CHAPTER 14. THE TERROR'S SECRET

Take my wand, he said. I have no use for it, he insisted. This is the only way I can help you.

So she did. She took his wand.

It felt strange in her hand—no longer like an extension of herself, but rather like an anchor fused to her wrist, pouring cool blood in her veins. It took her a few days to get her spells right with it, and she bemoaned the absence of synergy that she felt with her own wand, but it worked—and, more importantly, she was now free to move about as she pleased.

If she wanted to escape, this was her chance.

Draco had even half-heartedly implied that she should—that there was no reason for her to stay behind, to take more of the violence and the doom. He'd fallen right back to sleep after, and Hermione wasn't even sure he remembered telling her that. But even if he did, even if he really meant it… she could not bring herself to follow through.

There were already so many promises she'd scattered to the winds. Removing Beatrice's stamp; killing Gaunt; enacting the Pact; not enacting the Pact; saving Draco by letting Nott enact the Pact; saving Draco by enacting the Pact herself; killing Draco; killing Theo; killing, killing, killing. Death was an acrid taste on the trip of her tongue, one she'd fooled herself into thinking she'd grown accustomed to, because that was all her life had come to mean since Cedric's corpse emerged from that Portkey.

But only those stripped of humanity come to find Death a sweet taste—for those who grow to live with it, it's a predicament glued on the back, putrefaction sitting raw on skin and nightmares biting the edges of the mind at every turn. For everyone other than the weakest of spirit and strongest of hate, Death is indelible ink etched into the skin once it has come to visit. It's iron burning through the flesh to those who have taken her hand and given her a life to claim.

Hermione had grown tired of all the death—that which she had given, and that which she had suffered. There was little she could do—but the little that remained could prove to be powerful, and to end all unnecessary deaths until the world was cleansed. Starting with Draco.

Not because he deserved it. Not because his life was worth saving. Not even because she had grown fond of him, loathe as she was to admit it.

Because she'd made a promise; a thousand promises; a million ones.

And she'd nearly broken them all.

That was where her focus lay, that morning—because any divergence from that, and all she could feel was the Noxious pumping in her veins and telling her Theodore Nott needs to die.

So she reasoned herself—because she'd always been and would always continue to be a rational individual—and gathered it'd be easier once Draco was saved and she held the laws of magic in her hand, free to do as she pleased.

Besides, wouldn't it be that much more satisfying? To watch the life choking out of him due to the power he was so desperate to acquire?

Perhaps reason didn't have as much to do with it as she liked to think—

But it kept her focus in check. And that was what she needed as she ventured close to Bury St Edmunds, that very morning. The very last place with which she had drawn up a peace treaty—the very last Pureblood village to agree to stand with the Order.

The houses were no different than when she last came—they still stood, brick and stone and wood and clay, in piles of mud, surrounded by fields of crops that were barely starting to recover from the blight, filled with the ruckus of women cooking, children playing, and men napping. Today was a Sunday, after all—and even wizards seemed observed the Catholic Sabbath, even if they did not know of its existence or significance.

She wasn't sure why she came here—why she left at all. Perhaps to experience the freedom of Disapparition again, or to test out the waters and see if she had what it took to leave Malfoy and Nott behind, to finally put an end to whatever insanity had dragged her to them in the first place.

The village seemed seeped in the same tranquil energy that it always had—like the events of recent years had not even made a dent in the landscape. While Hermione had, from a moment to another, donned the costumes of a fugitive, a slave, a target, the people of Bury St Edmunds had continued to live as they always had, almost entirely undisturbed by the stench of their betrayal to the order of things.

There was one difference, though. One Hermione didn't notice immediately, because it was so small in size—and yet seemed larger than the world when she finally saw it. It was a placard hung to the outer wall of the mayor's home, loose and threatening to fly away.

A placard that read: Resistance, patience, vengeance.

Lavender had made those before her untimely death in a skirmish. Hundreds of them, painstakingly written in her loopy and girly handwriting, bleeding ink and perseverance. She'd told Hermione to give them out to the people she'd managed to rally to their side, to all the Purebloods who'd put aside their prejudice to work alongside the Order.

"To what end?" had asked Hermione.

"To no end in particular. To inspire hope, to give them something to remind them what they're fighting for."

