Hermione's 25th birthday was fortunately on a Sunday—which meant she didn't train. However, countless muscles were still aching. Arthur had remembered her special day, but since there wasn't much he could do or give, he gave her his portion of mashed potatoes. She really loved mashed potatoes.
That same day, right after dinner, they went for a walk around the grounds. The sky had worn its most beautiful attire—patches of coral with bits of crimson and grey—perhaps as a tribute to her birthday. The long grass brushed against their ankles, and the cool breeze refreshed their spirits. She remembered the times when the sky always stayed the same colour, not even changing for dawn or dusk. A side effect of the fog.
They walked along a dirt path that meandered towards the cluster of buildings to the west, but they both knew they wouldn't be going near people.
Hermione strolled slowly, arms crossed. For once nobody asked her to go fast, to run, to perform. She liked the moments when she could slow down.
"Can... Can I ask you a question?" she asked.
The constant sound of Arthur's soles crunching the grass comforted her, somehow. "Of course."
"How did it happen? Your... capture, I mean."
"Oh." His brow twitched. "That."
"I'm sorry, if you—"
"No, it's all right, Hermione." He took a slow breath, crafting his response. "The Scavenger that caught me was the son of Goyle Senior. As you know, we couldn't go back to the Burrow after Harry's burial. We took up residence in the benker of a muggle family."
She frowned, wondering what he was talking about. "Oh," It clicked. "You mean 'bunker'?"
"Yes!" Arthur's eyes were sparkling. "That brillant muggle invention. You know, they were built for natural catastrophe, war, apocalypse. It was fitting. The family it belonged to had fled, and never returned. We had everything we needed. We stayed underground for three whole years before coming back to the surface."
Hermione appraised his story, listening intently. "That's a lot of time underground."
"It was. But we were family. Molly, Charlie, Percy, George and Ron. It was difficult with Percy, at first, but we're glad he chose us over them in the end."
"I'm glad too."
Arthur suddenly chewed on his lips. "We tried, Hermione, to find Ginny. To find you. But it was hard and dangerous on the surface."
"I know."
"The only thing that made us feel better was knowing that she wasn't alone." He smiled briefly and awkwardly. "It made us feel better knowing she was with you and Neville."
"We made it work," she said softly. "The three of us, we survived."
Arthur asked other questions about Ginny, and she told him the truth. She told him how Ginny got the idea of trading spare wands for different potions, how her quick reflexes saved them from collapsing rooftops and how she was able to evade Rogues and Scavengers.
Arthur continued his story.
"After three years underground, we started making rounds to get what we needed. I went most of the time. Percy and George would insist on filling in for me, and I let them. Ron couldn't be seen because he was actively wanted." He cleared his throat to chase away the emotion clogging it. "But one day, two years ago, Ron told us he had to play in the games, that he had unfinished business with the snake. He told us about the You-Know-What, and that Nagini was the only one left. He gave himself up before we could stop him. I don't know where it came from, it was sudden."
Hermione inhaled sharply to catch the air and held it for a few seconds. A surge of sadness slumped over her shoulders at the memories of her best friend.
Tears welled up in her eyes. "Ron… volunteered?" Her voice was flimsy, cracked in all the wrong places. "I'm—I'm so sorry, Arthur."
They were almost at the level of the buildings, so they branched off to go around and avoid the few inhabitants in dark clothes walking here and there.
"Anyway, that was the early years," Arthur continued. "I was out with George for an errand run and I took my eyes off him for just a second. The next thing I knew, Goyle had spotted us and threw a binding spell at George. I only had time to free him and let him get away before Goyle got to me. I told him to take me and not to go after my son. He listened."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "You took his place."
"Better me in here than him."
She simply nodded, because there was nothing she could say to that. They kept walking for a few short moments, admiring the groves of pines and the curves of the wind-swept hills.
"I'm sorry this happened," she said.
He patted her on the back and smiled without showing teeth. "What about you? How are you… holding up… in here?"
