ACT IV
CHAPTER 13. A TASTE OF BETRAYAL
Hermione stayed.
She couldn't say why—if anything, she was in more danger now in the company of those two idiots than she had been before. They were now vulnerable to the Terror's whims—but then again, she reasoned, hadn't they always been?
Her fatigue-addled brain tried to remember the words the Terror had uttered, the night It had nearly killed her.
I'm ravenous for the flesh of wizards—all wizards, really. There are some I cannot touch, as you well know by now. Killing you in such proximity to him was too great a risk. It would only amplify my hunger. It would make me kill the boy.
Her eyes snapped open.
Even then, it was acknowledged by all that Purebloods were untouchable—which could only mean that since her last encounter with the monster, something had changed. Whatever it was, it made no sense—there was no reason for Gaunt to want the Purebloods maimed. It was antithetical to his entire policy, to the world he had crafted from the hatred that fuelled his every breath.
It could only mean one thing—the Terror had manufactured the change by Itself. It was no longer a manmade creation forced within the constraints and limitations designed by Its masters—It had loosened the chains and found a new form to take. One that would leave nothing in its trail but the blood and the guts of unsuspecting wizards—Purebloods and Mudbloods alike. Were it not enough, she had to consider that it would one day no longer have wizards to feast on and would thus move on to other prey—Muggles, perhaps.
This was, quite possibly, the end of the world. It loomed in Hermione's mind as she made calculations, as she adjusted for exponential growth in the Terror's hunger, and rapidity of the kills—if nothing was done, if the monster wasn't stopped, the world wouldn't live to see the next decade.
There was a pocket in Hermione's heart—albeit small and barely discernible—that wanted to let the carnage happen—for the world to be cleansed of its horrors, of its violence, and perhaps be given a chance to start anew. Feeding that void echoing in the depths of herself was tempting—it was a peace like Hermione had never imagined. It meant she could let herself be, forsake the endless promises and deals she'd had to make, and simply—wait.
Wait for Death to come pluck her from the soil and put an end to her suffering.
Perhaps Domitia was right—perhaps Hermione was unable to forsake her own survival—because, even as she was pondering the eternal peace that this end would bring, she found every reason not to give in. Each spelled out something like fairness or justice or beauty, even—a desire to believe in what humanity had best to offer, and what would be lost in the process of its own destruction.
But even with all those reasons neatly piling up in Hermione's mind, all quite logical and responsive to the innerworkings of her morals, none shone so bright as the possibility of spending more time in the world, and, more importantly, enjoying that time.
In truth, Hermione's survival was what mattered most to her.
It was a bleak outlook for her to rest her eyes on—it felt like her soul had been stripped bare by years of agony, whittled by the injustices of a life of unearned punishment, chipped at by the violence and the injustice she never managed to wriggle herself out of. All was left was a tiny beating heart, pumping blood and begging to be given the chance to do that for longer.
And it could not be denied.
Hermione broke her promise to Domitia that day—while she did spend hours memorising that potion until every ingredient and every instruction was seared into her brain, and while she did destroy the scroll once she was sure its contents were safe in the depths of her mind, she did not follow through with the rest. She did not seek to steal the spell back from Nott. She did not endeavour to present herself to the Terror as sacrifice.
And, really, she couldn't be blamed for it—if she died at the hands of the Terror, then so did Draco—but, contrary to the rules that had cemented that Vow in the first place, the Terror would not die. Two lives lost for no reason, and the Pact never enacted.
Following through would mean letting the world be destroyed—and her very wording to Domitia Peverell had guaranteed that she did not want that—so, the spirit of the promise was still lurking there, and Hermione was doing well on her word.
It was, in any case, what she chose to believe.
She spoke no words of that tumultuous decision to Nott or Malfoy—neither knew she had what was needed to complete the Pact, or that she had untangled the implications of the Terror's newfound behaviour. She simply stayed by their side and watched as Malfoy's state progressively deteriorated.
He would die, soon.
Was it wrong of her to avoid preventing it when she had all the means at her disposal to do so?
She wondered about that—often—at night especially.
It wasn't that she had been wrong—Malfoy's very existence threatened the balance between life and death. The decay slowly creeping within was a sign of a world about to be turned in disarray if he hung on any longer. Saving him was a price much harsher to pay than simply letting the Terror roam free and devastate the world, one wizard at a time. If humanity ended, others would come to replace them, and nature would find a way to restore the order of things.
If the essence of nature was destroyed, there would never be anything to return to. The world would burn, and the stars would collapse.
He'd lived long enough—more than any of her friends, more than the children she used to play with in the village, more than the countless Mudbloods who had been put to a brutal end by the succession of despots at the head of the wizarding world.
But, even with all those reasons filtering through her ever-organised mind and bubbling with an unbeatable logic, she felt…
guilty.
This was a man who had bargained his own life for hers; who had defended and trusted her, time after time, for no good reason—not any that seemed to serve his self-interest, in any case; the man who had defied the very laws of magic that ensure his protection and the trust put in him by his best friend and companion, just because she asked him to.
Perhaps this was why she had volunteered to take over as his carer.
"I need you focused on the potion," had protested Nott.
"I am focused on the potion. I need to locate Domitia Peverell first, and this means I need access to the library. The books. It worked for the spell, didn't it? Trust me."
All lies, of course, that she was happy to see he had gobbled up without so much as a strand of doubt lingering on the edges of his mouth.
"Fine."
