Reverse

by Lady Moonglow

Hermione is unexpectedly swept into a dystopian world of opposites where Dumbledore reigns as Dark Lord and Muggle technology and the Dark Arts have revolutionized Britain. A Light wizard resistance led by Tom Riddle and the Malfoys has been left to a nightmarish fate. Can Hermione, posing as her darker incarnation, help save a world more shattered than her own? HG/DM

43. Shake It Out

A/N: To anyone who may find sexual or traumatic response topics triggering, please be aware that the middle of this chapter touches upon content of that nature. (Sorry to disappoint, ladies and gents, Draco and Hermione do not have sex.) This chapter is dedicated to all those who've managed to find the most beautiful expressions of humanity in the most difficult moments of life.

Shake It Out

It's always darkest before the dawn.

-Shake It Out, Florence and the Machine

Inside the Chamber of Secrets, sunlight streamed through small breaks in the early morning clouds. Hermione sat in the middle of the hammock strung between two sturdy olive trees alongside Momento Mori, her dangling legs only just brushing the ground. With her toes, she absently rocked the rope mesh back and forth, back and forth, distractedly skimming through Tribute CV's copy of Eighth-Level Spells for Defense Against the Dark Arts: Theory, Training and Troubleshooting.

Every time she heard footsteps crunching along the Chamber's gravel paths, her gaze quickly lifted. So far only Harry, Pansy, and now Snape had passed by, all making their way toward the central tribute for Riddle's next meeting of the minds. The latter unfortunately noticed her semi-hiding place, smirked, and sent a sloppy salute in her direction.

Hermione gritted her teeth and barely restrained gifting the gloating skink with a scowl. Damn him for a week of unnecessary detention!

A cool breeze gently buffeted the ends of My's charcoal grey leather jacket and faded grey scarf, and she released clenched hands to pull the coat closer around her. She looked down, shifting her current reading material to unroll and flatten the slip of parchment she'd scoured the castle for the night earlier. It appeared to have been ripped from one of the few blank pages remaining in Draco's journal, the script on it unmistakably his, though more scrawled, as if hurriedly written.

— I wish more than anything I could tell you this in person, but this note is all I have, and I beg you forgive me for its brevity.

When I said — What I said to you, before you left — I only meant, if you didn't have to come here and endure all the suffering you have, if you didn't have to be away from everyone you love, I would have gladly spared you that if I could. Not that I wish you hadn't come here at all, or that I hadn't known you. I would never wish that.

This journal and the words inside it are as much your story as they are mine. I was wrong to have kept it from you, and I cannot express how sorry I am for the pain I've caused you for all of it. You deserve far more than a simple apology on a piece of paper, but I hope receiving this will at least clarify anything misunderstood until I see you again.

Whatever I can do to make this easier for you — whatever I can do to earn your trust again — please — know I'll do it in a heartbeat. I realize I've failed you, and I'll never forgive myself for that, but I stand by my word. I will always be here for you. Always. —

It held no salutation nor signature, and for safety's sake, she was grateful.

Hermione traced her fingers over the curled parchment and released a quiet sigh.

Ten minutes earlier, she'd approached Draco's room, more trepidation and nerves turning her stomach than she'd felt around the thought of him in weeks.

He hadn't been there.

She'd checked the library, the kitchen, even the Astronomy platform, and quickly cruised through Tribute A, rather hoping not to run into Tom Riddle while she was at it — she had no interest in having an altercation this morning.

Nothing.

So Hermione had come here to wait. She wondered if Draco was with his father, or Blaise — if he and the latter had been able to make up whatever had so driven them apart. Not for a moment did she worry he was avoiding her. He wouldn't have reached out to her like he had if he didn't want to see her.

Well past one in the morning, she had sat on Draco's old cot in the safe room, reading the journal entries she had frantically ripped through and then thrown away. The pages were filled with Draco's struggles to cope with and stay positive in the face of growing persecution of conservative students — cruel pranks, dehumanizing "accidents", despicable discriminatory rules and hateful segregation that infuriated her and made the taunt of Mudblood in her universe seem nearly harmless in comparison. It also showed moments of merriment that he and his friends had almost impossibly — and possibly defiantly — still seemed to have in spite of it.

Alongside that… he'd written of his dreams of her. Often, he'd record details from them verbatim, along with a rather amusing and surprisingly thoughtful contemplation of the stark differences between the two worlds. Occasionally, he'd express bewilderment at the general bizarreness of consistently having them at all.

Always, his writing seemed to show genuine concern for her well-being, though he often tried to rationalize it.

A few of the passages were still seared into her memory.

'Hermione's singularly the most competent witch I've ever seen, even though the wizarding world is so new to her. It's really incredible — I learn so much from her while I'm sleeping. Yet when I'm awake she doesn't seem to care about learning magic at all. She's someone else completely. How do I continue imagining something so utterly opposite reality?'

'I don't understand how Potter and Weasley can be so blind. She's only trying to show how much she cares. Don't they see that? Merlin, I know they're only dreams, but every time I wake up after seeing her hurt, it… actually hurts me.'

'Hermione attended the Yule Ball as well— with Viktor Krum. I feel strange writing this, but she looked… beautiful. Not strange because she looked beautiful — definitely not that — but strange because of how I feel about it.

Because she isn't real.

She isn't real, Draco.

Merlin's ghost, though — sometimes she seems so alive…'

Hermione's fingers ghosted over the journal's slightly bent cover. Against her better judgment, she opened it and flipped — again — to one of the final entries, the hand and writing clearly more mature now.

She needn't have bothered to read it.

She remembered every word.

'Daphne's sought refuge with me more and more over the past few weeks. It's all been deteriorating to the point that I'm glad to do whatever I can whenever I can for every conservative still here, but yesterday she — she tried to kiss me. I honestly didn't expect it — I had thought after the last time she would've known. Pansy all but accosted me when she found out I turned her down again. I tried to explain, vaguely — Daphne's a lovely girl, really and truly, only it's — I can't —

I can't help but compare every girl to her. I know she doesn't exist, but somewhere in the world, there must be someone like her who does, someone intelligent and kind, passionate and strong, witty and stunning and so incredibly brave. Someone who has the same hope for a better future and drive to help alleviate the suffering of the people around her like I do. And until I meet her, well — the world is difficult enough as it is without having to worry about dating on top of it, isn't it?'

Hermione's breath had stopped when she'd first come across it. In that moment, some of the final remnants of Draco's mystery had slipped into clarity — every gentle touch with unspoken intensity, every unfathomable gaze with inexplicable depth from the very moment they'd met. Simply contemplating it again simultaneously kindled something at once terrifying and calming inside her that she'd never experienced before and didn't fully understand, like a dangerous, unpredictable gale blowing wildly over the most tranquil lake.

She hugged the journal to her chest, staring at the knee-high, gently waving grasses lining the channels of the Chamber. The immense pain and loneliness she'd felt in this place only two days ago had all but vanished. From the lingering hurt of Draco's withholding the truth, Hermione knew she still needed time to believe in her bones she could trust him again. But if her only choice was between allowing their relationship to disintegrate and allowing what had been broken to try to be fixed, there was no choice.

In a world where precious little else made sense, she couldn't imagine moving forward without this Draco Malfoy at her side. Even if the idea of the connection between them, and the strength of his to her, was almost overwhelming.

BANG!

"—shouldn't fall to him!"

Through the olive branches, Hermione saw the front door to Momento Mori bust open. Lucius hurtled out of it; a moment later, Bella Black all but sprang down the steps after him, grabbing his arm to pull him to a stop. Hermione automatically stiffened, then breathed through her nose and reminded herself that she was fine. She was relieved when no other knee-jerk panic response followed — the confrontation Friday really must have been curative.

"Who else then, Luc? You?" the dark-haired woman demanded.

"Yes, of course me, Bellatrix!" Lucius crossed his arms over his chest, deep distress lining his face. "Neither of us can do proper magic at the moment! What difference does it make if it's him or me who goes?"

"The difference is that the world, and your and Cissy's home, has changed drastically since you were last in it. We already know that study will bend to him, but we don't know it will for you. Believe me, I'd much rather go myself than send either of you into that lion's den unarmed! But there isn't—"

Lucius's gaze shifted past Bella then, landing on Hermione's half-hidden form through the leaves. "Ms. Granger," he said abruptly.

