CHAPTER 3. UNSPOKEN VOWS
"We meet again, Granger. How disappointing for me," sneered Malfoy, leaning against the closest tree, his arms crossed.
Hermione hesitated for a split second—a second too much.
"I wager you're still in hiding. That Order of the Phoenix really didn't do you any favours, now, did it?" His smirk made her uneasy. She bit her tongue, her bitter response remaining lodged in her throat.
"Never pegged you as the silent type, Granger. Cat got your tongue?" He leaned closer to her. "Hm, that's not right. Both McGonagall and Crookshanks died in that fire, didn't they?"
He was trying to get a rise out of her—why that was, she couldn't be sure. His demeanour was explicitly more villainous than when they last met. Something didn't sit right with her—the insult didn't manage to reach her quite as far as it should have. There was an edge in his features, a paleness to his skin—she couldn't say with any certainty, but the words, as painful as they were, fell flat. They were not meant to hurt her.
Then, it clicked.
They were meant to warn her. That fire. Colin.
"Threatening to put me out of my misery, are we now?" she purred, deciding she couldn't let on until she was sure of what he knew. There were few cards she could play.
"You hurt me, Granger. I'm just concerned for your well-being." He placed his hand over his heart to emphasise the sarcasm seeping through his words.
"Like Hell you are. You should be more concerned with yours. I'm sure a runaway aristocrat like yourself is far more valuable than the poor little Mudblood who just happened to be friends with a dead symbol," she argued back, letting the memory of Harry clog her throat.
He arched his eyebrows for a split second, returning to his smirk so fast she wondered if she had imagined it.
"Selling yourself short, there, Granger."
She knew there and then that it didn't matter for how long they bantered—he would never reveal anything more to her. What she knew, what she thought she knew, was all he was going to leave her with. A change in strategy was dearly needed. Perhaps…
"The Terror is after me," cried out Hermione. Her hand instantly covered her mouth. She needed him to think she hadn't meant to blurt it out so suddenly, that she had meant to bring him slowly to that knowledge, to ease him into it, into helping her.
His response was as expected. "If that's the case, Granger, you're already dead. There isn't anything I can do for you." Malfoy's eyes betrayed a hint of pity for the woman facing him.
Hermione shifted her weight and decided she needed to strategise differently. His demeanour had told her everything she needed to know. She needed to start negotiating, to forgo any belief he would help her out of the kindness of his heart.
"Not if you protect me. I know its fatal flaw." Hermione's voice had lost any begging intonations she may previously have had. She could only hope her back-up plan would be enough. "If you protect me from It, you can ask anything from me."
Malfoy considered her for an instant. Perhaps this bargain was too good to pass up. Perhaps he would find a use for her. Perhaps this was what making a deal with the Devil looked like.
"No, sorry Mudblood. I'm not risking that pristine skin of mine for you. I would have loved to help, you know, if you were a little more worthy, when the Order was still a thing of the present… but you said so yourself, you just happened to be friends with a dead symbol," he added, cocking his head. His eyes were undecipherable—it frustrated her.
"Fine," she said, sensing a new resolve taking shape in her throat, "then you leave me no choice."
She didn't give him a chance to respond—time was of the essence. She pulled out her rope and knotted it around both their wrists in a swift motion—she had her lengthy list of branch-beds to thank for that.
"Really, Granger? A piece of rope?" He laughed so boisterously birds flew from the trees in a haphazard motion.
"Not just any piece of rope, Malfoy. Do you really think me daft?" interjected Hermione, frowning.
"Whatever, Granger." He pulled out his wand and pointed it to the rope. "Diffindo. Diffindo! DIFFINDO!" He yelled it another five times before giving up. "What is up with this thing?" he roared.
"I'll let you guess," she replied coyly, toying with the edge of the rope on her end.
He paused for a moment.
His eyes surveyed the rope, his fingers gracefully rubbing the razed edge.
"Orpheus' string, of course. I should have known." The quiet threat in his voice was begging Hermione to react, but she kept quiet—no matter how much power she was wielding at this very moment, she still needed to convince him for her plan to come to full fruition. She needed him consenting, if a little resigned.
It had only been by sheer luck that she had come across Orpheus' string. A long-lost artifact that had travelled the world since it first came to exist, it bound two people until the binder decided to remove the string. Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice's tragic tale, it had been manufactured to secure two souls together, to make them unable to be separated, even by death and the Underworld. No magic could destroy it, untie it, gnaw at it or otherwise remove it. It was so priceless, so powerful, that Hermione had first thought she had found a very believable dupe when coming upon it. She had been foraging precious mushrooms for the Order in a secluded area of Ireland, not far from Breifne, when she had noticed it lying in the grass. The distinct blue tint to its razed edges had immediately alerted her to its nature. How it had landed there when it had last been rumoured to be possessed by a wealthy Prussian aristocrat, she never found out. Regardless of the circumstances of this happenstance, she was now thankful for it. It had saved her life enough times for her to find it in her to dismiss that taunting mystery.