She loudly puffed air out of her cheeks. "The trainings, the numbers, the confinement… the constant reminder that we might die… It's a lot. And theatrical. I always imagined it would be less…"
He glanced at her. "Structured?" he offered.
"Yes. It's almost like school. With schedules and classes and free periods."
"I noticed that Malfoy is… somehow harder with you. And mean." A look of concern creased his brow. "Are you doing okay? I can talk to him if you want."
Warmth spread in her chest. The naivety with which he believed that a simple conversation with Malfoy would sort things out, like this was a schoolyard matter.
"Malfoy is the least of my worries. Besides, I know why he does that." She looked at him to make sure he was following her. "He called me Granger in front of everyone when Laura died."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"I don't know. I—" She stopped because a sudden rush of anger flooded her veins. "I hate the hypocrisy of it all. I hate how he gets to tell us what to do and how to do it, and we get to play the puppets."
He nodded. "Something's changed about him."
She shrugged. At the same moment, a furry white animal scurried in the grass not too far from them. She squinted.
"Look, there's a cat," she said. They stopped for a second, watching the cat as white as snow move silently and gracefully across the grass. It was odd, because it occurred to her that stray cats weren't normally white. It probably belonged to someone. Her heart tightened at the memory of Crookshanks. He had gone missing even before the Battle.
She doubted he survived the destruction of cities. Maybe he was holed up somewhere, waiting for her to find him. But her hopes weren't high. If Crookshanks was still alive today, he would be very old.
She closed her mind before the memory of the Sorting Ceremony threatened to overtake her.
"I have this feeling that something's off with… all of this." Arthur gestured to the grounds around him, with the castle and the buildings blurred in the distance. The cat had scampered off. "Like you said, it's theatrical. It's for show."
Her thoughts were rolling one after the other like a clunky gear.
"How many shows do you know that have a performance every year for years? It won't last. People get fed up, people get bored. They won't want to play the same roles anymore."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm having a hard time to believe that each one of the people living here really chose to be here. Or chose to have the roles they have. Including those Gamemasters. And maybe the Trainers."
On the Thursday of the fourth week, Hermione had just finished her shower. Dinner was over, and she had just taken a shower. Her hair were dripping down her uniform and she was lacing up her boots in her room. Then she started brushing her hair with a fork.
Her bedroom door was open because there was no one in the corridor yet. Some had stayed in the Great Hall, and others were enjoying the fogless air outside.
"What's this?" the low voice she knew startled her. She turned abruptly, both hands in her wet hair, and discovered Malfoy in the doorframe, leaning on one shoulder. "Um—sorry." His navy uniform cut perfectly across his slim figure.
She blushed slightly. "I'm brushing my hair." Why was he there? He hadn't spoken to her in two weeks, except to shout orders at her.
He raised an eyebrow. "With a fork?"
The idea had crossed her mind on the Wednesday of the second week, when she was eating beef with her fork. She had subtly slipped the utensil through the collar of her uniform and taken it back to her room. What better way to honour the Mermaid Princess?
"You don't have to worry, it's only for untangling my hair." She turned her gaze to the wall to give her eyes something to do other than notice Malfoy's height. She continued to brush her wet hair with the fork.
He entered her room with two graceful strides. A black garment hung over his forearm. "People could kill you with this." He scowled, watching her movements.
"Why are you here?" she sighed.
"I'm taking you somewhere."
She released her grip on her hair and stared at him, ignoring the flutter that had awakened in the centre of her chest. "Where?"
"To see your parents, but—" he spoke louder because she had obviously started to say something, "you can't talk to them."
The shape of the word 'why' dawned on her lips, and her inquisitive eyes probed him to find the fault, the lie, the deception.
"Finish your... hair," he said. "And meet me at the entrance of the castle in ten minutes." He was already starting to turn away. "I don't want the others to see us strolling around the castle together."
She lifted her chin. "Understandable."
Malfoy disappeared for five seconds, before he popped up in her door frame again. "And hide your fork."
"Always do."
