On Christmas Eve Kirby surprised her, in the late morning, by arriving with a ridiculously elaborate lunch.
"Don't be mad!" he insisted. "He said I could come today, as a treat, to make sure you have your energy."
Energy for what? She hid a smile behind her hand. Perhaps Draco had the same hopes she did for their evening.
Kirby flitted about, setting out the food. While she ate he pulled out her stove and started to wipe behind it. "Please don't," she protested between bites.
"Master Malfoy is wanting your house cleaned."
Strange. "Why?"
Kirby shrugged. "He was not saying. He just asked Kirby to do it. 'Spotless' was his word, Miss Granger. He told me to stay all day. So spotless it shall be!"
She rolled her eyes. Neat freak. "Your imperious overlord can order you to clean his home, but not mine. It's not that messy."
Kirby glanced pointedly to the left and right. "Miss Granger -" Dust particles, suspended in air, sparkled in the sun.
Blinking, Hermione looked around with fresh perspective. Her place had gotten a bit . . . dingy, since Kirby stopped coming by every day. Without magic, she hadn't kept it up to its usual standards. She spied a few stray hairs and crumbs in the corners. Draco must be disgusted.
She blushed furiously. "I'll do it, Kirby. I just . . . need to get my magic."
"Your wand is still on the mantle, Miss. I put it there weeks ago." He spoke kindly, as if she was very slow. "Master Malfoy said you can't use it yet. So clean for Christmas, we're going to get it."
"Well, I can help."
"Perfect," squeaked the elf. At that he led her to the couch, where he settled her down with a book and a tea and her blanket. "You sit there and chat with Kirby about where you want your things to be going."
Hermione accepted it. Fine. If Draco was disgusted enough to send Kirby to clean, she didn't want to create a conflict between them. She could discuss it with him later. Argue about it. Perhaps use it as an excuse to punish him - a bite or two.
Plus, she had made quite the mess while doing her research into the creature. There were books and scrolls and parchments and quill nubs piled all around. He sorted through it efficiently, checking with her before he moved things.
So passed a pleasant hour, while she sipped tea and read a romantic wizard adventure - one she'd meant to get to for years, found when she sorted her books. Kirby chirped about drama over the Manor's decorations ("The candles in the ballroom need to be higher, that's what I told 'im.") and which elves were tasked with making the holiday meal ("It'll take about six more casks of wine, but no one listens to Kirby, surely they don't."). She tuned him out, a bit, while he was sweeping and organizing her shelves. With only a week left before the Ministry, she was trying to appreciate every moment she had to relax. Plus, her book was engrossing. She'd just gotten to the good parts, which made her think of her impending visitor. Rubbing her feet together, Hermione smiled. Soon she'd be kissing Drac-
". . . and then those nasty Carrow cousins said they couldn't, they're hosting that big to-do on their lands soon and they need to get ready. But that's months from now. As if they have any right to decline an invitation to The Manor, I never thought I'd see the day."
Her hands stilled as she turned a page. "The Carrows?"
"Aye, Miss Granger. Do you know them?"
She had a vision of Neville's face as he'd recounted, after the final battle, the horrors of what the Carrow siblings had done - had been doing all of his Seventh Year. He'd spoken as though they'd taken every last bit of good out of him.
"I know of them. I thought they were in Azkaban."
"Oh yes, the siblings are. Of course, of course. But - there are others from their father's side. Cousins. They've taken over the management of the family's estates. Otherwise that big castle of theirs would be abandoned." Kirby said it like he couldn't imagine a greater horror, the estates of a great wizarding family left to rot.
A Carrow cousin - Alonso. Ginny had said he'd bragged about being the "big lad" who beat up Ron. The ring leader of the Death Eaters' rumored reunions.
"I see. What don't they have a right to do?" She closed her book with trembling fingers.
"Decline to attend Master Malfoy's party." Patient.
She whirled her head at that, staring at the elf's back. He was across the room, straightening books. "Which party?"
