37.

The next few days were one long nightmare.

Len approached her maybe two days into her captivity while Ciaran was asleep. The half-giant came lumbering over and knelt down – still towering over her – and Hermione swiftly realised what he was planning to do, just as he put his hand over her mouth and indicated for silence, working at his belt. She screamed for Ciaran through Len's hand, panic seizing her, and when he came tearing around the shelving in nothing but trousers with his wand in hand and eyes wide, she actually felt a genuine shudder of relief and gratitude.

He berated Len for a good five minutes, a cold, possessive anger in his manner, and then checked on Hermione, who thanked him pathetically and repeatedly. It was terrifying, but from the possessive way Ciaran had behaved Hermione thought her plan to charm him was working, which was something hopeful. She hated herself for the sickening way she'd been so grateful to him, though. A genuine gratitude, which she hadn't had to fake. It was degrading and awful, and made her furious.

After that altercation with Ciaran, Len left her alone at least – although he still talked about what he wanted to do to her. He discussed doing things to her in graphic detail so often as he sat by the fire, that Hermione grew numb to it. She sat bored, cold, sore, and tired, as Len talked and Ciaran ignored him, a tension building between the two that only increased over the following days.

There was no way to tell exactly how much time passed in captivity, but Hermione suspected it was about four days, but possibly more, because while Ciaran slept four times, Len slept six. And her own sense of time was totally shot. She knew that however long it had been it was taking much longer than expected, because she heard Len and Ciaran arguing about it. About whether the client was even turning up, and whether they shouldn't just consider him a no-show and do what they wanted with Hermione. And what exactly it was they wanted to do, if they kept her. Ciaran staked his claim on her, and Len argued stubbornly that they should share her.

Why either of them were so keen on her bewildered Hermione; it seemed they weren't averse to brutalising Muggle women, and they could have someone far younger and prettier than her. Then again, if it was about power and sadism, looks and age didn't really matter, she supposed. And she was right here in front of them, unlike any potential Muggles. Or maybe she was just a hapless pawn in the struggle for dominance that appeared to be stirring between them; a trophy that indicated which of the two was in charge. Either way, she was stuck in the middle.

Hermione ate and drank very little, but seven times she suffered the horrible indignity of peeing with Ciaran guarding her. It was an ordeal despite the fact that Ciaran had been fairly decent about it, for a creepy, sociopathic kidnapper. He freed her hands and magically hovered a sheet up to her waist height to screen her, but she had to crouch down at the hole into the sea with her jeans around her ankles as if she were camping Muggle-style. And with him watching her like a hawk, there wasn't a chance to use the felix felicis.

So she just waited and did her best to ingratiate herself with Ciaran, hoping against hope that the Aurors would find her. That Harry would find her. That she could escape.

She talked with Ciaran after he fed her, and when Len was asleep. Long, strange conversations.

"Did you send me the flowers?"

"Yes! Did you like the rabbit?" He grinned, fidgeting with his wand; rolling it in his fingers almost nervously, looking up from beneath sooty lashes. "I thought it was inspired."

"Well...it was definitely memorable. And unique," Hermione said carefully. "But I prefer rabbits with their heads still attached." She smiled apologetically.

He looked slightly hurt. "But it wouldn't have frightened you, then."

"True," she acknowledged. "It was very frightening." That seemed to appease him. He was almost childlike, at times. A sad, crazy, handsome monster.

"I'm a bit like Voldemort, I suppose – except I'm not a horrible bigot and I have a nose," he confided with a boyish grin after a bottle of wine while Len was sleeping, his voice slurring. "My father fed my mother love potions nearly her whole pregnancy with me. When I was born, she tried to smother me."

"That's terrible," Hermione said automatically, and meant it. No wonder he was a sociopath. He really hadn't had a chance. Absently, she thought that love potions really needed to be banned. "I'm sorry."

"He had to lock her up in the end. He tried to lock me up too." He eyed her, jade eyes unnaturally bright. "If I could keep you, I'd give you a love potion. That'd be nice, I think."

Hermione gulped. "You wouldn't have to," she said, throat tight and head swimming. "If you saved my life, I'd do anything for you."

She had never lied so much in her life, but Ciaran seemed to believe her every time. He didn't know how to love and yet he was starved of it; every bit of affection and appreciation she showed him, he ate up as though he were starving, glowing under her warmth.

It was horrible.