She brushed her hair for the remainder of the time, then braided them. Before leaving, she hid the fork under her mattress, feverish with anticipation. Millions of questions had already begun to blossom in her brain, like spring buds beneath the first rays of sunlight. Her parents. She would see her parents.
She made her way down the castle to the first floor. She crossed a few players, Gamemasters and house-elves, but nobody paid her any mind. Once she was outside, the twilight wrapped around her like a shell, the chirp of crickets surrounding her. She looked around.
"Granger." Malfoy's voice startled her. He was leaning on the wall beside the doors, shrouded in shadows. His dog was watching her, eyes sparkling in the night.
He walked to her, and held out his arm towards her. "We have to apparate."
She frowned, looking at the dog. "You can apparate with an animal?"
A flash of annoyance crossed his features. "Yes."
"Apparition with more than one side-along is dange—"
"It's not my first time," he cut her off sharply. "It would be quicker if you shut up."
She scowled and took his arm without squeezing and without drawing closer to him. Malfoy disapparated them. She couldn't help but marvel at his skill. The journey hadn't been rough at all, not bumpy or nauseous. And he had two side-alongs.
They landed smoothly, and she studied the dog for any sick reaction to the trip. The animal looked fine.
"Wear this." He handed her the black garment he had kept pressed against him. She took it and held it at arm's length. The cloak unfurled like a scroll of parchment and pooled at her feet. The fabric was heavy, luxurious, and warm.
"To hide your uniform," he explained. She couldn't think of anything to say and wrapped herself in the cloak, which fell over her shoulders like a warm hug. She adjusted it so that the edges fell to either side of her chest and managed to avoid burying her nose in the fabric.
It smelled good.
Citrusy and woody and—oh. That cloak belonged to him.
"Are we still in the Empire?" she asked to distract herself.
"Yes. We're in Cindermore."
"What's—"
"It's where the inner circle lives." Malfoy's voice was quieter, its weight stolen by the night. "Previously Hogsmeade."
She stopped short, wide-eyed. "Is this where... he lives?" She took a step backwards, almost tripping over the cloak. "Are you taking me to him?"
Malfoy raked a hand through his hair before shoving them both into his pockets. "No, Granger. I'm not taking you to the Dark Lord."
"But this is where he lives?"
He said nothing.
"Where is he at the moment?" Her voice was quivering.
"China."
"Why are you taking me to see my parents?" She decided to change the subject, adding a twist of firmness and a splash of challenge in her voice, brewing like a potion.
The phantom light of the moon, still low in the sky, stretched the shadows around them. Now that her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, she could make out the outline of things. Houses with glowing window panes, trees, flawless topiaries, symmetrical flowerbeds, and the sharp angles of the castle in the distance, slicing into the sky.
Malfoy's face was expressionless. "I think you need to know how they really are."
"Why?" Doubt climbed into her throat. "Why now?"
He ran a hand over his face, first up and then down. When he peeled it away, he looked older. She stopped herself from feeling bad for him.
"Didn't you ever wonder if you had to win the games so they could live?" His face was serious. "Or if you just had to compete?"
Every day. "Yes," she admitted. She didn't take her eyes off him.
"I didn't know that myself when you arrived. But I got the answer."
Her lips parted with a ghost breath. The answer? So he had asked?
"You... have to win." His shoulders slumped a little. "For them to survive."
Words failed her. She had already thought about this possibility, of course, but it had never seemed the most plausible.
How was she going to win? How was she going to beat everyone else?
She was weak.
She wasn't that fast.
Would she have to kill? Again?
She swallowed her turmoil and looked up at her Trainer. "I don't understand why you brought me to them?"
Uneasiness painted his face. "To motivate you. To show you they're alive and to motivate you to... perform."
She glared at him, wishing she could burn holes in his uniform with her eyes. So this wasn't from the goodness of his heart. This wasn't because nobody allowed her to see them. It was all part of the games. As always. She bit her tongue and controlled her breathing.
"That's not all," he added.
She looked up at him.
"If you don't win… they'll partake in next year's games." His voice was low.
The earth opened under her feet. The world spun around her. She bit her tongue and inhaled and exhaled through her nose only.