He turned and surveyed her with pitying kindness. Daft Miss Granger. "The dinner I've been telling you about. On the Dark Lord's birthday."
Hermione couldn't quite hear what he said next, such was the roaring in her ears. "Birthday?" Her voice sounded faint.
"Well of course. Why else would they all want to get together? It's not for songs 'n' games, I can assure you o' that." Kirby chuckled and turned back to the shelf, wiping down the spines.
Draco. Trying to host the Carrows. Ostensibly to celebrate Voldemort's birthday. "Who else?"
"Who else what, Miss?"
"Who else is invited? To Dra- to Master Malfoy's dinner?" Information. She needed it.
"The lot of 'em!" He thrust his fist into the air.
"Who?" she pressed.
"It's the usual visitors. Heirs and distant relations, of course. Most o' the heads of the families are imprisoned or dead."
Usual visitors, she thought dully.
Kirby was name-dropping, proud of himself. He counted off on his fingers, familiar with them all. "The Karkaroff children. The Goyles and Gibbons. The Crabbes. Averys. The Macnairs. Rowles. Yaxley - but it's his bastard, not his heir, that's a story for another time. Nott, Zabini, the Parkinsons. That sort, and others. A lot of work, it's been! And some can't even be bothered to attend. I'd bet my place at the Manor that there wasn't anything scheduled on the Carrows' estate until they received Master's invitation. The gall!"
Hermione's head swam. There had to be an explanation. Some confusion. Perhaps -
"Is Narcissa planning this?"
He shook his head. "She'll help to greet, of course. But it's wonderful to see Master coming into his own, finally spending more time at home and taking an interest in his duties."
"Uh huh."
"It's going to be a right grand affair, Miss. After dinner they'll celebrate and dance until dawn."
Celebrate. Dance. Under candlelight.
"I bet he'll invite you," Kirby said slyly, glancing at her suggestively out of the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps you'll feel well enough."
"I doubt it." She kept her tone light. Let him guess at how to take that. "What do they do at an event like this? Besides eating and dancing?"
"And the drinking?" He laughed knowingly. "They'll be doing a lot of important talking, Miss, you know how those types are. One o' the kitchen elves told me Master Malfoy said they'll need the ball and dining rooms. One for play, and one for work."
"Work - at a party?"
"Oh yes. Master says they have to plan - for the future." He frowned. "And their next meeting - the one the Carrows insist they're hosting."
"When is this fabulous celebration?" She was proud that her voice did not quaver. "Soon?"
"The Lord's birthday. Don't you know?"
"I can't recall the date."
"New Year's Eve, Miss!" Kirby grinned.
She was going to faint.
"That sounds like - a lot of effort. How long has Master Malfoy been planning this?"
"It was supposed to be at the Autumn Equinox, but Master was still . . . occupied." Entombed, he meant. That had been in September. "Really, New Year is better. More festive."
"So - months?"
"Oh aye, Miss. Since July, at least. It's been quite difficult for 'im, getting this lot to agree to come together. To work together."
Work. Indeed. Malfoy's 'work.' He'd been spending months, politicking with Death Eaters.
His joint venture, a mystery no longer.
"Thanks for telling me." Her voice sounded far away. Tinny.
Kirby turned to look at her. "Are you feeling well?" His ears twitched as if concerned.
"I'm fine."
"Shall I suggest to Master that you want an invitation?"
"Don't! I - I might surprise him. Will you keep it between us, please? That you told me?" She batted her lashes sweetly. A girl planning something for her boyfriend. A silly girl.
It worked. "Kirby can keep a secret." He grinned knowingly. "And I suspect he would love that."
She could take no more. "Do you mind? I think I'd like a little nap."
The feathers of his duster drooped.
"Alone, please."
He looked like he might protest but she cut him off. "Wait - if I don't see you again. Thank you for everything."