He kissed her again, one night – day? – while Len was sleeping. "You're making me break the rules, sweet girl," he'd murmured against her lips, a thrumming tension in his voice as he knelt there before her, fingers stroking through her lank hair. "What are you doing to me?" His mouth was soft and gentle, his hand cradling her jaw, and Hermione shut her eyes and forced herself to respond, stomach turning, praying desperately that he wouldn't take it further. He didn't. For whatever reason, Ciaran seemed to be determined to behave like his twisted idea of a gentleman.

Her lips felt filthy for ages afterwards.

Hermione cried a lot, when Ciaran wasn't watching her. Cold, arms and shoulders cramping and aching, knee still a constant mass of pain, dirty and sweaty, hair lank. Misery consumed her. She figured her disappearance had to have been noticed by now, and wondered if Ron had told the children – she hoped not, it would only worry them unnecessarily. She had to get out alive. She had to escape. They needed her. And she didn't want to die.

She missed Malfoy. So much.

Eventually, desperation forced Hermione to take desperate measures.

She'd overheard Ciaran telling Len he'd gotten word from the client's representative; he'd be arriving tomorrow. Dread seized her, along with a sense of urgency. She had to get out. And when Len nodded off into a doze several hours later during his watch shift, it felt like providence.

It took what felt like hours to silently shuffle up the slope, heart in her throat. Every so often she shot a glance over her shoulder to check that Ciaran was still in bed huddled under the covers, and Len still snoring by the fire's embers. And then finally she was at the top, at the illusory, one-way door, and she ducked through the weird illusion of rock wall to the cave beyond. And to Ciaran, standing there arms folded, a look of disappointment on his face. Her heart fell like a stone, plummeting, and she felt despair clutch her tight.

"Oh my girl," he said sadly, and then snapped out an arm and backhanded her hard enough to send her spinning to the ground with a gasp, pain exploding through her mouth and cheek. Everything went blurry and she saw stars as she blinked up, a hand in her hair wrenching her around. Ciaran's face in front of her. "I am so disappointed in you," he said, hand fondling her face to grip her by the chin, like she was some pet he owned. "Why would you try to get me into trouble like this?"

"Please," she gasped, mouth feeling fat and numb, pain lancing through her cheekbones and jaw. Her words slurred. "I don't want to die. He's going to kill me, Ciaran. I don't want to die. I'll do anything. Please. Just don't let him kill me."

Ciaran pressed his lips together tightly and then exhaled, nostrils flaring. There was a ravenous expression on his face; the same look Malfoy had sometimes when he looked at her, but without any of the warmth. "You really mean that, my girl?"

"Anything," she said without hesitation, and deliberately didn't think about the implications of that. If she was lucky, she'd never have to deliver on her promises. She absently noted the way he was saying 'my girl' as though she was a possession of his, and took it as a good thing. A sociopath like Ciaran viewed people as objects, and she wanted him to see her as his object. When he pressed his mouth to hers, she made her bruised lips part for the brief, probing kiss. And then he pulled away and hauled her back to her feet, brushing her off and smoothing her hair.

"Please don't tell Len I tried to run," she whispered, pleading, and Ciaran held her eyes for a long moment.

When at last he said, "I won't," hope leaped in her chest. If he was willing to hide something as serious as an attempted escape from his partner for her, then the connection she'd tried so hard to forge had definitely succeeded. And she would exploit it. Hermione licked her lips; they felt swollen and sore from his blow, her cheek feeling tight. Hot. It was going to bruise, she knew.

"Carry me?" she asked, and he swept her up with a low chuckle.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you truly liked me, sweet thing."

"I do. You're nice," she murmured, leaning her head against his chest, lying through her teeth yet again. Her face hurt. "I'm not scared of you."

"You should be," he said and she shrugged.

"I'm too tired, and sore, and scared of what's going to happen when he gets here, to be scared of you too, Ciaran," she said wearily, being utterly honest. Then – "Besides, you're going to save me, aren't you?" He looked down at her, clearly troubled, and when they reached the living area of the cave, he deposited her on his bed instead of the floor. For a moment, terror spiked through her, but he tried nothing.

"Sleep," he told her and then flung an arm over her, quickly slipping into it himself with an unnatural ease. Hermione lay awake for a long time.

