Hermione slammed her bedroom door behind her and pressed her back against it. A quick wave of her wand silenced the room. She hung her head, curls obscuring her vision for only a moment before banging her fists surely and swiftly onto the wood.
"Damn you, Draco Malfoy!"
If only she hadn't run into Draco in St. Mungo's.
If only she hadn't married him.
If only her parents had gotten better.
If only Voldemort hadn't cast a shadow over her magical education.
If only Dumbledore had seen fit to help Harry in a more obvious way, or even helped Tom Riddle.
So many things would be different.
But the wishes on her 'if only' list weren't really what angered her most right now. Yes, she nursed a deep desire to change everything and reshape the world, but she lived with those thoughts every day of her life. No, what boiled her blood was how he'd been right.
Draco Malfoy saw her better than anyone else. He knew Hermione believed she could do everything herself, and now he bore witness to her parents' suffering at her hands.
He didn't intrude on their privacy, but she noticed the little things Draco had done over the past few days to make their stay more comfortable. Hermione had even overheard him in the kitchen asking Mrs. Tannenbaum about Muggle holiday decor for their rooms. She'd been so wrapped up in everything that she'd forgotten how little touches like that could make such a huge difference.
How had she lost sight of what got her here in the first place? She could blame Purebloods and Hogwarts professors, but her own pride landed her in nearly every mess she'd ever been in.
When she founded S.P.E.W. as a swotty teen, she thought she knew best concerning the well-being of house elves. She didn't listen to what they wanted, or learn their way of life. She simply decided they were enslaved, whipped up some badges, and marched under the banner of righteousness. Yes, some, like Dobby, desired their freedom. But house elves (like all magical creatures, she quickly discovered) are not a monolith.
Hermione continued despite the criticism and words of caution. She took matters into her own hands, time after time. Other people created obstacles. They weren't committed to finding solutions.
Not like she was.
Ron used to squint at her essays in the dim light of the library like he was searching for flaws. Meanwhile, his own parchment was blank. And Harry, well, he'd beg with his big eyes to copy whatever she'd written. Even then she'd known it didn't really matter if the Chosen One turned in anything legible, but it made her feel important to help him. And it wasn't like she had any other friends.
When she'd figured out they'd be on the run, she needed to be prepared. Book by book, she taught herself darker magic, more advanced potioneering and herbology. She told herself she pursued the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. What could be more noble?
The war ended.
But her mouth watered.
And like the first woman, soon she found herself conversing with a snake. The snake had come before her, bore witness to the extremes one could be pushed to in the name of progress. It curled around her neck like a vestment and encouraged her to climb higher. If her potions became less potent, or her magic more faint, it was her own fault for resisting the darkness that would deliver the most success.
She closed ranks around herself, eschewing the company of even her most trusted allies. They weighed her down when she was destined to ascend. But every time she gave into the darkness, the top of the tree and the promised sweetness of the fruit dangling from it seemed further and further away.
Now Hermione contended with a terrible truth. The snake had shed its skin for her own.
She pushed up her sleeve and ripped off the bandage covering the Dark Mark. Her Dark Mark. She'd given it to herself, after all.
It struck her as odd, now that she thought about it, that she'd given herself the Dark Mark. As far as she knew, there was nothing in the Riddle book about it specifically. And Hermione had only ever heard of Voldemort bestowing the Mark on his own followers, never his followers branding themselves or others. Not that she was a follower, now or ever.
Hermione eased herself into a chair and examined her arm more closely. How had she done it? Her modifications to incantations and potions she got from the Riddle book usually resulted in weaker effects, not stronger ones. And until recently, she hadn't used one of the many dark spells since Australia.
Blaise's composure reassured her that it could be healed. Plenty of Death Eaters had tried to remove their Marks, but none so quickly after it first appeared. If she went back over the spell, she could probably figure out where she'd gone wrong. Blaise could consult as many Healers as he wanted, but she imagined none of them would have seen anything like this, not even during the war.
He was really too cautious, Blaise.
The Riddle book didn't try to maim her as it normally would when she opened it. She shivered. It recognized her. Pages fluttered until they rested on the Resurrection Spell.
For Regeneration
Bone of the father, unknowingly given
Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed
Blood of the foe, forcibly taken
And she recalled the changes she'd made:
For Rehabilitation
Blessing of the father, unknowingly given
Flesh of the beloved, willingly sacrificed
Blood of the self, forcibly taken
Hermione dissected each line, beginning with the blessing. She doubted her father's blessing had done this. He'd placed his trust in her, and she'd intended to regain her power and agency to help both him and her mother.
