CHAPTER 12. OLD GAME, NEW RULES

She disappeared in the middle of the night, as silently and as gently as she could, leaving nothing behind. It was like she'd never been a member of the Initiative—like she'd never even met them. Of course, the memory of her presence would roam the tunnels of the Caves—and she knew that she would one day pay the price for betraying their trust and leaving them in the lurch—but she hoped that the seeds she had sown during her time there would bloom in their minds and that she would one day be able to return.

For now, she had more urgent matters to handle.

She waited until she was far enough from the Caves to pull her wand out and send Nott a Patronus letting him know she was in possession of the scroll and waiting for him to bring her back to the manor.

To her surprise, he came along with Malfoy, who was now somewhat steady on his feet—even if he still looked paler than Death.

They returned to the manor in silence—the anger brewing on Nott's face never relenting, not for one second, not even when he abandoned her in the kitchen to guide Malfoy back to his room before returning to her.

"Explain yourself."

Hermione placed the scroll on the table and sat more comfortably in the wooden chair.

"I have it. You have no reason to be upset with me."

"You disappeared for ten days! Draco was driving himself sick with worry, and he's already ill enough as it is! And that's all you have to say?" He shouted, white knuckles gripping his wand by his side. "I have half a mind to hex you right here and there. What in God's name have you been doing?"

Hermione bit her lower lip, trying to find the words that would best get her out of this mess. One thing was for certain: she wasn't going to confess to the existence of the Mudblood Initiative. This was for her and her only to know—these were her people, not Nott's, not Malfoy's. And they needed her protection now more than ever.

"Did you expect the Caves to just cough up its secrets and hand me the scroll? There were—traps—and puzzles—and—it was work. You left me there to starve and you think I'm the one with some explaining to do? You're lucky I succeeded and made it out of there alive!"

"It took you ten days to go through a few traps? Or were you trying to escape with the scroll, until the moment where it seemed inevitable for you to ask us to come to your aid?"

Hermione stood up and tossed the parchment in his face. "Let us make one thing clear, Nott. I've given you more than enough reason to anger you, and you've given me more than enough reason to distrust you. But I've succeeded here. If I had been this desperate to escape you, I would have."

He laughed. "Then why haven't you?"

"Are you daft? I don't want to. We made a pact. Protection for me as long as the Terror remains a threat to my safety and that of Mudbloods. And for you, the instructions to the most ridiculously dangerous ritual in existence. I'm fulfilling my end of the bargain. You abandoned me in the Caves; left me there to die." She paused and took in a deep breath. "So, tell me: are you fulfilling your end? Or are you implying that I might as well leave now and get myself killed so your friend may find his death. Is that what you want? Is that why you left me there?"

"I would never have if you hadn't betrayed me and sent Draco on a fool's errand in secret."

"He's an adult. He could have chosen to stay behind and to inform you. He chose to go. How on Earth was I supposed to know—he didn't!"

Nott's expression turned sour instantly. "He did, Granger. He knew the risks."

Hermione's jaw unclenched and she stared at him, mouth agape: "He knew?"

"Yes, and he went because you asked him, which I find to be preposterous. The simple fact that you cannot comprehend how much he's done and would do just because you asked is frankly insulting."

Hermione had wondered since the beginning why Nott harboured such hatred of her; why he persisted in antagonising her and pushing her away when his companion didn't seem to mind her presence nearly as much. And now, hearing him speak like that, she understood. She knew. Theodore Nott was jealous—infinitely so.

It didn't surprise her nearly as much as it should have—of course, it was not something that was extraordinarily common in these parts (at least, not publicly)—but she had read the Greeks. She wasn't ignorant to the facts of deviance, and much less to the ideas of violent social rejection. Hence—no, it did not surprise or shock her.

It did, however, peel away many of the layers that had obstructed her view of the situation, that had prevented her from seeing the full picture. How she could have been so blind to the passions that tied the two Slytherins together, she didn't know.

She doubted, though, that similar passions pushed Draco Malfoy to respond to her requests; and the why of it all was, perhaps, the most confounding mystery of them all.

"You look like a fish out of water, Granger," he sneered.

She ignored his comment. "Can I go see him?"

"I couldn't stop you even if I wanted to."

She rushed out of the dining room and up the stairs, barging into Malfoy's room without so much as a knock.

"Why did you go?" she asked, bypassing all social manners. "If you knew, why did you go?"

He was lying on his bed, back turned to her, hunched over himself like a child in the womb. Through the thin fabric of his tunic, Hermione could see his bones protruding. He was so thin. Impossibly so, unhealthily so.

