CHAPTER 15. THE MEANING OF BLOOD
Hermione returned to her chambers with the vial in hand and the taste of blood in her mouth. She was putting a lid over the simmering cauldron when a loud noise down the long stretched-out hallway rang in her ears. Then, a swear.
"What is it you think you're doing, Draco?" she asked when she poked her head out the doorframe.
He was battling with a doublet and had collapsed against the banister, seemingly drained of any force.
"What does it look like I'm doing? Getting dressed." He pushed himself up, sliding his hands up the wooden pillars of the banister, before falling again. "Care to help?"
Hermione stood by the doorframe, her lips pursed and her eyes squinting. "What for?"
"Well, I can't very well get up by myself, now, can I?"
"No—what are you getting dressed for?"
He blinked up at her. "Didn't Theo tell you? He left earlier than he ought, so I gathered he'd have conveyed the message to you."
"Tonight."
"Tonight—"
"Well, there is no time like the present, is there?"
"He did not."
"There's a—a meeting. Between Gaunt and Piedmont, the King of the French territory. A peace meeting, a negotiation; and there's a party tonight, a ball," he balked as he said it, "that we all must attend. I thought Theo might have been summoned early so as not to wait for me, or maybe some other urgency forced him out."
Hermione did not tell him why Theo had left. No, all she said was, "Fine. Let me find something appropriate to wear and we'll go together."
"No."
"Because you think you're going in that state?" She laughed. "Sure, lead the way."
"It's not safe."
"Nothing is! Not for me, at any rate. Besides, I still have your wand, in case you'd forgot."
He eyed her curiously. "I gave it to you?" Then sighed. "Of course I did. I've been foolish these days."
"Still being, I would imagine, what with thinking you'd make it over there alone."
"Theo was supposed to take me." His voice was low and rumbling, like a threat that wished it would turn to a truth. "I suppose he, too, deemed me too weak to go if he found it better to leave early." The sourness on his tongue burned through whatever excuses he found for Theo earlier and let the truth out of his mouth.
"All the more reason for me to accompany you, then," Hermione decided. "Does this immense house have women's clothing somewhere? I can't imagine any of the things I have would be appropriate." She looked at him pointedly. "And I really should help you get dressed before your efforts kill you. I am not spending my time brewing the most complex potion in the history of mankind just for you to die of exhaustion because of a doublet of all things."
There was humour in her tone—more than there had been in a long time—but the truth was that she was, deep down, terrified; hiding out with two of Gaunt's most trusted allies was one thing; walking into a party he was throwing with one of said allies on her arm was another entirely. It was, by far, the riskiest situation Hermione could put herself in; far more so, she would say, than the time she managed to reunite her limbs and escape the cold room after her very own public execution. There was secrecy, then, a plan that had been thought through and wrangled together with the help of another; this, by contrast, was pure insanity, and a gesture so impulsive and merciless that part of her wondered if she wasn't hoping to be caught.
"Mother's clothes are in the attic. I suspect you must know where, since that is the only place where you could have found her hair."
Hermione pressed her lips together, somewhat in embarrassment. "Yes, I might have come across a chest of sorts. I suppose I'll go look for it." She smiled: "But first," raised his wand, "it would be undignified for you to stay like this, wouldn't it?" and levitated him back to his room. "I'd stay there if I were you," she added before running up to the attic.
The chest was where she had last left it—when she'd first found it, she hadn't bothered rummaging much through it; the hairbrush was laid out neatly on top, and all she'd noticed was that there were clothes beneath it. Fashion had never been an interest of hers, and she quickly realised how little she knew of it once she began picking things out—she wasn't sure what to wear, what not to wear, and least of all in what order to do it.
She'd need Narcissa Malfoy's help one more.
Hopefully for the last time.
She levitated the chest down to the portrait hall in the abandoned wing and set it on the floor before pulling the linen off.
"Miss Granger."
"Mrs. Malfoy."
"You are cruel to keep me waiting longer each time between your visits."
Hermione smiled. "Have you grown to enjoy my presence, then?"
Narcissa snorted. "Nonsense. It is just that you are the only person to come speak to me; I fear I cannot be very indiscriminate in who chooses to keep my company, since I cannot move."
"Of course," though Hermione knew Narcissa was at least somewhat lying. "I would have moved you to Draco's chambers, but…"
"I cannot imagine that it would have helped you when you chose to disguise yourself as me."
"I should not be surprised you figured it out."
"And you will notice I am very careful not to ask you why, though I really should; but I fear I would not like the answer."
"I'm afraid not."
"Very well, then." Narcissa stiffened and straightened. "What is it you need from me today, Miss Granger?"
"I need proper clothes for this… event… I am to attend with your son. He suggested I borrow yours, but I can't seem to make heads or tails of… well, any of it." Hermione hated to admit she had any gaps in her knowledge; even now, when life had humbled her continuously like a hammer over a nail, she found her pride wounded at confessing she was at a loss—especially with something as trivial as clothes.
But Narcissa did not mock her for it; no, all she did was smile. "That, my dear, is the first thing you've asked of me that I find enjoyment in giving you." She clasped her hand together. "Let us get to it."
Then came the most needlessly complicated process Hermione had ever found herself at the mercy of. She began with silk stockings, around which she tied an embroidered garter (silver and green, as was to be expected); then, a linen coiffe on her all-too-recognisable-hair, which Narcissa recommended she tie into a bun (and though Hermione planned to glamour her face for the event, doing so to her hair would have been much too complicated an endeavour in the little time she had); above her stockings and undergarments, she slipped on a cone-shaped petticoat with hoops of bent wood, over which she layered a mint green kirtle; its neckline was embroidered with jewels Hermione would have sooner ripped from the fabric had she gotten her hands on them when she was at her most destitute—emeralds, pearls and sapphires that shone in the candlelight and eclipsed almost all sights around them; then, she was made to add a forepart over the kirtle ("It's cloth of silver, Miss Granger—few families in the Wizarding world, and fewer even in the Muggle world, have had the fortune to own fabric as luxurious as this one," explained Narcissa with stars in her eyes)—and used her wand to adjust the necessary pins and ties to keep it in place ("This is nonsense," she muttered under her breath, though not low enough that she avoided Narcissa tutting her).
"Surely, this will be everything," said Hermione once the forepart was in place. "I may need to make a swift exit as some point, so surely there cannot be more."
"Miss Granger, you have not even put the gown on!"
It struck Hermione, right there and then, that Narcissa Malfoy, of all people, who'd once been described by Ron as looking as though she was always bothered by the smell of dragon dung, was giddy over Hermione's preparations for the ball.
Even as things were proving to become dire, there was joy to be found.
"Fine," she whined. "Is this it?"
She charmed an emerald silk velvet gown out of the chest.
Once Narcissa nodded, Hermione slipped it on; and though it was heavy, and she feared her movements would be quite limited, she had to admit it was beautiful. The bodice defined her waist beautifully, while the skirt spread out and hid how terrifyingly slim her figure had become since her days at Hogwarts; the sleeves fit tightly around her upper arm, then fanned into wide, pendulous cuffs. She laced it at the front, then pinned the stiffened packet to the side, hiding the sight of the laces; the kirtle's embroidered and bejewelled neckline was still apparent, which, she supposed, was the point of having it there at all. Finally, she pulled a jewelled girdle out of the chest, draped it over the gown's dipping waistline and added a French hood over her coiffe.