He'd relented because, in the end, he couldn't care for Malfoy—try as he might, he couldn't entirely escape the demands of Gaunt, and his continued absence would have created a stain so embedded in the fabric of their endless lies that cleaning it would have been near-impossible. In his mission to save Malfoy, he needed to abandon him, to entrust him in the hands of the woman he least trusted.
With his absence from the home ensured and Malfoy's deteriorating state, Hermione felt free for the first time in a long time. She spent a few hours in the mornings and in the evenings helping Malfoy bathe and change, carrying the meals Pinky prepared for him to and fro, but mostly—mostly—she spoke with him. She sat by his bedside and listened as he recounted the past and dissected the present—often, she questioned whether he ever knew she was there, or if he spoke to a ghost.
"Potter was a good lad," he said that morning, his plate of oatmeal scraped by his spoon and left abandoned on his sheets.
"He was," agreed Hermione as she picked up the bowl. "I miss him."
"Do you think—"
She turned, surprised to hear him address her directly. "Yes?"
He opened his mouth, but did not speak for a moment. Wagering that he had already forgotten the passing question, or even her presence altogether, Hermione resumed picking up the wayward dishes and piling them together so she could carry them down to the kitchen. But, just as she readied herself to leave the room, she heard him speak again:
"Do you think the world would be a better place without me in it?"
Hermione's hands shook, the dishes rattling and moving along with her in a melody of metal pieces clinking against one another. "I don't know," she said. She meant it. "Why do you ask?"
"I killed Potter."
Hermione frowned. "There's death everywhere, Draco." She surprised herself—she didn't think she'd used his first name in all this time. "We've all—we've all inflicted death. The good, the bad, and everyone in between." She took a deep breath. "Besides, you didn't kill him. You didn't—you didn't cause the fire. You're just another spoke in a wheel—I guess we all are." She pursed her lips and laughed a little. "Different wheels, though, I suppose."
He had already turned to the side, facing away from her.
After that first question, more conversations of that nature continued to pop up. A week later, he grabbed Hermione by the wrist and urged her to sit down before she could leave.
"You shouldn't look for the potion," he said.
It took her aback. "Why not?"
"I'm meant to die. I should die. Theo can't see it, can't understand it—and perhaps he never will, not if you manage to achieve his vision. But if you do, you're not just dooming yourself. You're dooming everyone."
"Is there something he intends to do beyond saving you?"
He never replied.
Over time, it became increasingly difficult to tell which words Malfoy meant, and which words were inspired by the rot taking root in his mind. As the doubt crept up Hermione's spine with each new discussion, each new encounter, she began to question the validity of his earlier statements—about Harry, about Nott, about the Pact.
"Is my mother coming?" he asked one evening, out of the blue.
"Your mother?"
"Yes, Narcissa Malfoy," he said as though that were the question. Perhaps it was to him. "I'm very ill, Granger—she should be visiting, shouldn't she?"
The words lingered in the air, rancid with the taste of death and forbidden secrets, layered with the years of knowledge decaying in Malfoy's mind.
"Certainly… I can bring your mother round for a visit."
Was it pity that drove her? An affection that festered in her chest? The knowledge of his upcoming death? She wasn't sure—but she had made a promise to him, and she figured it was one she would not find too much difficulty in making reality. Or, at the very least, a version of reality.
She rushed back to the portrait gallery, uncovered Narcissa's painting, and sat in front of it.
"Long time no see, Ms. Granger." It almost sounded like she had missed her. "I assume you're here to ask for my help." Before Hermione could even think to protest, she added: "I haven't seen you since I've given you the answers to my end. Am I right to assume you did not return to make idle chat?"
Touché.
"I'm here to seek a favour for Draco," said Hermione. "I need to know where I can find your hair."
"My hair? What a ridiculous endeavour!" she scoffed, strokes of oil painting depicting outrage on her aristocratic face. "Whatever for?"
To tell a mother—even a fabrication of a mother, a depiction of a mother made of paint and linen—that her child is dying seemed. Despicable. Too violent, too brusque. An indignity that even Hermione felt she could not come to. "Forget I asked. You were right. It was ridiculous," stammered Hermione as she stood up.
She stumbled to the entryway, not bothering to cover the portrait again—out of breath, out of depth. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore—and she could only hope Malfoy would forget what he'd asked for her.
"Miss Granger, wait."
Hermione whipped her head around.
"There is a chest of my belongings somewhere in the attic. Most of it is from my childhood days spent here, but… there should be a hairbrush and some clothes with strands of hair left on them."
She nodded and returned to throw the linen over the painting.
That evening, Nott nearly caught her stealing the Polyjuice from his supply—he returned earlier than usual, eyes strained and skin grey, tormented by shadows in his irises.
"Hungry, Granger?" he asked. There was that hint of disdain on his tongue—always the disdain.
She nodded without responding, gently returning the Polyjuice to the shelf she'd picked it from before moving to something else—a piece of bread. And cheese.
All she really could stomach right now, but she'd said she was hungry, after all.
"Want some?" she offered as she sliced through the bread.
"You should have the elf do that," he retorted without replying.
"I like using my hands."
The hint of Mudblood hung in the air, though he did not speak the word. She knew he thought it—felt it in her skin, in her stomach, sinking past the barriers she'd erected to keep his out, to keep him away, to avoid the stench of him.
She cut him a few slices of bread anyway, figuring he would complain if she didn't. The cheese, too. Wheat and milk stacked on top of each other—a poor showing of any admissible cooking skills, but enough. Just enough. And he would never be satisfied, at any rate—not if it came from her hands. Her bloody and muddied hands.
She sat opposite him, placing a plate on each side, functionally aware of the distaste her presence caused him, but also not bothered enough to care. Draco's life would come to an end soon—and her and Nott would part ways, regardless of the state of things.