The sweet elf cocked his head. "I'll see you soon, Miss Granger. Just because you don't need so many deliveries anymore doesn't mean I won't find reasons to bother you." He grinned. "Master too - he won't admit it, but he likes to know that I've been by. That I've laid eyes on you when he can't."
Of course he did. Malfoy was surely spying on her. She should have known. Had known, of course, that he was keeping tabs. But hadn't thought it was nefarious.
"Well. Just in case. Happy Christmas."
He winked at her. "Understood Miss Granger. You'll probably be wanting to get ready to see Master Malfoy tonight. Anyway, I've got to go." He vanished his duster and pushed one last book into place. "Lots to do!"
But she didn't hear him leaving.
She was unable to appreciate his efforts in her space.
She could not mourn the fact that she would never see him again.
Because Hermione was unaware of anything . . . except the horrifying clarity, snapping into place.
Hours later, she had not moved. She was still sitting, back ramrod straight, book forgotten in her lap. The remnants of her tea had long grown cold.
It was dark outside. Carolers wandered through the streets below. Every song she heard would be permanently ruined for her, now.
She'd been replaying Kirby's words, trying to find the loophole. The explanation.
But there was none. Malfoy bore the Dark Mark. His "secret shame."
Laughable, that. More like his lodestar.
She'd also been thinking - remembering, poring over, all the clues he'd accidentally given her.
All the fucking clues.
On the pallet in the cave - his eyes, sparking with anger.
His hand, squeezing her hip.
"Let's get something clear, Granger. I've done a lot of terrible things."
How fast he'd leapt at her, hangover forgotten.
"Mail?" She'd held those letters from the basket in her hand.
"Give those to me."
"Just because I don't clock in at the Ministry or Gringotts or a shop doesn't mean I don't work." He'd said she wouldn't approve.
The information he'd shared about old classmates, more knowledgeable than she expected.
His eyes, scanning the chess board in the flickering torchlight. He's several moves ahead of you.
"I've only got a couple of days left before -" And then he'd gotten into her bath.
His Mark under her fingers. "Probably never thought a man sporting one of these would have his hands between Hermione Granger's legs."
The way he paid particular attention, eyes intent, any time she spoke about her work, her career, or the Ministry.
Silent conversations in the archway of the cave, head tilts and shakes with Theodore Nott.
"It needs to be done by tomorrow. I've been more than clear."
She'd even asked. "What was that about?"
"None of your fucking concern."
A letter with heavy script. To Master Draco Malfoy, care of Mister Theodore Nott.
His hand outstretched, demanding her compliance.
"Please don't make me take it."
"Note from Nott," delivering news of Ron being harmed. "I burned it."
"I don't want you to touch me if you can't be honest," she'd said.
"Then I'll go."
"Can I see you tonight?"
She'd asked it - so many times.
"No." "I'll try." "I'll be back tomorrow."
Bec ause he'd had plans.
"I don't want to talk about my family."
Ron on their walk, unwittingly warning her. "From what Pansy mentioned he's very well connected."
"You should have been cowering from me." Drunk and drugged in her arms, finally telling the truth.
She had her answer, to how he'd be at a party. Not just running the room, mingling with each guest in turn. No, he'd be hosting. Pouring wine. "Splendid vintage, Malfoy."
"I was with Nott. And Zabini. It was a dinner to . . . celebrate some recent success."
And the worst - the worst of all.
"Are you, um, available?"
New Year's Eve.
"Hoping for a midnight kiss, Granger?"
"I thought this might happen."
Hermione forbade herself from dwelling on the obvious. How could you have fallen for it?
Never again.
In a move reminiscent of the early days, after escape from the cave, she collapsed slowly onto her side on her couch.
Her skin was the wrong size, tingling unpleasantly.
There was a buzzing in her ears.
Her heart pounded painfully. Mal-foy. Mal-foy. Mal-foy.
His secrecy proved the seriousness - he was planning something. Something significant. The future, as Kirby told it.
