Song Suggestion: Soap&Skin- "Me and the Devil"
A big thank you to MyPrivateInsanity for A+ editing skills on this chapter that's double the length of a normal one.
With the help of one of my readers, I attempted to make a Russian curse, because I'm tired of Latin, and there must be curses based in other languages. I did my best!
Trigger Warning at the bottom
Fight or Flight
The icy wind numbed Hermione. She wished she could cry out her pain, but she only pressed her hand against the hard casing of Tabitha's coffin and whispered her thank-you — for loving a pathetic orphan girl, covered in mud, so traumatised she barely spoke. Tabitha's love had been given without question.
The sexton stood off to the side, giving them space, though he seemed anxious to finish the burial. Throughout the thirty minutes waiting at the graveside, the pain sloughed away from Titus in increments, leaving only a cold detachment.
He let go of the casket and backed away.
"I'm ready." He glanced at Theo, who gave a solemn nod, but when he turned to Hermione, he held her gaze as the sexton lowered the casket, Tabitha's body disappearing into the Earth.
Before she could turn away, he snatched her wrist. The sleeves of her cloak fell back, showing her shackles.
"You're not wearing the bracelet I made for you."
"I thought it would be inappropriate."
His lips thinned and pulled down at the corners.
"I embedded charms for protection. Extensive ones. It would make me feel better if you wore it. You never know what could happen."
"I don't—"
"Merlin, you're fucking stubborn."
He tugged on her wrist, and she stumbled into him, fitting naturally into his hold, head just below his chin. His strong arms tightened around her. The smell of him should have calmed her— a physiological response buried deep in her past— but she froze.
"I refuse to lose anyone else."
"Titus—" Theo warned.
Titus' hold didn't abate. "Wear the bracelet and stay safe."
He bunched the fabric of her cloak on her back in his fist, and she wondered if he'd ever let go on his own. Maybe he considered going against all the rules— throwing her over his shoulder to bring back to Nott manor. She almost panicked, claustrophobic at the thought.
But he managed to push her away.
"If you need anything, you know where to find me." He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to her eye level. "I'll do everything in my power to help you. You know that, right?"
For a price, he left out. Titus' goodwill sometimes resembled a transaction, like the golden galleons tumbling from her hands. What Titus wanted in return was far more expensive than she'd originally thought, but to say it out loud would only encourage an argument. She refused to dishonour Tabitha's memory by causing a scene.
"Of course, I know that."
He searched her face. She wondered if he sensed the deceit like he always did. Eventually, he rested one hand on her cheek, stroking the bones below with his thumb. It took everything inside her not to throw it off in anger.
Titus laughed sharply, void of amusement. Then he gave a light pat to her cheek and turned toward Theo, dragging him into a sudden tight hug. Unlike her frozen response, Theo softened into his hold.
The brothers embraced each other until Titus tapped Theo's shoulder a few times.
"The offer is for you too. I'd like for you to stop by the manor for dinner." There was a desperate note to his voice he was unable to hide.
Theo hesitated, but promised to do just that as Titus backed away, getting ready to apparate.
"Goodbye, Titus," she said.
His eyes narrowed. "I'd say goodbye in return, but we can't both be liars."
He disappeared, and she didn't know if she should interpret his parting words as a threat, a warning, or a promise.
Long after leaving Tabitha's final resting place, the cold remained, burrowing into her bones.
Hermione tugged her cloak tighter, hating the omnipresent rain. She used a water-repellent charm while she navigated the streets of muggle London, but the droplets still managed to seep through.
The bell on the door jingled as she walked into the now-familiar shop. Amy stood at the till, wearing a new pink dress. Her cheeks sported a healthy tint, and her arms appeared less skeletal than the first time.
"Sofia!" Amy clasped her hands in excitement when Hermione pushed down the hood of her cloak. "I didn't think you'd make it."
"It's a perfect day to walk around." Less people around to observe is what Hermione left out. What she'd been doing wasn't illegal, but she'd probably still get in trouble, even disguised as a pureblood.
"Where's Susan?" Hermione asked. The other woman usually stood in the building too, though never greeted her with the same enthusiasm. A witch was a witch and couldn't be trusted, she'd told her once. Though Susan took her gold just the same.
"I'm not sure," Amy said, subdued from her initial excitement. "She's been fired, I think. It's— hard to keep steady employment. Most employers have little mercy for absences. Too many people are eager for work."
Hermione paused at the shocking news and then reached into her pocket, extracting a small bag, filled with some knuts and a few sickles, along with three galleons. Not as many as the first time. A giant amount of gold suddenly appearing in the muggle world might prove suspicious enough to warrant an investigation.
"That's a shame." Hermione didn't like the woman, but not enough to starve her. Hermione set the bag of money on the counter, the coins clinking against the hard surface. "You could possibly give some of this to her. At least, until she finds work."
A week after Tabitha's funeral, feeling weighed down with grief, she'd decided she needed to do something. If gold meant nothing to her, and everything to another person, then sharing it seemed the logical conclusion.
Amy and Susan almost had a heart attack when she appeared at the shop again, fearing retribution. It took a long time to convince both the women that she wanted to help them.
Her plan: use Susan and Amy to break the coins into smaller currency and deliver it to the people that needed it.
Three galleons. Once a week. It cost her nothing, except the risk of crossing into muggle London.
She lingered longer in the city each time. On one excursion, she'd actually found a nursery to corroborate her lie. Currently, she'd acquired several succulents and a potted bloodtwig dogwood, now rotting in the Malfoy greenhouse.
Amy grabbed the money bag and slid it under the counter with a conspiratorial wink.
"Thank you so much."
"You know I don't want your thank yous," Hermione reminded.