"It just seems kind of useless to—"

Lavender had growled—a low sound that had come to be after Greyback's attack. "Listen to me." Her voice had been threatening, dangerous, so Hermione had promptly closed her mouth and chosen to obey—not so much because she'd become scared of Lavender, but because she'd come to know her. To know that her most wolfish traits appeared when she was emotional, and sad, and burdened. "You probably don't think I understand your position in this—and I get it, you don't have much of a reason to. I'm a Pureblood, I was never in much risk. But do you know what I am now?" She'd smiled, a sad smile that barely reached her eyes. "I'm a werewolf. And I can't pretend it's anywhere near the same thing, but you can imagine what it's like. People who once loved me now look at me with disgust in their eyes. They fear me, like I have no humanity left in me—so I know what you're asking these people to do. I know that they're going to want to turn back and return to the safety and comfort of the lives they had before they chose to betray what they believed in. I know because I would give anything to reverse the clock—so, please trust me when I tell you that you need to give them more than your word. A token, something tangible that they can hold—that will help you keep them by your side." She'd paused and gulped. "By our side."

Tears pricked Hermione's eyes—a token. A reminder.

Even after all these years, even after the Order had gone up in smoke, the people Hermione had convinced remained loyal to her, to the ideas that she imparted with them. And they'd hung up a physical reminder of that loyalty, displayed it proudly to the world.

Lavender had been right—and how Hermione wished she could see her now and tell her.

She slid down a nearby tree and continued to watch the village from afar—she wasn't even sure why she was here to begin with, but she was glad she'd made the trip. She'd lost her way a long time ago—returning to her roots, to the beginning, to the ideals she once held up with hope and optimism. Now, all she had in her were shadows and demons, traces of the things she'd lived through and inflicted—the hope had since long ballooned up and exploded in her gut.

The tether to that old place and its memories kept Hermione there for hours, just watching life move about brick and clay, until the sky turned dark and twilight was upon her. She rose on wobbly legs, gripping Draco's wand in her hand, and prepared to Disapparate—but, before she could do anything, before she could return, a breeze brushed up against her skin.

It came from the fields ahead—Hermione would have thought nothing of it, if not for the fact that the moment it touched her, she shivered uncontrollably—like the harshest of winters had returned suddenly. She watched in horror as the plants around her wilted and froze—a fog crept from the horizon and slipped past the ground, turning her vision grey and muddy.

All the alarm bells in her body rang and rang and rang—she knew what this was. She knew what it meant. Her mind remembered, and so did her body.

But she could not find it in her to flee.

Instead, she remained fixed in place, her feet taking root into the frozen soil below, her organs putrefied with ice, and she watched with quiet desperation as the nightmare built to destroy her walked towards Bury St Edmunds and massacred its inhabitants one by one; men, women and children tried to run from the scene, but it was too late—by the time the cold had reached their houses, running was no longer a possibility.

Hermione was still far enough that she knew she could Disapparate safely back home—soon, that would not be the case.

The Terror was inhaling, impaling, murdering ceaselessly before her very eyes—It was on a rampage, ready to devour every living being in the vicinity.

And the fact that the people of Bury St Edmunds were all Purebloods seemed to make no difference. It did not weaken or lose in stamina at any point—if anything, It seemed to gain in power and strength the more It took lives.

Truthfully, Hermione had never really believed Nott's assertions that the Terror could kill Purebloods without consequence now. Certainly, she'd thought on it and reached certain conclusions—but, deep down, she'd always wanted to believe he'd said it to taunt her, to force her out of her Vow with Draco, to distract her from her goals. A pocket of her heart had carried on the distrust and the doubt that she always felt around him—

But she was now forced to admit he had not lied. To her trustworthy and observant gaze, the Terror proved that it had surpassed its one weakness, the only thing capable of destroying it.

And, as such, it left Hermione with only one recourse—the Pact.

Or death.

It was that realisation that finally made her move to her feet and wield Draco's wand so she could return to his side. A crack rang in the air as she Disappeared from Bury St Edmunds

The last thing she saw as she twisted herself into the emptiness was the placard flying into the freezing air, far and away from the corpses of her former allies.

When Nott told her news of the Terror's new powers, for lack of a better word, Hermione had spent hours pondering on the matter—but had gone no further than that; she'd done no research of her own, no investigation into the matter; she'd convinced herself she needed to stay—because she never really believed him, perhaps. Or because she hadn't wanted to see the truth for herself.

Now that she was back, shivering and with her insides feeling like they'd been scooped out and poured again down her mouth, she felt more than a need to reflect and ponder—she felt a need to know.

Thankfully, her absence had gone unnoticed—Nott was still away for a few days and Malfoy was fast asleep; he'd been feeling better those days, more lucid, though Hermione wondered if that didn't mean death was fast approaching him.

She drew a bath and sank below the hot water as soon as the tub was filled.

And she began planning.

In order to know what the Terror was made of and what allowed it to change and steer away from the orders baked into It, she needed to seek out the source: the creator. The issue, of course, was that she knew the creator couldn't be Gaunt: she remembered being told about the rumours of the Terror that had spilled through the wizarding population during Voldemort's first reign. Ron had been the one to explain it to her after the first victim was found.

