.

"It's the only way," Thorfinn said. "Seeing as we seem to sail right by it when on the open water. The only way to bridge the city's wards is by land travel. Whoever built it must have wanted to see who was coming."

"We must prepare for the worst," Barrons said in a hushed tone. "Who knows what jinxes and curses will be waiting for us once we bridge the gap?"

For once, Thorfinn felt on the same page as his compatriot.

000

Draco rested on the ground panting heavily, his mind trying desperately to work out what the bloody hell had just happened.

He'd felt Hermione's magic course through his puffed and likely infected wound like a cooling caress, soothing and healing the inflamed skin with an ease even his Healer may have been proud of. But that was the problem, wasn't it?

She had magic—and that made her his enemy—irrevocably so.

Fuck, he inwardly lamented. She was better off as a bloody Muggle. So many feelings assaulted Draco all at once, he was hard-pressed to make sense of them. Hurt and betrayal warred with shock and disbelief. The insufferable swot had so thoroughly befuddled him since the moment they'd arrived on this cursed island, and now it all made sense. He felt relieved in a way, which was odd when considering the rest of his tumultuous feelings that certainly did not resemble relief, but he was slightly relieved because he had been right. The whole time, he had thought there was something off about Hermione Granger. She had never once struck him as normal. He'd dismissed her as an anomaly, one of a bloody kind, but now he knew there were so many secrets the girl had been guarding.

A fucking witch, living secretly among my kind all these bloody years. How had she managed it? How had she not ousted herself sooner? Especially with her accidental magic as a child...for surely a witch as powerful as herself would have made quite a spectacle with her first display. Draco remembered his first bout of uncontrollable magic, he'd taken out every window in the Manor. His parents had been so proud. What had Hermione, a witch so powerful in wielding wandless magic, done? How had she gone unnoticed? I bet it was lonely for her...not quite a witch, but not quite a Muggle, either, living among them both….

Draco shook himself roughly from his thoughts; he would not feel pity for her. She was filth, so knee-deep in mud it was disgusting. A fucking half-breed. It would be better if she was one or the other, not caught somewhere in between. He had been right before, she truly was an anomaly, because half-breeds were not so powerful, it didn't make sense for them to be. But now Draco's eyes had been opened, and suddenly the weeks spent on the island began to replay in his mind and he began to see things in a new light.

What had been her first display of magic? Probably conjuring fire where he had tried and failed for the first two days. She'd launched into a hypocritical speech about how he shouldn't rule out everything Muggle, but she'd achieved that first feat by magical means, the lying little swot. Or maybe even before that, when she'd happened upon him stunned and floating to his death in the water. That raft had been too convenient and far too unrecognizable to be anything resembling a part of his ship. Had Hermione really used wandless Transfiguration to expand it? The only wizard he knew capable of such a spell was King Riddle himself.

A bloody anomaly. But if the thought was supposed to comfort him, it only served to provoke him further.

There had been so much more she'd done on the island, things she'd been excellent at explaining away. What do you mean, that vine was here, didn't you see it? Oh, these are already dry, perhaps it was the breeze? I don't know why these dresses are so large, perhaps they are made for giants? I found the rest of the twine for the staircase while you were napping, Draco. I swear, you do so love for me to do all the work. I found the shell like this, you don't expect Firecrabs to be immortal, do you? Draco swore aloud. She had taken him for a fool. She thought she could go on as she had in England, living right under everyone's nose like a sodding cockroach, but she'd probably never been in such close proximity to a real witch or wizard. She couldn't keep up the charade forever. Especially not in front of him; he was bound to find out.

What was even worse, what hurt him far more than all of it put together, was that she had bewitched him.

Bloody hell, how she'd captured his interest. Damned seductress that she was. Probably had it all planned out, too. Or maybe she didn't, fuck if he knew anymore. Maybe it was all an accident and she really didn't know how her little quirks and oddities affected him.