It was Caritas Usbourne. Of course it was, Hermione thought miserably. But how the hell had he gotten out of Azkaban? She supposed the potions magnate had the money. Medium height, with greying hair, spectacles, and a stout build, he came strolling into the cave with Ciaran not long after Hermione woke, curled on Ciaran's bed. Len was watching her. "– her live, I'll forfeit payment," Ciaran was saying urgently and Hermione listened, heart in her throat. Caritas carried a briefcase and wore a robe, and his eyes were flat as he found Hermione.

"The bitch dies," Caritas said, shifting his grip on his wand. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Ciaran's features shifted toward sullenness. "No. I guess not. I keep my word, Mr Usbourne."

"Get her out here, on the ground," Caritas said, bending and placing down his briefcase, which must have had an Undetectable Extension charm on it, because he removed a folding table from it, followed by an elegant wooden chair, and a small bottle. Len sank into one of the easy chairs by the fire pit as Ciaran moved toward Hermione, his features set and angry.

"Sorry, sweet girl," he said as he scooped her up. "I tried. Talked his ear off coming in here, but he's set firm."

"Please, Ciaran," she whispered, heart pounding in her chest as she looked up at him. "Please." But he looked away from her and said nothing more as he carried her to Caritas's feet, and set her on the ground. He took up a post standing off to one side, and Hermione knew his eyes were on her. Angry. But he wasn't going to do anything, and it infuriated her. She'd spent days trying to seduce the sociopathic monster – she'd let him kiss her! – and now when it came to the crunch, the conscienceless criminal was following the rules. Useless. He was useless.

"Ms Granger-Weasley. It's a genuine pleasure to see you again," Caritas said as he sat on the edge of the chair, leaning forward. "I would have caught up with you sooner, but I've been detained." He smiled thinly.

"You broke out of Azkaban?" There hadn't been a breakout in fifteen years. The Dementors might not be there anymore, but the prison was still extremely difficult to escape.

"Money talks," he said, leaning forward, focused on Hermione, and she shrank under the sheer hatred burning in his eyes. The pain, and the grief. "Unfortunately it's not going to save my granddaughter. Elena. She's thirteen, the same age as your daughter, Rose, as chance would have it. Except she has a rare condition. Progeria, Muggles call it. There's never been a case of it in the wizarding world until Elena. It's a genetic disorder that causes rapid aging from early childhood, and there is no known cure." Tears stood in his eyes, and Hermione gulped. She hadn't known what his granddaughter's illness was; the family had kept her and the details of her condition well hidden from society.

"I'm sorry," she whispered and regretted it; Caritas jerked to his feet and kicked her, hard in the stomach.

"Don't you dare. You bitch." Curled up on the ground with tears in her eyes, Hermione heard Ciaran's hiss. Caritas kicked her again, and then sat back down. Out of breath, brushing off his robe, face red. He took a deep breath and started again. "Normally sufferers of Progeria have a life expectancy of mid-teens, to early twenties if they're lucky," he went on grimly. "But the Healers estimate Elena is going to die within the next year. She has atherosclerosis, kidney disease, osteoporosis, and she's had two major strokes in the past two months. They give her six more months."

It was awful. It was. Hermione thought of Rose, and how vibrant and full of life she was, and she felt desperately sorry for Elena, if not Caritas. Hermione didn't say anything though; she didn't want him to kick her again. Her abdomen hurt. Instead she just lay there trying not to whimper, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes.

"Since Elena's diagnosis as a toddler, a division of my company has been working exclusively on a cure." His brows were furrowed, his face hard and cold as he stared at her, and there was a broken, mad glint in his eyes. The man was insane; after several days in captivity with Len and Ciaran, Hermione felt like an expert at spotting insanity. Caritas went on. "I broke laws, ignored ethics, and yes, sadly people died in the search for a cure. Along the way, many valuable potions. Ingredients, recipes, and techniques were all discovered and are helping people, because of my Elena. So people died. So what. We have saved the lives of many more. And improved the quality of life for even more. But not Elena."

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face and then eyeing her again, bloodshot and exhausted, looking far older than he had at his trial. "We still hadn't found a cure for her when you had me shuffled off to Azkaban, company in tatters. And maybe I did go too far, as time went on. But I only had so much time. We were getting more and more desperate. Her condition was getting worse and worse. And now she's going to die. Because of you."

