Trigger warning: this chapter contains the graphic description of a corpse.

CHAPTER 7. OLD PROMISES AND NEW DEALS

"Naïveté does not suit you, Hermione Jean Granger," murmured the voice.

Hermione still could not make out the Terror. She could hear it clear as day, but it was invisible in the dead of night.

"Conjuring Ronald Weasley in your dreams was one of my finer ideas, if I do say so myself." Its laugh was languid and syrupy. It drooled all over Hermione in its sticky resonance and she shivered. "It was hard to rid you of those two pesky Purebloods," It pondered. "I assure you, Hermione Jean Granger, it was no easy feat."

There was a pause. Hermione, still paralysed by the cold, remained quiet.

"How you knew they were untouchable to me still baffles the mind. I did not expect to be sent to seek out someone of such superior intellect. I would have thought that Gaunt would have found you rather useful, if he weren't so repulsed by your blood status."

Hermione noticed some leaves shifting strangely a few yards ahead of her. She raised her eyes—she could see a faint silhouette there. Still very much a shadow, too transparent to make out clearly. It moved fluidly. She shifted her gaze, trying to trace the lines that shaped it.

The Terror was nothing like she expected—in fact, it was much worse than anything she could possibly have imagined. Its body was as tall as the trees, its face a blank canvas without eyes, or a nose, or a mouth. Its hands barely had a shape—a black liquid dripped from them continuously, disappearing as soon as it touched the ground. It looked like the draft of a man, a botched attempt at instilling life into shadow and ink.

"I did not expect you to be this silent. Cat got your tongue?" It laughed again.

"Why would you not kill me then?" Hermione asked. Her voice was strained. She barely made it to the last word before gasping for air. The cold had reached her lungs and was shrivelling them up.

"You're wasting your last breaths on a question? No prayers? No begging?" The curiosity in the Terror's voice warmed the air ever so slightly and Hermione felt herself regain the ability to breathe, though for only a moment.

"I need to… kn… know." Her teeth shattered and she collapsed on her knees.

"You are remarkably strange, little one," It mused. "If that knowledge makes death easier on you, than I shall answer. I am not so cruel to deny you this last request, after all." There was a snatch in the fabric of time, a pause that seemed to endure for eternity. Hermione's ragged gasps were the only sound in the forest.

"You see, I knew I could not do anything the last time I approached you. I knew immediately, upon seeing you." It paused again, shifting closer. Its voice became but a whisper. The shadow of a hand trailed the red and gold light around her wrist. "An Unbreakable Vow—truly, you are a remarkable spirit." It bent down closer to her, like It was unable to understand how this was possible. She could feel its face inches away from hers and the cold took a harsher grip on her. Her lungs felt close to collapse, but she persisted. "H… how w… would you even hav… have kn… known?" Her brain itched for the answers, ignoring her body's gradual decay.

"Well, it seems to me you had the idea to strike up a deal with the Malfoy boy. I would not have known if it weren't for the fact that this mark you bear appeared on the Malfoy boy's wrist as well." A laugh—but it sounded like a roar. "A grand idea, that is true." It paused. "I wondered whether I should kill you off, regardless of that meaningless oath you took. Would the boy really die if you were the one who left his side? I questioned the viability of the spell, I questioned the meaning of his presence." Another pause. "But as I pondered the implications of that spell, as I attempted to decide whether it was of any consequence—I sensed the Malfoy boy was close. I could sniff him out, and I did not like knowing he was there. I'm ravenous for the flesh of wizards—all wizards, really. There are some I cannot touch, as you well know by now." Hermione crumbled onto herself—a bitter end, she thought to herself. "Killing you in such proximity to him was too great a risk. It would only amplify my hunger. It would make me kill the boy. Thus, I decided to bide my time. To patiently wait for you to come out, far from your protector, and of your own volition… with a little help, of course."

She heard a sudden thud. The air became distinctly putrid. It reeked of old blood, rotten flesh, and ashes.

The Terror had tossed something her way.

"I'll help you, so you can look." The cold dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. Hermione's skin remained blue and cold to the touch, but she felt herself regain some colour in her cheeks. She took a deep breath and raised her head.

She was met with Ron's corpse. She cried out in horror and crawled back, but it was too late. The image of his rotting body was embedded in her mind. His face had melted away, left only to its bare components—his striking blue eyes, a handful of his flamboyant red hair. The rest was charred bones and ashes and grotesquely decomposed chunks of flesh. He was bloodless and grey—his body unnaturally twisted, stiffened by the rigor mortis, his limbs mangled, his skull broken and savagely contorted, emptied of its brain. As her eyes trailed his cadaver, unable to make sense of what they were seeing, she noticed his intestines trailing off, uncoiled from the prison of his rib cage, their tissue boring hundreds of holes, undoubtedly eaten at by maggots and vermin and bacteria. There were no other organs left of him—except for his lungs: yellow, punctured and shrivelled up. The vision left Hermione nauseated, in a daze of horror she could hardly stomach. She promptly emptied her guts on the ground, tainting the snow and the tips of Ron's grey, cold feet.