"We should talk about Draco," she said after a while.
Nott was tearing through his bread, fangs of a monster piercing cheese and leaving dents in it. "Should we?" he asked, his mouth full.
"He's dying. Maybe he will—maybe he will die before I can find Domitia—and—what then?"
That thought had churned through her for days now, hooves pressing on lungs, deflating them until the air was sucked out and she couldn't breathe anymore.
Nott's gaze hovered over her for a moment, the bread lopsided in his hand, letting crumbs fall on his plate. He swallowed—a revolting sound, bursting against his throat—and leaned back. "Draco can't die."
"He might." He will.
"If he dies, Granger, I will be the end of you. Do you understand that?"
She laughed a little at that, bubbles bursting in a stream. "I don't doubt it—the issue is that… I'm not certain I care anymore what you do. Kill me, don't kill me—we're all doomed now. Feral creatures waiting to be purged by the Terror, which can now kill indiscriminately."
There it was again—the thought that her own death was a peaceful endeavour, a light shining bright beyond the horrors the world had inflicted on her. There it was again—the thought of being reunited with her friends and her parents in a space beyond, one where God welcomed all his children and held them tight, fatherly hands cupping willowy figures. There it was again—the notion that, perhaps, this was all in vain.
Nott did not seem amused. "All of this—and you would die at my hand?"
"Yes," the world blew out of her mouth before she could even think of it. Exhaustion had dawned on her spirit, and her body was taking over.
"I'm disappointed."
It drew another laugh out of her. "Really? You've done nothing but wish for me to disappear. From the very first day."
Fingers tapping on the table. A pummelling for goblins and dwarves, a small gesture of frustration for him. "Perhaps, but you've since forced my hand, Granger." He paused, and she did not speak. She did not care to know what depraved thought had taken a hold of his mind—if he wanted to tell her something atrocious, she would not be the one to encourage him. "I've come to… perhaps… find admiration. For you," he confessed after a moment.
And it knocked the air out of her lungs.
"You're unbelievably stubborn, principled in the most twisted ways, loyal to nothing, harder to squash than a cockroach, filled with nothing but gumption and dull logic," he continued, and none of that sounded like a compliment. He tapped harder on the table, a furious energy sizzling in his bones, on his skin. "But I do not believe I have ever seen anyone as determined as you are. As relentless." He raised his eyes to meet hers. "Which is perhaps why I'm so keen on killing you, Granger. You overwhelm my senses."
Lavender would have called it a declaration of love—professed it as romantic and sweet, just a man of molasses hidden beneath a crust.
Hermione knew differently, though—he was acknowledging the depth of their entanglement, the complexities this deal between them had forced, the endless strings of their hatred stained with the moments they'd been forced to share. Theodore Nott did not love her—but he did see her as an equal. She had forced him to.
And he resented her for it.
The Devil she had grown so used to, the one who sparked vermillion in his eyes, reared its ugly head. For weeks now, she'd kept him at bay, hidden beneath her bed, never to be thought of again—she'd repelled the senses he evoked in her, the flames he lit on her skin, praying the temptation away in a renewed agreement with a God she had once ousted.
And it had all been in vain.
One bite of the bread. And the cheese. Gentle, measured, so the Devil would return from whence it came, away from her thoughts. The jaw churning and swirling, munching with abject slowness, trying to eat the idea and gobble it down so it would rest below, in her gut.
Useless.
Nott pushed his plate aside and stared straight at her, unwavering and unpliable, the shadows ever growing and ever redder in his eyes. He was waiting for her to react—to respond, to move, maybe even to toss her bread at him.
"If I'd known that complimenting you was what it took to get you to shut that mouth of yours, I'd have done it sooner," he said—and those it sounded like it was said in jest, there was no smile to be found on his lips. "I still fucking hate you," he added.
Strangely, it comforted her.
There was an order to the things in her life—a monster lurking in the shadows, the unlikely help of a former enemy, and the hatred of his friend. Stability.
"I hate you too."
She wasn't quite sur she meant it, and it felt acrid on her tongue.
They both went to bed without speaking another word—but it was too late.
The air around them had changed—it was no longer stale and rancid. The mutual respect circumstances had forced upon them clung to Hermione's skin, sticky and viscous, like honey on wood. They began dining together every night, sitting face to face in the kitchen, usually stewing in a silence that needed no words—a quiet understanding settling between them like tablecloth, with sharp edges and a smooth surface, kept flat by the weathered hands of time.
After a time, Nott agreed to speak of Draco—to answer the what ifs and the whens that plagued Hermione.
"If he dies," he said quietly, "I have nothing left."
The tenderness with which he spoke of Draco was one he never used for anyone—or anything—else.
"It's not so bad, you know," said Hermione, though she felt like a monster even acknowledging it, "there's a freedom to being untethered to the universe because everything has been lost."
He did not balk at her dismissal—neither of them were sentimental, truth be told. Yet another hand flattening the tablecloth, keeping it steady on the table that kept them apart.
"You would leave," he stated.
"Certainly. We hate each other."
"Of course."
The more they said it, however, the less it rang true. What was once truth spilling from their lips had become something of a jest, metal molten by warm undercurrents, less so rigid in nature, more so spoken with tenderness.
Perhaps they did not hate each other anymore.
Was it that they both wanted to protect Draco, or that they were too exhausted to fight each other, or that they could not see what made them enemies anymore?
Still, Hermione acted with precaution when she disguised herself as Narcissa—for, she knew that if Nott knew what she was doing when he was away, whatever truce they'd managed to strike would dissolve almost immediately.
