A few notes about this story:
- while all of canon events are kept intact (save for any elements reflecting the modern world), I've shifted the timeline to the 17th century
- this story is a horror story, and, as such, will feature graphic violence and does not come with a happy ending–it will also include explicit sexual content
- the pairings are Dramione and Theomione–no word on the endgame
ACT I
CHAPTER 1. HIDING FROM THE SHADOWS
Rumours had first sparked of the Terror under Voldemort's first reign, years prior to Hermione's birth. A shadow, they had said, a shadow to track all Mudbloods using just their scent. The sheer horror of such a creation had left a generation of Muggleborn wizards trembling, fearing for their very lives, becoming recluse from society, for fear they were a breath away from being targeted. Twisted theories about the Terror roamed the halls of Hogwarts, the offices of the Ministry and the streets of London, lurking in the shadows. It wasn't until Harry Potter, still a baby then, survived the Killing Curse and destroyed Voldemort's hold on the wizarding world that, finally, word of the Terror stopped intruding the thoughts of those it sought to destroy. History would later learn that, unfortunately, the Terror was real – it sunk its teeth into the flesh on its first victim on September 2nd, 1598. Unleashed by Lord Voldemort's successor, imbedded with his spirit, it soon took over the wizarding world, ridding it of those deemed unworthy to be bestowed with the honour of using magic – the Mudbloods.
The soft spark of the fire crackled in the deep blue night, softly tracing the lines of Hermione Granger's face in the shadow of the trees. She gently poked the embers and moved them around, acquainting them to the heat, hoping to warm her body faster. When she was satisfied with the height of the flames, she tossed in a freshly cut chicken thigh, glancing apologetically at the bloody carcass she had stolen and murdered just hours earlier. Fortunately for her, this year had been good to farmers, thus easing her guilt considerably for stealing from them – the crops were plentiful, the cattle strong and healthy, and the poultry vigorous and well-fed – a welcome relief after the decades-long famine plaguing the region. The chicken she had beheaded at dusk looked like it had enough flesh on its bones to feed her for a couple of days at least – should she find a way to preserve its cadaver and avoid poisoning herself. She gave a longing look at her wand. She was tempted to use it, of course, but the idea of being found frightened her more than food poisoning ever could. Not enough was known about the Terror yet for her to be sure whether use of her wand would reveal her location or not. Every night, as she made camp, she removed it from her knapsack, set it next to her, and waited. Waited until the enemies showed their faces – they hadn't yet.
Soon, Hermione noticed the chicken thigh was brown to a crisp, so brown it could just as easily have been burnt. She sunk her teeth into it, relishing the warmth it radiated and the firmness of its flesh. It lacked taste, of course, but condiments and spices were a luxury she could no longer afford. Eating bland chicken had become the high point of her life – it was better than what she had been fed back at the Goyle mansion, anyway, in the days of her capture by the Brigade. All she had been afforded then was a daily meal of crushed oats, mixed in with some water. On Christmas day, they had substituted the water for whole milk and even added a bit of sugar – she remembered how the sickly-sweet taste lingered in her mouth for hours after she ate it and the chicken suddenly lost all of its appeal. It should have tasted like freedom, but all it reminded her of was the dreary situation she was finding herself in. Free, of course, but at what price? She had nowhere to go, no one to be with, nothing to look for. She was alone in a dark forest, walking dozens of miles every day, trying to run as far as possible from England. Trying to put as much distance possible between herself and the Terror.
Suddenly, Hermione heard a rustling sound. A strange echo of voices reached her ears, and she couldn't be sure whether her imagination was playing tricks on her or whether someone was out there, perhaps looking for her. She quickly extinguished the fire, stuffed what was left of the chicken into her knapsack and hurried off. A tall oak tree soon appeared in her sight; she placed her hands on its rough bark and began climbing. She managed to reach the sea of leaves at its top in under a minute – a new record for her. Once her footing was stable, she laid down on its thickest branch, steadying herself with a rough piece of rope she kept on hand. From there, she pricked up her ear to listen to the noise. There seemed to be two men down there – they were debating something or other, seemingly in disagreement with each other.
"I'm telling you we should camp out tonight!" shouted the first one. He had an otherwise soft-spoken voice, and the shouting seemed to drain him.
"It's not safe yet. We're not far enough from London. I think we should keep walking and take a nap in the morning. We can still get another ten miles or so distance if we keep going. The further, the better," replied the other one. He had a deeper voice – while he wasn't yelling per se, the depth of his voice made the air around Hermione vibrate.
"We've been walking all day! We'll faint from exhaustion before we reach those ten miles you speak of. There's no one here… let's set up for camp. I'll even take first watch if you really think we're in danger in an empty and dark forest," his companion protested, a tinge of sarcasm twisting his last statement.
"Fine. You win. And you better believe you'll take first watch. You know I can't sleep when the sunlight threatens to show up, anyway." It sounded like a sneer. Hermione could have sworn she had heard it previously, somewhere.
"Let's stay here. And… what's that? Is that a wand?"
Hermione panicked. She rushed to untie her rope, sat up and ruffled through her knapsack. She found the chicken's carcass, a couple of fresh garments, her purse of Sickles, her emergency bandages, her elementary potion kit, and her knife, but… no, it definitely wasn't there. She had forgotten her wand… and those strangers knew enough to take it. Loathe as she was to use it, this wand still acted as some guarantee of her safety should danger come lurking. She felt naked without it – naked and defenceless.