He slowly turned his head to face her, and the vision she was welcomed with was no better. His skin had a silver tinge to it, luminescent and yet so drab; his eyes were swallowed by the blackened skin around them; and his cheekbones were so apparent they drowned out the rest of his face. He was all sharp angles, no longer cushioned by the softness of flesh.

"I didn't know," he protested, his voice weak—vocal cords shredded and hanging by their last thread.

"You knew it was a possibility."

"It was a gamble."

"You didn't tell me."

He furrowed his brow. "Believe it or not, Granger, I don't need to tell you everything—or anything, in fact. I do not have to explain myself to you."

"Don't you think the time has come for the secrets to stop? For you both to tell me everything you've kept hidden from me? I'm halfway through fulfilling my end of the pact—it's not like I cannot be trusted."

"It's not about our trust in you, Granger." He closed his eyes and breathed in. "You're not ready to know."

"When will I be?"

"When I decide it," interrupted Nott as he entered the room. "When I'm certain we've moved enough that you can't possibly turn back."

She glared at him. "That tells me all I need to know." That tells me whatever it is you're hiding from me would be enough to have me change my mind about helping the both of you.

He dismissed her with a hand gesture. "The very fact that you still believe yourself important enough to either of us, Granger, is all I need to know about you."

A sharp melody escaped her mouth; something halfway between laughter and gasping. "You wouldn't even have the spell for the Pact if it weren't for me, Nott. Am I supposed to believe that you no longer care for it? That you've lost yourself in your hatred of me to the point of losing sight of the things you hold dear?" His gaze narrowed, sparks of loathing shining through his half-closed lids. "It is of no matter to me whether you regard me as friend or foe; and, quite frankly, being your foe is what might save my life, since I see nothing but pain and disease in the path to being your friend." Her gaze landed on Malfoy, sickened and weak in his bed, so thin and small that he was a mere plank of wood lost to the tumultuous seas of his eggshell bedding. "I am essential to you now. The rules have changed. This war is not one you will win."

"I don't remember you having the same gusto when you were panting like a common whore with my cock buried in you." The taunt zinged in the air before snapping in Hermione's face and curling itself around her neck, suffocating her. "Remember your place, Mudblood," were the last words he uttered before walking out of the room, an eerie smile etched on his face.

"What did he mean by that?" Malfoy's voice was a weak echo in the room, rumbling and thin, the flame of a candle threatening to die out.

The question caught her off-guard—she had almost forgotten him, his presence, his illness seeping in the air and keeping him quiet; subdued.

"N-nothing." It was a poor lie; a weak one. Not one she expected him to believe.

"First, you use my illness to torment him. Then, I find out you've fucked him. And you have the gall to lie to my face?" His voice was deprived of judgment. He sounded exhausted, torn from the sleeping silence of his barebones existence; too weak to carry the weight of the war raging between Nott and Hermione.

"I don't know what to say," she offered as meagre consolation.

"Then don't say anything, Granger. I tire of this." He coughed, shock rippling across his chest and burgundy blood spilling on the sheets. "Sometimes, I wonder if you know you're no better than us. Because you seem so convinced—" He left the sentence hanging as more liquid life spilled from his lips, staining the silks and the linens around him.

The reproach bathed in his disease angered Hermione more than if it had come from a healthy mouth and an acute mind. Even in his weakened state, as he darkened Death's doorstep, Draco Malfoy seemed to forget where they each came from and what paths had forged them. He was failing to acknowledge the why lurking beneath the violent and reprehensible choices they all made. The Purebloods harmed while the Mudbloods defended—that was the truth of it all.

"Go to Hell, Malfoy," she spit out as she turned away to leave the room.

"I'll meet you there," he retorted before sinking back to the form of a lost child, with hugged knees and his head hanging low.

She refused to look back.

"A lovers' spat, then?" Nott's voice seeped into the air, echoing against the walls. He made her jump in shock—of course he had waited and listened.

"I'm sorry to say you're the only man of late who qualifies as my lover," she managed to retort, her heart still thumping in her chest.

"I merely fucked you."

"My point exactly."

"You hurt him."

"So did you."

"I know." He surprised her. The creases and the shadows on his face spoke of true remorse; something Hermione, until that day, had always thought him incapable of. "I need to save him."

She let a lull stretch between them, terrified to scare away the human part of him, the one that was finally making its presence known to her.

But Theodore Nott was a man of few words, and fewer yet were those that seemed to acknowledge he was capable of kindness within that dark heart of his. So he let the lull settle in, refusing to elaborate on the meaning of his words.

"Why are you still standing here? I believe there is still a potion recipe you need to find for us." His voice dripped with contempt; shimmered with the satisfaction of knowing he could still disrespect her openly and get away with it.