"Gaunt let me have it. He preserved it. I gnaw on it, at times, when I'm hungry and cannot find myself satiated." There was a grunt of dissatisfaction. Hermione let out a low sob, unable to process what she was faced with. Vomit still dripped from her lips, the bitter acid of her bile burning her teeth and coating her tongue. "You were no help in the matter, little one. Running away from me, hiding with those Slytherins, forcing me to eat my way through Mudblood slaves to avoid starving."

The Terror moved forward. Its lack of eyes disturbed Hermione, who could tell It was observing her—how, though, remained a mystery.

"Hm… humans really are fragile little things. I do not know why you are crying over the boy who poisoned you," It mused, bending Its elongated body to be closer to her.

Hermione raised her head in shock, still sobbing quietly. "What… what are you talking about?" she sniffled, snot running down her face and covering the dried bits of food at the corner of her lips.

"All that Noxious he fed you. In your soups, your meat, your fruits. It's not good for the brain," It shook Its head in disapproval.

"You… you lie!" cried out Hermione, though she knew It didn't. Because this was the only reasonable explanation for her endless bouts of rage, her irrational impulses to maim and kill. Because there was no other explanation for her to have murdered an entire encampment of men without even blinking.

"The brain is a powerful organ, Hermione Jean Granger. I feed off it. I gain new knowledge, new memories each time. That halfwit's brain fed me for days—I could only reach some of his memories. He had been, after all, nearly burned to a crisp. But, as it turns out, it supplied me with enough to reach you. So, for this, I am thankful. Because you are now my prey." A blood-curling cackle disrupted the air, frizzing Hermione's hair. She whimpered, further crashing upon herself.

"Enough talking!" bellowed the Terror. "Time to kill." The cold came back with frightful force, making her shudder.

And then—

A gap suddenly appeared on its faceless visage, to Hermione's utter horror. All she saw at first were rows upon rows of sharpened fangs tainted burgundy. Beneath lurked a tongue—long, wet and pink. Its tip was pointy—pointier than her dagger. It could cut her. It would cut her.

Instead, it seized her, coiling itself around her freezing body, lifting her up in the skies. It tightened around her like a snake, flung her around like she was a toy, perhaps for Its own amusement. Hermione could feel her sides crumple as the tongue tightened its grip on her. She was so close to Its mouth—Its sinking hole—that she felt ready to give up. Death had been a steady companion—unwavering in Her patience—waiting for Hermione at every turn, ready to strike when the moment was right.

This had to be the moment.

Alas, or perhaps not, Death had other ideas in mind. As Hermione felt herself sink closer to the edge of the world, the poison that had been forced into her began raging and bubbling, a storm of violence brewing in the pit of her stomach. It was like Hermione was finally waking from a long dream. She began wriggling and squirming, trying to worm herself out of the chiffon doll state she had let her body get to. The rage was heating her muscles—barely, but enough for her to be pulled from the cold-induced daze.

She still had her wand. She could only touch its tip with her fingers, but it would have to be enough.

"Diffindo," she muttered under her breath, barely able to finish the word. Her lungs were now compressed, reduced to walnuts in her chest.

She knew not being able to make the proper gesture would weaken the spell, short of actually stopping it entirely from being produced. Thankfully, it was enough to create a papercut-sized blister on the Terror's tongue.

It yelled in surprise and loosened its grip on her enough for her to fight back. She used its slime to slide herself out of its grip, pushing its edges away from her. She felt the tip fly in every direction, cutting her at every turn, and saw her blood drip and taint the pristine-white snow. Refusing to let it distract her, she pushed further and further—she was close, so close.

The Terror had regained Its composure—the blister was already gone, like it had never been there. The tongue began tightening its grip around her again, but it was too late. Hermione fell to the ground, free from It. She pulled her wand from where she had tucked it and tried to Disapparate.

But try as she might, the cold was still eating at her nerves, biting into her skin, destroying her from within. The spell was too powerful for her to perform—she had drained herself using that one poorly-cast Diffindo. She had nothing left in her.

"If it were that easy, little girl, I would not still be here," It cackled. "You are very powerful—it takes a lot of nerve and strength to pull off what you just did. Others after you will undoubtedly try. Others, like you, will fail. Now, please be a nice little girl and let me finish you off. I am hungry and this hunt needs to come to an end." The impatience in Its voice should have scared Hermione. It should have driven her to madness.

