Darkness swam in front of his eyes, oily waves over depths of gloom. There was a shape there, below the waters, staring at him with a sinister grin. It was swimming towards him, coming closer, closer…

Closer.

. . . .

. . . .

Draco's vision returned incrementally, and he blinked several times, dispelling the darkness and helping the room come into focus. He was lying on the floor, the back of his head pulsing with pain. Feeling woozy, he lifted a hand to find a rapidly growing lump. His fingers came away sticky and wet, covered in blood. He coughed and then slowly, using the wall for support, got to his feet.

Merlin's fucking gigantic balls… what happened?

The room was in shambles. Knives of morning light cut through the curtains, exposing signs of destruction. The bed had collapsed, cabinets were torn to shreds, and remnants of one of those things muggles watched movies on littered the floor in a thousand pieces.

A whimper, muted and full of anguish, came from a corner somewhere. Draco's eyes snapped towards the direction of the sound. Hermione! Was she alright?!

He found her in a corner, and his chest chest constricted at the sight. Her thin and pale frame was being wracked by sobs. Draco stumbled over, stepping over bits of debris.

"Her… Hermione?" he croaked, his throat dry.

She didn't respond, rocking slowly. Her eyes were brimming with tears, swollen lips covered in blood. She had bit them over and over again.

Draco looked around helplessly, uncertain of what to do. How does one ease such raw agony?

"Hermione?" he tried again.

She didn't respond, burying her nose deeper between her knees.

"Hermione," he repeated a third time, and, gently, as if she were the most precious thing in the world, tried to place his hand on her shoulder.

She gasped and jerked away, cowering in that corner like some mistreated animal in the face of its master's whip. Draco kept his hand, feeling her body tremble beneath his touch. His heart beat a thousand times per minute. "Hermione," he repeated again. "It's ok."

"It's alright..."

He kept whispering her name, slowly, soothingly, feeling her ease with every movement of his lips. Sobs subsided; the shaking quelled. She raised her head with slow uncertainty. Her eyes were blotchy, nose red, and hair tangled into a messy mass. She looked nothing like the girl that journeyed on a wolf, laughing among a sea of stars, or that kissed him with lips so passionate and warm. Few people look pretty under the duress of sorrow. It's one of humanity's great equalizers, uniting those graced with beauty with the many who lack it.

"Shhh," he hushed, feeling the muscles in her shoulder untense one scintilla more. She turned her head, and, for the first time, seemed to recognize him. Staring at him like he was a ghost, she paled and knocked his hand away. Draco backed off, bracing against the wall.

"Oh, God," she whimpered, crossing her arms. Her voice was raw from crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"It's ok, it's just me," he said tenderly. She looked at him, bit her lip again, and quickly pointed a trembling finger at her sweater on the floor. "Can… can you…" she stammered.

"Yeah, of course, yeah." He crawled towards the sweater, hissing when he nicked his hand on a shard of glass. When he returned it to Hermione, she quickly put it back on, and didn't stop trembling till most of her body was covered.

She became quiet then, still. Draco didn't move either. Several icy beads of sweat popped on his forehead. Paling at a sudden thought, he asked, "Hermione… I didn't… I didn't hurt you, right?" His voice rose in volume, insistent and scared. "Hermione, if I did something, anything... if I crossed a line, if I hurt you in any way, I'll… do anything to set it right. Just tell me, all right?"

She looked at him with wide, glistening and mournful eyes. "You did nothing, Draco," she answered, reaching out to touch the cut on his hand. "This was me… I'm the one sorry... I thought I could, you know? I really did. But I couldn't, I couldn't…" She trailed off, her eyes locked onto some spot on the opposite wall. She looked like a broken toy, cast aside by a careless child.

"You mean the… sex?" Draco asked, thinking about the last moments before Hermione had… done what she did. His gut clenched at a terrible guess. "If I pushed you, I didn't mean… we don't have to…" he stuttered and took a deep breath. "You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Ever."

A sad smile graced her lips. "I know. But this isn't about you, Draco."

