Hermione was watching Trainer Lana Rathmore demonstrate the fighting moves they would perform in pairs. Rathmore's body was graceful, like a panther, and each of her movements was calculated, steady and dangerous.

The players around her were frail and pale as sheep. She was standing in the old Transfiguration class, now called Tacticals. The interior was much more minimalist, and there were no more desks that could remind her of the castle's true nature—there were only mats on the floor. The biggest mat was the one in the middle, and all the players stood around it during the Trainers' demonstrations in the middle.

Only five of her band were left. David had never shown up.

Reine was… different since the first game. She'd always been more quiet, but now she looked haunted. Hermione had seen her sitting on the floor with her knees against her chest many times now. The first time, it had been in the bathroom upon her return from the tunnel.

They hadn't spoken about it.

Rathmore, Malfoy and Crane's band would now train together in the mornings for the second game, focusing on hand-to-hand combat. Their three bands formed 16 players. Carrow and Zabini's band were 12 in all. That was the total of players left—28 souls out of 50. The afternoons would be spent in bands, building up cardio, just as they had done for the first game.

Hermione had overheard that the night after the first game, a player—31—had stabbed another player—11—before killing himself. They weren't even in the same band, so something must have happened between them during the run.

Sort of like her and David.

Rathmore was now demonstrating how to get out of a chokehold. "If your attacker has their hands around your neck," her voice was slightly broken by the realistic pressure Trainer Crane was exerting on her throat, "they will most likely have their arms outstretched. Knock your forearm down on their elbows in one swift motion, they'll bend."

A second later, she performed the movement with astonishing force, and Crane bent over, before Rathmore grabbed his wrists at lightning speed and wedged her heel behind his knees to force him down.

Crane crumpled to the floor, grinning.

Francine drew a nervous breath beside Hermione. "I can't do that."

Hermione was scowling, trying to ignore Malfoy's presence in the room, and crossed her arms a little tighter against her chest. "We'll take it slow, as usual."

"Do I hear fucking talking?" Rathmore shot in the room, looking above their heads.

Hermione's cheeks reddened and she lowered her head.

"Malfoy, bring your players back to order!"

Malfoy stayed propped against the left wall. "Sorry, Rath. Forty-One and Forty-Two, shut up." Hermione didn't even glance at him. Keela was sitting at her master's feet, watching the players spar with rapt attention.

Francine muttered an apology, but Rathmore locked her gaze on Hermione. "Since it seems you don't need to pay attention, I assume you can demonstrate the next move for us?"

Hermione stuttered stupidly, heartbeat quickening. All 15 pairs of eyes of the other players shifted to her as one. Arthur and Oliver winced apologetically, and Malfoy stiffened.

"I'm sorry—" she began.

Trainer Crane was staring at her with a vile expression, stepping off the mat. Rathmore bared her teeth. "I won't wait all fucking day," she snapped.

She pushed her way to the centre of the room, feeling the burn of Malfoy's eyes on her back. She positioned herself on the mat, holding her breath. She had never been one to feel very self-conscious, but at this moment she felt bare, on the verge of humiliation.

Rathmore towered over her, her hair plaited in two long braids that brushed against her hips. She smirked once Hermione was a foot in front of her.

"The move is what we call a headlock. I'll show you how to get out of it." She looked straight into her eyes. "Grab me in a headlock."

Hermione's hands were trembling and she hesitated to act. "W-What?"

"Grab me in a fucking headlock! You know what it is, don't you?"

She felt void, like her body didn't belong to her. "Yes."

"Right fucking now, Forty-One!"

Her body bolted into action, knowing the move but without her mind following. It was like an outer-body experience, watching herself dash at Rathmore and looping her arm around her neck, pressing it close to her hip.

They stayed in this position, and Rathmore kept talking, although her head was facing the mat. "Let's say your attacker starts punching…" She paused, waited. "Fake-punch me!" She tapped on Hermione's other arm, the one that wasn't looped.

The arm obeyed, slowly swinging back and forth towards Rathmore's head.

"Now, if your attacker starts punching, the first thing you'll want to do is lock their punching arm. Make it unusable." Slowly, Rathmore grabbed Hermione's punching wrist with her right arm, and grabbed her elbow from behind using her left arm and held it against Hermione's body. "Saw that?"

Hermione stopped punching.

"Again!" Rathmore ordered, slipping out of the headlock with ease since Hermione's grip wasn't tight. "This time, you do it."