It did not. She accepted her fate. She had fought off this creature for far too long—she had given It everything she had. She could now accept that it was not meant to be—she was not meant to be saved. As she closed her eyes, coming to terms with her end, she heard it—

A thud. She briefly opened her eyes and noticed two glowing eyes staring down at her.

"Not so fast!" A booming voice.

"No!" roared the Terror, backing away.

Hermione cackled. In her last breaths, she had imagined Malfoy coming to her aid. This much was impossible. She shivered, her last drops of energy running away from her.

"Come on, Granger." An arm had been propped up under her. She could no longer feel the cold bite her fingers. It dawned on her that she could, in fact, not feel her fingers at all. She laughed, her ragged breath coming out in fits of cough and blood spills—she laughed, again, and again, and again. Until the familiar sensation of a being sucked in by a rubber tunnel enveloped her.

So, it had been true. Draco Malfoy had come to her rescue. How this was even feasible baffled her. Yet, it had happened—it had been real. Unless she was now dead, and her afterlife consisted of lounging around in a bed set up in a room on the second floor of a Malfoy mansion.

No, she refused to believe it.

She propped herself up and suddenly felt a burn running through her, beginning at her fingertips. She looked down at her left hand—her fingers had turned blue.

"Come on now, Granger, you'll just injure yourself more. Lie back down," ordered Malfoy. She hadn't even noticed him walking in. Hermione felt her anger bubble up at the idea of being ordered around, once again, by a Pureblood. She obeyed nonetheless and slumped back on the bed. Malfoy approached her—he was holding a large bowl in his hands.

"What's that for?" She had meant to sound forceful, but it came out as a ragged whisper.

"Warm water." Steam came out of the bowl, and Hermione doubted this was simply warm. She remained quiet. "If you want to avoid me having to saw your hands off, you'll do as I say," continued Malfoy, having noticed the doubt written all over Hermione's face.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed the bowl next to her. "I'd rather you keep the fingers we can save, Granger. What for using your wand and whatnot," he snorted.

Hermione stared at him in dismay. "What do you mean "the fingers you can save"?" She hated how weak she sounded.

He seemed to hesitate, his gaze turning away from her. "There was one that…" he winced.

"That what?" The anger pushed through the strain in her throat.

"Look for yourself," he said, pointing to her right hand.

She closed her eyes, mustering all the courage she was capable of. She already knew—she had felt it in her sleep. The ghost of her finger was waggling at her, lecturing her for leaving this place to venture out in the woods, alone, in the pursuit of a memory. She placed her right hand on her chest, engaged in a silent prayer, and slowly opened her eyes. Her ring finger was gone, slashed to the bone—literally.

"Theo had to amputate it. He knows some medical spells." There was nothing in his voice—it was a statement of fact.

Hermione had been foolish—she should be lucky that the price she paid for it was only the loss of a limb. There was nothing to mourn—it was just a finger, after all.

"Thank you for saving me," she whispered.

Malfoy shook his head. He grabbed her left hand and placed it in the hot water. It sizzled at the contact of her frozen fingers and Hermione winced.

"I Vowed it, Granger. It's not like you left me any choice in the matter." There was, again, no emotion to be found in his voice. Another statement of fact, delivered with the tact of an angry Snape.

Hermione's hand swam in the water—she slowly grew accustomed to the heat, though the pain was still imbued in her every nerve.

"I still don't understand how you found me."

Malfoy laughed. His head jerked back, his mouth wide open, a guttural sound pouring out of it. "Did you really think I would not place a location spell after that last stunt you pulled? I'm not flush with places for us to hide, contrary to what you seem to think."

Hermione wanted to feel aggravated by this betrayal—she wanted to be upset, angry, raging mad. Instead, all she could find was a quiet relief washing over her.

"That was an intelligent decision," she quipped.

He stared back down at her. His eyes did not betray any emotion that she could properly analyse, but there was something there, something she found flustering. She caught herself before she could blush.

"I nearly didn't make it in time," he said, his gaze still firmly locked on her. "That cold, it made your exact location fuzzy, the borders were hard to make out. I wandered around for a while before finding you. You could have died." He lifted his head, now staring out the window.

Hermione remained still. There was something else, something in the back of her mind, something the Terror had said.

"It knows about our Vow," she suddenly heard herself say.

Malfoy's eyes shot right back at her. "You gave us away?"

"I didn't. It just knew. It knew the last time It found me," she whispered, feeling her chest constrict. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy," she breathed out.