The flesh of beloved — Crookshanks's preserved paw. It contained bone, but since it wasn't human but familiar, it likely didn't matter. She bit her lip, wondering if she'd strengthened the spell by switching from flesh of a servant to flesh of someone beloved. Servants had meant little to Voldemort, and she could think of no one he would have ever loved. After all, love defeated him, in the end. If she added love to the mix…. Her head pounded.
Lastly, she'd substituted her own blood for the blood of the foe.
Blood.
This was no ordinary dark magic. She'd performed dark blood magic.
It might as well be an Unforgivable.
Hermione threw the book into the other wingback chair as if it burned her. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them into her eyes, thinking back to that night under the full moon.
She'd been slipping for years, feeling less powerful, her wandless magic fading. Judy's desperate plea had her clawing at any scrap of hope, both for herself and for her parents. But this… this was unacceptable. Unthinkable. Irredeemable.
Who says you need redemption? Maybe this is what you deserve.
"No!" The shout tore out of her. Her intrusive thoughts were back. And the voice sounded strangely like her own.
I never left. I've been waiting for you.
She shouldn't keep this to herself. It would be a mistake to become her own experiment. Hadn't she already done enough of this to her parents? She had to stop.
Hermione stood up and paced.
On the one hand, yes, years of experience taught her she was playing with fire if she continued to create her own remedies, whether in spell or potion form. She should temper her impatience; wait for Blaise to consult professionals, and follow their treatment plan. After the Solstice Ball, where she would help Draco form connections with Aurors who could carry out justice for Narcissa Malfoy, she would be free to return to Cyclamen with her parents and cherish whatever days they had left together as a family. And then maybe she'd help her husband in his quest to reshape the Ministry.
But on the other, she could avoid anyone finding out. She could come back to Harry and Ron as a friend who was simply too embarrassed by her past actions and sham of a marriage, not a witch who'd not only drunk from the well of dark magic, but had willingly climbed into the bucket and lowered herself down into its watery depths.
The temptation to hide was too great.
Morning gave way to afternoon, and afternoon gave way to night. Hermione scribbled notes in the margins of her notebook, but no revelation came to her. She rubbed at her temples in short, clockwise motions.
Still, her stubbornness prevailed. She wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of being right this time. Draco Malfoy would eat his words.
She'd fix this herself.
She didn't want to think about what might happen if she didn't.
00000
Draco brooded in front of the fire in his bedroom. Even the window slunk away from him, cowering like a dog during a storm.
"This came for you earlier," Mrs. Tannenbaum handed him a single letter sealed with wax. She stepped back in observance of his mood, smoothing a grey tendril of hair in the midst of a valiant effort to free itself from her chignon. "I know it's none of my business, but how are things going with Mrs. Malfoy? I noticed she still hasn't moved into the main bedroom."
He didn't miss her artful avoidance of saying your room.
Draco pocketed the letter and sighed. "It's only for a few weeks, like I told you. It's fine."
"It doesn't sound fine. And I heard you arguing with Mr. Nott."
"Didn't you say this is none of your business?"
Mrs. Tannenbaum opened her mouth, closed it, but then opened it again. "I know you planned for someone different to be here now. She was supposed to stand beside you, sleep next to you, face the world with your hand in hers. You're worried if you let Mrs. Malfoy in she'll erase Miss Greengrass. But she won't. No one can replace my cousin."
"How do you manage," he croaked. "I don't know how you can stand to look at me, let alone continue in my employ after all these years."
"You knew the truth, and you loved her anyway," she shrugged. "And you didn't renege on the job offer even after she died. It's hard for Squibs out there."
"I wouldn't do that."
"I know."
A silence, shatterable as frosted glass, held for only a few moments before splintering.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Greengrass sought me for many years, and I knew her for only a few short weeks before her passing. She left a lasting impression, to be sure. And I feel confident in saying that she wouldn't want you to be lonely."
She was right. Draco had never moved on, not really. He'd used his wedding vows to shield him from any opportunity to find comfort in another woman's arms. It had been difficult, but not a burden by any means, to be with his wife that one time. He'd tried so hard to focus on the necessary completion of the ritual, tamping down the lust her delicious scent and luscious, soft curves aroused within him.
But now, there was something real happening between him and Granger. Yes, he still lusted after her, but underneath the surface, something delicate and exciting percolated. He'd tasted it in the air just before they nearly kissed. For as much as he held her at arm's length, all he wanted to do was hold her close, for as long as someone like his wife would allow herself to be held. Because she made it clear that not only did she not want him, she wanted no one at all.