In the beginning, she'd done it just once, just for a few minutes, just to appease Draco—it seemed like the most natural thing to do. He was ill—dying—and only asked that he could see his mother—Hermione didn't have it in her to deny him. It was a kindness. A favour. Something that reminded her of who she'd once been, all those years ago, when she was still bloated with hope and contagious with empathy.
But Hermione was not that person anymore—or, not entirely. When she noticed Draco's tendency to speak more, to be more honest, around his mother, she found that she could probably give him more of her kindness, and keep turning into Narcissa for his sake—he needed his mother, after all—and what harm could it really do if that helped her knowledge of things along the way?
It was just little things at first—memories from his childhood he liked to rehash, minor confessions about his friends, even some idle tittle-tattle from Hogwarts—things that were not interesting in and of themselves to Hermione but that she took signs that there was more to say. That, perhaps, he had things to confess to her—things weighing down on him that he would want off his shoulders before he died.
Even those who do not believe in God do not dare depart into his kingdom with sins staining their souls—Severus Snape would have confessed even if it hadn't been his marching orders to. Hermione knew that.
She knew the glint of a guilty soul when she saw it shining in its eyes.
And Draco was far too sick to hide that guilt bled through his every pore. He reeked of it. And it seemed like it was only accelerating the steady path to his death.
"You're burning up, my son," she said one morning after putting his bowl of oatmeal away. He'd barely eaten more than three mouthfuls of it.
He moaned and turned away from her, twisting in pain. Hermione wrung the cloth she had dipped in a cold bucket of water and made him look at her so she could press it on his forehead. She soaked the sweat away and waited patiently until his skin dulled from a vivid crimson to the fresh pink of cherry blossoms. "It's alright," she hummed gently as she dabbed his forehead. "It's going to be alright."
"No—I k-killed them all." His voice was a strangled sound, grinding out of his mouth with difficulty and very little air—he choked on the words before spitting them out.
"You didn't do anything wrong," cooed Hermione, though she knew to be close to something.
Did it make her a reprehensible person that she still thought of his secrets as she watched him writhe in pain?
Sometimes, she wondered.
She had love for him, in her own way—but she'd grown up in a village where little grew and much less lived to see many years. Her parents were healers—they taught her of pain that needs to be surmounted, and pain that means death; where one is to be healed, and the other is to be remedied by a swift end. Draco was suffering a pain that warranted death, and if Theodore Nott had not been in the way, Hermione would have granted Draco that clemency—but she could not bring him that peace, and there was no reason that meant she should also deprive herself of untying the remaining knots of secrecy keeping her blocked while he suffered. If she simply waited, idle and sympathetic, she was dooming herself alongside him.
Thus, while it was certainly not a kindness she was doing him, it was not an act of cruelty either. It was an act of necessity, and Hermione found that she thought more clearly when her focus was on the bare essentials of survival, even if it required her to strip her heart even further.
"I—I let Theo get away with it," he mumbled, half-awake and shaking from the fever.
Hermione knew not to push him further.
"Rest now, my dear," she whispered as she leaned over him. "I'll be back soon."
He was fast asleep by the time the Polyjuice potion had worn off.
That evening, as she sat across from Nott in the kitchen, slathering her bread with butter he'd brought back in bloodied hands—something she did not want to question—she thought about Draco's words, about the way he shook and his I let Theo get away with it and how he always seemed to hold himself responsible for the fire that killed what was left of the Order. For the death of Harry, and Ron, and all her remaining friends and allies.
"I might have something. About Domitia." She said it nonchalantly, almost like it was nothing, just a few words tossed over bread and butter and wine, just an idea tossed in the twinkling light of the flame sitting between them.
"Oh?" He wasn't an idiot, and his detachment was forced, but it was what she expected of him. What she wanted from him.
"She was in exile for many years—based on my research into her lineage and her family's loyalties, I have reason to believe she was not only exiled with Gaunt for the entire time he was away—rather than some of it, as Draco mentioned—and that she may still be hidden by him since his return to England."
"That's nonsense."
"Really? Why?"
"I would know," he spat off, his eyes stormy and his skin flush. "I'm one of the highest ranked soldiers of his army. Not even Draco has made it as far as I have. So I would know!"
Hermione raised her hands, as if admitting defeat. "Alright then. I'll look elsewhere."
Nott seemed annoyed, but not outrageously so—he resumed eating as if nothing of consequence had been said.
Except—well—something had.
Not even Draco has made it as far as I have. Unwittingly, and through sheer ego, Theodore Nott had revealed that his existence, his power, his position, were exceptional—granted, likely, through war efforts and not simple nepotism. For, if that had been the case, he would never have found himself in a superior position to the Malfoy heir.
Little by little, the cracks were showing.
It wasn't enough yet—there was more that they both kept close to their hearts, and maybe all he had done was commit an atrocity she already guessed they'd both committed at some point—something unforgivable in other circumstances, but that she could not count as betrayal for the time being.
It was hard enough finding allies in this war—she'd made peace with the fact that some of the things in both their respective pasts were inhumane.
What she really wanted to know was whether that inhumanity ever deprived her of her home and friends. Made her a slave. A fugitive. And a target for the Terror.
"You need to make faster progress, Granger. Draco does not have long left," he added after a moment of silence, pushing his plate away. "I've found a way to give you more time, but not much—maybe another month or two. But you need to make haste."
"How are you—"
"Blood transfusion," he said.