"I don't like this anymore than you do, Malfoy." Her eyes travelled from their wrists to his eyes. "Here's the deal I'm offering you." She paused, clearing her throat. "Give me three days to convince you to agree to my terms. If I have failed by then, I will remove the bond and disappear—forever. If I do manage to convince you, however… well, you'll find out soon enough."
"That is one stupid deal, Granger. I'll never agree to anything when I know I'll be free in three days regardless of my decision," he snorted. "Let's shake on it."
Hermione smiled—it had worked. Better even than she had anticipated. After all, better he think her daft than calculating. Perhaps he was the one who had just made a deal with the Devil.
They walked back to the camp Malfoy had set up with Nott. The tense silence grew thicker with every passing minute, tightening the bond around both their wrists—Hermione could feel the pain shooting through her numb fingers, aware Malfoy's unhappiness with their circumstance was manifesting itself in his magical energy. She remained stoic, refusing to let him know he was getting to her.
"I thought you'd gotten rid of her," jeered Nott upon seeing Hermione.
"Nice to see you too, Nott," she smiled. He ignored her, turning to his travel companion.
"The bitch tricked me. I'll be free in three days," dismissed Malfoy, tugging on Hermione's wrist as he walked over to one of the two make-shift tents they had seemingly scraped together recently.
Nott refused to hear it. "What do you mean, you'll be free in three days?" Hermione noticed a dangerous glint in his gaze and made note of it—perhaps Nott wasn't the peace-seeking, calm but commandeering man she had painted him out to be. It made sense after all—anyone who would willingly spend all their time with Malfoy sleeping in dark forests had to be unpredictable at best—and dangerous, at worst.
"What I mean, Theo, is that Granger over here is being tracked by the most dangerous creature in all of England and she is seeking our help." Malfoy's hand jerked away from Hermione, and she stumbled. He'd pay. "Help, I, of course, refused her, but I guess being the most brilliant witch of her age has its perks, because she tied herself to me with Orpheus' string before I could even think to say Accio." He turned to face her. "Fucking Mudblood."
Hermione felt her eyes roll. She wasn't sure this justified any response.
"Draco, we can't spend three days in one place," argued Nott. "Granger, untie him right now, or I will Crucio you into doing it." He jabbed his wand under her chin, forcing her to face him. His other hand grabbed her right arm, his fingers sinking into her flesh and turning her muscles yellow. She nearly yelped in pain but bit her tongue.
"Try me," she spat. "Any harm you inflict upon me will also go to your little friend there," she smiled. "Or have you not followed Binns' class close enough, Nott?"
"What in Merlin's name is she talking about?" Nott's grip on his wand had loosened somewhat—Hermione could feel the doubt run through his blood, forcing his hand to tremble ever so slightly.
"I'm not sure, Theo. I don't know as much about obscure and boring magic as Granger does," replied Malfoy bitterly. "And it's not like I have access to Hogwarts' library, you know."
Nott released Hermione from his hold.
"Fine. Three days. You'll come to regret it, Mudblood." He turned away and sulked back to his tent.
"Never knew he had such a temper. He seemed so calm back at school," stated Hermione neutrally.
Malfoy stared back at her, arching his eyebrows in utter disbelief. "Is that all you have to say?" He paused, growing angrier. "I don't seem to recall you being so cold-blooded and calculating. I'm not even sure you were capable of lying so assuredly," he goaded her.
"Who says I lied? Perhaps you'd like to test that theory?" responded Hermione, smiling from ear to ear.
Malfoy grunted. "Whatever, Granger. I can't wait until that little jig of yours is up. Let's go hunt for some food."
He pulled her away from where they stood and she followed without saying another word. They ventured into the woods, wands at the ready, their trained eyes following the trees' and the grass' every move. The cold winter breeze travelled between the guardians of the forest, giving them false hope every now and then. By the time the sun had reached the horizon, they had come up empty handed.
"Let's just head back to the camp," muttered Hermione. Her bone wasn't healed properly and the strain it took to both endure the long walk and avoid wincing had taken a toll on her.
"Fine." Malfoy's eyes were brewing a storm.
