This chapter contains two scenes with graphic violence.

CHAPTER 6. WHISPERS OF HOPE

"It was you… that night, when the Black house burned down… it was you I saw," whispered Hermione, still struck by the memory of that fateful evening.

"Granger, I'll explain, but please, we have to go. Now," urged her Malfoy, holding out his hand.

Hermione backed away. "What could possibly make you think that I'd go anywhere with you? You murdered my friends and companions, and you just admitted to working for the man who's trying to kill me. I have no reason to trust or believe you," she hissed, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her wand harder.

"If I were the enemy, why would I be trying to protect you? Come on, Granger, I made an Unbreakable Vow! I certainly do not intend on disrespecting it!" Malfoy's brows were furrowed, his face twisting into what Hermione could only guess was frustration. She could see the veins of his temples pulsing, his emotions threatening to burst out and knock her down.

Yet, she felt the treason of hesitance overwhelm her. If she was so intent on leaving, she would already have Disapparated. A whisper in the back of her mind told her to trust him, to hear him out.

"Fine," she muttered, bewildered to yield so easily. It had come out of her before she had formulated the thought that motivated it. Fear, perhaps.

Malfoy grabbed her hand and they Disapparated to another location. Hermione distantly heard the waves crashing against the cliffs, the whisper of the wind, the seagulls squeaking. She noticed they were standing on the front porch of a colossal mansion. Beside her, Malfoy had raised his wand and was whispering a series of enchantments, no doubt to let her enter the premises. She raised her head and noticed vines had overtaken the walls—this home had been abandoned. It seemed odd—its every fragment breathed wealth and aristocracy. Tall white columns, a series of statues, red bricks, intricate window patterns—she had never seen something quite like it before.

"Let's go," Malfoy ushered her in. He seemed to resist grabbing her by the arm, and she wanted to resist complying.

Nevertheless, she walked in.

The foyer was covered in dust, its once grandiose marble floors now grey and forgotten. The furniture, she guessed, was once emerald green, made of the most luxurious velvet—or silk, perhaps? There was no way to tell anymore. Above her, the ceiling was covered in an exquisite painting—Orpheus crying over Eurydice's loss after failing to extract her from Hades' clutches.

"Michelangelo painted that for my parents," commented Malfoy, shrugging.

Hermione snapped back to reality. "You took me to a place owned by your family, and you still hope I'll trust you?"

"I'm not asking you to trust me, Granger. Just to listen," he replied impatiently.

"Fine. I'm listening." She had turned to face him and crossed her arms.

Malfoy rubbed his hand across his forehead, sighing. "Let's go sit somewhere."

She followed him nervously to the back of the house, letting her eyes wander about in case she needed to escape. He led her to the adjoining room. Her eyes trailed him as he sat on a bergère. He kept his head down—though he seemed neither mournful nor ashamed. Rather, Hermione felt he was gathering his thoughts, weaving the story he was going to tell her, putting the pieces of the past together. She sat on the bergère opposite him, silently begging for her memories to have betrayed her, for a misunderstanding to be in order. She had made an Unbreakable Vow with this man—her destiny rested with him, whether she liked it or not. She needed to believe she was not being betrayed, prepared to be served roasted with an apple in her mouth to the man who sought her out and wanted her dead.

"Look, Granger," sighed Malfoy. He raised his eyes to meet hers. The intensity she saw there made her uncomfortable and she moved to the edge of the seat. "I did not take part in the murder of your friends," he stated simply. "I admit I was tasked to find them. And I did, that day you saw me in Grimmauld Square and attempted to track me down. But I didn't offer up that information to Gaunt." He paused. "Now, I don't want you to believe I cared for them, because we both know this would be a lie." The corners of his mouth twisted strangely, and he let out a bitter laugh. "The reason I did not turn the Order of the Phoenix in is because I owed Potter a debt. The price of that debt was steep, steep enough that it would have taken me a lifetime to pay it back. So I tracked down the Order, as I was commanded to do, to help steer my comrades in another direction. To protect Potter and his friends, in an effort to pay him back. I have to believe my efforts weren't enough, and that someone else found them—but who that is, I can't say. I wish I knew." He straightened his back and placed his hands on the armrests, his gaze still firmly on Hermione.

"Harry would have told me if you owed him a debt," she responded. The fear of what was to come was lodged in her throat, impeding her from making a rash move.

"Not if that debt involved sacrificing you." Malfoy's words hit her like thunder.

"You have to be lying," she spat. She grabbed her knapsack and stood up.

"Please just listen, Granger." The begging in his voice wasn't for her benefit—it was for his. Yet, it compelled her to stay.