Bella spun around, looking about as wary as Hermione felt, so much so that Hermione momentarily considered swiftly ducking down over the Eighth Level spellbook in a futile attempt to pretend she hadn't been eavesdropping.

She swallowed hard and stood awkwardly, shifting her few books beneath her arm. She slid a bit to the right so she wasn't completely blocked by a tree trunk. "Good morning," she greeted cautiously.

Lucius gave her a strained though genuine smile and inclined his head politely. "A pleasant morning to you, Hermione," he said, though his voice was tight.

Bella simply stared at her as if Hermione were a mysterious and potentially venomous reptilian species she hadn't meant to encounter on this particular trek through the forest, which to be honest was a much better reaction than Hermione had been expecting.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she shifted nervously. What had Bella meant about sending someone into a lion's den unarmed? Given the context, she had a sinking feeling they were talking about Draco…

"I, erm— wasn't trying to overhear your conversation, but I couldn't help but notice… something may be wrong?" she inquired carefully.

Lucius's shoulders sank in a heavy sigh. "I pray nothing will be," he said quietly at the same time Bella said, almost too brightly, "No, no, nothing wrong."

The elder Malfoy quickly sent his sister-in-law a deep frown, while she immediately clasped her hands behind her back and cast an exaggeratedly pensive gaze toward the sky, as if trying to hide the fact she'd spoken aloud at all.

Shaking his head slightly, Lucius returned his focus to Hermione. "Please forgive my abrupt departure, but I must retrieve my son." He presented her with the smallest of bows and a slightly sad smile. "I… daresay he'll be tremendously glad to see you, Hermione. Excuse me."

Concern rooted within her as the platinum-haired man disappeared around the side of Momento Mori, enough that she unhesitatingly turned a sharp, questioning gaze to Bella. "What does he mean, retrieve him?"

For a moment, Bella looked behind her, as if she didn't think Hermione was actually talking to her. When it became evident she was, she took a chary, single step nearer to Hermione's position in front of the hammock. "Luc — Lucius — he's, er—"

She coughed once, clearing her throat. Was she nervous? Hermione wondered in disbelief.

"—he's a bit worried about Draco, is all. The next offensive has evolved to prominently feature him, which I can honestly say none of us expected."

Hermione's heart skipped an uncomfortable beat. "The next offensive?" She gripped her books more tightly. "Feature him how?"

Bella inched closer, some of the caution slipping from her voice. "Oh, a bit of subterfuge here, some slight of hand there — your usual intelligence gathering operation. I'm not fully sorted on the details; you'd best let the Master and Commander explain it at his conclave."

She blinked in disbelief. "Draco's still recovering and without magic, and you're sending him on an intelligence gathering operation?"

The older witch waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, Draco… I've dragged him along on so many of my Sovereignty scams that in any other life, I'd've said he was born ready for this, whether or not those devil birds have that particular manacle on him." Her expression shadowed. "If only it weren't for…"

When she trailed off, Hermione's brows lifted in concern. "For what?" she asked more sharply than she'd intended.

Bella's gaze snapped to study her. "You aren't planning to stay narked at him, are you?"

"Who… Draco?" she asked, a bit ruffled by abrupt shift in topic. When Bella nodded, she shook her head. "No… of course not. I wanted to talk to him as soon as I got here, but I can't seem to find him."

Her last words she emphasized pointedly, but Bella either didn't catch or ignored the hint. Instead, she let out a short breath, leaning a shoulder against the olive's gnarled bark. "Thank Merlin. I don't think he'd be able to bear it if you were." She pulled a squat white pack from her pocket. "I'd offer you a cigarette, but I assume you don't smoke."

Hermione shook her head, a bit struck dumb from the almost bewildering oddity of it — she and Bellatrix Black, discussing her romantic relationship and smoking beneath a tree that symbolized peace.

"Awful habit. Picked it up from some Muggle streetwalkers in Taipei. I should try to quit." Still, Bella lit one up. Today she wasn't wearing all black, but an asparagus green button-down blouse with a drawstring neck and dark navy trousers tucked into the same combat boots she'd worn yesterday. Though clothing certainly didn't make the character, in this case it honestly did help lend her a drastically different look than Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Did the bitch get what she deserved?" she asked suddenly.

Hermione glanced at her, startled. The hooded-eyed witch wasn't looking anywhere near her, and was instead assiduously watching a tetchy-looking Blaise enter Tribute A.

Still, there was no question about who she'd meant.

"She deserved far worse," Hermione said acridly, looking forward again. "But she finally met the unpleasant end of a proper spell, yes."

"Good."

Hermione blinked in astonishment. Of all the responses she would have ever expected from Bella Black after their meeting Friday, that hadn't even been one of them.

Slowly, she felt herself begin to relax.

Perhaps working with the madwoman's doppelganger wouldn't be such a nightmare after all.

She tensed again as the door of Momento Mori reopened. This time, Riddle emerged, alone, and headed straight for them, looking as impeccable — and implacable — as ever.

"Bella," he said, the slightest edge of gravel to his normally euphonious voice. An unspoken exchange appeared to briefly pass between them before he turned to Hermione. "I owe you an apology."

Hermione gaped at him, then she realized what she was doing and managed to force her open mouth shut. She lifted her chin, crossing her arms. "For what, specifically?" she said, voice hard.

Beside her, Bella chuckled, shoving herself off the tree. "Right then, I'll leave you both to it, shall I?"

If Hermione had known that by arriving early she would not only be unsuccessful in finding Draco but be forced into a one-on-one with Tom Riddle, "apology" or not, she would've made every effort to appear at 9:00 on the dot.

Speaking of…

"Won't we be late to your meeting?" she asked caustically.

Riddle's lip tugged slightly to the right. " 'Late's a rather relative term. It's my meeting; I hardly expect it'll start without me."

Beside him, Bella actually snorted. "Arrogant sod. This is why she doesn't like you," she muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Hermione stared at her in disbelief, memories of Bellatrix Lestrange's worshipful blatherings about "the Dark Lord" and "our Master" ringing in her ears.

Bella suddenly seemed to find her visible incredulity incredibly entertaining. "Told you, didn't I? On your team," she said, gesturing at her with a half-crooked grin. "Anyway, I can tell you're a decent sort. You like cats."

There was a decent possibility Hermione may have spluttered in astonishment.

"Bella, a moment—" Riddle said abruptly as the wild-haired witch turned to leave. He leant toward her, speaking in a low voice Hermione couldn't discern over the constant rush of water.

The amusement immediately dropped from Bella's face. "Right. Should be finished brewing by tomorrow evening," she said grimly. She nodded toward Hermione. "According to my sources, they'll be reconciled soon, at least."

All thoughts of dragging out the longest, most painful apology Riddle had ever given anyone in his 70-plus years vanished from Hermione's mind. She knew they were talking about Draco, and she would have interrupted to ask again what they meant when a flash of white jerked her attention to the far side of Momento Mori, the one Lucius had approached minutes earlier.

Father and son emerged from behind the building toward Tribute A, their stride stilted and heavy, as if they were walking through knee-deep sludge. Beside his father, Draco's head was bowed, his arms wrapped across his chest and shoulders as concave as if the weight of the entire globe sat condensed upon them.

Suddenly, his steps faltered.

Haltingly, his face turned slightly toward the thicket of olive trees where Hermione, Riddle and Bella stood. The wave of lank platinum hair that cascaded over his scarred cheek slipped aside, and his hollow silver eyes met hers.

Hermione's throat closed in horror.

Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, contrasting starkly with his ghostly pale skin and the muted gray of his high-necked jumper. His already sharp cheekbones were even more etched, as if he'd forgone nourishment and sleep for weeks. Only a few times before, during the most horrific days of his imprisonment (that she had witnessed, at least), had Hermione seen him appear as broken as he did at that very moment.

Distress surged through her. Her feet stepped toward him before her mind had even registered she'd moved, but Tom Riddle suddenly cut in front of her, his voice low. "Hermione, in the coming days Draco is going to need you more than ever, but before the meeting begins, I must discuss with you what I already have with him."

Hermione gritted her teeth, trying to look around his towering form. In the momentary interruption, however, the two willowy, aristocratic men had resumed their tired walk toward the tribute, Lucius's hand on Draco's slumped back, the elder man's gait just as heavy.

Dread filled her veins. "What are you asking him to do?" she cried.

"It's not only Draco I'm asking. It's you."

She froze. Her attention shot back to Riddle's face; he looked down at her, his expression solemn.