Since Astoria's death, he'd freewheeled through the stages of grief. Sometimes he was in denial, thinking she'd walk right through the door after a long day in the garden tending the rose bushes with his mother. He'd bargain for her life, but there was no one to bargain with, because he didn't believe in the old gods (although he took their names in vain on a regular basis). Never had it felt more cruel than to have all the Galleons in the world to purchase something that couldn't be bought. He'd have offered any price to have his mother and Astoria back among the living.
As for acceptance… It was unacceptable.
Nights were dreadful affairs. When he wasn't devoid of emotion, he was climbing the walls. And when his anger curdled to sour anguish, he'd turned to potions. His addiction to Dreamless Sleep would be with him his whole life long, and he was forever indebted to Theo who'd insisted he seek treatment.
Draco abstained. He eschewed. Most importantly, he ceased and did not touch so much as a hangover curing potion.
He was good at adhering to things. Sometimes too good.
He'd been uncommonly devoted to Astoria, but then again, his father had been deeply devoted to his mother. And Astoria trusted him with a secret that required such vulnerability, such faith…. No one had ever confided in him like that.
Draco's heart raced remembering all the things the people who used to be in his life expected him to do, awful things that shredded his stomach, like killing Dumbledore and revealing Harry Potter to his deranged aunt, Bellatrix. He didn't do those things, of course, though at the time it was only because he was a shallow coward.
When Astoria put her faith in him, for the first time, he'd been brave. And that was why he loved her.
But he could be brave again. He'd have to be, or else he worried the gaping maw of loneliness would invite him in, and he'd go willingly, content to be chewed, swallowed, and digested. The only way forward was to starve the beast.
Bravery started now.
"I think there's something there, between Hermione and me. More than our marital bond."
"You wouldn't be this scared if there wasn't," she agreed.
"I'm not scared," he jutted his chin out, but his attempt at lying failed. The woman who'd guided him through the worst of the past few years as a sort of surrogate mother saw right through him, but he persisted. "She's got loads of worries already, and she doesn't need to add a husband to the mix."
"But she already has, hasn't she?" Mrs. Tannenbaum folded her arms in challenge.
"Yes, well," he stammered.
"Take it from me, Mr. Malfoy. Good women don't come along every day. You almost married one, Merlin rest her soul. Another good woman, one of the most infamous and intelligent witches to ever wield a wand, became your wife. You let her go once, when you were grieving and lost."
"I had to let her go," Draco whispered, looking away from his wise housekeeper and into the crackling fire. He gripped the back of the wingback chair. "It wasn't safe. And she hated me. Hates me."
"I don't know about that. In any case, she's here now, just on the other side of that door, and very much alive," Her hand curled over his. "A second chance is the rarest thing of all, rarer than phoenix tears. Will you really let it pass you by?"
Draco fought the lump in his throat, pushing his words past. "I've had more than my fair share of chances, Mrs. Tannenbaum."
"There's a Muggle saying my father used to tell me. 'All's fair in love and war.' I think he meant that anything can happen when it comes to passion. Boundaries will be crossed, continents traversed, second chances issued. We've all seen enough war for several lifetimes, but especially you and Mrs. Malfoy. Who's to say that whatever you think is between you now can't be love?"
When he didn't immediately respond, she patted his hand and exited the room, wearing a smile filled with triumph and hope. Her parting words rang in his mind. Who's to say that whatever you think is between you now can't be love?
It wasn't love, of that he was certain. But it wasn't war, either.
He'd almost forgotten about the letter. Draco brushed his thumb over the coin of wax embedded with the Goyle family coat of arms. He sliced through the top of the envelope, withdrew the parchment, and read:
D.L.M.,
Caught wind you're announcing your union with the Mudblood tomorrow. As usual, the Prophet's got it all wrong. You'd never really marry the bitch.
Owl me at Greengrass Manor. We need to meet and discuss the next phase of your plan. Everyone's anxious to get started, but I'm holding them back for now. Better to lay low like you have these past few years and not attract attention until we need it. Smart.
You won't have to hide much longer. We'll make your father proud, mate. I promise.
G.G.
Draco clenched his jaw so tight he shook. Greg had another fucking thing coming if he thought Draco would ever meet with him again, especially after the previous ambush. He crumpled the note and threw it in the fire. He needed to have a good long think, and that called for a hot bath.