"The last time It found you? Exactly how many encounters have you had with that creature, Granger?" Malfoy's anger made his knuckles white as his hand tightened into a fist.

Hermione took a deep breath. "Look, Malfoy, I didn't want to alarm you." She paused and slowly exhaled. "It found me shortly after I duelled Nott, when we went hunting. It didn't kill me then, and I really wasn't sure it was the Terror. And then, I began having… dreams." She paused, her heart crumbling as she remembered the whispers in the night, the visits in the shape of Ron. "Dreams of Ron, specifically. Telling me he was alive, calling out to me. I never saw his corpse, when Grimmauld burned down… I had to be sure." She paused again, looking up at him. "So, to answer your question, two encounters."

Malfoy seemed only focused on one thing. "It already knew then? How?" he asked. He did not give her any time to answer—another question popped up, just as suddenly, pouring out of him like an unfiltered stream of consciousness. "Why not kill you the first time around?" His hand had relaxed, no longer balled up into a fist. He remained at a distance; his stare hardened by the discovery.

"It knows because of the Vow. The…" She whimpered. "The traces of Orpheus' string." The marks had now nearly faded from their wrists, becoming simply lines punctured into the skin, rather than lit bracelets. On the day she had first been found, though… they had just made the Vow. They had wandered out of the encampment with very visible signs of allegiance—it had been idiotic on their part.

Malfoy did not respond. He kept staring at her, waiting for her to answer all of his questions.

"It said that… It did not kill me because It's too enticed by the flesh of wizards. It could smell you, and knew that if It killed me, It would come for you next. And kill you off, which means—"

"It would have died," Malfoy completed her sentence. He now seemed to ponder the implications of such a revelation. The tip of his nose was scrunched up, the corners of his mouth twitching—it was so subtle Hermione wasn't sure if she hadn't simply imagined it.

"But Gaunt doesn't know…" he murmured to himself. "Why doesn't he—"

His head jerked back up and he looked at her.

"I have to go, Granger. Nott will be there in about an hour to change your water. Better get those fingers back into shape if you want to solve those equations."

And, on those words, he exited the room, leaving no time for Hermione to protest.

She huffed in the silence and had to admit to herself she was being ridiculous. He was right to be upset—she had dragged him down a path of uncertainty, unavoidable danger, and constant horror. He had been forced to care of her not once, but twice—in the span of only a few weeks. He needed to be on his guards at all times, casting protection and location spells left and right, never sure she wouldn't turn on him and run away—something she had already done twice. He could never trust her, never be sure of what her next move would be.

She sunk her head in the pillow for a moment, letting the guilt overtake her and eat at her. It was only then that she remembered all the secrecy she was facing, the walls of ignorance closing in on her at every step. They told her nothing. They gave her a list of unsolvable equations and let her drown in them, drown in the silence they had created and forced her into. They couldn't trust her—but neither could she. They were playing an elaborate game of chess, carefully moving their queen across the board, hoping to knock down her king. There was two of them, and one of her. They were playing her for a fool—her mistake had been to act like one. She needed a chance in strategy.

Nott knocked on the door.

"Come in," she breathed out. Her earlier discussion had drained her voice, and she could hear it becoming ragged again.

"Your water," said Nott, holding the bowl on one hand, on the tip of his fingers, like a serving boy. Hermione tried to refrain from laughing—barely.

Nott ignored her mocking and made a beeline for the bed. He vanished the water from the first bowl away and placed the one he had brought above. Hermione dipped her fingers back in, stifling a wince.

"You know, Granger, I'm not sure why you forced Draco into making a Vowing to protect you when you keep escaping every chance you get," he sneered. His words hit her like thunder—she kept quiet.

"I have responsibilities other than you, Mudblood." She shivered at his utterance of the word. He continued, unwavering in his contempt for her. "Responsibilities you could not even begin to comprehend. I believe I have been patient until now—allowing this ridiculous deal to happen, protecting you in my father's childhood home, engaging in conversation because little Ms. Granger was lonely, giving you those equations to solve, amputating you to save your hand, and, now, taking care of you while you're on bedrest because of a mistake you made. But my patience, as they say, wears thin. Thinner than the fabric of those rags you call clothes." Hermione felt a lump grow in her throat. He looked right at her. "You're an encumbrance to me, Hermione Granger. A problem, an obstacle. And I don't react well to obstacles." He got up, still fixated on her. "Well then, do enjoy your rest. I don't believe you will cause us anymore problems."

He walked out the door, his step forceful and self-assured. Hermione was not sure what to make of his threat—perhaps he would kill her, after all.

She remained in her bed all afternoon, reheating her water every hour or so with the help of her wand. By the time the evening rolled around, her fingers—well, those she still had—were back to normal and she felt she could get up and out.