"I've seen that wand before," replied the other man. "But I really can't put my finger on it." He paused. "It doesn't matter. Let's take it, it might come in handy, especially since we've had ours stolen from us back in that troll tavern."
Hermione cursed herself. She needed to get that wand back. There was no way she was leaving without it – it was her safeguard, the last remainder of her past life, of her witch identity. She pursed her lips – she'd have to come back down at some point. If those strangers were as unseasoned as they sounded, surely one of them would fall asleep while keeping watch – and that would have to be her opportunity. Figuring they'd probably make a fire and eat before they went to sleep, she tied herself to the tree branch and allowed herself to take a nap – an hour-long, at most, she promised herself.
She woke up brutally some time later, unaware of whether she had kept her schedule. She untied herself from the branch, stuffed her rope back in the knapsack and reached for her pocket watch – it was a little after midnight; plenty of time to get closer, take a look at the wand thieves and grab her what was rightfully hers. If worse came to worst, she could throw them a spell or two to get away unscathed.
As she had previously suspected, both men were sound asleep. She couldn't make out their faces in the darkness, but light snoring sounds of varying rhythms resonated amidst the dead silence of the deep forest. She inched closer, careful to always remain hidden behind trees. Her eyes darted around her surroundings – the leaves lay flat on the ground, left unbothered due to the lack of movement, the tree branches stood high and strong above her. The air grew thicker, staler, slowly grabbing Hermione at the throat. This distinct brand of protective spell told her all she needed to know – she had, at best, thirty seconds to grab her wand and get out of there. She focused her sight on the unconscious bodies and saw wood poking from one of their pockets – without giving it another thought, she ran to grab it. Her throat was closing up, the air turning red, a pungent mist seizing her nostrils. Resisting the urge to empty her stomach there and then, she reached for her wand, only to be stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist.
"Did you really think you could steal from us?" sneered that all too familiar voice. Now that it was so close, Hermione was certain she knew who it belonged to – unfortunately, the mist was too thick to see through, and her supply of oxygen was sorely lacking for her brain to reach into its memories.
"That w… wand is… m…. mine," she retorted breathlessly.
"You left it here, it belongs to us now. You should really get going, before the spell kills you," laughed her captor, his long fingers still firmly piercing into her flesh.
"Th… then l… let m… me…"
"Oh no, I'm not letting you go until you let go of that wand." Why was he so calm? Why wasn't he fighting her? Was he blinded by the mist too? Was he eager to figure out who had dared enter his camp?
Hermione decided she wasn't about to have her life taken from her in such a foolish way. Death had after all been at her doorstep every step of the way – it had grown on her as a companion, and she knew it would spare her once again, only taking her when there was enough glory to justify it.
"I said… l… let me… go!" she yelled, pulling away from him, wand in hand.
The mist was still too strong for her to run. A dilemma was afoot, and the only way out involved compromising herself.
"Evapor," muttered Hermione, swishing her wand with what remained of her strength.
Thank Merlin they had used her wand to utter the spell – a split second later, the air had returned to its natural state, a cold and vaguely humid breeze rustling the leaves and poking at the twigs. Hermione breathed in, letting her lungs feel with the fullness of the forest and her body reacquaint itself with the idea of staying alive.
"Granger!"
She had nearly forgotten her opponent. Her eyes abruptly reopened, only to be faced with an enemy she had long forgotten, one whose past actions she now found endearing, adorable and downright harmless in comparison to what Augustus Gaunt had unleashed upon the world. Nevertheless, her identity was now compromised – the time for chitchat belonged in the past, and it wasn't worth her time questioning why a Pureblood as prestigious as him was on the run, hiding from the very menace he was supposed to embody. So Hermione ran, faster than she ever could have, faster than she ever had before, away from the danger and the questions, away from the theft and the tent of her Hogwarts nemesis. Her feet trailed the humid soil of the forest, soon reaching its borders, and kept going on the open road, along the farms, the fields, the cattle, following the moon until it could take her somewhere safe, somewhere where she could remain hidden from the Terror.
Hermione had spent the remainder of the night holed up in what seemed to be an abandoned barn. Without any tree of the calibre to support her weight, she had been forced to forfeit her safest sleeping option and scout something that would qualify for second best. Human-built structures rarely made the cut, if ever, for fear of being found out, but the pan-European famine had left a trail of abandoned farmhouses in its tracks, many of which littered the current path she was on. Nature had already reclaimed them, growing thick vines on their walls and eating at the wooden pillars, in such a poetic way Hermione could not help but admire the sheer beauty she woke up to. Moments like this one spelled out the letters of freedom better than any stolen chicken thigh could – they resonated with hope and longing for a brighter future.
Hermione stretched far and wide, reaching for the skies and the horizons. She thought back to last night's encounter and realised she needed new answers – the information she left Goyle manor with was now outdated by days and miles. This meant venturing back into the wizarding world, scouting towns for lacklustre taverns and drinking mead with less than reputable characters. Her hand tightened around her wand – now was the time.
Glamour charms had never been her specialty – save for the evening she danced with Viktor Krum – but she gathered she could alter her appearance enough to avoid drawing attention to herself. She lightened her hair, added golden flecks to her otherwise brown pupils and lengthened her nose by a tenth of an inch. Between that and the complete loss of flesh on her bones, she would be virtually unrecognisable – she had to be.