"Well," said Narcissa, "you certainly look the part." Then, with a pained expression, she added: "I wish I could be there to see my son's face when he sees you, Miss Granger."
This gave Hermione pause. "I'm not certain he'll care what I look like."
"Are you not?" She sounded amused. "You're less observant than I gave you credit for, then."
Hermione wrinkled her nose; there was no point in arguing, least of all with a portrait, on something as asinine as this, but the swot in her could not help it. "I think you've perhaps… misconstrued… whatever it is your son and I share, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Have I?"
"I've certainly grown to enjoy his presence more than I ever imagined I would, especially considering our fraught history, and I do think this holds true for him as well, but I would not wager to say our affections run any deeper than that. I am a means to an end, as far as he is concerned, as he is for me. He owed Harry a debt, and he paid it back in full by protecting me; I am thankful for this and wish he could live a life unburdened, once I have reached my goals, so I am, in turn, trying to help him."
Narcissa contemplated Hermione for a long while before replying. Her eyes darted up and down the gown she'd once owned, then back to her face. "So many words to speak of love," she finally said. "Words of a fool," she added with a sneer. "And they told me you were clever."
"A fool?"
"Yes, Miss Granger, a fool. You may keep my eyes closed, but my ears work just as well as they always have. I hear what goes on here, and I know my son."
"Then you will have heard Draco is dying, and Theo is the one he's always loved." Hermione wasn't sure why she was so heated; there was nothing here worth discussing, nothing to dissect, nothing that warranted closer inspection.
"Yes."
"Well? Is that not enough to discredit the ridiculous notions you entertain?"
"You know, Miss Granger, I had grand ideas of love when I was your age. I was promised to be married when I turned four-and-ten and painted idyllic notions of what that marriage would be like; then I met Lucius, and he cast those aspersions aside rather quickly. I feared I may never grow to love the man—frankly, it is a miracle that I ever did, when I look at the odds now. He was not always a good man, and whatever goodness he had in him disappeared entirely towards the end of our marriage, but there was a time when things between us were filled with a bliss I never knew possible. A bliss that did not follow any of the conventions I'd been told about love prior to that marriage.
"Your life, Miss Granger, has been difficult and painful. You've survived ordeals of an abject nature, and you've had nothing to aspire to other than survival in your lifetime. Perhaps a happier outset on life could have been possible for you after the Dark Lord's downfall, but the die was cast as soon as Augustus Gaunt chose to return and seize power in this land; you went from one enemy to another in very little time; I would think something like this would have you discard things of little utility to your survival, such as love, the joys of a quiet meal with someone who cares for you, the bliss of a life shared in companiable silence, and for this I cannot begrudge you. I admire you.
"But, I find that I should remind you that love, while it cannot win a war or overpower a tyrant, can help tremendously when comes the time for you to make a choice. It is not out of devotion for Harry Potter or the cause of Muggleborns that I lied to the Dark Lord, when things came down to it. It was out of love for my son. That love could not have made me as brave or as righteous as you, and I will not be so bold or naïve to pretend itcould have prevented or ended the war either way, because you know as well as I the world is not so simple, but I do wish you would understand how vital a tool it can be when you are in the midst of the tides of war.
"And though there would have been a time when I would have been sickened by the thought of my son loving you of all people, I've now seen and heard enough of this mindless brutality towards Muggleborns to find myself disgusted at the idea I ever agreed with such measures; and as I have come to know you, even if only through a mere representation of who I used to be, I can hardly say you are ill-suited for my son. Quite the opposite, in fact. Theodore Nott, though he may have the standing I once required of a match for Draco, if not the gender, is a man that is no equal to you, Miss Granger. He is lowly and despicable; his keeping Draco alive in this half-form is a choice he made not out of love, but out of selfishness. He does not love him as much as he wishes to possess him."
She paused for a moment, and Hermione felt a shiver come down her spine; her gaze was intense, foreboding.
"There was always something about that boy; even when he was but a child, it terrified me. He would be cruel to my butterflies and my flower bushes, feather my peacocks and steal from the kitchens, though he was not lacking for anything. I knew his father was brutish and wicked, so I would chalk up his aggression in my home to the consequences of his upbringing. I tried to give him grace whenever I could, to shower him with sympathy and a mother's love, for he did not have one to call his own anymore. He became sweet, with me at least, but the years proved he'd inherit his father's cruelty in ways even I could not predict. And, soon into Draco's sixth year at Hogwarts, when he took the Dark Lord's mark and was forced to commit the irreparable, I was forced to come to terms with that fact. Theodore would egg Draco on, he would push him to his limits; though he was not content with taking the mark himself, he enjoyed the notion that he'd reached the same level of power as his father. It was rather foolish, considering that both Draco and he were cannon fodder created to pay for the mistakes of their fathers, but only Draco came to see it like that.
"Maybe it was because he had something to lose; both Lucius and mine's lives were under threat, and we'd both been loving parents to him. Theodore could not have cared less what happened to his father, and why would he? He bore no love for the man. He would say he did all this to protect Draco when pushed and prodded. I believed it for a little while: after all, there was comfort in thinking there was an ally to Draco within the walls of Hogwarts, one that was his age and shared his sleeping quarters, one that he'd grown up with. And so, the imprudent mother I was, I ignored all the signs that showed me what was between them was not much different from what Theo and his father had. Draco was a possession, someone to keep under his thumb, someone to use. From then on, every act of devotion or protection from him was no more than pressure for Draco to stay by Theodore's side, to turn him into an adoring and submissive puppet.
"But Draco had known love, hadn't he? I fear that he lost sight of what it was because of that fateful year, because of what his father did, but he never completely forgot. He betrayed Gaunt and Theodore when he chose to keep the Order's location a secret. He betrayed them once again when he allied himself to you, and he continued to chip at his loyalty to both bit by bit ever since. Even my death did not have as great an effect on him. Death stirs by his doorstep, waiting for the opportunity to strike, and yet he continues to betray the man he was closest to in favour of you. While, certainly, much can be ascribed to the tides changing and him wanting to repay a debt, that will never be enough to explain everything he's done, Miss Granger. The only answer, I fear, despite your reservations, is love."
Hermione was shivering; a feat, considering how many layers she was currently wearing. "You're wrong," she said quietly, despite knowing that she was lying. "But I appreciate it nevertheless, Mrs. Malfoy. You've been a greater help than you could ever know. I do not think I would have made it this far without you."
Narcissa wrinkled her nose but did not comment further, a rather clever move in the face of such stubbornness. "I understand your reticence," she simply said. Then, rather boldly: "May I ask a favour of you, now?"
"Of course."
"Will you carry my portrait out once this is all over? I would like a chance to see more than this dusty room."
"I promise." Hermione considered the time she had spent in the room. "I should really go, now. I'll see you soon."
She didn't bother covering the portrait, this time—she wanted Narcissa to have a view while she listened to their comings and goings. That much she owed the woman.
When she returned to Draco's room, she found him sitting on the bed, mostly dressed. His britches and shirt were buttoned and fastened, but the doublet was still lingering on the bed, almost as a sign of its victory over the man meant to wear it.
"You certainly took your time," he said when she walked in.
Then, he looked at her, and whatever acid he had to throw at her burned in his throat, for he could do nothing but gape at her. "Hermione, you—"
"We're going to be late if we do not hurry," she said while avoiding his gaze. His mother's words were still burning through her, and she did not wish to think on them too much or to run the risk of blushing and betraying her bothered state of mind. She remembered, the day he told her he couldn't believe someone like her existed, thinking please don't say you love me. Please don't put that burden on my shoulders; and though he had never outright said it, it had been laid out for her so plainly to see. By him, by his mother. And just as she'd silently begged then for it to be false, she begged again now.