"My dad talked about it during an Order meeting, way before Voldemort even died. But he said it was just a rumour—"

"What was?"

"The thing that killed that Muggleborn. It's not the first we're hearing of it." He'd paused, his head hung low, like shame was dripping over him. "I wish we'd listened. I wish we hadn't just discounted it as rumours."

"I don't understand Ron. What are you saying?"

He'd looked up to her with tears in his eyes, like he'd murdered that Muggleborn himself. "When Voldemort first rose to power, there was this rumour going around—that there would be a monster coming for the Muggleborns, that it would snatch children from their cribs and prevent them from taking over the world. But nothing of the sort happened—Voldemort and his Death Eaters were the monsters, so everyone assumed it was bollocks. Called it a folk tale portraying Voldemort as the monster, a metaphor." He'd breathed in, slowly—then out, all at once. "But I think—I think this was what this was about. I think the monster is that—that thing Gaunt released."

"There's nothing we could have done to prevent it."

"Don't you think?"

"You can't fight against words, Ron—there's no spell that can destroy their power. Words are just—they're air. When everyone is scrambling and running because of imminent and violent danger, false words spread like wildfire—and you can't know if they mean anything until you see them as something real and full. Maybe Voldemort had a different monster in mind—maybe the rumour was just that and Gaunt decided to turn it into reality. You can't know what happened—I can't know what happened. All we have right now is a corpse and the Order—and that's what we have to fight. It's no use fighting memories and old words, you'll never win that way."

She remembered that discussion being the turning point for Ron—the day he'd decided that Harry's measured and non-lethal approach was useless, a mockery of the carnage that was unfolding before their very eyes.

He'd decided to combat words and ideas, because he felt responsible for not acting before the Terror became a reality—he'd felt so powerless, so hopeless, in the face of this very real danger that he'd turned to fighting air.

Hermione swept the regret away—Ron was dead. Resenting the memory was fighting air too.

She had to face a new reality and to delve deeper into the truth of the matter. This was only her first clue—her first step into finding the creator of the monster that had brought wreckage to the world and to her life.

She got out of the bath, her mind scrambled and her body still racked with tremors, and mulled over the question some more as she removed the glamour she had placed over the Devil's Blood brewing in her room—potion-making had always helped her clear her thoughts, and today was no different. As she lit the fire beneath the cauldron and began stirring in minute, precise movements, she almost slapped herself for missing it:

Domitia Peverell was the one who'd alerted her to the Purebloods' protection from the Terror. Not even Malfoy or Nott had known.

Domitia, who was once rumoured to have spent time in exile with Gaunt.

Domitia, of whom Malfoy once said she was 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.

Domitia, who Hermione had marked with the rune of portals and openings during their last meeting.

It seemed, try as she might, that Hermione could not avoid returning to the woman who had set everything in motion for her—for, without that first meeting back in the tavern, Hermione would long since have reached the North, alone and starved. She would not have sought out Nott and Malfoy. She would not have heard of the Pact or found the very things it is made of. Her life at this present moment would be very different—even, maybe, long since snuffed out.

She paused her whirring mind for a moment; too much was coming at her too fast, the patterns bending and breaking and reshaping behind her eyes, the swirl of time and coincidences making her dizzy and woozy and faint.

So, instead of recklessly pursuing Domitia, she paid Malfoy a visit.

"You up?" she asked even though he clearly was.

"You came back," he said without looking at her. "I thought you'd left for good."

"I just needed to clear my head."

"You shouldn't have returned."

"But I had to."

He flipped his head to face her. "Why?"

Hermione gently walked towards him and sat on the edge of his bed. She decided she needed to be honest with him. "Everything I need to make the potion is here."

"Granger—"

"Don't." Her voice broke, a thousand cracks crawling in her throat. Then, more quietly: "Do you know what I saw tonight? The Terror. Killing Purebloods. Our Vow is useless—it was useless when you began dying anyway. This is my only way out."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't do it. I'm saying you should do it far away from here—go to France. To Prussia. Wherever." He was rose with the tint of anger, but it seemed like his anger wasn't directed at her.

"I can't save you from Prussia," and it almost sounded like a jest coming out of her mouth. Like it was too light-hearted for the circumstances.

"Then don't save me. Save yourself. Save the world."

"But—"

"Granger, don't turn into Theo—don't let my circumstance turn you away from what matters." He winced as he straightened his back. "Who will there be left to fight if you're gone because you spent too much time focused on me?"

She almost wanted to tell him about the Initiative but held her tongue. "War doesn't rely on the actions of a single person—you know that. Just because victors get to tell the story and decorate their heroes doesn't make it true."