She rolled her eyes, frustrated to see the shell slip back over his head so quickly. "And how am I expected to go about that? You've given me nothing to go on."

"There are some echoes about its whereabouts. The name Domitia Peverell has been uttered more than once, and so I believe that's where your search should begin. Mine has yielded next to nothing—it's almost like she doesn't exist," he explained, a sick glint in his eyes. "Let's hope you have better luck."

Perhaps it was good that she had spent so much time with two Slytherins. Just a few months ago, at the utterance of the name 'Domitia Peverell', she would have gasped. She would have made it known that she knew that woman, that she had met her. She would have led him straight to her without even having to open her mouth.

But as it stood, she had spent so much time holed up with two men versed in the art of deception and secrecy that she made no move to signal her knowledge of that particular name. She simply nodded along, mimicking the face of the ingénue learning things for the first time and drinking in the instructions as they came—as if they were completely new to her simple mind and of no more interest to her than the recipe of roasted mutton showlder.

"Is that all?"

"It's not." Malfoy was leaning against the doorframe, barely standing, his arms hanging limply by his side and his legs curved at the knee. "She was, I believe, one of the very first Unspeakables, a few decades ago. She tore the Veil between the Realms and infused grains of sand with the magic of Time. Little is known about her, in truth, but my father met her once," explained Draco, his voice croaking and creaking and cracking with every new word, like each was a single stab in his vocal cords. "She's powerful, very much so. She's also evaded everyone who has sought her out. Like smoke," he added, hands curling as he imitated the movement of smoke. "More importantly—and, really, the only reason we know of her possession of the potion recipe—she spent much of her life in exile, away from England. She was, at least to some extent, for a duration of time, around or with Gaunt—and it's possible he's aware of the Pact and in possession of a copy of the recipe, he added. "Don't look at me like that, Theo. She hasn't been caught by either of us, and I doubt Granger will have much more luck. She deserves to at least know what awaits her out there—especially considering her limitations in movement."

Hermione turned to face Nott, who was still standing behind her—there was steam pouring out of his eyes and the vermillion shade of rage had drawn shadows beneath his eyes. To say he was angry was an understatement—by miles. He looked ready to off Malfoy himself; if whatever illness his companion was sick with didn't get there first.

He stayed still for a moment before softening. "You're right, Draco. She will fail either way. Or she will turn on us, which you've just allowed to happen with your reckless honesty. In any case, I will save you where she cannot. Remember that."

There it was again—the pain, the hurt in his eyes, storms brewing golden lightning of agony; the jealousy, poisonous and seeping from his pores. Now that she was seeing it, Hermione wondered how she had missed it all along. It was so obvious.

She said nothing, betrayed no emotion at the idea that Domitia Peverell could be an ally of Gaunt's; she simply tucked away that information for later.

Maybe she would end up betraying them, after all—God only knew they deserved it.

In the corridor, the tension between Malfoy and Nott continued to rise. "Don't be a child, Theo. I'm fine."

He was anything but, of course, but contradicting him felt cruel.

"You should go lie down, Draco. I'll bring more Blood Replenishing Potion your way."

This was a dismissal if Hermione had ever heard one. She slid out of the conversation and left them to their own devices before turning around and slipping through the door to her own bedroom. She closed it silently and pressed her back against it before sliding down, overwhelmed by the colossal empire of lies and secrecy threatening to topple over her. She was hardly any closer to ridding the world of the Terror and its master, hardly in any position to do it all herself—and, in the midst of it all, she had managed to find herself trapped with two lunatics who shielded her from essential knowledge and used her as a pawn in their sick game.

It was a fall from grace the likes of which she would never have imagined befalling her.

Of course, it didn't stop there—too many lines had been crossed and a precipice had formed cracks in the Earth below her feet. She was so close to falling—so close.

She thought back to what Draco had told her earlier—how she was no better than them, and they would wound up in the same Hell. Together.

And though she had confronted him on it, though she had convinced herself of her own motives, she couldn't deny the truth staring her in the face: in her path of survival, she had enacted betrayal, death, and destruction. She could blame the Noxious coursing her veins all she wanted, or even the dire circumstances she often found herself in—but the truth was, as most things tended to be, a little harder to accept than the excuses she had crafted: she craved that violence. She enjoyed it, often.

Certainly, much of what she had done could be justified one way or another—she disobeyed the Order to change the course of the war; she attempted to murder the Goyles to flee from a life in chains; she murdered nine men to save her own life; she tricked Malfoy into making a deal with her to save herself from the Terror; she then tried to escape Malfoy and Nott in yet another bid of self-protection; she sent Malfoy to look for the scroll to prevent Nott from getting his hands on it (little good had that done her!); she fled the Mudblood Initiative to avoid being murdered—time and time again, her life was at stake. Was she simply supposed to let herself die?

