Song Suggestion: $UICIDEBOY$- "Antarctica"
Thank You to MyPrivateInsanity for being an amazing beta!
Trigger Warning: references to rape and domestic violence
Roar of Rage
Hermione stood inside the manor's duelling room, reviewing her recent research for wandless magic—how it resided in everything as an element. Unless it reacted with a wand core, it tended to be invisible, especially to muggles, and it proved highly unstable.
Merging her new knowledge with muggle science, she suspected the ability to wield the volatile energy was a genetic mutation, passing from parent to child, though it sometimes happened spontaneously. She also believed magic— especially wandless magic—linked itself to brain waves, since focused intention mattered when casting. Similar to legilimency, using it required extending consciousness beyond the body. A wand core helped act as a conduit between the two to make it easier, as did verbal commands.
In theory, it seemed simple to cast wandless. In practice, she struggled. Directing without a wand required absolute, iron focus. And unlike casting with unicorn hair or dragon heartstring, emotion increased or decreased the efficacy, depending on the level of concentration. It explained why young children burst with accidental magic during heightened emotion, though they couldn't control it.
Hermione formed an image in her mind of magic racing through her veins. In response, it pooled in her fingertips, buzzing along her skin. She focused on a glass vase she'd placed across the room. Alongside it rested six others of different sizes and she'd grabbed them at random, she didn't doubt they were all priceless heirlooms.
A face flashed in her mind— a woman pressed to a table with a red dress shoved up around her waist. Despair stared back at Hermione, an unending void of agony. A hopeless understanding that no one would save her.
The anger filtered through Hermione. Familiar. Comforting. She leaned into the feeling, letting it spark, striking flint to steel. The glass vase and the woman merged into one in her mind.
At this point, the magic always grew hard to control. A delicate balancing act from the prefrontal cortex to the limbic system.
Hermione held her breath until it hurt, a technique of control.
To free the vase from its current shape, she needed to mean the act of destruction.
Hermione squeezed her hands together, and the vase splintered into shards, flinging in all directions. Not wasting time, she levitated the next vase in the row— terracotta of Ancient Grecian origins.
Crack.
A goblin-made crystal vase turned into Katie's face.
Crack.
The wooden one twisted into Abigail, clutching her heavy belly. The material resisted her more than the others, and she increased the pressure.
Crack.
Livia came next with her sharp smile, hiding pain.
The bronze vase fractured into two, and a bead of sweat dripped down into her shirt with the effort.
The last metal vase morphed into herself, but her hands faltered. Her anger lessened, which meant her focus suffered.
Distracted by her task, Hermione didn't notice the door opening or Draco slipping inside.
She ignored him, outstretching her hand, having given up for the day. The vases reformed into what they'd been before.
"I'm impressed."
Malfoy leaned against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, staring at her in the way Titus often did, as if to dissect her mood.
Despite her best efforts, Malfoy had managed to evade her for a week. Maybe it was for the best. Because the more time she had to process what had happened, the larger her anger grew, until it transformed into a giant dragon breathing fire.
"You knew that could happen." She meant the party.
"In a way."
"You knew," she repeated, unwilling to let him deny it. "And now you're going to tell me everything you did know."
"Am I?" His voice held a slight warning in it.
"Yes."
Draco's features tightened. "I've attended the parties before, but they were milder. The ones my father hosted never turned into— that. If couples wanted to be intimate, they used one of our many guest rooms. There might have been a few shocking things, but the old guard tends to be more conservative. I thought this would be the same."
Hermione couldn't help the scoff. The unpleasant feelings had nowhere else to direct, and until he proved otherwise, Draco had thrown her without warning into a lion's den to be devoured.
"Why should I believe you?"
"Do you think a man like my father would appreciate being drugged? A man like Dolohov— or even Titus? The punch didn't differentiate."
That gave her pause. Titus barely drank, because he liked to be in control of himself and others at all times.
She doubted anyone cared what the women went through, but Merlin help the person who drugged Titus without his consent.
"Then what's the purpose of the parties?"
"A remnant from before the curse. Purebloods have always had extravagant parties. They've used them for politics and networking, among other things." He clenched his jaw before continuing. "Flint warned me that Montague had drugged the punch at a previous party as a joke, though he's not the only person who's done something similar. Montague had been reprimanded for it, so I assumed— " he stopped himself and conceded. "No, there's no excuse. I should have foreseen that unlike my father, the Carrows would allow debauchery."
"Were you required to bring me?"
That might have been what hurt the most. The fledgling trust she'd had in Draco had faltered. Paired with the warning the women had given her, it poisoned her hope.
Hermione had never expected love out of whatever future she lived.
But she did want respect.
Her whole life she'd been raised to believe she had an honourable position in society. Valued. Respected. But Titus had lied to her. He'd softened the hard edges of the world in an attempt to protect her…. or had it been to control her? Perhaps it had been both, though neither method of his helped her now.
Would Titus have brought her to the party? She had her doubts. He probably would have kept her closeted for the rest of her life, only bringing her out at controlled times.