He laughed a little, then a lot, before coughing his lungs out and spilling blood on the linen placed over his thighs. "Right. So Potter wasn't a hero then?"

"He was brave. He did so many good things. But he wasn't alone." There was rage in her belly, white and frothing—but she kept it at bay. She knew what he was doing. She'd come to learn the subtleties of his tone, the dance of his words, the sting of his jest. "You won't drive me away this easily, you know."

Draco's stare washed over her—it was hard to tell what he was thinking; his eyes were clear, his lucidity apparent. "Yes, I know. I should know. You've gone as far as impersonating my mother—leaving is not an option for you."

This confession took her aback—she almost jumped from the bed and stumbled onto herself. "W-What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm not nearly as daft as you seem to think I am. Did you think I simply forgot my dead mother visiting me when my mind cleared the fog?"

"You didn't say anything."

"No. I was trying to figure out why you were doing it."

"And?"

"And I can't seem to figure you out, Hermione Granger. Clearly, you were out for blood—you got all my secrets out of me. But it would have been easy to do that in any number of ways, really—most painless and quick for you. Instead, you drank Polyjuice over and over again, donned my mother's old clothes, and took care of me the way she would have if she'd been here. Like you care about me."

Hermione shuffled further to the foot of the bed, gathered her knees to her chest, and hugged them—so forcefully she knocked the air out of her lungs. "I do care."

"Why?"

"Because you took care of me."

"That's not a reason to care. That's just a debt."

"Does it matter why I care? Why I did any of this?"

"It does to me."

"Because you're dying?"

"Because I'd like to know that, maybe, I'm not the worst person in the world—that if someone like you has found it in her to care for someone like me, it means maybe I've become better than I used to be."

"You're not going to die, Draco."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because those are the words of a dying man looking to extinguish his regrets. You want to die knowing you were worth something. But you're not going to die—for one thing, I won't let you, and I'm as stubborn as they come."

He pinched the arch of his nose, almost like he was frustrated. "Why can't you just tell me, Hermione?"

The use of her first name unsettled her, if just for a moment. "I don't see why it's so important."

"Do you regret caring for me?"

"Stop asking me things that only a dying person would think to ask!"

He melted back into the pillows beneath him, the ghost of a smile haunting his face. "Such a fucking enigma," though it felt like he was saying it to himself rather than to her.

She got up from the bed, unsettled and unmoored by their exchange. "I have something to do.," she decided. That was why she'd come to speak to him in the first place. "Think you can cover for me in case Nott decides to come back early?"

He nodded without much conviction. "Will you tell me what it is, at least?"

Hermione didn't reply immediately—she brushed the linens with her fingertips for a few seconds, then looked back up and straight into his eyes. "Trust me, you're safer not knowing."

She waited until the moon was high in the sky to wander out back and draw the rune in the air with Draco's wand.

Domitia was just a few miles out West—not far from the vestiges and rubble of Bury St Edmunds.

A perfect location. One that made Hermione realise, once she landed in the forest, that she'd been tricked.

"So. You know," she said once she stepped out of the bushes.

"Clever girl," Domitia commented bitterly. She turned to face Hermione. "I hope you had a good reason to let me know you're tracking my location, because you won't get a second chance to."

Hermione leaned against a tree—she was calm. Serene. She hadn't felt this in control since the tides had turned. "I think you owe me an explanation." She gestured towards the gutted village and its piles of bricks. "Surely you know what happened here." Before Domitia could answer, she continued: "You know, it recently dawned on me that you're behind a lot more of my decisions than you let on last we met. You were forthcoming enough to tell me you tracked me down, and for how long; you did say you asked Jane to follow me; you did say you were on my tail because you had a vested interest in me seeing through the things I set out to do. But—" She pinched her lips together. "You weren't as forthcoming as you pretended to be. Of course, it's a game people like you are good at: say a partial truth but keep the most important bits to yourself. Say enough that you can convince the person opposite you to trust you, but not enough that they'd escape your grasp or turn on you." Her foot traced circles in the dust beneath—Domitia was staring, but stubbornly silent. "I felt like a fool, at first, because I do like believing that I'm master of my own decisions, especially after I spent an entire year enslaved under the thumb of Richard Goyle and his dim-witted son." She swallowed the bile that surfaced in her mouth. "Not that you'd understand, really—because you're a Pureblood, Domitia. And I've come to see that even those of you with the best of intentions treat us Mudbloods like pawns in a silly political game you're playing amongst each other. Our lives pay the price of your arrogance." A bird flew nearby, and the tree leaves bristled. "Had I not seen the Terror kill Purebloods myself, I wouldn't have thought to distrust you—had I not found you here, I would not have imagined you ever lied to me. But you're here, and you know just as well as I do what happened here. And when I look at it that way, when I see the scope of your secrecy and duplicity, I have to wonder about every word that ever came out of your mouth. Starting with the notion that the Terror somehow can't kill Purebloods without vanishing forever. Or the fact that you gave me the recipe for a world-ending curse almost too easily, without putting too much of a fight—and that's without considering the cipher Nott had me translate. A cipher neither of those idiots could have figured out, even with their best efforts. I even have to wonder if you put Orpheus' string in my way—it sounds far-fetched when I say it, certainly, but that is what deception does to the mind." Green poison frothed and bubbled in her veins—this was the true nature of her anger, the only kind that could awaken the Noxious when she wasn't in mortal danger. This was what had led her away from the Order long before it went up in flames. "So, naturally, you can imagine why I'm not very happy with you at the moment. And why I would risk you knowing about the spell I put on you."