"Look, I don't know what it takes to get you over your plateau," Malfoy said. "I feel like you're close to a breakthrough, but you're stalling."
"Be clearer," she gritted her teeth.
"Something in your routine has to change for your metabolism to kick in. I don't know what it is. Maybe more training. Maybe less. It will be your choice."
"As if it really was a choice!" She hadn't expected her voice to raise this quickly. "We can't train less, we have a schedule!"
He clenched his jaw, but it was impossible to tell from his face which emotion was running through him, if there was any. A few seconds passed, and they listened to the crickets. The dog had wandered off, the sound of her paws brushing against the grass.
"Bring me to them," she asked.
He whistled for his dog, then led her forward along a path of polished flagstones. After a minute she noticed the rotation of the slabs. It was a spiral path. And they were going towards the middle. The street was not dark. There were tall poles with lanterns dangling from them, casting a golden halo around them. The houses they passed also had lanterns on their porches.
In front of her, Malfoy walked with less purpose, his back more arched. She noticed how his dog copied his pace, walking slowly by his side. He sighed loudly, but he did not stop walking when he raised his voice to the darkness ahead.
"If that's what you want... I can train you more. One day more than the others. Or an evening."
It sounded as if the words had slashed through his mouth to get out.
"I'm not interested," she replied icily. "Where are we going?"
"Macnair House."
The house referred to was the fifth from the middle. It stood proudly and with perfect outer symmetry, like an ebony fortress. Malfoy climbed the stairs to the porch before knocking three times with the brass skull knocker.
A moment later, a house-elf opened the door and a rectangle of light blinded them. "Mr. Malfoy!" he exclaimed.
"Hi, Kabby. I'm here to see the Grangers."
She frowned behind him. He called them 'the Grangers'? Like they were acquainted. The house-elf invited them in. She pretended she didn't see the change in the creature's gaze when he noticed her real uniform under the cloak. When he identified her as one of them.
"Thank you," she said nonetheless as he closed the door behind her.
Kabby ignored her and led Malfoy deeper into the house. A smooth grey epoxy floor, immaculate white walls and black furniture.
She wondered where Macnair was.
She wondered where Lucius was.
Her heart was racing with the imminence of the visit. She hadn't seen her parents in eight years. They didn't know who she was, but she could still pick out their voices in a crowd.
As the house-elf seemed to be directing them up the stairs to the upper floor, he drifted away to lead them to the basement door.
Her stomach sank into her boots.
Kabby went down the stairs into the darkness, and the steps creaked. Malfoy turned towards her just before he went down, bringing his face close to hers. Once again, she had to look exaggeratedly up to meet his eyes.
"Now, Granger, as I said earlier, I can't let you speak to them," he warned, his warm breath caressing her face. His citrusy and woody scent wafted around him. "Do you understand me?"
She couldn't nod right away, her thoughts scattered by the amenity of Malfoy's scent and their height difference. She blinked a few times. "What happens if I do?"
"It's for their safety. We don't know what a change in their memory could do to their mental health."
She nodded, even though she couldn't think logically. In hindsight, she'd probably regret not having tried hard enough to pry information out of him. To ask why, why and WHY. Swallowing, she entered the mouth of the basement behind him.
She detected the smell of wax and metal in the stale air. The house-elf turned on the lights with a snap of his fingers and Malfoy stepped aside so she could see.
Her eyes didn't know what to register first. The familiar emaciated faces of her parents, the gigantic acrylic glass from ceiling to floor that divided the basement in two and on the other side of which her parents stood, or the tiny window near the ceiling that couldn't possibly let in much light during the day.
There were two shabby cots on the floor, pressed together. But at least there were two pillows and two blankets.
Warmth drained from her face. She stood aghast, her spine ramrod straight.
"Mum," she whispered. A tremor awoke in her chest and spread like a shiver to her hands and lips.
Her hands grasped the edges of the cloak and she pulled them tightly around herself to make herself smaller.
But her parents, wearing dirty clothes, laid their eyes on Malfoy. "Draco?"