They walked back in silence, their steps soon falling into a comfortable pattern, a rhythm of pitter and patter, of leaves rustling and wind crackling, their respective faces refusing to acknowledge the company of the other. To an onlooking stranger, they might have seemed strong and confident. The image they painted from afar was seamless—from up close, though, the cracks only grew. Hermione's hands were white from the tight grip she had on her wand in an attempt to conceal the pain in her leg. Soon, she began limping, and sooner even, that limp became a hindrance. The pain distorted her mouth and eyes, constricted her throat and brought an ungraceful asymmetry to their previously perfect tableau.
Malfoy sighed. "Will you hurry up?" He did not bother turning to face her.
"Sorry," mumbled Hermione as she forced her leg to leap further to match his pace.
It was no use—Malfoy seemed to hear something, and they came to an abrupt stop. The physics of such a thing sent Hermione stumbling down, the pain shooting from her ankle finally releasing itself from the containment she had forced it into, translating into a violent cry.
"Granger?" asked Malfoy.
"My ankle," was the only thing Hermione managed to whimper before the world faded to black.
"… There is no way this is going to work, Draco."
"I know what I'm doing, Theo. You need to trust me."
"Do you? Because we wouldn't be here if you'd wised up before going on this mission."
"Don't act like you weren't an equal partner in this. And it doesn't matter. We're out of options now."
"You know we're not. You know sacrifice is not the only option left for us."
"The Cause needs it. It calls for it."
"I don't care about the Cause anymore. I don't care about any of it."
"I guess you should have thought of that before you tied yourself to me for eternity and beyond."
"I guess I should have."
Hermione's eyes fluttered open. The lantern dangling from the tent's ceiling glowed faintly, its orange tint flickering every now and then. The whispers of the woods surrounded her, raising the hairs on the back of her arms.
"Granger." He hadn't left. It didn't matter that he couldn't, she decided. He hadn't. The fallacy of such a statement would have left Hogwarts Hermione in a tremor, Battle Hermione shaking with horror—Terror and Pained Hermione, though, could only see clouds of doubts and scintillating shards of pain. Logical fallacies were beyond her current state of mind.
"Sorry," she mumbled. She pointed to her ankle. "I didn't heal it properly. Didn't have the time. The energy."
He grunted. "You could have told me earlier. We have essence of dittany and skelegro."
She shrugged. "Like you care."
His eyes darkened. "Not that I have a choice. I'm tied to you—I've got better things to do than dragging you back to camp in a cold and damp forest."
Her eyes travelled down from his face. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his right hand resting close to her left, Orpheus' string still firmly in place. He was towering over her, his dark eyes looming over hers, observing her, asserting their dominance. She was little more than prey—whatever power she had been sure to hold with that trick of hers, it didn't matter. The man sitting next to her knew he held all the cards in the hand she hadn't bound. A gross miscalculation on her part perhaps—but today was too soon to say.
"Only two days left to go, Granger. Better hurry your plans if you really intend on ensuring my allegiance," he smirked. His ring finger twitched, a detail she filed away in her mind, to study at a later date.
"You still underestimate me, Malfoy. That might be the cause of your downfall, I'd be careful if I were you." Her voice was still strained from the pain, but her eyes showed a determination that left a trail of indecision in his.
"Whatever. Let's eat." He got up, dragging her along with him. She noticed her ankle wasn't hurting anymore—though thankful that he had taken the time to heal it, she wondered why he had even bothered. Leaving her in a state of pain might have been more fruitful if he intended on ensuring her inability to convince him.
The campfire outside was small. The flames barely rose above the bushes—a child's fire. Three plates were set around it, a grey stew of sorts sitting in the middle of each.
"Mushroom stew," said Malfoy, still looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging her.
"Where's Nott?"
"Nearby. He's not sure the shield is enough to protect us, given that it's covering for three, instead of two, now. He'll be back soon."
"I don't know of any shield that can be broken easily if it accommodates a single person more," responded Hermione mechanically.
Malfoy shot her an undecipherable look. Rather than respond to her, he tugged on her wrist, inviting her to sit down next to him. Hermione followed the tacit order without protest—from up close, the stew looked less than appetising, but her growling stomach told her it felt otherwise. Food was food, as it were. She could not afford to be picky, not when her latest string of decisions was surely what had prevented them from any successful hunting. It was bound to be more flavourful than the plain water oatmeal she had been subjected to, hopefully. As long as she never encountered that meal in her life ever again, she could eat without appetite. She ate for survival. And survival was bound to last for a very long time.
"The shield's fine." Nott had suddenly reappeared. He sat across from them and began stuffing his mouth with the mushroom stew, refusing to acknowledge them.
"You should pace yourself, or you'll still be hungry after you're done," commented Hermione after swallowing her first mouthful of stew.
