Yes, I'm back! No promises on an updating schedule, because I keep signing up for fests and I just have so many projects due. I'm hoping to post a chapter a month for the rest of the story (I have a total of 16 chapters planned, so 7 more on top of this one). We'll see.

ACT III

CHAPTER 9. THE DEVIL'S EMBRACE

Hermione concluded her story with her eyes sweeping the floor, a flood of contradicting emotions bubbling through her. In the months since her escape, she had found no one to recount the details of her past to—it was both a relief and a burden. The memories travelled through her, her skin and muscles tingling at the remembrance, at the pain and grief she had experienced in her year as a slave. Since escaping, she had never stopped looking over her shoulder, waiting for the moment the hammer would drop, the moment she would be caught and dragged back to that nightmare.

It had nearly become a reality once her name had appeared on the placard. Months of wondering what was to happen with the Terror, now that Its glitches were supposedly fixed. And her name had appeared.

The rest, of course, was history. Domitia Peverell, Malfoy and Nott, the dreams, Ron, the Terror. Finally, her last remaining secrets had been spilled, her guts left exposed for her enemies to inspect. It was her very last card—and she hoped playing it now was the right move.

"So," began Nott, "the Terror is wizard-made."

"Did you ever expect it to be anything else?" Hermione was surprised.

"We believed it was an ancient creature sought out by Voldemort and Gaunt," responded Malfoy, his eyebrows knitted together. "A creature born when the first Muggleborn came to existence."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Muggleborns are not an enemy from the shadows. We're just… normal people. Normal wizards." Her words stood firm, piercing through the walls of the Slytherins' outdated beliefs.

Neither said a word. It seemed their entire worlds had been shifted, turned on their heads at the drop of a hat. Hermione wondered how many others believed this lie. How many had bought into the propaganda.

"How could It chase you using the scent of your blood if that wasn't the case? If you're not an altogether different species from the rest of us?" Nott quipped.

She looked up at him, shocked. She wanted to protest, but the point he made was sound. She remained silent, her fingers drumming on the table. She noticed them smirking at each other and the familiar wave of rage and frustration bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She repressed it, drumming harder on the table—there were more immediate concerns than their prejudice. Far more pressing matters at hand.

"It's time for you to tell me your plans. It's time for me to know everything you've been up to." She emphasised the last few words—they could keep their secrets for all she cared. She really only needed to understand the equations, the alliance, the truth at the heart of their operation. They could disregard the rest—she had already done that.

"You very well know we can't tell you everything, Granger," sneered Malfoy, whose face still looked aghast with the knowledge Hermione had poured onto them.

"I'm not asking for everything. I really do not care that much about either of you. I just know this much: there is a war going on. I nearly died because I can't trust you. Do not give me that look, Nott, you very well know that everything you have done so far is questionable, and I do not care for the supposed sacrifice you've endured for me. I have given you everything I know. And I have worked hard to figure out the equations you gave me. But they make no sense, and unless I can actually understand what it is you're trying to accomplish, I will not be able to solve them. There needs to be an exchange of information. We will never trust each other as friends, or even as people, and I think we can all agree on that. But, like it or not, we are allies. We have a common enemy, even if our reasons are worlds apart. And we need to work together if we have any chance of making it out the other side unscathed. I have lost everything already—my friends, my family, my dignity. I thought I wasn't ready to let go of my life, but if it's the only bargaining chip remaining in my favour, then I might as well use it. And if I do that well, I can take you down with me, Malfoy. In any case, you have promised me your plans in exchange for the knowledge of my time at Goyle Manor. And I do believe that Slytherins remain true to their word."

Nott's anger was palpable—it beat through the room like the sound of a drum, or of a heartbeat. He was seething. If he hated her before, she could only imagine that he loathed her now.

Malfoy was sitting up straight, a twitch at the corner of his eyes, before looking up at Nott, in yet another of their silent exchanges. Hermione had grown used to it by now—thus, she waited.

"We're enacting the Devil's Pact," finally admitted Malfoy. It had been like he had been waiting for Nott's approval—Hermione could not begin to understand why, but that was a question for another day.

"That's a myth," she countered with, feeling like, perhaps, they were mocking her.

"Oh, I assure you it is not. What do you know about it?"

