CHAPTER 4. ORPHEUS' ALLIANCE
Hermione breathed in. Her bound hand was holding Malfoy's—now was the time to make the Vow that would seal their destinies forever. A sea of doubt still clouded her mind, but she refused to let it impair a decision she had already made.
"Do you, Draco Malfoy, promise to do all that is in your power to protect me, Hermione Granger, from the Terror?"
"I do."
The rope glowed faintly of red and gold.
"Do you promise to let Death take you should the Terror kill me as a result of your failure to protect me?"
His eyes narrowed and he paused for a moment, before answering.
"I do."
The rope's light became stronger, nearly blinding Hermione.
"Finally, do you promise to ensure the death of the Terror should it kill me and the Vow not take your life?"
"I do."
A flash of red and gold light burst through, illuminating their tent so brightly their location would have been revealed to anyone who knew to look for them. Both Hermione and Malfoy closed their eyes. When they reopened them, Orpheus' string had disintegrated to form two bracelets of light, one on each of their wrists. The promise was sealed.
"Where is it?" asked Malfoy.
"It's with us, always. The string only allows one Unbreakable Vow to be made while we are alive. It will reform somewhere once we're both dead," explained Hermione matter-of-factly, like the information was widely available.
"Your services better be worth the sacrifice, Granger," muttered Malfoy.
She brushed his sarcasm aside. "Now would be the time to tell me what you two are planning," she responded.
"You can't know the details. You'll be given sufficient instruction to piece everything together, but you can't know more than that. Not until we've enacted it."
"How do you expect me to succeed without knowing the purpose or outcome of what I need to find out?" Hermione was scandalised.
"You'll figure it out. We cannot risk you putting a wrench in our plans. Besides, I may have promised you my life, but I haven't promised you my trust."
Hermione shook her head but added nothing. It didn't really matter either way—she'd find out one way or another, this much she planned on. She refused to be left in the dark.
"Telling Theo is going to be a Hell of a trip," Malfoy laughed bitterly.
"He might not like it now, but he'll soon see the benefit. Besides, he could always leave… if he wanted to," added Hermione neutrally.
Malfoy side-eyed her. "I already told you being sly with a Slytherin does not work. There's nothing you will get from me. Try asking honestly next time. Maybe then you'll know."
Hermione bit her tongue. She had entered the serpents' den of her own volition and desire—perhaps it was best not to push her luck. Not yet anyway—there was still one serpent left to convince, and she couldn't yet be assured that he wouldn't destroy her on the spot once he found out.
Draco left the tent and she hesitated to follow him. There was something in his voice, in his step… something she knew to be wary of. She had put her safety and her survival between the hands of an enemy, one who had actively contributed to wiping out her kind. He seemed apologetic, remorseful even, but it wasn't enough—Hermione had to remember why she had allied herself to him in the first place. Trust was not a given—nor should she mistake her regained sense of companionship for anything more than what it was. She promised herself to remain careful and headed out.
Nott had returned to the camp and was sat next to Malfoy. They were eating what remained of their poorly concocted mushroom stew. The smell alone was an assault to Hermione's olfactory senses—nevertheless, she maintained her composure and joined them.
"I don't think so, Granger," interjected Nott as soon as she sat down. "You've been wise enough to remove Draco's shackle, so I will be kind and let you go without making a commotion, but you would do well to leave. Now. And silently, because this is as far as my kindness goes."
Of course Malfoy hadn't yet said anything—once a cowardly little weasel, always a cowardly little weasel.
"I gather your friend hasn't yet explained the change in situation," she mused, carefully gathering her hair to braid it, as if she hadn't been threatened seconds earlier.
"I will not play your little games anymore, Mudblood. Out of my sight, now." She noticed his left hand was resting near the pocket that held his wand.
"Theo…" intervened Malfoy.
Nott whipped his head in Malfoy's direction. "Whatever deal you made with her, break it now."
Malfoy winced and shifted his weight uncomfortably. He could not seem to bear looking at his friend and companion. "I can't, Theo. You know she's invaluable to our mission." He straightened his back. "And she is, after all, at our mercy." His stare shot right back up at her. This was not for Nott's benefit at all. It was a threat to her—a silent promise to make her beg, should anything not go their way.
Nott seemed impermeable to the silent exchange happening between his friend and his enemy. "What are you even on about?" he asked, his tone venomous, his voice hissing.
Malfoy turned back towards Nott. Hermione did not dare make a move.
"I made an Unbreakable Vow to protect Granger from the Terror, which means she cannot ever leave our side. She can't hurt our mission, only help it. Don't you understand? She is forced to do our bidding—at the cost of her own life." He laughed and Hermione felt whatever comfort the alliance had brought her melt and puddle at her feet. It made no sense. He hadn't wanted her around in the first place. Why had he changed his mind? Why bargain his own life in return for her help? Did he not care if he died?