Because she did not love him? Perhaps—she did not know what it was she felt for him, and she'd accepted that she probably never would. Narcissa had been right in that one regard: once someone is hardwired as strongly as Hermione for survival, with hope of little else out of life, the notion of love becomes a luxury one cannot afford. She loved Ron, for a time, but that time was one of exception, during which she had a home and respite, as scarce as they'd been, even then. That love died as the tides turned, soon to be followed by him. After that, all considerations on the matter had become dust.
She had a home and respite, now, too—of even stronger foundations than the ones provided to her back at the Order—but her need for survival had grown greater too. In this home, she had little in the way of allies and found that even her sleep had grown weary of the constant worry; in this home, she was a target not just for those outside. In this home, she never felt at home.
If Draco truly did love her—something she was still convinced was a fabrication—then he would have to do it on his own. Reciprocal was a luxury, just as everything else had been. If his love helped turn the tides of war permanently, then she might find the time to consider it; but that time was not now.
She helped him slip on his doublet and then gave him back his wand. "You'll need to glamour me before we go. Even with my hair hidden in this ridiculous hood, I fear I may be too easy to recognise. My face has been hanging all over the country for months, after all."
Draco stared at her for a long time before charming her features away. His eyes brewed storms as they glanced at her eyes, her nose, as they lingered on her lips. "There," he said quietly after a moment. "I could not do much; use of magic is still difficult for me. But with your hair hidden as well, it should be enough."
Hermione walked to the mirror sitting on the vanity in the corner and found she agreed with him. Her freckles were gone, her eyes were green, her lips thinner, her nose longer. It was enough.
"Are you ready?" she turned to ask him. "We have to be back here in eight hours on the dot if we're to make sure the potion is completed."
He nodded; she still could not quite meet his eye. So she just grabbed his hand in hers and Disapparated them.
The Atrium of the Ministry had been decked out for the occasion; everything glistened with gold and crystal, from the pillars to the cutlery by the tables. The ceiling had been enchanted to look like the night sky, a cloud of purple stars shining brightly above them.
The guests, too, were dressed to the nines; jewels of every colour sparkled in the light like fleeting rainbows.
Despite her knowledge that such an occasion was not to be celebrated and that everyone present here would sooner kill her than save her, Hermione could not help but admire the décor and breathe in the beauty with appreciation. She'd lived in utter poverty for years, then been turned into a slave, then become a fugitive with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and the things in her satchel. She could not be blamed for finding beauty in a world of riches that would never be her own.
"I don't see Theo anywhere," she whispered to Draco as they walked amongst the guests. "Maybe he didn't come," she added. She knew where he was, of course—some floors down, in the Department of Mysteries, at her behest—but she also remembered every bit of Narcissa's words; especially those that told her of Theo's grasp on Draco. And if she had any chance of severing those ties once and for all, she needed to sow doubt into his mind as fast and as earnestly as possible.
"He must be somewhere," Draco responded absentmindedly.
Though she was on his arm, Hermione was doing the heavy lifting. Draco was in no state to be here; he'd been in no state to even get dressed for it. With the help of a discreet charm, she'd managed to enhance her strength—at least enough to hold him for most of the evening—but even then, she could feel his weight press down on her.
It should not—and, had Narcissa never said a word, would not have—make her wonder, but it did. As her eyes flittered over the conversing guests, glancing at every bit of luxury glittering in the light of the chandeliers, her mind wandered elsewhere; it went to the lines drawn by Draco's muscles between his thin white shirt, to the ridges of his jaw and the sharpness of his eyes. She'd never really thought of him as a physical body; to her, he'd always been Draco Malfoy, at times bully and tyrant, at times ally and martyr. His mind was what she'd come back to, whether he was tormenting her or helping her; his heart maybe, when she struggled most with her own choices and the depth of her immorality. His body, though, had only become an object of interest once she'd found out about his illness and the weakness it had instilled in him—but, by that point, she'd become a helping hand, a carer. And, even then, she had not so much considered the body as one; rather, it had been an object of the illness, rather than something that made him.
Thus, it was only now that she thought of his body as something to desire. He'd grown frail, certainly, but true beauty lay beneath it all, and the traits passed down by both his parents shone through it all.
"Mr. Malfoy! I am glad to see you've joined us."
Hermione forced her focus away from Draco and onto the man who had just spoken.
Her stomach dropped the moment she saw him.
Augustus Gaunt.
Hermione never quite forgot he last encounter with the man—how could she? She was standing in a corner when he murdered Richard Goyle, his flaming red eyes, the likes of which she had only seen in Voldemort, shining with disdain and boredom. And though he'd been present at her execution, she had not seen him that day—no, the one moment she still came back to when thinking of him, was when he inadvertently secured her escape.
"And who is that lovely lady on your arm? I do not remember having the pleasure of making her acquaintance," he asked once Draco and Hermione had greeted him with a nod and a curtsy.
Hermione froze—she had not thought of creating an identity for herself. Thankfully, it seemed, Draco was quicker on his feet.
"A distant cousin of mine, hailing all the way from France—I do believe tonight was the perfect time to introduce her to English society, given the bonds we're hoping to make," he said calmly, as if he'd already known exactly what to say. Maybe he had. "Philomena Malfoy, Sir. Though I fear she does not speak our tongue, so you may need to forgive her silence." Clever.
"Miss Malfoy," responded Gaunt, "I am enchanted." He took her hand in his and bent down to kiss it—it took every ounce of willpower in Hermione's body not to send him flying across the room. She simply smiled at him and hoped that would be enough. "You've always been astute, my dear boy," he said as he turned to Draco. "We do need to strengthen the bonds we have with the France—they too, need to be rid of the plague of Mudbloods, after all. We may not agree on much else, but that should be enough for forge a diplomatic and peaceful alliance, do you not think?"
"Certainly. I've always found that the French are deeply aligned with us when it comes down to it. All the spats between our two countries have, after all, been the result of the Muggles' incessant and barbaric need for in-fighting. We wizard folk are above such notions."
Gaunt laughed and slapped Draco on the back. "You are right, of course! Your father would be proud, I should say."
And though Draco did not wince, Hermione knew that, deep inside, he was seething at the idea. She'd grown more accustomed, she realised, to him than she had previously thought. She could read the lines of his face easier than any book; there was the fold in the corner of his eyes, the subtle dip of his lips, the crease in his cheek.
"Well, we should certainly mingle, should we not? I was also hoping to find a husband for my dear cousin tonight—she's quite ravishing, is she not?"
"I would not mind throwing my hat in the ring," agreed Gaunt. "It is clear her blood is as pure as they come; her beauty is enthralling."
Hemione had to purse her lips to avoid laughing at the notion—certainly, she'd been glamoured and did not quite look like herself, but the idea that she resembled one of the Mighty-Twenty-Eight was ludicrous; Gaunt was blinded by his own prejudice.
"A high honour indeed, to have what may be the most ancient line of England consider mingling with mine," smiled Draco. "Qu'en penses-tu, ma chère Philomène ?"
"Je serais honorée à l'idée de le transformer en insecte et de l'écraser avec mon talon, mon cher Drago."
Draco laughed, somewhat boisterously. Then, he turned back to Gaunt: "She's so good natured, this girl. She said she'd love nothing more than to make your acquaintance, if you get my meaning, when the time is right."
