CHAPTER 10. A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

It had been three days. Three days since he had left. Hermione was holding on to the hope that he would return, but every second dwindling by only increased her doubt.

Nott, too, was growing rather restless, though he tried his best to hide it from her—he paced about the manor with a worried look looming in his dark eyes, sometimes even muttering to himself. Since Malfoy had up and left in the middle of the night, he had stopped paying attention to Hermione entirely—he no longer stood above her shoulder while she pretended to figure out the location of the spell. He occasionally left for a few hours, presumably in search of his friend and companion, though she couldn't be certain.

The more Hermione pondered on the matter the less Malfoy's disappearance made any sense to her. He was in possession of the location of the spell—but as far as she was aware, the Devil's Pact also required a potion, the recipe of which had been hidden as well. Did Malfoy and Nott already uncover the recipe's location? Had they already made the potion? She racked her brain, trying to remember if they had ever mentioned it—not that it made any difference. They were brothers in secrecy—they very likely hid it from her. It had taken an inordinate amount of effort on her part to find out the little she knew.

Still, Nott's worry was a complication. It could mean one of two things: either Malfoy had run away, intent on enacting the Pact himself, or—

or—

—something had happened to him.

She couldn't possibly imagine what a wizard of his status had to fear out there—he was one of Gaunt's favourites, and able to defend himself, should any risk present itself. But she also remembered their first encounter, back in the forest, when she had forgotten her wand—the fear in his voice, the weariness of his tone. They had yet to explain to her why it seemed that Nott and he were running away, why they seemed to be in hiding. She knew, of course, that they were tasked with finding her—but the timeline still made no sense. Malfoy had been surprised to run into her at the inn, he had explicitly pushed her away, telling her never to come across them again. And that hadn't been a protective instinct on his part—there was no love lost between them, especially not then.

So maybe he had really been running from something. Maybe he had dragged Nott along. Maybe he had lost Gaunt's favour at that very moment, and was now desperate to get it back—and maybe he had failed in his mission, maybe Gaunt had given up on him. Maybe Gaunt had heard of what they were planning, and maybe he had taken him.

Or—maybe the Anchor Church Caves were a trap. Maybe—

Maybe—

The words spiralled in Hermione's overactive mind. She couldn't fathom what was happening—she couldn't. She didn't. Not for this particular possibility.

She turned to the other one—the one that perhaps would be easier to decipher. Maybe Malfoy had decided to enact the Pact by himself. Maybe he had lost his trust in Nott. Maybe he just wanted to weasel himself out of their deal, out of the Vow, out of his responsibilities—to become free of the shackles holding him down and to resurrect his mother without an obstacle in the way.

Had she put her trust in the wrong Slytherin? Could Nott, despite his dance with the Devil, be the better choice of the two? Had she made a mistake?

Refusing to let herself fall prey to more spinning thoughts, Hermione went on a walk. The abandoned flower garden soon appeared in her view, its dead leaves and brown twigs a powerful reminder of everything that had been lost. Her friends, her dignity, her humanity, her independence. War was a sweep of devastation, tarnishing all the plants on its path to destruction, only leaving behind scraps of what was once whole and vibrant with colour. It drained the world until there were no more than hints of grey amidst the black, the obscure. The darkness.

Hermione had made many choices in the past few years—few she was proud of, few she wanted to repeat, many she regretted and wished she could take back. She knew it was an unrealistic desire—after all, she had taken those decisions out of urgency, survival. They were borne of distress. She couldn't possibly be held culpable for the moral shortcomings she had displayed—could she? Maybe God would disagree with her—maybe he expected her to sacrifice herself to the Cause, like his son had. Maybe she should have returned her blood-stained tunics to the altar of her shame and died uncovered, unashamed, for all to see and to behold.

But Hermione was no believer—not anymore. Though bits and pieces of her former religious education still wormed themselves through her thoughts and her dreams, she had forgone the ideas and the treacherous conceptions that tied her to God. She—

She only saw the Devil now.

The way he sauntered past her when Theodore Nott walked the haunted corridors of the manor, the way he teased her when the body of her enemy came too close to her own, the way he called to her when the nightmares of Ron tore her away from safety. He was always there, looking at her, waiting for her next move, dragging her through depravity—he played her like a flute, Pan calling out to his followers, the piper waiting to be paid.