"It was in August, three years ago." The month she had ended things with Ron. "There was a skirmish, in the northern parts of the forest of Dean. Potter, Weasley and their brave little soldiers had us surrounded. I'm not even sure how it happened…" he pondered. "I was expecting a battle to the death, but Potter called it off. He said there was no use in more death, more loss, even amongst enemies. Weasley argued with him, and we just witnessed—they had managed to freeze us all, which I can't say I'm proud of." He let out a bitter laugh and turned his head away from her. "I was surprised, really, to see so many Purebloods fighting alongside them. It seems that this factor alone helped in fending us off, looking back on it. The shock of familiar faces, duelling against us for the rights of people they despised just as much as we did. It turns out we have you to thank for that—it's what Weasley said, I believe. That you hadn't sullied yourself, gathering foes to turn them into allies, for Potter to go soft and avoid killing us, right when he held us hostage." He paused, turning to face her again, his fingers digging into the armrests. "It was surreal, to say the least. I'd never taken Weasley to be a bloodthirsty warrior, ruthless until the very end. And you, going head-to-head with Purebloods, managing to secure their alliance, to have them fight by your side, that of Mudbloods, it really did take me for a turn. Potter being soft of heart and blinded by his ideals, I can't say I was shocked by. It was the only thing that made sense in this entire debacle." Hermione sat there, still frozen. She was waiting for the moment she'd hear Harry selling her out, though she still couldn't believe it to be true.

Malfoy took a sharp breath. "But I digress. As we stood there, listening to them bicker like an old couple, Potter said something strange to Weasley. Something I couldn't quite grasp at the time. He said, if my memory serves me right: "Killing them would prove her right. It would justify going to these councils, seeking the alliance of her own worst enemies, betraying the Order. If you want Hermione to be lost to us forever, go ahead. Kill them all. But know this—if you do, I will ensure she meets her end." That's when Weasley backed down."

Hermione had paled considerably. Her hands felt clammy, cold and moist to the touch. "I don't believe you," she breathed out, her voice shaky and low enough that she wondered whether he had heard her at all.

"Then, by all means, don't. It doesn't matter to me, Granger. What matters is that I made a Vow that I cannot break, and I need you to give me a chance to uphold my end of the bargain. It was wrong of us to think locking you up was the best way to ensure your protection—the Terror was getting close, and we believed we made the right choice. I understand that it was idiotic and poorly thought-out—but I never intended to harm you," he concluded.

Hermione's head was swirling with contradicting thoughts. Questions popped up in random order, drowning her in details she hadn't yet thought of.

"Did you make the Vow to pay off your debt?" she asked quietly, her shoulders slumped in defeat. All manner of sense and logic had been lost to her. The exhaustion ran through her like acidic poison, gnawing at her.

"I might," responded Malfoy.

Hermione raised her head. "I need to rest," she declared. "If I'm going to be a prisoner again, I hope it's not going to be in another dark house, deprived of light and conversation." The bitter edge in her voice seemed to shake Malfoy.

"I'm not going to lock you up, Granger. I do not repeat my mistakes. You'll be free to come and go—on my terms, of course." The irony of that statement did not seem to faze him.

"Is Nott aware that we left?" she asked, waving away his promise like it meant nothing to her.

"He is," he responded, giving her no indication as to how that could possibly have happened. "He's not far behind," he added as he stood up. "Let me show you your room."

Hermione followed suit, barely holding on to her belongings. A wave of fatigue and despair had washed over her, leaving her drained and wrung out. She still wasn't sure whether she believed Malfoy—something this important would have had to make its way back to her, wouldn't it? If not through her most trusted friends, at the very least through some of the other soldiers who had been there, who had witnessed the scene. Through the chatter and the gossip, the fluttering moments of normalcy. The only reason to believe otherwise was to admit she had been made to be the fool of the Order. The thought did more than wreck her—it broke her heart. Everything she had invested in the Order had just been shattered to pieces. She had been played, used and abused. If Ron had been under the influence of the Noxious poison at that time, she would already have died at Harry's hands.

It was hard for her to understand how someone who only talked of pure ideals could have threatened one of his closest friends in order to save his worst enemies. She knew, of course, that Harry regarded her contributions as useless at best, harmful at worst. She understood the ethical terrain she had ventured on was highly disputed, often despised, and usually disregarded—but she had hoped that it was understood. That the reasons for which she had made such a choice were clear and accepted for what they were. It appeared that, after all, she had been wrong, all along, on everything. Everything she had accepted as fact, whether it was Harry's position on her endeavours or Malfoy's reason for agreeing to make a deal with her in the first place, was an illusion. A lie.