"Well, then what is this about, Hermione? You destroyed a whole room!" He felt a pang of guilt at the way his words caused her features to twist into a stricken expression, but shouldered on, praying that he was wrong, that there was just some normal reason for why she obliterated everything when they were on the verge of becoming intimate. An ugly, cynical whisper rattled on the insides of his skull, hinting at an unspeakable darkness. With a shudder, he recalled the surprising admission he heard when they had first discussed their mutual attraction at the Ritz, in Paris.

"I don't really know how to act," he had said, "because I've never been in… well… any kind of real–"

"Relationship? A rueful smile tugged at the edges of her lips when he shook his head in agreement, squirming a little. "Me neither."

She hadn't been with anyone since the war's end. Not even Weasley! She had explained it away then, but right now, in the face of her recent actions, the true motivation behind her behavior seemed much more tragic.

It was something he had no desire to even think about, but, looking at the fragments of furniture littering the floor, he had to know.

"Tell me, 'Mione?" he asked, using the diminutive form of her name for the first time. "Did something happen to you? Did someone..." He gulped, unable to complete the sentence. She said nothing for a long time. It became quiet, so quiet that Draco's ears started picking up on the random sounds that usually form background noise: a truck clearing snow on the street, someone walking by their door, the thumping in his chest. Hermione's eyes weren't moist anymore; the tears had dried. She sniffled from time to time, while her fingers fiddled with the hem of sweater. She looked lost, alone.

He was about to try again, when she spoke. Her words were hollow; eyes locked on the past. It was like a part of her consciousness evaporated from their room, transporting itself to a place where a girl had fought for her life, protecting everything she held dear from an evil that had no right to exist… and yet still did.

"It happened... in the last year of the war." Emotionless, her tone sent shivers down Draco's spine. "We were on the run then, Harry, Ron and I, and it was a hard time, Draco. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, always scared of being seen, of getting caught. It… frayed us, in a way. We got on each other's nerves, fought. We scrounged scraps from the forest floor to eat, but it wasn't enough, and we'd often fall asleep with our stomachs grumbling from hunger. It was dangerous, but sometimes we'd break into a muggle residence to steal cans of beans or other unperishables. One week was particularly difficult. Ron hadn't left yet, and we had that locket… We were cold, scared, there hadn't been any food in over two days. Harry and Ron didn't have an ounce of fat left on them, and I suppose I didn't look much better. Skin and bones, the lot of us…"

Hermione gave a wretched smile at that memory and continued, "As if the situation wasn't hard enough, we had a horcrux 'round our necks, and it was tearing us apart. One evening, we started yelling at each other; I can't even recall why now. Ron was bellowing, Harry yelling, and I was… well. I ended up leaving. I needed a breath of air, some time to myself. I stormed away from our encampment, walking forward until I ended up on the outskirts of some settlement. It wasn't large, not at all. The sun was going down, and, in the settling dusk, I saw a neon sign for a small shopping mart, and I thought to myself: I'll just take a look. I'll stroll down the aisles full of bounty, and maybe take just a little. Just something for us to eat, and then maybe everything will get better. We'll be happy, if only for a night. We won't argue, we'll sit and eat, and, for once in a month, we'd go to bed on a full stomach, pretending that we're safe in our warm beds at Hogwarts, and there's no war, no death, and all we have to worry about are Snape's detentions."

Hermione paused, her lips tightening into a straight line. A weary, battle-born fatigue could be traced to the corners of her mouth and the edges of her somber eyes.

"So I did," she said, pitifully choking back a sob. "I went in. I drew some stares: a girl from the woods usually does. Maybe I even had some twigs in my hair, I don't know. But I just couldn't resist. I walked along the shelves, and there was so much food. Peaches, Draco. There were stacks of canned peaches, sugary-sweet. To me, they looked like glimmers of hope wrapped in aluminum and paper. Hope... Whenever I see them now, I want to throw up."

Hermione's fingers were white from strain; her entire body strung out like a tightrope over an abyss. Draco sat, clenching and unclenching his fists, watching fresh beads of moisture fall from Hermione's eyes.

"He came out of the back room," she whimpered, as a salty tear made its way down to her nose. She sniffled and wiped it away with a fist. "Like something out of a nightmare: the door opened, and he was standing there, in his black robes and silver mask. It was just so incongruous – a Death Eater in a muggle store – that I didn't even believe my eyes. I wasn't scared at first. The fear… that came later."

