They had found a Horcrux.

And Hermione had not a single idea how to destroy it.

Taking it to one of the more draughty drawing rooms — one they wouldn't mind destroying by accident — and firing every sort of spell seemed to do nothing at all. They just bounced off, like the locket was impervious to magic, even when Harry got angry and started trying Unforgivables.

A Basilisk fang had destroyed the diary, but how were they supposed to get into the Chamber of Secrets to get one? Not even house-elves could go down there, they'd learned; only a Parselmouth could bypass the entrance. Which meant Harry. And the headmistress was adamant he not come anywhere near the school, and Harry was adamant they couldn't explain to her why they needed to.

So it was a stalemate. Hermione dealt with it by pacing the library, trying to find a book with a possible mention of a Horcrux or similar magic that might guide them to an answer; and by sneaking into Draco's room at night.

She was distracted as she pulled his bandages off; he winced as the tape snagged his skin painfully.

"Sorry." Crouched behind him on the bed, she surveyed the wound with her fingertips. There was no blood on the gauze at all, tonight. "I think we can leave it. For the night, at least. If it starts bleeding in the morning, I'll wrap you up again."

"Oh, thank Merlin. Do you know how much I hate sleeping on my stomach?"

She got up to put away the unused medical supplies and found herself pacing again. Draco was rearranging the pillows; she stopped and turned to him, hands on her hips.

"Why won't the books in the library let me read them?"

He stopped. "What?"

"You told me, once, that if I ran into any pure-blood nonsense that confused me, you would explain. Well, some of the books in the Black collection won't come off the shelves no matter what spells I try. Why?"

Draco sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the moonlight casting his bare torso in shades of grey and silver. "It could be lots of reasons," he said eventually.

"Such as?" She resisted the urge to tap her foot.

"They might have been stuck there for generations, if someone in the family decided they shouldn't be read anymore. Or… or it might be a blood charm."

"A blood charm?"

Draco nodded. "I know some of our books have them, to make sure only Malfoys can open them. It might be a lineage thing here, too, or… or it might be because you're not pure."

"Well, will you help me, then?"

"What?"

"You've got Black heritage," she pointed out, exasperated, "and you're a pure-blood. And a wizard, too, just in case these books are cursed to repel witches as well as Muggle-borns."

"Alright." Draco blinked several times. "Sure, I'll help you." Hermione looked at him and realised this sort of thing — needing help to read an enchanted book — was probably very foreign to him. It made her feel suddenly small, and angry. It wasn't fair.

But then he stood and approached her, a gentle smile on his face. "Now, though," he said, taking one of her hands and tugging her to the bed, "now I'm going to help you sleep."

"I don't need help sleeping," she grumbled, but let him pull her along.

"Yes, you do. You stay up reading, go to bed late, and then get up at dawn and start over again."

"I don't need much sleep," she protested as he pushed her onto the bed and made her scoot over to what had become her side.

"Yes, you do. And you need better sleep, where you're not restless and muttering all night."

Hermione stilled. "I talk in my sleep?"

"You're restless."

Hermione looked at the duvet in her lap. "I'm scared," she whispered.

"I know." He said it with such gentleness she felt tears prickle her eyes. He slid himself beneath the duvet, sighing in relief, perhaps because he was finally able to lie on his back. "Let me help you."

She lay down, hyperaware of her body in the bed and where it was relative to his. He was still shirtless. His hands guided her to roll onto her side, away from him, and then he slotted himself against her back. His arm came around her waist, slid under her shirt, and stroked patterns along her skin. She felt his nose nuzzle against her back.

"I'm scared, too," he confessed there.

She remembered that night so long ago, in the Room of Requirement, when he'd returned from Voldemort's side. I'm not brave like you, he'd said.

His fingertips swirled against her in a steady metre which coaxed her body to finally release with a sigh, all the anxiety and tension departing and leaving her behind, warm and languid against him.

She felt a kiss placed to the back of her neck, and then she fell asleep.


Leaving him was extra difficult the next morning. As the sun's light got stronger, she bargained and negotiated with herself to try and steal another five minutes with him, so warm and close and looking so beautiful in the comfort of sleep.

When she finally pried herself from the bed, breathing unsteadily in the sudden cold, it was much later than usual. The door clicked shut behind her, and she began the lonely trek back to her room. She'd nearly made it when Harry appeared.

"Sorry!" he held his hands up when she yelped and clutched her chest in shock. "Sorry! I didn't think anyone else would be awake."

"I — I was just coming from the loo," she gasped, blushing feverishly.

She nauseously waited for Harry to rebuke her lie, but he just nodded, and she swallowed the guilt it brought.

"I forgot you get up early. I was going to go work on the Horcrux."

The light caught his lenses, then, and suddenly she saw it: the shadows around his eyes; the haunted, wild look she'd only seen when Voldemort was lurking.

"Harry…" she began slowly, "have you been spending a lot of extra time with the Horcrux?"

He shook his head, not in denial, but as though to clear something from his brain. "I've had a hard time sleeping lately."

"Nightmares."

He bristled. "No."