She wanted to hold onto the belief that she was a mere victim of human machination, that she was being torn away from her world by something that was out to get her for no reason other than the simple act of her being. But the truth was that, the longer time stretched into infinity, the more she was starting to doubt that her nature was not reprehensible or unworthy of hate by the people and the things that were out to get her. It was contrary to her very essence to believe such things, certainly, but she had been through so much and she had lost everything—she had no more family or friends or future or dignity or really anything that made a human being human. All she had was the pain and the loss and the grief and the devastation and the temptation and the horror that she inflicted on countless people in her battle for survival. She was no more a human then she was a creature of God. She was simply… there, being pulled away by the Devil and searching for truer meaning where there was none. Somehow, at some point, she had started to believe the things that were told to her about Mudbloods, about their blood being tainted and dirty and their people being thieves who had taken magic from wizards. She no longer wanted to fight this fight.

Because she had given up everything and she had given up everyone for nothing.

Because, now, it appeared clear to her that Malfoy was never coming back and that he had taken from her the last thing that she had ever accomplished and the last secret that she had ever kept. There was nothing more for her to give or to do or to think or to say. She was a shell of a person. She was nothing.

And so, she concluded, it didn't matter if Malfoy tried to enact the Devil's Pact on his own. She didn't care anymore. She didn't have anyone to lookout for anymore, and she didn't have anything to long for, and she didn't have anything to want or to desire or to live for. She was, for all intents and purposes, ready to die.

Which is why on that third day, she decided to tell Theodore Nott the truth. It would be unpleasant and it might even result in her death, but she was ready to accept it—in fact, in a twist of dramatic irony, she was more than willing to live with it.

She carefully walked to the study where he had been holed up for the entire day. It was an austere place, one she did not expect to find in the likes of the manor that had once belonged to the Black dynasty. The walls were bare—there were no paintings, no shelves of books, no windows… just dark wood on each wall, and a small desk in the corner.

She knocked on the door as a courtesy, and Nott whipped his head towards her.

"What do you want?" he asked. She could no longer see the Devil dancing in his eyes—he seemed exhausted.

"I…" She paused, unsure of how to best phrase her betrayal. There were many things she could say—but none she wanted to. She decided to cut straight to the chase—no point in lingering. "Malfoy is in Anchor Church Caves." He quirked an eyebrow, so she pushed on. "Well, at least… that's where I told him to go."

Nott's expression was undecipherable. He bore no traces of anger or rage or even confusion—his face was smooth and soft as marble. He kept staring at her, his chin overlooking his shoulder, rigid and immobile.

Perhaps it was intended to make her speak—and if it was, then, well, it worked. "I figured out the code days ago. The spell is located in Anchor Church Caves and—and—and—I told Malfoy to go there."

Silence lingered, thick cotton enveloping them and isolating them from the rest of the world. The tension built and built and built until Hermione simply couldn't bear it anymore.

"You can kill me, or hurt me, or do whatever you want to me. I don't care anymore, Nott. I give up. I hope you and your friend have fun tearing the world apart for your own amusement." Tired, calloused hands stretched the skin of her forehead as she sighed in relief. "You have no idea how good this feels. I'm done, finally. I wish I had realised earlier that death was the better option."

He still hadn't moved—was he even listening to her? She leaned against the doorframe and waited—

And waited—

And waited—

"Killing you would be a mercy, Granger. I knew you'd be a thorn in my side from the very beginning, but you managed to exceed even my expectations," he said darkly.

She watched, emotionless, as he rose from his chair and walked past his desk, towards her. "You're going to cost us everything we've worked so hard for. And you're not even willing to fight for your own life. What a pathetic waste of space you are."

And, on those words, he spit in her face.

Hermione rubbed her face with her sleeve, indifferent to his hatred. "I'm glad I at least got to disrupt your plans. Your reckless, dangerous, monstrous plans," she said, voice so low she wasn't sure the words had left her mouth. "If I could at least accomplish this much, then it wasn't all for naught. Ruining your life would be my greatest pleasure, Nott. And if it's the last thing I do, then I can die happy."