Domitia held her stare—the dark moors in her eyes seemed tormented, sloshing and wobbling about, bubbles of mad ready to pierce through the surface; she had the apparency of serenity, certainly, but her body betrayed the turmoil within. "I saved you. Twice."

"Saved me? You played me!" The rage was an explosion in her gut; a fire even vehementi igne could not compete with. "You've been trailing me far more than you led me to believe. Pushing me in the direction you feel benefits your position the most. After all, it can't be much of a coincidence that you sent me flying in Malfoy's and Nott's arms—because it's clear to me now that the day you sent me their way is the day they tried to find you. You knew they were there, you knew if I followed your advice that I would find myself tied to them—I just can't believe it took me this long to see it."

"You would have me believe I led you straight to the Devil's Pact, despite my belief that it is all the more dangerous in your hands? Despite what I made you promise?"

"Yes."

"Tell me why. If things are the way you say they are, I had the curse at my fingertips—I could have enacted it myself, instead of taking the long and painstaking route of leading you to it without any guarantee of success."

"Because you're not willing to pay the price." It seemed so simple, now that the truth unfolded before her very eyes. The timeline was simple, the reasons clear: she'd been followed after making an impossible escape; she'd been reached out to the moment someone else was proven to look for the Devil's Pact—and just as easily, she'd been led their way. Had it not been Malfoy and Nott, it would have been anyone else. Anyone who fit the description of what could save Hermione from certain death by Terror. "So tell me what you know. You do want me to enact the Pact; that much is clear. And if I am to do that, I'll need to know why."

Domitia sighed and sat down. "I'm so very tired, child." Closed her eyes. "I've been tired for centuries." Slowly, the features of her face softened and slumped; her skin loosened and wilted—time turned to liquid and passed over her in a snap; centuries turned into seconds, decades into fleeting moments.

Hermione stumbled back in terror and fell to the ground, knocking bone against wood. Her mouth opened in shock, uttering a single word no other found the courage to follow: "You…"

Domitia was once blonde and energetic, with a face painted by the gods themselves; the woman who stood now before her was older than Time itself; a picture of loss and grief and death. "My name is Morgana."

Hermione shook her head—tears she didn't remember crying flowed down her cheeks, the taste of salt on her tongue. "It can't be. It's not possible."

"Isn't it?" Morgana's voice cracked and withered in her throat. "Or do you simply refuse to see beyond the limitations of your reason?"

"No one can live as long as you have—not even the most powerful of wizards. Voldemort tried to achieve immortality, and he failed, like all those who preceded him!"

"Not all." Morgana laughed—a slow, syrupy laugh that sounded like an echo from another millennium. "Sit down and listen, child."

Hermione was too befuddled to do anything other than obey—the curiosity gripped at her insides, rooting her into the soil beneath; running was not an option, not when her mind ached so desperately to be fed and nurtured.