"It would have looked odd if I didn't bring you the first time," he answered. "I didn't want to arouse suspicion. I thought we'd play the part, and— I'll never bring you again if you—"
"No," Hermione cut him off. The fear of being traded to someone else almost paralyzed her. "I'd rather not be investigated."
She believed him. He didn't realise the party would turn so fast, and once it did, he attempted to get her out. Even with her confusing emotions, she understood that part.
But there was one thing that she could not shake.
The woman's dead expression.
The man telling her to open wide.
You'll soon learn the appetite of men.
The debilitating fear of becoming any of those futures.
The selling of women might not have been a common sight in public, but it obviously happened often enough in private that no one seemed shocked.
"I want to make one thing clear, Malfoy." Hermione lifted the vase again in the air with her magic. Her will focused into a tiny point, her intent clear. She'd never felt more determined, imagining herself in the woman's place, face down, dress up. "If you ever try selling me to one of your repulsive friends, I'll make you suffer."
She squeezed, and the glass vase once again splintered into shards with a sharp crack. It left no illusions as to what she'd try to do to him if he violated her.
Draco lifted himself off the wall, face still expressionless, uncrossing his arms. He walked toward her with hard, purposeful steps.
The fast advance shocked her enough that she walked backward until her shoulders hit the wall behind her.
Draco loomed over her, placing his hands on either side of her head.
"Sell you?" He asked in a lethal tone that she'd never heard before. "What has ever given you the impression that I'd fucking sell you?"
"How can I trust you to be different?"
One hand grabbed her throat. Firm enough she couldn't move, but loose enough it didn't hurt. Her wrists twisted at her sides in warning, but Draco ignored her threat and met her stare.
"I think you've misjudged me." He narrowed his eyes and moved closer. "If there's one thing in this world you can trust, it's that I'm a selfish man. I do not share. When you chose me, you sealed your fate, and now I'm never letting you go. I doubt I'd be able to let you leave even if you wanted to. Do you fucking hear me? You're mine. Everything about you. And if anyone ever even thinks about touching you, I'd mutilate them."
"What could you do to stop them?"
"What could I do?" His countenance darkened. "My father personally trained me in the dark arts, brought me to executions and hunts before I even entered Hogwarts. I killed my first man on my father's orders when I was only thirteen years old, and I've committed the act many times since. You have no fucking clue about the things I can and will do. Do I make myself clear?"
She didn't know that about him. That he'd killed before— several times.
He gave a severe sneer, as if daring her to challenge him.
Draco always kept himself on a tight leash, occluding everything away. But in that moment, she saw the dark undercurrents rippling in his eyes. Her assumption about selling her seemed to anger him in a way that he'd never been before.
Hermione swallowed hard, knowing he could feel the movement as he clutched her oesophagus, wishing she didn't have to feel so much fear and hope.
The threat of being forever by his side, whether she liked it or not, should terrify her. But instead, it comforted her. A continuity she could rely on.
What would it be like to let go and trust?
How could she?
"I understand," she bit out.
"Do you want retribution?"
"What?"
"Punishment, Granger," he said. "Do you want me to punish Montague?"
"You could do that?"
"Montague is a small fish in a big sea. It might be hard to kill him without legal trouble, but he's not immune to— as you say— suffering."
The woman's dead stare flashed in her mind.
"Yes."
He grinned with the sharpness of a blade.
"Excellent, because I was going to do it anyway." He ran his hand along her throat. "It pleases me that you're as ruthless as I am, though a bit more impulsive."
His hand loosened on her throat, and his thumb went to her lip, dragging across it. For just a moment, his expression dropped to reveal hunger, as if he wanted to consume her.
Instead, he leaned his forehead on hers.
"From now on, the decision to attend anything will be entirely up to you, and I'll warn you of everything ahead of time. We're a team with this. Deal?"
"Deal," she agreed.
He glanced around the room, toward the shattered vase.
"Mipsy tells me you apparated far yesterday."
"Across the manor."
"That's my eager swot. Already exceeding expectations. Completely wandless too. I wish I could reward you." She blushed at the praise. "So do you think you've earned Occlumency lessons?"
Despite all of the turmoil she felt before, her heart leaped in excitement.
"Yes," she said.
"Hm," he considered. "We'll see. Some other time, we can practise apparating beyond the manor, but I think it's essential to protect your mind and control your emotions, especially around others. And if you get especially adept, perhaps I'll let you review what I plan to do with Montague."
"I can do this without touch," Draco pressed his fingers into her temples. "But this helps me do it without hurting you."
"Or you just want an excuse to touch me."
He grinned. "Figured out my motive. Now hold still."
His consciousness brushed against hers, like knocking on a door. The only time she'd felt true legilimency—and not projection— was after Knockturn Alley when Titus filtered through her thoughts. It had hurt then— so bad she'd vomited. As if her body remembered, she tensed.
"Relax."
She forced herself to loosen her muscles, and Draco slipped past her defences without resistance.
He stayed there at the edges of her mind without attempting to rifle through anything yet.
"First, create a wall," he said. "Find something you'd like to focus on."
"What do you use?"