And now that she was alone and dependent on two men who seemed just as hellbent on hating her kind today as they were yesterday, she felt the weight of that realisation push her into the ground. Her hopes had been dashed. Hades was waiting, expecting her with open arms, looking for another Eurydice to welcome betwixt his claws, one who had no Orpheus to drag her out, even unsuccessfully.

The room Malfoy introduced her to was unexpectedly free of dust and vines. It looked like it had been cleaned mere hours ago, though Hermione could not guess by who. She filed that mystery away, as she had many others, refusing to dig deeper.

"I think you'll be satisfied to find that this room receives plenty of sunlight. It's facing South," commented Malfoy dryly as he stood sternly by the door.

Hermione nodded, making a beeline for the bed. She sat on its edge, waiting for him to leave. He stood there, silent and rigid as ever. He seemed… uncomfortable, which was an emotion that she found did not suit him.

"Why is Nott even agreeing to partake in all this? He's got no debt to pay, nothing to be redeemed from," she said, unsure of why she even bothered mentioning it.

"You should get some sleep, Granger. I'm sure breaking out of that heavily enchanted house was no picnic. I'll come by later." He walked away, leaving the door ajar.

Hermione remained seated on the bed, staring at the door. If she fell asleep, she was vulnerable to all manners of things. External attacks were a possibility, but what her dreams might bring her scared her more. She knew Harry might pop in for a visit, and the very idea filled her with dread.

Nevertheless, as the minutes ticked by, her eyelids grew heavier and, soon, she fell prey to Morpheus' grip, her body plummeting back on the bed, her hair sprawled around her face. As slumber overtook her, so did the dreams she feared would make an appearance.

Harry, dressed in black robes from head to toe, was first. He sat next to her, on the bed, his green eyes trailing her movements with attention.

"I didn't mean it, Hermione. You have to know I never meant it."

She squirmed, attempting to turn away from his gaze, but her body stood still, paralysed.

"You said so yourself. The ends justify the means. It worked, didn't it? They were alive. They owed me a debt. Ron was ruthless, you knew that. With ever battle, every skirmish, he became less human, more consumed with the desire for victory. You left him for that very reason. You couldn't bear him anymore. You have to understand, Hermione. I'm begging you," whispered Harry, still hunched over her, his dark robes enveloping Hermione.

She tried to wrestle away, muttering a chain of no's, unable to tear herself away from his presence.

"It's my hope that you will understand, one day. Maybe you'll forgive me."

He slowly disappeared into the light, the memory of him still imprinted on Hermione's thoughts. She tried to beg for it to come to an end, but the torture endured.

Ron came next. His bright red hair was covered in dried blood. A large scar crossed his face, leaving his left eye white—the scar he had sustained during his last battle.

"This is all your fault, Hermione. If you hadn't left me, I wouldn't have chased you away, I wouldn't have turned into a monster. I wouldn't have ingested poison to forget the pain, to be more efficient in battle. You're responsible for this."

He leaned over her. His hand gently touched her cheek, her forehead, caressing her adoringly, just like when they had first begun exploring each other. It continued its way up, soon reaching her hairline and slipping through her hair.

She took a sharp breath, hoping the nightmare would become a dream.

It didn't.

His fingers tangled themselves in her hair, tugging at it. She took a sharp breath but remained immobilised. "Feel my anger, Hermione. Feel my pain. You're the reason we died. All those meetings you went to, all those councils you attended. Someone trailed you. Someone betrayed us. You caused our deaths. If you had kept within your rank, if you had been loyal to the Order, to its mission, we would still be alive, fighting alongside you. You're deserving of this punishment. Alone with two Slytherins who could betray you at any point—this is the price you have to pay for what you did." Towering above her, he tugged harder on her hair, forcing his emotions on her, waiting for her to cry.

"I'm so sorry, Ron," she quietly sobbed. "It's all my fault, it's all my fault. I'm the one who should have burned."

"Yes, you should have burned."

He pulled harder on her hair, and Hermione let out a cry of pain.

"I will make you bleed. I will make you suffer. A small price to pay for my life. The life I lost to your stupidity, to your rashness, to your ill-planned strategic thinking."

Ron's fingers twirled and twisted, jerking Hermione's head back. Slowly, she began feeling her scalp being teared away from her skull. Warm blood trickled down her hair, on Ron's hands, into the silk sheets. The pain reverberated through her, disseminating inch by inch through her, working its way in her nerves. She tried to resist it and flailed about, but he held her with an iron fist. Her skin was on fire. There was blood everywhere—so much blood.

She felt herself dissolve, disintegrating into the callused fingers of her former lover, her former friend. Her bones itched and ached as the air breezed over them, the blood gushing at growing speed.