"I didn't talk to you, Mudblood." The rubber consistency was slowly making its way down her oesophagus when she nearly choked.
The word had lost all its power since Gaunt had launched the Terror. She heard it every day, multiple times a day, sometimes as often as she breathed. Nott himself had called her that several times already. Yet, this single instance, the venom it carried, the implications it wore so forcefully, the tone it was dressed in, provided the same level of hurt and pain than the first time she heard it, at Hogwarts. More, even—she hadn't known what it had meant at the time and Ron had to explain it to her.
"Theodore is very sensitive when it comes to food," plainly said Malfoy, as if the words uttered by his companion had only been harmless banter. He chewed on his stew slowly, his eyes watching the flames flicker and dance. "Now would be the time to make your case, Granger," he added. "Dinner is the perfect time for a fruitful debate."
Hermione stared at him in astonishment. Her fork dropped onto the plate, the ding of the porcelain resounding across the camp.
"He's right." Nott had set down his plate and was staring at her, frowning, as if to utter a threat.
Hermione scraped her plate with her fork, moving what remained of the stew from side to side, acutely aware of the two pairs of eyes set on her. She remained silent, forming a small pile of mushrooms on the left of her plate before crushing it down. She knew neither would speak before she did: they had opened a door she wasn't ready to venture in, and they knew it. Suddenly, her well-thought out plan felt like a fool's errand, one motivated by fear, hunger, loneliness, cold winds and even colder nights. Company and a bright fire made her reconsider any and everything she had known to be true, or was at least sure of. Maybe they weren't on the run. Maybe they were just skilful assassins on a stroll in the woods, looking for their next prey. And she had fallen right into their trap. Maybe she really had made a deal with the Devil when she had attached herself to that moron of a ferret. Signed her death sentence.
The silence grew thicker. The rustling of leaves and pitter-patter of small animals grew so loud it overwhelmed her, made her nervous. Her right hand began trembling. Her fork was the first to fall—the plate followed suit soon enough. There was nothing to distract her anymore.
She watched as a small army of ants gathered around the wasted meal.
There was nothing left to distract her.
She had to speak up.
"Well," she cleared her throat. Her eyes rested squarely on the fallen plate, away from them, away from their intent stares. Focus was her only way out. She refused to believe she had walked into a trap so willingly—she needed to fight for her survival. For her right to live, which had been so compromised she had nearly forgotten it existed. "I believe you're both looking for something you cannot find. And I believe that something is within my reach."
She turned her head suddenly and confronted Nott's gaze. "My price is small. Protection against the only thing currently impeding me from moving any further."
Neither responded for a while. She had spouted a lot of lies in those few seconds during which she had talked—she knew doing so in front of two of the most potent Slytherins she had ever met was risky. But she also knew risks taken in dire situations almost always paid off.
"That was awfully vague," laughed Malfoy, the first to break the silence.
"Better admit you know nothing of our desires than to lie so boldly," added Nott, a smirk painting his otherwise gloomy face.
"Why would I hand you all the cards I hold so readily?" elaborated Hermione, trying to brush off the glee that was burgeoning in her stomach.
"Why wouldn't you? Now is the time to make your play, Granger," snorted Malfoy.
Hermione smiled sheepishly. Ego was always what got in the way of men. They were certain she had nothing, she knew nothing, she could do nothing. And, while it may have been true that she was still unaware of the depths of their motivations, she had led them to admit that they were indeed looking for something they could not find. Nott had perhaps intended to trick her into admitting the truth of her ignorance, but he had used the word "desires". Sometimes, playing an opponent required the smallest bout of boldness and a well-shaped lie. The rest was up to them—and, usually, wording did a better job of revealing hidden information than being handed that information outright.
They were intrigued, at the very least. They believed she was lying, but they could not be sure. Had they been sure, they wouldn't encourage her to "make her play"—no, they would simply dismiss her and wait out the two remaining days. "Men with ego never learn," had once said McGonagall. This might have been her wisest lesson of all.
"I have two days left. You will not force me to use up my time early." She left no room for any further argument. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it has been a long day, and I would like to sleep. Where would that be?" she asked, standing up. She pulled Malfoy with her, but the man resisted and pulled her back down.
"I'm not tired, Granger. We'll go to sleep once I've decided I'm ready to." There was no arguing with that tone.
Resigned, Hermione sat back down on the log. Malfoy ignored her and turned back to Nott. She felt like they were communicating something amongst themselves, their faces slightly twitching as they looked at each other. They could not talk in her presence—this meant there were things to say. Things she needed to hear.