His proximity distracted her, the scent of him drawing her in closer.
"A waterfall. Imagining noise along with a visual helps strengthen it for me. But you might find something more in tune–"
"A library?"
"A library is fine. Though in that case, you'll need to focus on the absence of sound, which might be difficult. But if that's what comes easiest, I'll help you build it."
"Should I imagine each book as—"
"That's rubbish. Separating the memories does nothing. It's too advanced for a beginner. To start, you just need a disguised wall."
His presence felt comfortable, though maybe too large for the space. Like attempting to fit into a dress a size too small.
She imagined the bookcase, reaching the ceiling of a blank room, the spines of the books red and green. She tried to imagine the titles, but Draco was right, it was too advanced. Instead, she focused on the wooden shelves, on it being solid and unbreakable.
"What memory will you attempt to find?"
"Something I'd like to relive."
He gave her a few more moments to prepare, before he nudged against the bookshelf she created.
It didn't take too long for it to break, and the glade burst behind her eyes. He lingered on the moment he had his hand up her skirt, panting against each other. The exact moment of her orgasm.
She managed to throw him out, though she suspected he didn't put up much resistance.
They tried it again and again, each time lingering on the same memory, until a flush spread along her body.
The last attempt—flustered and out of breath— she no longer had the attention to hold him back. Her frazzled thoughts blended together, and she accidently brought up another memory. In another library.
"Well, well, well, the little mudblood is also a thief." Blaise's voice echoed in her mind as she clutched the skin bound book.
Hermione attempted to throw Draco out of her memories, but he held tight, scowl on his face, as he pushed through, reviewing everything until it hurt.
Blaise threatened her, pressed her against the bookcase. She could do nothing but relive the horrid moment.
"See you soon, house pet."
Draco tugged back out and stared at her, eyes hard. One hand dipped around and tangled against the hair on her scalp, tilting her face up.
"What the fuck was that?"
Hermione grimaced.
"Titus— handled it."
"Is that why Zabini doesn't have fingers on his wand hand?"
"Yes. Titus used a charmed blade to keep the fingers from ever being reattached."
"He's lucky Nott got to him first. Honestly, I'm not satisfied with the punishment. I'd already warned him what would happen if he crossed me."
Draco's hand tightened, and her scalp hurt.
"I think—" Hermione wet her lips. "I think I'm done with occlumency today."
Draco nodded, face set in a scowl. It was clear he had more questions, but he didn't press as he let her go. She stood up, attempting to practise building her walls again.
"Hermione," he said before she could walk out.
"Yes?"
"Do you still have the book?"
The skin bound book. She'd hoped he'd have missed that detail.
"It's back at the manor," she admitted. "Under the floorboards in my old room."
"That's for the best. That level of dark magic isn't something to be played with. The cost is too high."
"Of course," she hesitated. "However, if I was able to get it back, would you help me translate it?"
Draco hesitated, as if at war between pleasing her and stopping her. "Anything bound with skin is steeped in dark blood magic. It's dangerous. Though I know I'm not going to stop you, so if you plan on doing it, I'd rather you involve me."
Titus would have banned her from the book, taken it from her because of the danger. Draco agreed to help her, even though he disagreed with her experimenting with it.
She decided to extend her trust and show him the research she'd started.
"When you get home from the apothecary tomorrow, come to the library and I'll show you what I've discovered so far."
"These are the oldest Runic languages I could find, but I still have a feeling the book might be older— or at least the content." Hermione showed him the selection of books on the table. Most of them dated back at least two thousand years, held together by preservation spells. Still, even with the spells, the books yellowed, and the pages felt dusty under her fingertips.
Draco studied the group of texts.
"This one is the oldest, I believe." He placed a finger on the smallest book. A thin tome in Latin, possibly a translation of an even older language. Hermione was distracted by his hands. He had long fingers with wide palms. Veins ran over the top, given the impression of strength.
Since the party night, her old desire flared back to life. Her nerves had tasted release, and they wanted it again. The occlumency lessons only threw oxygen on the fire.
Livia's words ran through her mind.
The benefits of the arrangement.
There had been a brief pleasure toward the end of the ritual. She'd been ashamed of it then. But should she have been? Maybe enjoying something meant to harm her was the ultimate coup.
Or maybe she just needed to orgasm again, clear her mind from making knee-jerk decisions.
She shook her head and realised Draco was staring at her in a funny way. Though he wasn't using legilimency, she wondered how much he discerned from her body language.
Did he know that his hands were making her think of dark desire and chilled sheets? Of heated skin and pleasured pain?
There was a subtle tensing of his body. He tucked his hands in his pockets, straightening.
"Anything else you've been researching?" he asked.
"I've been attempting to find more information on the Venus statue."
"Don't bother," he said. "I've already searched, and I suspect my father has taken all of the available books for his own use."
"Do you think you could get them back? I think—" she hesitated. Draco said they were a team. He said they could find out everything together, and he wouldn't stop her pursuit. "I don't think I've been told the truth about what's going on. There's something off, mostly with Dolohov. His motivation doesn't make sense to me."