He stared her down—the Devil lurked there, grey smoke in his otherwise obscure irises. "Not if I destroy yours first, Granger. I'm going to wreck you, you meddlesome bitch."

The threat left her indifferent—she couldn't imagine what he could have in store for her that was worse than any of the horrors she'd already been through. Threatening those who have nothing to hold on to is a poor strategy—nothing to lose, nothing to gain, it was all for naught.

"You're not worth the breaths I would waste on you, Nott. If you want to destroy me, now's your chance. Go for it."

They were toe to toe, defying one another, their respective detestation poisoning the air. He was everything she stood against—she was everything he wished to exterminate.

"You don't know what game you're playing, witch," he muttered.

"Don't I? Haven't we been through this a thousand times already? Haven't I done everything in my power to meddle and interfere and sabotage you?"

The mockery in her tone had not gone unnoticed—she could see it in his eyes. What was he waiting for?

He curled his lip in disgust and backed away with a few steps. "Are you really going to give everything up when things are finally getting interesting? When we're all nearing our goal?"

Something was holding him back—she couldn't possibly figure out what it was.

"Why do you care what I'm doing with my life? You've made your lack of interest in it very clear," she laughed bitterly, racking her brain for ways to push him beyond his limit.

She was ready to die, certainly, but it suddenly dawned on her that this wasn't just being ready. It was wanting it. Seeking it out.

She had a death wish.

"I don't care, Granger. I'm curious."

"I don't have the answers you seek."

"No, but you're also acting without any logic or reason—playing right into my hands, trying to get me to break you. You know I could. You know I would." Those final words echoed throughout the room, their implicit meaning worming its way through Hermione's mind as she tried to make sense of it.

"I'd like to see you try," she smiled. Maybe the Devil was in her too.

Nott leaned closer, his tall frame hovering above her menacingly, as if he was waiting for a sign of—something.

"I'm not sure you're ready for any of the things I have planned for you, Granger." His hand roamed above her knee and slid under her skirts, grazing her thigh. She shivered—was she afraid?

No.

She was shivering with pleasure.

"You've been a problem since we crossed paths in that forest. A problem I haven't been able to get rid of—a thought I have been able to forget," he confessed, now so close to her she could see all the details painted on his face: the delicate curve of his nose, the blisters on the side of his temple, the delicate red of his lips. "A thorn in my side in more ways than one."

He pinched her thigh, stealing away the moan of pain she let out with a lick of her lips—it vaguely occurred to Hermione that this was his Dementor's Kiss. He was stealing away her soul with his mouth.

He seemed to enjoy her response, because his hand was rougher now, nails teasing her skin and drawing blood to the surface. Heat seeped beneath her skin, pooling in her gut, distracting her from her thoughts.

"I knew you felt it too. You act like a righteous little bitch, always fighting for what's right, but I knew, I know, that you're just as deviant and depraved as I am. You saw him too—no one ever sees him. Not even Draco."

Him. The Devil.

Hermione moaned as Nott's hand dragged along the inner skin of her thigh, teasing the plump flesh. His breath ghosted over her ear—she could hear his heart beating faster, his body growing tense.

"Tell me, Granger," he whispered, the skin of his lips grazing her ear, "do you want to save me as much as you'd like to save Draco?"

Hermione writhed and grunted, unable to form any coherent thoughts. Feeling her indecision, Nott's hand dug into her flesh, eliciting a sharp groan of pain from her.

"Answer me."

She let out a heavy breath. "No. I want you to burn in Hell," she said through gritted teeth.

"Good," he chortled. His other hand snaked up her throat and captured it—he pushed her into the edges of the doorframe, forcing her to be marked by him. The pain shot up her spine, settling in her bones and making her knees buckle.

I should not be enjoying this.

But she was. She'd had impure thoughts about Nott for weeks now—every time he looked over her shoulder, every time he shot her an angry look, every time he talked to her like she was incompetent. The Devil had done its work on her, entrapping her mind and corrupting it until all she could feel was lust and desire popping through her veins and discarding her usually guarded exterior.