That sly half-smirk she was so often found giving him. She'd looked like a real witch, cooking their nightly meals over the steaming Firecrab shell. The way she delicately arched her eyebrow at the end of an argument, not deigning to speak on the subject any longer, but that action in itself spoke volumes. The way she thirsted for knowledge, asked dozens of questions about nearly everything. How she would harp on a subject and then overanalyze it to pieces. He'd come to refer to it as "the-Hermione-way" in his mind. She wouldn't let up until she discovered all she could, or until she succeeded in whatever endeavor she was attempting. It was, he thought begrudgingly, as admirable as it was irritating. She was so inconsistent, a glitch in the system. A bloody impossibility. Someone like her should not exist, yet here she bloody was.

And she'd stunned him.

And he was still lying on the ground a good fifteen minutes later trying to sort it all out.

With as much of an effort as he could muster, he hauled himself from the humiliating position on his back and stood on shaky feet. He needed to clear his head. Dimly aware of his surroundings, he walked to the beach. When he arrived, he divested himself of his shirt and walked towards the gentle surf, relishing in the feeling of the sand beneath his toes. Waist deep in the water, he dove in and started swimming furiously for the horizon. The water cooled his throbbing skin and awakened his senses.

He kept swimming, glad to have some exercise to occupy his mind with. For once, Draco found himself completely at a loss for what to do. If he were back in Britain, there would be no question what the right course of action would be. He would have to summon the Dementors to escort her to Azkaban. But what was he supposed to do here, in this case? Draco couldn't fathom what the appropriate action was. She had been his companion, his partner in this unlikely situation they both found themselves in. They'd built a friendship, tentative though it was, and had started to trust each other. Now he was unsure how he was supposed to act towards her. No wonder she doesn't want us to be found.

Wrapping up his swim, he swam to the far side of the beach before the next cliff rounded, until his feet touched the sandy ground once more. He walked back towards the camp, resolved to do the only thing that made much sense at the moment.

When he reached the camp, he was surprised to see Hermione reclining on a bamboo chair he'd never seen before at the camp. Palms were fashioned above her like an umbrella of sorts, fixed to the ground. They were waving on their own accord, providing a light breeze to the relaxed witch who was sipping what appeared to be mango juice from a shell.

"Look at you, sitting there bold as brass. Using magic as if you were allowed to," Draco said through clenched teeth.

Hermione set her conch shell down, making a show of looking around. "I don't see anyone around to stop me, do you?"

He walked towards the barrel under the stairs. "Taunting me now, are you?"

"What would you rather I do, oh benevolent master of mine? Fall to my knees and beg you to spare me? Plead that I'm not sentenced to the Kiss? Perhaps I can have a nice, simple life in Azkaban and live out the rest of my long, torturous days away from you in peace. Is that what you're hoping for?"

A muscle clenched by his eye. Truthfully, he couldn't say that was exactly what he was hoping for. Reaching the stairway and the stored spirits, he tried to lift the lid of the barrel, but it was stuck. "What'd you do to the rum?" he growled.

"I guess you'll just have to ask nicely," she said, shrugging carelessly.

"Unfuckingbelievable."

He kicked the barrel, and in six long strides, was right in front of the insufferable girl, or rather, witch.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Yes?" she asked expectantly.

"Do you like toying with me, Mudblood?"

"Not exactly, but it seems prudent to set some ground rules between us."

He crouched low, getting on her level, and she shifted her body to face him, blatantly accepting the challenge. That damned half smirk was plastered on her face again and it set his blood to boiling. She was quite sure of herself, wasn't she? Pompous, even. Sitting there as imperious as a queen, meaning to dictate her expectations to him. As if she expected him to simply roll over and take her demands. Fat chance of that happening.

000

"Look here, princess—"

"Yes." Hermione latched onto the word. "That's much better, Malfoy. Why don't you call me that?"

His eyes darkened and he set his jaw tightly. "I was going to say princess of mud. Very fitting, seeing as you're as common as dirt."

She shook her head dismissively, eyes flashing with the promise of retribution. "No, Malfoy. See, you should have stopped at princess. Do I need to teach the inbred Pureblood manners? Because I should inform you, I'd quite relish the opportunity."

"I'm not a fucking inbred."

"That's unlikely. You see, somewhere, somehow down the line, you're bound to have crossed paths with one of the so-called Sacred families-"

"Hermione," he hissed.

"Hermione?" Her smile was sickly sweet. "Tiring of Mudblood already?"