"I shall look forward to it, then," smiled Gaunt, his canines visible in the light. "Let us talk about it some more once all this diplomacy business is over, then."
Once he was out of earshot, Hermione quietly asked: "How did you know I spoke French?"
Draco shrugged. "I remembered something about you going to France before our second year. Besides," he smiled, "I've never known you not to excel at anything you decide to conquer."
Were the occasion not as grave as it was, Hermione thought she could have found the quip quite charming; it was cruel, the things that life had taken from her. In another world, in another time, in another land, Draco and she could have been something; those words of love Narcissa mentioned could have been real, tangible things. They could have been happy, maybe.
But in this day and age, in this moment, surrounded by nothing but foes and bloodthirsty monsters, the quip only served to make her sad. Death was lingering on both their doorsteps; the fact that they could find something to laugh and joke about was only a testament to how much they were both missing out on. Proof that there was no room for love in this life of theirs.
Still, not wanting to ruin this moment, she responded in jest: "I did not know you were so taken with me back then. Maybe I should have assumed all that cruelty was just to hide your desperate crush on me."
A storm passed in his eyes—she expected him to be angry for a moment, thought maybe it hadn't been the right thing to say, but it left as soon as it came. "A man has to do what's needed to guard his heart," he laughed.
Hermione had never wished their circumstances were different more than she did in this moment; how much she was willing to give up for this thing to be more than a fleeting moment of joy.
But it could never be—not when the crowd was moving towards them, and the moment was forced to pass all-too-early. "Draco Malfoy! Well, it has certainly been a long while since we've seen you!"
"It has indeed, Antonin! How are you finding the party?"
"Delightful," Dolohov smiled. Hermione felt the scar on her sternum prickle, though she imagined it was all in her head. "And you bring delicious company, too," he added as he turned to Hermione. "Adorned in your family's finest clothes, I see. Are you too… related?"
"Cousins. Though I fear she does not understand a lick of what you're saying, Dolohov—she's French." Draco stiffened besides her; one of his hands instinctively slid around her waist, almost as if he knew how much this moment was paining her.
"Well, we are here to mingle with the French," replied Dolohov suggestively.
Many men had been a threat to Hermione's survival; many Purebloods who flinched at the notion of her holding a wand held no such reservations when it came to violating her body; Richard Goyle had murmured such designs for her when she first entered his home, though he never made them a reality; Amicus, the Marauding Bandit, nearly had his way with her until she killed him; others, Muggles, had thought her a beggar when she passed through town and offered to pay her handsomely for her services. She was no stranger to the tinge of violent lust in men's eyes, had encountered it so often and seen it shining so brightly that she could recognize it anywhere with no more than a passing glance.
And yet, in Antonin Dolohov's eyes, she found something so terrifying it chilled her to the bone. Maybe it was because he was taller than a tree, and built of boulders where other men are made of muscles; maybe it was because he had already inflicted on her so much pain—physical and mental in equal measures—that he still roamed her nightmares from time to time; or, maybe, just maybe, it was because she realised that he, if he tried, would succeed where other men had failed.
That glint in his eyes was not just one of violent lust; it was one of fatal lust. Even under the disguise of a Pureblood witch, cousin to Gaunt's second-in-command, this was a promise: if I get you in my bed, you will not make it out alive. I will break you.
She tried to hide her shudder beneath a pleasant smile, held out a hand, and articulated some banalities with a heavy-handed French accent: "Nice to meet you."
He kissed it, but it was not gentle; it might as well have been the kiss of Death.
Draco shot her a worried look and whisked her away just a second later to a darkened corner of the room. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. He's not the only Death Eater I'm bound to meet tonight," Hermione lied. She wasn't sure why—there was no reason to.
"Yes, but Dolohov is—"
"I'm aware. I still bear his scars."
"Hermione, maybe—"
"I knew what I was getting into when I offered to come here, Draco. And, contrary to what you might think, I am not a delicate little lamb you must protect. You do not know the things I have seen, the things I have endured, to make it here. I am fine. And if I am to continue to be fine, you need to behave like nothing is wrong here—or someone is bound to suspect I'm not the person you said I am." She laid a soothing hand on his forearm. "I need you to trust me, not them."
He nodded, but there was reluctance in the gesture; it was slow, mechanical, perfunctory.
"We've made an appearance," he said quietly. "There's no need for us to stay past this point."
"I disagree."
His eyes widened. "You—"
"If anyone is likely to let out a crucial piece of information, it is tonight, at this very event. With just enough wine in blood and the feeling of safety from being amongst fellow-minded individuals, even the most respectable of dignitaries is bound to let out a secret that he should be keeping. And we need all the secrets we can get if we're to hope to finally put an end to this." She checked a clock on the wall. "Besides, we have a few hours before I need to be home to finish the potion, at which point I should be able to cast the curse. Might as well make the most of them, don't you think?"
Draco shifted his balance from foot to foot before slowly nodding once again. "If there is even a sniff that something is wrong, you will immediately Apparate us back. Promise?"
"Promise." She smiled and leaned closer to him; he might have thought it a sign and she let him—as his eyes searched for hers, he failed to notice his own wand being slipped into the pocket of his britches.
It's certainly a shame Draco had never come to understand how bad Hermione was at keeping promises.
The next hour was spent eating and drinking to their hearts' content. The last time Hermione had engaged in such culinary debauchery was at a Hogwarts feast—so many years ago she barely remembered it.
She did remember Molly feeding her excessively during the summer after the Battle of Hogwarts, but things had not quite been the same—she was being force-fed out of guilt and maternal love, when all she wanted was to let herself waste away, overcome as she was by the events prior and those that were rumoured to come.
And come, they did.
This was an entirely different matter—she was going to feast on the Purebloods' entitlement, on their stolen portions from the farmers' fields, on their broken system.
They were first served a magnificent roasted swan, its feathers meticulously reattached after cooking to give the illusion of a live bird, its neck gracefully curved as if still in flight. The skin was perfectly crisp, a deep golden brown, and glistened with a sheen of honey glaze. Beside it lay a peacock pie, its plumage fanned out, the rich meat inside encased in a delicate, buttery crust. After gulping down a bit of both, Hermione reached for another floating platter, this time piled high with venison pastries, and grabbed one. The pastry was flaky and golden, giving way to reveal tender chunks of venison, slow-cooked in a rich gravy infused with red wine, cloves, and juniper berries. She savoured the first bite, angry at both herself and the world for finding it so enjoyable, so filling.
Later, a silver platter appeared in the middle of the table. It was covered by a whole roasted boar, an apple held firmly in its mouth. The head was surrounded by an array of small, spiced sausages and a vibrant assortment of root vegetables roasted to caramelized perfection. Draco carved her a thick slice; the meat was so tender meat it yielded easily under his knife, and Hermione almost moaned as she engulfed it; a delicate balance of sage, garlic, and fennel seasoned the flesh.
She did not stop there; the dishes danced in front of her eyes and just as quickly into her mouth: a delicate quail stuffed with figs and almonds, its skin crisped to a light golden hue; a bowl of frumenty, a creamy wheat porridge enriched with saffron and studded with plump currants; and a plate of glazed carrots, their sweetness enhanced by a glaze of honey and butter.
When the time came for the masterpiece, she marvelled alongside the other guests; the veil draped over it flew to uncover a towering marchpane castle, a masterpiece of sugar and almond paste sculpted into the likeness of a grand fortress, complete with turrets and battlements. The castle was decorated with intricate patterns of coloured sugar and edible flowers.