"Centuries ago, Merlin presented me with his greatest creation. An all-powerful spell. It would grant you everything: the power to control Time, matter, Death, to become immortal. I told him it was the work of the Devil, and he laughed; called it the Devil's Pact and decided then and there that I didn't understand the change this could bring to the world. Bad things, terrible things, I told him, and he laughed again—oh you and your superstitions, he said. Always seeing humanity in its worst light, despite the fact that he was the one who joined Salazar's house and had come to learn what the worst of our kind could do to the world. I warned him for days, told him he should destroy it and forget he ever created it; I pestered him so much and for so long he eventually relented and agreed to add three layers of protection to the spell; first, he would ensure only one person at a time could make the Pact; second, to be released of the Pact's hold, one would need to find someone else to enact it; third, he placed the scroll and the recipe in separate locations, and shared with me only the secret of where they were. Once enacted, both scrolls would find their way to another hiding place." She rubbed her tunic back and forth. "Still, I was alarmed—and I thought, well, what if I enact it? What if I spread the rumour that it cannot bring about immortality? What if I made sure I made no substantial changes, and simply lived out my life as is, ensuring no one get their hands on it? It seemed to me a bright idea at the time—I would fake my death, encase Merlin in a tree so he could never bring about such chaos and destruction again, and peacefully live knowing I would doom myself only." A sigh, heavier than the North winds, passed through her mouth. "I was naïve to think that. See, after centuries of loneliness, I fell in love—a stupid thing to do when you're the most powerful being on this Earth. I met a man named Augustus Gaunt—he lived in exile, and I joined him. We travelled the world; he would always ask how I maintained such youth and beauty while seemingly having all the knowledge in the world, and I would always be vague. Beauty potions, I would say, or, the leisure of not having to work and loving to read. Still, I sensed he was always a little suspicious, always a little guarded around me." She paused and looked up to Hermione—the paper-creased corners of her eyes seemed to carry the weight of the world; she was Atlas, lost to her own greed. "Then, finally, Tom Riddle was defeated and Augustus wished to return to his native England. He was a distant cousin of the familial branch and felt his life was in danger, after what Riddle had done to both Morfin and Marvolo; he told me: Let's change the world. Let's rebuild. You're the most brilliant woman I know, I want you by my side. I was pleased to see that he thought so highly of me; desperate for the companionship of a man who claimed to love me; bound by the feelings I'd grown accustomed to. So we returned and he campaigned for the Ministry; took advantage of the instability and used me as a prop to turn his dreams into a reality. What would you want to do? he would ask to placate me, and I would say work at the Department of Mysteries, because that was where I'd originally stashed the Veil Between the Realms and the Sands of Time, centuries earlier—I longed to go back to the deep sciences, to the truths of the most fundamental magic. And that is where I met Rookwood."

The name was all too familiar to Hermione.

Rookwood the traitor.

"Did you—"

"Did I know? Certainly. There comes a time in an immortal's life when everything becomes easy to attain; knowledge especially. I resented working with the man, and I told Augustus as much. He persuaded me once more, promised things would be different, that I had nothing to fear; Rookwood has seen the errors of his ways, he insisted. He's just passionate about the things magic can do. Was I foolish enough to believe him? Trust me, child, it would be so easy for me to say yes. I wish it had just been that: a woman believing the lies fed to her by the man she loved; but it was another thing altogether, in essence. It was worse, all things considered: I suspected he was up to no good, but I stayed. Maybe because I hoped I could change him, or because I thought I needed to gather knowledge; who knows? I've forgotten since the years have passed." Her hand waved in the air—Hermione swore she felt a breeze brush her at the same time. "Whatever it was, I stayed. I found out Rookwood was trying to revive a project he'd begun years earlier, before the first war broke out. A monster, he told me, to get rid of all these Mudbloods. He smiled at the thought—a smile so vile it's permanently etched into my memory. He showed me the drafts, the plans, everything—he would use shadows from the Shadow Room to craft its body; a brain from the Brain Room to make it sentient, and spells—so many spells—to guide it. It was clear, though, that he noticed my revulsion at the idea; there are many masks I've come to learn to use with the years, but the mask of indifference in the face of such bloodthirst was not one of them. I must have winced, or furrowed my brow, or something. After that, he kept away from me—his notes were locked every night as he left the department; he worked exclusively in a room only he had the key to; he never addressed me ever again. I shared my concerns with Augustus, but he waved me away. He has his little pet projects; they'll never become a reality, he said. Don't you worry your pretty little head over it, he would add while patting me on the head like I was a dog. I knew, at this point, that I could only count on myself to prevent this massacre from happening—but, in the end, my meddling only worsened things." A sad smile cracked her face open like a nut; a sudden cold crawled over Hermione's skin. "One night, I decided to break all my rules about not abusing my powers. I bypassed every single spell Rookwood had put over his creation and decided to see it for myself; it was rudimentary, at best, and certainly incapable of holding up to the many promises made to Augustus. I thought that it was all said and done—but something about the use of my powers changed the chemistry of my body. I'd made sure to only use a wand for centuries; I hadn't performed any magic that was beyond the scope of what any normal wizard should be able to do; and the Pact's energy—I imagine though I never will truly know—it seemed had festered in me, grown wild with restlessness—so, the moment I unleashed it, even for something as trivial as bypassing magical locks, it burst out of me and filled the empty husk that was the Terror. Made it… alive." She lowered her head. "I'm so sorry, child. I did this—and from then on, I knew I had to pass on the Pact to someone who would yield it better than I could."

Hermione basked in the silence for a few moments before asking: "Why didn't you just… kill it?"

Morgana looked up at her. "I tried, but it seems I've trained myself to repress the power for so long that I have no control over it anymore. It responds to elements, gestures, inconsequential and accidental—I have not been able to use it intentionally except for the one thing I've always used it for: masking my appearance."