"Is the Unbreakable Vow part of this?" she asked icily.

Riddle let out a breath and shook his head. "No." He rubbed his forehead. "My experiences have made me detached and cynical, Hermione, and for that I am sorry. That demand came from a disenchanted man who should have never forgotten a far more powerful magic already binds you to our defiance."

Hermione stiffened. Her hands clenched into fists. "What's that, exactly?"

For a moment, he looked down, slowly twisting something on a righthand finger; Hermione only briefly saw the flash of a golden ring before his gaze returned to hers. "The same magic that bound me to it, decades ago, and has never died since." His gaze bore knowingly into hers. "The love in your heart."

As quickly as it arose, the aggression drained from her body. Peia and Harry's laughter echoed in her mind, and the magnificent Eastern dragon Patronus of the night before glowed as bright as if she'd conjured it again.

She couldn't fight him about that.

"I believe Draco told you a copy of the plans of the magical apparatus that extracted the conservatives' magic is kept in Arthur Weasley's study?" Riddle asked.

When she nodded, still deeply unsettled, he continued, "Until fifteen years ago, Weasley Hall was, and had always been, Malfoy Manor. Like a wand, that allegiance does not switch so easily. With or without magic, the House still considers the Malfoy family its true owners. During Draco's imprisonment there, it was discovered the house would favor him, granting him access to rooms otherwise protected by security devices and allowing him to unlock other Estate Magic the Weasleys never could."

The dread coursing through her extremities spread to her lungs and chest. Aside from a single third-year History of Magic lesson on the intricate magic woven into the very foundations of the manors of the wizarding world's oldest families, and a glossing over of it in Hogwarts, A History, the complex subject of Estate Magic had otherwise been reserved for the N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration, Charms and Ancient Runes courses. With the war, Hermione hadn't had the opportunity — or seen the urgent need — to learn more about it, and now she cursed that fact.

Though she hadn't the slightest idea of how Riddle expected to pull it off, one thing was very clear.

"You want Draco to return to the place he was brutally tortured for nearly two years?" she whispered.

For the first time, she noticed how exhausted Slytherin's heir appeared. "By the time this defiance peaks it will require extraordinary measures from us all, Hermione. Yes — I've been informed the Second Viceroy's annual holiday gala will take place at Weasley Hall in less than a fortnight. You and Draco will need to attend the event as My Evans and the youngest male Weasley. Once there, Draco can breach the study's defences and you can replicate those plans… so we can determine how to neutralize the effects of that machine and begin to end this once and for all."

---

The war table had expanded to seat nine.

Insulated between Pansy and his father, Draco sat numbly, staring at the curved edge of polished wood directly in front of him. The hollow sounds of low conversation echoed in his ears, amplified and incomprehensible, like a submerging ocean wave.

His head pounded, courtesy of little less than two hours of sleep. Something primal and irrepressible pleaded with him to run, to bolt from the conference room, to hide where he could never be found and simply lay down and fall apart… but he knew he couldn't, not now, not when so much was expected of him — no matter how desperately the engorging deluge of panic inside him writhed and beat against the walls of his mind to escape.

He had to get through the next hour.

Only one blessed hour…

Draco didn't need to see or hear her to sense her presence enter the room behind him, and his heart began to race. He gripped his hands, swallowing hard, and ducked his head as if that could somehow help him disappear.

An icy sweat began to soak through his shirt.

He forced himself to focus on breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

It was a skill he'd had no choice but to perfect as a House-Wizard.

He felt more sick when he heard her pleasantly greet Blaise, who didn't greet her by 'Granger' but by her first name.

Shame flooded him. How desperately he wanted to make it right with her, with Blaise, with everyone he'd disappointed… but the feeble light he'd fought through binds and blood to keep flickering alive inside him even at his very worst had all but extinguished, trapping him in a poisonous loop of darkness and self-degradation that he couldn't see beyond.

Couldn't breathe in…

His empty chest burned, and Draco gasped in a soft lungful of air.

Once again, he desperately tried to concentrate on his breathing as Tom began the meeting. It appeared Aunt Bella and Blaise had already been brought up to speed on the Defiance's members and proceedings, because after a brief welcome, the resistance leader plunged directly into the specifics of the plan to infiltrate the Weasley estate he'd already proposed to Draco that morning.

It had been a devastating blow to his deteriorating mentality, but Draco had had a choice.

They could potentially send his father instead, equally disguised, Riddle'd said, if Draco thought returning there would be too much to face too soon. The risk, however, was greater — in the worst case (but certainly not low-odds) scenario that an impostor in Ronáld's body was detected, Draco's presence had a better chance of being passed off as a sloshed My's vengeful prank on the Weasley family, no matter how terribly inappropriate.

Lucius's presence, however, would point directly to a revived plot of insurrection, and bring with it the full wrath and investigative powers of the Phoenix.

Without more than a few beats of paralyzed silence, Draco had committed himself to playing the part, no matter how much his father had pleaded with him to reconsider.

"Right. Sound plan in theory, but you've a minor problem. The Weasleys aren't terribly keen on our family at the moment," said Evans, all posh ease and assertiveness, once Tom had finished sketching out the scheme. "I'm starting to get on with Ronáld alright enough again, but I highly doubt invitations to their party of the year will be raining down on Gramione's or my head anytime soon."

"Gramione?" Hermione echoed distastefully.

"You can't seriously expect me to start calling you what Potter did, can you? You'll start gazing adoringly at me like you think I'm him again."

"I didn't gaze at him adoringly," she huffed under her breath.

Beside him, Draco heard Pansy muffle a small laugh, and he knew she must have been delighted that Evans and Hermione seemed to be getting on better.

Tom cleared his throat, presumably to centre their attention. "From what I understand, Hermione managed to sever her relationship with Ronáld on fairly… fertile grounds for future revival," he said ambiguously after a moment, at which Snape chortled. "Hermione, you'll need to pretend to reengage with him so you'll be invited. If you find we need to use the Untraceable Imperius Curse to help convince him, we will."

The minuscule contents of Draco's stomach abruptly heaved upward in his chest. He jolted slightly and desperately clenched his jaw, his eyes lifting to Hermione in worry.

Her expression was disgusted, her lips pressed together tightly in clear displeasure, but she gave Tom a rigid nod of agreement.

Draco quickly lowered his head, swallowing back another wave of bile at the thought of her ingratiating herself again with a sadistic monster that Draco knew only too well.

In, out… In, out…

Pansy hesitantly raised her hand.

Tom nodded at her. "Pansy. Yes."

"Perhaps I'm — not entirely familiar with this sort of thing, but… if we're already going to use the Imperius Curse on Ronáld, can't you just direct him to open the study and retrieve the plans? Or— Or even the Ponc— I mean, Percy, for that matter! Draco — none of us— Well, without magic, what if he's asked to cast any spells while he's there?"

"That's a risk we must take. A performance of magic is something Hermione may subtly assist him with if necessary. But sending in another Weasley is unfortunately out of the question: the room — and the blueprints — are protected by magical-recognition security technology, accessible only by the Second Viceroy himself."

"But they'll let Draco pass?" Pansy asked in astonishment.

"Old Estate Magic, my dear," Lucius spoke up, though his voice was taut with emotion. "Even decades later, the Manor has remained faithful to its rightful owners, not ignoble savages who had no right—!"

Draco tensed, and his father's speech halted abruptly.

After a beat of silence, he said stiffly, "Forgive me, I'm afraid I'm… rather out of sorts, this morning, it would seem."

"I doubt any of us find your previous statement in need of forgiveness, Lucie," Bella said quietly, her voice sympathetic.

Slowly, Tom continued, "Indeed… Lucius is correct. I expect Malfoy Manor itself will prove to be a valuable ally. From what Draco's told me, it responded favorably to him during his time there, and possibly may have staged a minor rebellion in the…"

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, urgently trying to block the flood of images and sensations this discussion was triggering.

Of course, the attempt only conjured the memory immediately.

In one moment, he was lying, broken and discarded, on the floor of one of Weasley Hall's opulent guest bedrooms. In the squeeze-tube tumult of a House-Wizard apparition later, he was sprawled on the ornate, red and black patterned floor of a long ebony-paneled hallway he hadn't seen before.

The sound of footsteps sent a shudder through him; since his imprisonment, every little sound had become painful, resounding deafeningly through his—

Abruptly, pain exploded through Draco's already throbbing skull and neck as someone grasped a handful of his hair, yanking him upright. He found himself facing an ornately carved, metal-enforced black door, a large Weasley crest that appeared to be made of solid gold inset at center.