That means yes.

He pushed past her.

"Harry —"

"See you at breakfast, Hermione."

Hermione watched him disappear, his heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs ruining the morning quiet. She heard him move through the house eagerly until he got to the room where they left the Horcrux, as far away from the rest of them as possible. Hermione could barely stand being around it; it made her miserable and jumpy. It seemed to bring out the worst part of Ron's bitterness, too, but Harry was drawn to it in a way Hermione couldn't fathom.

Feeling dejected and worried, Hermione went into her own room and slept.


Despite their abrupt status change from students to free agents, Hermione was dismayed to discover that the Order was serious about their isolation. To give any indication Grimmauld Place was currently inhabited — and that it was Harry doing the inhabiting — was just too great a risk, in Minerva's opinion. So, save for the occasional Patronus, they were left to scavenge the Prophet for intelligence.

The extent of Voldemort's grasp of the Ministry was still unknown, though the headlines suggested that, at the very least, his ideology was taking hold. Hermione skimmed the opinion pieces with disgust and dread. It was made worse when she realised the boys were entirely oblivious to it.

"It could be worse," insisted Ron over breakfast. "They're not saying you should be killed on the spot, for one."

"It doesn't matter!" cried Hermione, nearly incoherent with frustration. "Do you see this? 'Should Muggle-borns be required to take an aptitude test to enter Hogwarts?'"

"Yeah, but you'd crush everyone in a magical test. It would prove them wrong."

"That's not the point, Ron! Are you saying that Muggle-borns who aren't very good at magic — like Neville was when he was a first year, if weren't a pure-blood — shouldn't be allowed to go? That we should all be subjected to humiliating tests because, deep down, we're not as worthy as the rest of you? And why not stop there? Let's make the half-bloods do it, too. In fact, let's keep anyone with less than four magical relatives from attending altogether! Don't you see? This is insidious. By the time You-Know-Who is in control — if he's not already — most of the population will already be sympathetic to what he wants!"

Ron was frowning, still looking dubious, but he knew better than to argue. The thought brought on a surge of despair; if Ron was susceptible to the propaganda, then what did that mean for the rest of society? She believed so strongly in the inherent goodness of humanity. What if she was wrong? What if it wasn't enough?

At the head of the table, Draco sat, unmoving, another section of the Prophet spread across his empty plate. He hadn't said anything in several minutes, not since the paper had arrived and they'd divided it up amongst them.

"Draco?" she asked curiously. "Did you find something?"

Without answering, he turned the paper around for the rest of them to read. Hermione saw the sneering face on the page and felt her heart stop.

LUCIUS MALFOY RELEASED FROM AZKABAN

Lucius Malfoy was released from Azkaban today following a successful appeal of his sentence, which was determined to be a miscarriage of justice. The D.M.L.E. issued an apology to Mr Malfoy, who for decades has been known for his generous philanthropy and service to wizarding Britain in the Ministry of Magic and during his tenure as a Hogwarts Governor…

"Fuck." Harry sat back and ran his hands through his hair. "That means they've definitely got the Ministry."

Ron took the paper to read more closely.

Draco remained frozen. "I remember when that picture was taken…" He swallowed.

Hermione was at a loss for words, torn between sympathy for Draco, fury at the blatant corruption, and the mounting fear.

"Hey — get this —" Ron cleared his throat. "The Department for Magical Law Enforcement is issuing an emergency notice to all citizens regarding potentially dangerous witches and wizards — Guess who? — Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger (Muggle-born) are encouraged to contact — yeah, yeah, blah blah blah…. Oi! Here you go, Malfoy: Have you seen this wizard? Draco Malfoy, the seventeen-year-old son of Lucius Malfoy, may have been abducted by Potter the night of his violent altercation with security forces at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Draco scoffed.

"It's got our pictures and everything, and it says not to approach us since we're armed and dangerous." Ron sounded impressed.

Hermione rolled her eyes; it did nothing to shake the terror seizing her throat. Ron tossed the paper back onto the table. Hermione took it, smoothed it out, and found her own face glaring back at her. It was an unflattering photo, taken some time during fifth year, probably whilst Umbridge was talking. The press had come to a few of her promotions.

"I think we should go to Malfoy Manor."

"You what?"

Hermione was staring at Harry, gobsmacked, whilst Draco and Ron made incoherent sounds of disbelief and protest. But Harry was serious, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes made him look grave.

"If Lucius Malfoy's free," Harry explained irritably, "then I think that's where You-Know-Who is planning to spend the war. You know — make it his headquarters."

"I could tell you that, Potter," spat Draco, "and —"

"I think there might be a Horcrux there."

Hermione wrung her hands. His logic was sound, but why couldn't he see how idiotic an idea this was? "Harry," she began carefully, "even if there is a Horcrux there, how on Earth do you plan to get it out?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe he could help" — he jerked his head at Malfoy — "if he's really on our side."

"Potter," said Draco with barely contained anger, "I've got no idea what a Horcrux is or why you want it, but if you think you can break into the manor and get out again, you're more stupid than I ever took you for."