It took her about half a day's journey to reach the next town. Everything about it, from its rationally structured houses to its grey aesthetic breathed Muggle town, but Hermione knew better – didn't she always? She pulled her cloak over her head and gently walked the pavements, pretending to be interested in the fresh produce displayed on the market stands. The fruits brought saliva and longing to her famished mouth, but the lack of shillings in her purse kept her going, though the adrenaline and excitement of being amongst other humans again quickly dimmed, overpowered by her hunger.
She soon reached the depths of the burg. The stale odour of uncleanliness rapidly clogged her nostrils, and the ragged clothes of the children playing in the streets told her she was on the right path. She skirted the walls until she reached what seemed like it was the edge of town – a cul-de-sac. She ran her fingers down a small brick wall until she found the crevasse they all bore – she poked her wand at it, and the wall turned to let her in. Behind it, she found her one source of hope – a run-down tavern filled with the most colourful and least reputable people one could imagine spending time with: poor Purebloods.
Careful to blend in, Hermione ordered a bottle of mead. She nearly cried as she placed some of her hard-earned Sickles on the grimy countertop, and walked over to a corner, bottle in hand. She scouted the room, hoping to find someone whose attitude breathed of small-town vigour. Most of the patrons seemed to be farmers or farm-adjacent, but a table across from her seemed to fit the bill. Hermione tossed her knapsack over her shoulder, only to be a second too late in doing so.
"What'cha got there, hun?" asked a burly and greying man. His nose was red from the three Firewhiskeys he seemed to have poured down his throat.
"A bottle of mead." She steadied herself on her seat – if being enslaved at the Goyle manor had taught her anything, it was that poor Purebloods were ruthless in their greed and turning them down so readily would speak to her position as a former member of the upper-class. And, sure enough, it did not take long for the man eyeing her bottle hungrily to make his desires heard. She could only hope he wasn't trying to devour something else too.
"Mind if I sit wich'ya? I wouldn't mind me some of that mead." He sat without waiting for a response, the smell of his intoxicated skin drafting to Hermione's nose and nearly making her gag.
"Sure." She grabbed a nearby cup and poured him a healthy dose of the honey wine.
"Yer a fine young lady, that's for sure. Well, 'ere's to ya!" He clinked the cup against her bottle and spilled some of the sickly-sweet drink on the table. Well, he's at least drunk enough that I can make a quick escape if necessary, Hermione reasoned, desperate to soothe herself. She carefully brought the bottle to her lips and pretended to chug it.
"A woman who can 'old her alco'ol, would ya believe that! My wife sure should 'ave learned from ya if she 'adn't kicked the bucket last week," he laughed, prompting Hermione to go along. "I'm on the market for some fresh meat, if yer interested," he added, a heavy wink punctuating his offer.
Hermione resisted the urge to empty her guts on him and managed a smile. "I'm sorry, I'm taken. I'm actually on my way to my weddin', but I thought I'd make a pit stop and rest a bit before continuin' my journey," she argued in a make-shift accent, clutching the bottle tighter.
"Arh, it's always the good ones who are taken, I tell ya! Where's that wedding takin' place at, sweetheart?"
"Just North of Birmingham. We're hopin' to move there and open a wand shop, actually, it's all very excitin'," smiled Hermione in an attempt to seem like she was basking in that nearly-newlywed glow.
"A wand shop, eh? Aren't those regulated by those scrooges up at the Ministry, now?" he asked, his thin lips pursing together.
Hermione seized her only opportunity at a near-escape. "We're not ones to care for what those Ministry hags do. What do they think, that they can fill their chambers with Half-Bloods and make decisions on our behalf? No, Sir!" she bellowed, raising both voice and bottle.
A collective yell of approval resonated across the tavern, with many of the patrons raising their wooden cups in the direction of the table Hermione was sitting at. So far, the plan seemed to work in her favour.
"It's a shame yer getting' married to some other bloke, I really like ya," muttered her drinking companion. "I've gotta say, maids come and go in this shithole, but yer the freshest one to come 'ere yet," he added excitedly. He puckered his lips, closed his eyes and moved forward, ready to capture Hermione with all the vigour his nasty musk could muster.
Hermione didn't have two ways to go about this. She grabbed her bottle in one hand, secured her knapsack with the other and slipped away from the table. She moved amongst the crowd, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When nothing happened, she dared to look back and sighed in relief – the man had passed out, falling flat on his face against the dusty floor. Hermione muffled a laugh and inched closer to the table she had eyed earlier, where three men were eagerly discussing the Terror.
"Ya know," said the youngest one, "it don't sit right with me. Gettin' rid of the Mudbloods is one thing…"
"A fine good thing!" howled his neighbour before being cheered on by his companions.
"Yeh, it is. But 'avin' the Ministry takin' control of this monster and unleashin' it on the Mudbloods just don't sit right with me," argued the first man. His ruffled his blonde hair, a doubtful expression twisting his youthful face.
"Why's that? Yer a young fellow, you don't know yet what those Mudbloods can do. I 'ear they sneak into our homes at night and snag our wands," contested another man, the eldest of the three.
"And drink our blood!" topped a third man as he angrily punched the table.