Hermione fought the fatigue as best as she could. She needed the opportune time to pretend to doze off. Maybe (maybe) if she were to look like she had fallen asleep, they would begin to talk. They had done so in the tent, when she was passed out from the pain. They were willing to risk it.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity before beginning to close her eyes. She tilted her head downward, swinging her tired body ever so slightly from left to right, guiding her limbs in subtle, but still noticeable, motions. Her breathing increased in depth and intensity, mimicking that of her mother's when she dozed off after reading her a story. There were many people she could have thought to imitate—but the idea of most, if not all, was too unbearable to think about. Her mother, wherever she may be, was likely still alive and well. It brought her enough comfort.
"She's not really sleeping, is she?" sneered Nott.
Hermione braced herself. She knew they would test her. Thankfully, she had spent enough time at Goyle manor to be ready for whatever they had in mind.
"Let's see." Malfoy's wand (or, perhaps, a random branch, she couldn't be sure) poked her arm. The gesture was gentle at first, if only for a moment. As the seconds flew by, he increased the pressure on her arm and poked more forcefully, until she felt a bruise forming. She tried to guess whether he was trying to wake her up, prove she wasn't asleep by making her move, or the opposite. Whatever she intention, Hermione refused to relent. She maintained her breathing, sometimes accelerating when the pain was a little too much, as she suspected someone who was really sleeping would.
"She's asleep," concluded Malfoy, finally letting his poking stick fall away. Hermione was careful not to sigh in relief—they were still attentive.
"I don't trust her," replied Nott in a drawl.
"What is she going to do? She's the most wanted witch in the country. She's at the mercy of Gaunt and his creature. I'm not sure we're risking much here," argued Malfoy.
Well, how odd. She would never have thought he'd find it in him to defend her.
"And you know very well that if that creature were to find her with us, we're toast." Nott was growing impatient. It seemed like they were resuming a fight they already had.
"We're toast either way, aren't we? We haven't made any progress in weeks!" The edge in Malfoy's voice confirmed Hermione's suspicions.
"I'm done discussing this, Draco. We're partners in this. You can't go around making unilateral decisions, you can't forgo my opinion whenever it inconveniences you. You depend on me, not the other way around, and you would do well to remember that." Hermione heard leaves rustling, twigs breaking, footsteps getting closer. She didn't realise what was happening until it was too late.
"Petrificus Totalus. Muffliato." Hermione braced herself—only to realise the spells weren't directed at her, but at Malfoy. She attempted to remain calm and maintain her breathing as steady as if she were really sleeping.
It hadn't been enough.
"It's not nice to eavesdrop, Mudblood," he whispered in her ear.
He reversed the enchantments he had placed on his friend and walked away. Hermione opened her eyes and watched intently as Malfoy rose from his petrified state. She expected him to shout, to drag her along to Nott's tent so he could jinx him, to do something, anything. She expected him to react.
He didn't. He stayed there, barely moving. So lifeless in appearance he might as well have been dead.
Finally, after long minutes of a painful silence, he spoke. "Let's go to sleep, Granger." His voice was strained.
They rose in unison and walked back to Malfoy's tent.
"You'll sleep there," he said, pointing to the floor next to his bed.
Hermione didn't protest, still reeling from what had just happened. There was a dynamic there she wasn't sure she wanted to explore. A tension in the relationship that seemed to have only grown with her added presence. It was like she had awoken violence, brought it in with her, and let it ransack the place.
She lay down on the floor, still wide awake. Her left arm was resting on her chest, as was Malfoy's right arm on his—the string pulled tight between them.
Despite the fatigue, Hermione had a hard time finding sleep. The intricacies of the evening's events were traveling through her mind, and she was trying to unravel and understand them to the best of her ability. Filling in the gaps was proving to be near impossible—she knew too little and had witnessed complications so deeply entrenched that she could, at best, only make an educated guess. She guessed that Malfoy wasn't as hostile to her presence as he appeared to be, and that Nott was the reluctant one. She guessed that they were hiding from Gaunt and looking for a way to overthrow him—though, that last part seemed like a stretch. There was no logical reason for them to be on the run. It made no sense for two sons of established Death Eaters to want to remove the very figure that fed into their interests. Hermione did not need to know much to bridge the gap between her guesses and the truth—she feared, though, that what she needed to know was as secret as it was small… in other words, very much so.
She had gone into this thinking that they were two lost lambs who would jump up at the opportunity to gain her knowledge, abilities and insight. She had considered the knowledge at her disposal only—the fear to be discovered when she had mentioned them at the tavern, the negotiation to secure her silence, to desire to see her leave. She had believed that encounter in the woods to be genuine, to showcase their relationship at its barebones, at its core. She could not have been more wrong—she had made the mistake of forgetting that seeing is not knowing. In fact, what one does not know is what one should base their calculations on.