"I'm not the one who caught you!" Hermione burst out in a rush as she pulled her knees up to her chest in anticipation of another kick. She was too angry to keep silent any longer, wise or not. This madman had terrorised her, and had her kidnapped, and was going to kill her, all for something that wasn't even really her fault. It was so wrong. So unfair. She wanted to cry at the stupidity of it. "All I did was present the evidence at trial! And if you hadn't been found guilty, your company would still have had to shut down the unethical operations." But Caritas wasn't listening; he was insane. And Hermione had been made into the scapegoat for everything wrong with his life. Including the imminent death of his granddaughter.

He ranted, and he raved, and he hit Hermione several more times before he finally ran down, panting and hoarse, all while Len sat and watched, and Ciaran stood off to one side just in Hermione's sight, his jade eyes blank as always, but his face taut with displeasure. Caritas picked up the bottle on the table and looked to Ciaran. "Hold her, please. Keep her head still."

Ciaran did as he was told, hands warm but as immovable as steel traps. Caritas pinched Hermione's nose shut until she had to open her mouth to breathe, and then poured the contents of the bottle down her throat. She choked and spluttered on the bitter liquid, but swallowed several mouthfuls despite herself. Caritas smiled coldly as she stared at him through watering eyes, Ciaran's hands still holding her head, bitterness making her want to retch.

"Keep holding her. Mandrake, snakeroot, dragonwort. Horror upon horror until you beg for death. And then you'll burn on a pyre of cypress. This I promise you, bitch," Caritas quoted. "I keep my promises."

Hermione coughed and gagged but didn't throw up, and besides, Caritas removed another bottle from his briefcase and set it on the table; he'd clearly planned for something going wrong. If Hermione vomited, he'd just force-feed her more. He took out a small drawstring bag too, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Her mouth was starting to burn. Her lips. Her throat. It was all burning, pain lighting a hot, tender fire down to her stomach, and it felt like the tissues were swelling. "What – what was that?" It was getting hard to talk.

"I just told you. Extract of mandrake, snakeroot, and dragonwort. You should be feeling the effects of the latter now, but the mandrake and snakeroot will take time. An hour or two, in the potion I've made. Now open up." He took a handful of plant matter from the drawstring bag and cruelly wrenched Hermione's mouth open as Ciaran held her still. She felt stupidly betrayed by her captor; sociopathic and awful, she had nevertheless thought he would protect her when it came down to it. Tears sprang to her eyes – and then she was crying for a whole different reason. Crying and making a moaning, wailing sound of agony as Caritas shoved the leaves and petals between her lips and forced her jaw shut, and a blinding pain erupted in her mouth.

It was like being stabbed by a thousand needles. And Caritas held her jaw, forcing it open and shut several times, every movement like chewing on ground glass, before she managed to lock her mouth shut. Keeping it shut and still was preferable to movement. She was sobbing and panting, choking, snot streaming from her nose and tears falling like rain, and everything fell away but the agony. She was vaguely aware of voices, before the pain wiped it all out. The next thing she was aware of was a hand cradling her mouth again as she lay on her side, and someone hissing in discomfort as a finger hooked the plant matter out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, sweet girl." Ciaran's voice was soft in her ear. "This will help. But you do look so pretty like this," he crooned, drawing out the words. "You sound so pretty, crying like this," his thumb brushed along her cheek. "Make me want to do things," he muttered as if to himself as he continued to clear her mouth. And then all the plant matter was out, leaving only a horrible, swollen, burning sensation. Agonising and sharp.

"Ciaran," she mumbles and it came out hoarse and faint, slurred. "Please. Help."

But he stepped back, and Caritas came into blurry view again, sitting on his chair. "And now we wait, as your body is slowly poisoned. It might take a while, but it should be interesting. Trembling, thirst, vomiting, headache and dizziness, hallucinations, eventual lack of muscle control... All very fun. And then when you're on the verge of death, I'll burn you alive." And then Caritas withdrew a scroll of parchment from his briefcase and a self-inking quill and began to write, half an eye on Hermione as she lay there with her mouth and throat in agony, crying silently.

Eventually the trembles began, at around the same time as Hermione's mouth grew dry, and her vision began to blur. On her side on the cave floor, her arms still wrenched behind her back, Hermione began to twitch, and shake; like a new leaf in a gentle breeze. She couldn't swallow so she had to tip her face down so the saliva ran out of her mouth, and she couldn't stop whimpering, but every sound hurt. She felt dizzy, her head spinning, everything a fuzzy smear as she shivered on the floor. Eventually her heart began to race, pulse thundering, and she felt cold even as her cheeks flamed hot. She was desperate for water and begged for it but no one gave it to her, although she thought maybe Ciaran asked to.