"That's vampires, Hankin," reasoned the blonde man. "Look, all I'm sayin' is that it should be up to us to rid the world of this vermin, ya know? It's all fine and dandy for Mr Gaunt to want to relieve us of their nastiness, but 'e's also the one taxin' us 'till we're on our 'ands and knees, beggin' for just a Sickle here or there. Das all I'm sayin'," he concluded.
The group hummed in approval. Hermione decided to butt in.
"Any one of you fine folks up for some mead? I went ahead and got too much for myself," she offered, heavily clunking the bottle against the table.
"Aren't ya that lass who wants to defy the Ministry? I'll take a drink from ya!" smiled Hankin, his cup eagerly extended. She poured him a drink, hoping it wouldn't be a dead end this time around.
"I was wonderin'. See, I've been on the road for so long, I really don't know what's been goin' on lately an' I'm startin' to worry, what with the weddin' comin' up and all," she uttered, pouring the remaining of the men at the table a drink.
"Well, sweetheart, not too much, I reckon'. That shadow thing is still out there, last I 'eard of it. It's persuin' some folk or other, a 'ogwarts bloke. Creevey was the latest name on that hit list, I think?" replied Hankin.
"Isn't it supposed to be huntin' all those nasty Mudbloods? Why just the one?" Hermione nearly stumbled on her words, horrified by the nastiness of what slipped out her mouth and the knowledge that there was a public hit list out there targeting people like her.
"I'm right there with ya, hun'! But it only goes after one person at a time, which honestly sounds like a waste of our Galleons! Is that what they're really spendin' our aid on?" spat the eldest man. "Let me tell ya," he added, leaning so close to Hermione she could feel his fiery breath engulf her entirely, "it don't even work right, their brilliant invention. It can only detect their scent, not their use of magic. As if they were real wizards, and not nasty thieves!" He turned away from her and spat on the floor. Hermione narrowly avoided his spittle.
"It's an outrage! My parents work at the farm year-round, plantin' all those beautiful crops, only to 'ave 'alf stolen from them by the bloody government, and they can't even manage to rid us of this vermin! They sat me down last night and said "listen, Aldus, the farm is probably gon' die soon, ya need to work in a town", "open a shoppe," they said! Like I got any money to do that! (He paused and chugged some of his drink.) And those bloody regulations on 'ow much produce we can duplicate, let me tell ya, they're a murder! 'ow do you expect Pureblood lines to survive through this mess when we can't even create more crops with our wands! What are these supposed to be used for? (Aldus smacked his wand on the table.) Soon, all we're gon' have are Malfoys and Notts! And then, we all know what's gon' happen, don't we Hankin?" He elbowed Hankin, who nearly spat out his drink.
"What's gon' happen, Aldus?"
"Well, I'll tell ya. The Mudbloods will take over, and ya can take that as an omen, lass!" The aptly named Aldus' large forehead was now drowning in pinks and reds, highlighting his blonde hairline, his gaze fixated on Hermione.
She squirmed at the mention of the families of her two former classmates. If only there was a way to find out why one of them was on the run without sounding too suspicious… She swallowed a swig of mead to give herself some courage.
"Speaking of the Malfoys, I heard a rumour he's nowhere to be seen, do any of youse happen to know what all that ruckus is about?" she attempted, nearly stumbling on her words. That one swig of mead had been enough to redden her complexion and bring fog to her brain.
"Nah, as far as we know, they're livin' that royal life and suckin' up to Gaunt," countered Hankin, squinting his eyes at Hermione. "Where would ya 'ave 'eard that?"
"Oh, it's just a rumour. I thought maybe there had been an uprising in London," fumbled Hermione, hoping her lie sounded believable. Her accent nearly slipped from her and she turned redder.
Aldus slapped her in the back. "Yer too funny, lass! Their families 'ave too much money for us to do anythin' about it, don't they?" He seemed to request approval from his elder.
"Dam right son! I'm glad my daughter raised ya right!" Aldus beamed at the compliment addressed to him by his grandfather. The two men started drunkenly hugging it out, banging on each other's backs, tears running down their bloated cheeks. Hermione gathered this was her chance to slip away without causing too much of a fuss.
"Well, it was mighty nice of youse to give me some news! I better get goin' if I want to make it on time to my weddin'," she thanked them. Hankin, who had remained silent during Aldus' effusions of affection nodded at her. She decided this was her cue to leave.
Unfortunately, whatever deity seemed to watch over her decided this was not what fate had chosen for her.
"Wondering about me, Granger?" whispered a voice into her ear as a man snatched her by the wrist and pulled her over to him. The sneer from the previous evening. The man who had taken her wand. Draco Malfoy.
Hermione recoiled and tried to get away, but he held her with an iron fist.
"Not so fast. We need to talk," he insisted, pulling her away from the crowd. It was no use anyway – he had silently cast a silencing charm on her. He had anticipated her move. "Let's go somewhere real quiet. I wouldn't want anyone interrupting us, if you know what I mean," he added with a smirk.
Hermione wanted to protest, to wriggle herself out of his hold, to run away, but the mead and the spell had rendered her effectively useless and defenceless. She silently cursed the drink, herself, the tavern, and Malfoy. Especially Malfoy, that sly little ferret.
He dragged her away from the tavern, away from the town, all the way through a wheat field. She stumbled at on every step, woozy and foggy. She'd never be able to trace back her steps! Why had she felt the need to go into town? Better yet, why had she felt the need to ask about him? She was virtually unrecognisable; this was the only possible thing that could have clued him in as to who she was. Had she known his disappearance from the wizarding aristocratic society was a secret, she would never have found herself in such a dire situation. And now, there was nothing left to do but wait for the Terror to come and get her.