"You seem to be under the impression you can toy with me, that I'll tolerate it."

"But, Malfoy," she said, voice laced with patience. "We both know your wandless magic is shite." He flinched and Hermione wasn't sure if it was from her insult to his magic or the crass word she'd uttered. "Do you want to duel me, is that it? Shall I show you once and for all what I think of others imposing their will on me? You think you're so superior, what with being not only a wizard and a Pureblood, but a man at that? You think you can keep women chained and submissive, serving you demurely, from under their eyelashes?" She leaned forward, her eyes glittering dangerously. "But this woman, this witch, does not wish to be chained. I'm free and I'm staying that way. I quite like it, and I won't allow it to ever be taken from me again."

"I don't know where you get your silly notions from—"

"My opinions are not silly, and it's no secret from where you get your archaic ones."

"I have every right to be angry with you, don't act like you're the victim here. You deceived me."

She guffawed loudly. "Of course I did, what other option was there?" Her eyebrows rose in amusement. "Oh, by the way, dear Captain, you should know I'm an illegal witch who's been living in secret all my life. I hope you don't mind too terribly." She stared pointedly into his startling gray eyes. "You, sir, are as closed-minded as they come."

"And you are as volatile as a wild kelpie."

"Hmph."

"Not to mention, likely the reason my ship was attacked." Malfoy sat back on the ground and she felt like she could breath easier without him being inches away from her. His face grew contemplative. "It was you Potter was after. I heard reports before leaving that ships were being attacked. We didn't know the reason, but it's clear he was seeking Mudbloods."

"Why would he want me?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"How the bloody hell should I know? Probably to bolster that ragtag group he calls an army, if I had any guess. Quite resourceful, actually. I salute the fellow." She narrowed her eyes at his obvious sarcasm. "Now won't you please lift your barrel wards, oh kind-hearted-princess-of-the-Caribbean, and allow me to drink to your would-be-savior?"

Rolling her eyes, she flicked her wrist, casting the spell in her mind. He got up with all the dignity he could muster, straightening his loose-hanging shirt.

"You should have let him have me, then," she called over her shoulder. "Saved us both a lot of trouble."

"No kidding."

When he came back, they drank in silence. The late afternoon giving way to early evening.

He was the first to speak. "I knew there was something more to you than just being a mere Muggle."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." She shot him a look that could only be described as derisive, and lifted her shell in the air. He raised his and they both took another drink. "I honestly don't know where your hatred for Mudbloods comes from, Malfoy. It's not like anyone chooses to be born the way they are."

"The magic you have is magic you bloody-well stole."

She tossed her hands in exasperation. "When did I do this? In the womb, or perhaps as a squalling infant? Perhaps wizards deserve to get their magic taken from them if a mere Muggle infant can rob them so."

"It doesn't matter. You took the magic from ancient Pureblood lines." He narrowed his eyes in blatant disapproval. "And you've clearly taken more than your share."

"I didn't make a conscious decision to take anything, Malfoy," she deadpanned. "And I think your theory is shite. Something we are told since birth to make us believe a certain way, but I wager there's no truth to it."

"That's quite a revolutionary thought," he admitted, and for the first time, she noticed his lips quirk slightly. "But you are full of those, aren't you? Regrettably for you, you happen to be quite wrong."

"Am I really? And you know this how, exactly?"

Draco sighed. "It's a proven fact." He shot her a look filled with pity, as if he thought her weaker intellectually, which of course only served to infuriate her all the more.

"A proven fact?" Her eyes burned hot and defiant. "Or rather, just drivel the royals have fed you over many years to ensure unwavering loyalty from the Purebloods, whilst reassuring them that they're the superior species? It's quite clearly a thinly veiled control mechanism those in power have been known to employ for years. If you convince a select few they are better, you effectively oppress those who may disagree with you and in so doing, control the masses."

Her chest rose and fell quickly and her breathing hastened. He peered at her as if seeing her for the first time. She wondered vaguely if she'd shocked him into silence.

"Honestly, do you even think the King believes it? Not bloody likely. I'm sure he knows full well what he's doing. And the Magical community, with their Muggle slaves and their superiority complex, is far too gullible and too uncaring to notice."