Draco eyes went back to the runic books, eyebrows furrowing.
"There are—rumours about the curse. It's surprisingly hard to find true information, even for me." He met her gaze. "Getting the books from my father will be difficult, though not impossible. I suspect my father knows more than he tells me. And the fact he hides it from me… is concerning."
She pushed the book to him, sliding it across the desk.
"Help me translate this into modern text first."
He grabbed it and took a seat beside her, so close their knees almost touched. The heat of his body pressed against her as they both attempted to dissect the old texts.
Before they could get very far, Mipsy popped into the room.
"Master Draco, you have a visitor."
"Not your father again, I hope." Hermione frowned at the interruption.
"No, it is Mister Nott."
"I thought you said—"
Draco grinned, his white, straight teeth flashing in the low light of the library.
"I invited Theo."
"Theo!" Hermione exited her chair before he could say any more, running toward the fireplace.
After jumping into Theo's outstretched arms, Hermione spent all day with her brother. She showed him the manicured gardens and the peacocks.
"I don't know why Malfoy hates them, they are perfect gentlemen to me," she said, running her hand along Al's tiny head.
She brought him to the pristine art rooms next, with rows of marble statues of long-dead men, and introduced him to Septimus Malfoy who roped him into a long discussion about boggarts.
Toward the end, Hermione didn't want him to leave. Instead, they lay in bed, side by side, holding hands while staring at the ceiling.
"The last place I thought I'd ever be was in Malfoy's bed."
Theo grimaced, and Hermione shoved at his shoulder.
"It's my bed, really. I'm not sure where Draco sleeps."
"It's Draco now, is it?"
"Only when I'm not angry at him."
She let the silence cover her like a comfortable blanket before asking a question that had bothered her for a long time.
"Why did you help Malfoy win the Trials?"
"For you, of course. It certainly wasn't to appease that arse. After Titus— I'd never been so mad at him. You wanted just one thing, and he—" Theo bit his lip and looked away, and she thought she might see his eyes get a bit watery. He cried much more than she did, but it still didn't happen often. "You always seemed so— free after visiting Malfoy for your dates. So happy in a way I rarely see you. But I— I don't know if I made the right choice."
She didn't know how to feel about that.
"What do you mean?"
"Titus won't ever forgive me if he found out."
"Of course, he—"
"You don't understand. You haven't seen him. The night after your Trials, Tabitha came to get me, and I— well, after that, he practically begged me to come visit again, and when I did, he—" Theo sighed and squeezed her hand.
Hermione wondered if he knew about the ritual. For some reason, when she opened her mouth to ask him, the words congealed like glue in her mouth.
"What?" she asked instead.
"Never mind. I shouldn't bother you with this. You made your choice."
"Theodore Nott—don't you dare try to change the subject." Hermione hated to hear about Titus. Every day she missed him, as if she'd cut off her arm, leaving phantom pains. She found herself sometimes mid-laugh, twisting her head as if to tell him the joke, finding him gone.
It felt like grief. As if he had died. As if the night at the Stonehenge had been a burial, of both of them, laid out side by side.
How could someone be so integral to one's life in one moment, and the next— not?
She didn't regret her choice, but she didn't wish to wound Titus either, even if he'd lied to her.
All she knew was she couldn't look back. He'd raised her for ritual sacrifice. He'd planned to drug her and then take her virginity, no matter that he was convinced it would be to protect her from the others. And then he would have tried to convince her it was gentle.
The cold truth—maybe she might have believed him after a time. Maybe, in desperation for comfort, she would have forgiven him and fallen into his arms, let him soothe the ache. Because before now, she'd had no one and nothing else to compare him to.
"He's lonely, Hermione," Theo whispered. "I worry— Tabitha's taking care of him the best she can, forcing him to eat, and he manages to continue with work. Almost works too much now. Though I'm still angry with him— and I might always be a little angry with him— I find I don't have it in me to see him like this. No matter what, he's still my brother. I've considered moving in with him. For a time. At least, until he gets back on his feet."
Guilt ate at Hermione, remembering the haunted look he'd given her near the floo. The dark circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristic beard on his chin. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why did she have to hurt at the idea of Titus struggling to eat?
"It's no matter," Theo said. "He'll get over it. I'm sure of it— he has to."
She could tell neither of them quite believed the lie.
They fell asleep and woke up to Draco shoving Theo out of the bed. He tumbled off the side and landed with a surprised humph.
"Cuddle time is over. Get home, Nott. It's practically dark. What are you doing sleeping all day?"
Theo rubbed his eyes and then rubbed the side of his wrist where he'd landed oddly.
"That hurt."
Hermione didn't bother to get up, enjoying the peaceful feeling inside her. It was the first time she'd felt it in a long time, as if the place she'd woken up in was now familiar and comforting.
To her surprise, Draco slipped in beside her, rolling slightly on top of her.
"Last warning, Theo. Things are about to get— explicit."
Draco leaned down and kissed her neck, and she gasped for real, shoving at his shoulders. But he only grinned and did it again, giving a soft nip to the skin near her clavicle.