Her father's face seemed hollowed out by more wrinkles. The humour and lightness that had once been there had disappeared, and a perpetual crease had formed between his eyebrows. His beard was too long, his hair greying and dirty.
Her mother seemed to have shrunk, her shoulders hunched by despair, hunger or perhaps age. She looked like she hadn't smiled or laughed in years. Her fingernails were too long, some chewed, some broken, some bloody.
Hermione's chest cleaved in two, blustering emotions oozing out.
They were alive.
They were alive but not living.
Their fate was tied to hers.
And it slammed into her at once. She didn't want them to remember their daughter. They would hurt way too much. If they remembered right now, they would see that she was a player, that she would die some time in the next few months.
Remembering her and seeing how hopeless she was would break them. Remembering her and learning that she died in Numberland would crush them with grief.
Her parents could never remember her.
She knew she was about to cry.
She bit her tongue—truly, because she was about to say something to them—and the pain gave her something else to focus on.
Slowly, lukewarm blood filled her mouth and she knew she couldn't talk without spitting first.
Malfoy had approached the acrylic glass and her parents' eyes danced between him and her, more withdrawn at the back. She tried to detect a flicker of recognition in their eyes. Something, anything, that would tell her they knew who she was. What she was to them.
But their eyes slid over her like drops of water on an oil slick.
They showed no sign of fear in Malfoy's presence.
They knew him.
"Hi, Mr. and Mrs Granger," he said cordially. His dog sat beside him in front of the acrylic glass.
And he knew them.
"This is only a cordial visit." She couldn't see Malfoy's face, his arms were crossed behind his back, and he was fiddling with his wand.
Her knees threatened to buckle under her weight.
She would crawl to them if she could. Hug them one last time.
"I brought my colleague with me," he explained, the lie sliding across his tongue gullibly. "She is here as an observer only. She might do my job one day."
Since Malfoy had attracted her parents' attention to her, their gaze shifted to her, still anchored at the bottom of the stairs. Something softened in their eyes.
"Oh, hello," her mother said.
Hi, mum.
Hermione's heart missed a beat.
She kept the cloak bunched up in her fists, voiceless protests in her mind.
Her throat choked on a whimper.
Were they fed enough?
Tongue coated in blood, she practised her breathing.
Focus on the sensations.
The tang of iron in her mouth.
Could they go outside for some fresh air?
The tremors in her hands.
The howling behind her sternum.
She'd sell her soul to wrap her arms around them.
It's when she snapped back to reality and saw Malfoy having a conversation with them that she realised she had dissociated.
A new feeling sank into her and burned her marrow.
She whipped around and ran back upstairs.
The hallway. The entrance.
Outside.
Malfoy would be on her heel in a matter of seconds, thinking she was getting away.
She spat out the blood that had pooled in her mouth and burst into tears. She collapsed on the spot, her knees sinking into the cold soil of the evening. The door to the house was still open, casting a rectangle of light on the floor. She cried because she had seen her parents, because she loved them, she missed them, they were grey, they were older, because they were thin, cloistered, dirty and purposeless.
She cried because they knew Malfoy's name but not hers.
Footsteps approached behind her, hiding the shadow from the light. "Granger."
Malfoy's voice was low, not soft-spoken but thick.
She kept on crying, but tried to hold back the sobs. She expected him to command her to get up, to berate her for leaving without his permission, or something like that. Instead, he closed the door and the light disappeared. Only the dim light from the porch covered them.
He said nothing, and she remained on her knees until she felt her legs freeze through her uniform. Her tears gradually lessened and when she knew she had regained her composure, she stood up to face him.
As soon as he saw her face, his expression changed and he dashed towards her. He grabbed her chin with one hand to examine it.
"What did you do?"
She pulled free and rubbed the sleeve of her uniform against her chin. She hadn't realised that some blood might have dripped onto her when she had spat.
"Nothing," she replied. "I'm fine."
His brows remained scrunched, and his dog was watching them close-mouthed, ears perked up.
