When they apparated back to the Empire, Draco let go of their hands at once. His entire body was trembling, from somewhere deep within him, making his bones rattle, his muscles tighten.

Already, he was striding to Town Hall.

Quick as a flash, Theo grabbed his arm. "Think this through!" he hissed.

Hermione hurried to stand before him, blocking his path. "Not right now," she said softly, untangling the cloak around her shoulders.

"I bet it was Dolohov," he rasped, trying to free his arm from Theo's grip. "Or Yaxley. One of them bastards."

Theo yanked him back. "I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, I want to watch when you do it." His breath was coming out hot in the air. "But Granger's right. Can't be right now. If you barge in there like an animal and accuse them, they'll know we know."

"I want them to fucking know!" he yelled.

"Draco…" Hermione started.

He didn't want to meet her eyes. Because he knew that he'd read some sense into them, and he didn't fucking need sense.

Theo was whispering-shouting now. "If they learn that we even know about the fog, we'll lose the only thing we have at our advantage. They don't know that we know."

"Let's think of something," she huffed, trying to grab his hand but he jerked away. "We'll come up with a plan. We'll find something."

"Here's a plan," he snarled, his entire chest crackling. "I steal Hermione's wand back." He looked at her directly. "Then you start a Fiendfyre in Hogwarts," he looked at Theo, "you start a Fiendfyre in the Forest and Cindermore, and I burn down the Arena and Town Hall. How's that?"

He finally pulled away from Theo's grip, trying to control his breathing.

"Although it would be spectacular," Theo mumbled, "I don't think the Dark Lord is even here."

"And," Hermione shouted under her breath, "it's extremely dangerous! We would probably lose our lives! And we have to get the players out!"

"And the innocent parties, remember?" Theo smiled cockily.

He curled his hands in fists and breathed in, breathed out. He knew he had to be smart about it, but right now, he needed to wrap his hands around Yaxley's or Dolohov's throat and squeeze the life out of them.

The Empire was all around him—a fucking reminder of the world they had broken beyond repair, of the people they had fractured beyond mending.

And Keela was not here anymore.

"I can't think about this right now," he snapped, before abruptly turning around, marching toward the dorms.

"Mate." Theo hailed after him. "We need to make sure—"

"I will not do a fucking thing," he fired back, and looked back at the both of them. "I just… I can't be here right now. Theo, can you—"

"Yes, I'll bring her back to her room," he sighed.

Draco knew her well enough to know that she would be angry. Dismissing her like that, not even looking at her. But he would have to deal with that later.

He entered the dorms silently. It wasn't quite curfew yet. He went to his room, stupidly hoping there would be an animalistic lump on his bed. But there wasn't.

He kicked Keela's dish, sending hundreds of kibbles flying in his room as it clanked loudly against the wall.

Fuck waking up the entire Empire.

He rummaged in his desk drawer, retrieving the crumpled paper bag. He shoved it in his coat and exited. He cut through the back of the dorms and apparated to Cindermore. His palms were sweating, making his wand slick in his fist.

The gates of the village opened and he squeezed between the gap before they even opened wide.

He didn't knock at Malfoy House. He plowed into the entrance, banging and thudding loudly. His mother's hurried steps glided on the floor until she appeared, frowning with worry.

"Draco?"

She was wearing her night robe, a silky purple fabric that brushed against her ankles. She was barefoot on the floor, hair untied.

A thousand things were hanging in the back of his mouth. He knew what he came to say, but the words were blocked somewhere in his throat. A knot getting bigger like a snowball rolling downhill.

"Father—" he rushed out, clamping at his chest.

Narcissa jerked into action and hurried to him, grabbing his shoulders. "Draco, you look unwell." She tucked back a piece of his hair falling on his forehead and pressed the back of her cold fingers on his skin. "Are you feeling feverish? Come."

He let himself be dragged gently into the living room and he plopped on the couch. His mother settled at his side.

He got the paper bag out of his coat. Extended it to her with a shaking, weary grip. "Leave this place," he said.

"What are you talking about?" She narrowed her eyes on the bag, not touching it.

"You have to leave!" His tone thundered in the room, but it wasn't as loud as the ringing in his ears.

"We can't just—"

"Not me, you." He looked at her and she met his stare with widened, unblinking eyes. Her mouth was agape, but no sound was coming out. "Do you want to leave, mum?"