Her plan had been simple. She had decided she'd first feel out whether Malfoy had it in him to help her of his own volition. If he did not, she would use Orpheus' string and make an idiotic deal with him. A promise to release him on the third day, no matter his opinion on the subject of helping her. She had constructed a fantasy where she would have proven herself to be so useful that he would have agreed on the third day. Nott, she had calculated, was reasonable and cold-headed. His lack of involvement amongst the Death Eaters, his lack of violent behaviour in school, his well-meaning demeanour when Malfoy had dragged her away from the tavern—those were the things she had used to make up her mind about him. She had been sure she just needed to convince Malfoy, and she had been certain that, to do so, she simply needed to figure out why they were acting like fugitives. It had seemed so simple, so elegant, so straightforward.
She was only now realising how far off from the truth she really was. It frustrated her—she had never before failed so spectacularly in planning, calculating and analysing. Every move she had made since her escape had, at the very least, proven that she was still Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, light of a generation, brain of the Golden Trio. The sacrifice, the eternal bond between Malfoy and Nott, the Cause. There was a clear imbalance of power here… but not the one she had understood. This meant she had tied herself to the wrong Slytherin.
When dawn broke, Hermione had not slept a wink. She felt her body protest, her numb muscles pushing her to close her eyes, to let herself drift to sleep, to give in to the fog of dreams and nightmares. She resisted—sleep would do her more harm than good. Her physical state might have been at a breaking point, but her mind was finally clear. She had spent the night reconsidering every piece of knowledge she had held up as true, reworking the links and knots and dots of her rushed plan, considering the truth of her ignorance and wondering how to use it in her favour.
A deal needed to be struck. That deal needed to happen sooner rather than later, and it needed to be ironclad. She had to tell Malfoy what she knew about the Terror, and to keep that information from Nott long enough for him to be too late in trying to undo it.
Thankfully, the ferret woke up soon after she came to that realisation. She felt him stretch and pull her arm above her head as he rose.
"Morning, Granger," he yawned. "I hope sleeping on the floor didn't convince you to untie me… did it?"
"If you think sleeping on the floor is enough to gnaw at my determination, then I regret to inform you that you are woefully ignorant about me," she replied, looking up at him.
"Call it wishful thinking," he shrugged.
"We need to talk," she replied, leaving no room for any further banter.
"Are you always so serious in the morning? I haven't had anything to eat yet."
"Shut up and listen. You know I heard that discussion last night." He looked down at her, bored. Hermione decided not to let it bother her. "Do you know what happens when the Terror kills a Pureblood, whether it does so directly or not?"
He shrugged again. "I imagine it goes through an existential crisis of sorts," he finally responded, smirking.
Hermione ignored his quip. "It dies. It disappears entirely. The Terror cannot kill you or Nott." She paused. He hadn't looked away yet—he was intrigued. "Which means it can't kill me if it puts you at risk of dying," she added, chewing on every word carefully.
"Ah, the fatal flaw. Well, it's too bad that little piece of rope is coming off tomorrow night, then. Assuming the Terror doesn't find you before, of course."
Hermione's face reddened. She frowned and tugged forcefully on the string, making Malfoy stumble off the bed. "Letting me go tomorrow is letting go of any chance you and Nott have of accomplishing your goals. You're already bound to eternity to one person—what's one more?" she argued, her voice strained by the anger and the anguish.
"What makes you so sure we need you? You have no idea what we're up to. You wandered here, confused, tethered yourself to me, angered my traveling companion, eavesdropped on our conversation, and now you're making demands. This isn't how the world works Granger—especially for people like you, as you should know by now. I'd have you ask Weasley and Potter, but they don't seem to be very alive nowadays."
She ignored his jabs and his mockery—much like the previous time, they sounded like warnings more than they did threats. There was a tone to Malfoy's voice that she couldn't quite pinpoint; an urgency in the making. Somehow, this gave her the answer she needed to bend him to her will. You wandered here… except she hadn't wandered anywhere.
The piece she was looking for finally snapped into place.
"You need me because you sought me out. Twice." The certainty in her voice was commanding, violent in its strength. Doubt had evaded her entirely.
Malfoy looked uneasy—his ring finger twitched again, his eyes traveled from the rope to her face and back with a rush, his foot trembled and knocked against the bed.
"Maybe I did," he admitted. "But you heard Theo. It's not happening."
"It doesn't matter. He doesn't need to accept it, he just needs to learn about it after the fact," argued Hermione. This was her last card. It was her last chance.