"You'll need to endure them regardless. One of my neighbours hurt his leg in an accident, and he has six children that are starving. Even a single coin will feed them for months. You're providing miracles. You know, the locals already call you Robin Hood."
Unease filled Hermione. She'd need a solution to mitigate the rumours before authorities caught them.
No matter how many times she'd heard of muggle hardships, it always shocked her to witness. As a child, she remembered being amazed at the amount of food presented at the Nott dining table, but she'd grown immune to the abundance. Hermione didn't even know the last time she'd truly been hungry, having no starting point to relate to the desperation surrounding her. The horror of watching a child starve to death seemed unfathomable.
Amy furrowed her brow.
"Are you sure you're not putting yourself in danger?"
"Don't worry about me."
Amy's shoulders relaxed, but Hermione didn't share her relief.
"Thank you again."
Hermione answered with a roll of her eyes and a wave, exiting the shop.
Hermione stepped through the floo to find Draco waiting for her. She almost tumbled back into the fireplace, not expecting him home. Instead of the yellow couches, he sat in a wingback chair, staring at her while taking a sip of whisky from a crystal tumbler.
"Come here," he said, voice lowered.
He knew about her excursions. She didn't know how he'd figured it out, but his demeanour reeked of hostility.
Why did she feel like a child caught stealing a handful of sweets?
She'd planned to tell him, of course, but each time she'd opened her mouth, the words stuck in her throat. What if he tried to stop her? It would only harm their budding relationship. She didn't want to ruin it with an argument.
The sides of his head were freshly shaved, the hair on top tousled and falling over his eyes, as if he'd been running his hands through it. He held himself like stone, besides setting his tumbler aside, and pressed two fingers to his cheek with legs spread, glancing up at her when she stood before him.
"I was going to tell—"
"Sit down," he ordered.
Hermione hesitated, but lowered herself into his lap. She tried to sit sideways, but he grabbed her hips and yanked her around so that her back leaned against his chest. He spread her legs, resting them on either side of him.
"I've known," Draco whispered into her ear. He scrunched up the edge of her voluminous dress until it pooled around her waist, exposing her knickers, his fingers drumming against her bare thigh.
"How long?" Her breath hitched as he traced circles along her skin, going slowly upward.
"The whole time. I had Mipsy follow you, in case you ran into trouble. I've been waiting for you to tell me."
Should she be mad about that? Her instinct wanted to say yes, but she also knew letting her wander into Diagon Alley without intervening— and then into the muggle world— displayed a strong amount of self-control and trust.
He hadn't stopped her; he'd just added protections.
"So you're okay with—" his fingers brushed over her knickers, just firm enough to tease.
"It's the most idiotic thing you've ever done." He played with the edge of her knickers, pushing aside the silk just enough to stroke the hidden soft skin. "A part of me wants to show you how much it angers me— the other part is impressed at your continued recklessness. Will you ever stop risking your neck for degenerates?"
Hermione considered the question, but it was hard, because his fingers slipped past her knickers and rested over her clit. She leaned her head back, as he grasped her breast with his free hand and gently bit the curve of her neck.
"I have to help them." She disagreed with his assessment of her actions. What she was doing was the most important thing she could do. In general, Draco held no love for muggles. He found them interesting, but not enough to sacrifice for them.
At least, he didn't care enough about them to risk her safety.
Draco gave a huff. Possibly amused. Possibly exasperated. She didn't have time to dissect the sound, when he curled two fingers inside her, just as she'd taught him.
"Against my instinct, I won't stop you. I'll provide the required paperwork to avoid suspicion, but I'm going to continue sending Mipsy to follow you." He thrust his fingers hard into her, until she panted, stroking her clit with his thumb in intervals. "Why didn't you tell me from the beginning?"
She could swear she heard a note of hurt, but his fingers buried deep inside her distracted her. She pressed her hips down and up, forcing the movement she craved.
"I thought you'd make me stop."
His hand left her breast, grabbed her knee, and shoved her legs further apart and up, allowing him to get deeper.
"Granger," he whispered between nips on her shoulder. "I've already told you that I'll give you everything. That includes this, even though I think it's pointless altruism. We're—" A hard thrust of his fingers, almost painful. "A fucking team. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she cried, arching her back, chasing her pleasure.
She couldn't speak as he continued until she shattered against his hand. He gently pulled out of her, fixing her knickers and readjusting her skirt while she basked in her orgasm.
"You find it hard to trust me," he said, brushing her curls to the side. "Given your history and our situation, it's understandable, but that ends now. You're still living in survival mode. With me, you can just live."
The words made her want to freefall again, but she did catch the double standard. He wanted her to expose all of her vulnerabilities, trust him with everything, but she doubted he'd do the same. He still occluded around her.
"Okay," she decided. "No more secrets. This time for real."
She'd functioned so long hiding and sneaking around that she almost didn't know how to behave without it. But she was tired of living that way. So far he'd never taken anything, never denied her anything.
Maybe if she extended her trust, he'd do the same.
After recovering, she slipped out of his hold and fell to her knees, twisting toward him.
"I didn't mean for it to be reciprocated." He reached down to shove her away out of a misplaced chivalry. "This isn't quid pro quo." He sometimes reacted this way, as if making sure the act of giving him pleasure was of her own free will.
"A team, Malfoy," she mocked, grabbing his belt. "You make me feel good, and I do the same. It's what a relationship is about, correct?"
He tilted his head up, the tendons pronounced along the sides of his neck. And then he studied her, as if considering whether she meant it. What she offered was too great a temptation, and he buried his hands in her curls as she tugged his cock out, already hard. She licked her lips, staring up at him.
"You're only allowed to get on your knees for me." He groaned when she gave a teasing suck to the tip of his cock. "And only when you choose to."
"I'm doing this because I want to," she reassured him, as his hands tightened in her hair.