"Open the door! Open it!"

Draco recognized the Second Viceroy's furious voice immediately.

Raw fear pierced the numb refuge into which he'd temporarily descended. If he'd learned anything in the last two months, it was that whatever was through the door would likely bode very poorly for him; fighting panic, he lifted his chained, shaking hands toward the handle —

Draco heard the sound of another man chuckling as Arthur Weasley slapped his arm away. "No, not that, you idiot Fusty—" He violently wrenched Draco up higher and shoved him against the wood, pressing his face and hand flat to the door. Hot breath seared against his ear. "You will speak with the Hall and order it to release its treacherous grip on my study."

Draco's eyes began to sting with bewilderment as he listlessly stared ahead. He hadn't any blessed idea of how to begin to proceed with that Order — of what the man was talking about at all. He tried to remember how to form words; when he did, the faint, raspy voice that left his lips sounded like a stranger's. "I-I don't… understand—"

Like an explosion of shards of glass, excruciating agony ripped through his entire body, though Draco's throat was so hoarse any scream it elicited couldn't have been anything more than a high-pitched whine. Seconds or hours passed before the blinding pain faded. When it did, he was slumped at the foot of the door, wetness dampening his cheeks.

"You'd think the tradition-clinging fools would have taught their degenerate offspring more about their own heritage," the other man commented somewhere behind him.

"Resource-sucking scum didn't want to dwell on all they'd lost, I'd wager. Blast it, I've no idea how to proceed with this if this useless sludge—" a nonverbal hex struck Draco's shoulder, "—won't obey his Master!"

The now-familiar scorch of an eruption of boils crawled across his skin like a slow-moving, smoldering fire. Draco choked in a breath, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. Weakly, his fingers twitched outward, his pointer and index only barely brushing the door's cool surface.

Please, he thought. Please open…

A hard-toed boot connected with his side, and Draco gasped as he felt something snap. "Do you hear me, you grubby little—!"

The resonant thuds of a multitude of shifting bolts echoed above them.

Impossibly, improbably… the door swung inward and open.

Draco stared at the gilded expanse before him in anesthetized disbelief, his side throbbing in pain.

"Ah." Immediately, the Viceroy sounded placated. "Now, was that so very difficult?"

He was magically flung inside. The side of a black leather armchair arrested his flight, and he collapsed to the floor.

He didn't have the strength to move from the crumpled position in which he'd landed.

Two grandiosely-robed men passed him without a second glance.

"Filthy animal — filthy estate," Viceroy Weasley muttered vehemently.

A progression of ornamental lamps dangling from the centre of an arched, beautifully carved Gothic ceiling illuminated one by one as the Sovereignty officials traversed the surprisingly immense length of a rectangular room filled with sofas, chairs, and a long table, its wood-paneled walls lined with books and gadgets.

"We renovated the Hall from top to bottom," Weasley continued. "Brought in a bloody Estate Magic specialist from the continent. Nothing for it — it's kept resisting us. Little did we know that'd be pittance to what's happened since we acquired that albino bonebag. Mucking Hall's been interfering with my security experiments, directly disobeying our commands — and now taking entire rooms hostage! I tell you, Amos, I'd have considered burning the whole place to the ground and building over from scratch if it hadn't been such a generous gift from Our Grace…"

"Arthur, I had no idea! How positively vexing. I've heard a few of these integrated estates have been all but impossible to control. Rather fortunate thing for me the last Shafiq met his end during the first intervention; I believe I recall Amelia mentioning the only way to completely root out the problem is to eradicate the Estate's previous bloodline entirely."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. But then the Viceroy spoke again, and his abrupt, macabre hope for a mercifully quick death disintegrated.

"As much as I'd be utterly delighted, we both know that isn't an option now." He sounded greatly displeased by this. "No matter, the drudge ships to Hogwarts in a week. As I was saying, His Grace has asked me to draft plans for a drastically scaled-down Extractor. Given the original's immense success thus far, I imagine an eventual international market may become a possibility. It goes without saying that your Unbreakable Vow extends to this discussion…"

Draco drifted in and out of consciousness as their conversation continued. Eventually, his crusted, swollen eyes cracked open to see, through table legs, a tall, ruddy-cheeked man he vaguely recognized as the Minister of Muggle-Magical Technological Integration sitting across from the third most powerful wizard in the country.

"—engineer it that way," Amos Diggory was saying. "I'd need to review the blueprints to determine if that's a possibility."

Weasley stood. "That, my friend, can be arranged."

"Oh, splendid. You've them here?"

"Of course I have, and the Phoenix." He crossed to the very farthest end of the room, stopping at one of several intricately engraved dark walnut panels. "Five years of labour alongside our Sovereign, the most brilliant mind this country has ever seen… that exquisite beauty's my pride and joy, Diggory."

The red-headed man waved his wand in a slightly complex, circular motion around the panel. It must not have worked, because he frowned and repeated the motion.

Nothing happened.

"Damn it all," he said with misleading calmness, as if simply commenting on weather. Then he slammed his hand against the wall, and his voice raised to a bellow. "Now the blasted vaults!" He spun toward Draco, his wand extended. "Cruci—"

"Is that right, Draco?" Riddle said abruptly.

Draco jolted from his waking nightmare, scrambling to remember what was being discussed.

Estate — Estate Magic. The Hall — rebelling.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. He realized his hands were shaking, and he clasped them tightly. "Yes, it is."

"That must have made the Weasleys extraordinarily angry," Hermione said so quietly it sounded less like she was commenting to the group but speaking intimately to him.

Draco swallowed rapidly to keep himself from vomiting. Memories of curses and hexes, of slow-working poisons, of knives and degradation and terror and shame whirled around him and he couldn't — he couldn't look at her, could do nothing but stare at his white-knuckled hands and give a rigid, wordless nod.

They'd been so, so angry.

At the estate.

But mostly at him.

In, out… In—

Unexpectedly, a hand touched his arm.

A shudder wracked his entire body, and he jerked away from the contact.

He looked up, his heart racing… into his father's horrified eyes.

"Oh Draco, I'm so sorry!" Lucius murmured regretfully. "I didn't think… I only meant to…"

Draco's face burned. He dipped his head and choked in a soft breath. "No," he croaked faintly. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper. "No, I— I'm fine…"

He was certain his father saw straight through the lie.

Abruptly, he was again gripped by the irrational, blinding urge to flee, and resisted by gripping the arms of the chair to keep himself in place. He forced himself to continue breathing.

Surely this would be over in only a few more minutes… Only a few more minutes…

"So we get these blueprints," Blaise said, entering the otherwise ongoing conversation for the first time that meeting. "Then what happens? Say you managed to return our magic… No one has wands. We're all mostly isolated, or separated in small groups. Even if they're simple to break, we're still tethered to the House-Wizard Regulations Bureau through these leads, aren't we? We'll be easy pickings!"

Tom actually smiled. "Not necessarily. But let's address those hurdles as we reach them."

"In other words, you haven't got a clue," Snape said. "Delightful. We're risking life and limb for a regime-toppling scheme you're making up as you go."

"Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, tight pants," Bella snapped at him.

"Right now, the only thing that matters is ensuring our next step is an unadulterated success," Tom said firmly. "The plan's remaining details must be nimble enough to adapt to what we learn about the Extractor and its location. There's no point in attaching ourselves to particulars if those particulars will likely change." He paused. "Now, we've a few things left to cover here: Harry has informed me he and Hermione have something to discuss with the group, and we'll need to break off into assigned tasks. But before we do, there is one last matter that must be mentioned."

In the momentary silence that followed, Draco lifted his eyes to Tom in horror. Was he going to announce Draco's interstellar connection with Hermione to everyone — now? Some part of him knew it would need to be shared more widely eventually, but to have it happen before he and Hermione even had the chance to talk more directly about it — to smooth things out between them…

The resistance leader, unsurprisingly, seemed to read his thoughts, because he shook his head at Draco almost imperceptibly, then turned his gaze to the rest of the table. "The second half of the prophecy," he said slowly, "has come to light."

Draco's lips parted. His gaze swiftly lifted toward his father with surprise and concern.

"You remembered!" Pansy exclaimed excitedly.

Lucius gave Draco a weak smile before looking past him at his friend. "I did at last, Pansy."