She wasn't left with any more time to consider this abrupt change in demeanour. Nott had gotten up and whipped out his wand. He placed it under Hermione's chin menacingly, poking into her flesh.
"This is one decision you will regret, Mudblood. Draco may be bound to protect you from the Terror, but he does not have to protect you from me," he hissed.
The venom in his eyes injected Hermione with a sudden rush of fear. Malfoy was still sitting by the ashes of the previous evening's fire, staring at them with what could only be described as utter indifference and complete boredom.
"Cut it out, Theo," he drawled.
Nott seemed to back down for a second. As he began walking away from Hermione, she let out a sigh of relief—only to be stung by a Stinging Hex the following second.
The pain burning through her soon turned to rage. She had not spent weeks trailing the forests of England, fighting for her survival to be ended by Theodore fucking Nott. Her carefully concocted plan was not about to collapse as easily as a tower of cards. She pulled her wand from her tunic and hexed Nott back.
"I'm not easy prey, you fucking idiot. I'm Hermione Granger, and you better believe I would rather die before letting you decide my fate," she yelled as she threw another curse at him, in the form of a purple flash of light.
Nott began foaming at the mouth, as if poisoned. This neat little trick had been taught to her by a member of the Order, back when it was still standing and alive. It mimicked all the effects of poisoning someone, giving Hermione ample time to send more curses Nott's way. Which she happily did, simultaneously causing him a nosebleed, three broken teeth and a steady stream of purple pus oozing from both his ears and coating his skin. In fact, the harder Hermione went, the longer she cursed Nott, the better she felt, encouraging her to go to dangerous lengths. She was edging closer to the Cruciatus curse, when Malfoy finally stepped in and stopped her.
"Granger, enough. I think you've proven your point," he exclaimed, tearing her wand from her before dropping it on the ground, as if it had burned him.
He stared at her as if seeing her in an entirely new light. "I never believed you to be cruel," he muttered under his breath.
He left no time for Hermione to respond. He turned to his friend, who had collapsed from the onslaught of hexes. His rabid breathing was punctuated by long rasps, like his throat had been scraped clean with sandpaper. Hermione contemplated his weak silhouette, only then realising how fragile and pale Nott really was. The violence and the aggressiveness in his words had led her to believe he was a menacing shadow, a curse in human form, ready to strike at any given moment. Hermione did not know whether this shadow of a man shaking on the ground was his true form, or if her rage had turned her into such a monster that she had been able to best the very man who had rendered her terrified.
She hadn't duelled since her days fighting alongside the Oder of the Phoenix, in its early post-war iteration. She wasn't sure how she had found the strength and ability to perform as well as she had—in fact, she hadn't remembered half the spells she had used in the moment. They had come to her as easily as the lightning striking the Earth, as naturally as the oxygen she breathed.
That was when she heard it again. The low growl, the raspy grunt. It had been so faint when she first heard it—she had convinced herself it belonged to a passing delusion, a moment of fatigue. Her muscles instinctively flinched, her posture went rigid, and her eyes stared into the distance.
"Granger!"
"What?" she shouted, disgruntled by the interruption. The growl was long gone.
"Don't just stand there. Help me carry him to his tent," seethed Malfoy.
Hermione looked back at him, bewildered. She picked her wand back up, directed towards Nott and softly muttered Wingardium Leviosa. She gestured for his body to levitate into his tent and looked back to Malfoy.
"And I thought I was the Muggle," she spat.
"What is up with you, Granger?" He looked shocked, astounded, perhaps even hurt.
Seeing that look in another person's eyes, directed at her, seemed to snap Hermione back to reality. She stared down at her arm, her wrist, down to the tip of her wand. She was reminded of the evening she had murdered nine men in cold blood, barely acknowledged the fact and moved on.
"Sorry," she mumbled, unable to look him in the eye. "I'm not sure what's gotten into me."
The average observer might have said fighting a war for years, dreading every nightfall and every tomorrow, losing every friend and companion, living in slavery, was more than enough to make one crack and lose their sanity, their empathy—but the average observer did not know Hermione Granger. She wasn't even sure she could say she still knew herself. She was reminded of that evening Harry had stated his wand had acted on its own accord and cursed Voldemort as he was crashing on the Tonks' property. She was reminded of the fact that the wand chose the wizard, rather than the other way around. And she thought that perhaps her wand had overtaken her. Perhaps there was a force beyond her pulling her away from what she believed to be true and right.
"I—" she began, unsure of what to say.
"Let's go check on Nott," replied Malfoy curtly, dismissing any further explanation.