After that, his iron mask slowly fractured against her tongue.
Hermione's grief overwhelmed her at random times. Tabitha had never replaced her mother— no one could do that— but she had done the best she could in the circumstances.
While in her grey moods, Draco gave her space. He didn't quite know how to deal with her negative emotions, but neither did she.
Hermione sometimes found herself unable to concentrate on books or studies. Even her job, which normally filled her with joy, became monotonous with the heavy cloud following her.
The only thing that sparked life into her soul was the trips to muggle London. She mattered there in a way she'd never experienced. Every visit was vital to someone in the community— a child needing medicine, an elderly woman with no heat, a single mother desperate for formula. Her soul overflowed with satisfaction with each bag of coins.
Maybe even having freedom wasn't enough.
Perhaps to live a satisfying life, she needed a purpose too.
Two weeks later, Hermione bustled through the crowds of Diagon Alley. The bag of money jingled in her pocket with her polyjuice still in place. She might need a second dose, but she wished to get inside the Leaky before drinking, giving her as much time as possible in the muggle world.
As a surprise gift, Draco had given her the address to a property of his mother's—a townhouse in muggle London, protected by Fidelius charms. Unplottable. A perfect place to conduct her underground operation. He'd already added some of her blood to the wards. She planned to approach Amy with an offer to quit her job and move to the townhouse, giving her more security while dispersing the money.
The Leaky was packed with the lunch crowd, as dark and dingy as usual. The noise bounced off the walls. Hermione made her way around the people, staying close to the edge.
In the process, she accidentally barreled into a man travelling fast in the opposite direction. The force pushed her to the side in an alcove near the stairs. She fell hard to the floor, catching her descent with her wrists, throbbing in pain with the sharp landing.
The man loomed over her. He was burly with wide shoulders and a buzz cut. A scraggly beard went to his chest, and it looked as if a chunk had been taken out of his left eyebrow.
"Sorry about that," he said, holding out his hand. "Let me help you up."
Hermione grasped his beefy hand, ready to say thank you, but in his palm he carried a small object. The sharp point pricked her hand as it began to warm
In confusion, she attempted to tug away, but the man's grasp turned to stone.
She raised her left wrist prepared to curse him.
But it was too late.
He slammed the side of his fist against her temple.
The portkey in his hand activated, and they both disappeared.
They landed in a decrepit, abandoned flat with a bang, and Hermione briefly lost consciousness. Sharp flashes of pain stabbed her brain as he flung her over his shoulder, walking toward a new destination, wrenching whimpers from her with each step. He laid her on something she thought might be an old couch— a floral fabric, half-disintegrated, smelling of mould, with obvious holes from rats. She blinked, trying to focus on the details as he placed shackles on each wrist.
"Who are you?" she managed to get out. Once he stepped away, she placed a hand to her temple, coming back with a smear of blood.
Another two snaps of metal, and she realised he'd also shackled her ankles, attaching them to the couch leg.
"Don't move or speak." It didn't sound like a request. She sensed he'd use violence as a means for gaining obedience.
Instead, she took the time to study her surroundings— dilapidated floor boards, ancient peeling wallpaper, so dirty she couldn't make out the colour, and a cracked window. A lit up sign across the alley shone through the smudged glass. It had two words, with the first starting with a D, but the rest blurred from the window. Nothing much else occupied the room besides a rickety table and chairs with a large parchment on top— a map, she suspected, though she couldn't see it. A bundle of blankets and a ratty bag rested in one corner— her kidnapper's personal belongings.
After securing her, the man stood by the door, checking his watch. A minute later, he glared at her.
"I have to let someone inside. Don't try escaping. I've already checked for your wand, and the wards will alert me if you try to cross, so you won't get far. If I have to place you back in that spot, I'll break both your legs."
He didn't wait for her answer and walked out the door, slamming the door behind him. He seemed secure in the knowledge that she couldn't get out of her restraints.
What a fucking idiot.
Hermione waited until she heard his footsteps retreat, stomping down some stairs. Sensing no other charms attached to the metal, she twisted her wrist slightly and both unclicked. She did the same to her ankles. Standing up, she groaned, throwing a numbing charm at her pounding head. She'd never been that great at healing spells, so it continued to throb as she walked to the window.
The sign across the alley became clear—Dystyl Phalangeas. Hermione recognized the name as a shop in Knockturn Alley, specialising in bones, fossils, and fangs, as well as selling furniture made from them.
The man hadn't brought her very far at all.
Like he'd warned, trying to escape would be pointless. She sensed the buzzing wards from where she stood. So she needed to find a way to alert Draco to her location. Her mind raced, as she considered and discarded ideas, until it left the obvious.
A body couldn't pass through the wards without detection— but a patronus might.
She'd never tried to cast the complicated spell without a wand. It took several desperate tries before managing a wisp. She almost cried in frustration with the failure, distracted by her pounding heart.
"Good thoughts," she pleaded with herself.
She concentrated on Draco's face. On watching him sleep. His severe expression softened into something it might have been without trauma— playful and hopeful. She imagined him without occluding, smiling just for her.
The luminous otter bounded out of her hands.
"I'm in Knockturn Alley," she whispered. "Across from Dystyl Phalangeas, and I'm being held hostage."
She assumed Mipsy had already informed him of the kidnapping. Did he get in contact with aurors? Was he searching Diagon Alley?
Worry plagued her as she gathered what magic she could, trying to clear her mind of fear and focus her intent. After ordering the Patronus to find Draco, she watched it bound away, passing through the walls. It disappeared down the alley and beyond her senses, severing most of her contact with it. She hoped no one saw the otter, and that it had been powerful enough to reach its destination, but she couldn't linger at the window.