Everything was very muddled; Hermione couldn't seem to think.

Nausea joined the other symptoms next, and stomach pain; cramps setting in. She started vomiting at last, too late to help. Bile and a pitiful amount of fluids spattering the dirt in front of her face. The world spun. She was too far gone to even care that she was dying. That Caritas was going to burn her alive. She just wanted the pain to stop; a whimpering animal begging for relief. Eventually she became aware of a hand stroking her hair.

"I'm giving her water," Ciaran said shortly. "Her complaining is beginning to get on my nerves."

"Fine. Although I don't see the point. It's nearly over, now. You'll get the rest of your money, and I'll be out of your hair," Caritas observed happily, and then Hermione was vaguely aware of him retrieving chunks of wood from his briefcase, levitating them one at a time into a pile. A pyre. Then the world was swirling around her as hands sat her upright, and then water slopped into her mouth. But it hurt too much to swallow, and the water just ran out over her chin, dripping down. The world was warping now, colours wrong, Caritas stretching and shrinking in her line of sight, bright coloured balls of light blooming all around.

She was hallucinating.

"I'm sorry, sweet thing. I really am. But I have to keep my word. It's my reputation," Ciaran was saying quietly as he crouched down and turned her face to look at him, holding her sitting up. "It's my job."

"My – my hands. Can you unchain my hands? Please?" It came out barely audible, and sent flames licking up Hermione's throat. She met Ciaran's flat green eyes, which were swimming in front of her as though she were viewing him underwater. She put all the emotion she could into her plea, begging.

"I suppose so. Yeah, I can do that." Holding her up with one arm still, he tapped his wand to each of the irons around her wrists and they fell away. Hermione's shoulders screamed with pain as she pulled her hands forward. After days in that position the agony of moving was nearly unbearable. She whispered pitiful thanks, flexing her fingers and rubbing her wrists with shaky, jerky movements. She was sweaty and clammy, fingers slippery, dampness soaking her clothes now.

"I know it won't be long," she whispered, mind trying to work through the disorientation and confusion. "But can I have a blanket? Please? I'm so cold." Ciaran eyed her flatly, and she knew then that he knew she was sending him away on purpose. Her pounding, racing heart was in her throat as Ciaran stared at her, still and calculating, and Caritas kept building the pyre.

"All right, my girl," Ciaran said cautiously, and his fingers squeezed her hand before he stood and strode away. And then hunched over, slumping back into a ball on the cave floor, Hermione hurried with shaking fingers to yank the vial of felix felicis out of her bra, and unscrew the tiny, fiddly top, while Caritas kept stacking wood cheerfully. Nothing in her life had ever contained so much urgency. The golden liquid was nearly impossible to swallow and Hermione didn't know how much she actually got down, but she felt the effects.

A golden warmth spread through her, right to her fingertips, and the effects of the poison retreated just a sliver, and suddenly, Hermione knew exactly what to do. She shoved herself – shaking and swaying – to her feet and Caritas turned to look at her sharply. "What –?"

"Sorry. I unchained her hands," Ciaran said quickly from behind her. "But she's harmless. She's half dead."

"About to be all dead," Caritas snarled, and Hermione laughed, a rasping thing that sounded awful. She remembered what Malfoy had said months ago now, before the trial. Usbourne didn't like repetition.

"Yes. About to be all dead," she rasped, repeating his words back to him. "Like Elena will be. And you, when they catch you. We'll all be dead together, Caritas."

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy burning you, bitch."

"You'll enjoy burning me? Really?" The words flowed out of her unbidden, jagged and burning, and she scoffed as the man stared at her hatefully, his face red, the pyre of wood beside him certainly looking large enough to burn a person. She didn't know what Ciaran and Len were doing, but they were both silent. "I don't think you will, Caritas. I don't think it'll make you feel any better about your granddaughter dying."

"Shut up!"

"Shut up," she mocked, her voice a ghost but still just audible, sneering at him. "You're pathetic. Is she going to die slowly? Is it going to hurt her? Or will it be quick?"