"A magical enchantment that can extend to a vast territory. Those who enact it become free to do everything and anything, including breaking the laws of magic, without consequences. Until the enchantment drains them entirely, breaks their souls, and they are doomed to trail the Earth alone, as little more than silent ghosts, for eternity," recited Hermione from memory, her eyes rolling at even having to be asked. "Merlin is rumoured to have come up with it and to have hidden both the recipe and the enchantment in different places, so it may never be enacted. It is, to this day, the most famous myth in Merlin's legend."

"Except it's not a myth," said Malfoy, annoyed with her.

"A spell to break all laws of magic and nature? That seems realistic. Why didn't Voldemort think of that?" A snicker came rolling off her tongue—even the idea of Voldemort seemed trivial to her now.

"Because it doesn't grant immortality. It is assured to kill in the long-run—that's the one law it can't break," he said, condescension dripping from his words. "But no matter," he waved her off, "I know it exists. We know it's real. That's a fact, Granger."

"Assuming that is true, why would either of you need this? It seems pointless to me. Your enemy is a man. His creature is a creation. If the same magic running through our veins can create that, then surely it can defeat it too." A nervous laugh punctuated her argument. If they were truly honest about this, if they really believed it to be possible, then they were not who she thought they were—and the thought of that uncertainty filled her with a dread that lurked in the depths of her. It was unconscionable. Mad. "Why would you even want to take on such a risky enterprise?"

"The why is none of your business, Granger. The how is all we need you for. That's the extent of our deal," interjected Nott, speaking for the first time since Malfoy had revealed their plan.

"Oh, the why matters. Because if it's about securing your place as rulers of this world and killing my kind, then our alliance is a very poor idea. It's as if it were null and void. I'd be helping you wipe me out, when I sought you out to save me," retorted Hermione, her cheeks flush with anger.

"That alliance was indeed a very poor idea, Granger, and I have made no effort whatsoever in hiding that I've always thought as much! But not to worry, Mudbloods are the last thing on either of our minds. We have more pressing and more personal matters to attend to. If you help us with this, we will be able to do what we set out to do. And we will rid England of the monster that plagues it, which would essentially fulfil our end of the deal. A deal you already shook on with Draco here. It's not my problem if you walked into the serpents' den without knowing what you were getting into. We're too far gone to backtrack now—all of us." He had whipped his wand out, pointing it at her.

She didn't react—not immediately. She stared back at the tip of his wand, wondering if he would really do it. He was capable of it, certainly—but would he go through with it? It seemed pointless, after all—a waste of time and opportunity. Nott was not limited by the bounds of morality—but he was a rational man. Or so it seemed.

"Put that wand away," groaned Malfoy before Hermione could be sure of her assumption—Nott obeyed silently. "The equations you were given are meant to indicate the location of the spell. That big S in front of all the variables," said Malfoy, pointing to the parchments she had brought with her before the chess game, "that means Spell. Or so we think."

"And where did you gather the clues for the location of the spell?" worry lines crossed her forehead.

"In the Department of Mysteries archives, though I suspect they hadn't been hidden there in the first place."

"You think?" sneered Hermione.

"I swear to all that is saint and holy, Draco if you don't shut her up—"

"Why don't you do it yourself? You weren't above hexing me just seconds ago!" Her tone was laced with acrid sarcasm—she was daring him. She wanted to see how far he would go.

No, she didn't. The Noxious did. And much like its name suggested, it sent a wave of nausea through her. This was dangerous territory.

"I can't stand the two of you," sighed Malfoy, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There are more urgent matters at hand than your need to bicker."

She found him oddly sympathetic in that moment—the Malfoy she had known at school would have been more than happy to partake in this acid war. But this new Malfoy—she was still debating whether she could add and improved—was different. She recollected the moments of weakness, the way he sometimes refused to use magic when it would be most convenient to, his silent connection to Nott, and she wondered: what exactly had happened to the man?

"So the S means Spell?"

Malfoy's eyes softened. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. She could feel Nott's glare piercing through them—was he jealous?

Nonsense. He was upset he hadn't gotten to kill her because of his friend's intervention. He was angry at the two of them for breaking the tension not once, but twice.

"Well, it's been a long night. Maybe I should just leave the two of you to conspire against me," he said snidely, brushing past them to reach the kitchen exit.