After filling herself with two pieces from it, she sipped from a goblet of spiced hippocras—mulled wine fragrant with cinnamon, ginger, and galangal. The warmth of the drink spread through her limbs, and she almost forgot why she was here in the first place.
For a minute, she really did. She devoured the desserts that followed though her stomach was full: a rich, buttery custard tart flavoured with rosewater; a platter of candied fruits, their vibrant colours preserved in a sugary glaze; and a delicate almond blancmange, so creamy is dripped down her throat with easy.
Then, when she was done, when there was nothing left to consume, dread took over; she'd never known herself to indulge that way, even when indulgence was customary for the occasion. This was the first time in years she'd eaten till her stomach threatened to burst, till she could imagine chunks of barely-digested and barely-chewed food colour the otherwise pristine white-and-gold décor.
Worse: she felt no remorse.
Not that she should, because, after all, she was eating the food of her enemies—but she came here with a mission, and that mission's goals were as empty as her glass of champagne; she'd done nothing, and two hours had gone by just like that.
Then, and only then, did she notice the servants standing in the corners, hidden by the penumbra of the alcoves and the pillars around the room—Half-Bloods with limited wand use, just like at Goyle manor. Tonight, she was a Mudblood being served by Half-Bloods, and this should have left her reeling—but she quickly realised that their presence could only mean one thing: somewhere, down in the kitchens, Mudblood slaves were chained to pillars and preparing meals. Like she once had.
Like she once was.
She had eaten food prepared by shackled hands; her body fought the surge to vomit it all over the table, but it was Draco who kept her in check.
"You're a menace," he said, clearly impressed.
"I haven't had a full meal in years," she confessed sheepishly. It wasn't that she hadn't been fed since she'd been with him—she had been, plenty more than she was used to, but, even then, it had been sustainment only. Survival. Always, always, always survival. It was with a sudden pang of guilt that this was the first night Hermione was truly enjoying herself since… everything. And it was done amongst a cohort of enemies who wished for nothing short of her death; painfully, and at the hands of a creature that had cost the lives of many of her own already. In a room decorated by her own, who, unlike her, were being starved at the present. "No matter," she dismissed her thoughts. She'd come back for them, one day. She'd make up for her wrongs. "Have you seen Theo anywhere?"
She was beginning to worry. Had he been caught? Did they know what he was up to? Was she about to be seized by an army because Theodore had spilled her secret?
Worse—were they back at the manor, finding her notes on the Devil's Pact, discovering an almost completely brewed potion alongside the proper spell to cast it? Were they waiting for her to return so they could finally bring her to an end and enact the Pact to rid the world of her kind forever?
Panic seized Hermione by the throat just as soon as she realised the implications of what she'd demanded, of the risks her request had exposed her to. Theodore would certainly not keep his mouth shut for her sake, if caught; he'd do anything possible to protect himself and his advantage, no matter the cost—he'd made his hatred of her clear enough for her to be sure of this.
Remnants of digesting food threatened to climb up her oesophagus as she counted all the ways in which she might find herself fucked in the next couple of hours. He didn't know she was here, or what she currently looked like, but maybe he wouldn't mind selling out Draco, too—and, after all, Draco had spent the evening on her arm, presenting her as the mysterious French cousin. A removal of the hood and the coiffe and her very distinct hair would be revealed to all—even the glamours would not be enough to save her then. God only knew the jinx she cursed Harry with in the forest of Dean was not nearly good enough to prevent him from being recognized by Draco; and Hermione was, by all accounts, much less disguised than that.
"He's right over there," said Draco as he pointed over to another table. "Gaunt always has him sit at his table. Theo is his most trusted advisor by now, I believe." There was a tinge of something in his voice—bitterness? regret? anger? envy? She wasn't quite sure—whatever it was, she wasn't sure she liked it.
Still, she breathed out. Relieved. "Oh. Thank the Lord."
"Why did you look so panicked, just now?"
Hermione's voice died in her throat. "N-no reason. I ate more than I should have, I was just feeling a little stuffed." She smiled, and added, for good measure: "Like that boar I had too much of, I would imagine."
Draco was not convinced, but he did not push; probably because they were not alone at the table and he did not want to draw attention to them. Granted, they'd only spoken in French all evening, as per the ruse he'd cooked up, but a row of any kind would have attracted the kind of attention neither of them wanted or needed.
"Should we go greet him once dinner is over?"
"Yes, I suppose we should, though I wager you should keep your distance until we're certain Gaunt is not around to hear whatever we have to tell him. Theo will know you're not my cousin—he's met her already, and she looks nothing like you; there is also the fact that he's seen my mother wear this very dress—so he will probably guess who you are. But best to be safe."
Hermione was thankful they'd been sat at a table of English Peerage; a duke and his wife, an earl and his daughter, a widowed duchess and her brother; none of them understood a word that had been uttered, despite their learning French as part of their education, both because Draco and Hermione spoke too fast, and because they both affected accents from different regions to ensure complete discretion.
It was a fragile balance to keep; perhaps some Frenchmen at the next table overheard them, after all; but she had to imagine they cared little for what some English Lord was saying to his cousin, and what little they heard was likely drowned by the sounds of music and conversation around them.
Sometimes, Hermione realised, the best kept secrets are told in a room full of people.
Thirty minutes later, they managed to corner Theo alone. Gaunt had gone off to meet the French princess, whose gown was so large she created a bubble all for herself every time she moved about the room.
"You brought—you brought her here?" said Theo as soon as they were far enough not to be heard. "Are you deranged, Draco?"
"She insisted!"
"So you tell her no," he sneered. "And you," he added, a finger pointed at Hermione's face, "if you had let me explain why doing what you asked tonight was a terrible idea instead of threatening me, I could have protected both you and Draco by accompanying him here."
"Threatened—" Draco let the sentence hang in the air. "Is that why you were so anxious to know where he was?"
There it was again—that tinge in his voice; except, this time, Hermione knew exactly what it meant. She imagined earlier that it was because he was bitter at the idea of not being Gaunt's most trusted advisor, but she realised with uncharacteristic glee that it was because he thought she was seeking out Theo's company over his.
Then, a darker, more sinister realization washed over her: Theo was about to spill the beans. The only—only—reason that he'd agreed to come here tonight at her behest was because she'd threatened to let Draco die.
She hadn't meant a word, of course, but she'd been convincing enough to dupe the most duplicitous man she'd ever met. And that fact alone meant she had become more duplicitous than Draco knew her capable of.
Narcissa's words floated once again in her head, and she tried to wave them away but couldn't. She was forced to admit the painful truth that had been hanging over her head for longer than she'd realised: this was going to break Draco's heart; a heart she'd grown fond of herself.
"I did what I needed to do to get what I needed."
"If I'd known you'd slip in here so easily, I would have sent you there myself!" Theo's voice, though hushed, betrayed nothing but rage.
"I need the both of you to shut your mouths and explain what is going on right now!" Draco was going pale in the face from yelling; Hermione caught him before he could fall.
She sighed and closed her eyes; there was no escaping this, try as she might. "He… he found out I was preparing the potion in secret, and I—Draco, you have to know that I did not mean a word of it. I was just trying to get him to do what I asked."
"What," he emphasised the word, "did you say?"