"And you're alright?" Hermione asked — for which Draco was immensely grateful. "I know from my own experience sometimes these flashbacks are… Well, they can be rather overwhelming."

Lucius nodded. "It was a bit disconcerting, but largely painless when it came down to it, especially considering the… methods used to attempt its extraction in the past," he added gingerly. "Thank you for your concern, Hermione."

"Good god, will you mawkish lot save it for the after party? I cannot be the only one here who's waited long enough to hear the final words of a pompous knobhead." Snape had leaned forward, his raven-like face impatient and eager. "Well? 'The joined' what? Who're the chosen wielders of this mythical power?"

Draco held his breath and prayed again… this time for Hermione to be spared this fate.

Tom's expression was unreadable. "Unfortunately," he said, "it is, as ever, unclear." The powerful wizard lifted his hand. "Unless these words hold deeper meaning to one or more of you than they do to me."

A column of silver script again rose in the air, less ethereal in the cloudy morning than they'd been in the sunshine of two weeks earlier.

'Beware, you who hear:

The day of eclipse draws ever near.

Before you breathe your last, you will see the Ancient Ones' Magick restored to the earth, succumb beneath the luminous red nova at the heart of the firebird's power, witness magic stand still before your very eyes and experience death itself turned backward.

The strength of the Source will manifest at the joined—

— those of the purest intention, marked as the least and united at the depths of the greatest despair. For only through the least can might be crushed with naught, and naught snuff the exploitation of the most sacred and ancient gift.

After a silence, Pansy ventured, "It sounds… rather displeased, doesn't it?"

"Irked prophecy, delighted prophecy… all I care about is the prophecy seems to favor us," Snape commented, looking pleased. "If anyone's doing any exploiting of the sacred, it's our local Sovereignty juggernaut."

"Though we can assume nothing about these words is what it seems, I found the multiple instances that could possibly be construed as clearly referencing Sovereignty or conservatives heartening as well," Tom agreed.

Harry scowled. "Why can't these ruddy things ever speak plainly? What the devil does it mean, marked as the least? And might crushed with naught?" He snorted dubiously. "Believe what you want, but sounds to me like this whole Divination nonsense has been for naught."

"Hard to tell with the middle bit still missing," Blaise pointed out — probably the single-most civil exchange the two had ever had.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that overtly obvious statement, Zabini," Snape said with a roll of his eyes.

"Really? You'd take points from your own House?" Bella demanded.

"If it was deserved."

"Deserved! Slytherins were at so much of a disadvantage that it was never deserved," she sneered. "Yet another reason the Sovereignty fancies you enough to employ you; you're the least devoted Slytherin in the history of the school!"

"Well now, how fortuitous for me that I don't give three knuts about your puerile assessment of my character, Blackbeard. Why exactly is it necessary you be here, again? Can't you Portkey back to the last alley you prowled out of and find a different tomcat to mate with?"

"Yes, that segment was spoken during Trelawney's flight through the air, no doubt," Tom said to Blaise, leaning back in his chair and twisting his head slightly to better survey the prophecy himself. "Which does mean the missing section can't have been terribly long."

The flurry of sniping and conversation buzzed distantly in Draco's ears. He stared, motionless, at the silver words.

The least.

A clear memory of Hermione gently taking his hand, pushing back his sleeve and lowering her scarred arm beside his flashed through his mind.

Fusty.

Mudblood.

Both of them, marked forever by those who believed them the lowest of wizardkind.

After he had transferred her through bloody universes with a wish he'd made when he'd been lying near death; thought he could no longer go on.

United at the depths of the greatest despair.

Something plummeted inside his chest.

His heart lurched, then began to beat so rapidly he felt faint.

Fighting another, nearly overpowering wave of nausea, Draco's rapidly narrowing vision shifted from the floating prophecy to the woman sitting just beyond it.

Through loops of silver script, Hermione was already staring straight at him, her eyes wide. For one awful, wonderful moment, her gaze held his, filled with unspoken weight.

He knew instantly she'd made the same connections as he.

Draco tore his gaze from hers, struggling to refill his lungs and panicking when the effort met with decreasing success. Disjointed thoughts tumbled through the chaos inside his head.

It was his fault.

He had brought her here, to this war-torn place where it was now virtually confirmed she was to face an entire despotic empire — alone. Even if the prophecy was meant to be about the both of them, what could Draco do but drag her down? Sweet Salazar, if only — if only he still was what he'd once been: a sound mind, an unbroken body, a ready wit and a competent wizard.

But he wasn't.

He didn't have a drop of magic inside him, couldn't even sit through a simple gathering without teetering toward a complete breakdown; he'd been shattered so many times that in the piecing back together, only a deeply scarred, damaged shell remained… He — he was an utter mess. And now… to see her return to the house of hell where they both had… both had been… had been—

In that instant, every nightmare Draco had been trying so desperately to simultaneously hold back and hold together for weeks and months and years violently ruptured from the fractured dam within.

In a raging cascade of repressed memories, of terrified emotions and horrific violations, he was swept away with it.

"Prepare yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, because this next House-Wizard's going to be a red-hot commodity. This ignominious specimen needs no introduction— one need only see this blight of blond hair to recognize the last monstrosity of one of the most malignant Fusty broods of our time. I expect many of you in this very room are keen to help us keep this subversive parasite permanently on its knees, am I right? Starting bid 5,000 galleons. Do I have 5,000 galleons?"

"No matter what's to come, my darling, you must never lose your smile. You must fight to keep your beautiful spirit alive. Promise me, Draco…"

"Open your mouth and keep it open, ye' scuzzy son of a slag! Didn't your mammy and her punters ever teach you any worthwhile skills? No? Oo, this mean I'm your first? Have to make this do extra special, then, won't we? 'ey, Finnegan! Weasley! C'mere!"

Draco stood abruptly, so quickly his seat nearly overturned.

He felt every eye around the table turn toward him, but he couldn't bear to meet a single one of them.

Instead, he did the one thing he'd either been denied or denied himself for almost three years:

Fled to safety.

The first loo was two floors down; Draco crashed inside, lurching toward the toilet and retching into it before his knees even hit the floor. The lush room swam around him in a dizzying vortex, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it, clutching the porcelain as he struggled to inhale.

He began to tremble uncontrollably.

He was drowning.

"Oi — you lot! Who wants to make the Fusty pay for the right proper bollocks its dirty kind's put us through our whole lives? Anything, everything — it's a ten-galleon-a-minute deal!"

"Oh, yeah. Every last one of your pestilent rabble, nice and dead in a field in Bulgaria. You might as well have killed 'em yourself, giving 'em up like you did…"

"I'm hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I'm a Mudblood! I've got no higher position under this new order than you have! It was me they chose to torture, back at the Malfoys'!"

"Ugh, you're doing it wrong, you vestal twat. Merlin, shouldn't you plebs know how to pleasure your superiors properly? Get this through your pasty head: Lips and tongue do shite if you haven't got the proper stroke and rhythm…"

"Keep your mouth shut! Last I checked, dirt hasn't got a voice!"

"Their voices aren't important, Draco. The only thing that matters is the love we have have for ourselves, our family and friends, the people around us…"

"Look here, cunt — I've brought you a present. Little something I whipped up in Potions today, just for you. D'you know what it does? Tell you, shall I? All the fun we've had together since your manky lot was crushed — this beauty'll make you relive every second of it. Now, pick it up. Drink it all… I said drink it, you rat-faced ingrate!"

fungus parasite backward stupid traitorous filth disgusting blemish nameless grotesque worthless polluted whore —

A sudden, soft click from behind him sounded like a thunderclap.

Draco flinched and recoiled into himself.

Please be only my father… please…

The slowest, quietest of footsteps seemed as loud as a stampeding herd.

Draco knew from their gait and cadence it wasn't his father.

His insides again lurched upward, and tears of shame began to burn his eyes. He shivered violently, his body drenched in sweat.

"Draco."

Her voice was soft.

Draco choked back bile, gripping the toilet so tightly his knuckles ached. He couldn't lift his head, couldn't begin to look at her, to let her see what he'd become… No, what he already had been, though he'd tried and tried to deny it…

"Draco, please talk to me," she said, slightly nearer now.

Instead of rightful anger, or resentment or horror, her voice was so blessedly, inexplicably kind.

Draco's lips trembled as he tried to form fragmented thoughts into comprehensible speech, but he could only manage to choke out a single word.