She slipped out of her room and headed for the kitchen. There, she was met with the resident she had yet to encounter—the house elf.

"Sorry to bother," she said as she entered. "I was hoping to fix myself a snack," she said, holding on to the door frame for fear of intruding.

"Oh, 'ello Miss!" giggled the elf. "Pinky is so happy to finally meet the Miss Granger!"

"Hi there, Pinky. It's nice to meet you too," smiled Hermione, gently stepping into the kitchen.

"What is Miss Granger wanting to eat? Pinky can make wonderful cake for Miss!" The joy in Pinky's voice had it a pitch so high it rang through Hermione's ears.

"Oh no Pinky, it's fine, I assure you, I'll just take something from the pantry. Don't you worry about me." She headed towards the pantry but was forced to a halt by the elf blocking her path.

"It's no problem Miss! Pinky will fetch it for you! What is Miss wanting to eat?"

Reluctantly, Hermione backed away and stopped arguing. "I'd love something savoury," she said gently. "Your pick," she added.

Pinky darted towards the pantry and sent the door flying open. She rummaged through it for a minute before landing on a jar of soup. "Pinky will heat it for Miss! It is very good soup! Pinky make the soup!" The cheerfulness in her voice convinced Hermione to simply nod and accept what she was being offered. Soup would be good for her broken voice anyway.

"Say, Pinky," she began once she was handed a steaming bowl of soup, "how is it working for Mr Malfoy?" She phrased it innocently, not wanting to look like she was trying to pry.

The elf's ears flapped for a bit before falling flat. "It is very nice, Miss Granger, but it is very sad. Master Malfoy is sad, so Pinky is sad." Hermione was surprised by the answer.

"Why is that?" she asked, before blowing on the soup, fearing she'd burn herself if she ate it right away.

"Master Malfoy is very lonely and Pink cannot help! Pinky cannot replace Mistress Narcissa!" Those last words seemed to evoke a long-forgotten sadness in the elf, who began to cry loudly. Hermione placed her soup on the counter and kneeled to comfort the elf.

"I'm so sorry Pinky, I didn't mean to… I mean, I wasn't trying to…" She trailed off, unable to explain what exactly she had been trying to do. She seemed to be blundering her way through life lately, and it made her angry with herself.

Pinky hid her face in Hermione's shoulder and sobbed loudly, rivers of tears and snot cascading down her clothes Hermione remained there, gently patting the elf on the back, bit by remorse. She occasionally whispered words of comfort, but they sounded hollow. She was too far removed from the elf's pain to understand the sobs—she found it impossible to empathise with her, to share in her pain.

She was losing her humanity.

After a while, Pinky calmed down. She sniffled as she backed away from Hermione, whispering a litany of apologies.

"It's alright, Pinky. You're allowed to have emotions," Hermione reassured her, smiling sweetly. She placed her thumbs under the elf's big eyes and wiped away her tears. "There you go. All new and shiny!"

Pinky laughed and wiggled, holding her rag with both hands. "You are so nice, Miss Granger."

"Don't mention it," she dismissed. She got up and picked up her bowl of soup, swallowing a large spoonful of it. "Hm, it's great soup. Well done!"

Pinky blushed and Hermione felt more at ease.

"Sympathising with the elf, are we now?" sneered Nott as he burst into the kitchen. "How Granger-like."

Hermione straightened her back. "Well, you're unhappy about having to make conversation with me, so I looked to someone else," she retorted.

"Please do," he waved her off. "Pinky, what's on the menu for dinner?"

The elf's ears flapped again but betrayed no emotion. "Pinky prepares a showlder of mutton, Sir Nott." Hermione noticed the elf had considerably stiffened and took note of it.

"Good. I'll see you at dinner then, Granger," Nott said, turning to face her. She nodded in response, and he exited the kitchen.

"You don't seem to like Nott very much," she said to Pinky once she was certain he was out of earshot.

"Pinky does not like Sir Nott indeed, Miss Granger. Sir Nott have done a lot of very very bad things to Master Malfoy." Pinky scrunched her nose and perked her ears up. "Pinky should not say more to Miss Granger! Miss Granger have to go!"

Hermione did not try to push and returned to her room promptly, thanking Pinky again for the soup. She needed to pay a visit to Narcissa Malfoy's portrait this evening—there were too many secrets hanging up in the air.

Hermione remained quiet during dinner—she was still feeling the burn of her rash behaviour and did not want to further humiliate herself. Malfoy had returned while they were halfway through their entrées and had joined them silently.