"That'll weaken you. It could even kill you both." She remembered how her parents placed leeches on patients' skin, to suck away all the bad blood. The tainted blood. Bad blood made for severe maladies, she had learnt—and bad blood touching clean blood was often a cause for death. Something she was glad wizards were ignorant of, or they might have found vastly more painful ways of dealing with Muggleborns.
"It could if we were not tied together by the same life force—my own. It will weaken me for some time, but not kill either of us—the Pact, however, is the only way to save him. So I need you to focus on that—please."
Hermione had made a promise to Draco—that she would never brew the potion.
To Domitia—that she would sacrifice herself.
To Nott—that she would save Draco with the use of the Pact.
And to herself—that she would hold none of these promises.
It was harder on the nights she was asked to watch over Draco—seeing the life leaking out of him, knowing the rot that invaded his organs, watching the viscous and pale hand of Death trailing over his skin. Would it be so bad to save him? To disrupt the laws of the universe? If she was the one to enact it, she could remain reasonable—not break anything that cannot be repaired; not create what should not be made; not indulge into the pleasures and the knowledge that have been kept from them. She could just save Draco, put an end to the war and the famine, and let life run its course until the rupture of her soul and the inevitable end of her life. She would not come to see paradise, or meet Harry or Ron again, but she could make a life for herself, for however long the enchantment lasted.
On those nights, it seemed like an easy choice. A bargain she could live with. That nasty and bitter taste of hope.
"What if…" she began as she brushed his hair from his forehead, "what if I told you I knew how to brew the recipe?" She wasn't even sure he heard her—his breathing was even, and so shallow it was almost like he was already dead.
But he wasn't. Because he responded. "You do?"
"I do."
He sat up and was overwhelmed by a cough before he could respond—blood splattered over the beige linen sheets, burgundy and dark with something unnatural. "You—" he said once he could breathe again, "have the recipe?"
Hermione nodded, almost instantly regretting her blurted out confession. She hoped he would forget—he forgot much, these days—and that this was just a conversation she could use later to gauge what she should do. "Not any of the ingredients, though—it is quite a complex brew."
Draco dismissed her with a gesture of his hand. "Doesn't matter—I have no doubt you would be able to gather the ingredients and brew it." He sank in the pillow propped against the headboard and swallowed. "I still think—don't do it, Hermione."
"Are you telling me I shouldn't enact the Pact, or are you telling me not to let Nott know about it?"
He avoided her gaze and swept the floor with uneasiness. "Theo can never know…" A brief pause. A motion of the head, and he was staring straight at her again. "But even if you do enact it, you shouldn't save me."
"Why not?" She was burning with curiosity—what more could they possibly keep hidden from her? There had to be something—there had to be a key to unlock everything else.
"Because I should already be dead," he decided, which offered her no key but took her aback. Something reasonable and humane; words of sacrifice. He breathed in and out, letting the silence seep between them for a moment. "I should have died the day that fire bit me. Every day since has been miserable—something of a half-life. I've never been so weak, so broken."
"He did it for you—"
Draco whipped his head back towards her. "Do you really believe that, Hermione? I know you're not stupid—and you have spent enough time with Theo by now to understand what he really is like. What his motivations are."
"Self-interest," she piped up without thinking.
"Certainly, but what else? Because if you believe it's love, then you are just as foolish a Gryffindor than the day I met you at Hogwarts."
Hermione laughed, low and steady. "Not love. Guilt." She straightened her spine and sat more comfortably. "But if you think he doesn't love you, then you're the fool here."
"He loves me the way a child loves a toy, Granger—not that I blame him. He's never known any better, not with that father of him. But… you need to know that. You need to understand that. So you don't make the mistake of trusting him."
"You trust him."
"To an extent, yes. But you and I are not the same; not in his eyes, at any rate. You're a means to an end, an obstacle, and a temptation all at once. Too complex to keep. Too risky not to be discarded at the first chance. I'm a reminder of his guilt, of all the ways in which he is just like his father: cruel and unyielding and fed by hatred. He needs to save me so he can save himself; just the same, he needs to destroy you so he can forgive himself."
Hermione had never before heard Draco being this clear-headed, this honest. She stared at him without saying a word, too engrossed in the portrait he was painting of his companion, friend, and lover. And enemy, it seemed, in some instances.
"Did you think all these things when you made a Vow with me?" she asked from the tip of her lips, scared to know the answer.
Draco sighed. "Yes—some of it, certainly."
"Why did you agree to help me, then? And don't give me that nonsense about owing a debt to Harry—not that I doubt it, but I know you well enough to know that it was strong enough for you to allow yourself such a risky decision." She leaned forward, digging her elbows into her knees. "What was it, then, Draco?"
He laughed, shaking from shoulder to shoulder, and another fit of cough overtook him before he could speak. It lasted an eternity in Hermione's ears—she found the sound of it unbearable, irritating her ears and piercing through her brain with the strength of a thunderstorm. She didn't know whether it was because he was finally about to reveal the truth to her or because she could not stand to hear him decompose before her.
When he finally spoke again, what he said seemed so obvious she wondered why she never thought of it: "I thought you were the only one who could resolve the Pact for us. The only one who could piece it together."
"But you don't even want me to enact it anymore."
"Ironically enough, because of you." He smiled, quiet and small. "You're not normal, Granger—do you know that? And I don't mean because you're Muggleborn or because you seemed to be the only girl at school who wasn't lusting after Potter… but you just have that effect on people. The way you look at the world, and the way you present yourself in it—I just can't believe someone like you exists."
She recoiled on her chair. "What are you saying?" Please don't say you love me. Please don't put that burden on my shoulders.