"Hermione…"

In a sudden flurry of motion, he sensed her move closer. "Yes." Then her voice was right beside him, as if she'd crouched down too. "Yes, I'm here."

His eyes stung painfully, disbelieving. "I'm — so sorry," he croaked. "I-I brought you here, and — and the prophecy — I— I never meant for—"

"I know you didn't. I know." Very slowly, a slender hand rested gently against the back of his left shoulder, the one touch in his entire world that didn't automatically make him cringe. "It isn't your fault. As much as I detest Divination, it seems whatever this is has quite literally been in the stars." She paused. "We can talk about that later. Don't worry about that now."

Relief, weak but soothing, blossomed beneath her fingertips and began to faintly pulse through him. He sucked in desperate breaths, trying to control his breathing and the nausea still inundating his abdomen and chest like that from the longest, most horrendous Apparition.

"Draco, you don't have to take this assignment to prove anything to anyone, you know," Hermione said quietly. "If your father went instead of you, you know I'd do everything in my power to keep us both safe—"

"No." he shook his head immediately. "No. You know he can't. It has to be me." He scrubbed at his cheeks and mouth, then lifted his head off the toilet slightly to see Hermione kneeling on the smoothed stone floor beside him, dark hair pulled out of her face in a high bun. As her honey eyes wordlessly searched his with a concern he hadn't expected to see directed at him again for a very long while, he forced a weak smile to his face, though his violently trembling hands betrayed him. "Listen, I — I'll be fine. I-I just — I need some time to—"

She shook her head fiercely. "No. Don't do this. You don't have to hide your pain from me with a smile! You aren't fine, and it's okay to let yourself not be! I know how terrifying it must be for you to even contemplate going back there — to — to be reminded of what those vile people did to you! But if you keep those feelings locked up inside you like this, it's you who's going to be imprisoned!"

Draco's violent shaking increased, if that was even possible. Corrosive memories and trauma he had desperately stifled and suppressed for months and years swelled in his brain.

"Oi, what's that you're mumbling? 'Please'? D'you hear that, brother — the white rat's begging for more!"

"Hold up, George, I've got one better — new one I've been experimenting with lately. This one'll actually gut him from the inside out… we'll stuff it back in at the end, of course! C'mon, on three…"

In the dungeon, they didn't even bother to block his screams — or their laughter — of the indescribable pain that followed, and it all blended together in a swirling mess that—

He scrabbled for the toilet and vomited again, even though he didn't think he had anything left inside him. He clutched the porcelain, his throat burning, remembering how to breathe.

He was so cold… so cold…

Hermione's second hand held his shoulder now, the first soothingly rubbing his back. "I know it hurts, Draco," she whispered. "I know…"

But she didn't. She didn't know how far he'd fallen, how worthless, how destroyed he truly was, because he'd tried so hard to make sure no one did. No one knew… except the very monsters he would soon have to face—

Blistering despair pierced his chest like the first ripping spasm of Transmorgrifian Torture.

Draco gasped and hunched low over his knees. Searing pain stabbed at his abdomen, and he clenched his arms tightly around himself, unable to stop the flood of tears that began to stream down his face. Through a muddled, disoriented haze, a single thought began looping over and over.

"I… don't know who I am anymore," he croaked brokenly. "I don't know who I am…"

Arms swiftly wrapped around his back and shoulders, holding him close; a head nestled against the back of his neck.

"Draco, do you— do you remember what you told me that night I completely fell apart, the first time you came with me to the Head common room?" Hermione's voice was somehow tender and urgent all at once. "That when it hurts too much, when it becomes too much… the only thing we have left to do is to let it go?"

Draco nodded blindly, unable to speak.

"Because of you, I was able to walk through that darkness. It was one of the scariest things I've done, but I stepped out intact. It's your turn, now, and you are just as strong as I am. Whatever's inside you, stop trying to control it. Stop trying to pretend it isn't there. Acknowledge it, and release it, so — so it can release you!"

He shook his head and fumbled to grasp words to explain clearly. "Too… Too much…"

Her voice sounded choked. "No matter how much it is, Draco, it's got an end, I promise you it has, and I'm here with you 'til we reach it. I'm right here." She cradled him tighter, the only buoy in the midst of rolling waves and the darkest night. "Just let it go, sweetheart. Let it all go."

For a moment, Draco simply struggled to breathe, floundering against a vortex of uncontrollable panic.

Then, from the starkest, most shadowed depths inside him welled an anguished sob.

As if one more internal dam had crumbled, another came, and then another, violently wracking his body with wave after wave of stifled emotions, sensations, pain — the sort of soul-shaking cries that hadn't escaped him in two straight years of imprisonment, numbness, torture, and loss… such loss.

Draco pressed into Hermione's embrace and wept — for his parents, for her, for a lifetime of Sovereignty-imposed fear and doubt simmering beneath the happiness and humor in which he'd been raised; for the innocence that had been wrenched from him, from everyone he'd cared about and from those he didn't even know; for his all but impossible dreams of professional Healing, for his stolen magic and his destroyed wand, and the empty void inside him that had been left in its wake.

He wept until the flood became a stream, and the stream eased to a trickle.

At last, the trickle ran dry.

---

Slowly, the world rematerialized around him.

Outside, it was raining.

Draco heard water falling noisily on the foliage that clung to the Tribute wall through the open window, despite the dryness of the Mediterranean climate. Along with the soothing sound came a rush of moist, cool air.

He took a deep, shuddery breath, and then another. Against his back, he felt Hermione's breaths rising and falling against him, calm and grounding. Safe.

His eyelids drooped shut, and his head dropped exhaustedly against her arm. It, and the tangible strength radiating through his skin from her presence, wordlessly enveloped him like the world's most comforting, hearth-warmed cloak.

It felt like heaven, and though his knees ached and his throat burned, Draco decided he didn't ever want to move again.

Hermione thankfully made no effort to shift herself, aside from steadily, slowly massaging her thumb in a small circle on his arm, and several minutes of stillness passed.

Finally, Draco felt steady enough to take stock of what remained.

He mostly felt… empty.

And considering the poison that had been filling his veins and strangling his soul for weeks until this moment, that was an immense relief.

"I'm a… bit better, now," he finally breathed hoarsely.

Not… great. But better.

A considerable step above feeling he was about to permanently drown in a raging river of his own memories and pain.

"I'm glad." Slowly, Hermione brushed his hair back from his face, lightly stroking his cheek. "I'm going to get up for a moment, alright? Wait here — I'll be right back."

Draco nodded. Gingerly, he straightened, muscles cramping in protest, and rubbed his hands over his swollen eyes as she stood and moved to the sink — a round bamboo pipe jutting downward from the wall over a stone basin. While she rummaged around the multi-level wooden shelves dangling from woven rope beside it, Draco eased himself off his knees and onto his bum, grimacing as he stretched out stiff legs.

When he looked up again, Hermione was holding out a damp flannel and a cup of water.

"Thanks," he croaked gratefully, allowing the cool liquid to soothe his parched throat before he wiped his face clean.

"I thought it might feel refreshing." She settled back down beside him, holding a mug of her own, though hers was steaming. Her eyes looked slightly red-rimmed. "Hagrid always made me a cup of tea after I felt upset. In your case, I reckoned cold might be a bit more soothing."

She set down the mug and summoned a bar of soap and another towel, transfiguring them into two plush down blankets — green, Draco appreciated, though while his was Slytherin coloured, hers was her favourite shade of it. He didn't hesitate to wrap himself in his appointed one — a chill had set through him as soon as she'd stood — while Hermione continued casting enchantments. Suddenly, the hard stones beneath them were cushioned; the wall at his back became soft. Then she made a face and transfigured the entire toilet into a vase of yellow daisies.

Amusement — unexpected, life-giving, and so very welcome — sparked through him. "You've something against toilets? I hear they can be rather useful on occasion." Though his voice was still gravelly, at least the scratchy pain at this throat had eased.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, tucking away her wand. "That may be, but I'd rather not stare at one while having a conversation with you," she said, pulling the edges of the seafoam green comforter around her shoulders.

Draco's brow furrowed. "So basically what you're saying is you'd find a toilet more enthralling than me."

"No, you ridiculous man!" she laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

The smile that stretched across his face was so wide it hurt. He knew it'd only been days since he'd smiled like this — the last night he'd spent with her, in fact — but it felt like years.

Hermione looked over at him, the residual grin on her face fading only slightly as she released a soft sigh. "Oh, I've missed you, Draco."