"P… please stop… R… Ron," silently begged Hermione, tears of pain and regret flowing down her face, sometimes blending with the blood and further soaking the once pristine bed sheets.

"You think this is pain, Hermione? Do you think this is the worst I can inflict upon you? Stop begging. You disgust me." His hand pulled away, a handful of Hermione's hair still tangled between his fingers. "You're not worth saving. I should have let Harry kill you. I would still be alive if I had. I would still be fighting." He spat on her face and she felt his saliva trickle between her lips. It tasted foul—death in a bottle.

"Do you know what pain is? It's burning alive, it's poisonous fire eating into your skin, your flesh, your bones. It's feeling that heat melt you into a puddle of nothing, triggering every sense in your body, destroying all of you until there's nothing left but ash and blood and despair. It's the void of death descending your throat because you were betrayed by a friend. Someone you loved." He slapped her.

"I hate you, Hermione Granger."

The words spiralled. "Granger, Granger, Granger," an endless litany, a chain slowly constricting her throat and leaving her gasping for air.

"GRANGER!"

Hermione woke with a start. Ron wasn't there. It had all been a dream.

Malfoy stood above her, his face twitching and his eyes rapidly moving all over her, as if scanning for an injury.

"What the Hell, Granger? You were screaming, I thought you were being killed," he uttered in complete dismay.

"It was nothing. Just a dream," she responded. She felt the salt of her tears reach her tongue as she talked—those had been real, then. If those had been real…

Malfoy regained his composure and cleared his throat. "Well, then, if it was all just a dream… I have somewhere to be. Please don't die while I'm gone." He turned away, like it had meant nothing, and walked out of the room.

Hermione sat there, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to dissipate entirely. Once she was sure he was gone, she brought her hand to her skull, searching through her hair. There, she felt it—a small blister, one she knew she didn't have before coming here. It was nowhere near as gruesome as it had been in her dream. Nevertheless, when she removed her hand, she noticed a drop of blood on her finger. It was burgundy.

She watched as it dried, unable to form any coherent thoughts on the matter.

Only by nightfall did she realise she hadn't moved. She had remained staring at her sullied finger, empty-minded, recluse in a void of her own making, one where she couldn't be reached, where thoughts couldn't pass the threshold. Her world had been flipped upside-down in less than a day, leaving her behind, with nothing to hang onto.

A knock at the door.

"Granger?"

It was Nott.

"Draco won't be back in time for dinner. Care to join me?" he asked, though it seemed like he could not have cared less about her answer.

Hermione silently nodded and followed him down the stairs. While she had nestled in her room, the mansion had been cleaned spotless, leaving no trace of its abandonment. The emerald furniture shone brightly in the candlelight and the marble floors reflected the intricate ceiling paintings. Eurydice stared at her through the reflection and Hermione shivered. She hurried her step and joined Nott in the dining room, where a full five-course meal had been placed. A roasted pig sat in the middle, a red apple in its mouth, its skin glazed and golden. The sight should have been mouth-watering—but all it did was make Hermione's stomach churn and ache with nausea. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she forced it down her throat, refusing to showcase any sign of witness.

"Ladies first," commented Nott dryly as he pulled out her chair.

This sudden change in attitude gave Hermione the chills—she knew it was not the fruit of appreciation. He had not taken a sudden liking to her.

He was performing. The only question that remained was why.

She placed her napkin on her knees, as her parents had taught her to do on the rare occasions they were invited for dinner at the baron's table—usually after they had cured him and his wife, which happened every so often. The bowl in front of her was filled to the brim with a thick soup—leek and carrots.

"How did you know to find us here?" she asked, refusing to let go of the nagging feeling that something murky was afoot.

"Draco knows to alert me," simply responded Nott, plunging his spoon in the soup.

He paid her no mind for the rest of the dinner. He did not seem to care that she had broken out of the fortress he and Malfoy had conceived for her. He did not seem to care that she was sitting here, untouched and unharmed. Whether he knew the details of the afternoon or whether he simply did could not find it in him to care, Hermione could only guess. She was a prisoner in every sense of the term.

No one would tell her a word.

She was back to square one. Lost, dazed, confused. The forgotten toy at the bottom of the chest. Occasionally taken out to play, for a brief moment, only to be tossed again, forced to wait without ever knowing if she'd come out again.

You'll be free to come and go—on my terms, of course.

Hermione excused herself and left in a hurry. The thought of staying longer in that stuffy dining room made her heard swirl. She ran back up to her room and hid beneath the sheets.

A knock.

"We should talk, Granger."

Hermione pulled the duvet cover off her, her hair rendered frizzy and wild by the sudden friction.

"What about?" she asked, trying to regain her dignity as she propped herself up.