"Shut up!" he raged and stormed forward, grabbing Hermione by one arm and yanking her stumbling forward as he ignited the wood with a silent spell. Flames leaped up, roaring, and yet Hermione's fear was oddly absent as he dragged her closer to the fire. This is what was meant to happen. She looked over her shoulder and saw through a sea of floating lights, Ciaran, his figure wavering and wobbling in her vision. He stood there, a blanket in one hand, wand in the other, and she saw well enough to know his expression was conflicted.

"Ciaran. Ciaran, please. I need you," she gasped, the words coming out without thinking, and he tensed, the blanket falling from his hand. Somehow she just knew the felix was working. If only she'd been able to drink more. She didn't know how long it would last, or how potent it was.

"Don't you dare, dog," Caritas warned as he tried to drag Hermione and hold his wand on Ciaran at the same time, his robes tangling around his legs. Hermione dug her shaky heels in, trying to resist, struggling and thrashing with all her strength.

"Don't call me that," Ciaran snarled, and then Len's voice joined the cacophony.

"Stop it, Ciaran. What the hell are you doing?" he yelled, a note of distress running through his voice, the half-giant angry, aware that things were beginning to fray and not understanding why.

"Dog. You agreed to the terms of this job. Don't welch on me," Caritas said, nasty, and Hermione realised belatedly – mind slow and stupid – that Ciaran was a werewolf, and certain things made a lot more sense.

"Don't you damn well call me that!" Ciaran lunged forward and grabbed Hermione's left arm, rage darkening his face, and Hermione got the feeling that he was as angry about being called a dog as he was Hermione being killed. If not angrier. He wanted her, yes, but she was perhaps less important than the insult to the sociopath. But that was okay. They engaged in a tug of war over her, each ripping at her arms, and Ciaran was proving stronger.

"What are you doing? You stupid fucking mutt, we had a deal!" Caritas shouted, stumbling over his robe, the flames flaring up hot right behind him, and Ciaran growled under his breath and yanked as Hermione tried to shake off Caritas. Her left arm literally popped out of its socket, dislocating at the shoulder with an explosion of pain that made her scream, but Caritas's hand slid off her sweat-slick right wrist and he went backward, arms wind-milling and wand flying through the air. Sheer luck. He fell right into the fire and Hermione watched in horror as the man landed in a web of wood that collapsed under him, entrapping him, his robes flaming up like paper. He tried to scramble out, but before he could the flames engulfed him, and Hermione looked away with a sickened gasp as he shrieked.

She looked up and met Ciaran's eyes, and then stared at Len who was standing there hunched, wand in hand, face angry, as Caritas kept screaming and screaming. Ciaran raised his wand and pointed it past Hermione and snapped a spell she didn't recognise, and then there was silence. Hermione didn't turn to look at Caritas. The world was swimming and lights still danced around the cave. Len looked twice his actual height and everything was tinted red. And swaying. Hermione stumbled and Ciaran caught her as if it was automatic. She saw worry on his features as he held her up in one arm, but his focus was on Len.

"What'd you do that for, Ciaran? Now we won't get the rest of our pay! We let a client die. Killed him!" Len cried, distraught. Angry. Hermione gagged but nothing came up.

"No one has to know. We'll say he never turned up," Ciaran said quickly as the world spun around Hermione, smoke from the fire choking her now that Caritas was dead and the charms he'd put around the temporary fire had been lifted. "Sure it'll be a black mark against us, but no one'll know. Not really."

There was a long pause. "Fine. But I want the girl. Once you've had a turn."

Hermione had just enough presence of mind to cling tighter to Ciaran, and he shuddered. "No," he told Len, "she's mine."

"Don't you say no to me. I'm your partner." Len sounded bewildered and furious. "This bitch – she's in your head. She's messing with you. This isn't you, mate."

"She's mine," Ciaran snarled, and then things went sideways. Hermione went sideways, tumbling to the ground, and bolts of light lit up the cave. She heard someone snarl the Killing Curse as her battered body bounced over the ground, landing too close to the fire. She dragged herself away across the dirt and stone, whimpering, stomach cramping and mind whirling, and then hands lifted her up. Large, warm hands.

"Malfoy?" she asked, senseless. Her heart leaped.

