Nothing from the Potterverse belongs to me.


Chapter Twenty-Four: Plans

The two wizards stared down at the bubbling cauldron with varying expressions of unease. Inside the cauldron was a sickly-looking grey mixture; lumpy and emitting a faint, pungent odor, they very much would rather let it congeal there than consume it, if they didn't need it so badly. The tall redhead cleared his throat twice, wincing at the potion's smell, which had taken up residence in his mouth and refused to leave.

"This is mad," he said, shaking his head, and turned back to sit on his cot.

"It's all we've got," Harry replied, turning to look at his best friend.

His rumpled clothing was filthy and torn, as if he had worn those same articles for the past week straight. There was dried mud caked around the bottoms of his jeans and a nasty tear along one knee, and his shirt was so wrinkled and dingy Harry was sure his mother would have set it to flames if she could see them then. There were stains on his chest and stomach; brown and black, and Harry was the only other person who knew those red stains had once been a dark red. Contrary to the appalling state of his clothing, however, Ron's face was clean and still glowed faintly pink from the energy he'd expended in their practice-duel earlier. He'd rinsed his hair and face and the end of Harry's mouth had lifted in a small smile when the ginger had emerged from the bathroom with his overgrown hair tied into a tiny ponytail at the base of his skull. If he grew more muscles and pierced his ears, he would almost completely resemble his older brother, Bill.

Although they had figured out another Horcrux was very likely to be in Bellatrix's vault in Gringott's, they had reluctantly decided to wait as long as possible to retrieve that one. That plan was still in the works (meaning they had nothing), and Harry knew that if they did it now, once Voldemort would hear of it he would know exactly what they were up to. Right now they had the element of surprise, and he planned to keep it that way.

The Polyjuice potion would be ready in two days' time, and so would they. He was burning with anticipation and nervousness, staring at the cauldron relentlessly without being aware of it until Ron would call his attention. They'd gathered from Kreacher and Mundungus that Umbridge had the locket, and had thrown this plan together to infiltrate the Ministry to retrieve it. There was no guarantee it would work, but it was all they had-for now, it all weighed on whether they had brewed the potion correctly. While they had still been staying at Grimmauld Place, they had spent several days hunting around for the ingredients they needed to make the concoction. Many of the basic things had been in Hermione's purse, which he had taken from her room before he left. This saved them more time and trouble, and while he felt guilty over stealing her bag, he would make it up to her. Even though she wasn't there, she was still extremely helpful. For the more complicated ingredients they had had to risk a few stealth trips to Diagon Alley under the protection of the Invisibility Cloak. Ron had suggested they steal the ingredients since they very well couldn't go up and buy it themselves, and leave the money for the stuff somewhere only the shop owners could find it without being too obvious. However, the only money they had was the bit of Muggle money and assorted Wizard currency Hermione had packed just in case, and neither of them felt comfortable using that without her permission. In the end, they had no other choice but to test their skills and use Imperio on unsuspecting shoppers, have them buy what they needed, and they would pick up the supplies and then slip the money (which Harry would pay Hermione back later) into the wizard's pocket while he stood in a foggy haze. Afterwards they ordered the poor fellow to forget the encounter and go on his way, and they apparated away quickly, back to their lonely tent.

They had had to vacate Grimmauld place after a few weeks-the number of Death Eaters standing watch outside had grown considerably and they ultimately decided it would only be a matter of time before they found a way to break in, or worse, one of the two mucked up and let down the wards. Under the darkness of the night they had slipped out, the cloak over their bodies and their miniaturized things tucked safely in their pockets. Casting the strongest Muffliatos they could, they'd apparated away successfully, and as far as they knew, the Death Eaters still thought they were inside.

And so by some miracle so far everything had gone smoothly-except for Ron continually splinching himself, which they'd frantically healed with the essence of Dittany. They practiced dueling and tried hexes and spells they found in the books they'd brought with them, and kept watch on the potion. It was not perfect as Hermione's had been in Second year, but it was good enough and that was enough for them.

If Hermione were here, we might just be able to pull it off without any trouble, Harry thought glumly.

But she wasn't-they continually felt her absence like a severely dealt physical blow. The tent was too quiet without her, too cheerless. They had to remind themselves this was their doing and they had done it to keep her safe.

Harry mumbled something about going for a walk and had exited the tent before Ron even had time to process his words.