He stopped before he had made it and yanked Hermione's arm, dragging her close to him. "Careful Granger. I have my eye on you now," he whispered in her ear before pushing her away. "No need to come barreling in on your brave stallion, Draco. I won't hurt your little maiden," he sneered, pushing her away. Hermione turned her eyes to Malfoy and noticed with a great deal of surprise that he had drawn his wand out. But Nott had been quick—because he knew just how to rile them up. And he was taking a great deal of pleasure in it.

That night, Hermione did not sleep well. Beneath her fluttering eyelids lay visions of Death, of Ron, of the Black house burning, of Narcissa Malfoy sacrificing herself. And of the Devil.

Muggle and Muggleborn children all grew up learning about the Devil. He was the threat brandished in their faces at every turn—the punishment they should expect should they ever turn their back to God and all that was holy. Hermione had grown to reject those teachings—but even as she learned to make up her own mind, to toss the idea of God away in favour of that of science (and, later, magic), the fear of the Devil lurked. It jumped at her in the strangest moments, its putrid smell paralysing her until all she was was blood and bone and flesh and a God-fearing empty mind. She had tried to keep these thoughts and delusions hidden from the world—but hearing about the Devil's Pact had unlocked Pandora's box. And it was now wide open, spilling its soiled blood in the trenches of her mind.

She tried pushing past the guilt in the morning—she shoved it aside as she pulled her hair and tied it into a bun, she crumpled it as she chewed her breakfast, she tore it apart as she scrubbed the dirt from her skin in the bath. That guilt was the bane of her existence—it would push her away from her goals, shackle her to the inanities of Muggle superstitions, and it would kill her. That much she knew.

But as she sat in the library, back arched over the equations, Hermione realised bitterly that the deed was done. She was slowly edging back to the precipice she had spent her life running away from.

It certainly didn't help that Theodore Nott was now keeping a close eye on her, sitting on the chair to her left, darting glances at the notes she was making on the parchments.

"What good was us telling you what we're doing if you're not making any progress?" he groaned, dark eyebrows knitting together and nose scrunched up.

"I've known for half a day. Maybe if you let me work in peace, I'd be able to figure it out more quickly," she sighed in frustration, letting the quill fall on the parchment. "Your presence is bothersome."

"I don't see how. You managed to do well in classes with resident fools Potter and Weasley hovering over you at all times," he spat, a glint of mockery burning in his irises.

The mention of those names, in that tone, hurt Hermione—she tried to wash it away by swallowing her saliva and keeping her eyes staring at the books in front of her. Nott wanted to rile her up—it would be unwise to show him that he could. He just seemed like the kind of man who would bask in it.

"Fine," she finally said. "If you want to waste your time watching me like a hawk, that's your decision. You're delaying both your plans and mine, but that's your funeral." And mine.

"I'm sure little miss Brightest Witch of her Age can figure it out even with my humble presence in her vicinity. If the fact of me being here disturbs her so much, then she isn't as smart as everyone would have us believe—and that would take our little deal off the table."

Hermione's fingers drummed on the table in the frustration—did the man ever have a single coherent thought? He had said there was no going back—why was he yet again on a mission to make her give up?

Or maybe. Maybe he didn't intend to have her give up. Maybe he intended for her to die.

It wasn't something she had ever truly thought about—her deal with Malfoy did not protect her from Theodore Nott. And though the Terror was the greater threat, Nott was the most imminent one. The closest one. What prevented him from pulling his wand out and performing and Avada Kedavra on her the moment her back was turned? What had prevented him from doing it before, since the moment they made the deal?

She could find no other answer than: his friendship with Malfoy. Malfoy, who had made the deal to pay a debt he owed to Harry. Harry, who had sworn her death if Ron didn't abide by his rules. Ron, who had poisoned her and her recruits to win an unwinnable war. The strings between the men around her were tangled—messy and full of knots.

And then came another question: why put up with her for so long, if only for Malfoy's sake, only to turn around now and threaten her? What had changed?

The answer was obvious, of course: she knew their plans now. She was a threat to him, not just a mere obstacle. And, upon realising this, Hermione smiled. She was regaining power—restoring balance to this uneven trio.

"What are you smiling about?" groaned Nott, visibly unsatisfied with the lack of impact his threat was having.

"You can watch me as much as you'd like, Nott, but I'm not letting you peek inside my mind. There are limits to my patience," she said sternly, without sparing him a glance. She picked up her quill and went back to work.