He headed towards the tent and Hermione silently followed him. She had just asserted her power, and yet felt like she had committed a fatal error—one that could, and perhaps would, unravel all the work she had put in in the last days. Part of her felt vindicated—was she not supposed to defend herself when forced into a duel she hadn't provoked?
Nott was sitting up in his cot, silent but seemingly recovered from what Hermione had inflicted upon him.
"I'll respect the deal you and Granger made," he stated to his friend, though his eyes were locked on Hermione. "I might not like it, but I respect it. And, to be truthful, I can't deny someone this strong would be a substantial help to our operation. So be it." His voice was still somewhat ragged, like the edges of his insides had been warped by Hermione's onslaught of spells.
Malfoy looked like he had been hexed himself. The confusion spread across his face, moving down to his hands as they began twitching uncontrollably. He was, quite literally, speechless.
"Granger, I don't like you," concluded Nott.
"Neither do I, Nott," she smiled.
"Very well, then. I'll let you two take care of dinner while I rest. I am still somewhat… injured," he dismissed them before lying back down.
Hermione did not waste another second and exited the tent promptly. She could hardly believe it took duelling Nott to have him sign a truce with her. She had expected to fight him tooth and nail on it—but perhaps it was what she had done. He was still missing three teeth, after all.
Malfoy joined her outside shortly after. "Well… that went as well as could be expected," he mused.
"You look like you had seen a ghost in there," commented Hermione cheekily.
"Ghosts don't scare me, Granger."
"It's a Muggle saying. You get my gist."
Malfoy cleared his throat but did not respond. Hermione pursed her lips—she needed to be careful. She couldn't let her mind wander away and forget he believed she was at their mercy. She had gained no loyalty or friendship yet—she had only secured her survival for the time being. They could just as easily turn on her the minute she turned into a liability. Both Slytherins' ability to switch façades at the drop of the hat scared her—one minute they were joking with her, the next they were threatening to inflict her death. She couldn't be sure which was real, but if she had to guess, she gathered she was more at risk of dying of Avadra Kedavra than she was of laughter.
"Fancy some hunting?" asked Malfoy.
Hermione shrugged. She couldn't say she fancied hunting, but it had become a necessary habit to survive.
They walked away from the borders of their camp and ventured into the forest.
"Let's meet back here in an hour," stated Hermione before walking away. She didn't give him a chance to respond—and by the time she turned her head, he was already gone.
The forest had remained as thick as it had been the first day she walked into it. Back then, she couldn't possibly have guessed the events that were to come—she was determined to walk and reach North as fast as she possibly could, to escape her bleak future and never look back. Here she was, nearly two weeks later, and her motivations and circumstances had wholeheartedly changed. She had given up on peace and safekeeping for the chance to change the world that wanted to destroy her.
A light breeze flew between the branches, gently swaying them. The cold grew thicker, blacker, the light dimmer. And she heard it again.
The growl.
It seemed to emanate from every side, from every particle of soil, tree and animal. It skirted through the forest, following the breeze that had breached through the trees. Hermione felt her pulse quicken, her heart drop in her stomach and her throat close up. She was away from the wards—and she was alone. She was the one who had offered that they go their separate ways. If the time was now, this was all on her.
A familiar sensation spread through her bones, chilling her to her core. A breath of icy air trickled down her skin, forcing a chill up her spine—the air grew thicker, and Hermione felt her breath quicken.
"You are worthy prey." It was only a whisper, so faint it might as well have been an echo pouring from her petrified mind.
"Perhaps I won't make you a victim yet." The voice coiled around her, tightening its invisible grip on her neck.
"What to do… what to do…" It hummed and stirred for a second.
Hermione felt icicles grow on her lashes, obstructing her vision.
"We shall see."
As suddenly as it had come, the cold went away. The trees stood still, the soft breeze changing its course. The ice that had threatened to blind Hermione only seconds ago was now melting down her face, mingling with the tears she hadn't even realised she had shed. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, making sure all her limbs were still functional.
The shock was still coursing through her veins, incapacitating her otherwise brilliant mind—she was finding herself unable to process what had just happened. A brush with death, certainly, though those were becoming a regular occurrence in her life. This was the least of it—no, the shock was determined by something else entirely.
Something she had no ability to understand right now, she decided. There was prey waiting to be caught, food expecting to be eaten, companions eager for the results of a fruitful hunt. One she had only just made peace with—peace she needed to hold onto for the time being, if nothing else.
Hermione pulled out her wand and began tracking what seemed to be a well-fed rabbit. Its black fur shone bright against the white snow, making it easy to follow. She watched as it jumped over branches, its ears perked up in anticipation of a predator. It was too bad rabbits weren't accustomed to magic beings—it only took a second for Hermione to hex it to its death. As its lifeless body let its last bits of heat melt into the snow, she tucked her wand beneath her tunic, her eyes and ears still attentive to her surroundings.