"You're quite the visionary aren't you?" For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of admiration pass over his features, but upon further inspection, his face was unreadable. Not even his trademark smirk was visible. "To say nothing of how treasonous everything you just spewed was."

She exhaled a shaky breath. "Look, Malfoy. I'm not trying to be difficult. I'm just trying to present a view you may not have heard before."

"You certainly accomplished that."

She got up from her comfortable seat and walked to the treehouse, stopping when she reached the stairs. She turned to face him. "I know tensions are high between us, but perhaps you can think on what I said tonight. If you feel you can treat me with dignity and respect, then we can still work together. Otherwise, I'm sure this island is big enough for the two of us."

He remained silent, his face an inscrutable mask. Hermione met his dark stare, determined to show fearlessness, despite the turmoil churning inside of her.

He inclined his head slightly, and she turned around without a backwards glance.

She warded the door shut that night, for good measure. She didn't trust the blond wizard as far as she could throw him and he certainly would not be sleeping anywhere near her in the conceivable future.

000

Drip, drop.

Drip, drop.

Tiny cracks in the ceiling and side of the cave let in sunlight, indicating it was still daylight, and illuminating the bluish purple interior of the cave as well as her ruby-eyed friend, Jack.

Her only friend in this cursed place.

Waves from the ocean inlet lapped against her bound feet like they always did. Always lapping. Always cold. The sun set and the moon rose, then the cycle would commence all over again. And she was there—always present for it. Eternally hungry, but deprived of sustenance. Eternally thirsting, but void of anything to quench her thirst. The desire for her soulmate warred with her insatiable bloodlust, but still she existed.

"It's just you and I, isn't it, Jack?" Her voice came out in a croak she could barely recognize as her own, the sound grating against her ears. She let out a mad cackle that echoed loudly across the cave.

Jack, like always, remained grinning.

"Never have anything to say, do you?" She pouted, setting her lip in a petulant line. "Always content to lie among your treasure, mocking me. You think they've bested me, but you're dead wrong, is what you are. You'll see. I'll show them all, but you I'll show first." She erupted in a fit of coughs, her throat dry and burning.

Raw fury shot through her. How she longed to lash out with her magic. She knew it was just as eager as her to flex its powerful force. If she could only break the ancient binds that caged her, snap the suppressing magic that suffocated her, she could be free of this pitiful state of existence.

She glanced over to her right, where a pebble had fallen on the rock shelf of the cave. It had been the event of the month. She'd spent hours trying to move the bloody thing with her mind. She'd called upon her magic from deep inside, where she knew it lay buried in that primitive place, beyond a mere wizard's reach. She called on it, but it didn't come to her. Her magic was effectively cut off so long as she was warded in the cave and tied with the eternal Fae bindings.

But there was a way—she knew there was. If it were impossible, then how had…never mind. She would not entertain that line of thought.

She struggled against her binds, but they did not yield. She let out a hopeless cry, the isolation so overwhelmingly suffocating, she wanted for nothing more but to die and start all over. She had been careless. Next time, she would not be. She would bloody well get a next time—she always did.

But now, she was bored and so dreadfully alone. There was nothing but her mad thoughts to entertain her. She'd swirled so deep into madness, she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to climb out of it again.

Revenge, she reminded herself. You must go on for revenge. Yes, cold and calculating and so bloody fulfilling. Kill them all. Long, slow, torturous deaths.

The thought brought a ripple of sweet joy through the bound witch.

Thomas will save me from this boredom. We will hunt down those who did this to me and descend our wrath upon them in a fiery green rage. You'll see, Jack. You grin that toothy grin at me now. Mocking me. Always mocking me. But you'll see who has the last laugh.

The skeleton head lying among the golden galleons with one hollow socket, and one gem-clad eye, stared up at her unseeingly.

"You'll see," she insisted, voice raspy. "They'll all see."

Drip, drop.

Drip, drop.

Bellatrix Lestrange glanced over at the stalagmite and wondered idly if it had grown since she'd first been trapped here. Perhaps if she was lucky, it would grow tall enough to impale the cave ceiling and bring the whole bloody place down on her.

000