Before she let herself think about the personal ramifications, she channeled her brain as best she could on next steps. Harry needed to know that the heirs of the Death Eaters were active and connected. Communicating. Coordinating. That they were meeting on New Year to plan - the something. That Malfoy, not the Carrows, was leading them. Had been, for months.
But how to tell him? She'd have to do it in person. Malfoy watched her. No wonder he kept sending Kirby around. Kirby, who had taken mail for her to be delivered. It meant Malfoy could be - almost certainly was - monitoring her written correspondence. Especially any letters to Harry.
Ginny had mentioned bringing her and Harry 'round for a visit. But with Christmas tomorrow, that was unlikely. They surely had real plans, plans that involved their dials hovering over Family on her watch.
Gods she wanted her magic. With magic she could send an owl. Or - even better. With magic Hermione could run from her flat, apparate to The Burrow. To the safe embrace of friends.
Her magic.
You need your magic.
Another thought - if she left, if she fled. She wouldn't be here when Malfoy arrived.
He'd know, instantly, that she knew, if she was gone.
He might, already - would Kirby keep the secret? She'd have to watch him carefully, for any signs. Would he hurt her? Was he capable of that?
If he tried, she was completely vulnerable. Unable to defend herself - she didn't have magic.
She didn't have magic.
Didn't have magic, because Malfoy hadn't cured her yet.
Hadn't cured her - because he hadn't fucked her.
The pain was dark water, rising up inside a boat that had had a hole punched in the side. Pulling her under. For the first time in months she had a vision like she did after the monster attacked. Memories of all the people she'd seen - people who had drowned, thrashing against the inevitable, their lungs filling and burning . . . . The weight of the sadness was a physical sensation. Malfoy. Still a Death Eater. Not just any Death Eater - a leader. A recruiter. Gathering the remnants of Voldemort's minions. She could see him now, tall and pale, sheathed in black, standing at the head of a long table, commanding them to raise their glasses. In Memory of Our Dark Lord . . . .
This thing between them. This fragile, complicated, painful and beautiful thing. It was a lie. He hadn't been helping her because he found her and Ginny and Harry on his lands. Because she was "Gryffindor's Princess." Because it was the right thing to do. He'd been using her the whole time. Keeping her captive. Manipulating her.
And why?
Of course he wanted to stay close to you.
She laughed, suddenly. The cave.
To spy on Harry. To make sure he didn't know about Malfoy's plans.
It was the only thing that made sense.
Malfoy hadn't subconsciously wanted to protect Harry and Ginny from danger - The cavern responds to the needs of the family which compels it. This form of magic can both contain or exclude as desired. - he'd wanted to keep them near, to watch over The Boy Who Lived.
Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth. Do not be sick on your couch.
Focus, Granger. Breathe.
But her stomach churned, nauseated. She wondered if he took advantage of the world's most unlikely coincidence or if he orchestrated the whole thing. Had he found the monster and planted it, knowing she - or someone else from the Ministry - would come?
Hermione rifled through details in her mind, categorizing them. In hindsight, it seemed such an obvious trap. The cave - it had been so well stocked. Malfoy's ignorance at how the containment spell worked - unbelievable. He'd barely put up a fight when they asked to stay and hunt it - of course. No wonder.
He'd handled their entrapment together with relative calm. Now she realized how he'd been so convincing - because he'd probably planned it.
She wondered if he'd known it would be her. "You three were to be expected, trespassing in my cave." Was Hermione Granger icing on his cake? Or had he desired her presence specifically? She would put nothing past him.
As she sank into the well of pain and sadness and dread and awareness, she thought of something else.
Something even more horrific.
Had Malfoy known how the monster would hurt her? Was her agony and illness a pivotal piece of his plan or an inconvenient side quest? He'd played her like a fiddle. Literally and figuratively. All those moments, all that pleasure - so many lies.
So many times he'd looked at her like he was hungry.
Like he was concerned.
Oh she bet he was concerned - probably worried she'd wake up and realize that it was all so convenient. Too convenient.