He walked, she stumbled, for another mile before reaching what seemed to be their final destination. Well, her final destination anyway.
"Theo, I got her!" yelled Malfoy. Hermione thought he had gone mad – there was nothing there. "Theo, I won't say it twice." Malfoy's entire composure darkened – Hermione noticed the shadows looming under his eyes, the emaciated state of his face and the dryness of his lips. Perhaps he wasn't about to turn her in – perhaps he was in as dire a situation as she was.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a tall and dark figure poking from behind a tree.
"Oh, thank Merlin it's you," he said, walking over to them. Theodore Nott.
"Well, I don't very well see who else it could be," sneered Malfoy. Nott seemed like he wanted to respond, but Hermione noticed Malfoy's eyes ripping him apart.
"Perhaps you should let her go. She seems terrified," he simply said instead.
Malfoy did just that. He dropped her on a nearby rock and pointed his wand, no doubt stolen from a drunken patron at the tavern, in Hermione's direction, thus removing the silencing charm.
"What in the–"
"Granger, please grace us with at least another minute of silence, I'm not ready for the headache you're about to bring on," replied Malfoy lazily.
"You're the one who kidnapped me. If you didn't want to hear another word from me, you should have left me where you found me," she muttered angrily.
"Yes, well, you didn't leave me much choice, now, did you? What could you possibly be thinking, going to these blubbering fools and letting it slip that you thought the Malfoy heir was on the run! You couldn't possibly think this was going to bode well for either of us, now, did you?" he interjected.
"What happened, Draco?" asked Nott before Hermione had a chance to reply.
"This pretentious little girl went into a Pureblood tavern, pretended to be one of them, paraded around like she owned the place, made sure to be noticed by everyone and then went around asking if the Malfoy heir had disappeared! Lucky I caught her when I did or we'd probably be pumpkin pie fodder by now. (He turned to Hermione, his eyebrows furiously knitted together.) And what were you thinking with that atrocious accent of yours? You couldn't even keep up!"
Hermione had heard enough. "First of all, Malfoy, I belonged there more than you could ever. They hate the likes of you, Pureblood or not! Secondly, I was doing just fine until you interrupted and pretended to save me from whatever danger you assume I was in. These folks had given me exactly what I was looking for, and all it took was a bit of mead. I was on my way out, unscathed, when you wandered in and rudely accosted me. I'll have you know you have much less in common with these people than I do, despite the fact that I'm Mudblood," she seethed, suddenly sobered up.
"Do you really think they would have reacted positively upon learning that you're Muggleborn? That you could get them to rise up and fight the common enemy? The Ministry? Pitiful little Granger, you never quite learn, do you? This really brings me back to your S.P.E.W. days," spat Malfoy in response. Nott stood there, darting eyes between the two of them, probably unsure of who to defend. Or, perhaps, certain that there was nothing and no one to defend.
"I'm not naïve, Malfoy, or I wouldn't have pretended I was Pureblood. I'm looking out for my survival and, whether you like it or not, boisterous Purebloods from less aristocratic lineages than yours thought me to be one of them. Because I knew exactly what I was doing. I'm sorry for blowing your cover, or spilling your secret, or whatever it is you think I did. But you just need to run along back to Daddy and he'll fix it for you. I don't have anyone to look out for me, except myself. If that poses a threat to your safety, well, I don't care. That might even be a bonus for me! I really could not care less about the state of your affairs." She steadied her knapsack on her shoulders and attempted to stomp away.
"Not so fast. We're not done here yet. And, until we are, it's no use trying to leave. I secured the area with a Labyrinth charm – you'll never find your way out."
"By Morgana, Malfoy, you really are intent on destroying my life, even when it rests on nothing more than the mere survival I have to look forward to for the rest of my life," yelled Hermione, throwing her knapsack at him. He narrowly avoided it.
"I need to get answers from you. Ruining your life just seems like an added bonus," smirked Malfoy, all anger suddenly dissipated from his face. Hermione couldn't quite figure him out, but she had a sense she was in no danger here. She'd answer their questions, he'd remove the charm, and she'd be on her merry way. No one needed to know.
"Fine." She sat down and tore a piece of grass from the ground. "What do you want to know?" she asked, tearing the blade in two.
"What exactly do you know about Nott and me?"
"One of you was once turned into a ferret in fourth year. You were both in Slytherin, and damn proud of it, might I add. You hated mine, Ron's and Harry's guts, though your hatred in particular took the cake, Malfoy." Her sardonic tone cut through the air, the knife of their past forcing a standstill, a reminiscence of lighter days.
"I'm aware, thank you very much. I mean… what do you know about what we're currently doing?"
She raised her gaze to meet his. The blade of grass was now obliterated, its remains floating back to their last resting place. She looked back down, pressing her hand to the ground, crushing what was left of her destruction. "Well, I know nothing. Why do you think I bothered to ask, back there?"
"You can't possibly know nothing, or why would you care enough to ask?" He seemed genuinely curious.
"Malfoy, don't you think it seems awfully strange for two Pureblood heirs to be wandering in the woods? To be terrified of their disappearance being found out? Don't you think it would make anyone wonder, especially me?" she reasoned.