The cool, dry air refreshed him and stung his cheeks, but didn't do much for his worried mind. Snow crunched under his feet and he took care not to slip on any ice or go past the wards. Green eyes surveyed the frosted land sprawled before him, the cloudless, colourless sky. On their visits to Diagon Alley he'd tried to find any copy of the Daily Prophet he could get his hands on, not caring if they were old or new as long as he has some clue as to the current events; if those he loved were not in the obituaries. Each time Ron had stopped him.

"It's better not to know," he'd said in a quiet voice. "Let's just end this and then we can go home."

Each time Harry had listened to his best friend and gave up the search although he wanted-needed, to know. Although what Ron said did make sense-he had to focus on the Horcruxes and take them down before he could get to Voldemort-the sooner, the better. It wouldn't help anyone to drown in misery and wonder who was alive, who had been killed. And though Ron wouldn't talk about it, Harry knew he was worried about his family, who was so entangled in both the Order and the Ministry. Harry worried too, so much that it hurt, but he couldn't let it consume him, no matter how guilty he felt about the ones he had left behind.

It was especially hard when those posters stared back at him from nearly every place they went to; his own eyes seemingly accusing him of abandoning Hermione, of failing Dumbledore, among other things. The words, 'Undesirable No. 1" blinked at him in that bold print, almost imprinting themselves into his brain. It was unsettling and even a little frightening to see them-they reminded him of Sirius's posters in Third year. They were very much like the WANTED signs he'd seen on cartoons as a child on the rare occasion he had been allowed to watch the telly with Dudley, though his cousin always sat as far away from him as the room would allow.

If Uncle Vernon could see him now… "Just like the rest of your lot, then," he'd hiss, chins wobbling, "No-good, hocus-pocusing criminals."

Underneath the ransom and the reasons for his wanted capture were two small blurbs of information bearing descriptions and information on Ron and Hermione, who were "under suspicion of being in hiding or travelling with Potter." He had been surprised to see Hermione's name until logic kicked in and he remembered that was what they wanted, what they had planned. If they thought she and Ron were with him then they would leave the Weaselys, the Grangers, and Hogwarts alone, or at least not bother them as much.

It was hard to keep her off his mind when she had already been hiding there for so long and only recently discovered.

Some mornings he'd wake with her laugh ringing in his ears, growing faint even as he tried to bring it back, or the ghost of her kiss fading from his lips. When they ate he could almost hear her admonish Ron for his amusing eating habits or himself for eating so little. When they'd sneak food from well-stocked homes, he could feel her beside him, fretting over whether it was the right thing to do, and while it probably wasn't, neither he or Ron knew what was edible in the forests they stayed in, and even if they did, they'd have no idea how to prepare it for consumption, which was undoubtedly something Hermione would know, he was sure.

When they sat at the scratched up table and gathered everything they knew to plan their next move he could see her, palms flat on the table as she'd pore over maps and the books she'd stacked inside her purse-books he daren't open because they still smelled like her. He talked to her in his mind, asked her questions she could not answer because she was not there.

All this he kept from his best friend. Part of him would have liked to, but he felt it too private, along with the fact that he thought Ron had enough to worry about.

It was getting colder. The sun was sinking below the line of naked trees so that slivers of its weakening light transformed his solemn face into a mosaic of light and shadows.

He hoped she was okay. It would have been too dangerous for her to go back to Hogwarts with Malfoy on the loose. She would be safe with the Weaselys, and perhaps if she was not able to directly help, he knew she would find a way. He wished he was there with her now, even if he knew it wasn't possible. He had to end this first. He would end the war and go home.

And if you die? A small voice piped up in the back of his mind.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun slip from his skin as it slipped beyond the horizon.

If I've got to die, I'll die, he thought. I'll make sure to kill Malfoy and Voldemort first.

Whatever happens, I'll make sure she is safe.


It was curious-how often had she read accounts where someone had lost their spirits just as she was beginning to lose her own? In books and tv dramas she'd watched back home, documentaries and interviews showed cases almost similar to her own where people became ghosts of their former selves or even an entirely different person. At first she had been quite alarmed to find that being in the presence of books brought her no semblance of the comfort it once did. She had spent hours in the library, breathing in the smell, feeling the worn spines of the many books, all to feel no spark like she used to in her past life, for that was what she called it now-Life Before Malfoy). Everything was starting to feel surreal to her, like it was a dream she had woken up inside and couldn't find a way out.

Hermione trailed the pads of her fingers over the glass, blinking when the cold seeped into her skin. Coloured light tinted her skin, turning her into a mess of purples and blues and reds and yellows and greens. If she closed her eyes, she could still see them behind her lids.