Hermione twirled her spoon in her soup and patiently waited for dinner to end. She had nothing to say to either of them and she was aching to rush to the portrait room and finally get some answers from Narcissa Malfoy. She was going to push and pressure and force her way in. She was done catering to the fragile egos of Purebloods.

Her fingers drumming on the table in impatience finally got a rise out of Nott, who ordered her to leave the room. She did so without protesting, rushing up the stairs to the portrait room. She cast a Muffliato and locked the door before pulling down the sheet.

"Good evening, Ms. Granger. It has been a while."

"It has," replied Hermione curtly.

"You have cause quite a ruckus these past few days," continued Narcissa. "I was wondering why you'd stopped visiting, but it seems you were… otherwise preoccupied," she sneered.

"Maybe I wouldn't be running around and driving your son mad if you answered my questions." Hermione felt brave.

"Well, ask away then." Narcissa stiffened—she seemed offended that Hermione blamed her for her own behaviour.

There was no beating around the bush this time. "How did you die? Why did you die?"

"I took my own life, Ms. Granger. I had no choice in the matter."

Hermione remained quiet. She had not expected that.

Narcissa sighed. "My son was repeating his father's mistakes, attaching himself to a man far inferior to him, who would never do him any good. A mother cannot stand by and watch her only son lose his common sense. A mother does what she has to do to protect her child. Thus, I did what I had to do." A tear formed in the corner of her eye, but she wiped it away and composed herself. "Of course, Draco does not know. He believes what I made him believe."

Hermione stood silently, her eyes glued to the portrait. When she realised Narcissa would not go on, she pushed. "What did you make him believe?" Her question was but a whisper—yet, it echoed throughout the room.

"I made him believe that Augustus Gaunt, his dear leader, is responsible for my death. I brewed his signature poison and dosed my own honey wine. You see, I had a standing appointment with Augustus Gaunt, every Sunday—it was part of the deal if I wanted Draco to be amongst the Chosen Ones, if I wanted him to be forgiven for his failures as a Death Eater. It ate me up to have to do this, but I knew Draco would never budge, never change his allegiance—not because he believed in any of the ideas spewed by Gaunt, of course, but because he saw his place within the ranks as a way to ensure I would always be protected, well-cared for, especially after his father's sentencing. He did not understand—does not understand—that it was never up to him to protect me. I instilled that boy with too strong a sense of loyalty." Her gaze was lost beyond the walls of the mansion, searching for the ghost of a child who wasn't there anymore.

Hermione waited. She knew there was more—she wanted the details, the unencumbered truth. She decided to be patient—she was faced with a woman who was reckoning with her failures as a mother, with her broken soul.

Narcissa cleared her throat. "I poisoned myself and I died right as I was faced with that man. I had left a letter in my belongings for Draco to find—a threatening letter, with forged handwriting, pressuring me to marry Augustus. The letter said… it said… "if you do not marry me by the next full moon, I will be forced to take drastic measures—I am not a patient man, Narcissa." It took me weeks to master his tone, his turn of phrase, to ensure the letter would be believable to a high-ranking member of his army, like Draco was." She paused, looking down at Hermione. "And it worked. Draco turned on that man. He obeyed orders on surface, all the while attempting to sabotage them in the background. He allied himself to you. He is standing on his own two feet, loyal to those who are loyal to him," she concluded. She closed her eyes for a moment.

"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy."

"I did not tell you this for your sake, Ms. Granger, but for his. I am asking you to keep that secret to yourself—not doing so would render my death meaningless."

"I won't say a word," promised Hermione. "Have a good night."

She covered the portrait again and left the room quietly, tiptoeing back to her room. She held this newfound knowledge close to her heart, deep within the trenches of her darkest worries and fears about Malfoy. Knowing she could trust Malfoy was already more than she could have asked for. She pushed aside the fact that Nott remained a problem, one that kept getting more difficult to solve with each new piece of the puzzle she uncovered. She slipped beneath the sheets and lay waiting for sleep to come.

It did not. She stared at the ceiling while the hours ticked away, her mind reeling with theories and questions. Malfoy had presented the Vow as payment for the debt he owed to Harry—she could only wonder whether he would have gone through with it had he not believed Gaunt killed his mother. His loyalty was not in doubt anymore—his motives, however, were in an entirely different realm. Revenge was a strong contender, but Hermione found it too easy, too obvious. There had to be something more, something more twisted at the heart of his desires. She was one step closer to finding out what that was.

When dusk broke, Hermione gave up on trying to sleep. She rose from her bed and reached for the equations placed on her bedside. She had yet to solve any of them, and the growing frustration was fuel to her fire. She spread the parchments out on her bed and dipped her quill in the ink bottle she kept beside her. Pausing, holding her quill in the air, she realised there was too much to take in. She tossed away most of the parchments, deciding to centre her focus on a single equation first.