"That you made me realize I wasn't meant to remain alive. That so many others have died in my place who didn't deserve it. That—I don't know… maybe I should have realised these things on my own before. I did, once, when I had to join the Death Eaters—but then my instinct for survival, my desire to protect my mother—it all grew so overwhelming, and I fell right back into my old habits. Until I met you again, and I saw the way you were still facing it all head-on, fighting the good fight, despite what survival has meant for you. Nowhere near what it has meant for me—far more."
Hermione hugged her knees, tucking them close to her chest. "Like I had any choice in the matter. The good fight is the fight for the survival of my people. My own, even. It's either this, or slavery and death—what was I to do? Just give up, like it meant nothing? Like our lives are disposable garbage?"
"You could have given up, yes. Some people do. I did. My father did. My mother did."
Hermione bit her lip—if only he knew. "It has never crossed my mind to do that—not even when things seemed so dire and inescapable that I wanted to die." She took a deep breath. "I don't think there was ever a moment where it was conceivable to me that I should give up."
Draco nodded. "I know. I've always known, even when I didn't want to see it. Even when I thought of you as vermin—" the word bit her, made her angry, though she knew he'd changed his mind since, "I could see that you would never abandon. Perhaps it is why I thought of you as vermin—impossible to get rid of. It may sound like an insult, and it was at the time, but it's also a testament to your unwavering resilience."
"Is that why you made the Vow?"
"You thought you played me, didn't you?" he chortled. "I know the glint of desperation for survival when I see it, Granger." He closed his eyes and leaned back. "I made peace with my death the day I made that Vow with you. It didn't matter to me anymore, whether I lived or died—and, at least, that way, if I died at the Terror's hands, it would serve a purpose." He grew quieter. "It does seem like it's all worthless now, doesn't it? I will die, just not—"
Hermione didn't know what overtook her—was it the guilt of never telling him about his mother's sacrifice? the way he confessed finding her admirable, in his own words? the fact that she had grown to care for him, despite it all—despite the hunger, the locking away in the shack, the loneliness in the manor? Whatever it was, she grew frantic with an energy she didn't know she had: "Let me brew the potion! Let me save you." She placed a hand on his arm—he was cold, so cold. "Please."
Silence stretched between them for a long time—perhaps only seconds in reality, but it felt like hours.
Then: "If you do, will you be the one enacting the Pact?"
"Do you want me to?"
"I would rather it be you."
"Then yes. I promise."
Another promise made; another promise broken. It seemed like that was all Hermione could do now—make and break promises.
This one, though—this one she was going to keep.
After all, that was what Nott had asked of her.
So, the next morning, after Nott left, she embarked on a journey of her own: one to find the ingredients required for the potion.
Three drops of unicorn blood
A pound of silver
Five leaves of nightshade
Two Jobberknoll feathers
A pair of fairy wings
A pinch of dragon claw powder
The claw powder and the silver were already in the manor—Hermione had checked during those times she was meant to find Domitia Peverell. The nightshade would require her to leave the manor in the dead of the night, and the unicorn blood would need to be stolen from an underground apothecarist—or bought, if she could avoid the trouble. The wings and the feathers, however, were within reach—Jobberknolls like to rest in fairy nests, and it was a blessing Hermione had always paid attention in class, even in Care for Magical Creatures. She felt very thankful for Hagrid in that moment.
Fairy nests were not easy to come by, not to the untrained mind—but Hermione had learned a thing or two when she was a child. It seemed fitting that her saving grace was something taught by her Muggle parents, because fairies are never really spoken about in the magical world. They exist—as do goblins and giants and centaurs and all manners of mythical creatures—but they keep to themselves: too small to join the world of wizards, in no need of a wand to produce magic, too wild and unpredictable to follow the rules of such a strict society, and so well-hidden they're hard to approach, and even more so to study. Muggles, though, they do not fear—for Muggles have always posed little danger to them; though it does help that they think of them as imaginary.
When Hermione was six, her parents counted her a tale before sleep—it was about a little fairy and her hunger for all things sweet. Jams and pies and cakes and honey; all of it, as long as it made her tongue feel ethereal and saccharine. She would wait by the windowsill of human homes, humming the vapours that drifted out of kitchens, and seek the cover of night to fly in and steal bites of whatever she could. The story ended, as tales told to teach morals to children often do, with the fairy being caught because too much sweetness rotted her tooth and left it bloody and black in a pie.
Hermione tried to find fairies after that night—and though her magic had not yet manifested itself, she later wondered if she didn't manage to find them because it was already flowing in her veins, ready to sprout in her belly for when the time was ripe.
She sought them out below windowsills and placed slices of pie on the kitchen counter—
and found them she did. As the tale had taught her, fairies have a sweet tooth and cannot resist the promise of dessert.
And, so, that morning, Hermione flew to the nearest Muggle village and hummed the air for something sweet. She was in luck that day—the market had set up shop in the main street, and it was effervescent with the buzz of excited voices and screamed negotiations by the time she got there. She lost herself in the crowd and let her instincts do the rest—a pie stall was at the very end, warm vapours slinking in the air and wrapping everything they touched with the aroma of berries and cherries.
Was it spring already?
The woman holding the stall was plump and jolly as ever—her cheeks were flush from the heat and the echo of her screams bouncing on the walls. "Come get your pies! Come on here and get your pies! Just one penny per pie!"
Hermione found it hard to resist that call—she bought a whole pie and ate three slices herself before even making it out of the village. "Well slow down now, girl! When did you last eat?" exclaimed the baker, though there was no reproach to find in her voice. "You know," she added after eyeing Hermione up and down, "you are a skinny little thing, maybe you should eat the whole pie now and get a second one for the road."