"I said…" her breath was shaky—she'd never cared for the man, why did the prospect of telling him such a thing terrified her so? "I said that if he didn't do as I asked, I would let you die."
"Must have been important if you were willing to put my life in the balance." There was an edge to his voice—and Hermione understood right there and then, that he'd never thought, not even for a moment, that she would let him die, even when he'd begged her to. He'd always conceived that she would save him, in the end.
"I witnessed…" She breathed out. "I saw the Terror ransack a village of Purebloods. One I'd allied myself with. And I—I needed the file, Rookwood's file, on the Terror. To know Its true weakness, since whatever it is we were told was apparently… a lie."
Draco's eyes burned through hers—Theo stood silent, a smirk painted on his lips. It was clear he thought he had the upper hand here; he was letting Hermione destroy her own image to Draco; he didn't do anything to propel things forward. "Did you know it was a lie when you made me ally myself to you through an Unbreakable Vow?"
"No, of course not!"
"How can I know anything you say now to be true, Hermione? How can I trust you, when you've been going behind my back as much as you've been going back his? Who is your allegiance to, truly?"
It hurt. It hurt.
"Herself, Draco." Theo had finally spoken. "Like I told you a million times. Because it's you and I, together—always will be, always has been. She doesn't matter."
"You did this to him!" Hermione was outraged. "He wouldn't be dying if you hadn't betrayed him and gone running to Gaunt with what you learned about the Order; he wouldn't be at Death's mercy if you hadn't inflicted him a half-life through that curse of yours! You think you're his hero in all of this, Theo? You think you're Draco Malfoy's saviour? Well, think again—because, without me, there would be no Devil's Pact to enact. You would still be running around like a headless chicken with the clock ticking behind your back. You would watch your best friend die and you'd be helpless to do anything about it. Without me, you wouldn't have had a chance. If that means helping me along the way, then so be it!"
"Granger, come now—are you still lying to yourself? You're no hero. Maybe there was a time when you wanted to do good things—maybe you were a true ally to Potter, but you've changed. I've seen it. The way you begged for my cock, turned your coat on anyone who wouldn't do your bidding, left your friends to die in that fire—do you really still think you're any better than me? Are you so blind to your own flaws that you're going to stand here and pretend you're a goody-two-shoes with a pure sense of morality? You're a monster, Hermione Granger—and the only difference between you and I is that I had no choice in the matter. I was moulded by my father. Who can you blame your choices on other than yourself?"
Hermione laughed—a loud, boisterous laugh that bounced against the walls, almost as if she were carried by the glittering chatter in the room and the melodious music played by the string quartet. "I can blame your father too. And his father," she pointed a finger to Draco, "as well as all the people in this room and the ones who wished they were still alive to be. Was your father cruel to you, Theo? My, you poor dear. Try having the entire wizarding world chasing after you. Let them enslave you, beat you, kill your friends, torture you, and even try to execute you, all the while they tell you it's justified because your blood is dirty." She uttered the last word with such gumption she almost thought she was heard for a second—but nothing moved, nothing changed. "Give me the file and be done with it. I'll fight this fight by myself if that's what it takes. I knew I should never have trusted you cowards."
"I don't have it."
"Then—"
"I had to make an appearance, didn't I? You made a threat—a credible one, at that. But I could not skip the event altogether, now, could I? I will bring the file after the event—it's still down there. And once I've handed it over to you, you will finish the potion and hand it to me. And then—" he smirked, "you will finally be on your merry way. And out of our lives."
Hermione's blood ran cold.
She had no choice.
"Fine."
She stomped back to the ballroom without shooting another look at either of them. She was pained by Draco's silence, by the betrayal in his eyes; she was furious at herself for being outdone by Theodore Nott of all people; she was anxious at the notion of seeing a sea of faces welcome her on the dance floor; envious at the idea that all these people would go home and sleep comfortably while she would find herself ousted and alone, once again, with no one to fend for her.
But it was at that moment, just when she was finally on the verge of giving up, that something extraordinary happened.
For a minute, there was dancing and laughter and glasses clinking, and words of mutual alliances spoken.
Then, there was chaos.
Almost as if out of nowhere, an army poured from all doors leading to the Atrium; they were dressed in greys and browns, in tunics and britches, looking nothing like the colourful and sparkling guests they were invading.
Hermione immediately recognised the leader amongst them: William, the man who founded the Mudblood Initiative.
She watched in awe as the Mudbloods waved wands and threw flashes in the air; red for Expelliarmus, so they could add more wands to their arsenal and prevent their enemies damaging; green, for the Avada Kedavras they had long held back; blue for Bombarda, sending out a series of explosions so strong the smoke clogged Hermione's throat and fogged her view.
Then, Hermione realised she was not here as herself; she was a Malfoy cousin, dressed in a Malfoy gown, hair covered and face glamoured. Should she be spotted, she would be targeted as a foe, not a friend; and even if they did recognize her, their last memory of her was abandoning the Anchor Caves and fleeing back to her Pureblood allies.
She was no friend of theirs, at least not in their eyes.
But she could still be, couldn't she? They had taken to her measures; destroyed the villages that refused to swear allegiance to her; freed slaves left and right using the information she'd given them. Maybe—just maybe—there was a chance they would welcome her back.
She ducked beneath a table and tried to think of a way to alert them of her presence; her, Hermione Granger, and not Philomena Malfoy; but even as she shifted through the ideas (like tossing her coiffe and hood to reveal her hair, sending a Patronus charm, or even just calling out her own name), she realised the unaccounted for variables were far too important to ignore. Should Gaunt spot her, he could put an end to her right there and then; should anyone other than the intended realise who she was, the outcome was the same; she was also putting Draco in danger—he'd presented her as his cousin all evening surely he'd have known she wasn't who he pretended she was; and, even if none of these things came to be, there was no guarantee the Initiative would trust her once more. She had betrayed that trust once—they were not foolish to do it once again.
The chaos of their arrival certainly would not allow her the time and silence necessary to explain her decision, or Dennis Creevey's ultimatum.
No, there was only one thing she could do: flee. Return to the manor and hope the Initiative would survive this attack. Wait patiently, gather Rookwood's information, and return to them triumphant with the key to defeating the Terror. That seemed like the past best walked, after all; there was nothing she could do here. Now.
Still, it seemed like a wasted opportunity—though she could not reveal herself, maybe she could cause damage: pretend to help the Purebloods and then cursing them; after all, in the noise and the confusion and the smoke, who would know she was deliberately sabotaging them? Who would think to question the poor, French, unmarried cousin and her weak wand gestures? She could be aiming at an enemy, for all they knew—and she would be, because none of them knew they were her enemies. In that way, she was at an advantage.
Then, she remembered her promise to Draco: that, should anything go wrong, she would leave immediately, no questions asked.
And, while part of her had intended to hold that promise the moment she made it (because, then, she'd imagined that something going wrong meant Gaunt unmasking her, or Dolohov taking her away to rape her—not an army of her own bleeding through the doors and capturing the very people she despised, all the while destroying the precious alliance between the French and the English that Gaunt had spent every ounce of goodwill he had preparing for), she'd renegued on it the moment the word Promise left her lips.
This was an occasion she could not miss, except—
Where was Draco's wand?
Panicked, she crawled from beneath the table and ran to one of the pillars—she eyed towards the corner where she'd gathered with Draco and Theo minutes earlier, but there were both gone. Nowhere to be seen.
Had she given Draco's wand back to him?