"Hermione…" Draco interrupted for the first time. His earlier resolve to listen had evaporated. He wanted her to shut up, to tell him this was all some great ugly joke, that none of this had ever happened!

But she cut him off: "No, Draco! Please! I want to say this! I need to say this!"

Draco lowered his head and nodded. He had to blink several times to clear his vision.

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. "It was all a flash after that: me, reaching for my wand; his, already out. I'd wonder later: how did he find me? Was there some sort of trace on that place? Was I just unlucky, and did someone see and report me? Or was it one of those 'wrong place at the wrong time' sort of things? I never did find out… He stunned me there, in that store in a town that I don't even know the name of. And then he grabbed my hair and apparated us away. That was when I got scared. I remember that fear: mind-numbing, potent, lead in my veins." Hermione's words were chipped and dull, broken nails covered in rust. "He took me to... it was some kind of cellar. The floor was dirt and wet, mud in places. There was mold on the walls and on the sacks of… potatoes, I think. They were rotten, rotten all the way through…"

She swallowed thickly. "He… he was gloating. Said he'd 'teach a mudblood its proper place.' He took the wand out of my hands, tossed it to the side, lifted the spell. Said he liked it when they fought. And then…"

Draco tensed, a puddle of bile under his tongue.

"And then he raped me."

Distress and dread played in the shadows of Hermione's pale face. A breath knotted in her throat, escaping through a pair of quivering lips. Her hands let go of the sweater and reached for Draco's. He met her halfway. Feeling sick, the only warmth he felt was from holding this girl's hand. This brave, loyal, beautiful girl that endured more in her twenty-one years than any woman – any person – should.

He didn't know what to say. What words could make this right? So he just sat there, silent, sharing a speck of Hermione's pain in the hope that it would help her somehow. Maybe, it did.

A minute passed, and then another. A group of people walked past the door, children stomping their feet against a thick carpet. The adults hushed them and laughed. The carefree sound seemed out of place in the gloom of their room. It was a snippet of life going by. It shouldn't have done anything. But, maybe, it did.

A little color crept back into Hermione's cheeks. Her shoulders stood a little straighter, like, by saying those words out loud, some weight had been lifted. She bit her lip and went on, "Twice in my life I've begged, Draco. That was the first. And neither did me any good."

The Slytherin had no need to wonder what the second had been – he'd witnessed it himself. The Manor; his mad aunt. "What happened then?" he asked hoarsely.

Hermione lifted her eyes to the ceiling and continued in a detached voice. "After he was… finished, he slumped down on top of me. I remember him breathing heavily through the mask. It was the only sound I could hear. I hurt so much, Draco. It burned inside of me like acid." Her features compressed into agony as Draco continued to hold her. "And then he got up." Hermione was spitting the words out with disgust. "He was satisfied. Content. He wiped his dick on the shreds of my ripped clothes, chuckling the whole time like I was nothing. And he looked away. I used that moment. I can't even remember doing it, but I kicked him. He fell; I scrambled, reaching for my wand. Oh, the way he hollered when he realized what was happening! He started going for it too, but I got there first. My hands were shaking so bad that I have no idea how I managed the spell, but I did. I apparated away…"

Draco felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut. He wanted to scream, yell, and pummel his fists into the wall. A coppery taste invaded his mouth – he'd bitten through his lip.

"Who was he?" he bit out harshly, wishing the bastard was here so that he could tear him limb from limb. Death would be too kind for the beast that did this. It had been years since the end of the war, and Hermione was still suffering. Draco recalled a torture technique the Persians had used. The would force feed someone milk and honey till they puked, and then would trap the unfortunate individual in-between two boats on a lake. Tied down, the victim attracted thousands of bugs and vermin that feasted on sugar-coated flesh. Delirious, the person would last for days, slowly descending into madness.

That punishment… that would be fitting.

"I don't know," Hermione whispered. Draco swore. "He never removed his mask. There was only one mark I noticed: a scar on his right hand…"

Draco was about to curse again, when he froze, a terrible thought crossing his mind. It was a memory… a memory of Hermione asking him a question back at the Manor, when he had agreed to a dose of veritaserum prior to their trip.