The tension between them only grew from there. Nott was riding her coattails from sunup to sundown, disparaging her every chance he got. He was the moth to her flame—and she hated the way it made her feel.

Because when he spat verbal abuse at her, it made the Noxious coursing through her veins bubble and burst.

Because when he taunted her and her capabilities, it reminded her he was on a mission to kill her, to end her, and to free Malfoy from their deal.

Because when he pried her notes and her books out of her hands to take a closer look at them, his nails scratched her skin.

But, mostly, because when he sat so close to her that his warmth enveloped her, she was reminded of how lonely she was. How lonely she had been for years.

Because despite his loathing of her, despite his disdain for her kind, despite the violence lurking in his eyes, his mere presence reminded her that she was human—and of all the visceral things she had experienced in the past few years, lust was one she had forgotten and banned entirely… only for it to come back at the wrong moment—right as she was on the precipice of death, and danger, right when she needed her mind focused and strong and undisturbed by primitive thoughts.

It certainly didn't help that Malfoy always seemed to be away or locked in his room. He had barely said a word to her since the night she had told her story—or to Nott, for that matter.

That morning, she averted her eyes as Nott joined her for breakfast. She tried to keep a flush from creeping onto her cheeks. This was just a bodily response—it didn't mean anything. It didn't have to mean anything.

"You know, Granger, it's disturbing enough having to stare at that nasty face of yours day in, day out," he quipped as he poked his fried eggs with his fork, "so perhaps you should bring me some solace and eat in the kitchen from now on."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Maybe you wouldn't have to be so disturbed if you spent your days doing something else. Something worthwhile." Acidity and exhaustion dripped from her voice in liquid syrup she wished she could toss at him.

"I'm not seeing any worthwhile progress on your part, so my days are well organised as is," he responded, parroting her choice of words.

"Fine." She didn't want to fight, not today.

She picked up her plate and briskly walked out of the dining room, ears buzzing in rage, a nauseating tint of green on her wrists. She couldn't let him see her like this—it was the last thing she was holding over them.

The Noxious in her veins.

"Pinky," she announced as she walked past the kitchen's entrance, "you don't mind if I eat here from now on, do you?"

"Pinky does not mind, Miss! But Pinky is wondering why?"

"Nott has exiled me to the kitchen," sighed Hermione. There was a bitter taste in her mouth—it reminded her all too well of the way she had been treated at Goyle manor. Perhaps shackles to her bed would be next.

The elf scrunched up her nose in response. "Sir Nott is not a very nice man."

That's when Hermione remembered her first interaction with the elf. She rummaged through her memories to recall the exact words she had used…

"Pinky does not like Sir Nott indeed, Miss Granger. Sir Nott have done a lot of very very bad things to Master Malfoy."

"Would you mind telling me how you came to that conclusion, Pinky? I'd very much like to learn more about him," she asked gently, kneeling next to the elf. "For my own safety, of course," she added, remembering how little the elf had wanted to talk about it the first time.

"Pinky cans not, Miss. Master Malfoy asks Pinky to keeps his secret. Pinky is very sorry." The elf's ears flopped—she looked on the verge of tears. A single drop fell from her eyes.

"It's alright, Pinky. I don't expect you to break any orders you were given. I'm just happy to have your company," Hermione smiled, wiping the elf's tear away with her thumb.

Maybe it was that she was touched by her gesture. Maybe it was that she felt a desire to protect her. Maybe it was that she loathed Nott so much… Whatever it was, Pinky twisted her bony hands into knots and looked down to the floor before whispering: "There is one thing Pinky cans tell Miss, because Master Malfoy does not know that Pinky knows. Sir Nott and Master Malfoy, they…" She sniffled, the tips of ears flapping in anxiety. "They speaks in code. They cans speak with just their eyes."

This was not news to Hermione, who had been an unwilling witness to many a silent conversation between them—but something about the way Pinky explained it struck her as odd. She had chalked up those moments to them being friends for years, to them knowing the ins and outs of their personalities and quirks. She had imagined something organic, informal in nature.

Calling it a "code" dismantled that entire train of thought. She remained kneeled beside the small elf, racking her brain for an answer.

An altogether different one appeared to her.

The equations weren't equations at all. They were a code.

"Thank you, Pinky. That was more helpful than you could ever imagined."

She ran up to her room and picked up a quill and parchment. The original scrolls were in the library, where she was being watched at all times by Nott—lucky for her, she had spent so much time hunched over them that she knew them by heart.