Is this what losing one's mind is like?

The question remained unanswered—he had pulled away from her and torn her skirts with his hungry hands, layers of fabric pooled around her feet, her legs now bare and her skin prickled by the draft in the corridor.

"Still so skinny, Granger. And here I thought we were feeding you enough for you to burst at the seams," he observed, hungry eyes drinking in the view. "But keeping you weak has always been in my best interest, so I can't complain," he added, lifting his stare to meet hers.

Long, bony fingers reached for her wrist—the gesture was almost tender, almost loving. Almost.

"Get in the study and bend over the desk," he growled, the predator finally closing in on his prey.

She obeyed, her legs barely strong enough to cross the room, knees buckling with every step. Her elbows hit the wooden desk as soon as she reached her destination, her body weak with want and unable to keep standing of its own accord. She arched her back and she waited—docile, patient.

Deep down, Hermione knew this was wrong—she was giving in to the Devil's Embrace, and there was no turning back from this. There would be a before, and there would be an after; and neither would resemble the other. She was signing away her soul for a reward she was yet to uncover—perhaps to quench the thirst of lust, to shut down the call of the siren.

It shouldn't be enticing enough of a reward—but Hermione had lost herself. She had nothing to lose anymore. The battles and the war had declared her vanquished—

So she was ready to gamble whatever scraps she had left for the sake of having a little life infused into her.

The distinct rustle of clothes being discarded made its way to her ears from behind. Nott's predatory gait produced sharp clicking sounds on the floor—Hermione shivered in anticipation.

Large, calloused hands travelled from her thighs to her hips, fingers anchoring themselves in her drawers and swiftly pulling them down.

"What a pretty little cunt you have, Grange. So wet for me," he snickered, flicking a finger over her wetness. "Tell me, are you untouched?"

"N-no," she stammered.

"Of course not. Dirty blood, dirty girl." She could hear him smile—she quivered.

He teased her a bit more with his finger, working his way through her folds with acute dexterity, responding to the sounds spilling out of her mouth with sharp movements—he was a musician, she was the instrument, and he was playing her as if he'd done it his entire life.

She writhed under his touch, her spirits now long gone, her mind lost to herself, her instrument overcome with tremors, pleasure tearing through her limbs and turning her boneless, limp. Her moans were a psalm; a perverted prayer to the Devil, begging for more, begging for the deal to be sealed and the reward to be given.

He kept on his ministrations, occasionally dipping inside and pumping a few fingers in and out of her, curling the tips to make her buck and squirmed. There was no tenderness there, no attention paid to her well-being—he was rough, demanding, unyielding. And the more he pushed, the more he took, the more he commanded, the more Hermione grew numb, limp, weak. The more she lost herself to something that swallowed her whole and would spit her out broken.

It didn't take long for her to buckle, spine bending, nearly snapping her back in two. She cried and moaned and screamed, usurped of the last bits of her sanity by the strength of her pleasure, bright light blinding her and ears bursting.

She was still reeling when a sudden fullness overtook her—his hands were now digging in her hips and he had shoved himself into her effortlessly, taking after he had given, reminding her that the Devil does not perform any deeds for free. His gestures were rough—he pumped in and out of her with little care for her well-being, pummelling her body into oblivion.

That careless attention to her skin, her flesh, her bones, was not painless—but the pain was vibrant, eating through her last defences and wrapping her heart in her mind in a new layer of determination.

"Fuck, Granger," growled Nott, dragging a hand up to her hair and pulling on it. "I should have done that a long time ago," he added, thrusting harder. "Does it hurt?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, teeth gritted, and jaw clenched.

"Good," he laughed.

Soon, he was no longer speaking words, animalistic sounds echoing around the room as he went faster and harder, each time pushing Hermione to a new limit. She took each one in stride, marvelled by the ability of her body to endure more, to endure longer, to push through new boundaries. The pain had dulled and was now morphing into something else—not quite pleasure, exactly, but something dirtier, stronger. A form of oblivion so complete she feared she might soon turn to dust.

A final groan echoed against the walls of the study, and Hermione felt a warm liquid spill within. Nott pulled out of her and pressed a hand on her back, commanding her to stay put.