The cold raised gooseflesh along her arms, making the fine hairs stand on end. She wished this gown had sleeves, and briefly entertained the thought of asking him for a jumper, but decided not to. It had been several weeks now since her meeting Voldemort. Malfoy had kept up his gentle demeanor most of the time; cradling her in his arms and pressing kisses to whatever skin he could reach, giving her books and flowers and all sorts of strange little trinkets, like the jade elephant that sat beside her now on the window seat, acquired from a brief trip to Asia when he was twelve. She had pretended to be interested in it; turning it over in her fingers and rubbing its glossy surface, but the moment he left the room she had dropped it into the space beside her.

Truly, she would have liked nothing more than to throw it at the wall, or at his head, but that would make him angry, and she didn't want that. If she could avoid it, she did, but try as he might to keep his temper under control, there were times when he flared into a rage at something she might say or do; the way she'd turn away from him when he held her, how she sat like a statue at the dinner table and barely ate; how she refused his attentions and offered him none as well. He rarely beat her-and to him, beating consisted of slapping her around a bit, pulling on her hair, and nothing more. She had seen and heard of much worse, and was grateful this was as far as he got. If he would go further, she never wanted to find out, so she tried not to set him off, though it was still difficult to tell when he was becoming angry. No, he did not like to beat her, but he had a tendency to take his frustrations out on her when they were in bed.

He had avoided having sex with her for at least a week after her torture in his aunt's house. He still held her close and kissed her hungrily as his hands wandered over her body; she would feel his penis hardening and remain rigid in his arms until he calmed and his breathing slowed down, but he never entered her. She supposed she should have known it was never going to last, but it still came as a horrible surprise when she awoke one morning to find herself lying on his desk, all papers pushed to the floor, and him already pushing into her, growling loudly when she screamed and tried pushing him away to no effect.

She had not been ready, neither in mind nor body and unable to speak through her pain, had clutched his arms in a pleading gesture for him to stop-a gesture which he wildly misunderstood as one for passion, and only drove on with more force. Afterwards she had stumbled in her haste to get off the desk and had fallen onto her knees, lashing out at him when he came forward to help her up and as punishment he'd forced her to take him in her mouth, saying all sorts of things that nearly made her vomit, and in that moment she really wanted to just so he would never have her do that again. She'd never done that before, not even with Harry. Fear had overtaken her-she didn't know what to do so she froze in shock. Her first instinct had been to bite, to spit him out, but under the ring's spell she could not harm him, and his grip on her hair held her in place before him so she could barely move until he started barking orders and thrusting into her mouth. Tears of humiliation had blurred her vision and she fled the room the moment he had let her go after he'd finished and made her swallow his hot semen. One second she'd been rising up from the floor on shaking legs and the next she was making herself vomit into the toilet, cleaning herself with the damp cloths Bog offered her.

She'd barely spoken before but since then not once had she made a sound. He didn't seem to mind all that much, really-or if he did, he hid it well. He would simply take it out on her later at night, when they were in bed, or really, whenever he felt like it. She felt each day was like a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse, she had to switch from place to place and hide wherever she could so he would leave her alone. Only she had the disadvantage of not knowing his Manor very well so she lost quite frequently. Sometimes he would haul her all the way back to his bedroom or he would take her wherever she had been hiding, tearing open her expensive clothing and ignoring her shielding hands as he forced himself into her. More often than not this would happen several times a day so most of the time she would be nude before the afternoon. It was too bothersome to try to hold those ridiculous gowns together to cover her completely, but she abhorred being naked around him so she had once made the mistake of wearing one of his shirts. He had gone wild when he had found her, and she learned never to do that again.

She hated her situation, but above all else she hated that she was learning.

How to act around him, how not to set him off, how not to bring sex on his mind (which was futile), how to survive-these were lessons she never thought she'd learn and yet here she was, taking mental notes and taking care not to repeat her mistakes so things would hopefully get better, though it wasn't likely.

None of her learning had done her any good that day, however. Draco had gone off for some reason, and she had ghosted behind him to try to get out of the room only for him to gently push her back in with a wicked smile and lock it behind him as he left, laughing quietly at her agitated fists smacking against the door to no effect.

Left with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, Hermione had sat down at the window seat facing the rest of the room. She had initially wanted to wait for his return so he would not sneak up on her, but facing the bed and its rumpled sheets forced her to turn her head away in shame and disgust. Even though he forced her to share the bed with him each night she always referred to it as 'his' bed. This was the bed in which he trapped her every night in his arms, forcing himself into her or simply lying beside her and touching her in ways he had no right to do. Would things ever go her way, she would cut the mattress open, entangle him in the springs and set it to flames.

She wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there-time had become a foreign concept to her now. The days and nights blurred together, and she didn't even know when exactly which was which since all the windows were covered and there were no clocks inside the place, and she had spent hours looking for at least one. She had tried going back to the glass door in the kitchen only to find it obscured just as the windows were, to her frustration. The Manor was by no means poorly lit, but she found herself hating the artificial lights. This window-her window, as he called it, was the only one that was not covered.

Fat lot of good that does me, she thought bitterly, flexing her finger so that her nail scratched against the glass.

The beams of light that came through this window were weak and contained barely any warmth-they could have been from either the sun or the moon, it was too difficult to tell. Hermione hated these weak beams with a passion. She wanted, no-needed to feel the sun; its heat on her skin. She had to see the moon's mysterious beauty again. When was the last time she had been out in the sun? She wasn't quite sure. She frowned. Was it still December? Or had they already crossed over to a new year? The thought frightened her.

I wonder what's happening outside, she wondered. Have Harry and Ron found any more Horcruxes? Have they found a way to destroy them? Do they know I've been captured?

She hated asking herself that last question. No doubt the Weaselys knew. Were they looking for her, right now? Or did they think she was with Harry and Ron? They probably did. And even if they were looking for her, it would take them a long time to find her, if they ever would.

Which is why it's up to you to escape, she told herself firmly. You can't rely on anyone else right now; they've all got bigger fish to fry.

The only question was how she would do it. Loathe as she was to admit it, Malfoy had outsmarted her with the ring and the wards. He was taking great care not to let her see or hear any mention of what was happening outside the walls she lived in, and she had to admit he was doing a fantastic job since she had absolutely no clue. But that was about to end. The changes in her were scaring her into motion and she was determined not to let him win.


He arrived much later than he had intended, flicking the melting snow from his shoulders and shaking it out of his hair. Blaise had insisted that he stay a while longer once their business was done and they had spent some time talking about nothing in particular until it was suddenly night time and he had been invited for dinner. He had sent Minky, one of Blaise's elves to have Bogg take Hermione her dinner, since she wouldn't be able to go to the dining room. At the thought of his wife still in their room, he quickened his pace and entered the room silently, almost giddy with the prospect of startling her.

His eyes fell on her instantly, asleep on the window seat, arms wrapped about herself in an endeavor to keep herself warm. She was curled up against the pane, her forehead touching the cool glass and her long hair fanned out like a shawl around her shoulders. Draco undressed rapidly, leaving his boxers on and went over to the window, lifting the sleeping witch into his arms and then deposited her onto the bed, crawling in to face her front. With a flick of his hand she was in nothing but her undergarments and the gown back in the closet. He'd expected her to wake at the sudden sensation of being nearly nude but she slept on, totally oblivious.

A frown pulled at her eyebrows and pouted her lips. She did that so often now, he wondered if he would ever see her smile or hear her genuine laugh again. Had she always frowned in her sleep? He thought back to the occasions he'd snuck into her bed before he'd left Hogwarts. No, she had slept with a peaceful expression, brows smooth and lips hinting at a smile.

What demons plague your mind? I, perhaps?

"What do you dream of, darling?" he whispered after he had pulled the sheets up around them. Suddenly it occurred to him to try and delve into her mind and see what her unconsciousness had stewed up for her.

He drew back, shaking his head. It had sounded like a good idea but he felt it was something he would regret later, and when it came to her, he would regret nothing. Not that he was weak, because he wasn't, but he supposed her dreams were very private to her and he didn't particularly care what she dreamt of anyhow. Perhaps she dreamt of the wonder duo, Potter and Weasely. Did she revisit old memories in her sleep? Or did concern for them gnaw at her mind?

He hoped they were miserable, wherever they were.

Although, he mused, if not for them, my plan would not have succeeded. I'd never had got my bride. He smiled fondly at the woman, who was unaware of his presence.

I ought to send them flowers.

A sardonic smile graced his lips and he slung one arm over her hip to pull her closer. The action roused Hermione, whose eyes opened and cleared instantly (to an eerie effect) and she watched him with no expression on her face. She seemed to be waiting for something.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured, pulling the covers up higher to drape over her shoulders. For once she didn't protest, and eager to return to the blissful nothingness of her unconscious, she curled back into herself and slipped back into sleep instantly, as if she had never woken.