The food chain did things well—the rabbit had fallen prey to her, and she had fallen prey to a larger entity, one created for the likes of her, by the likes of her. She could perhaps persuade herself she wasn't too far down the line, but reality told her otherwise. She had aligned herself with a predator to fight a monster. And, in the midst of it all, she preyed on the vulnerable. The very thought cycled through her mind as she picked up the rabbit, making her queasy.
She decided to end her hunt there and return to their rendezvous spot. Malfoy was already there, waiting for her, his left-hand gripping what seemed to be a deer's neck. She noticed Malfoy had dragged it along, rather than levitate it, if the track marks left by the deer's hooves were to be believed. This was the second time in a day he acted more Muggle-like than wizard-like—she filed the thought away in her mind for safekeeping, adding it to the list of odd behaviours Malfoy had exhibited up until then.
"We'll have enough meat to last us a while," quipped Hermione as she held up her trophy.
"Certainly more with my harvest than with yours." He looked bored.
Hermione stayed quiet. Explaining her failure would require retelling the events that had unfolded in the forest, a sure way of ending the deal they had struck that very morning. Unbreakable Vows were not all that iron-clad if one knew to look for loopholes—she felt it unnecessary to give her enemy a reason to do just that.
They quietly returned to the tent and noticed Nott was up and about, looking well-rested.
"Right on time. I've prepped the fire." All hostility was gone from his voice. His tone was neutral—gentle, perhaps. He looked down at their respective preys. "We'll have the rabbit tonight. Deer meat is easier to preserve." His voice left no room for negotiation.
"Fine," responded Hermione and Malfoy simultaneously.
They sat around the fire in silence while Nott sliced through the rabbit and meticulously cut it up in small bits of flesh. The blood flowing from the cadaver pooled around his feet, thick, sticky and burgundy.
"I had an idea…" she began. Neither man moved. "I think we should go back to London," she continued.
"Why is that?" asked Malfoy. He was busy stoking the fire, having shrunk and stowed away the deer's carcass seconds ago.
"I don't know what either of you are up to. But if I can help, I'm going to guess it involves some sort of magical ritual, for which you would need perhaps some ingredients… or some ancient script deciphered. Whatever it is, it'll be easier for me to do back in London." She paused for a second, gauging their reaction. They hadn't looked up to her yet, but she could tell they were listening. "I think it would be safer for me to be in a crowded area, and it would alleviate any suspicions of wrongdoing on your part if you returned and were seen in the capital. It just makes sense."
"If it was so safe for you, why did you leave?" Nott's knife picked at the rabbit's bones.
"The circumstances have changed. For all of us," insisted Hermione.
"I can't deny that's true." Malfoy poked his stick back into the fire, moving some coals around.
Hermione pursed her lips. They were stubbornly refusing to address most of the points she was making—this was frustrating, to say the least.
"Are you telling me you want to continue staying in remote forests, away from any sign of civilisation?"
"Of course not," stated Nott as he tossed pieces of meat in the fire. It sizzled before enveloping the flesh in its heat. "You are right that we should return to London."
Hermione sat there, dumbfounded. Everything about their demeanour indicated quite the opposite of what she had just been told.
"When should we leave?" asked Malfoy.
"Before noon tomorrow. I've already packed most of our belongings."
Hermione bit her tongue. She picked up a stick and played with the rabbit meat sizzling on the burning coals. It had lost its amaranth tint and steadily grown to a creamy white, its edges turning golden brown little by little. She poked her stick into one of the smaller pieces and stuffed it in her mouth to keep herself from unleashing her anger upon them.
She was only luggage. She was afforded neither the ability nor the credibility needed to make choices, to have a voice. There was no discussion to be had—if things happened the way she wanted them to, it was because the Slytherins had set their sights on the same objectives. Her input would not be valued, nor entertained—she needed to either find a way to overcome such an obstacle, or agree to their terms.
She would never agree.
They would bend to her will, one way or another.
Dinner was a silent affair. Hermione set up her own tent next to theirs, happy to sleep on a proper cot now that the bond between Malfoy and her was dissolved. Physically, that was. She tossed and turned for the first few hours, unsure of the path she needed to follow. Civil disobedience would probably get her the furthest—but it meant biding her time, keeping her emotions in check, controlling her temperament. The hunger, the fatigue and the anguish had eroded her capacity to work through her feelings in a productive way—she found herself lashing out at the worst of times. Odd bursts of violence, uncontrolled, unleashed subconsciously. Her duel with Nott had shown how broken her resolve was—a monster was within, feeding on her energy, preying on her vulnerabilities. How she would tame it, she could not know. She had slashed the Marauding Bandits to pieces without another thought—who knew what she would do next, what she could do next. If it hadn't been for Malfoy intervening, she would have killed Nott. She felt it in the pit of her stomach, in the trenches of her darkest impulses. Death had joined her as a friend, no longer wishing to be a foe in an everlasting losing battle. It had grasped at the straws of what remained of her sanity and made it its own. She wasn't sure she feared being its victim anymore—she feared becoming its vessel, its unwitting messenger.