S = x – 15 – 23– 14 + 20 – 8 – 5 + x – 5 – 22 – 9 – 12

It made no sense. What was S referring to? She reduced the equation and it made even less sense. She tossed it aside and picked up the remaining parchments to see if she had missed something. Each equation was more of the same—they all equalled S, had an unknown variable, and a litany of additions and subtractions of with no meaning and no logic applied to them. Hermione gathered that even finding x was meaningless—she needed to find what S stood for.

Which she could not figure out unless her two so-called allies offered some clues about their endeavours.

Buzzing with frustration, Hermione galloped down the stairs, wrapped herself in her cloak, and walked out to enjoy the fresh winter air.

"Running out on us again, are we?" asked Malfoy, poking his head through the door.

"I'm going stir-crazy staying inside. I can go for a walk, can't I? Is that allowed?" She sounded harsher than she had meant to.

"It's allowed. But you certainly won't go alone—who knows what might happen." He grabbed his own cloak and tied it around his neck. "I'll join."

Hermione did not protest—she was in no position to do so.

They walked in silence around the grounds for a few minutes, enjoying the squeak of the freshly fallen snow under their feet.

"Can we go to the cliffs? Is that alright?" Hermione asked, curious to explore the seaside.

"That's fine." He led her out the gate and they kept walking on.

Hermione noticed he was careful to avoid her gaze—he stayed by her side, silent, his eyes fixated on the horizon.

"I came here as a child," he suddenly said. "During the summers, mainly, when the sun would blind you and its reflection on the sea would make it seem like the entire world was illuminated." He paused and took a sharp breath. "My mother inherited the estate. Her sisters—I'm sure you remember them—were not in any state to manage it. Andromeda had been disowned, and Bellatrix was… gallivanting around England with Rodolphus, her husband. My mother lived here and took care of the gardens, until she married my father and he had her come to the manor, in Wiltshire."

Hermione carefully listened.

"The gardens were abandoned. My father had Michelangelo come and paint the ceiling because my mother was furious about the loss of her beloved flowers. He told her flowers were meant to die, and paintings were not."

He maintained his gaze firmly on the horizon, and Hermione knew he expected no answer from her. She simply matched his pace, revelling in the cold breeze brushing her face. As the silence stretched, the unease crept up her spine and she found it harder to resist the urge to talk.

"Why are you telling me this?" she could not help but ask once the tense silence became suffocating.

"I'm just reminiscing," shrugged Malfoy.

Hermione thought back to the discussion she'd had with Narcissa earlier—she realised it must be painful for him to be here. This was his mother's estate—a woman he believed to have been murdered by the very man he was still taking orders from.

"My parents' home is abandoned too," was the only thing she managed to say.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow and finally looked at her. "Why?"

"I erased their memories, the summer before we went hunting for Horcruxes. I couldn't risk their lives being endangered because of me. I made them flee to Italy under new identities." She paused. "They were the only healers in town. I sometimes regret depriving those living there of the only two people who could have cured them, but… my family needed protection only magic could afford them. Far away from here," she breathed out.

Malfoy did not reply. She saw a crease appear and disappear on his forehead—she wondered whether she'd imagined it. Perhaps to avoid having her scrutinising him, he walked ahead of her, his hand shielding his face from the wind, as if he were on a lookout.

"There's a storm coming. We should head back." He took a sharp turn.

Hermione nodded and followed him back to the mansion. The sky grew darker with every minute they walked, and the first thunderbolt hit the gate right as they walked through the front door.

"Get some sleep, Granger. And meet us for lunch with the solved equations," simply stated Malfoy, extending his arm, as if to show her the path he expected her to follow.

Ignoring the knot in her stomach, Hermione rushed up the stairs and returned to her room. She had promised to deliver results, to be helpful—an asset. The early morning was now coming close to an end, and she was coming up short. She had solved nothing.

She sat on her bed, holding her head between her hands, frustrated with herself, with Nott, with Malfoy, with just about everything she could think of. In a fit of rage, she sent the parchments flying and squashed her quill, breaking it.

The rage dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her to deal with the mess she had just made. Hermione tossed her broken quill away and picked up the pieces of parchment, one by one, her back arched in quiet indignance at what she had just done. If the Terror had been right—and she suspected that It was—she would forever suffer at the hands of the poison coursing through her veins, until it would eventually begin eating at her and remove any sense of rationality she may possess. Whether she was killed by the Terror or not did not matter as much anymore—she was doomed either way, condemned to a short life.

Resigned with her fate, Hermione made her way to the kitchen, her unsolved equations in hand. When she walked through the door, she noticed Malfoy and Nott were already there, waiting for her. They were set up around a small wooden table, a chess board placed between them.