"I want to see my work," he said, voice low and strained.

They stayed there for another minute while he watched the substance leak from her, drizzling down her thighs, down her calves, dirtying the floor they were standing on.

Hermione waited for reality to hit her across the face—she waited for the shame and humiliation to wash over her and for the shock and horror to seize her by the throat and make her realise what she had done. What she had accepted be done to her.

Nothing happened.

Rather, she was bathing in a sea of contentment, the agony in her muscles a tender wave crashing all over, engulfing her in this new reality. In the After.

Finally, he let go of her and she turned to face him, unsure of what she would see—disgust, craze, perhaps even shadows of violence roaming about where the Devil usually danced—but Nott's face was blank, pale marble smoothed over and drained of emotion.

"Where did you say the Caves were?" The question shocked her—it was like their perverted encounter had forced a new clarity upon her. And it was only then that Hermione noticed the thin line creasing his forehead, a subtle cue she had missed earlier.

"I didn't," she said, unsure of why he was even asking—and, more importantly, of why he was bothering to ask now.

"Where are they, Granger?"

"They're in Derbyshire, but—Nott, why does that even matter?" she responded, dumbfounded by the sudden change of temperature in the air.

He didn't bother replying. Instead, he hurried behind the desk, pulled out a map from a small drawer and waved his wand above it. In the second it took him to locate the Caves, all colour drained from his face.

For the first time since meeting him in that forest, Hermione was seeing fear on Theodore Nott's face.

"Granger, Derbyshire is nearly two hundred miles from here," he said, his eyes still hovering above the red light blinking on the map. "You sent him to his death!" He stood up, fists crumpling each side of the map. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

She didn't.

"No, I don't," she responded flatly. The panic on his face made no sense to her—she could feel it radiating the room, surrounding her but never touching her.

Grey flames burned in Nott's dark eyes and the Devil roared—she had never seen him so eager before. It was like he had been revitalized by the encounter—like spilling his seed in her womb had awoken the Beast from a long slumber.

"I let you tempt me, and now Draco may be dead," he hissed through gritted teeth, eyes hovering above the map. Then, he raised his head to meet her gaze, walked over to her and swiftly grabbed her by the throat. "I should have gotten rid of you a long time ago, you insufferable pest."

Struggling to breathe, Hermione mustered everything she had and said, panting: "Killing… me would… be a mercy… N-Nott. And… if it… brings you… peace too, so… so be it." The air was slowly whistling out of her body, lungs collapsing and body shaking. Death was close. The death she had so longer for. And, so, resignation settled on her face—she was shocked to find out how sincere she was being. The flame of her indignation, of her rebellion, had well and truly been extinguished.

He released her from his grasp. She fell to her knees, catching her breath in great big gulps, soothing the reddened skin of her neck with the palm of her hand.

"Killing you? Granger, do you really think that would be punishment enough for what you've inflicted on me? On Draco? For the torment I've been living in since you've re-entered our lives? For the betrayals—" He noticed her quirked eyebrow. "Yes, Granger, the numerous betrayals, because it didn't start when you worked on the code behind my back and turned it in to Draco in secret." He paused, staring daggers at her. "The only worthy punishment would be to feed you to the Terror, and trust that I would, in a heartbeat, if that didn't ensure Draco a certain death—God only knows I haven't come this far to see him dying like this. Or like this," he hissed, pointing at the map.

Hermione remained silent. It was like he was speaking in tongues—the riddle in his words were not intended for her, they were spoken in a language only Malfoy knew how to decipher.

And Malfoy wasn't there.

"Let's go," he finally said, grabbing her by the arm and lifting her to her feet. "We may yet save him."

"I don't understand. How could he—There's nothing in the Caves. Nothing that could pose a threat to his life," protested Hermione, tearing herself away from him.

"It's not the location I'm concerned about, Granger. It's how far it is from me," he replied sombrely, turning to face her, towering above her. "Draco cannot survive without me."

He didn't offer up another explanation. Instead, he pulled her by the wrist and dragged her to her room.

"You have five minutes to put some clothes on, grab your wand, and wait for me downstairs. If you're not there, I will drag you there myself, even in a state of undress. Understood?"