She must have—she had nowhere to put and –yes; yes, she gave it back to him. Her broken promise came with a gifted wand. He had it right now—and no ability to use it for anything more than defensive charms. At best.
If he was still with Theo, though, he had to be safe—he simply had to. Theodore Nott, though he was a thorn in her side—and a prickly one at that—was good at magic, both defensive and offensive.
She had to worry about herself first.
Her head turned to look at the scene unfolding behind her; there were several corpses lying on the floor, blood streaking down their orifices and seeping into the wooden floorboards beneath; some were Pureblood, some were Muggleborn; the battle was still raging on, flashes of light dispersed in every direction, aimed nowhere and everywhere all that once; the Bombardas had created so much smoke it was almost impossible to see what was happening—Hermione calculated the risks in her head; she could die if she went in there, but it was also her best chance at fleeing unseen; right now, if she was spotted, she was a target—the smoke had yet to reach the spot where she was huddled, and the dress was too heavy for her to move quickly enough.
She took one step forward, but it was one second too late—a hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.
It wasn't Theo. It wasn't Draco.
It was Dolohov.
"There is the pretty cousin," he said, licking his lips. "You know, I knew there was something odd about you the moment I met you." He dragged her away from the scene—away, undoubtedly, from those who could save her, if they were still there somewhere.
She tried kicking and getting herself out of his grasp, but he was too strong. So, she did the only thing she could think of—she screamed.
It was useless, of course—her voice was immediately drowned out by the sound of the battle raging.
"Are you going to fight me? Well, if you're not going to be nice." He lifted his wand. "Petrificus totalus."
And just like that, Hermione was powerless.
He dragged her body away—she imagined to a small, dark office, where she would not be found until long after she'd died. Maybe shortly after, if she was optimistic—but dead, either way, so it did not matter.
"You know," he said with a tone she imagined he wanted to sound soulful, "I am not a fool. Many seem to think I am—because I was once in Azkaban, because Harry Potter (he spat the name) and his little friends played a trick on me in Muggle London of all places—but I've always thought what it proved was their foolishness. The way they underestimate their enemies or the fickle loyalty of who they make a pledge to." He laughed a little, which terrified Hermione as much as it annoyed her. What was he getting to? "When I created my curse," he continued, "I embedded it with a little blood magic—people really fail to understand blood magic, these days; such a shame. They seem to think it's antiquated, far too barbaric for the likes of this newborn society of well-bred wizards; I say they're idiots, but no one listens to what I have to say. Even the Dark Lord stopped listening after some time; he tried it once, apparently, but felt that it was just savage magic, not fit for the likes of him. Funny," he laughed, "he is dust, and I still stand here. Proof, little girl, that he never understood.
"At any rate," Hermione's ears thrummed with pain; her entire body felt stretched beyond belief as he pulled on her arm and let her feet drag behind, there was an agony in her ribs that felt as though a thousand tiny stinging hexes her thrown at her all at once, "that curse of mine came with a little something—I'll let you guess." He laughed again. "Forgive my manners. I shut your pretty little mouth, didn't I? I suppose I'll have to keep going on my own," he mused, as though this entire set-up were a brilliant idea.
This was when Hermione realised Dolohov's ego was bigger than his muscles.
"Well, you see," he dragged on, "most of those who succumbed to my curse died—I would not simply create something that allowed them to live, now, would I? But I wanted to be certain that none of my victims could ever truly escape me, if they ever did. So I could one day finish them off properly. And, as you will know, some years ago, I fought a little girl, just about your size, in this very fortress—and that infuriating little girl thought it good to silence me before I could speak my curse; I cast it, still, non-verbally, but it did not kill her, no, it simply maimed her.
"It is a good thing, however, that I prepared for something like this to happen, isn't it? Because now, every time she's near, I can feel her in my bones." He knew. He knew. "Or, should I say… I can feel you in my bones." He set her down and kneeled over her. "Isn't that right, Hermione Granger?"
His smile was cut from a thousand knives—it broke open like a bleeding wound, leaking pleural fluid and bile all over her.
And she was powerless to fight it.
"Draco is an idiot—I've always known that," he continued. "Why Gaunt thought he'd make a good recruit, I'll never know—I saw that boy flinch when the moment came for him to kill the old man. And now he's gone and gotten himself smitten with a Mudblood—figures," he laughed. "His dad was a weak man, too. That entire family's blood is infected with rot; and now, I will get Gaunt to see the Malfoys exactly for what they are. I will tell him to cut off the diseased branches and not only keep the pure of the blood, but the strong too—the ones who deserve to carry offspring." He tilted his head. "But, first, I think I'll play with you."
He picked her up and carried her beneath his arm, like she weighed nothing at all.
She was powerless.
It was the same thought running again and again around her head, an echo that drowned out everything else her mind was busy drumming up after Dolohov's speech. Powerless, like she'd been to save her friends; to leave Goyle manor; to leave Draco and Theo; to escape the Terror—and, this time, no one was going to save her in the nick of time.
She had blurred that location spell—if Draco checked, he'd see she was in the general London area; he wouldn't be able to tell she was right here, in the Ministry, and much less what room she'd be in. No one she mattered to had seen her leave or be taken; this was it.
She was going to die.
Deus ex machinas only work in books.
Dolohov took her to the lift, then down (or up) a few floors, then, as she'd suspected, to an office—he locked and warded the door, he removed the petrifying charm from her and placed her sitting in a nearby chair.
"I like it when they scream and fight," he said with a smile.
Hermione did not scream. She did not fight.
Not yet—because, right now, in that moment, she was not entirely powerless anymore. Because, in that moment, Antonin Dolohov's ego had made a grave error, one he'd laughed at others for making just minutes earlier. Underestimating the enemy.
I've fought worse odds than this, she thought. Much worse odds.
"You're not going to comply, then? That's alright, you will later." He pulled a knife from a sheath hidden by his britches. "I have to say, Muggles do make some fine weapons. If we let them live—we do need slaves in this new world we're building, after all, especially with all the Mudbloods we've killed—we'll allow them to remain blacksmiths. They're rather ingenious at those things; not all that surprising, considering, you know, that you lot are a barbaric species."
Ironic, Hermione wanted to say.
She didn't.
Dolohov brought the knife to the front of her dress and slashed through it; in one fell swoop, he cut through the gown, the kirtle, the undergarment, and even her skin; still, Hermione did not wince. She did not move. She did not speak.
"Playing tough, are we?" He licked his lips. "That's my favourite kind."
He tore the fabric from her like it was nothing more than parchment and revealed her chest and breasts out into the open. The scar his curse had left across her sternum, down the length of her chest, was pulsating with unknown energy. "It's calling its master," laughed Dolohov. "A true mark of my genius, I should say." He tiled his head and placed one of his large, burly hands over it. Hermione shivered against her will—the touch awakened something in her, something she hadn't felt in years.
The pain, the day the curse hit her.
She almost cried out—almost.
There was still time.
"Time to crack you open like a nut, Mudblood."
Then, with agonizing slowness, Dolohov poked the tip of the knife at the top of the scar and began sliding down the enflamed skin—down, down, down; every inch of the slice evoked a new sort of pain in Hermione's body; it shot up and down her limbs at first, then through her heart, compressing it until she felt every beat of it (in her head, in her stomach, in the little of her back) surging through and knocking beneath her skin, before turning into a blinding light all the way in the attic of her mind, so bright and so incandescent she thought Death was upon her for a second—but Death would be more merciful than this, she knew deep down; if she were dead, she would not feel like she was dying over and over and over again, a stream of repetitive motions encased in glass first broken and then molten; if she were dead, there would be peace in her head rather than voices screaming from all sides (Harry's, then Ron's, then Ginny's, then, inexplicably, Draco's), telling her to let go, that she was never meant for this life, that she was too weak to endure it. Then, just as she was about to let her jaw go limp and her voice slip out of her throat, the knife reached the bottom of the scar and left her body.