"No, sweet thing," he whispered, and Hermione saw then that it was Ciaran. He was paper white, but he hefted her into his arms and held her against his chest as he staggered up the slope to the inner cave exit, nearly falling several times. He was shaking almost as badly as Hermione. They went through into the outer Muggle cave, and Hermione saw a shaft of pale evening light rippling down like water, blurring and doubling. And then Ciaran fell. Hermione hit the ground in a tumble and luckily he didn't fall on top of her, but beside her. He rolled onto his back with a groan, and she could see blood seeping from his mouth. Bleeding from his eyes like scarlet tears. He looked at her and grinned faintly. "Len hit me with a curse. A bad one. I think I'm dying. You killed me. You killed me, sweet girl."

A sob hitched in her throat. This was for the best. This was what needed to happen. This was the felix felicis, doing its work. Lucky. Ciaran was a monster; he had to die. He'd kidnapped her, for Merlin's sake. And she couldn't imagine what terrible things he would have done to her if he'd had his way. But Hermione still felt a weird, awful guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she sat slumped there beside him, her left arm hanging funny and still filled with pain, her abdomen wracked with cramps that squirmed through her belly, everything agonised and wrong.

Ciaran grinned again, blood coating his teeth. "No you aren't."

"Well. Maybe a little bit sorry," she said hoarsely, honest in a way that hurt more than the poison, and he laughed, the blood bubbling out.

"I do like you," he said. Then more seriously, "And I'm not sorry, sweet girl." He gasped for air and as he did he held his wand out, balanced on one shaky palm. "Take it." She reached out and took it, as he coughed and a torrent of blood and...chunks...came out. There was more blood gushing out of him with every second, spreading in a pool on the cave floor and coating Hermione's jeans where she sat. God. It was awful. Everything was just so awful. "You need to go. Get to a – a Healer before the poison k-kills you," Ciaran got out weakly through a coughing spasm.

"I will," Hermione said quietly, but she didn't move. She stayed. She held his hand until he stopped breathing. His eyes looked just the same in death, except for the trails of red streaking down from the outer corners. Beautiful and cold. Dead.

It took several tries for Hermione to get to her feet. Staggering hampered by the chains to the cave entrance, wet with blood and trembling, gagging, dizzy. Seeing things that couldn't possibly be there. Nightmarish images looming up and she had to tell herself it was just the poison. Her mouth was on fire. Her head pounding and her heart a rattle.

The sky outside the cave was beautiful. Painted in velvety blues and pinks and faintly freckled with silver stars. It was just after sunset, and the tide was in, frothing below.

But the anti-apparition charm – she didn't know how far it reached. The wind howled, dragging at Hermione's hair as she sat on her bum and began to make her way down the jagged rocks, toward the tossing, churning evening sea. Her hands began to bleed from small cuts and grazes, and when she finally got far enough down that the sea was soaking her lower legs, Hermione was exhausted and near fainting. This would have to do – any lower and she'd drown. And it felt right, as everything had since she'd drunk the felix felicis. She prayed it was far enough to be outside the wards, and clutched Ciaran's wand in her hand, thinking of – who else? – Malfoy.

Malfoy.

Malfoy.

She collapsed in a heap on his front path and retched, panting and gagging as she crawled the last few feet to his door, and then half fell against it. Banged it with a fist. She heard footsteps, running, and then the door yanked open and she fell inside onto the foyer floor.

"Hermione." Malfoy sounded like his heart had been torn out of his chest. "Oh fuck, it's you. It's really you." He was over her, all bloodshot, frantic grey eyes and rumpled white-blond hair, his hands hovering over Hermione's skin as though he was afraid to hurt her by touching her. She reached out and grabbed the collar of his grey shirt, smearing it with blood as she tried to tug him down to her. He bit his lip. "I'm so sorry if this hurts," he said as he carefully scooped her up into his arms, holding her close as he pushed to his feet, carrying her like Ciaran had, except Malfoy made her feel safe and warm. Protected.

"Salazar's sake, what did the bastard do to you?" His voice was low and angry as he took in the state of her, carrying her swiftly up out of his foyer and leaving the front door wide open, forgotten altogether. Incongruously, Hermione laughed. She was giddy with relief now, as well as the poisoning. What did Caritas do? Her fingers curled hard over Malfoy's collar.

"He poisoned me," she said indignantly through numb lips. It seemed important that Malfoy know what Caritas had used. "Mandrake, snakeroot, and dragonwort," she slurred out.

"Shit." He reached the fireplace and looked down at her. A terrified, worried love was printed all over him, his eyes alive with fear and joy mingled. "You're going to be okay, Granger. I swear."

"I know I will," she said faintly and smiled at him, right before darkness ate her up and she finally passed out.