He stilled. His smile drooped, and he looked down at his hands. "Hermione — our fight — I — I didn't—"

"Ssh." Her warm hand found his icy one, slipping around it. Life tingled through his arm, comforting and reassuring. "I forgive you. I… felt most hurt about the last thing you said, but you cleared that up with your note… That was lovely, by the way," she said quietly. "Thanks for sending it."

"You don't have to thank me for that, Hermione; the alternative of not sending anything at all was absolutely out of the question." Draco shook his head. "I should have never kept that from you. At the very least, I should've never told Riddle before I told you."

For a moment, she was silent. Then she nodded, gaze resolute. "Then let's both of us pledge to move forward from here with complete honesty and openness, alright? No matter the subject."

Gratitude and relief rushed over him. "Yes. Of course."

Worry crept into her expression. "I don't ever want you to feel unable to tell me something, Draco."

Draco was filled with regret, and he looked over at her earnestly. "That isn't it. It wasn't you. This... This was all my own self-doubt." He gave a disappointed shake of his head. "I should have realized that and taken responsibility for it before it hurt you as well." He sighed softly, then lightly squeezed her hand. "What else?"

Hermione looked startled. "What d'you mean?"

"You said you felt most hurt. What else? There was so much said on Friday, and so much of it could've hurt you… if there's other things I can fix here, I'd like to know."

She gazed out into the zen-like simplicity of the nature-themed lavatory, her brow furrowed. "I know," she began slowly, "things are going to be very dangerous for us in the future… not that they already aren't," she added, turning toward him intently. "But please… trust that I'm here because I want to be. Please don't try to push me back to my world because you think it's better, or that I'll be safer there. Right now, this is my home, and I have every intention of seeing this through."

Draco couldn't deny that he'd considered how he might be able to send her to safety if (more like when) they found themselves in extreme peril. He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then nodded in agreement, though reluctantly. "I've never doubted you, Hermione," he said, interlacing his fingers with hers. "I only… wish you didn't have to go through any of this, is all."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. "I know," she whispered, giving him a small, sad smile. "I wish the same for you, all the time."

For a moment, Draco could only stare at her — at the forgiveness in her eyes a part of him still didn't fully believe he deserved — then shrugged the rest of his arm out of the blanket. He'd hardly held it up in invitation before she slid the remaining few inches between them, leaning into his side.

He briefly closed his eyes at the comfort her presence provided, which he partially credited toward helping him remain rather steadfast when a minuscule bit of his earlier apprehension returned.

"This prophecy," he said. "If there is something to it, and it does mean us, d'you think… d'you think their taking my magic might have impeded our ability to fulfill it? I mean, we haven't exactly been strangers, have we? Legendary power source, crushing might and snuffing exploitation… you'd think we'd've noticed something by now."

He was surprised when Hermione immediately shook her head. "No. It says joined. Joined what, I haven't the slightest yet, but I— I can't believe some all-seeing prophecy generator didn't factor in your loss of magic to that prediction."

Draco's eyebrows raised slightly. "Hermione Granger, putting stock in Divination?"

She cocked her head, casting him a dry sidelong gaze. "If anything, being forced to put stock in it's only made me despise it more. There's no logic to it whatsoever; how can we possibly work with it? But Harry's — Harry Potter's — did play out to be rather accurate, and this one could quite clearly be interpreted to mean us," she admitted reluctantly. "Firenze told me interdimensional shifts require vast astral power. They don't just happen in error. Yes, you may have triggered it, but I must have been allowed to travel here for a reason."

Her confidence was the soothing balm his fears needed, allowing him to insert a bit more objectivity to his analysis. Truthfully, even if he didn't have magic now, if the Defiance was able to recover the blueprints and disable the machine — a tremendously large 'if,' but not entirely impossible, certainly — then there was the chance his magic would return. Perhaps this prophecy was referring to what would come after.

Which served as the tiniest of boosts to his own confidence that both he and Hermione would be able to get through the next three weeks with their bodies and souls intact.

"Draco," Hermione said suddenly, her voice not quite tentative… but careful. "What did you mean when you said you didn't know who you were?"

His breathing stopped.

Then it started again, but it… somehow it remained remarkably slow. Calm.

He hadn't forgotten the absolute devastation he'd felt at the height of his violent breakdown, but he couldn't detect anything like it inside him anymore. Because of her, Draco felt grounded again. His humor, though weak, had returned. He was no longer adrift without anchor in a wild sea, but safe and warm in a Slytherin-green blanket in a lavatory turned exotic spa with the woman he loved tucked beneath his arm.

His tilted his head down at her, his gaze sincere. "Sitting here with you… I remember."

For a moment, Hermione simply gave him an affectionate smile. "That's wonderfully romantic, Draco. But I — I want to know you're going to be alright." Her smile flickered. "Sometimes that pain does happen to evaporate in an instant — that actually seems to have been the case with your Aunt Bella and me. But it doesn't always. With this mission coming up, dredging up memories for you, I'd — I'd hate to see you continue suffering like this."

Draco let out a long, slow breath. His right hand gripped his blanket around him a bit more tightly. "I don't know," he said wearily. Quite a bit of the past morning was hazy, and it was slightly hard to believe he and the unraveling Draco Malfoy who'd woken this morning were the same person at all. "It's been building to this for weeks. I… I think I'm better, but when we're actually in Weasley Hall… when I see them…"

He hadn't the slightest idea if his mind would ricochet back to the psychological nightmare from which he'd only just emerged. And the very possibility of it terrified him.

Something she'd said earlier struck him, and he looked down at her quickly. "Will you be alright, there?" he asked worriedly. "You said… things are better, between you and Aunt Bella, but—"

Despite his vague words, Hermione understood. "I think so, yes. But I imagine the Manor doesn't at all look like it did in my world anymore. And what happened to me there pales in comparison to you."

"You can't compare it like that," he said flatly. "It affects you all the same."

Hermione leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist thoughtfully, her cross-legged pose evoking that of a contemplative Buddhist guru. "Do you know what else helped?" she said after a few minutes. "With coping, I mean. When my world came crashing down here, and I cracked."

When Draco shook his head, she twisted toward him, her cheek still in her hand. "Talking about it. Telling you everything. About my world — what happened to me. Even if you did know all of it already, I didn't know that. I can't even begin to say how much it helped me to have someone else who knew." Her voice became more deliberate — tentative. "To… share that weight with a person I trusted."

Immediately, Draco knew exactly what she was insinuating.

Any blood left in his face drained from it entirely.

He hadn't spoken about his captivity with anyone… no matter how many times Aunt Bella had tried to wheedle it out of him yesterday, and Pansy and his father both had given the gentle, tentative offer of a listening ear. But Draco knew going into any detail would be too awful for his father to bear, and he wanted to spare him the pain that came with being unable to change a past over which he had no control. Draco hadn't even looked at them again himself, at least not willingly — he'd simply shoved them all into the smallest, darkest compartment of his mind and hoped to never think of them again.

Clearly, that had ended well for him.

He stared at the stone floor near his knees.

"You don't want to know everything," he whispered.

Hermione sat up, resting a comforting hand atop his arm. "Draco, when it comes to you, of course I want to know everything. No matter what it is. No matter what's happened to you," she said as if she couldn't believe she needed to tell him. "But only if you think it'll help you. Perhaps if you tell it to — to anyone, really, it doesn't have to be me — your aunt, your father — you can take control of the story. It can be yours, not the Weasleys'. At the very least, perhaps it'll shine some light on it so it can't… lurk in the shadows and rear out at you when you least want or expect it to."

Draco tugged his knees to his chest and hugged them close, his heart racing with shallow thuds.

The wisdom of her words resonated with something deep within him, and he knew she was right:

If the past two weeks were any indication, he couldn't continue carrying this alone. He didn't want to carry this alone.

But he also knew how his family and friends had reacted to only a few of his scars, and their exclamations of sorrow or outrage would only make something of this magnitude more embarrassing and difficult for him to recount. If they knew the extent of the magic and abuse that had caused them — the extent of even more scars, unseen… would they forever look at him with pity, with stares or stolen glances of horror and revulsion?

Hermione wouldn't, a small voice inside him whispered. By this point, she had seen nearly all of him, and she'd never made him feel self-conscious, or any less because of what he no longer was.

What Draco had told her so many times before still rang true:

She really did make him stronger.

And right now, that gave him the courage to meet her blessedly patient gaze.