Would her sacrifice have changed anything?

It was hard to tell—Colin's sacrifice had done nothing but put a target on her back and trigger a chain of events so long and complex she had begun to lose track of things.

Her mind ruminated on her choices until she fell asleep, her head hanging low and nightmares sweeping up the broken pieces of her dreams. When she woke the next day, both Nott and Malfoy were gone—a note had been left on the dining table for her.

On mission. Will be back in two days.

Well—no time like the present. With them out of the way, this was her only chance to track down Domitia and have her cough up the potion's recipe—her last-ditch effort to enact the Pact before her two companions could and rid the world of the threats that were tearing it apart.

She wasn't sure when exactly she had made the decision that she wanted the Pact for herself—she'd been so horrified to find out it was real. So shocked. And up until now, her efforts in gathering its secrets had only been to keep it from her companions—but in that time, unbeknownst to her, another possibility had bubbled to the surface, one that only seized her conscious mind now.

With the power of the Pact, she could put an end to the violence and the carnage and the death of her kin. She would pay a price for it—but that price was one she would have had to pay anyway for everything she had done. Everything she had excused as necessary for her survival had slowly been added to a bill of crimes, one whose due date was looming ever closer, the eternal ticking of a clock ringing in her ears. She was to die at the hand of the Noxious anyway—a little errancy as a wandering spirit for all eternity seemed like a bargain she was willing to make.

Whatever it was, whatever the moment that sowed that decision into the ethers of her sickened mind, she knew now there was no going back—better her than the two secretive Purebloods who never seemed like they were up to any good.

And, besides… Domitia had found her once—which meant she could find her too.

It was only a matter of cleverness and retracing her steps.

She soon came to find that Nott leaving her to rot in that forest had possibly been the worst choice he had made for himself—the rune carved in her skin by Elinor prevented the two Slytherins from using that tracking spell on her. It blurred her location so much so that it could show her being in the manor when she was elsewhere entirely—it made the spell unreliable.

Of course, Disapparating was still out of the question—but it seemed like most other spells were left unchecked, perhaps because tracking every single use of a wand was too difficult, too complex a feat to achieve. Or perhaps because they had stopped tracking. Little news of the world filtered into Hermione's life, and she could only guess.

Whatever it was, she had been able to use her wand before, and she would continue to do so now. She decided on using illegal Portkeys—and brooms, though her fear of flying was still very real.

It seemed to her that, perhaps, she should have thought to use those means earlier—but, really, she'd never been able to—not until now. While on the run, she was too jittery to dare utter the spell to make a Portkey, and brooms were too expensive to come by through sheer happenstance. Then, of course, she had been locked away by expert magic quilted over bricks; and, finally, there had been the location spell and Nott's incessant spying on her.

She was finally rid of all obstacles. She could simply escape—but she didn't fancy a life on the run—nowhere seemed safe as long as the Terror was out there. Not even the lands past the waters that kept her away from other countries.

And, as it stood, she was in the same predicament as she had been when she was first on the run: she didn't want to flee. Part of her, all of her, still felt compelled to put an end to the misery that had plagued her since she first entered the world of witchcraft. She would not—could not—be at peace until she felt she had made the world a little better.

And, so far, all she had done was make it a little worse.

Finding Domitia Peverell was no easy feat. Hermione should not have expected it to be, in truth—only an exceptionally powerful witch could tear the Veil between the Realms and infuse grains of sand with the magic of Time, as Malfoy had put it.

If Hermione managed to find Domitia, it was only because Domitia wanted to be found by her—perhaps for the very same reason she had reached out to Hermione in the first place.

They met in a field in the middle of nowhere, just as the sun was rising above the horizon.

"You've been looking for me, Hermione Granger."

"Yes." Making noise, getting noticed—that was how Hermione had ensured Domitia would meet her. It had been a risk, certainly—but one that paid off.

"May I know why?"

"You're in possession of the recipe for the Devil's Blood."

Domitia blanched, but tried not to lose her composure. "My, my, you've been hard at work, it seems." She bent down and picked up a blade of wheatgrass. "What interest do you have in that sorcery?"

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "I can't imagine there are many uses for it, other than the one it was intended for."

"Do you know why I've taken such an interest in you, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head—it was a good question. Why was that woman so invested in a nobody like her?