She scribbled the first one on top of the parchment.

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

Now that she understood its nature, it seemed so obvious to her it was nearly comical. She added the second one on the line below.

S = 7 – 15 – 5 – 19 + 23 – 8 – 5 – 18 – 5

And the third one.

S = 7 – 15 – x

And the last one.

S = 18 – 5 – 19 – 9 – x – 5 – 19

It all made sense now. The x wasn't a number variable—it was a letter. The sums and the subtractions didn't need to make sense—in fact, there was a reason that they never came to the same result, no matter what variable she tried out for x. Because it was a letter.

Now, all she needed was a cypher.

She rushed back down to the library and sat next to Nott, trying to bottle her excitement and to keep it in. He was right to doubt her—she couldn't let him know what she had found out. She had never intended for him to learn the spell's location—not then, and certainly not now that she was close to an answer. Close to the answer.

Nott reminded her of the Devil—and she had no reason to hand him the keys to the castle. Malfoy's motivations were still somewhat cloudy, but, she suspected, mostly inoffensive. She had come to the conclusion that he intended to resurrect his mother—and, while the idea of playing God was all kinds of wrong to her, she couldn't fault him for it. Nott, on the other end, was the Devil incarnate. A man who could be this cruel, this violent, and yet still arouse her, couldn't be anything else but a spawn from the depths of Hell. And she was certain that whatever ideas he had in mind with the Devil's Pact would eventually mean her death and that of those like her.

No, she needed to keep it together in front of him. She needed to appear as fruitless and as useless as she had really been for the past few days—all the while figuring out the cypher and translating the code into words.

She was certainly clever enough to do that—wasn't she?

It didn't matter. She had to be.

"What boring book will you use today, Granger?" asked Nott. He seemed particularly dangerous today—she patted her skirts to make sure she could easily reach her wand in case things turned sour.

"Arithmancy," she replied, opening the large tome she had left there the night before.

She could feel him bubbling in anger next to her. He knew she had already been over that book a hundred times, without any luck. She had to be careful—she couldn't risk angering him too much.

"I'm starting to get tired of your little games, Granger. What could there possibly be in this book that you haven't already read? What are you hiding from me?"

How could he possibly know?

"Not a damn thing, Nott!" Green tinge creeped up on her skin—what was it about this man that evoked such a strong response from the Noxious? "If you think this is any fun for me, you're much more of a fool than you let on!"

His eyes grew wide with shock. "Why are you turning green, Granger?"

Somehow, that made her angrier and perhaps that was why—

Perhaps—

It happened in a fraction of a second.

It was ineffable—something beyond her.

She slammed the Arithmancy book shut and—

She hit Nott across the face with it.

It made a sound like no other. Not quite a smack or a thud, but something in between. Blood spilled out of his mouth, droplets scattering across the book cover, raining down the paper and forever tainting it with her rage-induced act.

There was silence for a moment as Hermione realised the magnitude of what she had done. She watched, her conscience at a distance, as Nott recomposed himself in front of her. The moving pieces of his face untangled themselves until he was no longer a patchwork of shock and confusion. His dark irises focused on her while the rest of him still tried to make sense of what she had done—he had a broken nose, perhaps even a few teeth; his hair was electric, strands shifting in odd directions; his right cheek was cherry red, blooding rushing to the surface where she had smacked him.

"That was an… unwise decision, Granger."

They had been on the verge of a fight many times. They had drawn out their wands and nearly cursed each other, they had insulted each other relentlessly. He had threatened her and preyed on her vulnerabilities and her secrets.

Of course, there had been that one duel, in the early days of the deal she had struck with Malfoy. She remembered feeling overpowered with rage and indignation and violence. She remembered tossing curse after curse in Nott's face—his eyes flashing white while he was foaming at the mouth.

She hadn't known back then, but it was clear now. It had been the Noxious—and not once, but twice, it had been provoked and enraged by Theodore Nott. Malfoy never seemed to have the same effect on her—though he infuriated her often, and though she remembered the profound distrust she had felt for him early on, he was kinder.

But there was something else.