A Peverell sister in the making. Not quite Master of Death—rather servant, as it were.
It certainly didn't bode well for her mission—unless she could find a way to twist those impulses into obedient acts, her end would come soon.
Sleep found her on these thoughts—intruding as they were, they had lulled her into a sense of comfort and peaceful understanding. Her dreams, erratic at first, showed her curly head sitting on top of the world, finally master of herself and her destiny.
By the time the clock had struck midnight, this sense of peace was gone. The cold filtered through her tent, slipping beneath her covers and crawling under her skin.
"Rest well, dear. We'll meet again soon." The voice, still a whisper, twisted itself into the corners of her mind, through the knots in her stomach, letting her know it was neither dream nor nightmare. It was a real threat. One she would come to understand to its full extent, one day.
London's streets were no longer bustling with energy, like they had been the summer Harry had defeated Voldemort. Hermione attributed it to the cold, the uncertainty, the Dementors roaming around. Neither Muggles nor wizards seemed eager to be out and about—not that she had seen much of the city in the first place since returning.
Malfoy had Side-Along Apparated with her ten days ago, and Nott had followed with their belongings. They had dragged her to a remote burg, the likes of which seemed only visited by seedy wizards with pockets full of foreign herbs. The dodgy house they were living in was down a little dirt path off the paved road. It resembled the Black's house in odd ways—though much smaller in size. Its walls were bare, tainted in charcoal. No candle stayed lit for more than a few minutes—Lumos was a fine alternative at times, but even its light dimmed after some time. The house had a personality of its own—it liked the dark. The silverware caught no reflection, no matter the time of day or the amount of sunlight pouring through the thin windows. The water was the colour of night—though it could safely be consumed. Light was simply absent.
Hermione was forbidden from ever leaving this pit of darkness. The wards prevented her from even trying. Nott and Malfoy were often gone for most of the day, only returning in the evening, their satchels full of strange plants, stranger liquids, and some food for dinner, sometimes breakfast. They never spoke a word—or, if they did, Hermione was not privy to their conversations. She had tried eavesdropping, throwing any number of spells, but she could never hear them talk. They left in the early hours of the morning, before the sun even scraped the horizon, and only returned when it had long gone. They would place their harvest on the table and expect Hermione to sift through it and make dinner, promptly.
She sometimes wondered if this was any better than her previous predicament. Her belly was full, her sleep undisturbed, and the house warm at all times—but she felt helpless, and lonelier than when she had truly been alone. Knowing she had two companions sitting within earshot of her refusing to even address her had started to weigh on her. The uncomfortable silence they forced upon her was eating at her vocal cords. At her very thoughts. She began longing for the voice, the whisper threatening to come for her.
It hadn't been back since her last night in the forest.
Perhaps it didn't know where to look for her—or, perhaps, it was waiting for the right moment to jump at her throat. The moment she would lose all her sanity, succumb to the darkness of the house. The moment there would be nothing left but an imprint of her.
On her tenth evening, Hermione attempted to make small talk with her hosts. Her voice sat strangely in her throat, ragged by the silence imposed on her.
"When do I start helping?" She felt it unnecessary to ask about their day or their activities—she now knew there was no point in seeking answers.
Both men looked at each other. A silent conversation happened right beneath her eyes, and she could make nothing of it.
Malfoy chose to speak first. He cleared his throat.
"It seems we won't need you after all, Granger. Keep making dinner. It's a woman's job, anyway." He interrupted her before she could even open her mouth. "Don't worry. I'm keeping my promise. As long as you're here, the Terror won't find you."
The monster rattled its chains in Hermione's gut, begging to let her unleash her most repulsive bits of magic upon them both. She kept it quiet by shoving food down her mouth—she felt the wards restraining her use of magic. There was no point in trying.
There was no point in responding.
She needed to escape.
This entire enterprise had been a fool's errand, from start to finish. She had wasted the one Vow Orpheus' string granted her on these Slytherin idiots. They were keeping her prisoner—there was no other way to see it.
Perhaps they had seen an opportunity. Perhaps they considered selling her out to Gaunt—after all, the deal was to keep her safe from the Terror. She had been too hasty when making the terms of the agreement. This was their loophole, and they would exploit it the minute it served their mission. The Cause. Whatever that meant.