"Before you came along, no one tried to negotiate alliances between Mudbloods and Purebloods. No one attempted to form that bridge. Before you, no one escaped the Terror, or the destiny of slavery in a Pureblood household with the help of Half-Bloods who despise your kind. You, Hermione Granger, are an oddity unto itself. An error in the fabric of our society—unpredictable and terrifying for the powers that be."

Upon hearing that statement, something clicked for Hermione—the answer to a long-standing mystery she had tucked away. "Yes, well, that does bring up another question, doesn't it? You've been keeping tabs on me, which means you already knew, back then, that I had escaped from Goyle manor, and you served me some hogwash about how you happened upon that knowledge. How did you really know?"

"Beatrice is an old friend. More importantly, she's an old friend who feared she would be found out and came to me for help."

Hermione hadn't thought about Beatrice in a long time—so long, actually, that she was immediately awash with shame at the notion. "Is she—"

"She's safe. Out of the country."

A breath of relief and a million more questions. "How long did you follow me for before you made yourself known to me?"

"Ever since your escape. Jane is the one who did all the following—until it seemed inevitable that we should come into contact so I could relay what I knew to you."

Those words sounded so familiar—almost like they'd been spoken by Dumbledore himself. Slowly, but surely, Domitia was revealing herself to her—and Hermione refused to let her get away with it. The errors of the past were still burned in the corners of her mind. "But you didn't relay everything to me, now, did you? You barely gave me enough to go on. You kept me in the dark."

"I—"

"You scared me into forming an alliance with those who despise me the most—Purebloods of aristocratic lineage. You left me crumbs and expected me to make a meal out of them. You never made any mention of your work with Death, or Time, all things that would have been more helpful than just relaying to me the most minuscule bit of information. You never even mentioned the existence of the Devil's Pact—the only tool at my disposal to put an end to this, once and for all. You tricked me into following the route you deem fittest moving forward—you manipulated me. You promised our paths would cross again, and I assume you kept an eye on me all this time, but you never helped me in my times of need. You never saved me. You puppeteered me to benefit you." She took in a deep breath before continuing: "The problem, Miss Peverell, is that I knew a man just like you once—a man you've surely met many times in your lifetime. A man who fooled my friend, and even me—but, well, you know what they say about fooling someone twice—and I'm not someone that happens to, Miss Peverell. I learn from my mistakes." It helped the slightest bit that the Noxious foamed in Hermione's veins, that it helped her ride that wave of anger overcoming her with some sense of coherence, that it shaped the words in her mind and kept them aligned in the proper order.

Domitia didn't seem too bothered by the accusation—she seemed amused, even. "Righteous anger. That has always been your best and worst quality, hasn't it?"

"This is not what this meeting is about," Hermione waved her off. "But perhaps I should thank you."

"What for?"

"For reminding me that I will never find true allies with your kin—for reminding me why I need to beat Malfoy and Nott to the punch." She paused and smiled. "I need the recipe."

"Miss Granger, if I were to give you that recipe, the world would come to an end."

"Isn't it already burning down? Look around you—the stench of death is everywhere. Maybe the soil beneath will recover, but the lives extinct on it are lost forever. There's instability everywhere you look—even the Muggles seem to find a new reason every day to be at each other's throats. What excuse do you truly have to let the rot steal what little remains of the lives and the hearts still fighting for a better tomorrow?"

Domitia nodded for a long time—not as though she was agreeing, but as though she was thinking. "You are as passionate as they say you are—and you make for a compelling case, certainly—but I would be foolish to hand you that recipe, and you know it just as well as I do. You may have noble intentions, Miss Granger, but I've been tracking your exploits for a long time now—and you know just as well as I do that you're just one incident away from losing your sanity and dooming mankind with a snap of your fingers. As I've mentioned before, you're an odd stitch in the tapestry we're all embroidered on. There is no world in which I would give someone as disobedient as you the power to end our world."

Hermione smirked. She hadn't yet confessed to wanting to use the Pact herself—perhaps she'd hinted at it, but she hadn't yet made any admissions. Of course, using it was her intention—but there was a way to succeed without implicating herself. A better way than outright denial. "Do you know what will happen if you do not give me the recipe?"

"Are you going to tell me that Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott are going to attempt and track me down again?"

"So you know."

The woman opposite her tutted with exasperation. "Of course I know. Foolish boys."