"I believe you offered your help in exchange for Draco's protection. I think it's time we let you in on our endeavours," stated Nott. He seemed to notice the eagerness contorting her face, because he continued: "Let me stop you right there, there is much you'll never know. Our mission is too precarious to have you risk it. But it seems we have reached a crossroads of sorts, and we… well, Draco believes you might prove yourself useful. I still highly doubt that, of course, but…" he stiffened, rubbing his nose. "We might has well try."

Hermione stared at him blankly. This could be a token of appreciation as much as it could be the poison that would end her. She had no time to calculate her next move, to plan out what was to happen next.

"F… fine," she heard herself say. Perhaps attempting to be two steps ahead had forced her to stay three steps behind. It was time to reconsider her approach. "When should we start?"

"Tomorrow. Draco will be away for the next few days. I have some affairs to get in order, but I should be able to make time in the morning. Please be in the dining room at dusk." His hand gripped the door handle and he stood there for a minute, staring at her. He hesitated for a moment, nearly breaking the silence.

Then, he turned away, closing the door as he went.

He turned back, only for a moment.

"Don't be late."

The door shut behind him and Hermione shivered. She slithered back under the covers and let her body drift away to lands she could only hope would be less hostile, this time around.

The air around her grew colder and she shivered in her sleep.

"Don't worry, Hermione, I'll keep you warm," Ron whispered as he slid beneath the covers, enveloping her.

"No, no, no…" she mumbled, wrestling against him. He tightened his grip around her.

"It's alright, my love, I'm here to hold you. Don't fight back." His hand cupped her cheek, and he lay there. For a moment, peace was restored, and Hermione felt her lungs expand in her chest.

"Not so fast, now. We're not done yet," he purred, sliding his head in the crook of her neck. "There's still so much to do, and so little time."

And, on those words, he bit her ear. Hermione moaned, entangled in the memories of the brief moments they stole away from the Order, the laughs in the cupboard as he pressed himself against her in a hurry to take her.

"Ron, stop," she mumbled as she felt his teeth sink harder and deeper in her flesh.

He did not listen.

Instead, he bit her harder, letting blood ooze out of her broken skin. Hermione winced and tried to move away, but he did not budge. Instead, he bit harder. Until he bit off her lobe. Hermione cried out, letting a litany of words spill out of her mouth. Please, Ron, stop, no, don't hurt me, I loved you, how could you hurt me. The daze of her pain forced her muscles to contract, to push him out and away, but he held tighter, constricting her in a deadly embrace. He spit out her lobe and laughed as he felt her resist.

"You will never escape me, Hermione. Never. Do you know why?"

She looked up to him, her eyes blurry with tears.

"Because I'm not dead. I've been looking for you. And now that I've found you, I'm never letting you go. For every move you make, I will hurt you. You've become a Slytherin's whore, and I will make you pay for that. For that, and for killing Harry. You will never again know rest or respite, my sweet. I'll always be there, tailing you, finding you, and hurting you. Until you've suffered as much as you've made us suffer." He squeezed her harder, and Hermione felt like her eyes were about to pop out of her head. Her breathing slowed down, until there was no air left in her lungs. She began heaving and gasping heavily, trying to fight the asphyxiation, but Ron was too strong.

"See you in death, my sweet," he whispered.

And he disappeared.

Hermione woke from the nightmare, still finding it hard to breathe. She inhaled large gulps of air, her body aching for more. She could have swallowed the room whole in search for oxygen.

Frightful, she touched her lobe—she felt a distinct mark there. Teeth. Ron's teeth.

This was impossible. He couldn't be alive. The words he spoke to her were unlike anything she had heard him say—the tone, the missing trail at the end of his words, it was all wrong. It had to be self-inflicted pain. The nightmares were so vivid, so real, they could only be the result of her guilt snaking in and taking her over.

Simply put, she was losing her mind.

Knowing it was useless to attempt to get anymore sleep, Hermione flew down the stairs, hoping to find the kitchen. She grabbed a nearby candleholder and walked haphazardly from room to room, staring blankly at every turn. If she couldn't discern a copper pot, she left and explored more.

She forgot about her current endeavour entirely when she walked into the fifth room. The walls were lined with portraits draped in large white sheets. Enthralled and entirely too exhausted to think things through, Hermione pulled away the first sheet, only to be welcomed by the dutiful eyes of Narcissa Malfoy.

"It's rude uncover me in such manner, Ms. Granger," she scoffed.

"Sorry, I… I don't know what I'm doing," replied Hermione, letting go of the sheet. "Why are you here? Are you dead?" she asked suddenly.

"I see manners are not taught in Muggle villages," sneered Narcissa. "How rude to remind me of my death! And at such an hour, might I add."