"I have responsibilities, and Yaxley asked—"

"I will never listen to anything thatdickhas to say." His chest split open, a storm oozing out. "They lied to us!"

Once again, she brushed her fingertips on his forehead. "Tell me what's going on. You're not making any sense."

"Do you know how, or why father… lost his mind?" His head dipped in his hands, forehead pressing into his palms.

Narcissa shuddered on the couch, and he knew. He knew her heart had just clenched in her own chest. She inhaled deeply, trying to regain composure, and spoke with a soft, controlled voice.

"The Battle took a toll on him. I think he expected to reclaim a higher rank. The Dark Lord's demotion weighed a lot on his shoulders."

That's was they had told themselves over and over and over. It was an acceptable answer.

"They took his mind away," he blurted out.

She paused. "What?"

He lifted his head, heavy like lead. "The Dark Lord, or Dolohov or Yaxley or someone took Father's sanity to create the fog." His ribs tightened and the wave finally crashed over him.

He broke into sobs, surrendering himself to the storm. His mother's arm curled behind his back and he told her everything he knew. Theo's allegiance. The Order's meeting. The Nevercold Ember. Each murdering thought he had about the Dark Lord. Every crippling feeling of despair and guilt with his involvement in the Empire. The people he killed, the people he controlled. Keela's absence. Hermione's freedom.

When he was done talking, his head was on his mother's lap and she was brushing his hair softly. Shushing and soothing.

Crying.

"I didn't know, I—" she whispered, before a sob interrupted her and she clamped the back of her hand against her mouth. "All this time, I thought I had done something—that I could have tried harder with him."

Her head fell, chin digging into her sternum and her shoulders sagged. She cried and cried, cradling him, and apologised. And the sound of his mother sobbing was possibly the worst he ever heard. Each one of her sobs ruptured something inside him. Until he was untethered, floating in absolute rage and sorrow.

"I want you to leave," he repeated, voice broken and rough like stone. "Please, get out of here while you can."

She caged his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "No." Her tone was grave, her grip stiff. "I'm the parent. You're my son. I will protect you until the very end."

Another surge of tears spilled out of his eyes. "Don't."

Her fingers sank into the flesh of his cheeks. "You're my son," she said with a fiery breath and bloodshot eyes. "I will not let anything happen to you. Not on my watch. I stay until it's truly time to go."

She pulled him against her warm body and rocked him. Rocked him like he was six years old again, and had just crawled out of his bed at night to nestle on her lap in front of the fireplace.

"We'll figure it out," she murmured. "You're not alone anymore."

Her embrace wrenched guttural sobs out of him, waves after waves of them. He couldn't stop them. Blurring his mind, his vision, his words. Splitting him asunder. The last time he had cried this much, it was also in his mother's presence. Pressed against her. Before he started Sixth Year and had just received the mission to kill Dumbledore.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he sobbed against her, crumpling again on her knees. His fists tightened around nothing, no fur, no curly brown hair. "I wanna go home. I wanna go home."

He didn't even know where home was. But it wasn't this corrosive place. He craved, he yearned, he cried for a place that didn't exist. For the absence of belonging anywhere.

His mother kept stroking his hair consolingly.

"We'll leave, Draco," she whispered hoarsely. "We'll figure it out."

"Not—not without her." His heart clamped in his chest.

"We'll find Keela."

He took a shuddering breath. "Hermione, mum. I won't go anywhere without her."

His mother's fingers stilled in his hair for a moment. Then her arms wrapped warmly around him—calming, sheltering—while his sobs eased.

"I just want to be with her…" he breathed out. "I need her."

Sometimes, in his good days, he was able to assume that she wanted the same. But he was unsure if she felt the same fervid, irrational passion he harboured for her.

Again, she pulled him upright to cup his cheeks. Her tear-streaked face was pale, beautiful and broken.

"Do you love this girl, Draco?"

At the sound of the word, his heart bounced, pumping a new stream of fire in his veins. Blood rushed to his face, his neck, his ears.

"I don't know." How was he supposed to know? Too many things were colliding at once inside of him. He couldn't sort through his feelings.

He was pained and angry about his father. He felt guilty about Keela's running away and scared that she wouldn't come back. Confused and passionate about Hermione.

"We'll figure it out," his mother repeated, her thumb wiping the last of his tears. "It'll be okay."


In the castle, Theo held Hermione back on the deserted staircase on their way to the fifth floor.