She shook her head to regain her wits, unsure if she had registered everything Rathmore had just demonstrated right under her nose. She had to pay attention.

"Ready?" Rathmore had the decency to ask.

Hermione blinked a couple times and nodded. The Trainer pounced, grabbing her hard and the force of the headlock made her bend over. Rathmore immediately tightened her grip, causing her neck to crank to the side, burying her face in the Trainer's ribs.

She hissed, throat closing up—her hands immediately reached for her throat, trying to break free.

A punch right in the nose.

Crack.

White pain exploded behind her eyelids.

Black spots. White stars.

An instant headache.

Her eyes watered immediately.

Voices—there were voices. Shouts?

She thought she heard something like myarm, grabmyfuckingarm.

But her head was still trapped in Rathmore's arm.

Another blow landed on her face, less hard this time. But enough to rattle her teeth. Enough to drive the pain tenfold into her neck.

Her throat was closing up.

What did she have to do?

What did Rathmore say?

Lock the arm.

Hermione wrapped her hand around Rathmore's bony wrist, snaking her other arm behind the back to reach for the elbow. She secured her grip and clamped the arm down the hardest she could, holding it still. Strength failed her—her skull throbbing like smaller strikes. Blood leaking in the back of her throat and the front of her face.

She felt—she knew—that Rathmore was way stronger than she was, but she still kept an iron grip on her. When the Trainer tried to break free and saw that she couldn't, she released the headlock.

Hermione gulped back air, stepping back a couple feet. The middle of her face was burning hot and pulsing. Now that gravity had come back to normal, the blood from her nose dripped down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"Nothing personal, Forty-One," Rathmore shot up, before turning to the other players. "That was the first step. You have to avoid getting hit in the face. Once you've immobilised the attacker's arm, you remove your hand from their elbow and press your palm against the side of their face to push them away."

She looked at Hermione expectantly, but she didn't move. Hermione glared at her, the burn in her nose making her eyes water. There was a loud and painful bang right between her brows.

"I just want to show them, you won't be the one in headlock," Rathmore added, rolling her eyes. "Get back here."

Still, Hermione didn't want Rathmore's hand flat against her face, but she got back on the mat anyway.

"We'll do it slow," Rathmore said. "Everyone, pay fucking attention. After this, you'll be paired up." She bent slightly, waiting for Hermione's headlock.

Hermione did just that, slowly and without force. For a second, she felt tempted to squeeze. The hard blow on her nose had beencompletelyandutterlyunnecessary and simply evil. She threw fake punches at her head instead. Rathmore did everything she had demonstrated, grabbing her wrist, then her elbow, waiting a few seconds before swiftly untangling her arm, retracking it back to push it above Hermione's shoulder, pressing her palm against her face.

"If you can, aim for the eyeballs." Fortunately, she didn't demonstrate that. She simply pushed her palm outward, forcing Hermione's head to be pushed aside, uncomfortably enough that she released the headlock.

Rathmore clapped her hands once, loudly. "Simple as that. Now grab a partner, butnotsomeone from your band, and get on a mat. Your Trainer will supervise you." She left the mat, not even glancing at Hermione, not thanking her or apologising for using her as a punching bag—literally.

Hermione kept wiping the ever-flowing blood from her nose. The sleeve of her uniform was damp. Rubbing her neck to relieve some tension, she saw Cho Chang come over to her. "I'm so sorry, Hermione." Her eyes were etched in pity. "It's crooked. I think it's broken."

She sniffled, but couldn't inhale that much air. "I'm fine. Let's grab a mat." She wasn't sure if she could do this all over again, even with Cho.

The players had paired up, each pair standing on a mat, doing some poorly-executed imitation of what they had just seen. Malfoy had switched places, not leaning on the left wall anymore, but close to Trainer Crane, at the back of the room. He averted his eyes when her gaze fell on him.

They practised the headlock. They practised the chokehold. Back and forth, alternating the assailant's role. Cho was being careful with her moves, but Hermione felt right away the fragility of her body. It seemed that all she had to do was apply a little pressure at a precise angle and Cho's bone would snap under her hands.

After 30 minutes, Malfoy and Crane were on the central mat, hand fighting each other to demonstrate hand-to-hand combat, shouting tips and preferred stances. They had both rolled up the sleeves of their uniforms to their elbows, revealing the Dark Mark on their pale skin, fists raised to chin level. They were circling each other, dodging blows and striking efficiently, but lacking strength to avoid too much harm.