Hermione bit her lip. "I apologise. I'm just so… surprised. Malf… I mean Draco never mentioned you died," she explained.

"I don't see why he would tell you. I don't recall you two being the best of friends." Narcissa's eyes betrayed her—she seemed hurt to be unacknowledged, forgotten by her own son.

"We're certainly no friends, but we are working together," stated Hermione.

"Well, there's an unexpected development." The sarcasm dripping through her words told Hermione that there was something the Malfoy matriarch knew—something she was hiding.

"Did you—"

"No more questions, dear girl. I'm woefully tired and would enjoy spending the few remaining hours of the night in silence. Please make sure you cover my portrait before you go."

Hermione knew not to push. She had many nights ahead of her to come back and ask more questions, to gather any and all information that she could heard over Malfoy. This was perhaps the most hopeful development she had happened upon in her recent array of pain and misery.

She gently levitated the sheet over the portrait, tucked her wand back beneath her tunic and returned to the corridors, still very much settled on finding the kitchen and making herself some mulled wine. She filed away what she had learned about Narcissa Malfoy, and kept walking, going from room to room, until she finally spotted the kitchen.

She was surprised to see it was fully stocked. Unlike the hideaway where she was forced to make-do with whatever ingredients Malfoy and Nott brought back, she found herself faced with a diversity of choice, from fresh-baked bread to thoroughly cooked stews. The pantry was overflowing with ingredients, and the cold chamber was even comprised of exotic meats and summer fruits and vegetables. This didn't answer who had managed to prepare and serve them a five-course meal for dinner, as she hardly believed Nott to be capable or willing to spend this much time in the kitchen, but it did help her make sense of some things.

She scoured the wine bottles stashed in the pantry and picked one at random. She also chose an orange from the cold chamber and picked up some spices from the pantry. She lit a fire under a copper pan and emptied the wine bottle in there, gradually adding star anises, cloves and cinnamon sticks in the mix. Flavoured steam quickly filled the room, making Hermione light-headed. She lowered the fire and waited for it to boil, preparing a glass to pour it in.

"Up at this hour, Granger? We're not supposed to meet until dusk," Nott walked in, holding a pipe in his hand.

"Can't sleep," she muttered. Bubbles began bursting through the surface. "Mulled wine?" she asked distractedly as she poured herself some.

"Sure," shrugged Nott.

Hermione took another glass and filled it with the remaining wine. She handed it to him, careful to avoid his gaze. There was something secretive about him—something that raised the hairs on the back of her head.

"You don't seem too upset with me for destroying that hideaway and revealing my location to the Terror," she mused, raising the glass to her lips.

Nott waved her off. "I told Malfoy you'd find a way out. I didn't know when, but I knew it would happen either way."

"So why let him imprison me?"

"I'm not the one who Vowed himself to protect you, Granger. If the Terror had found you after your little escapade, it would have changed nothing for me. In fact, it would have made my life easier." His smile was crooked, eerie. Hermione shivered.

"And yet, here you are, drinking mulled wine with the Mudblood. How odd."

"Don't push my buttons, or one might just fly off and hit you in the head." The threat sounded light-hearted, nearly comical, but Hermione knew he meant something far more atrocious by it.

She quietly sipped on her wine, staring into the void.

"Who made dinner?" She had been so deprived of conversation in the past few weeks that she found it impossible to keep her mouth shut.

"Draco had his house elf come from Malfoy Manor to this place after you escaped."

She didn't respond. Voicing her disagreement with the use of a house elf would only dig her further into the hole Nott seemed eager to bury her in.

"At least we're not using a Mudblood slave!" snickered Nott, his eyes burning holes through her. Yet again, she remained quiet. He was hoping to get a rise out of her—her survival was dependent on her not acknowledging him.

"Come on, now Granger, lighten up!" He seemed angry now.

"I was a slave, once," she responded, recalling the memory of her days in Goyle Manor. "It was for the Goyles. You might remember them." She was now facing him, the ghost of a smile barely showing on her face. "I stayed there for a year, in fact. Do you think me so fragile that your little quip would make me angry, or sad, or upset? Try sleeping in a dungeon handcuffed to a wall." Nott's face didn't betray any emotions. She kept going. "It's death for your arms, honestly. The muscles never get a rest. But I can't say it's any good for the skin, either… that dungeon was wet, dirty, dark. Lonely. In the winter, they gave me straw to sleep on. "Wouldn't want you to catch your death," was what Richard Goyle said."

"Why wouldn't they want you dead?" Nott was fishing for information. Hermione laughed.