"Not enough for you to risk going into town and getting your cover blown," he replied, stubborn as ever.
"In case you didn't know, though I'm certain you do know, there is a monster out there designed to track and hunt down people like me. Designed to kill them on the spot. I've been walking aimlessly for days; I haven't had fresh news in weeks, so going there was a risk I had to take. Your questionable behaviour was just yet another opportunity for me to gather intel." She was beginning to grow frustrated with this interrogation. "Really, all I'm attempting to do is to hide from the Terror as far as humanly possible. I can't apparate without the risk of being detected, and I'm already dead to the Ministry. I'd like to stay that way. Had you not stolen my wand, I wouldn't have bothered to even ask. Maybe you were after me, after all – how else could I know?" She paused to grab another blade of grass and began to methodically destroy this one too. "If you let me go, I won't say a word. As long as you don't either. I'd like to live a little longer." Again, she crushed the torn pieces in the soil with the palm of her hand.
This time, she was surprised to hear Nott answer. "Granger, we get it. It's fine."
"Theo–"
"No, Draco. This isn't fair on her either. Besides, she doesn't need to know anything more." His tone left no room for negotiation, and Hermione was surprised to see Malfoy didn't protest. She would never have pictured Nott as the quietly commandeering type, always assuming he was just there along for the ride, much like Crabbe and Goyle.
"Fine," replied Malfoy, though he didn't seem happy about it.
"Thank you," she simply said, getting back up. "Good luck to you, in whatever it is you're doing."
Malfoy lifted his wand and the trees scrambled, leaving a clear path for her to follow.
"You'll have to teach me that charm, if our paths cross again," she joked, picking up her knapsack.
"Don't push your luck, Granger."
She ignored him and headed down the path. Her current situation provided her with little comfort, so knowing she could tick off these two from her enemy list was enough to provide her with some warmth. It still boggled her mind that they seemed to be seeking survival, but she'd have to find another way to get her answers – she was intent on keeping her promise, after all.
Hermione kept walking North, her head buzzing with questions. She hadn't been faced with such an interesting puzzle since the Horcruxes, and she had to admit it made her painful journey more enjoyable. Only once she reached the outskirts of Birmingham did she realise how long she had walked without taking a break. Her mind had been too busy mapping out potential answers to care for the miles aching her legs and numbing her feet.
She settled in a nearby clearing, choosing a tall tree to sleep on. Higher was always safer – nobody would think to look for her there. Once she had secured herself to the branch, she removed her shoes and socks, wincing as the blisters of her journey breathed the fresh night air. She reached for her essence of dittany and noticed she would soon be running out. She applied a couple of drops under each of her feet, sighing in relief as soon as the green smoke evaporated, leaving fresh skin in its trail. She could have slept like that, but danger always lurked, so she put her shoes back on and steadied herself into a more balanced position – she needed to be ready to pounce at the first sign of an enemy. Such was the life of a Mudblood on the run – so much for taking down Voldemort and his crew, she thought bitterly.
The fatigue didn't let her dwell on her misery for too long – soon, she was sound asleep, her head bobbing from side to side as the wind picked up speed.
She didn't make a move when the cloaked figures passed by, nor did she wake up when they erected a tall fire, so tall its flames burned the lowest hanging branch.
She did wake up, however, some three hours later, when the rancid smell of burning human flesh reached her nose.
The cloaked figures were gone by then, leaving in their trail a dead corpse being eaten away by the fire.
Hermione quickly untied herself from the tree and jumped down. She felt a blow to her ankle – that would be a problem for later. Now came the time to make a choice – Hermione had been running for weeks now. She hadn't done a thing to encourage a change – she had thought of her survival only, given no afterthought to those she had left behind, those who had looked up to her when Voldemort had overtaken their share of the world.
Bracing herself, Hermione carefully walked up to the bonfire. The stench of burning flesh made her gag, the taste of blood flooded her throat, the thick smoke nearly blinded her. As she crept closer, she noticed the victim's intestines had spilled out of the corpse, exposing their bare bones. The blood, bile, sweat and pus still shone on the bones' surface, enveloping Hermione in a stench so strong she gave up on maintaining her composure. Right where the lifeless body sunk into the embers of the fire, a river of vomit entered, expelled from the only living soul in twenty miles.
As the flow of puke diminished in quantity, Hermione's resignation grew in size. There was nothing she could find here, nothing that would tell her who this was, or what happened to them. She was leading a useless fight against a force she did not quite know herself. That was, until she noticed, opposite from her, a gleaming light, right by the side of the fire. The reflection of the moon, previously so well hidden, was now all Hermione could see. She walked around the campfire, dreading what she would find. Her heart began racing, not quite in fear nor excitement – out of curiosity, perhaps. She leaned forward and was shocked to see a paintbrush, one she had seen all too often, engraved with two letters – C.C.