"What do you mean?" Theo stood up and glanced at them, expression dropping in horror when he realised what Draco suggested. "Oh, Merlin! Gross. How do I get these images out?" He covered his eyes and began walking to the door, completely missing and running into the wall.
"Ten seconds," Draco warned. "And you'll get to see how firm my naked arse is."
"Blimey, where's a Venomous Tentacula when you need one." He made a gagging sound.
"The door's to the left," Hermione reminded.
Her brother found the door handle, eyes still closed. Just to mess with him, she gave a fake moan.
Theo made a noise of distress as he ran out the door.
"Bye, Theo!" She yelled, laughing at his retreat as she heard him run down the staircase. She glanced up at Draco.
He wasn't laughing, staring at her mouth. The hard length of his erection pressed against her leg.
"Well– that was a little cruel," she said.
He rolled his eyes.
"You were the one who moaned, so don't pretend you're a better person." As if shaking himself from a trance, he peeled himself off her. "I'll invite your muggleborn friends next. It's been difficult to convince the Greengrasses, so it might take a few weeks. Night, Granger."
Stay, a part of her wished to say. Instead, she watched as he walked out of the room.
Afterwards, she placed a hand to her heated cheeks, wondering why she felt so shy now when she used to be so bold. Before the Trials, her physical needs had been almost like a game. Nothing serious. Now the stakes felt severe.
But still, remembering his hard length pressed against her leg, his liquid stare on her lips, she slipped down her hand, imagining his tongue and mouth, and for the first time since the Trials, she brought herself to completion.
For two weeks, they continued their normal routine. Draco would make his potions in the mornings. Sometimes, he'd leave for hours on some excursion or another.
In between was a blatant, slow seduction. It was almost maddening that he did nothing more than simple touches.
She remembered the bliss she felt as she rode his thigh, clinging to him, the taste of his skin, the sound of his strangled moan.
But there was an odd wall between them and only she could breach it. If it was up to him, he'd let this torture last for eternity.
Every time she opened her mouth to suggest that they try things, the words stuck in her throat, leaving her to live in agony.
She became so used to the routine that when the next muggleborn get together came up, she was shocked at how fast the time had passed.
"Julie went through her Trial at the beginning of December," Katie whispered in her ear after she entered an odd building built out of an old cathedral. It was five days before Christmas, so tinsel draped along evergreens. Candles and holly floated at intervals.
Hermione froze, realising a second too late what she'd heard. She ignored the background of chattering women.
"Did she go to Goyle?"
Katie shrugged.
"I wasn't supposed to hear. Flint was talking to Filibus through the floo, right before the— the night."
The words died between them. No one spoke about the ritual. It was a fleeting pain that flew between them, somehow binding. Hermione wished to dig her fingers into her soul and rip it out.
Draco had made hers as gentle as possible, and it still traumatised her. Most of the women weren't so lucky.
The thought of sweet Julie— no, she couldn't go down that route. But despite trying not to, her mind conjured horrid scenarios. Poor, bumbling Greg probably did his best to put her at ease. It sounded hypocritical, but Hermione hoped her friend had been completely unconscious.
Did Lestrange watch? Did she beg the man she'd called father for help?
"Did Flint attend?" Hermione asked.
"Yes, but I don't think Greg won, or else he'd have said. Marcus is being odd, unwilling to tell me details, even when I threatened to sleep in another room. It's— disturbing."
"She should be here."
Hermione looked around. This event was meant to socialise them, but she'd heard some masters resisted the tradition, keeping their breeders locked away.
"We'll see her tonight. They always bring the new girls to their first party." Katie reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it. "Let's not worry too much, yeah?"
Without the galleon, she had no way to know Julie's emotional state. Katie had managed to keep hers, smuggled in with the stuff the Goyles brought over.
"Check your galleon tonight," she told Katie.
Hermione adjusted the hemline of her dress, still much more scandalous than she was used to, absent the sheer overlay of the last dress. She wore her hair down with curls, besides a golden butterfly hairpin comb of Draco's mothers.
Her nerves stretched thin. She wanted nothing to do with the party, wishing to stay at the manor, but she needed to see Julie. Needed to see she was okay.
Draco walked inside the room, adjusting his tie, stopping a moment to stare at her in appreciation.
"The punch will be safe this time. Travers is hosting and wants to impress the old guard. Dolohov and Walter Filibus might show up, so everyone will be on their best behaviour. Though I'm not taking any chances. Any alcohol you drink tonight will come from our own stores."
His promise did nothing to quiet the turmoil in her mind.
The thought of seeing Dolohov again, absent the fire and the stars— Hermione shivered. No, she wouldn't let him get to her.
Something felt wrong, deep in the fabric of the universe. Hermione couldn't shake it. Maybe it was the odd silence around Julie's trials.
"Are you okay?" Draco asked.
She'd interrogated him about Julie the minute she'd gotten back from the muggleborn luncheon. He looked sincere when he said he knew nothing besides the rumour it had occurred. He hadn't been sure of the details, beyond the fact his Aunt Bella had been furious at something, and it wasn't enough information to feel confident to tell her.