Her mind was astray, disconnected pieces urging to be reunited. She couldn't think straight.

"Don't be mad at him," he said. "Draco."

He looked as lost and tired as she felt.

"I… I'm not," she replied earnestly. There was too much information in her head. She couldn't even muster any annoyance or anger toward Draco's behaviour. The Empire had taken his father's sanity. Of course he had to process it on his own. He probably visited his mother, and it pained her to imagine how upset and hurt they would both be.

He had told her the story, back in November, when they visited the Aquarium. She didn't know why she didn't connect the dots sooner when the Order talked about the Ember.

Theo said nothing more, eyelids fluttering quickly like he was clearing a blur out of his sight. She wondered if their conversation was over and if it was polite to exit.

She waited, one step above him. They were the same height at this level.

"Granger, I—" he started, and his jaw ticked. "This is bigger and more complex than I thought. What we learned. I wasn't expecting that."

He was right, but she couldn't discuss it with him now. Not here. She had to get her mind sorted, she needed to sleep, she needed to think and write and—

"I hope this doesn't come out as weird," he continued hurriedly, without quite meeting her eyes, "but I think I need a hug."

His request was so unexpected that she didn't process it right away. She remained still, watching him without blinking, until his lips moved again.

"It's just—everything is pure shit, and I don't show it, but I don't feel in control and nothing makes sense and I haven't been hugged since Pansy was—"

She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him close, finally responding. She felt right away how his shape was similar to Draco's but still noticed its differences.

Theo reacted immediately and hugged her back. His arms wrapped around her, and he squeezed like he was afraid she would turn to mist.

She felt the wash of his emotions. She soaked up his storm, trying to get as much of it as she could manage.

She expected to feel awkward about the hug. But it wasn't. It felt normal and warm, platonically affectionate. She didn't know what words of comfort she could tell him. Her best guess for this odd request was that Theo couldn't get the physical comfort he needed from anyone in the Empire. Not even Draco.

There was a mess inside her at this moment, but she wouldn't dump it on him. He needed something from her and he had asked permission for it. She wouldn't redirect this moment to her own needs.

"You're the first person I trusted in here," she uttered, chin resting on his shoulder.

He squeezed her even tighter. "All I ever wanted was to make myself useful."

"You are. We wouldn't be where we are if it wasn't for you."

When they peeled away from each other, he kept her at arm's length, still a step under her. His eyes were shining, but he looked more at peace. They both did a tiny awkward smile following this friendly, tender gesture.

"Don't tell Draco about this," he said coyly. "Unless you want me murdered."

She laughed to make him feel better even if she wanted to fall apart.

"For the record," he added, seeming already lighter, "if Scavengers could bet on a champion, I'd bet on you, Granger."

She swallowed wearily, chest tightening. He tugged at one of her curls in a teasing gesture and left. She watched him go down the stairs, and when he turned a corner, she climbed the rest and went into the hallway.

Her mind was scattering again.

It wasn't curfew yet, so timidly, without any expectation whatsoever, she knocked on number 47's door. Arthur opened the door a few seconds later, and he was livid, looking worn and impassive.

He frowned when he saw her, but erased himself from the door to let her through.

"What happened?" he asked with a rough voice, then cleared his throat—she could tell he hadn't spoken in a long time.

She didn't know what to say, what to feel, what to do.

She had withheld her burden from Theo. Had soakedhisinstead.

But still,she couldn't summon the strength to cry.

Arthur sensed her disarray and hugged her against him, saying nothing. She wondered, wondered how she would get him back to his family. Wondered if he was angry at her for not offering him earlier to go with them to Manchester.

Then, drawing a shaky breath, the truth poured out of her like a current. She told him everything about that meeting—the people, the alliance between Wizards and Muggles, the Ember, the suspicion against Draco, Charlie's face, Ginny's eyes.

Tears didn't spill, but words did. She said sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. She repeated the word like a chant. She felt needy, clingy, childish.

"Hermione," he pulled her away from him. "Do not blame yourself."

"You should have been there." She frowned angrily, the burden of everyone's confusion on her shoulders. "There was so much—"

He turned around suddenly, and reached for his pillow. There were parchment' sheets and a quill hidden underneath. He took a sheet and the pen.