That night, Hermione went to bed hungry. The chicken didn't sit right in her stomach—perhaps because she felt it useless in quelling the true hunger travelling through her bones.
She sat up on her bed for a while, trying to figure a way out of this mess. There was much to consider—the wards, of course, the location they were in, the next destination on her never-ending trip.
She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill from her knapsack. Thankfully, household spells were still usable by her—surely to encourage her to clean more around the house (something she had spitefully refused to do, and managed to avoid only through the sheer silence imposed on her). She turned the ink invisible, making it only readable to her, and went to work. She mapped out what she knew of the house, the burg, its borders. She listed the wards she had tested, those that had knocked her out, those that she knew she could break down if given more than a day alone. Her hand drew long equations, scribbled Arithmancy principles, illegible calculations. If she were to make it out of there, she needed three days—alone, uninterrupted, at her full capacity.
If she could count on the monster to help, then… maybe two.
Two was the best she could hope for. They knew not to let her out of their sight for too long—unfortunately.
She planned her trip—she would need to Apparate. Never mind the Terror, never mind Gaunt. They all knew her to be alive, they were seeking her out. There was no point in keeping herself hidden, in acting like a Muggle. She would make a few stops across the country, then head to France. Or Italy.
Or even Russia.
If she acted carefully, she could still kill off the Terror. If she found a way to make her escape entirely rest on Malfoy's shoulder, then it didn't matter if she died at the hands of the Terror. Malfoy would die too. Her life would be the price of her revenge.
There was nothing left for her to live for. Creevey's murder was a drop in the ocean of horror her people were living through. She was nothing more than bait—collateral damage in a war that never seemed to end. Her last act of rebellion would be killing two birds with one stone—a Pureblood heir and the creature made to protect the likes of him. She could only hope this would be enough to instigate a true revolution, one that would last for the ages, never giving up, never resting on the shoulders of a single leader.
Hermione only went to sleep once the sun breached the sky. She napped for a few hours in the morning, only getting up once her restlessness was too strong for her to stay unconscious any longer. As she had predicted, Nott and Malfoy were gone for the day, yet again.
She crept down the narrow staircase and walked into the living room. She avoided it most days—it was bare, and darker than the rest of the house. It contained only a pine dinner table, where they ate dinner every night, and the traces of a tapestry that seemed to have been long removed. Hermione set up her notes on the table and placed the items she still had in her possession—thankfully, neither Slytherin had had the foresight to take her knapsack away from her. The Bandits' items were safely tucked away, as were most of the belongings she had with her before. The only thing she was really missing was essence of dittany, but she gathered she might find some around the house. It was, in the moment, the least of her problems.
She got up from the table and let her fingers trace the stone walls. Every once in a while, she would direct her wand at a particular stone. It was intricate magic—some were imbued with ancient protective magic, others with recent spells. The stacked bricks revealed a pattern of magic that worked much like expert quilting. The pieces were layered together to create an even surface, an even protection. Malfoy hadn't lied when he had said she would be safe from the Terror—no amount of fabricated magic could force its entry, no matter the skill or the power. This was meant to be understood much like a poison—with an antidote to be constructed little by little, involving some guesswork here and some proficiency there.
The wards had been set up to prevent two things from happening: intruders coming in and her coming out. Hermione gathered that some of those cancelled themselves out if she used the proper spell work—if she could break those down first, she would be able to leave without breaking down anymore of the defences they had set up. It left her feeling optimistic—done right, this would be a day's work, at most. She could only guess which of the wards they had interlocked with the house's protective magic could be broken down—no amount of Arithmancy could help her out more than it already had. This meant relying on her instincts—she couldn't be sure such intricate patchwork would respond at all to her magic, especially when it had been restrained and bridled to this extent.
It had taken her a while to know what she could and couldn't do—as neither Malfoy nor Nott had cursed her upon her arrival. She only understood her predicament once she attempted to use an offensive charm on a particularly loud piece of porcelain—a cup. The spell had fizzled out right as it came out of her wand—she had broken the cup the Muggle way to get it to shut up. After that day, she tried using a variety of offensive and defensive spells—most fizzled out, never reaching their intended target. Hermione had tried being angry, but she only felt helpless. Thus, she hadn't said a word to those she now considered to be her captors. Revealing that knowledge only ensured they would trap her further, and that was inconceivable, unthinkable. It did leave her, however, with a shred of hope. If she hadn't been cursed, she had to assume the restraining charms were woven within the wards, which meant they could easily be broken down. Restricting another witch's magic was a difficult task—unless one forced it physically upon their intended target, the restraint was bound to be weak.