"What are you suggesting?" His gaze rested firmly on her face. She could tell a storm was brewing inside of him—one of ambition, excitement and horror. He would be betraying his closest friend to acquire something they both wanted—the price was certainly steep, but perhaps not enough to deter him.
Hermione kneeled in front of him. She inhaled deeply. "Make an Unbreakable Vow with me."
To her utter dismay, Malfoy's mouth twitched and twisted until he burst out in laughter. "That's ridiculous, even by Gryffindor standards. Besides, you seem to forget we need someone to bind us to the Vow. I don't suppose you're thinking of asking Theo, so who do you suggest? A squirrel? Or a bird, perhaps?"
Hermione smiled. "You seem to forget we are tethered to each other by Orpheus' string. It's an interesting piece of magic, to say the least. Did you know it allows us to perform an Unbreakable Vow without the use of the traditional spell? Which means… no third party required."
Malfoy eyed her curiously. "You've thought this out."
She didn't bother with a response. She knew she was on the edge of success.
Silence settled with the dust, a single ray of sunlight piercing through the tent's open entry, shining on them. A bird sang in the distance. Malfoy remained quiet, staring intently at Hermione. He was considering her offer.
He was going to take it.
"What would be the terms of the Vow?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.
"You will vow to do everything in your power to protect me from the Terror," responded Hermione quietly, so quietly she wasn't certain he had heard her.
"These terms guarantee you what you seek. What about me?"
"You know Unbreakable Vows, Malfoy. You know one party promises something to the other. It's not a reciprocal agreement." She paused. "You also know I'm a woman of my word. What you need me to do, I will do. I do not need a Vow for that."
"You could Vow to help me. And I would simply promise to protect you," he argued back. She felt him withdraw from her, his acceptance slipping through her fingers.
"I don't think you understand, Malfoy. If you fail to do everything in your power to protect me from the Terror, the Vow will kill you. If you die as a result of disrespecting the Vow, you indirectly die at the Terror's hand… which means It dies too." She looked back up at him, her eyes pleading with him in a terrified silence. There was nothing left for her to reveal, to argue, to defend, to demonstrate. There was only his acceptance, or her death.
"You gave me three days, didn't you?" he finally said.
"I did."
"Then you will have your answer tomorrow night."
Hermione nodded. There was nothing more to say. She had made her plea, and could only hope he made her wait it out due to the nature of their first deal, and not out of reluctance or hesitation.
Nott was nowhere to be seen that day.
"Don't worry about it. He never goes very far—he couldn't anyway," had said Malfoy was they were gathering wood for that evening's campfire.
"Why not? He seems upset with you, maybe he ditched you," she suggested, though she knew she wouldn't get a straight answer. This bond for eternity they had admitted to sharing was something she was hoping to figure out soon, but knew she would never learn outright. Or, at the very least, not straight from the horse's mouth. It was something she could not admit to knowing—all they believed she had heard was that Malfoy was dependent on Nott. Any information she gathered while unconscious still seemed safe and well protected to them.
"You very well know I can't tell you that, Granger. You're not as sly as you think you are," he laughed as she placed another piece of wood in his arms.
"I wasn't being sly. I'm genuinely curious. No harm in asking," she shrugged.
"Well, certainly not, but you are wasting your time. I'm sure there are much more interesting things you could inquire about that I perhaps could answer." He balanced the pile of wood he was holding. "That's enough. We should get back to camp and figure out tonight's dinner."
"Alright," said Hermione as they walked back.
She let silence stew for a minute before asking the question that had been at the tip of her tongue for the last few weeks. "What do you know about Colin Creevey?"
"Annoying little kid who painted Potter's portrait whenever he got the chance?"
"Sure. I mean, he was an Order member, too. He was on the list before me."
"The Terror got to him, then?"
Hermione bit her lip. She had unwittingly delivered a piece of information that gave an out to Malfoy, in case he had any actual insight he was unwilling to share—or, worse even, in case he had been an active participant in his death.
"I guess. I was wondering if you knew."
Malfoy laughed. "Sly really isn't a colour that suits you, Granger. Try again next time."