Colin Creevey was the latest name to make its way on the hit list. And now, he was dead, burnt to a crisp. Hermione knew enough to conclude it couldn't possibly have been the Terror – who, then? And, most importantly, why? The Terror left nothing behind – its deaths were clean-cut, quick, quicker even than Avada Kedavra. Most importantly, they sent a message, they forced folks across the country to ask: "who's next?" Hermione had gathered, having toured Birmingham's less reputable establishments for the last few days, that the hit list was imbued with a spell that would delete the current victim's name once seized by the Terror. Colin's name was still on the posters all over town – no one knew him to be dead. It had to mean that he hadn't been killed by a figure serving power-hungry Purebloods. Had he been sacrificed, then? Had he been chosen as a victim by a group of rebels to prevent the Terror from ever finding its next victim, from terrorising the Mudblood population further? Surely this could not be it – even if the Terror was put out of business, Gaunt still had tremendous hold over the Ministry. Non-rebel Mudbloods were sold into slavery and fed to dragons if they misbehaved. The Terror was a worry, that much was true, but it was not as much of a threat as the people leading it to destruction.
Another, much important question, lingered in Hermione's mind: how had Colin evaded the Terror for so long, only to be found and murdered by humans? Did this mean he had found a way to avoid the unavoidable? Only to become someone else's target, perhaps a Muggle? Hermione could not deny this was within the realm of possibilities – in fact, anything and everything was on the table. As far as anyone knew, Colin Creevey was well and alive, still on the run from the Terror – Hermione and the murderer seemed to be the only ones on Earth to even know of his death. This left a bitter taste in her mouth – much like the cheap elven wine she was currently drinking with some poor maiden, who had been drowning her ears with the story of her misery for the past two hours.
"So… ma 'usband never came back…" she hiccupped.
"You've said that already," replied Hermione, sipping on her wine.
"Right… sorry 'un. Anyway, 'e left me stranded with the kids, and all the wheat on the farm died! Would you believe that?"
"In the middle of a famine? Shocking." Hermione's sarcasm did not seem to reach the maiden, who was too far gone to notice.
"Well, we 'ad to find a solution, of course, so I went to see Merlin's granddaughter, ya 'eard of 'er?"
Hermione's eyes focused back on the maiden. "I wasn't aware he had any descendance, no," she simply replied, a frown forming on the bridge of her nose.
"'e did, that 'e did! The family name changed; they go by Peverell now. Ya 'eard of the Peverells, surely you 'ave? Their sons defeated Death! Come on, ya must 'ave 'eard of the 'allows!" The maiden's face was now a bright red – though Hermione could not tell if it was from the wine or the indignation.
"Ay, I heard of the Hallows," she simply said, simultaneously sipping on the bitter wine and cursing herself for it.
"Doesn't matter, anyway. Domitia doesn't dabble in that Death nonsense. But she restored the farm, that she did!"
"That's great." Hermione had drifted off again. Any capable wizard could have restored that farm – most of them simply didn't have access to Hogwarts. The school was too expensive, even for Purebloods, and especially those working on the farms. What did it mean? That Domitia Peverell had earned her N.E.W.T.S.? The information was of little interest to her.
"I have to go. Thank you for the wine, Jane," finally said Hermione.
"Sure thing, Agnes. Good luck on yer weddin'!"
Hermione felt a pang of guilt cross her heart as she left the busy tavern. Jane had offered her wine, told her all about her sorrows, and even listened to her made-up worries about the wedding. All she had done in response was to be sarcastic, act curtly, and drown out her stories like they were noise, like they didn't matter. She wished she could blame her survival instinct for that rigidity, but she knew deep down that the truth lay with her innate flaws. Though – she could always blame her circumstance for her staunch lack of self-reflection. She was, after all, a dead woman. For now, anyway.
She could only imagine that the next name to pop up on that list would make its arrival soon enough. And pop up it would – because it was nearly quite unconceivable for someone of their kind to just luck out the way she had with Colin's death. Intended or accidental, by friend or by foe, none of it mattered. There were key answers to find in this nonsense, but one thing was certain: the Ministry would not simply let the Terror roam the English territory looking for Colin until the end of days. This foul creation of theirs was an investment, and for it to be sound, to satisfy the general Pureblood population, it had to meet certain targets, she figured. It had to kill the rebels, all the rebels. She could only guess how long it would take until a new name appeared on that list, but she knew it meant she needed to hurry up North in the coming days.
She regained her decrepit room in the small boarding house on the eastern border of the city, which she had somehow managed to secure using her mother's earrings. She hated to part with them, especially to sleep with rats, cockroaches, and other undesirables, but the little money she had would only to allow her in a wizarding boarding house – a possibility which left too much at risk. So, a pair of earrings for five nights on a dirty straw mattress with rotting floorboards it had been. She only had one night left – and, as dirty and decrepit as her sleeping quarters had been, she already knew she would eventually come to regret leaving. Straw mattresses were a luxury when one usually slept on tree branches.
Hermione sighed as she settled on her bed. She opened her knapsack and withdrew the poster she had snatched from the last tavern she had been to. Colin's youthful face looked at her, a sad expression on his face – as if his picture knew his time had come and gone already, his life claimed dishonourably, his body left to be devoured by fire and ashes. Hermione quivered, reluctant to let tears stream down her face. Much like straw mattresses, sadness was a luxury she could barely afford. She needed to save it preciously for the moments when it mattered – though, when one's life is littered with violence and death, are there any such moments? Don't they matter all? Or none at all?
Refusing to dive further into her locked emotions, Hermione sniffled and folded the poster, returning it to its new home. She needed to be well rested for the long journey that was ahead of her. The time for tears would come when the Terror would get to her – not a minute earlier. And so, she lay down on her bed, choosing to remember Colin as she had known him, choosing to honour his memory one last time.