Several deep voices spoke just outside the room. They argued in another language— Russian, she thought. Hermione scrambled back into her restraints, attempting to be as quiet as possible as they clicked closed again.
Just in time.
Her kidnapper opened the door, walking inside, followed by strangers— all wizards with their robes and wands.
A pale man entered right behind her captor with a bald head shiny enough it reflected the dull light. Something about him seemed off, detached and stony-eyed, and her instincts flared. Behind him, another man pushed through, skinny and tall, with a beaked nose and wiry grey hair. The third was much shorter than the others, shivering in fear after scurrying inside, exposing oddly large front teeth.
The final man's slow, heavy footsteps heralded his arrival, and when he lowered his hood, she recognized him immediately. Karkaroff— the former headmaster of Durmstrang. He'd been at the Yule Ball, standing next to his horde of red-uniformed boys, looking as severe as his charges. Several years ago, the authorities had discovered he'd been selling government secrets to the Order— or to anyone willing to pay him better. She'd overheard Titus discussing him through floo, but thought nothing of it.
Since then, he'd managed to evade arrest. She'd seen his wanted posters plastered across Diagon Alley.
But none of that explained his presence here, or why they'd kidnapped her.
After entering the room, Karkaroff's cold blue eyes stuck to her in a way that reminded her of Dolohov, intelligent and assessing, though perhaps less imposing. A goatee lined his jaw, covering a weak chin, and she could see his yellow teeth from where she sat. He carried a heavy black bag over his shoulder that he kept pressed to his side.
"I thought I told you to stay ahead of me," he barked. Reaching behind him, he yanked a woman forward by her dark hair, yelping in pain.
As she stumbled into the filthy room, the woman lifted her face to reveal Susan, trembling like a leaf, face wet with tears. One eye bloomed with a dark bruise.
"Is this the girl?" Karkaroff asked.
Hermione felt the instant slap of betrayal.
"Y—yes." Susan sobbed. "She's been giving us gold. Lots of it. Please, don't kill me. I have—"
Karkaroff backhanded her, and Susan collapsed to the floor with the force, clutching her cheek and scooting to a corner.
"Please," she screamed. "Mercy."
"Your voice is particularly annoying, and I find I have no more use for you. Silence her, Dmitry," Karkaroff ordered.
The pale man's eyes lit up with the task. He reached down to his thigh and extracted a large, gleaming hunting knife, similar to the one Titus owned. Dark magic rolled off it, created for torture.
"Come here, pretty," Dmitry taunted, stalking toward the screaming woman.
Hermione tugged on her chains in an instinct to help, but there was nothing to do as the man grabbed Susan's hair. She kicked and pleaded, but it didn't stop the sudden, practised stab of the knife up into her carotid artery, followed by a spray of blood as he tugged it out. Susan's limbs spasmed with death, hands grasping her killer's forearms, until she lost consciousness. Blood kept spraying everywhere, covering Dimitry, and the wall near them.
"Ah, people are the most beautiful as they die." Dmitry leaned forward and captured her dying gasps with a kiss.
Hermione wished to vomit with what she'd seen. Blood seeped everywhere, more than she thought possible, pouring into the rotten floor below. She glanced up to find Karkaroff studying her.
"No need to fear us." Karkaroff flicked his wand, erasing the blood — as if that was the part that scared her. Dmitry had discarded Susan's body in the corner. "She was just a muggle, love. If you prove useful, I plan to obliviate you and set you free. Now let's discuss the galleons you've been… dispersing. "
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Karkaroff tutted. "Not a wise start."
Hermione bit her tongue. Her head felt woozy from panic, but somehow she kept control of herself.
It's not real, she lied to herself. It's just a movie. Or a nightmare.
"I found this on the girl." The burly man that kidnapped her reached in his pocket and threw a leather pouch at Karkaroff who caught it mid-air.
Her galleons— he must have taken it from her pocket when she'd been unconscious. Karkaroff opened it, giving a hum at what he found.
"See, my dear, there's no point in lying. Did you find anything else?"
"Some scrap parchment, her identity papers, and a small flask."
He meant the parchment with the address Draco had given her. It featured the same charms she'd used on the message scroll she'd given Dean, making it impossible to read without her touch.
"Who is she?"
"Sofia Romano."
"I don't recognize that name."
"Some Italian pureblood. Maybe a halfblood." Her kidnapper handed over her identity papers. Karakoff grabbed them, studying them with his cold eyes. "Not from one of the important families. She works for Malfoy, the younger one."
"Why would she come to England?"
"Probably lack of job opportunities," the tall man with wiry grey hair spoke. He had a surprisingly soft voice. "Italy's economy is in crisis, especially after the last snap."
The last snap?
"Where's her wand, Johnson?"
"I don't know." Her kidnapper shrugged. "Must have fallen when we portkeyed."
Kakaroff scowled in fury. "That was sloppy. Give me the flask."
After producing the flask, Johnson handed it to Karkaroff, who uncapped it. "Dimitry, what is it?"
The pale, bald man grabbed the flask and took a deep sniff. "Polyjuice."
All of the eyes in the room stared at her.
"So not Sofia, after all." Karkaroff walked over to the rickety table and set her bag of galleons on the surface, staring at the map laid out with a frown. "Which makes more sense. After all, if she'd arrived in England for a better life, then where would she be getting galleons enough for the muggles? It might also explain her lack of a wand. Now the remaining question—who is hiding behind the pretty face?"
"I don't like this." The ratlike man still trembled near the door, eyeing Susan's body, showing her death had disturbed him too.
"Quiet," Kakarroff ordered, making an awful noise while sucking on his upper teeth. "The girl wouldn't tell us the truth. I don't have veritaserum, and I'm not skilled enough a legilimens to avoid causing damage to her brain, which would render this whole endeavour useless. We need her gold, or have you forgotten what will happen to us if we don't pay back our debts?" The men all shared glances of worry.