"Draco gave me this." He brandished the quill in front of her eyes. "I have some paper left. Here's what we'll do." He gave her the quill, then sat directly on the floor. "We'll write down everything you just told me, every information about what you've discovered. Put it on paper."

She nodded, and plopped down on the floor. She gathered her hair and tied them lazily behind her head, before leaning over the parchment.

"We'll figure out what to do about it after," he said. "You need to get it out of your head right now."

She had concealed Theo's burden. Absorbed her own dismay.

And so instead of crying, she wrote.


The next day, as Hermione entered the Forbidden Forest under the shaded cover of the pines, it wasn't Draco who was waiting for them in his training navy uniform. It was Zabini.

Worry cratered her stomach.

When all the players had arrived, Zabini joined his hands behind his back, just like Draco always did.

"Trainer Malfoy is unavailable at the moment," he said, voice flat. "You'll refer to me as Trainer Zabini."

Nobody said anything. Already, her mind was thrumming with thoughts and scenarios.

"Don't just stand there," Zabini called. "Get climbing!"

They scattered like insects and she distractedly started to climb. She didn't focus on any of her grip and she knew it was reckless. Where was Draco? What was he doing? Was he safe? Had he done something irreversible during the night?

Her foot slipped and her heart jolted in her chest, beating wildly with adrenaline. She held herself back with both of her hands—she was more than 20 feet above the ground.

On the nearest tree, number 6 chuckled. "Need a hand, Goldie? Maybe a little mat on the ground?"

She ignored his comment. The nickname was new. Wade hadn't even uttered a single word to her in a week.

Would she get him out of Numberland too?

She climbed up and down the pine four times, then switched to another tree. It would change her pattern. By the end of the training, her hands were rough and red, smelling like sap. Her biceps were aching with the countless pulls of her weight.

She wiped her palms on her uniform and walked to Zabini. "Where is he?"

He frowned, probably because she dared address him.

"Not here," he answered, short and clipped. He turned around and started walking away, already dismissing her.

She stomped her foot in annoyance. "Did you talk to him? Is he okay?"

He halted and sighed. "I woke up at dawn and there was a note under my doorstep. He asked if I could replace him for the day."

She wouldn't get more out of him than this, so she thanked him and left.

But he grabbed her elbow and pulled her back abruptly. He brought his face close to her, jaw wired shut. "Weren't you told when you arrived that you can't ask questions?" His fingers dug into her skin. "You're over the line, Granger."

She yanked her arm free and glared back at him. "Back in Hogwarts," she breathed with control, "was this really the life you envisioned for yourself?" She gestured around her. "This?" She motioned to his uniform. "This?"

Zabini looked around, searching for a shadow lurking behind the trees. "Shut. Up," he hissed. "You can't go around saying such things."

"Here's what I think. You don't actually want to be here. Deep down, you know this is insane and cruel."

Quick as a bolt, he pinned his forearm against her neck and shoved her back into a tree. "How can you even pretend that you know a single fucking thing about me?"

She had struck a chord, but she didn't know where her boldness was coming from. He was pressing really hard on her throat, and air was barely wheezing through.

He eased his grip when he noticed.

"I've been here five months," she croaked. "And it doesn't look to me like you're actually free."

"We're not trapped."

"If you're not trapped and not free either, then what are you?"

He watched her, his dark eyes looking at each of her. His torso was heaving with the force of his breathing.

At last, he released her with a forceful push. "Go eat your lunch, Granger, and never fucking talk to me again." He left without wasting a beat.

She watched him exit the cover of the Forest, massaging her throat. She uselessly brushed some dirt off herself and followed. What had come over her? There was this unquenchable urge within her to shake everyone up, to wake them out of their deluded world.

If she wanted to save as many players as possible, then they had to act as soon as possible. The third game was a month away—that's the moment they should act. But they hadn't figured out anything yet.

They were supposed to stop the flow of fog in other parts of the world, and prevent the Empire from reviving the fog here, but how could she do that? She was useless in that accord.

As she emerged from the Forest, a whooshing sound split the sky above her. A dark silhouette twirling in smoke was barrelling down like a meteor. She watched it land as a foreboding feeling crawled over her spine.

The first thing she saw was bare, white feet and her knees weakened.

Lord Voldemort was standing before her. She froze in place, although in her mind, she saw herself flee.

"Ahh." His devious red eyes were gleaming in the daylight. "Number 41." He was fiddling his wand with his bony fingers.

Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, her pulse hammering in her ribcage. Cold sweat was already gathering behind her neck.

He tsked with mock. "What, no bow for your Lord?" His wrist shifted slightly with wandless magic, and she felt a hard pressure on her back. Forcing her to bend.

To bow.

"That's better," he said.

He had learned something. Surely he had just found out what she had been doing. Scheming. And she would do anything to keep Draco and Theo out of it. She wished she had seen Draco today. There was still a myriad of things she hadn't had time yet to say—

"I have just arrived from Italy," he drawled, blinking slowly. "Although they pledged their allegiance to us, the Ministry of Magic there isn't quite…certain that an empire would be the best thing for their country. Yet." He sighed dramatically, gazing up at the clouds. "They need a little convincing. Therefore—"

He stepped toward her, his skeletal figure casting a shadow over her. "I have decided to show them how we shape the body and mind of our players, and what success we enable them to achieve."

She listened to his reptilian voice but couldn't grasp what was happening yet. Her muscles were stiff and aching. She was supposed to be brave; people thought she was brave, fearless, courageous. However, most people weren't face to face with Voldemort, wandless.

"I'll extract your memory of the second game." He got closer, crowded her space, but still, her feet were pinned in place. "You performed beautifully, savagely… That's all the nudge they'll need."

She couldn't understand why any sane government would even want to be involved with the Empire, or have an empire of their own. Or allow Voldemort to overtake their country with a deadly fog. Why contribute to the fall of humanity?

The tip of Voldemort's wand grazed her temple. "This might sting," he whispered, his horrid smile splitting his lips.

He wasn't slow and meticulous with the extraction spell. He wrenched the memory out of her mind ferociously, pulling the wispy strand of her temple with a cruel twist. It felt like he was removing a tendon. The fabric of her memories split in two, tearing in the middle, and she saw everything that he was taking from her.

Starting in the Arena, with the wide circle of players sitting on the ground. Her violent fight with number 7. The cries out of her mouth. The bloody duel with number 25, the flesh of her arm she took between her teeth. The cracking of a skull.

He didn't see Theo laying petrified in her bed.

When the memories were extracted, she was left panting with tears rolling down her cheeks, her knees damp and pressed in the ground. When had she fallen on her knees? The vivid images of the second game stamped behind her eyeballs. It felt like she had been violated.

"Thank you." He bottled her memory in a small vial. "You know, this isn't the first time I have to do this. In the fifth edition, that's when China needed convincing too. Your red-haired friend provided quite the good memories."

She clutched at her stomach, trying to control the wave of nausea. Slowly, she scrambled to her feet.

If she bashed his head with a rock, how could he not die?

"Since Christmas—" she wiped angrily at her face, "since you told everyone you wanted small empires in every country, I have failed to understand how a perfectly good and healthy nation can adhere to such a thing." She swallowed hard. "My lord."

Voldemort stilled. His expression flashed, eyes burning through her. "Good and healthy? Don't you know anything about the world you live in, you simple-minded mudblood?"

She flinched, expecting a curse at any moment.

He lunged toward her and grabbed her throat, an iron grip that hurt immediately. "That's the problem with you people," he snarled, low and dangerous. "You think I have created a problem, when all I have done is provide a solution to an already existing problem. Muggles." The last word spat out of his mouth, gusting on her face.

"Magic is might." He squeezed her throat even tighter, stamping bruises on her skin. "It's the purest form of energy in this broken, defective world. Only magic has the potential to heal our sickness. When humans are left with no structure, no frame of mind, they start to think that their happiness is what matters the most. The notion of the greater good has faded into oblivion."

She tried to claw at his hand, trying to writhe herself free. Blood was pooling in her head, dispersing her thoughts in every direction. She was certain the veins in her head would pop.

"So, number Forty-One," he smiled wickedly, "I have established my Empire in the hopes of spreading the knowledge of what I always believed to be true. That magic, our own true god, is mighty and that the entirety of this sordid universe should believe we are there to heal it."

He leaned towards her face, mere inches away. "Of our six previous champions, five came from magical parentage. What does that tell you, mudblood?"

He released her and she crumpled on the grass, gulping down mouthfuls of oxygen. Her throat felt scraped off, throbbing and narrow.

"If you address me once again in such manners," he snarled, "I will forget that thirty thousand people want to see you alive."

He rocketed in the sky, the black smoke trailing after him.