There was something about the two of them, a distinction so profound, that the poison in her didn't react quite the same. And it was a difference, she knew instinctually, that was not borne of their personalities or their heritage. It was borne of magic. Much like the way they communicated with their eyes, or the sudden bouts of Muggleness Malfoy seemed overtaken with, or the dependence Nott had mentioned in the early days of their meeting. A piece of magic that remained unexplained, unnamed, undiscernible. Something she knew consciously and felt unconsciously.

Nott licked and smacked his lips—the Devil had returned, lurking in his eyes, taunting her. "I could kill you, you know," he said, detaching each syllable deliberately.

"Of course I know. You've been threatening it for weeks," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes.

It was unwise, taunting him like this—he was more dangerous now than ever. But she couldn't help herself—if he had wanted to kill her, he would have done so already.

Would he?

It didn't matter now. She had humiliated him twice—both the wizard and the Muggle way. He was bound to react. He was bound to give her what was coming to her.

"I will, Granger. I will, one day. But today isn't that day," he said, turning on his heels and leaving her behind.

Her body refused to move—she watched as his angular silhouette left the room, no longer willing to be faced with her. There was no sense to this, no reason she could find—he could have killed her right there and then. He could have.

No matter—he was gone and she was left to her own devices. Hermione rushed back to the table and picked up the blood-soaked Arithmancy tome. She opened it to the cypher chapter and quickly scanned through the possibilities. Substitution cyphers, transposition cyphers, polygraphic cyphers, permutation cyphers, alphanumerical cyphers… it had to be the last one. She skipped to the page and traced the different tables with her finger.

It couldn't be this easy.

Could it?

She flipped the book all the way to the last page, which had been left blank, and ripped it out, dismissing the shrinking in her heart at the act of destroying a book. Then, she wrote down the equations again, and, finally, translated them to words, leaving the variable x unknown.

S = g – o – e – s + w – h – e – r – e

S = g – o – x

S = x – o – w – n + t – h – e + x – e – v – i – l

S = r – e – s – i – x – e – s

Clever, of course. The Devil's Pact—x stood for the letter d. Hermione crossed each x to replace it and tore the ripped page into four pieces. It didn't take long for her to unscramble them and get them in the right order—at last, she was getting somewhere.

At last.

The final result read: "Down the Devil goes where God resides."

It was both a victory and an incommensurable frustration—there was no location, just another puzzle for her to solve. "Where God resides" had to mean a house of God—a church. It certainly helped some—but not much. God was a popular figure in this world—there had to be hundreds, if not thousands, or churches all over the world.

And Hermione did not have the luxury to travel, even within the bounds of her own kingdom. Not unnoticed, anyway. She knew her wand usage was tracked, now more than ever—and even if commonly used spells seemed to escape much of their detection, Apparating did not. She was still unsure of the mechanics of it all—much of her experience until then had been incoherent at best—but she was unwilling to take such a grave risk.

She would have to figure out this riddle here. And it would prove to be hard, because she knew that Nott would come back to track her and ask questions about her progress.

But he wasn't here—not right now.

So she briskly walked through the shelves and picked up books on Christian history, places of worship, a copy of the Bible for good measure, and a few other theology tomes. She included everything she could think of—works by Thomas Aquinas, Aristotle, William of Ockham, to name just a few; architecture tomes on the construction of churches; writings about Michel Angelo. And, because Merlin was believed to have originated the pact, she also gathered anything and everything she could find on the Arthurian legend. She rushed the pile of books up to her room and hid it under her bed with a Disillusionment charm for added protection. There wasn't much more she could do yet—she would have to study at night, and dupe Nott during the day.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—she was getting closer, and she couldn't stop now.

The days were proving to be long and the nights very short—Nott hadn't given up on his surveillance, proving himself more tenacious with each new moment, and his body edging closer to hers every morning, until he was, quite literally, breathing down her neck.

She had expected to find his presence hard to endure, certainly—she hadn't expected it to invade her mind to a point of no return. They despised each other with a violence, but in those moments, all she could think of was the thousand and one fantasies her mind had drummed up—ripping his tunic off, digging her nails into his shoulders, feeling him pummel her to oblivion. Her skin was now a permanent shade of crimson, a reflection of her unconscious shoving these images down her throat.

Her nights were spent pouring over books, learning as much as she could about Christianity—she sometimes wished she had stuck to her religious teachings as a child, instead of rebelling and claiming God didn't exist.