"Knowledge is precious, Nott. Do you know why? Not because of its ethical ramifications and the world it opens up to you, well… not only. It's precious because some would empty their Gringotts' safe for even just a little bit of it. If you want my secrets, you'll need to give me yours."

Nott shot her an eerie look. He remained quiet, sipping some more on his wine. "You're less naïve than I took you for," he quipped. "You might just be slightly less annoying than I anticipated."

She shrugged. She placed her empty glass on the counter and scratched the nape of her neck. "Have a good night."

"Wait!" She turned back and noticed he held a stack of parchments in his hands. He handed them to her. "Please work on those and get back to me."

She grabbed the parchments without a word and turned away, stepping out to return to her room. This night had proven to be fruitful, after all.

The days at the house whittled away, slowly chipping at Hermione's patience. She'd visited Narcissa Malfoy's portrait every night since discovering it, sometimes in a fruitless attempt to learn more about her death, or about Draco. More often than not, she simply enjoyed having someone to converse with. Despite her upbringing, despite the family she married into, Narcissa Malfoy did not seem too repulsed by Hermione or by the alliance she had struck with her only son.

"You're… strange, Ms. Granger," she had once said to Hermione, her gaze lost in the vast portrait room.

"How so?" Hermione had asked, hunched over a piece of parchment, trying to figure out one of the equations Nott had given her.

"Well, you're very resilient. I've never seen someone of your species withstand such adversity, such pain."

By that point, Hermione had come to understand that, unlike many of her standing, Narcissa was not filled with hatred for Muggleborns. Rather, there was a sense of ignorance, or curiosity, emanating from her. She was prejudiced, of course, but Hermione had not expected this prejudice to be borne of ignorance more than of hatred.

"Resilience is not a matter of blood status," she had responded absentmindedly, scribbling in the corner of her parchment.

"Please cover my portrait again," Narcissa had promptly ordered.

The matriarch of the Malfoy family, as it turned out, was easy to offend. She took a slight edge in the tone as an attack to her pride and would then demand the conversation end. Hermione found it amusing—though she never let it show.

On nights when she wasn't preoccupied with Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione sorted out the equations Nott had given her. Since that encounter, he had refused to give her anymore instructions or clues as to how or why that work even mattered.

She had wandered around the mansion for a few days, looking for a library. It had been hard for her to track it down, because she had soon come to understand that none of the rooms were ever in the same place for more than twenty-four hours. They shifted every night, at midnight on the dot. Hermione had had to keep track of the placement of every single room for an entire week in order to figure its pattern and ensure she'd never get lost again.

The only room that never moved was the portrait room.

The library, while small upon first impression, nearly rivalled with Hogwarts' own. And the Malfoys, pretentious aristocrats that they were, had an entire shelf dedicated to Arithmancy. Hermione had taken every one of these books and transported them to her room. The equations Nott had given her weren't just difficult—they were incomplete.

Malfoy still hadn't returned. Every time Hermione asked Nott about his whereabouts, he would simply ask why she was enslaved and not killed. After the third time, she had given up. Brevity was the soul of the wit, after all, and she was growing irritated with him.

Surprisingly, he did not seem to resent her anymore. He conversed with her at dinnertime, even occasionally taking an interest in her life prior to Hogwarts. Malfoy had taken her complaints about their previous living quarters to heart and proceeded to get Nott to accommodate them, it seemed. No more darkness, no more silence, no more playing the maid. Hermione could not say she was thankful—she was annoyed. The only true difference she could make out between her two prisons was that one was pitch black and the other glittering. Stripped down to their bare components, they remained the same.

She could not leave.

Not that she had tried, this time. Not yet, anyway. The nightmares, while gone, were not forgotten—and the reality that they depicted was not one Hermione was ready to be confronted with.

That evening, Malfoy finally returned, looking stern as ever. He barged into the dining room as Nott and Hermione were finishing up their meal, his eyes brewing a storm.

"The Terror is going rogue," he declared as he slumped down on the bergère in the corner.

"What do you mean, rogue?" Nott's eyebrows were knitted together, and his voice sounded concerned.

"It's killing off random Muggleborns, not abiding by the list. Gaunt is furious."

"How is that possible?" Hermione's eyes had widened with horror.

"I have no clue. I'm lucky to even know this much—I had to claw it out of an undersecretary, down at the Ministry. I think Gaunt is still suspicious of me," he sighed.

Nott shot him a warning look, but it was too late.

"Still? Since when has he been suspicious of you?" Hermione was on the edge of her seat.

Malfoy and Nott exchanged looks. A silent conversation in the making, one of the many they had in Hermione's presence. She patiently waited, toying with what remained of her food. After a moment had passed, she saw Nott nod and turned her attention back to Malfoy.