Hermione didn't try to protest—after all, she was just as eager to find Malfoy as he was. And he had just given her the opportunity to find out what exactly was going on between the two of them.

Finally.

She was waiting for him by the door three minutes after he had given the order, red skirts encircling her legs, her wand in hand, and a new determination to seek answers rushing to the surface. Just a few hours ago, she had been ready to give up on everything, to let Nott strangle and discard her—and barely an hour ago, he had shagged her senseless.

To see her mind switch around so easily, just because she had been fed a thread of hope, made her wonder if she had simply become insane.

Probably.

Yes, certainly.

But insanity would be the only thing keeping her alive, she realised. She existed in a world of dread and despair, alone and cold. Sanity was simply not an option anymore.

The realisation left her feeling dizzy—she was becoming someone different altogether. Long gone was the Hermione who fought tooth and nail for a better world, who thought in absolutes and acted in strategically calculated moves.

That Hermione had disappeared into the night.

She was now faced with her failings—all her failings. The Devil had coaxed her out of her cage, taking everything from her little by little. Her parents had been first—then, her friends, though the Devil had been careful to ruin their bonds before killing them off—then, her freedom, and any hope of joining a resistance—then, her autonomy—and now, her mind.

And, for a moment, her life—or so she had thought.

But maybe she wasn't ready—not just yet.

"Let's go," commanded Nott, finally appearing in the foyer.

He dragged her out of the home and promptly Disapparated them to the Caves.

The sight was nowhere near as grandiose as Hermione had expected it to be—for, in the middle of unassuming woods, was lodged a construction of stone, sitting right by the river. Rounds holes in the shape of windows had been carved in the façade, signs of a once inhabited domain. The stone rippled like a parchment, and the shadowed, hidden folds revealed doors, just as round in their construction as the windows were. Erosion had taken its toll on the now abandoned Church, leaving the stone cracked and overcome by foliage from all sides.

The more she stared, the more Hermione found beauty in it—this was a tranquil refuge, sitting alone amidst the trees and the water, far removed from the soot of the burgs and the noise of the villages, from the activities of men. Yes, she could see it now: this was the perfect spot to talk to God.

"Come on," beckoned Nott, pulling her away from her reverie.

They walked through the river, cold water filling their shoes as they went. The current tried to deter them—but in that moment, nothing could deter Theodore Nott. He was hellbent on finding his friend and companion, and not even Mother Nature would deter him.

Finding Malfoy, however, was not the issue—as soon as they neared the Caves, they both saw his pale blonde hair popping up from behind a tree.

In the grass.

He was unconscious.

Nott let go of Hermione and ran to the still form of his friend, kneeling beside him—there it was again, the fear on his face. It tore through his usually expressionless and aristocratic features, revealing a side of him Hermione had not been quite sure existed until today.

She rushed to his side and paled at the sight she was faced with.

Malfoy's body was limp and bloodless—beneath his shut eyes, the skin of his face was distinctly jaundiced, the colour of his lips a pale blue; though he had always been angular and hollow-cheeked, his every bone threatened to pierce through the thin layer of his skin, a sign of emaciation so advanced it made her blood run cold. He had only been gone for three days—and though there had been a noticeable weakness to his gait and his stature, it had been nowhere near the state he was currently in. Three days.

"Is he…?" she asked, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"He's alive. Barely, but alive," answered Nott sombrely. "You had some training as a Mediwitch, didn't you?" he asked, lifting his eyes to meet hers. The Devil no longer danced in them.

"I did."

Without waiting for him to ask, she kneeled beside Malfoy's limp body and pulled out her wand. Her hands were shaking, little tremors sifting through her nerves—she hadn't done this in a long time.

She wasn't even sure she was still able to.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—she just had to perform diagnostic spells for now. The rest would come later—the rest, she could figure out when she came to it.

Softly, she hovered her wand above Malfoy's body, muttering diagnostic spells: for the skin, for the bones, for the muscles, for the blood, for the organs, for the tissue and the inner linings, for the brain. Each new spell came up empty—it made no sense.

"I'm not getting anything," she said, frustrated. "His body is responding normally—but that can't—that can't be."