"We could always torture it out of her," Johnson suggested.
"Let me," Dmitry volunteered. "I could make her sing so prettily."
"Patience." Karkaroff tilted his head in thought. "There's no need for force. It will fade soon enough. While we wait, let's go over our plans again, because we don't have room for errors."
Hermione breathed through her terror as the four of them gathered around the table. She pushed down the useless response, trying to remember all of Titus' lessons.
Before attempting to fight or escape, analyse all the advantages and disadvantages and take the easiest route.
Advantage number one— they needed to wait for her polyjuice to fade, giving her time to think of a plan.
Advantage number two— she'd been able to send a patronus. Whether it made contact was a mystery, which meant she couldn't count on it to help her escape.
Advantage number three— and possibly the greatest of them— they didn't know about her wandless magic. The shackles on her wrists and ankles resembled the ones in the ministry. They hindered the movement of her wrists, which dampened her ability, but they weren't obsidian.
The disadvantage— they outnumbered her five to one. They possessed wands and had greater physical strength, so her only true advantage would be surprise.
As they began arguing in Russian again, Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. She didn't think any of them were Russian, besides Dmitry and perhaps Karkaroff, but they all spoke the language fluently, other than the small, shivering one.
No one seemed to be paying attention to her.
Titus' advice once again rang in her ears: in an emergency, use your environment for weapons. If your enemies expect your right hand, then shock them with your left.
Without a wand, she'd need to reserve her energy. Using curses would tire her out, affecting her magical core. Even if the fight didn't kill her, it might overextend her magic and cause her to pass out.
No, she needed to kill in ways that didn't require dark magic or excess energy.
Hermione searched the room, trying to see it in a new light.
During her inspection, her eyes snagged on a floorboard, warped and weathered, and an idea came to her.
She had no weapons, but she could create them.
After a quick look up, she placed her hand down and concentrated her magic. Using only a little bit, she popped a sharp shard of wood out, making a small cracking noise
Hermione glanced up to see if anyone had noticed, but they still huddled around the map, deep in discussion.
Assured no one saw, she worked several out, and with a crook of a finger, they tumbled across the floor toward her, residing in a little pile behind her feet.
The giant splinters might not kill, but if she aimed for the face, it might incapacitate them enough to escape.
She needed something else, a plan B.
Her first idea was to use the glass from the window, but she discarded it after considering it might be too obvious to gather. The next plan didn't come to her for several minutes, until she placed a palm on the couch, slipping right through a rotting hole. She cringed with the feeling, tugging it back out. Slimy dust lingered on her finger, and she swiped it on her dress.
Staring at the goo, inspiration struck a second time.
Hermione focused on the organic matter, filtering out the rest of the world to hone her intent. Placing her hand above the hole, she ordered it to bend to her will with a subtle twist of her wrist. The slimy mould obeyed her summons easier than the splinters. It pooled up like a tiny river, sucked from the depths of the couch. A black gelatinous puddle grew larger until she gathered it and hid it under the sofa next to the splinters.
She tried to think of something else, but she'd run out of time. They had stopped arguing and were now looking over at her.
"Bring the girl here," Kakaroff demanded.
Johnson huffed, but he walked over, leaned down, and undid her ankle shackles. "No fighting," he warned. "Or I'll make you regret it."
She gave a sharp nod, faking submission.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She refused to look at Susan's corpse as she passed. Dragging her across the room, Johnson shoved her into a chair at the table.
Like she thought, the parchment laid out proved to be a map of the continents of Asia and Europe. A thick red line encircled most of both, outlining odd boundaries that didn't match country borders. On one side, the line encircled the United Kingdom, bisecting the ocean, but as it slid down the coast of France, it zigzagged onto land. From there, it slashed across upper Spain, travelling through the Mediterranean, cutting off the tip of Italy and then right into the middle of Turkey and Iran. Other countries seemed to be severed as well, including China and Russia.
Within the red line were pins of different colours she didn't understand, along with places shaded in grey, including big swaths of land in China, Russia, Greece, Turkey, and Italy.
"Curious, are you?" Kakaroff noticed her interest.
"What do you want with me?"
"The lies you're concealing intrigue me," he admitted. "But I can overlook a few secrets. Tell me where you're getting the galleons, then lead me to them, and I'll think about releasing you right now before your polyjuice fades. No harm done. I'd even let you take a sip of potion to prolong the disguise. You see, I need the money, and if I don't have it in my hands soon, I'll get… resourceful."
"Malfoy gives me a stipend to buy plants in the muggle world. I can't get any more."
Kakaroff snorted. "Even if that were true, the Malfoys are notoriously stingy, despite their obscene wealth. There's no way he doesn't see the discrepancy of payment. To further that, Malfoy certainly wouldn't care for charity— unless it benefited him. You work at Draco's apothecary, but he also wouldn't pay you that amount just for plants, especially since— if my sources are correct— you just began working there."
A lie paired with the truth.
"I'm— well, if you must know, I'm sleeping with him."
"That's more believable. A bag of galleons for a tumble in bed. I never thought he'd need a whore." His eyes studied her, and then he landed on the side of her face. "Ah, now it finally fades. I suppose it's too late for deals. Let's see who you are under the surface."
Hermione stood up and tried to back away, but the burly man grabbed her shoulders and forced her back down again.
The change was sudden. Her hair lengthened into a mass of curls, skin turning golden, even under the dull light. When she finally morphed back into her own body, Karakoff grinned in delight.
"Oh my, this is much better than a few bags of galleons."
"Who is she?" Johnson asked.