"I bit myself," she explained.
He sighed, slowly, his chest heaving with the movement. "Listen." He paused, unsure how to phrase his sentence. "I'm sorry, again. I know this… couldn't have been easy."
She felt like crying again but couldn't. Allowing anger to rule over all her emotions, she pointed to the door. "You know them? Don't lie to me!"
He glanced around. "We can't talk here." In one swift motion, he grabbed her wrist, grabbed his dog's collar and disapparated. This time, the journey was not so comfortable.
Hermione was standing on knee-high grass on a plain basking in moonlight that seemed to stretch forever. The black silhouettes of the mountains were outlined against the horizon and a low stone wall snaked towards a remote cabin.
But she couldn't think any longer. A searing pain ignited in her wrist, beneath the ink of the symbol etched on her skin.
She cried in pain before Malfoy yanked her wrist to him, applying the tip of his wand on it. A faint purple glow hummed from the wand.
The pain receded.
It was quieter here. Less wind. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of the land.
Malfoy released her. "Where are we?" she asked. The dog started to scamper freely.
"Yorkshire Dales. And before you ask, yes I temporarily deactivated the magic in your tattoo."
She was having a hard time keeping track of everything that had happened since Malfoy had showed up on her doorstep.
They stood in front of each other, not moving towards the cabin.
"I try to visit them at least once a week," he finally explained after a few breaths. "I have a lot of responsibilities and it's not always possible. When I can't, I send Theo."
She stammered an incomprehensible word, stunned, and frowned. She couldn't do the maths between Draco Malfoy and her muggle parents. "Why?"
He looked puzzled by her question and his features hardened. "I'm a human being too, Granger. I believe your parents didn't deserve this."
Her brain short-circuited.
She laughed.
It sounded a little like cackling but she didn't care.
Draco Malfoy had just admitted to being a human being and thus having feelings of some sort. And the fact that it was towards Muggles baffled her and shattered the glass through which she had always looked at him.
"We're all human beings," she said once her laughter had subsided. "All of us, number one through fifty. Ever felt something for us, too?"
His features fell and she knew she had breached something inside him. "It's complicated," he answered, deadpan.
"Of course." She nodded vigorously, hysteria creeping up from the ground through her feet, crawling up her legs. "Of course, of course."
"Granger—"
Her hips. Her chest. "No, of course. It's complicated. It's all a big joke."
Her shoulders. Her neck. Her cheeks. "A big, big, big joke."
She felt feverish, words tumbling out of her mouth, voice pitching higher. "Who's feeding them? What are they eating? Can they exercise? Do they have some sort of entertainment? A deck of cards, maybe? Or books. Books make good company. In fact, I know a book—" A sudden sob tore through her.
And it physically pained her.
She grabbed her chest and breathed.
Once again, Malfoy said nothing.
"I haven't read a book in seven years," she provided as an explanation for what had just happened.
The Horcruxes books didn't count.
She breathed in.
And out.
"Me neither," he said.
"I'll do what it takes." She had said it so quickly.
He narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"I'll do whatever it takes to win." She wiped her eyes. "I'll train with you day and night if I have to." He nodded but she wasn't done. "And I know I have no right to ask this of you, but if I don't make it—"
"Granger—"
"If I don't make it," she said louder, "just try to get them out. And if that's really impossible, just…" her voice faded to a whisper, "make sure it's painless. They will notpartake in next year's games."
He didn't reply, didn't abide by her requests.
Somewhere close, the dog huffed happily. She was playing in the grass, snapping her jaw at insects. Hermione thought that she didn't look so threatening for once.
Laying a hand on her chest, she rubbed at it, hoping it would slow her heartbeat.
"You can touch her, if you want," Malfoy blurted out, studying her.
"What?"
"Keela. My dog." His attention shifted to the animal. "It helps."
There was a lot she could dig in that statement. He had just admitted that he had already felt the same she was feeling now. And simply because she didn't want to acknowledge what this told her about him, she closed herself and looked away from the dog. She refused to touch Keela, and Malfoy brought her back.