"I'm inclined to agree—but you see, there is one decision of theirs that I cannot in good conscience ascribe to foolishness: they allied themselves to me. I should thank you for that, actually! Your little tip is really what got me there—but anyway, I ramble." Hermione paced in front of Domitia, hinting the immense boredom she was feeling. "That alliance came at a price—helping them complete the Devil's Pact. Now, alone, I can't say I find your assessment of them to be wrong. They're idiots. Useless, on the best of days, and obstacles on the worst. And, had it just been the two of them, they probably would have continued to fail until their dying breath—but, as it stands, I'm here now. And, believe it or not, I retrieved the spell for the Pact. I hurt people on my way there—and I'm not scared to repeat the experiment for the sake of the potion. If you don't hand that recipe over to me, then I will find a way to get Malfoy and Nott to not only find you, but also to hurt you."

"And what will you do with it if I just hand it over? Give it to them?"

Hermione smiled. "No."

"No?"

"I agree with you. The Pact is far too dangerous to be in the hands of people who are violent and hungry for a vengeance. That includes me, but not only me. I wager that the Pact would be even more dangerous if enacted by either of them—so here is my offer, if you're so willing."

"I'm listening."

Hermione put her hands together and let them swing in front of her as she threaded together the words that would complete the quilt of her plan. "Draco Malfoy has tied himself to me through an Unbreakable Vow—which means that if the Terror destroys me, he dies. There is no way around that Vow. But, you see, Draco is already dying, for other reasons—and I believe the Devil's Pact is Theodore Nott's attempt at preventing that. At preventing Draco dying from anything, including the Vow he has made to me. And if Theodore Nott were anything else than a slimy little weasel with a penchant for the destruction of Muggleborns, then perhaps I could have been convinced to simply… let him. But as it stands, his destruction is my victory, so: give me the recipe. I will memorise and destroy it. And then—once the world is quiet and lying in wait—I will steal back the scroll from Nott and offer myself up to the Terror—ending, with one stone, both its reign and the possibility of the Pact ever being enacted. The rest, I defer to you."

"Sacrifice, Miss Granger? Is that what you're offering?"

"Yes."

"I'm surprised. I've been watching you for a long time, now—and, as noble as you have occasionally proven yourself to be, your survival has always come first."

"When my death came with no guarantees of changing the course of our lives, it was obvious I should choose to survive—but that fate is long gone, now. If I die in just the way I've described to you, then I won't die in vain." She pressed her lips together. "Do you need me to Vow it to you?"

Domita seemed taken aback by the offer. She narrowed her gaze in an attempt to decipher Hermione's true intentions, but found nothing lurking beneath the façade. "Thar won't be necessary. I believe you, Hermione Granger." She drew out her wand and materialised a piece of parchment that floated to Hermione. "I hope that the trust I put in you will not come at a world-ending price."

"No—just at the cost of my own."

And, with those words, she picked up her broom, mounted and, and flew into the air—but not before sweeping across the field first, and leaving a trail of wheatgrass behind—one spelling Kano, the rune openings and portals.

The rune to keep track of Domitia.

For the first time in years, Hermione emerged victorious. She was no longer the pawn in everyone else's game—she had finally become the game master.

When Nott and Malfoy returned that evening, Hermione knew from the offset that things had taken a turn for the worse. Malfoy's pale and limp form cast shadows over the entryway, his eyes bathed in the darkness of exhaustion and the burgundy shade of blood staining his cupid's bow.

"What happened?"

"Help me take him to his room," muttered Nott. "I'm scared a levitation charm will just hurt him more."

Hermione slid an arm over Malfoy's shoulders and helped Nott walk him up the stairs, across the landing and all the way to the bed at the very end of the room. Malfoy slumped down on the bed and passed out as soon as his head hit the pillows.

"Follow me, Hermione."

"Why?"

"It's time I tell you why we need to enact the Devil's Pact."

He marched them down to the kitchen, where he promptly shoo'd Pinky away before busying himself with the prepation of two cups of mulled wine.

It was the first time Hermione saw Theodore Nott preparing anything in that kitchen—and it surprised her even more to see that he was using no magic. His wand was resting, idle, on the kitchen table, far too accessible for Hermione's taste. She could just as easily grab it and off him if she wanted to.

Part of her did want to—it would solve many of her problems in a single second.

It would be so simple—she could already see his lithe silhouette slump to the floor, the life sucked out of it by its own wand, blue eyes glazing into the nothingness, now relieved of all the burdens of existence.

And, perhaps, had Hermione not found herself so curious as to what secrets Nott was about to unload on her, she would have done it—she had proven herself capable of it, after all. It would take nothing out her—her soul was already chipped beyond repair, and Hell was waiting for her, the Devil aflame below the crust of the Earth.

As it stood, Hermione wanted to know.