She woke up in the early hours of the next morning, at the crack of dawn, a looming sense of impending doom festering in her stomach. Probably the hunger, she reasoned. She walked down the stairs and joined the few patrons of the boarding house in the dining room, where the cook served scrambled eggs and bacon every morning. The eggs were greasy, and the bacon dry, but it was enough to fuel her for the day to come. Hermione ate in slow bites, hoping to finally attain a sense of fullness. By the time she was done, the sun had risen well above the horizon line, and she knew she had to go.
"Thank you, and goodbye, Mrs. Lewisham," she waved the hostess as she left.
"Not so fast, Hermione Granger," replied the hostess. Hermione opened her mouth – she knew now was the time to run, but her feet seemed to refuse obeying her. "Come with me," ordered Mrs. Lewisham, opening a door behind her counter. Hermione hesitated – did this count as throwing herself in the lion's den? "Quickly!"
Without knowing why, Hermione followed suit. Maybe this was the best way for her to die – yet, she had a feeling she was in no danger here. As irrational as that thought was for someone as straight minded and intelligent as Hermione Granger, it made sense. She had learned to trust her guts in moments like the very one she was in.
"I don't have much time, Mrs. Lewisham will be back soon," explained the woman facing her.
"B… but—"
"No time, Miss Granger. I'm Domitia Peverell – my apprentice talked to you yesterday," replied the woman, whose features now started to distort, revealing a slender raven-haired woman hidden, most likely, by Polyjuice potion. Hermione remembered Jane and cursed herself – how had she not seen the trick that was played on her? "I figured you'd be here by now, and thankfully Jane did find you. What a relief, I must say! We must part ways soon, Miss Granger, but I do have to give you the only piece of information at my disposal. You see, during my very short time at the Ministry, I have uncovered many secrets. Some, relevant. Others, not so much. One especially seemed useless, at the time – but now, it has become essential, crucial even." For someone who believe them to be short on time, she knew how to set up a dramatic scene. "See, Miss Granger, the Terror is not infallible, contrary to what we have been led to believe. I know its flaw! I've managed to find Mr. Creevey and to warn him, so it's only a matter of time until the name on that list changes. I do suspect yours will be next."
"But… everyone believes me to be dead. When I escaped Goyle man—"
"No, Miss Granger. News of your death have circulated to avoid an uprising. Those who believe in your death cannot hold you as a beacon of hope. The officials at the Ministry are just waiting for the right moment to launch the Terror on you – a moment where you are at your weakest, your most famished, probably wandless, even. They believe that moment will come soon enough… probably within the next couple of days, if any of the rumours are to be believed," whispered Domitia Peverell as she grabbed Hermione firmly by the shoulders.
"I've… I haven't heard any rumours," protested the witch. "I would have heard, I would have know—"
Yet again, she found herself interrupted. "Not amongst those you've been gathering information from! The farmers, the peasants, the mill workers, while all Pureblood, know nothing of what is happening in London. They are kept in the dark – for reasons I'm sure you can understand. Listen, I do not have the time to tell you everything. I cannot do more than attempt to save you."
"Why would you even do that? You're—"
"I—"
"No! You will let me finish, this time! I have not starved myself, walked hundreds of miles, slept in trees and renounced my magical powers to be told off by some complete stranger. Every day, I wake up fearing to even use my wand because I am held in contempt by both my people. The wizards, who believe my blood to be stained, and the Muggles, who lead witch hunts across villages and towns and farms to kill the likes of me. So forgive me if I have a hard time believing that a Pureblood witch, of aristocratic lineage, if the name is to be believed, who used to work for the very people who wish death upon me, would dedicate the time, energy and resources to track me down, gain my trust and give me a solution to all my problems, like some sick deus ex machina! I am not defenceless. I am not a lost lamb. You need not to worry about me. And if the information you hold is so crucial to my survival, you will spare me the disdain, the pity, and just outright give it to me," she growled, low enough to avoid being heard by curious outsiders, but high enough that Domitia Peverell could swallow every word.
"Very well, Miss Granger. I should know better than not to trust your renowned intellect." Hermione pursed her lips, unsure whether she was picking up sarcasm from this damn woman. "As it stands, I do believe in your cause. My great-great-grandfather was the ancestor to your dear friend Harry Potter, after all. His grandfather, my dearest brother. I owe him this much, after all."
Hermione sighed. All this grandstanding was just wasting time – did this woman really think she hadn't already made the connection? "Here is what I know. The Terror is flawed, by design – it needs to remain tamed by the Ministry, to avoid going after Purebloods. As such, if it were to kill, directly or indirectly, a Pureblood heir… it would…" Her mouth made a strange popping sound, as if to signify the Terror's death.
Hermione wanted to ask more questions – but their time had run out. Outside the cramped room in which they stood, she heard the real Mrs. Lewisham speaking to the small child in charge of cleaning the rooms.
"Good luck on your journey, Hermione Granger. Our paths shall cross again." And, on those words, Domitia Peverell disappeared with a loud crack. Hermione panicked – had she been heard? How could she justify coming out from behind the counter, as a simple patron of the establishment? She felt her wand poke her in the back – muttering to herself, she relented and pulled it out of her knapsack. She knew she could come to regret this gesture, sooner or later. And, with a swish, she apparated, leaving Birmingham behind. Today marked another point in favour of her survival – she could only hope tomorrow would bring the same.