Something she wasn't sure she believed anymore,

not when she saw the Devil dance in Theodore Nott's eyes;

not when she reminded herself of the words on the scroll;

not when the vines of guilt crept up her spine and reminded of where she came from, of what she came from;

not when she couldn't possibly fathom her origins, those of her kind, that of magic.

The knowledge she acquired during the night didn't prove to be useless as much as it proved to be inefficient—she was digesting hundreds of stories, myths, theories, dates and ideas, but not a single one helped her make any sense of the riddle.

She imagined the code was a metaphor—"Down the Devil goes" had to mean Hell. But where did God reside? What place of his had a direct access to Hell? She flipped back and forth between books about Christianity and books about Merlin the Great—wasn't he of the Old Religion? Why would he ever use direct references to the Unique God and to the Devil in order to create his spell? She endeavoured to use metaphysics and analogy in order to make sense of this—but even Aquinas' Summa theologiae was of little use to her—certainly, she enjoyed reading his musings declaring the human to be a single material substance, that one actually existing meant they had both body and soul. But it brought her nothing of substance on the material question of God and his presence amongst His Creation. It said nothing about the soul being sucked to Hell through the house of God.

She was simply at a dead-end.

On her fifth day of running about on little to no sleep, Hermione finally encountered Malfoy. He was sulking in the dining room, deep dark circles painted below his empty eyes.

"Haven't seen you in a while," she greeted him, setting down her parchments on the table—Nott had been called away for the day, presumably by Gaunt, and she was intent on enjoying her freedom.

He hummed in response, still fixated on the floor below him.

"You look tired," stated Hermione.

Malfoy raised his head and stared back at her. "Speak for yourself."

"Your little friend is intent on following my every move and watching my every step. I can hardly bear it anymore."

"Well, he would. He doesn't trust you." It was a simple statement of fact, unburdened with accusations and emotions—still, it hurt.

"It's not like I can go anywhere or do anything of substance. A menace is out there, tracking me, hunting me by the scent of my blood, while he spends with days with our common enemy. But I'm the one who shouldn't be trusted." Her words were vitriolic—and deservedly so, she thought.

"That's not what I said, Granger." The exhaustion in Malfoy's voice gave Hermione pause. For a moment, she thought maybe she was being too hard on him—not lenient enough.

No This was a man occupying a place in society she could never aspire to, even if her side had won the war. He didn't deserve leniency from the former-slave-turned-hunting-prey.

"And what have you been doing while I run myself ragged and grit my teeth through your friend's unbearable presence?" Her tone was harsh, leaving no room for excuses.

"Just a few missions, for Gaunt. It seems his trust is still a favour I must regain."

"And why doesn't Nott have to accomplish all these missions? Gaunt seems perfectly content leaving him to his own devices."

"I have my theories about that." Malfoy stood up. "They're not for you to know, though." The pity in his eyes angered her. "Sorry, Granger, but you're a flight risk. A risk point blank, in fact," he added, inflexing the end of his sentence like it was a humorous thing to say.

He left the room without giving her a chance to respond, and Hermione boiled beneath her skin. Maybe she should just solve the mystery of the Devil's Pact on her own and run—neither of them deserved her compassion or her work.

She continued to boil inside until Nott returned that evening, a sour look disfiguring his usually graceful features. He barrelled into the dining room, where Hermione was eating, having taken her precautions and already hidden her research.

"Where's Draco?"

"In his room, I suppose. I haven't seen him for much of the day," she shrugged, twirling her spoon in the pea soup Pinky had prepared.

Nott stormed his way up the stairs before she could finish, only to return a few minutes later, hair buzzing with electricity.

"Have you solved it yet?"

She hadn't. She didn't respond.

"I need you to solve it. Now, Granger!" he yelled.

She wouldn't.

"Is this a joke to you? Because it's not amusing to either of us!"

It wasn't to her either.

"I will make your life an absolute Hell if you don't come up with the solution in the next week!"

He already had.

"You're a parasite and a recluse. No one wants you here. Not even him!"

A parasite. A recluse. The words dinged in her head with a suddenness and a violence that nearly knocked her from her chair.