"I'm aware," he began as he sat across from her, "that revealing this to you could very well mean that you decide to leave and never return." He sipped on his mulled wine and his eyes drifted off, explicitly avoiding her gaze. "But—I'm no telling you this to save myself. I'm telling you to save Draco, who bound himself to you through a Vow and is risking his own life to keep you safe. So, even if after hearing this, you feel like ending my life and turning away, I'm begging you—please don't."

Hermione didn't reply—she would make no such promise to him. Not after eveything he put her through. "I'm listening," she simply said.

Nott wriggled uncomfortably on his chair. "It begins just after the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco, Blaise and I had made plans to escape—to Prussia, or perhaps the Netherlands, or even the East. We met one evening at the Hog's Head with our bags ready and our lives neatly tied up… but, then, Gaunt showed up. He killed Blaise in cold blood, right in front of us—no one reacted, no one moved—it was as if they'd already submitted to his power and accepted the fates he'd drawn up for us."

"Why—"

"Blaise was a distant descendant of the Italian aristocracy, and though he never knew his father, he was a threat to Gaunt, who'd made a mess of things in Italy duing his exile. He didn't want to take the risk, I assume—but I'll never be sure. Not really." His hands clasped the steaming cup of mulled wine, knuckles turning white. "Then, he made Draco and I an offer. He said we could escape, as we had planned to do, but that death would come meet us soon enough—he warned us of the perils of exile, and the price we would pay—but, more importantly, he said he was holding Narcissa hostage, and that if we were to escape, she would die at his hand." He paused and a soft laugh escaped his lips. "He had my father too, come to think of it, but that just proves how little he knew of me. I could not have cared less what became of my father." He winced. "Narcissa, on the other hand… I loved her just as if she was my own mother—and Draco, of course, couldn't simply run when he knew her life was at stake. Everything he's done, he's done for the sake of his family—it was never in his own interest. He gained nothing but pain from his time as a Death Eater, and as much as he'd come to regret his involvement, he had made peace with his own banishment—his punishment."

"But you stayed."

"We did. Gaunt said Narcissa would live if we joined him—and, I mean, Hermione," she was shocked to hear her first name uttered by him, "you have to understand—even though neither of us fundamentally believed in ridding the world of Muggleborns, we were still prejudiced to think you were different, lesser. We didn't see your kind as equals—and though we weren't particularly inclined to murder you for it, we thought, well, this man can't possibly be as bad as You-Know-Who. Maybe he'll just enslave them."

"You think I would understand that?"

A shadow passed in his gaze. "Let's not pretend Muggles are free of their own prejudice. Your lot is always at war—always at each other's throats. I'm not saying what we did was right, I'm simply trying to get you to see what our minds were like then."

"Fine."

"So we joined Gaunt—we thought a million different things, and only some of them came to prevail. He instituted the slavery of Muggleborns, yes—but he also began speaking of a creature that would rid us of them all. Those…" he struggled to continue for a brief second, before swallowing and pushing forth, "those were the first cracks in the mirror. As much as I despised the Muggleborn kind, it didn't seem right—but, even then, I didn't have nearly as much qualms wirh it as I do now."

Qualms? Since when did Theodore Nott have qualms about anything when it came to Muggleborns?

"And the terms of our agreement with Gaunt hadn't changed, in any case," he continued without noticing the sour look of confusion twisting the corners of Hermione's mouth, "so there was no reason for us to turn on him, not then. He sent the Terror out into the world and began collecting corpses like trophies—the ultimate proof of his power and superiority. At this point, nearly two years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and it seemed we were nowhere near close the end of that war—especially because the Order was still out there."

"We were losing."

Nott shot her a surprised look, lines drawn on his skin. "Is that what you really think?"

"I fought with the Order, Nott. We were losing by miles—our resources were drained, our people dying in droves."

"Perhaps, but you had made a dent. You were making a dent. Gaunt sent Draco and I on a tracking mission—we were to find where the Order was headquartered. We assumed it would be simple—we assumed we'd spend a week out and report back just as quickly."

"But that's not what happened."

"No. The fire, the one after which you were captured, that was two summers ago, was it not?"

Hermione nodded silently.

"By that point, we'd been tracking the Order for nearly three summers. You see—well, you would know since this was primarily your doing—it took us months to figure out how widepsread the Order was. Little encampments across the land, buried in the woods or hidden in plain sight, never big enough to cause a real dent in the structure you'd built. And, what was worse, what really made it difficult for us, was that plenty of these encampments were made up of Purebloods only—how could we look at a village made up of farmers, who not only seemed to share our values but also welcomed us with open arms, and think: 'well, the Order's here'? We couldn't—and we didn't. We must have passed by dozens of those encampments without ever having a clue of their true allegiance."