"So this is what this has all been about? Passing on that burden to me? Why make me work so hard, then? Why not just hand me the necessary elements, tell me what to do, how to do it, and die in peace? This endless charade has cost me nearly everything I have—my dignity, my willpower, my survival."

"Precisely because of all those things—this burden is not one I can offload without thought. I needed to see you for who you truly are; if you were willing to make allies of enemies, to lie to me about your intentions, to betray and turn on those who welcomed you for the sake of this very Pact. I made a fundamental mistake when I enacted it—not just for the sheer fact of enacting it; I made a mistake by doing it as if it meant nothing, without having anything at stake. You have stakes, Hermione Granger; you have a use for this magic that, I believe, will do more for the world being used wisely than being repressed and neutered." She rose from the ground—she seemed taller than the arch holding the skies. "I could be wrong, but there is only one way to know."

There was no fighting this—Hermione had decided to enact the Pact long before this moment; arguing with a woman whose goals aligned with hers seemed futile; a waste of time she was quickly running out of. "Alright then. But first, tell me this: why is the Terror killing Purebloods senseless? That was not in the cards; and even you seem surprised by that very fact."

"I have my theories, but no certainties. The night before I fled—the night when it all changed—I peeked into Rookwood's notes. They were explicit about Purebloods being protected, about the Terror self-destructing should it maim them—and then a line about blood signatures, I believe."

It doesn't track all the Mudbloods—it tracks those after whose trail It's sent. It tracks the smell of a person's blood.

Hermione had once said this to Dennis, after he'd told her about Colin's sacrifice. She'd known, then, already that the Terror was not an almighty weapon that could detect Muggleborn blood by scent—because Muggleborn blood was no different from wizard blood; the differences were individual, personal, not dependent on social determination and assigned conventions.

It surprised her to see, however, how she hadn't made the leap in reverse; just the same as the Terror was beholden to individual people's scent in order to track them down, so was it for the people it had to avoid.

Which meant: not all Purebloods; only those whose blood signature was registered. Somewhere in Rookwood's notes.

"Thank you, Morgana."

The old witch looked at her with stupefaction. "You're... thanking me?"

Hermione smiled. "You tried. You failed. It happens to the best of us—it happened to me, to Harry, to Ron. But you're here, finally laying down your arms and telling me what I need to know; I think that's enough to be thanked."

"I appreciate that." And, before Hermione could leave: "One last thing, child. Do you know why I'm here tonight?"

"I assumed because the Terror slaughtered the village."

"Not quite." Morgana turned to the devastation the Terror had left in its wake. "See, I was expecting to see some friends of yours might have come to collect on what was once promised to you here: armed forces." Morgana paused when she noticed Hermione's puzzled look. "The Mudblood Initiative, child—though I'd wager they might call you something other than friend."

"Why—How—"

"I thought you'd like to know that the information you have them bore its fruits after all. It seems that meeting you has changed their minds on whether your strategy was warranted. They attacked Chattesworth once you joined them; they kept striking against all the places that turned you down, even after you left, and expanded their army with those who made an agreement with you. But, best of all, there's chatter that they've released slaves—that they figured out what connection kept them tied to their masters, severed it, and taken those slaves to join their ranks."

"How do you—"

"I told you, haven't I? Knowledge is a currency that comes easy to those who live forever. Elinor has long been a friend of mine; she's kept me informed." She smiled and pressed a gentle hand to Hermione's forearm. "Don't lose hope, Hermione Granger. There is only one way the Initiative could have known how to free the slaves—and that's because you did it first. You may feel alone in the world right now, but you have armies behind you. And if you call to them, they will follow you into battle. Trust their presence; trust your instincts."

Hermione nodded with tears in her eyes; she released herself from Morgana's grip and watched as she left; and then, filled with renewed determination, she turned on her heels and vanished, a plan already forming in her mind.

She found that she still had some use for Nott, after all—she could dispose of him later. There was no urgency—she had all the time in the world.

"Never trust a Mudblood." That was the phrase that welcomed Hermione once she stepped through the front door. Ahead of her was Nott—and he was holding the Devil's Blood in his hands. "Did you think a concealment charm was enough to keep your secrets from me, Granger? That I would never figure out what you were doing behind my back?"

Hermione was still as a rock; the Earth was rumbling beneath her feet, but her body was impervious to the sensation. For now, as it were.

"I guess you found me out," she said. "Good job. O for Optimal."

"Is that really all you have to say before I Avada Kedavra into the next life?"

"That seems like an unwise thing to do." The time when she let her emotions run free and overtake her was long since a memory of the past. A blip over the course of the many lives she'd lived through.