"We have in our possession a little mudblood. And not just any mudblood, but Draco Malfoy's breeder—the one that killed Fenrir as a mere scrap of a girl." His head tipped back as he laughed loudly. The sound grated her nerves. "It seems she's been a naughty little girl, pilfering from the potion room, or maybe he's idiotic enough to loosen her leash. Either way, it matters not to me. I don't question my luck."
Hermione glared at him.
"Are we going to ransom her back to Malfoy?" The wiry grey haired man asked.
"That would be far too dangerous. No—" he looked her up and down as if she was a treasure. "He can't know we have her. And neither can the Order. All traces of her must vanish. Pettigrew, I want you to go to Bulgaria and get in contact with the Krum family. Show them your memories. I think they'd be interested in our little captive for personal reasons. I need an important favour from them, and if they offer a sufficient amount, it would be advantageous to trade."
"I don't feel good about this." The rat man trembled. "My boss has been searching for her too. He says that she's—"
"If I discover you've told your boss, I'll let Dmitry hunt you down and allow him to do whatever he wants with you."
Pettigrew visibly swallowed.
Boss? Hermione wondered who he talked about. Did Pettigrew work for the Order, only following Karkaroff as an in-between? She had nothing to base it on, but that conclusion felt false.
"Understand. I'll go right away." Pettigrew shivered, skin rippling, and he shrunk down, down, down, until all that was left of him was a rat.
An animagus! It made sense. Humans tended to resemble their animal form.
The rat scampered out of the room, twisting around the bald man's feet, disappearing out of the room.
"I still think we should ransom her back to Malfoy. Imagine how much they'd pay us." Johnson's eyes nearly twinkled at the idea.
"Threatening the Malfoys would be suicide," Karkaroff responded. "Besides, they aren't the only wealthy men. Do you know how high the bids would be for her at the markets in the East? In several countries, muggleborns are harder to find than here, since they aren't as corralled. They hide in the country and in caves or the mountains. It leaves them in a crisis, which works in our favour. And this muggleborn is truly a rose among thorns— young, pretty, and if the rumours are true, powerful. She's not a virgin, so that would bring the price down a bit, but the old families in the East are desperate enough it won't matter. They'd pour out their vaults for access to her womb. After this, we wouldn't have to work ever again. We could move to central Europe and retire."
That seemed to soothe the even seemed to get more excited, exchanging greedy glances.
Hermione's head pounded and her stomach lurched. Karkaroff planned to sell her. If they managed to smuggle her out of wizarding England, she suspected she'd never get back.
Like fuck they would.
She'd rather die.
"What if she's pregnant?" Dimitry asked.
Kakaroff narrowed his eyes, considering the question. "We'll eliminate the problem, of course. Perhaps we should go ahead and check—"
"Shit!" Johnson had been leaning against the table, but he snapped straight.
"What is it?"
"I thought I felt—" his brow furrowed. "I'm not quite sure what it was. I think a cat went through the wards, but something felt odd about it. Perhaps I should go check."
"No, I need your brain to plan. August—" Karkaroff motioned to the wiry grey haired man. "Go see if it was just a cat."
"On it." The man left, closing the door behind him. The thump of his boots followed him down the stairs.
They waited in silence. In the interim, Hermione studied the map, wondering at what it meant, while Kakaroff took a scroll out of his bag, along with a quill and ink pot.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Writing to your prospective owners. Also, I'm getting into contact with several auction houses, to see who offers me a better deal."
"Are auctions for muggleborns common?"
"You ask too many questions." Karkarfoff raised an eyebrow, but he indulged her. "In most of the countries, your kind are sold off at auction. English wizards think they're superior to that, but the Trials aren't much different."
Despite the disturbed feeling at the thought, she agreed with him. Stripped of the decorations, the Trials usually boiled down to humans being bought and sold like livestock, since many were rigged toward the highest bidder. In the end, the result was the same— sold, bred, and used on a whim.
His mood had improved since her true identity had been revealed. But she'd only asked the questions to distract him from a single splinter rolling toward her. The wood resisted her, so she only tugged at one. She grit her teeth, focusing her concentration.
A crash startled her from her task, and Karkaroff slammed down his quill as a ball of orange hurtled through the broken window.
Crookshanks gracefully landed in the mouldy room, carrying a fat rat, limp in his jaws.
Hermione had never seen an animal more beautiful. She bit her lip to prevent herself from calling to him. What was he doing here? And how did he find her? She wished to cuddle him to her chest, but knew it was necessary to pretend she didn't know him.
Kakaroff gave an amused laugh and went back to work. "There's the cat. Dmitry, go and retrieve August from his fruitless search."
Hermione kept staring at Crookshanks, and at the unconscious rat still dangling from its mouth. A shocking revelation hit her.
"Is that Pettigrew?" Hermione whispered, placing a hand over her mouth.
As if he'd heard his name, the rat began to squirm. Crookshanks gave a violent shake of his head, placed his paw on the rat's belly, and ripped at its throat.
At the same time, Dmitry opened the door, but something blocked his way.
Right behind the framing, August dangled from a rope attached to the ceiling. His chest, face, and neck looked like a pincushion, fountains of blood spurting out, haemorrhaging. Still alive, with the rope cinched tight around his neck, he opened a tongueless mouth and gave a strangled groan.
Dmitry raised his wand with a shout, but he was too late. A figure stepped out of the shadows.
"Bombarda!" The red curse hit Dmitry in the chest, exploding his body with the impact, splattering hot flesh and blood around the room. A finger landed on her foot, and she shoved it away with a surprised shout.
She had no time to contemplate the impossibility that the shredded flesh around her had once belonged to a person, because another curse hurtled over her head. Rebounding from a protego, it smacked against the wall toward the window.