Harry stood from the table so suddenly it sent his chair clattering to the floor. "I'm not stupid!"

"Harry!"

"What, Hermione?" He whirled on her, making her jump. "Taking his side?"

"What — no! Harry — what are you doing?"

Harry stared at her, as though at a loss for words, but Hermione wasn't sure if it was because he couldn't explain his own behaviour or because he couldn't comprehend hers. She saw his eyes darken with something that wasn't quite part of him, and it made her blood cold. "Nothing," he said quietly. "I'm — I'll see you later."

Then he strode from the room, leaving his overturned chair behind. Hermione heard his footsteps move through the house in the direction of what she now called the Horcrux Room.

Looking back to the table, Hermione found Ron, frozen in shock, and Draco, fuming.

"What's wrong with him?" wondered Ron to nobody in particular.

Draco's fist curled on the table and Hermione suddenly leapt to her feet. "I need to check your back."

"What? But you said —"

"I know, but I really think I should go over it with the disinfectant again. You know, just to make sure?"

Draco worked his jaw, then nodded. "Fine."

"The things are in your room — come on — see you later, Ron —"

"Yeah, alright. Have fun playing Healer," teased Ron, but he looked troubled.

As soon as they were out the kitchen, Hermione's hand was around Draco's wrist. Her palm was shaking and sweaty, and her footsteps were not quite even. Harry's outburst had frightened her more than she realised.

Beside her, fury was rolling off Draco in waves. She squeezed his wrist harder, tethering him to her and to reason, until they burst into his bedroom when she let go, turned around, and shut the door firmly.

"What the fuck is his problem?" hissed Draco, unbuttoning his shirt with sharp movements.

"I think he's stressed about the Horcrux," Hermione said softly. It didn't feel quite right, didn't explain it enough, but she couldn't quite voice her real suspicion yet, that the Horcrux was changing him.

By now, Draco's shirt was completely undone. He shrugged it off and threw it onto the bed. Hands on his hips, he turned around, his back to her. She saw the tension in his shoulders. "Alright, let's get this over with."

"Erm." Hermione approached cautiously, like one might a caged animal, and laid a palm lightly to his unmarred scapula. "I don't need to check it, actually. I just — I just wanted to get you alone."

He turned, slowly, and she saw a small smile tilt his lips. "You just wanted to get me alone?"

Hermione's face warmed. "You seemed upset," she insisted.

"I was," he said, and his hands came to her waist. "Now, however…"

When he leaned down and kissed her, she realised, suddenly, how long it had been since they'd been like this. Clawing at each other in the lab on the few days the potion didn't require a Bubble-Head, snogging him until she couldn't think anymore…

Ever since they'd come to Grimmauld Place, she'd only had room for fear and survival. Staying with him at night, sleeping in his bed, had been more of an act of companionship than passion.

That was not how she felt now.

Her hands traced his bare side, feeling the even bumps of his ribcage beneath hot skin, moving up until she could drape her arms around his shoulders, losing her fingers in his hair and exposing her torso to his greedy hands. He stroked her waist with the flat of his palm, lighting up her nerve endings even through the thick fabric of her jumper.

She felt him moving, taking minute steps to the bed, and then she found herself toppling onto his lap as he sat on the edge of the mattress. With one hand cradling the side of her neck, keeping her close enough not to break the kiss, he leaned backwards, pulling her with him until she was on top of him, her knees bracketing his hips. His hand slid beneath her shirt, warm against her waist, and she felt each of his fingers pressing into her skin.

The passion she'd been missing surged like a tidal wave, and she was all too happy to drown. Draco must have felt the same way; he groaned quietly against her mouth.

"You're driving me mad," he breathed, "being so close all the time…"

"Harry and Ron can walk in at any second," she pointed out as she dropped kisses along his jaw.

Draco laughed, then gasped as she experimentally kissed his neck. She smiled against his skin and did it again; his fingers clenched against her, jerking her harder against him —

"Hey, Hermione?"

Draco threw her off, sending her bouncing across the mattress as Ron's footsteps rose higher up the stairway.

"Hermione?" he called again. "I found a stash of some of Fred and George's stuff… might be useful one day… I've got some funny looking lozenges and what I think is Peruvian Darkness Powder…"

Hermione hauled herself to her feet and smoothed down her hair as she ran to the door. She caught her reflection in the boudoir for a moment and saw her eyes, huge and wild, and flushed cheeks, but there was nothing she could do.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway only to find herself facing Ron's back. "Yes?" she huffed, voice faint, and tried to look put out. She crossed her arms for good measure and felt her heart hammering fiercely against her ribs.

"Oh, hey, there you are." Ron held out his hands, full of the aforementioned things. "Found these. How's his cut?"

"What?"

"Malfoy. How's his back?"

"Oh. It's — it's fine. Healing. Let's go put those things with the potions, shall we?"

Hermione steered Ron away from the bedrooms, as though being nearby might inspire him to connect certain dots she'd much rather remain unrelated.

She didn't glance at the door as she walked away, but it hardly made a difference. She'd never again be able to think of anything but his fingers on her skin.