So she tried again. And again.

And again.

In front of her, Nott was growing restless, jitters are the tips of his fingers and flutters in his eyelids. He remained silent as Hermione worked, eyes glued to the body of his companion, like he was waiting for a miracle.

"I have to bring him back," he said after a while. "You stay here and find the scripture you sent him for."

"You're not going anywhere," protested Hermione. "And I'm certainly not staying here alone."

"He's dying, Granger—this isn't up for debate, or discussion."

"He's not—he's going to survive this. You need to let me figure out what's wrong. You need to let me work! And then, you need to bring me back with you. You know I can't Disapparate without being tracked down by the Terror!" Her words echoed throughout the forest, so loud she might as well declare herself dead on the spot.

"You did this, Granger. This is your mess to clean up."

"I gave him the code—I didn't force him to go. If he knew the danger he was facing, and guessing by your earlier reaction, I'm quite certain he did, then he made the choice to come here knowing the full extent of the consequences. So I think the real culprit here, Nott, is you—he didn't trust you anymore than I did. And do wonder why that is." She was standing up now, towering above the kneeling form of the Devil's henchman, her words burning him to a crisp.

He rose from the ground, staring daggers at her. "He went alone because you begged him to and he would never refuse you. Don't pretend like you don't know that, Granger—he's been catering to your every whim ever since—ever since—" The words died in his throat. "It doesn't matter! I'm the only one who can save him, so I will be the one taking him home. And you will look for that scripture—this was part of the deal! We protect you, you solve this for us! Part of solving it is keeping your word and actually getting the scripture. I will come and fetch you once that's done—you have a wand, you're not helpless here."

Hermione felt her heart sink. If he abandoned her here, she could die—she may very well die. And the Vow would be useless to save her—because Malfoy was unable to protect her, unconscious and dying as he was.

It would all have been for naught.

"This is what you wanted," she whispered, voice low and menacing. "You promised you'd eventually get me, and this is how you do it. By abandoning me here."

"Granger, listen to me—because I will not say this twice: I've never made a secret of my intentions with you—they were always to get rid of you. But do you sincerely think I would not have done so by now if I could have? After you duelled me? After you slapped me across the face with that book? After you tempted me so much I gave in and fucked you? After you betrayed me?" He paused—he was gripping his wand so hard his knuckles were turning white. "I'm a powerful wizard, Granger. Maybe not as powerful as you, some would suggest, but powerful enough and with enough protection in this world that I could have turned you to ash at any moment's time. And I haven't. Care to venture a guess why that is?"

"Because you're a coward," she hissed. It likely wasn't true, but she couldn't possibly fathom why, in fact, he still hadn't gotten rid of her.

"Because I can't. Because I'm tied down by a promise that forces me to keep you alive. I detest you, Granger—you're the most intrusive, infuriating, exasperating, irritating being I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. You vex me at every turn. I keep you alive because I am bound by duty. So no, I'm not abandoning you here so you can die at the hands of the Terror—I will come looking for you once you signal that you have the scripture. And I will not do so with any pleasure or desire—in fact, I will loathe every moment and I will curse your existence at every opportunity—" he breathed in, "but I will do it."

She found nothing to respond—Nott was many things, but she wasn't convinced he was a liar. By omission, perhaps, certainly in fact, but not by deception. She wanted to protest more, to force his hand, to spend more time trying to save Malfoy, but it was now obvious all her efforts would be in vain.

Fighting him was futile.

"Fine," she sighed, arm falling by the side and grip on her wand loosening.

She watched, helpless, as Nott grabbed Malfoy by the arm and Disapparated them from the forest clearing, leaving her alone amidst the trees, next to the constant gurgling side of the river flowing by. Resigned to her fate, whatever it may be, she turned towards the Caves and walked towards them, hoping there wasn't another trap waiting for her.

But, to her surprise, Hermione was not faced by the sight of the stone façade.

She was faced by three wizards, all unknown to her.

"Hermione Granger," said the first one. "So the rumours are true."

"I—"

"You're alive."

"Who are you?" she asked. She held her wand tighter, ready to attack.

"We're the Mudblood Initiative. We've been looking for you."