The figure stepped out of the shadows. She recognized the Death Eater mask, the carving and etching. The colour was normally a silver so bright it glinted in the light. Soaked in blood, he resembled a demon. Crimson dripped from his dark cloak, as if he'd bathed in it.
Malfoy had come for her.
"Let her go," Draco warned. "Or I'll rip you both apart."
"Portkey the girl," Kakaroff bellowed, flinging his own curse that Draco sidestepped. "I'll kill him."
The words shook her out of her frozen trance. When Johnson attempted to grab her, she collapsed to the floor, ducking under his burly arms. She crawled, scraping her knees, intending to reach the window.
But before she could get far, August grabbed her ankle, dragging her toward him across the rotten floor. He reached into his robes, probably to grab his portkey.
Something snapped in her mind. A survival instinct she didn't know she possessed.
He wasn't going to take her anywhere.
With a twist, she swung her opposite leg around and kicked him across the face. His head snapped back, and his nose crunched with the impact.
"Fucking bitch!" He clutched his bleeding wound. Chaos surrounded them as Draco and Karkaroff battled. Blood and smoke and body parts. Red and green curses snapping around the room. But the threat of Johnson and the portkey still hovered over her. "When we get to our destination, I'm going to break your legs like I promised."
The illegal portkey now rested in his hand— a small, innocuous toy figurine. If he managed to touch her with it, she'd be gone forever.
"There's one problem with your plan." Hermione released her shackles. They clicked off, thumping on the floor. "I'm a fucking witch!"
Fully in control of her magic, she twisted her wrist and flung the gelatinous mass of mouldy slime through the air, right into his bloody face. He opened his mouth to shout, but it was a mistake. The viscous liquid sucked down his throat, into his nose, into his ears— an impenetrable mask.
He grasped at his throat, trying to swipe off the slime, but Hermione dug up more and more mould from the floorboards and couch, black and green rivers travelling up his body. He toppled backward, fighting the substance.
Hermione continued to pour the slime into his mouth until he stopped moving, until his legs stopped kicking. When his boots twitched and then stilled, she scrambled back on her hands and knees, dry heaving against the floor.
She'd killed someone.
And not just by accident.
Hermione paused her blind panicked crawl with sudden shock.
In her line of sight, right under the window, was Pettigrew's body, blood leaking out of his severed throat. After death, an animagus always transformed back into a human. Crookshanks still had one paw on his head, giving a meow.
"Good boy," she whispered, still feeling dizzy and panicked.
Understanding that she had to get a grip, Hermione slapped her cheek and jumped to her feet. Adrenaline alone kept her moving as she turned to see Draco and Karkaroff duelling.
Draco's left arm hung loose by his side, probably injured, but he ducked and twisted, using the door as a shield, and blocking with a protego as beautifully as Titus. The mask had fallen off, showing his pale features coloured bright red with splattered blood.
However, Karkaroff had been the headmaster of Durmstrang, and it showed. His spells shot out like lightning, most barked in Russian, making it impossible to anticipate.
Draco managed to throw her a hard look between his protegos, then glancing toward the window. Escape, it screamed.
She thought about it. Perhaps she was a distraction.
But she wouldn't run from this fight, leaving Draco alone. He'd insisted they were a team, and she'd never been a coward.
Hermione dredged up her last bit of magic, knowing she had one more weapon left to use, however minor.
"Catch," she shouted.
With a swoop of her wrist, she lifted the splintered wood under the couch in the air and shot it all toward Karkaroff. He blocked the missiled fragments, but not the giant splinter that she'd started to roll toward him earlier. That one shot up from near his feet, impaling his eye.
As Karkaroff turned in his agony, the curse that had been directed toward Draco twisted toward her.
Hermione had no energy left to deflect or shield. She meant to flatten herself, but it was too late. The curse slammed into her forehead; she flipped in the air and smacked into the wall, crumpling to the floor, unable to move.
"Granger!" Draco slashed his wand, and the Durmstrang headmaster crashed into the floor face first in an Incarcerous, still moaning in pain.
With the threat eliminated, Draco sprinted toward her, leaping over Johnson's dead body.
When he reached her, he fell to his knees and lifted her gently off the floor. She gasped with the movement. The tang of iron flooded her mouth, and she spit out a mouthful of blood.
"Fuck," he said. "What curse did he use?"
"It was in Russian." Hermione spat another mouthful of crimson. "Did you get my Patronus?"
"No." He tried to grin but failed. "I had a trace on you, of course. Do you think I'd let you wander without one? As soon as Mipsy verified that you'd been— well, I used Crooks as a lure to separate them. And then I dumped a bucket of that fucker's blood over me to confuse the wards so I could slip inside."
"Always clever," she teased, but her voice was weak, and her skin throbbed as the curse spread.
It started as a tickle. An uncomfortable scrape against the skin. A deeper gnawing. For a moment, she marvelled at the magic, finding it similar to the dark patronus of Dolohov's— a shadow crossing the threshold into reality, capable of true pain.
Nothing tangible appeared on her skin, but she felt the invisible insects crawling along the surface. Within seconds, it covered her whole body. Soon their fangs pierced into her to the bone, over and over, until it grew unbearable. She writhed in Draco's arms.
"Get them off," she begged.
"There's nothing on you."
Karkaroff began to laugh, howling within his binds.
"It's going to kill the girl without intervention," he explained. "It's a nerve spell. The sensations will change and get worse. If you want her to survive, you'll need a countercurse that only I know, along with intense care under the guidance of a healer." He paused. "Or perhaps we could avoid that messy business and make a deal. Her life for mine."
Draco's helpless expression slid off, replaced with his cold mask. He stood, setting her down gently.
"Is that how you think this is going to go?" Draco walked toward Karkaroff slowly. When he got to him, he grabbed him up by his hair, showing off his ruined eye with a splinter still embedded. "You think I'd ever set you free after you planned to sell her to the highest bidder? After you stole what's mine?"