He'd cracked her up open like a nut. Just like he said he would.
"So much dirty blood—it's just oozing out of you, isn't it? Too bad Gaunt locked up the Terror in the Department of Mysteries after that rampage at Bury St Edmunds—if It were free, It would already be here and finishing you off in my stead." He smiled cruelly. "Now that I think about it, he had the right idea. I wouldn't want that thing to steal my glory from me."
Hermione was almost too afflicted to take not of what he just said—something, somewhere, in the corner of her mind took note of it, but she could not quite grasp it. His words her jumbled, her neck had gone limp, and her head was lolling about, still trying to fight the inevitable.
"I guess I'll just have to finish with you and have Gaunt deal with you the old-fashioned way. It's better like that, anyway—he'll know he was betrayed."
He bent down over her and began smelling her neck—she could feel his nose buried beneath the hood, sniffing like a dog. "Hm," he whispered in her ear. "You do smell like your blood. Impure. That is what makes it so exciting for me. And this—" his hand slid down her sides, down her ribs and all the way to her hips, "is when you'll want to start begging for your life if you even want a chance to survive this. I've been known to break women with my cock."
And, at the utterance of that word, something else began pulsating in Hermione's veins. Not the curse, no—not this time.
Something all-too familiar. Something that saved her life once and would hopefully do it again.
Noxious.
The green poison bubbled in her blood, filled with rage and outrage—same as it had when Amicus huffed like a dog down her neck, or when Theo had taunted her once too much, or when the Terror had held her in Its grasp.
"You know, Dolohov," she said wearily, barely aware of the words spilling out of her mouth, "I find that the virtues of silence often outweigh the spectacle of words."
Before he could think to ask what she meant, Hermione did the only think she could think of—and, frankly, the only thing she had any strength left for—and threw her knee up. Right into his groin.
Barbaric, simple even.
But effective.
The thing with men who are so assured in their own power is that they grow careless. Dolohov was too wrapped-up in what he was telling her, too happy to show how genius he'd been with the curse, too excited at the idea of leaning over her and humming her like she was a honey baked ham, his legs wide open over hers, that he'd neglected to think of a most simple, yet infinitely Muggle, act—the simple act of kicking a man in the groin.
"Clever men ward their genitals when they're about to rape a woman," she added as he fell to the ground, his hands grasping the seams of his britches, his eyes closed and his voice moaning. "Pathetic."
Holding her side and half-walking, half-limping, Hermione picked up his wand and removed the wards from the door.
"Thanks for the wand," she smiled as she turned to him—a wince, really, since her body was still burning and tearing her apart from the insides, severely limiting her facial expressions.
Yet, it was in that state of pure distress and loss—hunched over, torn asunder, broken and mangled—that she found the strength to do one last thing. Something she'd been wanting to do since the battle in the Department of Mysteries, something she'd considered doing in the tavern where he and Rowle found her, Harry and Ron before she found her humanity and spared him with an Obliviate—she killed him.
The green light spilled with crackling energy out of his own wand—a fitting end, she supposed—and burst through the air before putting an end to his groans; his hands unclasped from his body and his eyes rolled to the back of his head before landing in the middle, open wide and lifeless.
She opened the door and fled; only then did she allow herself to fall and cry.
She'd managed to crawl to a dark alcove so as not to be found when Dolohov's body was—not that it mattered, her scent was all over the scene. Terror or not, if they had her blood signature on file, they would know that it was her. That she had been here. And though there was a chance they might assume she'd come with the Mudblood Initiative—a big one, if she was honest—she could not discard the possibility that they might also figure out Draco's and Theo's part in all of it.
They were, put simply, running out of time.
They'd managed to outrun the clock this far, to keep up the secret for this long, only because she'd been shielded from the outside. She'd broken rules, spent time in the Anchor Church Caves, dawdled across Muggle villages and walked paths close to Pureblood villages, but it had always been contained. Coming here was an impulsive choice—no contingency, no agreement, no nothing. She'd just come and made a mess of things. What was to follow, then, was only the worst of things—but there was one chance left. A single hope.
A hope in the form of a curse, the assembly of which was so close she could smell it—even as the air around her had gone putrid and rancid with the stench of corpses.
The clock on the wall opposite her told her she had a little less than twenty minutes to get back to the manor and complete the potion—one second too late and she'd have to start all over again.
There was no time.
Dolohov's wand burned in her hand—red hot, almost as if it were his living hand she was holding; it was all in her head (or, rather, she hoped, since thinking that did not work out so well the last time), but even then, she was too weak to Apparate. She'd splinch, no doubt about it.
No, what she needed to do was find Draco and Theo, so they could bring her back. She'd brew the potion, let Theo enact the pact, and beg for mercy; really, that was all that was left. Maybe he'd grant it to her; after all, he did have his moments—and then, she'd exile herself somewhere far off and distant, somewhere out in the world, and live a life of little nothings; food, maybe some music, maybe a little love, if she still had enough light in her heart to find it—nothing much, really. A life of simple pleasures, of long moments where nothing happened other than time stretching and slipping through her fingers. Maybe he'd allow that, if she promised never to return, never to bother either of them again. He was a cruel man, but he'd always been better than his father, she thought—well, maybe not.
Eighteen minutes left.
She slid on the floor, every inch of the skin on her chest pulling and tugging and stretching as she did so, Narcissa's beautiful gown going grey from picking up all the dust on the floor, and tried to reach the lift—certainly the fight was over now… and if the Mudblood Initiative had won, she could beg for their mercy. For something. And if the Purebloods had won, well, then… she'd simply say she was taken hostage by a Mudblood and tortured. Even the idea alone made her skin crawl, but Morgana had been right.
At the end of the day, Hermione sought her own survival above all else.
Thirteen minutes.
When the lift appeared in her view, she nearly cried out in relief. A single hiccup flew out of her mouth and bounced against the walls before she could keep it in—her body was exhausted; drained of its adrenaline, pumped empty by the Noxious, torn by the memory of the pain coursing through her limbs and blinding her mind. No more, it was telling her. This is madness. Let yourself collapse; let it end here. There cannot be anything better than to finally die and know peace. She resisted its goal and groaned as she forced her legs to push herself up, tall enough to press on the lift's button. She managed it just barely before collapsing back down.
Seven minutes.
The lift door dinged and opened wide for her; her elbows were about to give out, so she used her hands to grab on to whatever railing she could feel to slide forward; there was no silence to be had anymore—each of her body parts winced and cried and moaned and groaned as the inches passed across her.
Three minutes.
She pressed on Atrium and prayed there was light at the end of the tunnel. Or, at least, something other than death.
One minute.
"Hermione!"
They were there. Draco. And Theo. And she had something to tell them—something about the Terror being in the Department of Mysteries, about it being held away from everything, and about the potion—oh, the potion, but her voice was broken and her body was torn apart. All she managed was a tear as she collapsed against Theo, smearing her open wound over his doublet, feeling every thread of his outfit pierce through her blister and taint her blood.
There were some whispers, though she could not quite hear what they were saying; and, then, the world went black.
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