Hoping her instincts were right, Hermione stored away her parchment and quill. She'd start trying first thing in the morning—the sun was threatening to come down soon, and Nott and Malfoy were never too far behind. She went to stash her knapsack under her bed, hurried back down and attempted to pace her breathing. She had never been a great liar, and though she had much improved in the last few years, the insane loneliness of the past few days had softened her social skills. Neither of the Slytherins talked, but they were observant—if she was too jumpy, too avoidant, they might know something was amiss.
As she composed herself, she heard the door unlock. Surprisingly, she only spotted Nott.
He dropped his satchel on the kitchen table without further explanation. Hermione carefully opened it and spread its contents—there were no strange ingredients to be found this time around. Only vegetables for dinner—broccoli, cabbages and leaks. A small copper box sat neatly in the depths of the bag—she reached for it and opened it. Salt. Hermione could not help but smile—they'd had none for the past week, and their meals dearly missed it.
She lit a small fire on the small stove and placed their largest copper pot over it. She filled it with water and began thinly chopping the vegetables. Her restricted use of magic forced her to do it by hand, with a knife—she was especially thankful for it on this very night. It gave her something to focus on, something to remove her mind from the anguish of tomorrow's endeavours.
Once the water was boiling, bubbles bursting its surface, she poured into the pot what was left of the chicken broth she had made days earlier, three pinches of salt, and the chopped vegetables. As she stirred, the thick vapours poked at her shortest strands of hair, frizzing them. The comforting odour of the soup lulled her into a false sense of calm. She would get through the next day unscathed—the alternative was an option she was unwilling to consider. This meal would revitalise her and she would succeed.
She gently poked at the vegetables after a while—satisfied with their soft consistency, she removed the pot from the stove and poured generous servings in two wooden bowls. Nott was already sitting at the table in the living room, his eyes trailing the room. Hermione's back stiffened—had she forgotten something? Did he have an idea of what she was planning? No, it could not be.
She had been careful.
She was sure of it.
She kept her composure and set the bowls down on the table. Nott's gaze did not attempt to meet hers; she relaxed her shoulders and sat opposite him. There was no need to worry—the man would never be able to tell. He felt comfortable enough to come home alone—they thought her pliant, submissive, well-guarded.
No, there was no need to worry.
They ate their soup in silence. Hermione felt relief wash over her as the dinner progressed. Nott was unmistakably bored, indifferent to her. There was something odd about him, something she had not yet quite put her finger on. His fine, chiselled features breathed an air of aristocratic upbringing, resounding in knowledge that he was above all, that he belonged. And yet… the slight twist at the base of his nose, the dark shadow in the upper corner of his irises, the subtle stubble growing on his jaw told the story of a man who had known the violence of being under one's thumb, of being forced into submission. Hermione had first attributed it to their lives in the wood, on the run from Gaunt's henchmen and horrific creatures. But they had returned to London for nearly two weeks now—Malfoy had regained his royal posture, his blonde hair its silkiness. It was clear neither were being hunted down. Their living accommodations, while small and dark, provided more than enough comfort for daily upkeep. Hermione herself had finally scrubbed all the dirt and grime from her skin. Her hair, wild as ever in its nature, had regained a natural sense to its pattern and curls. Nott, on the other hand, looked more like a beggar—though he did not smell like one.
No, there was more to it.
Hermione raised her bowl to her lips and let the rest of the soup trail down her throat. There was no point in giving this trail of thought any more attention than she already had—by tomorrow at the same time, she would be gone, and Nott long forgotten. She needed to focus on her escape and let the Slytherins slip back into their den. Awakening them with a lion's roar had done nothing but create misery for her.
She waited for him to be done before throwing a quick scouring charm at both bowls and storing them back in the cabinet. Nott left the house again—the distinctive sound of the door being slammed told her as much. She retired into her room and pulled out the parchment with her calculations. There was still one thing she had to figure out—should the Terror hunt her down and kill her, she needed to find a way for the Vow to kill Malfoy. If she ran, of her own accord, he would not have broken his promise, and would therefore live to see another day. It would be a waste of an Unbreakable Vow.
Hermione pondered on the subject until she nodded off, her head softly swinging from side to side, her back hunched against her bed.
As she slipped into layers of dreams, her body losing its grip on what held it up, a sinking feeling reached her gut.
"Soon, I will have you."
Hermione woke up suddenly.
The room was empty, bar for her. The rasp had trickled down her spine, leaving in its trail a faint sense of cold—though nowhere near what she had experienced during their last encounter.
She placed her hands on both sides of her to steady herself when a realisation crashed upon her. She could not believe she hadn't made the connection before.
This was the Terror talking to her.
It couldn't be anything, or anyone, else.
She couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that it talked to her, or that It could spread the cold around It, much like a Dementor would. Every report she had read stated that the Terror was content simply devouring the souls It was latched onto, as soon as It met them. There was no game of cat and mouse, no negotiation, no patience. The Terror was no meant to produce fully-formed thoughts or speak to Its victims—it was very much the embodiment of an overpowered henchman.