"Since my mother died," he simply said.

Hermione opened her mouth and shut it just as fast. She knew she wouldn't be getting any answers on the why, or the how… not from either of them, anyway. Somewhere in this mansion, however, was someone who could answer her questions. Who just might. It was only a question of finding the right words.

"If the Terror has gone rogue, what does it mean for me?" she chose to ask instead.

She noted the surprised expression on both Nott and Malfoy's faces—they expected more arguing from her.

"Well," began Malfoy, "I can't be sure. Perhaps It's lashing out because It can't find you," he suggested.

"It didn't find Colin, and yet…"

"Isn't Creevey dead?" intervened Nott.

"I didn't say he's alive. I said the Terror didn't find him," she quipped.

Nott slammed his hand on the table, making the dishes shake. "Whatever the Hell does that mean?"

"I've already told you, Nott. I'm not letting any secrets, unless you choose to pay the price. For every one of my secrets, I want one of yours." She waved him off, as if he were an irritating fly buzzing around her head.

"I'm sorry, am I bothering you? Should I leave you two alone to conspire behind my back?" Malfoy's veins were threatening to explode.

"Didn't you know, Draco? We're putting our lives on the line for this ungrateful little wench, and she's blackmailing us," uttered Nott.

"Insults won't change my mind." Hermione's serenity only seemed to further anger her two companions.

"Will someone please explain to—"

"You insufferable little pest, I knew—"

Their shouts pierced Hermione's ears and she felt the familiar heat of rage pool in her guts. It burst out of her before they could finish.

"Enough!" she yelled. The tension built in her mind over the past few weeks had suddenly been unleashed, channelled through that one word.

She ran out of the dining room, distraught and exhausted. She locked the door to her room and slid against it, heavy with the weight of her loneliness. She waited there, letting the hours pass her by as the silence grew thicker and impenetrable.

She shut her eyes and let sleep come to her. She knew the danger would come lurking in her dreams, and she took pleasure in knowing the pain would soon be there. She hoped that, this time around, it would kill her. Finish her off.

"Hermione." Ron was sitting beside her. He reached for her hand and held it. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She shivered and leaned against him. Her wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She could feel his heartbeat, the warmth of his breath on her ear, the softness of his skin.

"I shouldn't have done that. I was angry."

"You were right to be." Her voice was strained, anticipating the pain he would soon inflict upon her.

"I won't hurt you anymore," he promised.

"It's alright if you do. I deserve to be hurt." She began sobbing, the guilt springing free from her heart and ascending her throat. "I… I should have known better."

"Hermione. Please listen to me." He placed a hand under her chin and made her face him.

His scarred eye was still raw from the wound.

"I really am alive. I need you to find me."

She took a sharp breath. "Where are you?"

"I'm not sure… somewhere in the forest of Dean, I think. I've been wandering England, almost like a ghost. My memory is fluttering away. I'm only able to find you with this." He removed the Deluminator from his pocket and placed it in Hermione's hand. "It can… project me. I'm not sure exactly how, or why." He sighed. "Please come find me in when you can. I need your help."

And, on those words, he disappeared. Hermione's eyes snapped open, and she rushed to the window. The moon was full, the skies clear. She opened the window and looked down—if she jumped, she would injure herself.

She sifted through her knapsack and grabbed her wand. It felt strange in her hand, like a forgotten object, a simple piece of wood. She hadn't used it since coming here.

She returned to the window, wand in hand, and grabbed the nearest vine. She hoisted herself onto it and climbed down, holding her wand in her mouth. She could have cried of joy—Ron was still alive. And Malfoy had indeed refrained from locking her in.

She jumped to the ground once she was only a few feet above it and sprinted. She had forgotten to take her cloak and thus used a warming charm to ensure she wouldn't freeze to death. Once she felt she was decently far enough from the mansion, she Disapparated to the forest of Dean.

She knew she might still be tracked. She knew this could be the end. She had decided she did not care anymore. Ron was out there. He had to be—the marks in her lobe, the bleeding in her scalp. Those had been real, tangible events—which could only mean he was alive, desperate for her to come back to him.

The forest was cold. Silent. The trees were huddled close together, as if to forbid anyone from entering. Hermione could hear the river flowing nearby, though she could not see it. She tip-toed around the trees, enjoying the feeling of the snow under her feet. It squeaked and sizzled as she stepped on it.

She couldn't have walked more than a yard when the world stopped. She could no longer hear the river, or the leaves rustling. The cold gripped her throat and engulfed itself through her every pore, eating away at the charm she had used to keep herself warm.

"You gullible little girl."

The growl echoed through the forest. Hermione froze. She had willingly stepped into a trap.