"Ah, Granger," greeted her Nott. "Care for a game of chess?"

Hermione eyed the board unconvincingly. She had never been good at chess. Ron was always the strategist—he could see ten steps ahead, prevent catastrophic events with even a weak hand. He had lost his touch during their later years at Hogwarts, too wrapped up in his emotions to think clearly—until the Order of the Phoenix was reborn from its ashes. It was like he had caught up with himself in the span of an evening, shedding the awkward and thick skin of his teenage self to become the man she had always known him to be, deep down.

"Why not," she breathed out. She was already a pawn at the mercy of his queen. This was just the metaphor of their back-and-forth coming to life.

Malfoy rose from his chair and invited Hermione to sit down. She complied, setting the parchments on the floor, at her feet. She looked at the board—her pieces were white. She moved a pawn two squares.

"The equations make no sense," she stated as Nott pondered his next move.

"I know," sternly said Malfoy. "You're here to solve them."

"Well, I can't. Not unless I understand, at the very least, what they're for, where they come from, where you found them, how you found them." She was impatient—she placed her knight closer to Nott's ranks.

"You already know we cannot tell you anything." Anger brewed in the pit of Malfoy's stomach, and she could feel his frustration with her reverberate across the room.

Hermione groaned. She and Nott played a few more moves before she decided to respond.

"I'm not asking for details, just general context. I can't believe it is this hard for you two to understand."

Nott snickered. "Always demanding more, Granger. I don't see us getting anything in return." He knocked down one of her rooks and removed it from the board. The implicit threat in his gesture made her shudder.

"I remember having information you would be happy to have," she quipped.

"For a price," darkly remarked Nott.

"Hardly. The price to pay would help me solve your unsolvable riddle."

Her bishop took one of his pawns.

The game went on. Nott and Malfoy were having another one of their silent conversations, surely debating if it was worth giving up the secrets they had kept so close to their hearts, the knowledge they refused to imbue her with, in an effort to keep her subdued and subservient.

Frustration overtook Hermione and it fuelled her thinking. She knocked Nott's queen down and looked him straight in the eyes.

"I am tired of this. The rules are going to change from now on. Whether we agree on our values does not matter in the least. We are in the same boat. Because of me, I'm aware, but you did agree to the terms, and there is no turning back." She had risen from her chair and was now vermillion in all her frustration. The surprise in both Nott and Malfoy's faces gave her enough leeway to go on uninterrupted. "I do not need to know or understand everything. I do not care to, either. There are things, however, that would benefit my knowledge, and things that would benefit yours. I'm offering a fair trade. I have two secrets to share. I ask for two in return. If you do not agree to those terms, Malfoy, I will willingly give myself up to the Terror, and you will die as a result of your negligence in upholding our deal. This is not a threat I'm uttering lightly."

She sat back down and noticed what Nott, in all his shock, failed to see. His king—vulnerable, forgotten, left to die. He had abandoned the game nestled between the two of them to focus on the one unfolding at large, within the walls of the mansion.

"Do we have a deal?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy groaned. "Making deals with you is going to get me killed one of those days, Granger, I swear. But yes, fine."

She turned to Nott.

"Once again, I have no choice in the matter," he gritted through his teeth.

Hermione sat back down. "You do get to choose which of you speaks first," she smiled.

The two Slytherins exchanged looks.

"Fine," began Malfoy. "Gaunt murdered my mother."

Hermione noticed he had flinched when saying it, and decided it was best not to press him further on this issue. She knew the details, of course, but hearing it coming out of Malfoy's mouth comforted her—she had been told the truth.

She remembered what Nott had been so eager to know during their late-night encounter in the kitchen and proceeded to offer one of her secrets. "Colin Creevey was burned at the stake, not found by the Terror."

"By who?" Nott asked.

"How would I know?" she shrugged.

Nott grunted in dissatisfaction but did not insist. Instead, he poked his tongue out and licked his lips.

"If you want to know what it is we're doing, you'll tell us exactly what happened at Goyle Manor." Hermione opened her mouth, but he interrupted her, raising a finger in the air. "But, more importantly, you will tell us why they made the choice to keep you hidden instead of killing you off." The glint in his eyes should have terrified Hermione—instead, it brought her comfort. Because, finally, she understood why that information mattered to them—why they cared to understand her puzzling past.

Because, just like her, Malfoy and Nott were simple pawns in Gaunt's game—except, unlike her, they'd only now come to understand it.

And, as Hermione inhaled, prepared to narrate the last missing pieces of her story, she moved her queen across the board and knocked Nott's king down.

"Check mate."