Hermione laughed—the kind of genuine laughter that she hadn't heard popping out of her for a long time; the kind that made life worth living and was almost enough to strip her of her worries and her mission. "You're too kind," she said once she could catch her breath again, "but I really could not. That penny was all I had." She had some Knuts at the bottom of her purse, but those were—of course—entirely useless to her in this world. The world she came from, and could no longer afford to live in.
"Tell you what," said the woman. "How about I give you one for free, and you come back and pay me when you can?"
"I'm—well, I'm not from the area, so—"
"Then all the more reason for you to come back, isn't it? I know how to recognise someone who pays her debt—and you are just the type!" She prepared a basket for Hermione and added two pies in it before she could protest. "There you go, girl! And don't go protestin' now, I insist."
There had been little kindness afforded to Hermione since she had joined the wizarding world. Even Harry and Ron had been known to act cruelly to her and to let her down in moments when she needed them the most. But here was this woman, this woman who'd never met her, who knew nothing of her, who did her a kindness for no reason at all—who looked at her and didn't see her blood as something tainted or her soul as something broken. A woman who valued her because she was a person, because she was worth something.
She almost broke down in tears at the thought.
"I promise I'll return with the money I owe you," and her voice broke as she spoke. "I'm Hermione," she added with a hand extended out.
"Charlotte," smiled the woman. "Now, go on to your family—I need to make some sales!"
Hermione smiled sadly and walked away with a wave of the hand.
Family.
She didn't have that anymore, did she? Her parents were in Italy, blissfully unaware of her existence, but at least protected. Harry and Ron and Crookshanks were all dead.
Were Draco and Nott her family now?
By God, it almost sounded like a jest.
She shook her shoulders in resignation and walked to the forest, where she knew she would find a nest. She had a mission, still—she had to remember that. And a family member to save.
Well, sort of. If that could count.
Once she made it past the treeline, she realised it truly was spring. Her gaze lost itself beyond, amongst the trees glistening below the sun. In the distance, upon the forest floor, she noticed some laying, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons had been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers—still, they were beautiful. They looked like driftwood, twisting in round patterns like seaside waves; even the colour of the moss reminded her of kelp. They were soft, damp, still imbued by the rain of the past few days. Hermione tilted her head upward, feeling her hair tumble further down her back; the pines were several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of the season. Birdsong came in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing tangling themselves in her mind, drawing her in—
And a nest popped up in her view.
She found that fairy nests were easy to recognise once one knew what to look for—they shimmered with an opalescent shine, as if painted by the light. They can usually be found high up in the trees, where it's harder for the animal or human eye to catch the light bouncing off them, but Hermione had already known that—hence, she'd kept her eyes looking at the skies as she walked.
She lifted the basket in the air and spoke—to the outside eye, she spoke to the air, to nothing.
But she knew she could be heard.
"I'm here to offer an exchange," she screamed.
Stealing from fairies isnever a good idea—bargaining for their wings rather than clipping them is better, even if only marginally.
It is quite helpful that fairy wings regrow.
"I seek your help," she screamed again when she detected no movement from the nest.
Fairies are curious creatures, and her wand wasn't drawn out—what kept them from coming to her?
"I come in peace!"
It dawned on her that the forest was eerily silent. The birds she heard singing at the border of the forest were now long gone, and there was nothing.
Not the bristling of leaves or the singing of the wind.
Not the paws of an animal or the rustling of a fox running.
It was a beautiful spring morning, and yet not a thing to acknowledge it, to bask in it.
In one fell swoop, the made the basket small enough to fit in her pocket and returned the broom to her original size—she mounted it and flew up the tree, its bark flashing past her in shades of brown.
And once she reached the nest—once—
All she saw was death.
Black tar, syrupy and thick, coated the nest and those who once lived in it.
All dead, now.
The fairies' bodies were cold and already gnawed on by rot. The Jobberknoll was stiff as wood, its corpse filling the air with the stench of decay.
Hermione stood there, aghast, for what seemed like an eternity. All the joy of the morning—the warm spring air, the song of people bustling at the market, the rich voice of Charlotte, her kindness, the aroma of the pies, the memories of her parents telling her stories—snapped and drained from her mind.
She poked the tar hesitantly—it was glacial, and far too cold for how long it had been there, enacting death.
There had only ever been one time when Hermione had met such cold.
The Terror did this.
Not just content to snuff the light out of Muggleborns and Purebloods, it was now also coming for creatures of all nature. Birds and fairies and who knew what else…
Muggles would be next.
The world would be next.
All the Terror was death and decay.
She clipped the wings off a fairy, muttering an apology as she did so, plucked two feathers from the Jobberknoll, whispering a prayer in the process, and immediately flew back to the manor.
She could not remember what joy or laughter tasted like.
And she vanished the pies without a second thought.
"When will my mother be back, Granger?"
Draco had not been lucid since he agreed to let her save him. He spoke in riddles—when he could speak.
Often, he just moaned in pain.
Only when "Narcissa" made an appearance could he find it in him to sit up straight and speak somewhat coherently.
Yes, it was a kindness she was doing him—because there were no more secrets she could find in her heart to dig out of his mind, and it had begun to pain her to don the costume of a dead mother. So it was only out of kindness that she did it—that was what she had decided.
"Soon, Draco."
She was exhausted—she'd snuck out the previous night to retrieve the nightshade and to pay a visit to the black market, where she'd managed to buy a vial of unicorn blood with some Galleons she'd swiped from Draco's chambers. She'd used the Polyjuice to dress herself as Charlotte—whose hair had caught on to Hermione's dress that day in the village and left a few strands behind—and made it to the underground market just in time; just before it was to move to another location.