Keela stayed seated in the corner, her eyes jumping around the room, but always returning to Malfoy.

Hermione couldn't take her eyes off Malfoy, watching his footwork, his evasive tactics and his quick, controlled ripostes. He moved smoothly, as if he weighed nothing, and moved across the mattress without ever taking his eyes off Crane. His face was hard and focused, and his slightly dishevelled hair swept across his forehead.

He was—hypnotizing.

She wanted to hate him. With one hand, she wanted to grab the hatred she had inside her and throw it at him. She wanted to blame him for the pain in her face. For Gabrielle's death, for Ashley's death. For the number she'd been wearing on her back for the last two months.

And she could almost manage it, if she focused hard enough. If she let herself be full of hate and resentment, if she let her darkest feelings and most painful memories take over and overwhelm her, then yes.

But it never lasted long. Because she could no longer ignore the fact that he hated Voldemort, like she did. She had had the same suspicion in Sixth Year, when she'd noticed how pale and skinny he was.

When Malfoy delivered a blow, this time a stunning one, to Crane's face, that's when she noticed. While Crane's gaze was lit with a wild, amused gleam, Malfoy's was imbued with anger.

When the training was over, Arthur came to Hermione and told her that a Healer would have to look at her nose to fix it, or at least see that there was no damage to her head. She could hardly breathe through her blood-clogged nose, and the headache throbbed painfully in her skull. She had only gritted her teeth for the rest of the training.

As the players filed out of the room, Crane walked past them and heard Arthur's words. He stopped immediately, a sneer plastered on his face.

"No medical care if you can still stand."

Arthur frowned at the Trainer. "That is ridiculous. It's broken."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, pain shooting tenfold across her forehead. She felt that it wasn't, in fact, straight. "It's fine, Arthur," she said anyway. Yes, she could walk. She would ask Reine in her room to set it straight with his thumbs. Reine looked like the kind of person who wouldn't shy away from this task.

Crane scoffed maliciously, looking at both of them, and headed off. Arthur glared at him. "I do hate this place, Hermione. I wish there was something I could do."

She was shaking her head, hating how much he worried about her.

"I'm sure Lucius' son could do something," he added.

She couldn't help but smile at the name. Arthur rarely referred to Malfoy as 'Malfoy' or 'Draco'. Whenever he mentioned him, it was Lucius' son.

"Let's not bother him," she answered, but still glanced around the room to locate him. He was already gone.

The last of the players streamed out of the room, heading for a shower or getting ready for lunch. In the Great Hall, the change was noticeable. The players were more isolated, and they avoided each other's eyes. But there were also nods of understanding and politeness. Hermione wondered if this was the result of collective trauma.

When she showed up for the afternoon running session right outside the main doors, Malfoy's gaze stopped on her face, detailing it, brows creasing slightly together. He looked… horrified. An imperceptible twitch in his eyes. Then he blinked away and started the training, crafting the harshness back in his voice.

Keela was there and when she saw Hermione, she greeted her like an old friend, licking her fingers. Reine glared at them, arms crossed on her chest, and Hermione couldn't read the expression on her face.

Malfoy made them stretch, and then started running right away. It was cold that day, and they regularly had to rub their hands to keep them warm or blow into their fists. The tips of their ears were red, even though they were warm under their uniforms.

Her head was swimming in painful waves, the headache retreating for a few seconds before crashing with a strong throb. She had managed to scrub the blood off her face at least.

She didn't run fast that day.

Francine stayed in step with her. They talked about her children. Birthday parties her husband had thrown for her. Hermione listened and hummed in the right moments, even though her ears were ringing at times, refusing to allow more sensations into her skull.

Even Keela ran close to them instead of scampering ahead of everyone.

During one of their rare moments of respite when they were walking to catch their breath, it was Oliver who broached the subject bravely, the tip of his nose reddened by the cold.

"I thought David had made it through the first game?" His voice did not tremble.

Everyone looked up at Malfoy, watching his neck stiffen. Showing his profile, he replied. "Number 48 tried to escape across the border afterwards. It didn't work."

Reine spoke up. "Why would he be so stupid?"

Malfoy looked straight ahead. "People do stupid stuff when they're hopeless."