Nott seemed unsettled by her serenity. There was a tremor of doubt in his throat when he spoke again, one that Hermione had never imagined she would one day hear from him: "Really? I have the potion. I have the spell. I could be rid of you now and my life would be set."

"You have a partial potion."

He grinned, certain, it seemed, that he'd figured out what card she thought she held over him. "But you have the recipe—I'll find it."

"I do have it. In here." She pointed to her head. "I destroyed the scroll where it was written. And I wasn't foolish enough to make copies."

Nott pointed his wand at her—his arm was all steel and trembling soil, tense as a rod but shaking all the same. "You're lying!"

"Am I?" Hermione laughed a little at that. "Are you daft enough to find out?" She wanted to goad him, now—to push him over the edge. "Come on, Nott, go right ahead. You've been wanting to do this for eons, now—even before you encountered me again. I wager you've been wanting to do this since you burnt down the Order and killed every last one of my friends. Now's your chance—what's holding you back?"

His body strained, taut muscle pulsing beneath stretched-out skin; he withered and wavered, every emotion drawing distinct patterns on the arches and curves of his silhouette; as decisions came and went, he moved and stopped, almost like a puppet at a market stall.

Finally, he relented. "Fine. I guess you leave me no choice."

"Not as foolish as you seem, Theo." Hermione's tongue slithered beneath her front teeth as she slipped his first name into her voice. There was power in calling him by his given name; power in placing herself as his equal—the murky blood to his pristine blood. She was no longer afraid of him; no longer cared what he could do to her—she held all the cards now.

He was hers to play with.

"If you want me to finish mixing that potion for you, you're going to have to do something for me."

"Like Hell!"

Hermione sighed—it was an exaggerated sound, popping out of her mouth with a hint of mockery. "Suit yourself. I'm not the one in desperate need of saving a dying friend."

Theodore's face shifted. "Of all the things I've thought of you, cold-hearted never made the list."

"Am I cold-hearted? Or are you? You're refusing to bargain with me. The power to save Draco is in your hands, not mine."

"All I fucking do is bargain with you, Granger! I've never stopped! I keep caving to your demands and having to sacrifice more of myself! When it will be enough?" He was irate, yes—but there was something else, too. Despair.

"When you've made up for everything you've taken from me."

"I did what I had to do."

She shrugged. "So am I." Then mimicked a yawn. "So, what will it be?"

Theodore breathed in and out for a moment. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Rookwood's file on the Terror."

"You're mad. There is no way I'll get access to that."

"You burned down the Order for them, surely they'll let you take a peek."

"Granger—"

"Come now, Theo, you can't tell me you did all that for nothing? You essentially killed your best friend—not to mention everyone I had left in this world, not that you care of course—just to be treated like a mere soldier? Like cannon fodder? Surely a man such as yourself, the son of the fear-inducing Nott Senior, the destroyer of the last defence against evil, would be granted access to the Department of Mysteries and its secrets." She smiled, then waved her hand away like she was dismissing him. "But if you're not important enough for them to let you in, I have to assume you're not worth the Devil's Pact either; that you're too petty and small a man for power of this magnitude."

Once you spend enough time around your enemy, striking where it hurts is child's play.

"I'll get the file for you."

"Tonight."

"Tonight—"

"Well, there is no time like the present is there? Besides, I'm just a few hours away from completing the potion—and it would be a shame to delay saving Draco, wouldn't it?"

Theo's gaze was full of ire when it met hers; burning and violent, like he wanted to rip her head off her body. Frankly, she wished he would—the Devil was still toying with the embers of her sins, pushing her to the extremes; though Theodore Nott was the maker of her pain, the creator of many of her circumstances and the torturer of her days, she wouldn't have grown to be as slippery as she'd become if he hadn't put her in the position to. She resented as much as she lusted for his violence and his ire; she wanted to kill him just as much as she wanted to drown in his mouth.

"You're vermin."

"No worse than you."

He didn't deny it.

"I will destroy you."

Hermione laughed. "You're welcome to try."

Then, without warning, as if she'd lit a match and thrown it on him, Theo placed the vial with the Devil's Blood on a nearby table and launched at her; it was all very quick, a succession of motions that went quick as one-two-three; and he kissed her.

Or, rather, he devoured her.

His lips, his mouth, his teeth tried—desperately—to swallow her whole; he was harsh against her, steel pummelling through velvet, eager to only leave destruction behind in its wake, to poke holes in the fabric of her being. Hermione returned the kiss without thought, without refusal; she still ached for his touch, despite everything.

The moment she pushed, he pulled.

"I have to go."

He left abruptly, before she could protest or punish him; on his Cupid's bow, blood.

Only when she felt the cut in her lips did Hermione realise it was her own.