She had read many things in the past few days. Some were interesting, like the story of Saint Hardulph, the religious recluse, who took up residence in the Anchor Church Caves during the ninth century. The words had been hurriedly scripted on a flyleaf she had found amidst the pages of a 1545 manuscript: "Saint Hardulph, whose deeds have now largely been forgotten, was part of Kind Earwulf of Northumbria's clergy. For most of his time as a clergyman, he took residence in a cell in a cliff a little from the Trent, known as the Anchor Church Caves, and likely escaped when the Viking Great Army arrived at Repton in 873. The Caves, likely conceived as a crypt originally, were the last sight of a monastic institution in the region until the establishment of Calke Abbey and Repton Priory, some three hundred years later. They were carved within the soil of the Earth—a tribute to God and his Creation." Below the paragraph, a small map of the Caves had been drawn—Hermione had tucked it away in her knapsack—perhaps for safekeeping, or to remember there was beauty in the world. She hadn't been quite sure of her motives at the time.

But now, now.

The code wasn't a metaphor, it was a literal description. "Down the Devil goes"—below the crust of the Earth—"where God resides"—a house of God located below the crust of the Earth. In caves.

In the Anchor Church Caves.

"Granger, I'm speaking to you," seethed Nott, yanking her chair so she would face him.

"I haven't solved it yet. But I'm close," she said. It was better to let him have a few crumbs—it would ensure her survival. "The equations, they're… they're a code."

"A code? What do you mean?" He had instantly deflated, his hands no longer white as he loosened his grip on the chair.

"I mean that the scripture may look like it's an equation, that it may look like it's a mathematical problem to solve—but it's not. Each symbol stands for something."

"For what?" His impatience irritated her.

"That's what I'm researching now—the cypher used to encrypt the code. Once I have it, I… I'll be able to translate the scriptures and give you the location of the spell." She stumbled on her sentence—the irritation he was causing her was dragging up something else, something she kept trying to push down.

He let go of the chair completely. "Alright then. But make it fast."

"In a hurry to take over the world?" she snickered.

"Maybe," he shrugged, leaving the dining room.

Hermione sat there for another couple of hours. The magnitude of her realisation was seeping through her mind, taking hold of her conscience. She had solved half of the riddle for the Devil's Pact, Merlin's most infamous mythological magical ritual—well, real magical ritual, as it turned out. And she had done it alone, both without any help and with constant hindrances.

It took her another couple of days to decide what she should do with that information—keep it to herself, tell Nott, tell Malfoy, tell both. Each solution brought up new obstacles—ones she wasn't quite sure how to face.

Telling Nott only was out of the question—this was what she had ruled out first. She didn't trust the man. She noticed the hungry look in his eyes as she poured over potential cyphers—the Devil dancing, as it often did, beneath his skin. She couldn't trust him to not steal the information and run with it.

Keeping it to herself was another one she was forced to rule out, though she wished she could have chosen it. It would have meant pretending to figure it out until she could form an exit plan—and with Nott's growing impatience, she wasn't sure there was any sustainability to this idea. She had considered feeding him false clues—but the man was in full possession of his wand and his freedom. He would find out—and may God have mercy once he did.

This left her with either telling Malfoy or telling them both—it felt like both would take her to the same destination.

Until she heard them bicker, one evening. The words were hard to make out—occasional screams swished out the closed door, ringing in her ears. But even then, she couldn't understand a single word they were saying. She suspected they had proofed the door with an anti-eavesdropping spell. But even then, she could recognise their voices—and Nott's anger bled red in its violence.

And, so, she decided to tell only Malfoy. She snuck into his room that night, sat beside his bed, and shook him until he was awake.

"Can't this wait tomorrow, Granger?" he groaned, still half-asleep.

"I've solved it," she said. "But you can't tell Nott. I don't… I don't trust him."

The words spilling out of her mouth were more effective than ice water—he shot upright in his bed, intent on listening.

"You solved it?"

"I did."

"Well, where is it?"

"It's in the Anchor Church Caves," she whispered.

"And you're certain?"

"I am."

He looked deep into her eyes, frantically searching for the truth. His stare somewhat destabilised her and she blushed.

"Alright, Granger. Thank you."

She nodded and returned to her room, a weight lifted from her shoulders.

She trusted that he would do the right thing. That he would come back and tell her she was right. That they would enact the Pact and put a stop to the war once and for all.

But those words he whispered in the dead of the night, thanking her, were the last he spoke to her.

Because, the next day, he was gone—surely to retrieve the spell, thought Hermione once she noticed his absence.

She had trusted him, after all. Her life was in his hands.

He would soon come back, triumphant, with the spell in hand, wouldn't he?

But he never did.