"But you must have found the home in Grimmauld—"

"We didn't: Someone beat us to the punch. We were closing in on it, that much is true—we were getting closer, ever so close. We found it when it was already burning down—that is what happened."

Hermione pursed her lips and recalled the last living days of the Order. "I saw Malfoy's hair just days before it burned down, Nott. I'm not an idiot. If you're going to feed me lies, I see no point in this story," she said as she got up from her chair.

Nott tugged on her sleeve and forced her to sit back down. "Listen to me, Granger." She scoffed but let him continue, her curiosity getting the better of her. "You're right. Draco thought he had something, but he wasn't sure yet—we came back to verify, but by the time we got there—"

"What happened after?"

"Granger, you need to understand—I didn't—I just wanted to save him."

"What did you do?"

"Draco got there first—and he—I don't know what he did exactly, but by the time I landed on the site, he'd been bitten by the vehementi igne."

"That's not possible," asserted Hermione. "No one survives the bite of that fire. The flames lick your soul from your bones. It's a death worse than anything you can imagine." She recoiled on her chair at that—this was the death inflicted on so many of her friends and her peers. There was no going beyond, no reaching out—they were cinders flying in the wind.

"I'm getting to it." He drank another sip of his mulled wine and pursed his lips. "I did something that is forbidden by the laws of magic. Draco was dying, and I just—I didn't have a choice, Granger."

"What did you do?"

"I made a blood oath binding Draco to me. He lives as long as I do." Upon noticing the look of horror dissolving Hermione's face, Nott's voice escalated and the slippery sound of seething escaped his lips. "Don't give me that look, Granger. Don't act like you wouldn't have done the same."

It all made sense now—it had never made more sense than it did now. The shadows of the Devil lurking in Nott's eyes, the ire slashing his words—he was tainted. He'd committed the ultimate sin: he'd corrupted the life meant to extinguish. It was worse than even the creation of Inferi, the likes of which, while desecrating the human form, did not corrupt the essence of life by returning it to what once was dead. Draco Malfoy was a living man—and his life had disrupted the balance of the elements, the balance of the powers that be.

"Such corruption doesn't go unpunished," she said quietly.

"He's dying."

"He's dying a violent death—one that is prolongued, slowly sucking the life out of him, forcing him to confront the frailty of his own body and the dependence he carries. That's why you paled when you found out he'd gone so far from you—you're the life that sustains his. If you're too far, he's depleted. Empty. A vessel of rotting organic matter."

"Yes."

"Do you knw—"

"His liver and his lungs are already black with mould and yellow with pus—and his heart… his heart has begun to leak as well. He hasn't got long now… maybe a month or two, if I can help it." He paused and pursed his lips before looking up and staring Hermione in the eye. "He could have a lot longer if you find that potion recipe."

"So that's what it's all about then?" Nott nodded. "And you are aware that more corrupting magic is a truly despicable solution to a problem that already involved corrupting magic? Or are you that daft to think it will wipe your soul clean."

"Granger, I can't let him die. And neither can you—you owe him your life, multiple times over."

"Perhaps, but I am owed to be saved by you lot after everything you've done. Without your meddling and your tracking, the Order wouldn't have fallen to pieces—my friends would still be alive, and I wouldn't be on the run. Maybe we would have even managed to rid the world of both Gaunt and the Terror. Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think that it was always a matter of what you owed me rather than the opposite?" She felt herself grow violent, the Noxious racing in her blood, and she started swatting him. Tears rose to the surface and burned the corners of her eyes as they fled down her cheeks. "You're a fucking monster, Theodore Nott—you caused this mess and you're asking me to solve it for you!"

He grabbed her by the wrist before she could break a bone—God would it have felt good to break his bones. "Granger, you can't leave."

She met his eyes beneath the dim light of the candles and furrowed her brow. "Watch me."

"If you're going to be unreasonable, then you leave me no choice."

A bout of insanity seized her and she laughed until the walls shook. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"No."

"Well, then, seems like I'm free to leave." She untangled herself from his grasp and began walking away—but, before she could reach the door, he opened his mouth again—and what came out of it froze her on the spot.

"I wasn't going to say this—really, as a courtesy to you, but you've forced my hand. There is something else—today, the Terror has killed its first Pureblood—and, believe it or not, it's still walking among us. Fully alive and well—which means, should you choose to go now, no amount of Vows made with other Purebloods will save you—and, more importantly, your death at the hands of the Terror will accomplish nothing. You will just be one more body amongst so many others." He walked towards her and opened the door to the hallway just outside the kitchen. "But, by all means, you're welcome to try and survive without our help and protection. I'll be sure to meet you in Hell."

End of Act III