It was a place she'd known well when she worked for the Order—the only place, really, where she could steal medicinal supplies without the risk of alerting the Ministry, as the market operated in complete secrecy. Over time, she'd mapped out the locations it moved to and figured out the pattern of its movement. It was through sheer luck only that this pattern remained the same some three years after she'd last visited it.
And sheer luck was due to find her way at some point.
"Now! I need to—to—" His breath was ragged, broken in a million shards. "I need to—"
Hermione watched as the agony reduced a once capable wizard to nothing more than a broken child.
"Alright," she agreed. "Alright. Wait right here."
She would sleep later.
When she returned to his room, dressed as Narcissa and carrying a bucket of fresh water and a cloth, he was sitting against his headboard, solemn and quiet.
"Are you alright, my son?" She hated it—hated having to speak like that.
It felt so wrong.
"Mother, you're here."
But it was worth seeing the smile on his face.
"You asked for me."
"I did. I think it's time…"
Hermione sat on the chair placed next to his bed and soaked the cloth in the bucket before placing it against his forehead. "Time for what, dear?"
"I'm dying, Mother—I grow more delirious by the day, now. I can't seem to remember, or to know—I fear my head will go before my body does." He sighed. "So, I believe it is time for me to confess my last truths."
Hermione's spine went rigid. She placed the cloth gently on the edge of the bucket and leaned back in the chair—slowly, almost like too brusque a gesture would scare him off.
"Tell me, Draco," she urged him quietly.
"I'm responsible for the death of the Order." It was no different than the many times he'd blamed himself when speaking to Hermione—the shape of the words, the way he phrased them, the idea behind them—but this time, this time, the way he spoke, the tone of his voice, told her it was not simply him blaming himself. It was the truth. "You see, Theo and I were sent to track the remaining safe houses of the Order—and, in particular, the centre of their operations. One day, I found it—I found the centre. At first, I was ecstatic—three years! Three years to find it! It seemed like a lifetime had passed since I tried. Gaunt would be elated, and we would succeed in our mission—it seemed like nothing could go wrong. I told Theo about it, and he was even happier than I was. I think he—I don't know, I think he saw it as the light at the end of the road." He took a sip of his water and let it flow down his throat in one long gulp. "But I thought about it, and I told him that maybe we shouldn't say anything—that we were trapped by Gaunt, just the same that the Order was forced to fight, and maybe not doing anything and giving them a chance to win was the right thing to do."
Hermione knew what he was going to say before he could even say it.
She felt it deep in her gut.
"Theo agreed—initially. He wasn't happy about it, but he did. Then—one night—I woke up with a sneaking suspicion that something was wrong. I couldn't explain it—still can't. Call it instinct, call it deduction, call it whatever you like—but I knew something wasn't right. I Apparated straight to the Order's centre of operations, in London, and there it was—burning. I panicked, and I just—I acted rashly, like a fool. Got myself bit by the fire and almost died, right there, on the spot. Theo found me—something I didn't question at the time, and saved me by binding me to his life force. At first I thought I was just lucky that my friend knew to look for me. 'What a coincidence!' I thought, because the fool sees in events of high improbability something of beauty, and I was a fool, duped by the kindness of a friend. Duped by—Merlin, I do not even know." He turned to Hermione, and, for a moment, she wondered whether he could see her, see through the disguise. "But after a while, I started noticing some other things. Like how Gaunt always seemed to have his eye on me, while all Theo was rise through the ranks and glean praise like a beggar. 'How odd,' I thought, 'as Gaunt should know by now that he has more allegiance in me than he ever did in Theo.' Because, Mother, Gaunt had both you and Theo's father, but Theo never cared for his brute of a father. Was more than happy to see him being offed in a crass public display—while all I wished for, Mother, was your safety. I remember, once, how I told you that I thought it was too late for me, and you urged me to leave, to forget about you. You told me: 'I betrayed the Dark Lord and told him Potter was dead, when I knew he was not. I betrayed the Dark Lord for you, and now you must betray Gaunt to save yourself, to justify the risks I took for you'—and, by God, did I gasp. It was so unlike you, to disobey. To refuse." He coughed for a bit and turned away from her. "I should have listened that night, and I didn't. I told you I needed to see this through the end—and, then, well. You died, didn't you? At the hand of the man I had just told you I would swear my loyalty to, so I could protect you—a cruel twist of the knife, so to speak. A punishment, I think, for my wrongdoings and my failings—as a man, as a wizard, as a Malfoy. A punishment I continue to endure as your ghost visits me in my delirious dreams, and listens to my confessions born of insanity and disease. A fitting fate, don't you think, for the last of the Malfoys?" He turned again to face her, as if he was expecting an answer from her.
Hermione stayed quiet.
She did not say a word.
Draco was a distant echo now—
Because Theodore Nott had been the one to kill her friends. To rob her of the last remnants of her family. Theodore Nott, who'd spilled his seed between her thighs, who'd treated her as nothing more than an inconvenience—at times, even, as vermin to be rid of—had been the one to decide the fates of those she had left in the world. Without regret.
With glee, even.
He'd been the one to seal her destiny. To break her and crush the last pieces of her life under his boots.
Gaunt was the enemy; the Terror was the enemy—but they all felt so distant, in that moment.
So far away.
Because Theodore Nott shared a space with her. Slept in the room next to hers.
Ate at the same table as her.
And Theodore Nott would pay.