"I'm fine. Let's go."
Like before, they landed right outside an old muggle church Travers had retrofitted into a wizarding residence. Large stained glass windows showcasing celestial beings loomed over them. A man with a bloody, thorny crown hanging on a cross stared down at her alongside angels with powerful spread wings.
Travers was among the purebloods who'd benefited after the curse. Draco told her he helped organise production of food. This residence had been gifted to him by the ministry. Titus called men like him new wealth with an edge of derision.
She remembered entering a church once with her grandmother. Long wooden benches had stretched across the expanse of the room. Her dress had been itchy, and she'd accidentally fallen asleep.
Titus had always disparaged muggle religions, often making jokes about muggle stupidity. To be fair, he thought the same of the old gods that wizards used to worship.
But Hermione found the church beautiful in a way she couldn't define. She'd read the histories, the centuries of war, the crimes and the cruelty that humans enacted in the name of their gods. But something about the desperate hope for more than this existence tugged on her heart. Despite the many atrocities, muggles did good deeds for their gods too.
When they entered the building, the voices of the purebloods echoed around, the music bouncing against the walls. Despite the noise, an eerie disquiet washed over her. It felt wrong to be in the sanctuary, as if the ghosts of muggles lingered. Did they think of her as a traitor for dining among the men responsible for their demise?
The muggle religions had been outlawed, and any person found worshipping could be fined or given a short prison sentence. "Their gods have caused enough trouble", Titus had told her once.
But walking into the open hall, filled with women in red and blue and green, all on the arms of pureblood men— laughing, drinking— her past came back. The church she'd visited as a child had been different, but much the same. She remembered her grandmother chiding her to be quiet, pinching her knee for giggling. The hymns had echoed much like the laughter did now. There was a reverence to the moment, her grandmother's head bowed, hands clasped, pleading for something.
Had the curse happened yet? Had the starvation begun? Had the wizards revealed themselves?
She tried to order the events in her mind, cobbling together what she'd been told with her memories, but both had holes.
People watched them as they passed, but the noise level remained the same. Titus sat off in a corner, Dolohov next to him, along with Walter Filibus. They were deep in discussion, but his head snapped up when he saw her.
She hated seeing him here, reminding her of all the years of lies he'd told her. She transferred her attention elsewhere, pressing closer to Draco.
Hermione almost paused when she saw the stage. Muggle women were in the middle of a dance, somehow more scantily clad than the other women. And there, right in the center, twirling with the others, swaying and running her hands through her hair, was the muggle woman Titus brought to the study.
After a sensual turn, their eyes met. Without missing a beat, the woman gave her a taunting wink and twisted her hips back and forth in a sensual way.
Why were muggles here in the first place? At least, she assumed they were muggles, since they wore golden skirts that shimmered under the fractured light.
Hermione curled her lip, still not liking the woman much, ignoring the stage as much as possible. Draco placed a firm, warm hand on the middle of her back as they arrived at the table with Zala, Thorfinn, Katie and Flint.
She almost gave a greeting, but Katie's hand shot up and wrapped around her wrist. "Bloody hell— look."
Hermione stared down at her outfit in confusion, wondering what her exclamation was for, but Katie was looking toward the entrance.
Hermione turned, and a gasp ripped from her throat. If it wasn't for Draco's steadying hand, she might have collapsed to the floor.
At the front door, Julie stood in a pretty red dress, clinging tight to her body. She had her hands clasped before her, twisting in an anxious manner, head bowed to the floor.
Blaise Zabini stood behind Julie, a hand clasping the back of her neck in a possessive hold.
"Zabini won her?" She heard Katie whisper furiously to Flint.
"He wasn't supposed to," Flint answered in a defensive tone. "They only added Zabini because they thought it impossible for him to win with severed fingers. He almost killed Greg."
Hermione's vision darkened. Katie knew a little about Zabini, enough to understand he wasn't a good person. But Hermione hadn't told her everything. The way Zabini had backed her into the bookcase, threatening to fuck every part of her. How he'd promised to sell her to someone like Rosier.
Draco's hand tightened along her waist, fingers curling into the side of her hip as if to anchor her.
The horror in her mind transferred into a burning heat that roared through her. The wine in the goblets on the table bubbled from her accidental magic— something that hadn't happened in years.
"Tell me right now you didn't know anything about this," she hissed under her breath. "If you lie to me, I'll never trust you again."
"I didn't know," Draco whispered back, eyes on Julie and Blaise as if he didn't like what he saw either. "Until my father dies, I'm not allowed into the inner circle. I'd heard something unexpected happened, though I wasn't sure if it was Julie's Trials. My Aunt Bella was in a rage, and father cautioned Rodolphus to find a way to calm her. Dolohov was involved in some way. That's all I heard. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for sure."
"And do you think Zabini is— hurting her?"
Draco grimaced. "He wouldn't dare. My Aunt Bella would have his head if Julie wasn't treated right. I'm sure Rodolphus is checking up on her."
His assurance did nothing to stem the shock. Julie was supposed to go to sweet, blumbling Greg. They were supposed to have tons of little Goyle babies and live by the sea.