Draco must have been listening to the conversation the whole time. She wondered how long he'd spied on them before intervening.
"I think you're intelligent enough to see the easiest solution."
Draco didn't react at first, and she thought he might take the deal, if only to get her help faster, but his grip tightened. He flipped Karkaroff over with a violent tug and straddled his waist.
"Accio knife." Dmitry's blade, which had been flung across the room with the bombardo, zipped into his hand. It pulsed with nefarious energy. "Here's how it's really going to go." Draco placed the dark blade to Karkaroff's neck. "If you don't tell me the countercurse, and she dies, I'll keep you alive. For weeks. For months. For years. I'll use stasis spells and hire healers to keep you from dying as I practise every grotesque curse I've ever learned. You'll be my test subject for the worst dark magic potions. Let me be clear: the only mercy you will ever have from me will be if you tell me what I need to know right now, and then I'll grant you a swift demise."
"Just think—" Karkaroff's words cut off with a cry, as the tip of the knife slit down his front, cutting through the robes and the first layer of skin.
"The only thing I want you to talk about is the countercurse."
"I'll never tell you."
Draco slipped off his dark cloak, rolling up his sleeves. When he grinned, he showed his straight white teeth, a predator with blood splattered across his face.
"Let's test your resolve." Draco began to cut and slice and stab at various points, as if he already knew all the places to wound without killing— taking off fingers, carving off one ear, scalping off half his hair.
Hermione had to look away, feeling sick at the sight, writhing in increasing agony from the curse. Unending screams filled the room, as Draco mutilated him with meticulous precision. At one point, he made a deep slit down the abdomen. As if it was an overripe fruit, the skin peeled in two, exposing the organs below. Draco dug his bare hands into the innards and extracted what she thought was the liver. "This looks important." He laughed and threw it to the side. Karkaroff's eyes rolled to the back of his head, but Draco tapped his temple with his wand with a rennervation spell. "Oh no, It's not time to sleep yet."
It took two more extracted organs, before Karkaroff cracked.
"Kill me," he groaned. "Kill me."
Relief spread through Hermione, knowing both their tortures drew to a close.
Draco had been in the middle of unravelling the man's intestines, sliding them out of his stomach inch by inch. He placed them down, blood covering his arms up to his elbows. "You know what I want, and it will all be over."
"Ubiytsa Nervov," he panted. "The curse is from my father's grimoire. The countercurse is Istselit' Povrezhdeniya. Please, no more."
"Any special movements?"
"A slash down, then a figure eight."
"Let's see if you deserve my mercy." Draco pointed his wand at her and completed the countercurse as instructed. The invisible insects disappeared, but the remnants of pain remained. Blood still pooled in her mouth at a disturbing rate. She feared she would die, despite reversing it.
"It's gone." She barely had the energy to whisper.
Draco seemed to sense the urgency. He placed both hands on either side of Karkaroff's head, so brutalised she almost didn't recognize him as human.
"I wish I had longer to make you suffer." Draco looked up and held her stare as he gave a sudden, vicious twist, followed by a sickening snap.
Karkaroff went limp, his neck broken.
As he stood up, Draco cleaned his bloody hands, and then pulled a small satchel from his cloak pocket— his usual potions bag— expanding it on contact.
Her eyelids wanted to close. A deep exhaustion took over. Black spots marred her vision, but she knew if she gave in, she might not wake up.
"Hold on, Granger."
He set the bag beside her, kneeling again. He pulled out a vial labelled Sunrise powder and uncapped it.
"This should help with the pain and keep your heart going. Open your mouth."
She struggled to obey him, but when she managed, more blood poured out.
"Fuck," he said. "Swallow it."
Her lips closed around the vial, and she did her best to swallow as he poured it, but she choked, coughing half of it back up.
Draco held her to his chest, and she whimpered in pain. Crookshanks purred at his feet, mouth stained crimson from Pettigrew's blood, following them as they made their way out of the room.
"Just stay with me until I can get out of the wards and to St. Mungos. Ignore any visions from the powder. They aren't real."
Sunrise powder was a powerful hallucinogen when taken at the amounts she did. The ancients used to use it in rituals, thinking it produced visions of the future.
When the first apparition appeared, it was real enough she almost screamed. As they walked past August's corpse, still hanging behind the doorway, he lifted his limp head and bellowed.
On the stairs, her old nanny rose out of the rotten wood, grey and feeble.
"Tabitha," Hermione cried, but the image disintegrated.
When they exited the building into Knockturn Alley, Draco's footsteps quickened into a sprint. And she was glad for it, for a mound of severed heads rolled down the alleyway toward them— one of them her father's.
"You've betrayed me," he accused, flesh falling off him to the stones below. "You've forgotten who you are."
"No." She shook her head. "I haven't. Please, I love you still."
She screamed and screamed. Wanting to cry. Wanting to purge herself. Wanting to reattach his head to his body.
"Granger," Draco whispered. "It's not real."
She glanced up to him to find the angel-monster from her nightmares. His skin shone like a sun, illuminating off him, splashed with red, and his teeth sharpened into points.
She struggled against him, wishing to flee the terror.
"Whatever you're seeing isn't real."
But Hermione's nightmare and her reality mixed together, like smeared paint on canvas.
It became too much. The exhaustion won. She sank into the depths of the abyss.
Behind her closed eyes, she saw herself roaming amongst decomposing corpses and ruined buildings, floating a feather above it all. Dark shadows flowed out of her, streaming from her hands. As she walked, the ground seeped crimson, swallowing her feet, rising into a river of blood.
And around her, the world burned.
Trigger Warning: kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence, torture, death.