Hermione frowned. She wondered if this was always going to be like this—she'd fish for information, he'd never volunteer any, and she would be left in the dark. She had a feeling Malfoy was aware of much more than he let on—there was a gap in his past, between the Battle of Hogwarts and the present day, that remained unaccounted for. She had been surprised to never see him make an appearance at Goyle manor when she was enslaved there. She feared that he had been too important to be seen there—but she wondered if him having become not important enough was perhaps worse. Determining his motivations, his goals, the type of future he had a vested interest in, was her blindspot. Any move she made was in the dark—a step ahead of the foreseeable present, rather than ten. It enveloped her in a discomfort that suited her much like robes two sizes too small would. Even if he accepted her proposal, there was still a lot of work to be done. Ensuring her own survival was one thing—turning the system on its head was another entirely, and she could not be quite sure to what degree Malfoy would be an ally in that enterprise.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Nott hadn't returned from wherever he was, the food was digestible at best, and Hermione was growing impatient. That night, as she watched the stars glow from above, she let herself think of Harry and Ron. They were never too far from her heart, but remained at a respectable distance in her mind. There was already enough pain in each day to fill her body from head to toe—she was careful not to add any herself, if she could avoid it. As the cold winter breeze brushed against the trees and the birds made their way to their nests, though, she let herself remember them.
The atmosphere at the camp reminded of one night in particular. Ron had returned from a meeting with Kingsley, furious with him.
"What a waste of time!" he had yelled upon stepping foot into the house.
Hermione was making soup, that evening. She had spent an hour meticulously chopping the celery, boiling beef bones to make the broth, crying as she sliced onions, roughly blending the ingredients with her wand. That night was supposed to be festive—the last three skirmishes had been a success, allowing the Order to entrap two senior members of Gaunt's secret administration.
"What is it, Ron?" Hermione had asked, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"Kingsley let them go! He let them all go! Weeks of work, just gone, because he made an executive decision in the name of fairness, the good and the light!"
"You should listen to him, Ron," had interjected Harry, stepping into the living room. "Who are we, if we keep prisoners? Are we still the Order of the Phoenix? Dumbledore's Army?" Ron had waved his hand, dismissing Harry's concern, channelling his anger into that gesture.
Things had been tense between the three of them. Ron and Harry disagreed on strategy. And they both disagreed with Hermione's idea of war effort.
That night, though, as she served them soup, a meal she had made with fresh ingredients and real beef broth, their anger melted away into the steam and, for a moment, they all forgot that they were at odds with each other. They were simply friends enjoying a meal.
"Earth to Granger."
Hermione snapped back into reality. "Sorry," she mumbled. She contemplated her empty plate and looked back to Malfoy. "You were saying?"
"I was saying we should maybe look for Theo," he replied.
"No need," grunted the man in question, appearing suddenly from behind a bush. "You two are getting along like proper chums, I see." He sat across from them. "Don't tell me she has convinced you to do anything foolish, Draco."
"Nothing foolish, don't you worry yourself there, mate," responded Malfoy. Hermione noted that he didn't lie—his wording did not preclude him from making a deal with her, simply a foolish one. She understood in that moment that she was faced with someone who was much more skilled than her at manipulation—someone who could, and probably would, turn on her at a moment's notice, if it protected him.
"Well, enjoy your last night with us, Granger. I will not be missing you," concluded Nott, returning to his tent in a stomp. She noted he had used her last name, rather than Mudblood, and wondered if it meant anything.
"We should turn in too," said Malfoy. "Much to think about."
Hermione didn't protest—she hadn't slept in two days. Every bone in her body was screaming for her to lie down and close her eyes. The fatigue had called for a cloud to fog her eyes and mind, leaving her unwilling and unable to try and gather anymore intel from Malfoy. Not that she had succeeded in that regard, anyway. The man was good at keeping secrets—for now, anyway.
The last day brought Hermione no solace. As the deadline approached, she felt herself tremble with increasing intensity, and regretted being in such close quarters with the man whose answer she was waiting for. She knew he could feel her ragged breathing, her tense muscles, the rapid motions her mind was going through.
They spent the day playing Explosive Snap, while Nott was, yet again, God only knew where. His absence did not seem to pain Malfoy in any way—he paid it no mind, his focus only resting on the cards he was holding, both literal and figurative.
There were many things she wondered about him. His demeanour was never quite rough, or violent. He rarely insulted her, rather more interested in bantering her—it was never truly mean-spirited, as far as she could tell. On other occasions, though, he summoned an obscure cloud above his head and unleashed his anger on her. She couldn't quite place his feelings towards her—the best she could guess was that he knew he needed her help, enough to avoid trying to antagonise her, while still resenting the very idea. If she hadn't known him any better, she would have deemed him unstable. Truth be told, his sympathy was scarier to her than his anger. It hid a game she didn't know how to play.
The clock ran out at eleven in the evening. Hermione awaited, sitting on the floor, while Malfoy sat across from her, quiet and domineering.
"I have come to a decision," he finally said, raising his gaze to meet hers.
Away from them, far from the camp, a low growl began making its way