She almost stepped toward Julie, intending to rip Blaise's hand off her neck, but Draco held her tight and whispered in her ear. "Not now."
Against every cell in her body, she managed to follow Draco's soft tug on her waist and sink into his lap as they both sat. She met Katie's eyes, and something passed between them.
"It was black," Katie mouthed.
The galleon.
Blaise was getting around the edict to treat Julie well. What else would explain the colour?
Hermione kept her eyes trained on Julie for hours, until her friend finally managed to free herself from Zabini, travelling in the direction of the loo.
"I need to relieve myself," Hermione said.
Draco studied her.
"I'll go with you," he said.
"No, I'll take Katie. It's just around the corner. I can see it from here."
Draco frowned but gave a nod of acceptance at the added person.
"Right there and back," he warned. "No detours. I'll come looking if you're gone longer than necessary."
Katie didn't need to be asked. She had been examining Julie's exit. By her expression, she knew both of them had the same idea.
They needed to talk to their friend in privacy, and this might be their only opportunity.
She stood up and clenched her fists as she stomped her way to the bathroom. Katie trailed behind her, struggling to keep up as they turned into the corridor. It was the first door to their left, slightly out of view from the main sanctuary.
She caught up to Julie just in time. As her friend tried to shut the door, Hermione blocked it with her foot, shoving herself inside the small room.
Katie entered behind her, and Hermione slammed the door, locking them all inside together.
It was a small powder room, with a pedestal sink and a single toilet. It gave them little room to move, but she didn't need the space.
"Hermione?" Julie trembled hard, eyes wide. "Katie?" There were no extra words needed. When Hermione reached out to hug her, Julie began to cry and fell into her outstretched arms. Her bones felt like a bird's, as if they'd crush if she squeezed too hard. Hermione cradled Julie against her chest as she sobbed— an ugly cry, filled with sharp anguish.
Katie sniffled behind her, reaching out to clasp Julie's thin hand for extra comfort.
Hermione didn't bother asking if she was okay.
Of course, she wasn't.
Julie had expected to be given to a person she could love, and Blaise was a human manticore, crooning a taunt before snapping its jaws closed on its prey.
"Tell me everything," Hermione said after a while.
"There's nothing to tell." Her voice was as delicate as her body. Somehow she seemed impossibly smaller than before, and she'd always been tiny.
Hermione shook her head.
"You don't have to lie to me."
Julie began to sniff again.
"He—I tried to fight him," she answered, and Hermione looked toward the ceiling, attempting to stay strong for her friend. "I promise I did."
"There was nothing you could do."
"But it only makes him worse. And when I decide to give in to him, he hurts me in other ways– in ways I never thought—"
Julie cut herself off with a deep sob. The mention of pain made Hermione's eyes narrow.
Examining Julie's skin, she spotted a concealment charm. It shimmered under the artificial light just enough to give it away. And then she found another and another and another. Her arms were covered in them.
She didn't need to reveal the bruises to know they were there.
"Fuck," Hermione said, feeling her voice catch. She felt like crying. "How is he hiding this from your father—"
Julie shrank away from her, curling in on herself against the wall near the loo, holding her stomach.
"Julie—"
"No, please don't. I—let's pretend—"
"I'm not going to pretend! What about your father—"
"Father asked for an exchange. As long as Zabini didn't injure me too bad, mum would never need to know— about either of them." After she said it, Julie leaned over the loo and retched. Nothing came out as she grasped the sides, groaning lowly.
"What do you mean—" Hermione abruptly stopped her sentence with an insidious understanding. A chill overcame her. Hermione swayed and placed a hand against the wall. "No, he wouldn't— Bellatrix— he calls you his—"
Hermione felt as ill as Julie, placing her hand over her lips. Rodolphus did check on Julie. But when he'd found her mistreated, instead of helping the girl he called daughter, he'd made a deal.
"Rodolphus raped you."
"Bloody hell." Katie shoved around Hermione to hold back Julie's hair, rubbing on her back, while Hermione stood, paralyzed. "Oh, Julie…"
"He—he told me he'd always fantasised about coming into my bedroom." Julie placed a dainty hand to her forehead, shiny with perspiration. "I don't know if I can survive this any longer."
"Let me tell your mum," Hermione said.
"No!" Julie wiped her mouth and stood up on shaking legs. "She'll kill father. And maybe Blaise too."
Hermione wished Julie would stop calling that monster her father. A father wouldn't rape his daughter.
"That doesn't sound bad to me."
"But she'd go to Azkaban. I can't stand the thought."
The phantom tears Hermione wished to shed crystallised and became scalding droplets of fire leaking through her.
"Well, I think she—"
A knock on the door interrupted them.
"It's occupied," Hermione said through clenched teeth, hoping whoever it was would give up and find another bathroom.
"I think I've given you more than enough time." Blaise's voice answered from the other side. Tone light with amusement. The words crawled down Hermione's spine. "Now open the door, house pet. I've come to retrieve my property."
"Absolutely not," Hermione said back. Nothing could compel her to open the door and hand Julie back to that monster. Not after what she'd learned.