Hermione wondered how he'd done it - when he touched her for the first time.
And the second.
And the twentieth.
And in the pool.
Was it disgusting to him? Had he tried not to retch, pleasuring his enemy? Or had he enjoyed it, in some sick violation? The most dramatic of ironies. Was it fodder for mocking, behind her back, how she would writhe and cry out on his fingers? She recalled how gentle he'd been in the tub, during her witch times.
She could not stop the memories, curled into herself on her couch, punished by images of how delicately he'd stroked her. The world's finest actor. She imagined him telling all his friends about it.
"I want to hear that sound you make," he'd said. So he could replay it for laughs.
Her eyes, her face - ached from unshed tears.
Hermione felt the world collapsing, crushing her, and fought it with all her strength. You knew he was Draco Malfoy. What did you expect?
She accepted that she had been ridiculous for not questioning more. In retrospect he'd given up on hiding from her that he was sending and receiving letters in the cave. A general, writing from base camp, commanding his troops. Organizing his Death Eater army. And once they'd been released from the caverns, Malfoy had so easily rebuffed her inquiries into his whereabouts and work.
Malfoy: not just his father's heir. Voldemort's.
She heard a bus on the street, barreling past. Taking happy people to their holiday destinations.
It reminded her - he would be there soon.
Merlin. What were her options?
Feign illness?
Pretend to be asleep?
But she'd done enough thinking to accept the inevitable.
Hermione knew what she had to do.
She would need strength for the days ahead. She needed magic. He'd said he wanted to cure her by the end of the year - and this was her chance.
Tonight would be her final night with him, of course. And she needed to wring from him enough energy to get her through tomorrow, and the day after, and the following week. The months, maybe years, to come. Harry would need help to stop whatever the Death Eaters were planning. She would need her memories, her strength, her intellect. Herself.
There was work to do. She remembered just last night - how her thoughts had wandered.
He'll do what he wants to you. And you'll do the same.
Let him heal you.
Let him bury himself in your body.
Make him feel what you felt - before you knew the truth - when you're together.
It was Hermione's turn. To manipulate him.
Turnabout. Indeed.
So she pressed her fists into her eyes. You may not cry.
Not yet.
She shook the fog of grief temporarily from her head. She shoved off the blanket and rose on feeble legs. She toddled, weak from the shock, to the bathroom. The mirror revealed a swollen face, blotchy and red. That would not work. He'd see right through her. Splashing cold water on her skin, she took deep breaths and ordered herself - commanded - to put it away.
Put it all away. The pain, the shock.
Put away the betrayal.
Put away the feelings for him that had been growing, deep and consuming in her heart.
Put away the agony of what might have been. If he was someone else, a different man, with a different name.
She opened her cabinet to look at his potions - and saw that Malfoy must have re-stocked her, as promised. His ridiculous kit, full of options - Dreamless Sleep, calming draughts, soothing serums - in their neat rows. She thought about taking one.
But she couldn't risk it. He was so perceptive. If he noticed anything off, he'd suspect. She'd have to power through the old-fashioned way - with brute strength and gritty determination.
Quickly she brushed her teeth, rubbed herself with lotion, and curled her hair. She wondered if she should change - but she was already wearing his green jumper - the one with the snake. And leggings. The ones that made her arse "smooth and round and . . . enticing."
She could picture it, how his eyes would zero in on her face, her neck, her body. Possessive. Hungry. Evil.
Tears welled.
No. You cannot cry, she told herself firmly. You must take from him the last thing he can ever give you - enough pleasure to defeat him and his cohort, forever.
She would get her magic, she would survive the night, and she would go to Harry.
She and Harry would make a plan.
A plan to interrupt the Death Eaters, a plan to keep peace.
A plan to stop Malfoy.
Hermione would help, would be at Harry's side to carry it out.
After what felt like another hour of deep breathing and water on her face and staring at herself in the mirror - to practice looking ignorant - she heard the locks click.
The door opened.
"Granger?"
Showtime.