She paused suddenly, biting her lip. For a split second, uncertainty peeked through her features, but then her determined eyes met his glassy ones and she asked, "Do you know of any Death Eater that has a scar in the shape of a crescent moon on the back of his right hand?"

"No," he answered immediately. He was surprised; she had promised to keep her questions limited to the scope of this investigation. This seemed… personal?

"You never found him, did you?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I checked every single Death Eater that had been caught or killed. Listed through their files... I've been to half the cells in Azkaban, Draco. Ron and Harry called me barmy, thought I was looking for some pity case to exonerate. But I was looking for him. I wanted to spit in his face, rip him apart, and show what a 'mudblood' could do! But there was no match. He was gone. Maybe he was one of the ones that ran away, or maybe he died in some bog, and his body never discovered. Either way, I just don't know."

Draco processed this information, confused about one part. "They thought you were looking for some pity case?" he asked, repeating her words, and then he understood. His eyes went wide with realization.

"They don't know."

He recalled suddenly, when later, after the interrogation, he visited Grimmauld Place. Hermione had provided a wisp of her memories for Potter and Weasley to look at in a pensieve… but she had removed one piece... that question about the scar.

"They don't know," he said again. "Does anyone..?" Hermione started to shake her head again, but then stopped. "Well," she stated, "you do."

Draco hadn't the faintest of how to respond to that. A bolt of lighting from the heavens would have had less of an impact, and it took a moment to gather his wits about him. "You mean… you've kept this all to yourself… for years? Just had it bottled up?"

Hermione shrugged. Her words flowed easier now, becoming more expressive. She lowered her legs, laying them flat against the floor. "There was a war to fight, and I couldn't afford to waste any time crying," she said in a bossy tone reminiscent of her school days. "Harry had nightmares almost every night; he had a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head, for fucks sake! So I cleaned myself up, wiped the blood from my thighs, and… just stashed everything away. And life went on."

"The blood from your thighs…"

"Not the first time every girl dreams about," Hermione joked darkly. Draco stared at her, aghast. Hermione smiled through a veil of dried tears. "It's not so bad now," she whispered.

"Bloody fucking hell."

Hermione shrugged again. "And then the war ended with a round of funerals. How do I talk about what happened to me when Fred was dead? When Remus and Tonks had both been killed, leaving behind a little boy? So, I… pushed the memory away, locked it up in my mind. For me, it became a routine: to pretend it had never happened. That it had been someone else in that cellar. Over time it… got easier."

"Easier…" Draco echoed, lip curling.

She nodded with a tiny, hopeful smile. "It's better now, too."

"Merlin-fucking-dammit!" Draco cried out with helpless fury, slamming his fist against the ground. "I'll kill the fucking bastard. I swear to you–"

Something dark flashed in Hermione's eyes.

"But I don't want him dead," she interrupted in a gravely voice. "I want him mine. You understand, Draco? MINE! I don't want him in some cell in Azkaban or in a fucking grave, I want him chained to a fucking wall, so that every single day I can come to him and see the pain in his eyes. I want to hear him cry and plead and beg, just like I did. I want him to feel what I felt every single day for years, until his sanity crumbles, and he turns into a mindlessly bubbling sac of human shit!"

Hermione ended her rant with a feral snarl. Panting, she took several deep breaths.

"I want to feel free, Draco," she added quietly. "Ever since that happened, I haven't even lived. I've been a walking corpse, distancing myself from any light in this world, too afraid that I wasn't worthy of feeling its warmth. I can't fall asleep at night, too afraid to close my eyes. I'm scared that when I open them, I'll be back there, in that moldy cellar. So, I want to take that fear and pummel it into his broken body. And, then, maybe, I can live again."

Draco looked at her for a long time. Then, he swallowed thickly and spoke.

"I'll help you," he promised solemnly. "I'll get him for you, even if it's the last thing I do."

Hermione smiled. For the first time in years, her soul felt a little lighter. She looked out towards the window. Morning had come.

"We have to be in St. Petersburg by noon," she said. "Anastasia will be looking for us."

Draco nodded but didn't budge. Hermione felt the silence mold around them, as they sat there together on the floor of a wrecked Parisian hotel room.

They stayed still for a long time.