"Will you… just listen?" he asked anxiously. "Will you promise you won't react?"

For a split second, Hermione didn't respond, though her jaw tensed. "If that's what you need… then yes. I promise."

Draco looked into her eyes. He only saw determination and kindness.

So he told her everything.

He spoke for what seemed like hours, and in reality, it could have been. He described the endless forms of torture, dehumanization, mind games and cruelty, not only by the Weasleys, but by their friends, their enemies, whoever they wanted to curry favor with or whoever had a few hundred galleons and an inexplicable blind hatred toward the Malfoy family to spare. The longer he went on, the more easily words that had never seen the light of day spilled from his lips, like an overflowing pitcher that had been waiting for ages to be tipped.

At times, unexpected feelings, sensations, tears bubbled up at the most seemingly innocuous details. At times he couldn't look at Hermione at all or even speak, let alone breathe or swallow, and when she offered him her hand, he grasped it and never let it go.

It was frightening. It was exhausting.

It was such a tremendous relief.

It was… it was as if by simply sitting with and acknowledging the darkest parts of his past out loud, they no longer remained a hidden shame, crushing and toxic. Instead, they were just there.

As promised, Hermione simply squeezed his hand, offered him encouraging nods and gave the occasionally attentive hm, although every time he did glance at her neutral expression, her glistening eyes were filled with the most emotion he had ever seen within them. He told her how, during the worst, he'd tried to sleep during every moment he was alone because his dreams of her and the memory of his mother helped ward off hellish recollections and constant terror… how they were likely how he'd managed to escape with his sanity intact at all.

"That's why your voice helps me fall asleep," Draco explained. "As long as I heard your voice, I knew you were safe… I knew I was safe. In my dreams of you." It was also why, he believed, his nightmares now were so much worse — they had rushed in to fill the gap of once-steady Universe A dreams that her presence here had created in his unconscious mind.

Uncertainty suddenly gripped him, and he risked looking at her for the briefest of moments before he stared down at their clasped hands. "If — If it—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, "bothers you, my… talking about my visions of you, I don't have to…"

Immediately, Hermione shook her head, rubbing his hand reassuringly with both of hers. "No. It's a part of you, Draco— and me, now. Please don't hide it. Not from me."

Inexpressible gratitude pricked through Draco's pores. He could only give a short, wordless nod in response, rapidly scrubbing at the corners of his eyes before more emotion fell from them. Over the narrative, he felt his long derelict self-confidence begin to find its footing in the knowledge that Hermione knew now, and would understand, and in his honesty with her and with himself in looking at these shadows inside him he was only just beginning to fathom, that it might prevent them from accumulating without escape until they had no choice but to erupt again.

By the twilight of his account, their positions had shifted: Hermione was again curled at his back, her arms wrapped comfortingly around his chest from behind, the side of her head resting atop the back of his shoulder.

A surge of hesitance, however, slowed his words.

Draco didn't know what devastating thing he was so afraid would happen if she knew the very fullest scope of how thoroughly he'd been debased and broken; if she knew that he had been stripped of everything — everything. Perhaps that she wouldn't want him anymore, or at least not all the baggage that came with him… as blessedly irrational as that notion was; this was Hermione, after all.

For a split second, he almost lost his nerve. But by now he'd experienced firsthand the restorative power of this exercise and was determined to see it through to the end, to exorcise every poisonous memory of his imprisonment from his system.

So he told her about the sexual violence, even if his eyes remained fixed on his knees, his words painfully halting and obscure. Of course she didn't do any of the things he'd feared — only clutched at him more tightly as he vaguely described the extent of the assaults; how he'd been so stunned the first few times they had occurred he'd remembered only fragments, only to have the full horror rush back in taunts and in nightmares weeks and months later; how he'd been so repulsed and scarred by the acts in which he'd been forced to participate and in himself that he hadn't any idea of — couldn't even begin to fathom! — how to associate sexual contact in any form with legitimate, soul-affirming pleasure… until his and Hermione's touches had become more meaningful, more sensual a few weeks earlier, and he'd begun to feel flickers of passion, of longing and hope through the usual numbness.

Eventually, his speech organically came to a halt.

He searched high and low in the corners of his mind and found not a word left to say, not a shame or fear from his past still concealed.

He'd faced them all.

His eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly.

Something he never expected to feel at that moment — Something warm, and proud, and— and overjoyed swelled through the vast empty spaces he'd freed within, whirling and dancing and shooting straight up his centre and through his arms and head.

He — He'd done it.

He breathed deeply, and the air that flowed through him had never felt so pristine.

He'd done it—

"Draco," Hermione whispered suddenly, her voice quivering, "all these times I've — I've kissed you and I— I h-haven't even asked if you wanted to—"

Draco quickly looked over his shoulder in surprise. Hermione's slender, dispassionate expression was set by a clenched jaw, but tears were silently flowing down her face.

His chest swelled with even more love, and he hurriedly shook his head, turning toward her completely. "No— No, Hermione! Those were all very consensual. Very consensual," he repeated, and then flushed slightly at the vehemence of his reply. He lifted his hand, regretfully wiping away the wetness at her cheeks with his thumb. "Merlin, I'm so sorry, when I asked you not to react, I never meant for you to… to hold everything in yourself—"

Hermione burst into tears and flung her arms around his neck.

Draco held her tightly as she buried her face against him, allowing her the same honor she had him — to let her emotions flow how they needed. "It's alright, Hermione," he murmured, rubbing his hand in comforting circles around her back. "It's alright…"

"It isn't, Draco!" she cried. "You've had to... t-to endure s-so much, and it's— it's so unfair!"

Tears blurred his eyes. He squeezed them shut, pressing his head against hers. "I know. But it's all in the past. It's over now." Something jolted within him as he realized it was the truth. "It's over…"

Another tangled knot in the rope binding his mind to those memories, that torture, unraveled.

It was over.

None of it was in his present. Not anymore.

Draco's eyes opened, shifting down to the back of the woman who had willingly walked through a hell that was not hers beside him, who had propped him up far, far more than he at this very moment was holding her. He didn't know what he'd done in this life or previous ones to deserve having Hermione Granger in it, whether in dreams or in the flesh, but whatever it was, he doubted he would ever be more thankful for anything in his entire existence.

This morning, his entire world had been crumbling around him.

Now Draco rather fancied he might be the luckiest man on earth.

"Thank you, a chuisle," he breathed against the softness of her hair. "For giving me the strength to get through this."

Hermione pulled back a bit, briefly wiping at red-rimmed eyes. Then she reached up, brushing back the shock of blond cascading over his forehead and cupping his cheeks firmly between her hands. "You brave, beautiful man," she whispered fervently, her chin and voice trembling. "I did nothing you haven't done for me so many times before. That strength is and always will be inside you."

Emotion surged through Draco. He wanted to speak, but he was afraid of what would happen if he tried; he desperately fought to maintain his composure, breathing rapidly.

She wiped her eyes again and sniffed, then clasped his right hand in her own, still cradling the side of his face with her left. "Draco, I don't know what this prophecy about us means, or if it means anything at all. But if it does, we're going to figure out what that power is, and we're going to use it." Her gaze blazed fiercely into his, at once searching for his endorsement and already resolved upon her own. "We are going to make sure what you have experienced never happens to anyone ever again. Anyone. Including you."

Something deep inside him flared and began to burn. Raised under a regime of steady persecution and most recently, terror, it was an oath that in many ways seemed impossible to Draco, but with Hermione he knew nothing was. He gripped her hand tightly. "Never again," he vowed.

She gave a single resolute nod, then tangled her fingers in his sleek hair and nestled the side of her forehead against the side of his. They pressed together in the silence, and in the absolute truth that was now between them, all the fears and nightmares Draco had ever had remained firmly away.

-c-

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A/N: I know this chapter was extremely intense, but by the end I imagine (hope) you feel some closure and stability. Was the prophecy what you expected? Do you think D/H will pull off their mission? How many of you are glad our (possibly) Chosen Two have surmounted this latest hurdle? (Everyone raises hands)

-c-

Footnote: I first used "let it go" in Chapter 16 before the advent of Frozen, so apologies for any eye-rolling its use may have caused now… It was a lovely mantra before it became cliché. :)

Last, but certainly not least, many, many thanks to the truly wonderful betas I have had with me throughout Reverse's long run: Wynteralchemyst, MDominatusP, and Jesusfreak100percent!