"Just do as he says," Julie pleaded with a hand on her arm. "He'll punish me otherwise."
"You see how well I've trained her." Zabini gave a grating laugh. "So obedient and sweet. She does anything I tell her to. Fuck, maybe I'll even show you. Julie, sweetheart, open the door. My cock is aching, and I'm craving that tight little arse again. This time I want you on your hands and knees like the dog you are. Come on, show your mudblood friend how a true house pet behaves toward her master."
Blaise's words weren't an idle threat. If she opened the door, he'd probably bring Julie down the corridor and rape her, and Hermione would either have to walk away or watch the torture. The last party showed her that no one would stop it or care, besides urging them to keep it semi-private for the sake of the old guard.
She glanced back at Julie's tear-stained face, at the concealment charms.
In response, Hermione summoned the magic inside her, bringing it to her hands, tendrils of it zipping up her spine. Her mind replayed the horror that Julie went through. The torture, the rape. What it must have felt like for the man she called father to undress and touch her, to violate her in a way a father never should.
No, Hermione couldn't hand Julie over to torture. Her gentle, sweet, optimistic friend.
She wouldn't.
Her rage coalesced into a dark, seething mass. She carried the heavy weight of it, made of the pain of all the women she'd ever known, until Hermione realised that she only had two choices.
She could bend and bow to the force.
Or she could crack and obey her impulse.
Hermione welcomed the darkness like a friend. An irreversible snapping of her soul. The heavy mass of pain inside her mind fractured and assimilated into her brain— a monster in the shadows of her grey matter. It grinned, as if it had waited her whole life to be given the reins, buried under civility. A savage thing, made of raw rage.
"What are you doing?" Katie whispered, sensing a shift in her composure.
"Something I should have done ages ago."
Zabini wasn't the only beast with sharp teeth.
Hermione yanked open the door. Julie attempted to grab her hand, but she was beyond reasoning. She was a vampire now, craving fresh blood. A werewolf under the full moon. Nothing could stop her transformation.
Zabini waited right outside and when he saw her, gave a sly grin, standing casually, as if he'd won some battle. Not afraid like he should be.
She raised her wrists, and he laughed.
"Step aside, house pet. You wouldn't want me to tell them how unruly you are." He reached out to grab Julie, confident in his safety and superiority.
Disarm first, Titus' voice spoke in her mind, made from years of watching him train.
"Expelliarmus!"
His wand hurtled down the hall, but she didn't give him the time to accio it back.
"No–" Katie began to shout behind her, finally understanding. But Hermione was beyond listening.
A violent twist of her wrist.
"Crucio!"
Every sliver of her existence meant the word.
Hermione's soul ripped, but she grit her teeth through the pain, holding the curse.
Zabini collapsed to the floor, writhing around. She drank in his screams, watching every wretched contortion of agony with satisfaction.
"How does it feel?" She said, voice steady.
Hermione didn't see the commotion in the distance, and if she hadn't been so focused on the curse, she would have noticed the absence of music. A few seconds later, the unforgivable proved too much to hold and dissipated.
But she was far from finished.
"How does it feel to be powerless?"
When he lifted his head to snarl at her, she picked his body up and slammed him down on the ground. One of his bones cracked with a crunch.
"How does it feel to be unable to stop the pain?"
With another twist of her wrist, she threw him against the wall, sticking him to it. She attempted to squeeze his head as she'd done the vases, willing his head to explode. His nose and mouth bled, and he screamed. But her magic already felt depleted, as if scraping the bottom of a bowl.
Hermione didn't care that overextending herself might kill her. If it saved her friend a day of pain, then it would be worth it. She only had the capacity for one more spell, so she'd make it count.
He trembled as she walked forward.
"You'll regret this," he sputtered. "I'm going—"
"Dead men can't do anything."
She got the chance to see his delicious fear, eyes widened, mouth open in a silent scream.
Avada Kedavra rested on the tip of her tongue.
But before she completed the curse, she collapsed to the floor, arms trapped to her side.
A familiar set of dragon hide boots paused beside her, and she tilted her face up to see Titus looking down with a hard expression. A magic lasso wrapped firmly around her waist, trapping her wrists to her side. Dolohov was at his back with his wand trained on her, and not on the cretin who lay crumpled on the ground near her. As if she was the dangerous one.
Titus tugged her up with magic, so she floated in front of him. Her head lulled with exhaustion.
"What have you done?" Titus said through clenched teeth. "Did he attack you?"
"He hurt Julie."
Titus scanned the scene, eyes landing on her friends, huddled in the doorway, both shivering and holding each other. And then his stare went back to her, as if to solve a puzzle.
"You used an unforgivable… wandless." There was a note of shock in his voice. "You attempted to kill him."
"Such a pity I didn't," she whispered, head fuzzy, finding it hard to stay awake.
At that moment, Draco barreled around the corner and hurtled to a stop. "What the bloody fuck happened?"
There was only enough time to sense the wound in her soul, lacerated from the dark magic. Pure agony drowned her.
And then, Hermione's vision went dark.