Hermione tried to inspect him, to see what was behind what he was saying, but she stopped herself. For one thing, she resented that she was always searching for some deceit or unspoken meaning in his words, and for another, she could hardly think because her head was killing her.

Her head was buried between her arms crossed on the table. She had barely touched her food. Her brain seemed to be hurling itself against the walls of her skull, tearing at it endlessly, while her pulse had officially settled in her nose, just between her eyes.

If she raised her head too sharply, she saw stars.

If she looked at something too bright, the ache behind her eyelids increased tenfold.

"You really don't look well, hun," Francine murmured, leaning towards her. "Eat something." Her wrinkled hand landed on her elbow.

Hermione shook her head to say no in one feeble movement, which still sent pounding ripples throughout her skull. The hubbub of the Great Hall reached her in shreds, one painful morsel at a time.

"You should do something!" Francine's voice rose above the table.

Hermione thought she was talking to her and lifted her head to tell her to keep her voice down when she realised that Francine was talking to someone behind her.

"Look at her!" she pleaded.

"Player 41, please follow me." Theodore Nott was standing beside her once again.

She wished she could have told him no, not tonight. She didn't have the energy or the strength to go up the stairs, to train, to make small talk with Malfoy.

Your parents won't have the energy to participate in next year's games either.

The thought went through her like a jolt that straightened her spine. She extricated herself from the bench, one painful movement at a time, and Francine watched her walk away with equal concern.

They moved away from the Great Hall, the hum gradually diminishing behind them. She had to squint to walk under the lights.

"You really do look awful, Granger," Theo marvelled at her face.

"Thanks," she drawled, words slurring together. "Natural makeup."

He probably said other things, but she couldn't pay any more attention. It seemed like an eternity before they reached the seventh floor. The only tangible thing she could feel was the throbbing in the centre of her face, the boiling outer wall of her brain about to tear at the seams. When she felt warmth on her arm, she realised that Theo was holding her arm to make sure she was going in the right direction. And that she wouldn't tip over.

She didn't hear the door of the Room of Requirement open.

She blinked, trying to adjust to the slightly pink light, and when she opened her eyes again she was sitting on the sofa in the corner.

"Fuck," she heard above the ringing in her ears.

The next moment, a beautiful, hardened face appeared right in front of her. Malfoy was kneeling in front of her, not touching her.

He drew his wand. "Look up for me, Granger." His voice was calm, trying to pull her through the haze.

She didn't know whereupwas, but her head slowly lifted, eyes darting to his face. His probing eyes alternated between each of hers. "Have you seen your face?" he asked.

"No," she croaked. And then, because she could see his wand, and because she was so close to relief, she whimpered. "Please…"

"Don't move." His cold fingers pressed against her face. Four fingers on her jaw, his thumb on her cheek, right beside her nose. He wasn't touching her, really—his fingers were merely grazing her skin. Careful not to hurt her. Just stabilising his move.

She could only see the top of his wand, glowing with a bluish light. The pads of his fingertips were warm and soft like silk.

"Episkey."

Crack—the bone reset itself and she yelped in pain, tears springing to her eyes. She closed them shut, hissing, leaning on her knees to get her bearings. Malfoy stayed in front of her. Slowly, the ache in her head started to dull, clearing her mind.

She breathed through the pain, blinking a few times to chase away the tears and looked up. "Thank you."

He simply nodded, but his frown didn't disappear. "You still have bruises under your eyes. You look terrible."

"Again, thanks," she said through her teeth, inhaling deeply. Air was circulating through again. Now, she could look around her. Theo was in the room further away, petting Keela.

Malfoy extended his palm to her, offering a vial. "Drink this."

She frowned. "What is it?"

"It's for your head, which I'm sure is still hurting." His jaw was clenched.

She decided that it didn't make any sense for Malfoy to hurt her now. She took it and felt instant relief in her head, the longing ache slowly subsiding.

He straightened on his heels, but she remained on the sofa. "I… I don't think I'll be able to train tonight," she confessed, looking at the punching bags. She still had no energy.

"I didn't bring you here so you could train."

"Oh."

He looked at Theo across the room. "There's… something we need you to see."

"We?" she looked between the three of them. Why was Theo a part of this? "Where?"

"Outside the Empire," Malfoy grabbed a piece of clothing that rested on the couch—she hadn't noticed it in her daze. "You'll have to wear this."

He unfolded the fabric in front of her eyes. She blinked the fog away from her mind, looking at the black Scavenger uniform he was holding out to her.