So why would It speak to her, let her go when It had her within its reach? Better yet: how?
Hermione squeezed her legs tight against her chest, letting out a string of incoherent soliloquies and nursery rhymes her mother had sung to her when she was a child. Thick fog wrapped around her usually functional brain, abolishing entirely her ability to formulate a clear thought.
She was going to die. Either way, she was going to die.
The question that remained was not if, but when, and how. Would she leave her destiny between the hands of the two serpents entrapping her, or seek out one last attempt at freedom, even if it was short-lived?
Hermione rose from the floor and dusted herself off. If this was the end she was destined to meet, she might as well stay on the same track. Of the two choices she was left with, one had a determining factor: the uncertainty. She would never know when the serpents would betray her, not until the very last moment. She would lose any chance at an escape.
She picked up her knapsack, checked it one last time and went down to the kitchen. Nott's breathing disturbed the otherwise silent house, letting her know he was back from his excursion and likely unaware of what was to happen. Hermione hid her knapsack in one of the lower cabinets.
She felt the need for something strong and began digging through the kitchen. Neither Malfoy nor Nott cared for savoury foods, thus the constant lack of salt, but they were usually eager to bring back wine and sweets.
Hermione found what she needed in the last cabinet. She set some water to boil on the stove and added some honey to it, occasionally stirring. When it reached a syrupy consistency, she emptied one of the bottles of red wine she had found, a dash of cinnamon, and stirred further, until the flavoured vapour filled the room with its sickly-sweet scent. She poured the mulled wine into a cup slowly drank it to give herself strength. She still had to wait for Nott to leave.
The hours flew by. Hermione could not stand to let her thoughts invade her, so she drank. The heat had evaporated the alcohol, but after drinking the entire pot, Hermione certainly felt lighter and giddier. She could not remember the last time she had felt this light.
She heard some ruckus up the stairs. She rushed to clean her pot and cup, hiding the honey and empty bottle of wine in the process and opened a window to let the cold air hide any trace of what she had just done.
It didn't matter. Nott came down and left without even giving her a glance. She was invisible. Useless. Forgotten.
She had to leave.
Feeling a new resolve overtake her, Hermione picked up her knapsack and placed it on the table. She grabbed her wand and began tapping on individual stones, trying to feel those with conflicting wards, those that would break the chain keeping shackled to these old walls. She occasionally muttered Arithmancy equations to keep herself sane as she went through every stone keeping this house together. It was only by the time the sun had nearly reached the end of its trajectory that she found it. The weak spot.
She furiously began cursing at it, growing through every spell her mind could possibly think of. Some fizzled out, but most managed to go through and reach the stone. Gradually, she felt its resistance break, until the stone crumbled, leaving a hole in the wall.
Cautiously, Hermione poked her hand through it. Unlike her previous attempts, it did not encounter an invisible shield. She was free to leave.
She would escape.
Perhaps the Terror would find and kill her.
But she was free. And to Hell with Nott and Malfoy.
Noticing the daylight was nearly out, Hermione rushed to the kitchen and grabbed her knapsack. She fled to the entry way and flung open the entryway.
Only to be welcomed by one of her captors walking up the road. The one who hadn't returned from the previous night, who seemed tired and dirty and beaten down.
It would only take a split second for her to close the door, hide the bag and pretend like all was well. She could still save herself. She could.
But it was too late. He had looked up. He had seen her.
Hermione expected fury to be unleashed upon her, anger to destroy her, rage to wreck her body. Instead, she saw panic.
"Run back inside, Granger!" The look of urgency on his face convinced her. She ran to the kitchen, unsure of what to do next.
Malfoy ran up the path and slammed the door.
"What did you do, Granger?" he whispered.
"I was trying to escape!" she broke down. For the first time in years, Hermione cried.
Malfoy's eyes bulged out of his skull.
Without another word, he ran back up the stairs and rushed into her room. Hermione stayed still as she heard him repair the stone and the wards.
Anger slowly crept up her spine. She had managed to fail, and spectacularly at that. The panic in Malfoy's eyes had led her to believe she was in danger—when the only danger was the man up the stairs, ensuring her golden prison would be harder to break out of.
"We have to go. Now." Malfoy had come down the stairs, his hair dishevelled and horror disfiguring his aristocratic face.
"Why?"
"Because I can't repair the wards. And the Terror knows where you are. It's going to come and find you any minute now, once your scent reaches it." His voice was strained.
"How would you even know that?" Hermione's anger pulsed through her veins.
Malfoy raised his eyes back up, meeting hers. A storm was brewing in them. "Because Gaunt told me. He tasked me to help It find you."
End of Act I